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The night at Hogwarts was quiet and still.
Now and then, the distant hoot of an owl broke the silence, some returning to their perches, others carrying messages across the vast night sky. The ancient trees on the grounds swayed gently in the evening breeze, their shifting shadows rippling under the moon’s pale glow.
The students had long since retreated to their dormitories, lost in dreams beneath enchanted ceilings and warm, protective wards. Moonlight spilled across the castle’s timeworn stone, cloaking the school in a silver-white veil.
High above, beneath the towering spires, Grindelwald stood near the window of a secluded tower, his gaze fixed upon the stars. A dim light flickered from within the chamber, casting long shadows on the ground below.
That light.
The figure standing within it.
At this moment, it almost seemed as though he was guiding Ian home.
“Oh, professor, I’ve killed someone. What should I do about my soul now?” Ian’s voice was calm— too calm, but he knew he ought to feign some semblance of distress, at least for appearance’s sake.
Whether anyone believed it or not was irrelevant; he had to play the part.
“Murder stains the soul, but one’s understanding of the act shapes its impact. In your case… You are faring better than most.”
The one answering Ian’s question was Grindelwald. And when it came to the matter of killing and the consequences it wrought, there were few in the world more knowledgeable than he, not even Albus Dumbledore.
“That’s because I know I am removing a blight from the wizarding world. Yes, it should be called killing in the name of protection. After all, it is the Dark Lord who has left countless families shattered in his wake.”
“My dear roommate Michael will thank me, his father was slain fighting the noseless bastard.” Ian sought a justification for his actions, a means to steady his moral footing.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze skyward, studying the stars much as Grindelwald had done earlier. Whether he was simply lost in thought or attempting some form of divination, Ian could not tell.
He had never been particularly skilled in that branch of magic.
“You certainly have a knack for dressing up your actions in grand reasoning.” Grindelwald tutted softly, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Aurora was right. You do have a talent for it, at least when it comes to self-justification.”
There was something almost amused in his voice, a glimmer of approval as he observed Ian’s broad, self-assured grin.
Not the expression of a man about to be erased.
Nor did Dumbledore seem particularly mournful about Ian’s supposed fate. If anything, there was an urgency in the way he spoke, an underlying insistence rather than sorrow.
Ian found himself feeling a deep sense of admiration. After all, in this strange and forsaken existence, these two men— these titans of magic would ultimately be lost to the ever-turning wheel of fate, swallowed by the shifting tides of this realm’s hidden laws.
“Shame I couldn’t make use of Voldemort’s soul in the cycle…” Ian murmured, a tinge of regret slipping into his tone. He had not anticipated that Dumbledore would insist on personally reducing the Dark Lord to nothing more than cinders.
Had he known it would be so simple to turn Voldemort into mere fuel, he would have brought Dumbledore along while brewing potions; perhaps that would have saved him a great deal of effort in bolstering his strength.
“Though your methods for enhancing your magical power are… unusual, you have already reached the peak of what the mortal body can withstand.” Grindelwald’s voice was calm, measured. He had long since deduced Ian’s unique condition, his so-called ‘soul furnace.’
Ian’s unease lessened slightly at those words.
Dumbledore, too, turned to speak. “And, as we discussed, the cycle you are experiencing is itself a form of magic.”
“The power sustaining it cannot allow you to endlessly use Voldemort as a source of augmentation.” He paused, then added with quiet insistence, “Ian, this ability of yours is dangerous. I hope you do not lose yourself in the reckless pursuit of power. The history of dark magic stands as the clearest warning.”
The old headmaster’s wisdom was, as always, difficult to refute.
Ian nodded solemnly.
The fact that both Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort had reached the pinnacle of mortal magic, yet wielded vastly different levels of power made it clear that sheer magical strength was not the sole measure of a wizard’s ability.
“I suppose there’s little point in chasing after more, seeing as you all insist I’ve already reached the peak,” Ian mused. He had heard similar remarks before from both Morgan and Rowena Ravenclaw.
The current situation only reinforced the idea that magical power had its limits. His personal spellcraft— the internal system by which he gauged his own growth— no longer reflected any advancement, nor were there any signs that further development was possible.
“Tsk, tsk, listen to him.” Grindelwald gave Ian’s forehead a light tap with his wand. “So smug. And yet, I suppose you’ve earned it. Few wizards reach such heights in a lifetime, let alone before they even come of age.”
