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The scene shifted.
However, it did not return to the headmaster’s office as Ian had expected. Instead, the world around him became a swirl of overlapping lights and shadows, as if countless scenes were playing out like a moving tapestry woven from memories.
They were Fragmented.
Yet not chaotic.
This had nothing to do with any memories Albus Dumbledore had concealed or altered through magic. Rather, it was the story of what followed after Ariana Dumbledore’s tragic death.
Gellert Grindelwald had left that very night. His retreating figure was neither rushed nor disheveled, yet his expression and unsteady steps spoke of something far worse than mere panic or disorder.
Just as Ian had sensed.
Aberforth Dumbledore may have been the one who refused to face the grim reality, but Albus Dumbledore was the one who chose to shoulder the burden alone.
The shifting memories revealed Aberforth striking Albus after the funeral. Albus did not retaliate. With blood trickling down his face, he simply knelt in front of Ariana’s grave, silent in his grief.
Droplets of red seeped into the earth.
The once-spirited young man had vanished. His dreams and ambitions lay buried beneath the final handful of soil cast over his sister’s grave. In the haze of those days, despair became his only companion.
Eventually, he returned to Hogwarts— the school so many called a beacon of hope. Students came and went like the turning of the seasons, yet teaching was not the reason Albus Dumbledore had returned.
The library. The Restricted Section. Apart from fulfilling his duties, he spent every waking hour poring over ancient tomes.
From the legendary wizards of old to the greatest magical scholars of modern times, Albus Dumbledore immersed himself in the lifework of history’s most brilliant minds.
He learned much.
But none of it led to what he truly sought. As he ventured further into the study of curses and forbidden magic, even the infamous Herpo the Foul became an object of his research.
In one fleeting vision, a younger Dumbledore— his once-composed demeanor almost frantic— searched desperately for the secrets of the soul. When he found nothing, he knelt in the rain, his cries of frustration echoing into the stormy night.
Ian found it difficult to reconcile this broken, tormented figure with the wise and revered headmaster standing beside him. He turned to look at the present-day Dumbledore, who had been watching the unfolding memories in silence.
“Our lesson is not yet over.”
Albus Dumbledore’s voice was gentle as he adjusted his half-moon spectacles, dabbing away a tear. Though calm, his eyes carried the weight of sorrow and… shame.
There were no explanations. No justifications. Albus Dumbledore merely laid his past bare, revealing his deepest wounds without a single word of defense.
It was a lesson.
A lesson taught through experience.
“I heard Herpo met a rather grim end,” Ian remarked. Yet what he had seen did not lessen his respect for Dumbledore. On the contrary, he had never admired the old wizard more than he did at that moment.
“That is generally believed to be the case.” Albus Dumbledore nodded slightly.
The visions pressed on.
The young Albus Dumbledore had exhausted the knowledge within Hogwarts’ library, mastering its vast collection, but power alone did not bring him satisfaction.
His strength had grown.
But his spirit withered.
The more he learned, the clearer it became that some things were forever beyond reach. No wizard in history had succeeded in achieving what he sought. Even he could only place his hopes in a legend— the fabled Deathly Hallows.
The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. Together, they were said to grant mastery over Death itself.
Through the memories, Ian noticed something.
Whether he was studying, teaching, or simply moving through the castle, Albus Dumbledore always carried a small book with him: ”The Tales of Beedle the Bard”, an ancient collection of wizarding fairy tales.
Curious, Ian leaned in to examine it more closely. But to his disappointment, the author’s name was precisely as the title suggested— Beedle the Bard, an obscure figure from the Middle Ages.
It was not, as he had half-hoped, some unexpected revelation, like the long-lost tome of an infamous unspeakable.
“If you have an interest in that book, I can provide you with a special edition,” The real Albus Dumbledore offered, misinterpreting Ian’s intent as he had leaned in toward the memory’s pages.
“Thank you very much.”
Ian initially considered declining, but then he thought of the possibility that the edition might contain Dumbledore’s personal notes. Bowing with impeccable formality, he accepted.
His grave sincerity left Dumbledore momentarily at a loss.
“It is merely a book.”
The headmaster did not understand why Ian’s eyes lit up so suddenly. Perhaps he was simply a child who, like himself, found joy in old stories.
