"You're learning fast,"
At this point, old Dumbledore had already let go of Dylan's hand.
But even so, the fire Dylan had been conjuring and controlling didn't go out of control.
He was a little shaky at first, sure.
But very quickly—
Dylan's control over the flames grew smoother and more precise.
His rate of improvement…
Even Dumbledore was stunned.
After all, the Goblet Flame of Gublai wasn't just any ordinary fire spell.
It involved a wide range of disciplines—divination, prophecy, alchemy… and above all, eternal combustion.
And just mastering that alone was incredibly difficult.
Even he, Albus Dumbledore, had spent ages studying it.
So how had this boy, with just a bit of guidance, already mastered it?
Was that even fair?
Was it still magic at this point?
Once again, Dumbledore was hit with the full weight of Dylan's natural talent.
"Perhaps… if carefully nurtured and properly guided, even if Tom were to return, or if I were to pass away one day… Hogwarts would still have a wizard capable of standing against the darkness."
He stood nearby, watching Dylan play with a small swirl of sapphire-blue fire.
The movements were getting more relaxed, more effortless.
A gleam flickered in the old man's eyes.
"Perhaps I should proceed in two phases..."
Just then—
Dylan, still manipulating the flame, looked up at him.
"Headmaster, does this count as having successfully learned the Goblet Flame?"
Dumbledore came back to the present and nodded slightly.
"Yes. You've mastered it far more quickly than I expected."
Dylan chuckled.
He'd already maxed out the Fiendfyre Curse.
How difficult could this one possibly be?
Seriously, didn't anyone understand the value of knowledge transfer these days?
"You flatter me, sir. It's not that I'm learning fast—it's that you're teaching well."
Dumbledore laughed.
The two of them just stood there, smiling at each other.
"This old man still isn't done with me…"
Dylan cleared his throat.
"Headmaster, it's getting late. I still have some reading to catch up on, so if you'll excuse me—thank you again for taking the time to teach me."
Dumbledore nodded. "It's always a pleasure to see students making progress."
Dylan thought that was the end of it and prepared to bow and take his leave.
But then—
"Child, may I ask your thoughts on the school? And your professors?"
Dylan paused.
He knew Dumbledore was a suspicious man.
But now…
What was this about?
Hadn't all his subtle probing been enough?
Now the man was just asking directly?
Dylan blinked. "Of course. What specifically would you like to know?"
Dumbledore stood beside him, looking less like a legendary wizard and more like a kindly old man.
"For example—Severus. If you had to describe him in one sentence, what would you say?"
Dylan pursed his lips.
You want my opinion on Professor Snape?
He thought for a moment.
"The excellence of Professor Snape is something I've heard about constantly since I first arrived at school."
—Not just from Malfoy. Slytherins in general seem very eager to go on and on about how amazing their Head of House is.
Dumbledore paused, then let out a hearty laugh. "In fact, I've heard those sentiments quite often myself."
Dylan nodded. "So if I were to put it in one sentence…"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his glasses.
"Every non-stick greasy pan used to be a sharp, shining kitchen knife in its youth."
"…"
Dumbledore's eyes widened.
He smacked his lips and hesitated.
"Well… that's an unusual metaphor—but strangely fitting."
He couldn't hold back anymore—he burst out laughing.
"Just make sure Snape doesn't hear you say that. Otherwise, your school life might get a little... unstable."
Dylan nodded. "Naturally. I wouldn't have said it at all if you hadn't asked."
"Hahaha!" Dumbledore's whole chest shook with laughter.
"Well then… what about Minerva? Your Head of House—what do you think of her?"
Dylan rubbed his chin.
"Professor McGonagall? Honestly, I think she's a fascinating person, though she does come off rather strict. But I know—that's not who she really is."
"Oh? And what makes you say that?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"Transfiguration doesn't just require logic," Dylan replied. "It also takes imagination. If someone sees magic too rigidly, their life will be dull—and they'll never become a master of Transfiguration."
Dumbledore froze for a moment.
"Child, you truly surprise me. Your perspective on this world already surpasses that of most adults."
He stroked his beard and looked at Dylan again.
"Every time I speak with you, it's as though I uncover something new—something even I had never thought to ponder. You're remarkably mature. You don't feel like a student at all."
Dylan lifted his chin.
—Though he wasn't short by any means, Dumbledore still towered over him.
"Professor, maturity is simple. Read enough books, and you'll eventually begin to understand—what you called 'the adult world.'"
"Oh? So you have your own view of what maturity is?"
Dylan blinked, another thought popping into his head.
"Perhaps."
Dumbledore pressed gently, "Would you share it with me?"
"If you really want to know… sure."
Dylan nodded. "To me, maturity is a brightness that doesn't blind. A sound that's full but never grating."
"At its core, it's a quiet strength. A kind of height that's not too steep to climb."
Dumbledore's silver eyebrows twitched, and his blue eyes sparkled—like a lake filled with stars.
He tucked his wand away and rested a wrinkled hand on Dylan's shoulder.
"Hearing that from you is like discovering a talking toffee in a candy shop—utterly delightful and completely unexpected."
