Chapter 64: Limits and Lessons
Dumbledore's hopeful gaze was a palpable thing, even in his spectral form. He gestured toward the vile, sleeping face embedded in Harry's spiritual forehead. Can you remove it? The unspoken question hung between them, heavy with the weight of a possible salvation.
Elian met his eyes and slowly shook his head. "No, Headmaster. I cannot."
It was the truth. Even if the advanced astral projection allowed him to see the corruption, interacting with it, trying to surgically excise a fused fragment of a soul—especially one belonging to the most powerful Dark wizard in a century—was far beyond his current skill. The risk of shredding Harry's own spirit in the process was catastrophic.
More than that, it was a line he dared not cross. Succeed, and he'd become a target for Voldemort's unparalleled fury. Fail, and he'd make an enemy of Dumbledore and the entire Order. Some burdens were not his to lift.
Dumbledore did not look disappointed, only thoughtful, as if he'd expected the answer. "Of course. Forgive an old man's desperate hope," he murmured. The relief in his tone was genuine; he too feared the consequences of a failed attempt.
He turned back to Harry, whose translucent form was quivering with a thousand unasked questions.
"Professor… what's wrong with me? Is that… is that him on my forehead? Why have you been avoiding me?" The words tumbled out, laced with fear and confusion.
Dumbledore hesitated, his instinct to protect warring with the need for truth. Before he could decide, Elian's voice, calm and sure, cut through the tension.
"It's dormant, Professor. Too fragile. It cannot perceive us here, in this state. It sleeps."
Dumbledore's spectral shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. He gave Elian another long, appraising look—the boy's knowledge was as unnerving as his power—then turned fully to Harry, meeting his gaze directly for the first time in weeks.
"Dear Harry… what I must tell you will be difficult to hear."
What followed was a gentle, terrible explanation. Dumbledore spoke of Horcruxes, of Voldemort's fractured soul, of the night the Killing Curse rebounded and trapped a piece of that shattered evil inside the only living vessel in the room—Harry himself. He spoke of the connection, the visions, the shared anger. He spoke of Occlumency—the closing of the mind—as Harry's only defense.
Harry listened, his face shifting from horror to grim understanding. "So… I'm his spy? He can see through my eyes?"
"He can influence you, and through the link, he may catch glimpses. You must learn to shield your mind. It is your greatest protection now."
Elian observed silently. His part in this intimate, painful revelation was done. The mission was complete. The reward, the single use of the Time Stone, was a cool, potent certainty in the back of his mind.
Finally, Dumbledore seemed to reach the end of what could be said. "Now, Mr. Thorne," he said, his tone returning to its usual courtesy. "If you would be so kind as to return us to our rather neglected bodies?"
Elian gave a slight bow. "At your service, Headmaster."
With a thought, he used his telekinetic control—a basic function of the Supreme Mage System, requiring no wand, no incantation. Dumbledore's and Harry's physical forms slid smoothly across the floor from where they lay to hover before their respective spirits.
Dumbledore's eyes, sharp even in his astral state, missed nothing. He noted the absolute absence of a wand, the effortless, wordless magic. It was another piece of the puzzle that was Elian Thorne, another quiet challenge to everything Dumbledore knew about magical mechanics.
How? the old wizard wondered, a thrill of pure intellectual curiosity cutting through the night's horrors.
Elian didn't explain. He simply pushed his hands forward in a gentle, sweeping motion. The two spirit forms were guided back, merging seamlessly with their waiting flesh. Harry's body jolted in the armchair with a sharp gasp, his hand flying to his now-tangible, throbbing scar. The parasitic connection had reasserted itself the instant his soul was sealed back in.
Dumbledore's body on the floor drew a deep, rattling breath, and his eyes fluttered open. He sat up, looking older and wearier than Elian had ever seen him.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice back to its physical rasp. He gestured to a small, brass hourglass on his desk—a Portkey. "Take this. You will be expected. I have… pressing matters to discuss with Mr. Thorne."
Harry, looking pale and shaken, nodded mutely. He grabbed the hourglass. There was a flash of light, a tug behind his navel, and he was gone.
The office was silent once more. Dumbledore got to his feet, brushed off his robes, and turned to face Elian fully. The twinkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a deep, grave intensity.
"Now," Albus Dumbledore said. "Let us talk, Mr. Thorne. About what you are. And about what you have just proven Tom Riddle has done."
(End of Chapter)
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