Even now.
The memories Dumbledore shared made one thing clear—he had clung to fairy tales not for amusement, but because when reality had failed to offer hope, those stories were all he had left.
And even now, that had not entirely changed.
Long ago, when his friendship with Grindelwald had been intact, they had discussed the Deathly Hallows, dreaming of their discovery while lying in the grass. But at the time, the ever-confident Dumbledore had dismissed fairy tales as mere fantasies.
Of course.
It was also possible that the young Dumbledore believed more in his own power— in any case, unable to satisfy his desires in reality, the young Albus Dumbledore set out on a journey during the holidays.
The dreamlike fast-forward began.
Crossing mountains and rivers.
Albus Dumbledore did not find the legendary stone said to interfere with life and death, but during his search, he once again saw the figure of that man.
Gellert Grindelwald.
This man was stronger than before and far more radical than in the past. Perhaps this was also a way of healing from their separation. In different countries, there were whispers of Gellert Grindelwald.
Some claimed he was invincible; others feared he sought to rule over all wizardkind. Countless followers gathered, and in his grasp, he wielded a wand of unmatched power.
“I will defy fate!”
From a distance.
Someone was attempting to persuade him to stay.
“If we are together, if we join forces, no one can stop us. We can achieve everything we ever dreamed of!”
It sounded like a rallying cry to his followers.
The young Albus Dumbledore heard the man’s declaration— the future they had once envisioned together. But his despondent heart could no longer align with those around him.
Many knelt before Gellert Grindelwald, just as Death Eaters would later kneel before Voldemort, pressing their lips to the ground beneath his feet.
But it was not simply the power that Gellert Grindelwald possessed.
War had begun.
History was preparing to be rewritten.
Northern Europe, Eastern Europe, Germany, France, Hungary, Switzerland… His acolytes followed in his wake, and with each step, an ever more radical vision took root.
Those who surrendered were spared.
Those who resisted were annihilated— men, women, infants, the elderly. Ian followed the young Albus Dumbledore as if witnessing firsthand the era now known as the Dark Years.
There were those who wavered and Gellert Grindelwald would allow them to leave.
However.
He would still turn to the ones who remained.
“The law of nature is survival of the fittest; blood and fire shall forge peace. For the families behind us and the responsibilities we bear, we must fight to claim a new future!”
“This is not slaughter, nor persecution. We are not like those callous Muggles; their world will remain, and our kind will still be born from among them!”
“We are not committing genocide! We fight for our own, exchanging the present for the future, offering a few sacrifices to extinguish the resistance of the many!”
“I do not condemn those who leave; I honor those who stay. History will prove us right. It is time for this world to be led by a different hand!”
“Even if we bear the weight of sin, we must… fight for the greater good!”
Amidst the fervor and zeal.
The tide of darkness surged ever stronger.
In the midst of it all, the young Albus Dumbledore wavered. He was conflicted and saved some lives, but he never truly intervened in this world-altering war.
A flash of crimson flickered.
“That is a blood pact, far more binding than an Unbreakable Vow.” Dumbledore, standing beside Ian, murmured. “Those bound by a blood pact cannot raise a hand against one another. My agreement with Aurora’s grandfather was to change the world together; it was our mutual assurance and bond.”
After a brief pause.
Dumbledore continued.
“Of course, I do not offer this as an excuse for my inaction. In truth, during this time, I was consumed by an obsession with something else.”
It was clear.
The young Albus Dumbledore was searching for the Resurrection Stone. Yet he never found what he sought in those years, and only when the cries for help became unrelenting did he finally step forward.
Newt Scamander’s voice echoed in the memory, as he and the young Albus Dumbledore worked together to counter Gellert Grindelwald’s growing threat.
When the blood pact shattered.
As history recorded, a fateful duel between old friends began. Gellert Grindelwald ultimately suffered a crushing defeat and was imprisoned within a cold, lightless fortress.
A phoenix’s silhouette flickered within the scene, shifting rapidly. Ian caught only a glimpse of its fading form before it disappeared— just as a young man awaited the arrival of death.
Time flowed on.
Many celebrated.