He smiled. "Perhaps next time there's a speech at Hogwarts, I should recommend you as a speaker."
Dylan grinned, completely unmodest.
"I'd be honored."
—Who knows, giving a speech in front of the whole school might even unlock some kind of achievement.
"Anything else you'd like to ask?"
"No, nothing more." Dumbledore shook his head, then winked mischievously. "And I certainly don't want to hear what you think of me."
"…Fair enough. Then I'll take my leave."
"Be careful, and don't forget to relax now and then. You should spend some time with Potter and Weasley. Have a little fun."
He didn't try to stop Dylan this time.
Just watched him go, offering a final reminder:
"I'd rather not spend time figuring out how to prank people with enchanted joke items," Dylan said, laughing and waving goodbye.
After leaving Dumbledore's office—
Dylan returned to his dormitory.
He'd been far too busy lately.
Even after dropping a few electives, he barely had time to breathe.
It felt like the books were endless.
One subject always led to another.
And unless he researched each point further, he couldn't fully grasp it.
But going deeper always brought up new, unexplored areas of knowledge.
It was a cycle.
A very exhausting one.
And even though Dylan had already mastered a ridiculous number of advanced spells…
His understanding of magic still felt incomplete.
"There's still time tonight… maybe I can test if it's possible to directly control a Boggart."
He shooed away Mocha and Nobetta.
Creak—
He pushed open the door to the little wooden shed.
The place reeked of damp and mildew.
Probably due to the moisture from both the woods and the sea.
With a flick of his wand, the air cleared up instantly.
He made straight for the corner of the shed.
A box sat there—holding a single Boggart.
But just as his fingers brushed the edge of the box…
A swirl of black mist rose from a diary on the table.
Tom Riddle's pale, translucent face appeared beside it, glaring at Dylan.
"How long do you plan to keep me here? With all your powers, why haven't you just killed me?"
Dylan waved him off, annoyed. "I've been busy. Don't get in my way."
Riddle's brow furrowed.
"You can't just—"
He didn't even finish his sentence before—
WHAM.
Dylan blasted him with a burst of holy light.
Riddle let out a scream so sharp it nearly tore the air apart.
His shadowy form twisted and was instantly sucked back into the diary.
Dylan gave the book a lazy glance.
He had way too much on his plate these days to deal with Little Tom.
Besides, now that he was spending his gold expanding his enchanted suitcase, he didn't need to rely on Riddle for refining spells anymore.
And yet—left alone for a while, the guy started acting like some spurned lover?
Would it kill you to stay quiet in that diary for a few days? You just had to pop out and get blasted by holy light again, didn't you?
Dylan shook his head, grabbed the box, and headed outside.
He placed the wooden box on a patch of grass.
"Moo?"
Mocha hadn't gone far.
The moment Dylan stepped out, the creature leapt from the tree and landed on his shoulder, staring curiously at the box.
It had been bored out of its mind lately.
Tried to get Dylan to take it out for fun so many times—but no dice.
Even at night, Dylan didn't call it to sleep with him anymore!
Has it really been that long since I last curled up in his bed?!
"Alright, alright—go play with Nobetta. Don't bother me for now."
Dylan nudged Mocha off his shoulder.
"(*｀ω´) Moo!?"
Mocha looked shocked.
Had his master changed?
Was he trying to get rid of him?!
He'd been stuck playing with Nobetta every day, either eating, wandering the forest, or swimming in the sea.
Even the goblins in the forest were mostly gone, thanks to Dylan.
The basilisk used to be a fun target, but now it just listened to orders like a trained puppy.
And the island across the sea?
Strictly off-limits.
MOOO!!!
Mocha was going mad.
With droopy tail and leaves stuck to his fluffy fur, he slunk off toward a crooked tree, leaned his forehead against the bark, and sulked.
Time passed slowly.
Mocha's ears twitched.
But all he could hear behind him were the sharp zaps of spells slicing through the air.
"Moo…"
Was his master really not going to come comfort him?
He used to care about Mocha's feelings!
Mocha peeked back—
Just in time to see Dylan waving his wand.
Bright blasts of magic shot from its tip, wrapping around a dark shadow that had crawled out of the wooden box.
"(｡•́︿•̀｡) Moo~"
Mocha collapsed into a pile of leaves.
His fluffy tail flopped against the ground.
"Awoo?"
A warm breeze brushed over his back.
Nobetta, her scaled body glinting, padded over, nudging Mocha gently with her head.
"Moo…"
But Dylan?
He wasn't paying any attention.
Not even a glance.
He was focused entirely on the Boggart he'd released.
Magic was pouring from his wand.
The cleansing power of the banishment spell was wrapped around it.
The Boggart's form kept shifting under Dylan's focused intent.
One moment, it was a fanged werewolf.
The next—a raging inferno.
Like a lump of modeling clay, the Boggart morphed under Dylan's will.
"A creature born with the ability to shapeshift… in a way, isn't a Boggart just a naturally occurring Animagus?"
Dylan watched its every transformation, studying how the magical energy around it changed.
It's frighteningly accurate—even the magic signatures match.
But this thing's never even seen some of those forms before… how can it get the details so perfectly right?