The Unspoken.
The Muggle Studies classroom was as quiet as ever. The soft patter of snow against the windows outside was the only sound to break the stillness. It was the sort of quiet Harry enjoyed—an absence of students, of chaos, of questions that never seemed to stop. Just the slow ticking of time in a room steeped in history. He had always been drawn to places like this.
His tea was still warm, though only just, the steam rising in gentle swirls. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window with eyes unfocused, lost in the calm of the moment.
It was then that the door opened with a soft creak, and Harry didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Professor Evans,” Dumbledore’s voice was a familiar, pleasant hum. Harry could hear the smile in his tone, though he suspected the Transfiguration Professor wasn’t here for pleasantries today.
“Dumbledore,” Harry responded without looking up, his gaze fixed outside. “What brings you to my humble classroom?”
Dumbledore’s footsteps were soft as he made his way across the room. “Not so humble, I’d say,” he replied easily, settling into the chair opposite Harry, his robes sweeping the floor with a faint rustling sound. There was no rush to his movements, no urgency. Just the calm that came with age and wisdom.
After a moment of silence, Dumbledore let out a long sigh, his eyes resting on Harry with that knowing expression that always seemed to hide more than it revealed. “The holidays have come quickly, haven’t they? So many empty halls,” he mused. “Though, I imagine you’re enjoying the solitude. A rare thing at Hogwarts.”
Harry didn’t immediately answer, letting the conversation float. There was something in Dumbledore’s tone that told him the old wizard was already far more attuned to his thoughts than he would care to admit.
“It’s peaceful,” Harry said at last, his voice deliberately neutral. “The quiet is... welcome.”
Dumbledore gave a small smile, his eyes never leaving Harry. “I can imagine. Some silence does have a way of making one’s thoughts more... manageable, doesn’t it?”
Harry finally met his eyes then, a flicker of something passing between them. He knew Dumbledore wasn’t here just for small talk, though he would have never directly said it. That was never the Headmaster’s way. There was always an angle, a subtle push toward something.
The silence stretched between them, but Dumbledore made no move to break it. Instead, he simply sipped his tea, studying Harry over the rim of his cup. It was almost as if he was waiting for Harry to make the first move, to open the door to the conversation he knew was coming.
Harry’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, resisting the urge to speak first. Instead, he let the tension build.
“So,” Dumbledore said at last, his voice quiet but deliberate, “I’ve heard rumors.” He paused, the soft clink of his teacup against the saucer a small punctuation in the room. “Whispers, really. About a certain... individual who seems to be gathering followers. A man who believes the world is ready for a new order.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully blank. “I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of rumors. They do tend to get tangled up in the telling, don’t they?”
Dumbledore smiled again, though it was more of a knowing curve of his lips than a true expression of joy. “True. But some rumors... well, they seem to have a consistency to them. This one, in particular. Grindelwald. A name that’s becoming harder to ignore.”
Harry felt a flicker of something deep inside, but he kept his face neutral. Dumbledore’s eyes had sharpened, but his tone remained calm, almost reflective.
“A name from the past, or perhaps the future?” Harry asked, his voice deliberately light, testing Dumbledore’s patience.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened slightly, but there was no mistaking the intent in his eyes. “I suspect, Professor Evans, that the future has already begun to unfold. And some names... well, they’ve never really been far away. It’s just that some of us choose not to see them. Or perhaps we simply hope they fade away of their own accord.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore. The words were a dance, a game, and they both knew it. Dumbledore wasn’t asking for information—he already had it, likely far more than Harry had realized. What he wanted was something else.
“You think he’s going to make his move soon, don’t you?” Harry asked, his voice soft.
Dumbledore took a slow sip from his cup, then set it down gently, his eyes never leaving Harry. “I think he already has,” he said quietly, as if the answer had always been obvious. “But that’s not the question I’m concerned with.”
Harry’s brow furrowed slightly. “What is it then?”
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. “I’m concerned with how those who know his name will respond,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How long they will remain silent in the face of such ambition. And more than that, how long they can pretend that the cracks in the world don’t grow wider with every passing day.”
There it was—the unspoken question, hanging between them like a heavy fog. Dumbledore wasn’t asking about Grindelwald. He was asking about Harry.
“What’s your role in all this, Professor?” Dumbledore’s eyes were steady, searching.
Harry’s fingers twitched involuntarily, but he quickly masked his reaction with a small, neutral smile. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, his voice even. “I’m just a professor. I’ve only been here a short while.”
“A professor, yes,” Dumbledore said, as if the title itself was enough. “But I wonder, Professor Evans, how long it will take before you are more than that.”
Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He had been around long enough to understand the gravity in Dumbledore’s words without needing an explanation.
Dumbledore stood, taking his time to adjust his robes. “I’m sure we’ll speak more about this... when the time comes,” he said lightly, his tone slipping back into its usual warmth. “Until then, enjoy the holidays, Professor. They are short, after all.”
As the door closed behind Dumbledore, Harry remained seated, his fingers still tracing the rim of his teacup. The conversation was over, but the weight of it lingered.
And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the time had already come. It was only a matter of when he would have to choose.