Few noticed that Albus Dumbledore had grown even more somber. He had claimed the wand said to command fate, yet he had failed to prevent the tragedy fate had chosen for him.
On what seemed to be a tranquil day.
The weary Albus Dumbledore, lost in searching and reflection, stepped into a familiar courtyard— one Ian recognized.
The firelight flickers in the cupboard reflecting the fear and ambition in the eyes of a handsome young boy.
“This is the beginning of another story. I do not believe there is a lesson to be learned here, only that you must never overlook the influence your actions have on those around you.”
Albus Dumbledore gazed at the boy in the memory.
“Perhaps he was inherently flawed, but if I had shown him more guidance instead of keeping him at arm’s length with cold suspicion, he might not have fallen so far.”
The old headmaster sighed, the weight of past regrets pressing heavily upon him.
He looked utterly exhausted.
And indeed, he was.
This journey through memories had been no small ordeal.
Dumbledore had, in essence, reopened an old wound, one that had never truly healed, simply to offer Ian a lesson— to ensure he would not repeat the same mistakes.
“Is he Voldemort?” Ian asked, though he already knew the answer.
“His name was Tom Riddle. Of course, calling him Voldemort is not incorrect, but in his pursuit of power, he chose to cast aside his given name, as though severing his ties to humanity itself.”
Albus Dumbledore turned away, and the scene began to dissolve. The world twisted, blurred— until the familiar surroundings of the Hogwarts headmaster’s office reappeared.
The past vanished like a mirage, leaving behind only the faint scent of parchment and candle wax. The silver instruments on the desk continued to hum and release curling wisps of steam, the portraits of former headmasters whispered amongst themselves, and the Sorting Hat grumbled to Fawkes about Ian.
“You have to believe me, I’ll deal with him sooner or later.”
“Even Godric Gryffindors didn’t even dare to dust me with a feather, yet this little rascal thinks he can manhandle me like an old sock!”
“If Dumbledore weren’t watching over him, I’d have leaped up and knocked him right on the nose!”
Fawkes paid no attention, but the hat continued to mutter indignantly— right until it noticed Ian looking directly at it. Then, with a dramatic huff, it fell silent and slumped over as if lifeless.
“That settles it, Fawkes. Take it to the Black Lake for a wash. And next time, I’ll let you perch on my shoulder a little longer!” Ian declared.
The phoenix let out a soft trill of approval before swiftly seizing the Sorting Hat in its talons and soaring out of the window.
“You wretched scoundrel! When you have a child at Hogwarts, I’ll see them Sorted straight into Azkaban!” The Sorting Hat shrieked as it vanished into the distance.
“Ridiculous. I’m not having children,” Ian scoffed at the hat’s theatrics before turning to Dumbledore, who had just plucked a book from one of the high shelves.
“Consider this a gift, as thanks for your time,” The old wizard said, handing him a copy of ”The Tales of Beedle the Bard”.
“Thank you!”
Ian accepted the book eagerly, flipping to the first blank page. As expected, there was a handwritten note from Dumbledore himself, scrawled in elegant script.
And beneath it— his signature. Unlike the cramped marginalia scribbled throughout the Restricted Section’s grimoires, this page still had ample space left.
“It’ll come in handy sooner or later,” Ian murmured with satisfaction.
Dumbledore regarded him curiously.
“You’re not going to ask about the Deathly Hallows?” He prompted, setting his ancient wand on the desk.
Ian didn’t even glance at it.
“I’ve read about them in other books. No offense, but if the Deathly Hallows were truly invincible, how did Aurora’s grandfather still lose to you?”
Ian knew the truth of the Hallows. While powerful, they were ultimately just masterfully crafted magical artifacts. His own knowledge of enchantments and alchemy was still far from sufficient to analyze them in depth.
As for their supposed legend…
Whether it was the Resurrection Stone or the Invisibility Cloak, their reputations far outweighed their actual utility. Perhaps the Elder Wand lived up to its fearsome history, but Ian firmly believed that true power came from the wielder, not the wand itself.
After all— how many so-called “invincible” wizards had still fallen to a well-aimed Killing Curse?
“A very wise perspective. You understand more than most fully grown witches and wizards.” Dumbledore exhaled softly and sank into his chair, looking utterly drained.
