Chapter 62: The Performance Begins
Dumbledore's spirit form watched Harry cradle his physical body with a pang of deep affection. The boy's loyalty was never in doubt. But the question remained: why had Elian insisted Harry stay?
The answer, Dumbledore realized with a cold, dawning certainty, lay in the very nature of the magic Elian was demonstrating. Soul magic. If he could separate a spirit from its body… could he also examine a soul? Could he peel back the layers of Harry's being and reveal the dark, parasitic truth Dumbledore only dared to suspect?
Horcrux. The word was a stain on the very concept of magic. For years, Dumbledore had researched, correlating Voldemort's unnatural immortality with the darkest of rituals. Harry's survival, the scar, the psychic link—it all pointed to a violation of soul magic so profound it defied comprehension. But suspicion was not proof.
Elian's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Of course I kept Harry. I've studied his… condition. If I'm correct, what you're about to see will be more shocking than my little parlor trick."
Dumbledore's spectral face managed a wry smile. "I have long suspected a connection between Harry's soul and Voldemort's. A taint. A link. If you can unveil it… proceed."
The unspoken understanding passed between them. This was the true purpose of the demonstration.
"Harry," Elian called to the confused boy. "Put the Headmaster down gently. Then stand up, please."
Hesitantly, Harry laid Dumbledore's body on the rug and stood, warily eyeing Elian. "What are you going to do? Is he going to be alright?"
"You'll see him shortly. And you might see… something else." Elian's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "Now, find a comfortable spot. I don't want you to hit your head."
Harry, taking the warning to heart, positioned himself carefully in front of a large armchair. Elian gave him a moment, then approached.
"Whatever happens, Harry, don't panic. Trust me."
Harry nodded, his jaw tight with tension. Dumbledore's spirit watched, a silent, anxious witness.
Elian took a deep, centering breath. This was the critical moment. He wasn't just ejecting a spirit; he was planning to visualize the soul's corruption. He raised his hand, golden energy coalescing around his palm in intricate, spinning patterns.
He placed his palm firmly over Harry's heart.
There was no violent shove, but a resonant push that seemed to bypass flesh entirely. To Harry, it felt like being yanked backwards by an invisible cord while his body remained perfectly still. His perspective split. He saw the back of his own head, then watched, stunned, as his physical form slumped gracefully into the armchair he'd prepared.
His spirit—a younger, brighter echo of himself—stood apart, transparent and shimmering. His mind reeled. What is this?
Then he saw them. Elian, solid and real. And beside him, a luminous, milky-white phantom of Headmaster Dumbledore, smiling gently. Harry's gaze darted between the unconscious body on the floor and the spirit beside Elian. Understanding, slow and awe-struck, began to dawn. This is Lin Xiao's power. This is what Dumbledore knows.
But a new sensation pulled his attention. A profound, almost painful relief on his forehead. The constant, low-grade throb of his scar—a presence so familiar he'd almost forgotten it was there—was gone. In its place was a cool, clean emptiness.
He looked at Elian and Dumbledore. Their expressions had frozen. Elian's was one of intense focus. Dumbledore's was sheer, unvarnished horror.
They were staring, not at his face, but at his forehead. At the place where his scar had been.
(End of Chapter)
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