???????? - M.R

The large oak door to Dumbledore’s office stood before her, its intricate carvings twisting like ivy around the frame. Sierra Rosier had never felt so small. The last time she’d been summoned to Dumbledore’s office, it had been for a simple matter of a charmed quill gone awry during a Transfiguration class. This time, it felt far heavier. 

She inhaled deeply and knocked. 

“Come in, Miss Rosier,” Dumbledore’s voice called from beyond the door, as if he had been expecting her exact moment of hesitation. 

She stepped inside, her green eyes immediately drawn to the whimsical chaos of the room. Shelves brimming with odd trinkets and books lined the walls, an array of softly glowing instruments ticking and spinning on his desk. Fawkes, the phoenix, watched her from his perch, his fiery plumage casting warm light around the space. 

“Ah, Sierra,” Dumbledore greeted her warmly, though there was a seriousness in his expression. He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Please, sit.” 

Sierra’s throat felt dry as she complied, her hands folding tightly in her lap. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” 

He leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes studying her. “You’ve been delving into your family’s past, haven’t you?” 

When Dumbledore asked her this, Sierra felt a jolt of panic ripple through her chest. Her thoughts scrambled to find a coherent response, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. He knew—of course, he knew. Dumbledore always seemed to know. 

Sierra’s hands tightened into fists at her sides, her nails pressing crescents into her palms. She avoided his piercing gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of how small she felt in his presence. The walls of the office seemed to close in, the warmth of the fire and the ticking of the strange, enchanted devices only amplifying her discomfort. 

Her throat felt dry as her mind raced. What was she supposed to say? Admit she was searching for the relic, defying all reason? Or lie to the one person who might actually be able to help her? 

She glanced down at her hands, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Even as the words left her mouth, guilt sank its claws deep into her. Lying didn’t come naturally to her, not when the weight of her family’s legacy was so heavy on her shoulders. 

But Dumbledore’s sharp, knowing gaze bore into her, and she felt like a child caught sneaking sweets from the pantry. 

“Sierra,” he said gently, but with unmistakable firmness, “you have been burdened with truths far beyond your years. I do not say this to reprimand you but to warn you. This search you’ve begun is not without danger.” 

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat refusing to budge. “You don’t understand,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I have to do this. For my father. For my family.” 

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, she hated how raw and vulnerable she sounded. She was a Rosier, after all. She wasn’t supposed to crack under pressure. She wasn’t supposed to feel this exposed. 

But Dumbledore’s expression softened, and the kindness in his eyes nearly broke her resolve. 

“I do understand,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “More than you know.” 

Those words stung, hitting a part of her heart she didn’t want to acknowledge. Could he understand the weight of trying to live up to her father’s sacrifice? The fear of Voldemort’s shadow creeping closer to her family, threatening everything she held dear?