He resembled a Ministry official who had just endured a full day of Wizengamot deliberations, only to return to find a mountain of paperwork still waiting for him.
“I hope today’s journey has been enlightening.”
Ian tucked ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ into his robes.
“Don’t you have anything to ask?”
It was only fair, he thought, to return the favor.
A great man, brilliant and revered, had laid bare his painful past simply to impart wisdom. It was only right to respond with sincerity.
Especially since, during the course of their conversation, certain truths had already been inadvertently revealed.
“You’ve already answered my question— through your actions. I don’t need to hear it spoken aloud.”
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment before shaking his head with a weary smile. He removed his spectacles, their lenses fogged slightly and wiped away the moisture at the corners of his eyes with a small handkerchief.
“To be honest… The day I realized the answer, I was jealous of you. Truly, Ian. Jealous.”
His hands trembled ever so slightly.
“What an extraordinary talent. I have read that Merlin himself possessed such a gift, yet I have spent my entire life unable to prove whether the stories were true.”
“In truth, it is not just Merlin. Among certain unpublished relics at Hogwarts, I once discovered a journal belonging to Helga Hufflepuff— one of the school’s founders.”
“For the longest time, that journal was the clue I held onto with the greatest hope.” Dumbledore replaced his glasses, his expression tinged with deep regret.
“What clue?” Ian asked, his curiosity piqued.
Dumbledore did not attempt to be cryptic. “In ”The Tales of Beedle the Bard”, there is a story about the Deathly Hallows— of three brothers who struck a bargain with Death.”
Hearing this, Ian reached into his robes, retrieved the book, and flipped to the corresponding page.
[Once, there were three brothers who came upon a river too treacherous to cross…]
The story was not lengthy.
It detailed the supposed origin of the Deathly Hallows and the fable that sprang from it. The eldest brother, seeking to master fate, chose the Elder Wand. The second, yearning to defy mortality, chose the Resurrection Stone. The youngest, wise and wary, accepted the Cloak of Invisibility to elude Death’s grasp. In the end, the eldest fell to arrogance and was slain, the second succumbed to despair and perished, and only the youngest, having lived a full life, passed his Cloak to his son before greeting Death as an old friend.
“What does this story have to do with Helga Hufflepuff’s journal?” Ian frowned slightly. Had Helga Hufflepuff also encountered Death?
“Yes, Ian.”
Dumbledore nodded, his expression distant, as though gazing into the past. “Within her journal, she recorded another tale— or perhaps, a more credible account of history?”
His voice wavered slightly, uncertain.
For, in truth—
“I cannot verify the authenticity of her account. I have searched far and wide, but no evidence has surfaced to confirm the events Helga Hufflepuff described.”
Dumbledore’s tone held a deep sorrow, laced with wistful longing.
His words only heightened Ian’s intrigue.
“What events?”
This was undoubtedly a hidden secret, one unknown even to the most well-read wizards. Ian had little interest in the mundane gossip exchanged among students, but unraveling forgotten mysteries— that was another matter entirely.
“Much like the tale of the three brothers, Helga Hufflepuff claimed to have witnessed the other three founders entering into a pact with The Lord Of Dead.”
“According to an ancient contract safeguarded within Ravenclaw’s lineage, each of the three founders received a gift— but also incurred a cost…”
“On that matter, Helga was cryptic.”
“She merely boasted in her writings that, among the four founders, she had been the wisest. Having read the tale of the three brothers, she had refused to partake in the bargain.”
Dumbledore’s voice carried an air of solemn reflection.
“Of course, with all due respect to the founders… considering Helga Hufflepuff’s eventual demise, perhaps she was not quite as clever as she believed.”
Only Albus Dumbledore would dare to make such a remark about the esteemed founders of Hogwarts.
“The Lord Of Dead?”
Ian, however, had latched onto something else entirely. A thought stirred in his mind, his youthful brow knitting together in contemplation.
“A mere supposition,” Dumbledore admitted. “Helga Hufflepuff was known for her fondness for biographies and fantastical tales. It is possible she used the title as an alternative way of referring to Death itself.”
Even he was unsure.
“Regardless, her journal rekindled my hope. She was, after all, a founder. Could the events she described be mere flights of fancy?”
