Chapter 35: Redemption and the Cage

Hogwarts.

A castle renowned for its grand, imposing structure, labyrinthine interiors, and omnipresent aura of magic. It was a place countless witches and wizards dreamed of attending.

The outer walls, built from massive gray stones, had withstood centuries of harsh weather, standing resilient against the passage of time. Each stone, in its silent vigil, bore witness to the rise and fall of generations of wizards.

Expansive halls, winding corridors, a library brimming with arcane knowledge, and the distinct, enigmatic Headmaster's office—these were elements that shaped the childhood of many who passed through its doors, leaving behind memories that would last a lifetime.

And every year, as summer ended, they would gather once more.

A fiery blur streaked through the open window, its crimson feathers gleaming in the light.

"Fawkes, you've been flying out quite a bit lately. Is there something outside that's caught your interest?" Dumbledore mused, watching his phoenix with mild curiosity.

With term yet to begin, the castle felt unusually quiet.

Students were away for the holidays, and even most professors had retreated to their own homes. Only a few remained—among them, Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore.

It wasn't that they had no homes to return to.

Rather, they no longer felt a home existed for them.

Fawkes let out a bright, ringing cry, his mood seemingly unbothered by such contemplations.

"Term starts soon," Dumbledore reminded him, reaching out to smooth the ruffled feathers of his companion. "You shouldn't be wandering too much, or you might startle the young ones."

This was one of the few small joys the Headmaster allowed himself.

For Snape, staying at Hogwarts felt no different from staying anywhere else.

For Dumbledore, it was simpler than facing Godric's Hollow.

Yes.

Courage.

People saw the legend—Albus Dumbledore, the brilliant, powerful wizard. Few ever looked past the accolades to the loneliness that lurked beneath.

When a Gryffindor loses their courage, it is a sign they have already fallen into the abyss.

Dumbledore knew this better than anyone.

"If you're looking for something to do," he murmured, glancing at Fawkes, "perhaps you could help me locate the Chamber of Secrets again."

He could not speak the phoenix's language.

But that did not mean Fawkes couldn't understand him.

The bird let out a few sharp cries in response.

Dumbledore smiled. "I'll take that as a yes. Thank you."

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small treat.

Yet the phoenix, perched gracefully on his arm, ignored the offering, instead turning toward the window and releasing a piercing call into the distance.

Footsteps echoed through the entrance hall.

Dumbledore turned, eyes softening as he saw the figure striding into the castle—shoulders tense, expression unreadable.

"Severus."

The Potions Master halted, his face betraying an uncharacteristic flicker of unease. Dumbledore did not need to ask where he had been; the direction of his return made it clear.

"You finally went to see the pitiful child, then?"

In a blink, Dumbledore vanished from the window, reappearing before Snape in the corridor. It was a seamless transition, made possible by Fawkes' magic rather than his own—a quiet bending of Hogwarts' usual restrictions.

Though, in truth, there were few rules within these walls that Dumbledore could not bypass if he so wished.

Snape scowled, clearly caught off guard. His lip curled at Dumbledore's words.

"That damn brat is anything but 'pitiful.'"

His voice carried its usual sharpness, but there was something beneath it—something unsettled. He had not forgotten what he had seen.

Dark magic.

The boy had dabbled in dark magic.

And yet Dumbledore was calling him pitiful?

"You guard your emotions too tightly," Dumbledore chided, undeterred. "That child needs your guidance."

There was no reproach in his tone, only patience—an unwavering kindness that had frustrated Snape more times than he could count.

People often assumed that Dumbledore merely used Snape, or that he pitied him.

But in truth, what Dumbledore saw in Snape was a reflection of himself.

Their circumstances differed, but they had both once chased an ideal too far.

Both had awakened too late.

Yet unlike himself, Snape still had a chance at redemption.

Dumbledore exhaled, his voice turning softer. "I may have been harsh before. But Severus, he has no one else. If you turn away from him, he will be truly alone."

Snape's eyes flickered.

For once, he did not argue.

"Ian is a child who understands love," Dumbledore continued. "Don't let him lose that."

There was no hidden agenda in his words, no manipulation. He was speaking for the boy's sake as much as Snape's. Having a protector—a true protector—would change Ian's future in ways neither of them could yet imagine.

Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "He's doing fine in Hogsmeade. He seems… comfortable enough in the wizarding world."

There was something awkward in his tone, as if reluctant to admit he had paid attention.

Dumbledore's smile was knowing.

"He takes care of the younger children well. Naturally, he knows how to look after himself."

He had taken time to investigate Ian's background personally. He was well aware of the boy's capabilities.

Snape let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That's the problem. He takes care of himself too well."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Is that not a good thing?"

Snape shot him a long, unreadable look. Then, shaking his head, he turned and strode past the Headmaster.

"I have a potion simmering," he muttered.

Dumbledore did not stop him. But as Snape's footsteps receded, he called out one last suggestion:

"Perhaps you should consider bringing him here—to stay with you."

Snape's response was immediate.

"I'd rather not die of frustration."

His voice was as cold as ever.

His robes billowed as he disappeared down the corridor.

But then—

He hesitated.

Paused.

Slowly, he turned back.

Dumbledore waited, patient as ever, Fawkes still perched on his arm.

"Albus."

The name was spoken carefully.

Snape hesitated again before continuing, his black eyes sharp.

"What year did you first study advanced transmutation?"

Dumbledore blinked at the unexpected question.

"Hmm… if I recall correctly, I was in my second year." His tone was light, though he was clearly curious where this was going. "It wasn't something I was meant to be learning at the time, but I spent an entire afternoon on it."

To most, this would have sounded like an absurdly casual flex of talent.

But—

"Bloody hell," Snape muttered.

It wasn't sarcasm.

It wasn't a sneer.

It was genuine exasperation.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly.

Snape turned sharply on his heel and stormed away, his expression even more troubled than before.

The Headmaster watched him go, bemused.

Then, realization struck.

A flicker of something—shock, even a trace of unease—passed behind his eyes.

"…Oh."

He suddenly had the unsettling feeling that, whatever had prompted Snape's question—

—was far beyond what he had anticipated.