Yet from Dumbledore’s uncertain tone, it was clear— he had begun to question even Helga Hufflepuff’s accounts.
“For the younger version of myself… if such a bargain were truly possible, I would have accepted any price— so long as it could undo the tragedy I had wrought.”
“I dedicated years to unraveling the history of Ravenclaw’s house, yet the contract Helga spoke of eluded me, just as the Resurrection Stone remained beyond my grasp.”
“As for reaching beyond the veil… existing enchantments, age-old texts, forbidden curses— none proved effective. I even considered forging my own path, but to this day, I have failed.”
Dumbledore let out a slow, weary breath. The weight of years was etched into his voice, yet his eyes gleamed with an intensity Ian had never seen before.
“I had chosen, at last, to bury this obsession… until you appeared. It seems fate has played a cruel jest, revealing in you a certainty I once believed impossible.”
His voice trembled ever so slightly.
“Perhaps I should not ask, but I find that I cannot help myself… Ariana— what kind of life does she lead on the other side?”
There was something raw in his expression. A silent plea, barely contained in his tone and expression.
Ian hesitated.
“Professor Dumbledore, we both know that place is merely a waiting ground. Ariana lingers there— she does not seem to harbor any sort of resentment.”
“At the very least, when she speaks of her elder brothers, it is always with fondness and longing. More than once, she has told me how kind you both were to her.”
Dumbledore’s breath caught.
Tears welled in his eyes, his voice breaking as he whispered—
“No… no, it was never like that. I was selfish. I convinced myself that Aberforth would suffice— that he could care for her while I pursued my own ambitions. To me, family was a burden.”
“I was never the brother she deserved.”
His anguish, long hidden behind the mask of a wise and unshakable headmaster, now lay bare. Dumbledore covered his face with a trembling hand, revealing a vulnerability that no one— not even his closest confidants— had ever witnessed before.
I don’t know much about that place, but there is one thing I am certain of: hatred and resentment may linger, but Ariana remembers only the joy of her past now.”
“Professor, she has long since chosen to forgive.” Ian considered standing to pat Dumbledore on the back, but his small hand could only reach the headmaster’s head.
So he patted that instead.
In doing so, he accomplished what even Voldemort wouldn’t dare to imagine.
“Thank you, Ian, for letting me know she is there.” Dumbledore’s voice was low and hoarse, and when he raised his head, the look in his eyes sent a chill down Ian’s spine.
“Professor! I’m trying to comfort you; you can’t look at me like that. Ariana warned me not to reveal this secret— what she truly wants is for you and your brother to live your lives!”
Ian may have exaggerated slightly in his words.
But he had to say something.
Otherwise…
Given Dumbledore’s emotions today, Ian couldn’t be entirely sure that he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow, head to class, and find a crowd gathered outside the headmaster’s office, staring in horror at the hanging body of Albus Dumbledore.
With his tongue grotesquely sticking out.
Perhaps, in a tragic bid for a family reunion, Albus Dumbledore would take his own life, and beside him, Aberforth— deceived into sharing his fate— would hang himself as well.
Just imagining that scene was too dreadful!
“You needn’t worry about that, Ian. I won’t take any drastic actions.”
Though Dumbledore spoke with reassurance, Ian would wager his roommate’s limited-edition dragon-hide gloves that he caught a fleeting glimmer of disappointment in the headmaster’s eyes.
[Thought Perception] never lies.
Old Dumbledore was as skilled at spinning tales as he was at Transfiguration!
Ian let out a relieved sigh.
“Ariana is content where she is, and she will wait for you for as long as needed. She has friends there, and perhaps she’s even happier than she was in this world.”
“After all, at least in that place, Voldemort isn’t lurking about… no Voldemort standing upright, plotting, and munching on licorice wands.” Ian felt compelled to add a touch of reassurance.
“Riddle won’t be a threat for much longer.” Dumbledore’s tone was almost too candid, his eyes flickering with a meaning Ian couldn’t quite grasp.
“Huh? Are you asking me to tell Ariana the tale of how Dumbledore outmaneuvered Voldemort? Should I break it into chapters? Would you like some embellishments to elevate your heroic grandeur?” Ian asked, eyes widening in mock surprise.
“…”
Dumbledore was momentarily silent as if caught off guard by Ian’s cheek.
“Oh, that reminds me— Ariana mentioned that if I ever faced trouble while alive, I could seek help from her elder brother. Do you think her words still hold weight?”
Ian suddenly recalled what had transpired in the Twilight Zone before the school year began.
“Of course.”
Dumbledore studied the young wizard before him.
His voice was gentle yet carried undeniable gravity. “Ian Prince, from this day forward, you may consider the house of Dumbledore your most steadfast ally in the wizarding world.”
It was a solemn promise.
“Honor the ancestors, honor Hogwarts, honor the founders, and, most importantly, honor my good friend Ariana.” Ian’s heart swelled with satisfaction, knowing he had secured both compensation and an apology.
This was a vow from the headmaster himself!
Perhaps now, when he left this office, he could walk through the corridors of Hogwarts with a bit more confidence. Making a few more powerful friends never hurt anyone!
“I heard Aurora was taken away by her family. I still owe her a favor. Will she be returning to Hogwarts?” Ian suddenly thought of another friend.
“Due to the unfortunate events surrounding the last Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Miss Grindelwald remained with her family for a time. However, she has now returned to Hogwarts, though she won’t resume classes until tomorrow.” Dumbledore’s expression grew pensive, as though recalling a recent conversation in the highest tower of the castle.
After a moment’s contemplation, he addressed Ian once more. “Because of her lineage, Miss Grindelwald has never truly experienced an ordinary upbringing. I worry that she may be drawn toward a radical path.”
“Many remnants of Grindelwald’s Acolytes wish for her to become the new shadow looming over the wizarding world. Ian, that should not be her fate. Perhaps, through your friendship, you can help guide her onto a different course.”
Dumbledore’s voice held a quiet plea.
Ian nodded without hesitation.
“As her friend, I’ll do my part. Only a fool would aspire to be a Dark Lord. Don’t worry— I think Aurora is, at heart, a good person.”
He patted his chest in assurance.
After all, when he had merely tried to correct the Great Hall’s floating candles so they would drip wax properly, Aurora had thought he was up to no good. Clearly, his good friend Aurora had a moral compass much more upright than his own.
“Yes, a fool indeed. I wholeheartedly agree with your assessment. You are already far wiser than Riddle.” Dumbledore nodded, a look of deep satisfaction settling upon his features.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading back now?”
Ian suspected that the memory magic earlier must have taken a toll on Dumbledore—a mental toll. To him, the headmaster looked as if he had been laboring over delicate rune work for twenty hours straight.
Hmm.
Now it’s five more hours than before.
“Of course, no problem. You can come to me anytime.”
Dumbledore rose to see him off but paused at the office door.
“If possible, please also convey my greetings to Ariana. Tell her… everything will be as she wishes.” His voice was low, his request solemn.
Ian nodded.
“I’ll bring your greetings, perhaps even a reply… maybe even a moving portrait from afar.” He ran out the door, intent on reaching the library before it was too late to borrow more books.
The night was long.
Who could sleep without reading a few more pages?
Focused on his dwindling time, Ian failed to notice Dumbledore, who, after stepping away from the door, suddenly turned back.
His eyes were filled with shock.
…
The clock ticked.
Dumbledore flipped through a tome, but he did not choose to sleep.
He was waiting for another meeting. When a soft knock came at the office door, he straightened his robes, attempting to appear as composed as possible.
“Come in.”
Dumbledore forced energy into his voice. The wooden door creaked open, revealing Aurora Grindelwald, her expression cold, her posture hesitant. The Sorting Hat had yet to be returned to its usual perch.
“Headmaster Dumbledore.”
Aurora maintained basic politeness, though confusion flickered in her mismatched eyes. She had only just returned to Hogwarts— had someone reported her for the eighty-plus school rule violations she’d committed before leaving?
“Please, have a seat, Miss Grindelwald.”
Dumbledore smiled, gesturing to the chair across from him. The cautious girl hesitated, suspicion plain on her face.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked warily.
“Not at all, Miss Grindelwald. I wished to see you, and it has nothing to do with the one hundred and seven school rules you’ve broken. This concerns something else entirely.”
Dumbledore’s tone remained gentle.
“…Wait, wasn’t it only eighty-three?”
She frowned, as though mentally tallying them again.
“It seems you’ve memorized the school rules quite well.”
Dumbledore’s eye twitched slightly, though he maintained his composed expression. The girl across from him was clearly on guard.
“Am I being expelled?”
Aurora wasn’t anxious— only a bit regretful.
“If you aren’t caught, it doesn’t count as a violation. That is, in its own way, a school rule too.” Dumbledore winked, making no move to reprimand her.
“Huh?”
Aurora looked genuinely startled.
“In truth, I called you here privately because this matter concerns your friend, Mr. Ian Prince.”
Aurora’s expression turned serious.
Dumbledore noted the subtle shift immediately.
“Miss Grindelwald, I believe you’ve already realized that Ian is quite different from most young wizards.” Seeing Aurora nod hesitantly, Dumbledore continued, “Among all those I have met, those as talented as him do not possess his sheer magical power, and those with his magical power do not have his level of talent. To be quite frank, in all my years, I never imagined I would meet such an extraordinary young wizard.”
Albus Dumbledore spoke with genuine astonishment, sighing softly.
“Can you get to the point?”
Aurora’s wariness deepened.
“Indeed, something happened tonight, and I may have rambled. Let’s be direct, Miss Grindelwald— I hope you will become my apprentice.”
Dumbledore’s tone was serious.
“Apprentice?”
Aurora was momentarily stunned.
“Yes. I will impart to you my knowledge, and you will inherit my legacy.”
Dumbledore spoke solemnly, believing the girl before him would understand the weight of such an ancient tradition.
“Did my grandfather agree?”
Aurora still seemed to be processing the request.
“His agreement is unnecessary. This is your decision alone.”
Dumbledore’s voice was soft but carried unfathomable depth.
“I want to know why.”
After a long silence, Aurora finally spoke.
Dumbledore had anticipated the question. Nodding, he responded in a measured tone, “Your friend, Mr. Ian Prince, has not lived in a normal environment since childhood. This worries me— his extraordinary talent will attract many with ill intent. I fear that if he is not careful, he may be led down a dangerous path.”
“Many would seek to use him, Miss Grindelwald. Perhaps you could be the one to help him stay on the right course.”
Such familiar words.
If Ian were here, the entire castle would know Dumbledore was full of mischief.
“You want me, a Grindelwald, to stop Ian from becoming a Dark Lord?” Aurora’s expression was incredulous.
Dumbledore’s face remained unchanged.
“Only you can do it.”
His voice was calm and assured.
“My grandfather hasn’t lost his mind, but you, Headmaster, surely have. No wonder his old followers say Hogwarts is your prison.” Aurora’s words were as blunt as ever, her gaze filled with scrutiny.
“Ian needs your help, Miss Grindelwald. Without it, there are those who will see him as a mere tool for their own ends.”
“We both know how… naive Mr. Prince can be about certain matters.”
Dumbledore carefully chose his words. Aurora frowned even deeper, resembling a much older witch for a moment.
“What else do I need to do to become your apprentice?” she finally asked, her lack of immediate refusal causing Dumbledore’s expression to brighten.
“We both understand the value of true friendship. Your role will be to learn my knowledge and, in the future, ensure that any possibility of Mr. Ian Prince straying into darkness is eliminated before it begins.”
After a long pause, Aurora nodded.
Dumbledore immediately arranged their study schedule, then warmly saw her out.
“Dumbledore, what exactly are you plotting? Trying to deceive two people at once?” The paintings along the office walls bore witness to his machinations.
“Who are you really guarding against, you old schemer?” Muttered the portrait of Armando Dippet, his predecessor.
“I’m not worried about Ian. He has never lacked love— he understands it well.”
Dumbledore returned to his desk, rubbing his temples as he sighed, his expression growing more solemn.
“But Miss Grindelwald is different. She requires a… particular method of guidance. Only then can we prevent the very outcome we all wish to avoid.”
His soft whispers lingered in the office.
After all, if one wishes to banish darkness for others, they too must stand in the light.
(End of Chapter)
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