There was an unmistakable note of admiration in the voice of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
Dumbledore, however, remained silent, his expression unreadable.
At last, the headmaster lowered his gaze from the sky.
“The timing should be just right now,” He said, retrieving the Sorting Hat from where it had rested. Ian recognized it as the same ancient artifact Dumbledore had given him earlier, though he still did not fully understand why it was necessary for this task.
“What exactly do you mean, Professor?” Ian asked, still feeling somewhat lost. Dumbledore had offered little explanation for what they were about to do.
“Your cycle has reached a moment of weakness, which is precisely the kind of opportunity we can exploit,” Dumbledore replied succinctly.
“So my theory was right, then? Does breaking the cycle require wearing down its foundation? If the sustaining force is depleted, the whole structure will collapse under its own weight.” Ian was genuinely curious. If his hypothesis was correct, then this moment could prove to be a turning point.
Dumbledore gave a small nod. “Indeed. In fact, every task I set before you was intended to erode the core of this cycle. The more you alter the already passed prest, the weaker it becomes.”
Ian freezes for a moment.
He remembered now that Dumbledore had given him similar advice at the very start, back in his first loop. Could it be that the headmaster had already discerned the nature of the cycle even then?
“Hiss… You realized it that early?” Ian exhaled sharply. Then, narrowing his eyes, he quipped, “You didn’t happen to get some prophecy straight from Slytherin himself, did you?”
His own memory was razor-sharp, and he could pinpoint the exact moment Dumbledore had first hinted at this approach. The sheer level of foresight was nothing short of terrifying.
“This is why he’s the White Wizard,” Grindelwald remarked with a smirk. “Do you begin to grasp just what it takes to defeat me?”
Dumbledore, unimpressed, shot him a warning look.
“It isn’t difficult to deduce,” The headmaster said calmly. “Once we understood what we were up against, the rest followed naturally.”
Grindelwald’s grin remained.
Clearly, he and Dumbledore saw things from the same perspective.
“Because this all traces back to Slytherin’s legacy?” Ian ventured, piecing things together.
Dumbledore nodded. “Precisely. The cycle you’re caught in stems from his influence. And though Slytherin was a legend, he was still a wizard. That fact alone gives us the insight we need to break free.”
“No matter how complex, profound, or obscure a wizard’s magic may be, it is still bound by the nature of magic itself,” He continued. “It can never surpass the fundamental laws that govern our world.”
There was a clarity to Dumbledore’s reasoning, a simple yet irrefutable truth that, once understood, cut through the confusion like a blade through parchment.
“Got it!” Ian suddenly understood.
In truth, he’d known it for some time, it was just that the emotional resonance had finally settled into place. The moment he realised that everything he siphoned off in each loop would fade in the next, Ian had already grasped the limitations of Slytherin’s enchantments. Albus Dumbledore’s thorough explanation simply cleared away the remaining mist.
Of course.
Ian didn’t make the mistake of underestimating Slytherin’s methods. They had, after all, reached beyond the grasp of ordinary wizardry— severing not only a thread of fate itself, but also cutting off his greatest magical boon.
Alongside the seven-day pact of the Twilight Realm.
Though his link with magic and the Twilight Realm remained intact, he had not once managed to cross into the Twilight Realm during all these repeating cycles.
In one such cycle, Ian had posed the question to Professor Morgan through Ariana. The response had been cryptic— Professor Morgan simply noted that “time within the mortal realm had hardly shifted at all.”
Ian could only infer that his means of entering the Twilight Realm must, somehow, hinge upon the passage of time in the physical world. And Slytherin’s spellcraft had clearly wrenched him into a place no longer tethered to it.
Much like his first step into the Twilight Realm, where time within that realm would stretch and warp— half a day’s wander might amount to no more than a few fleeting minutes in the waking world. Even after lingering within the loop for several days, perhaps only half an hour had ticked by beyond it. That aligned perfectly with Albus Dumbledore’s theory: that these cycles existed entirely beyond the bounds of the living world.
After quietly absorbing Dumbledore’s insight—
“So, the counter-spell you’ve come up with is Finite Incantatem?” The young wizard didn’t just offer emotional energy, he knew that the finest professors appreciated pupils who asked clever questions.
And sure enough—
Albus Dumbledore smiled. “The magic we shall use is indeed based on Finite Incantatem, but to shatter such an enchantment, I’ve taken certain liberties with the incantation.”
As he spoke, the venerable headmaster withdrew a folded parchment and handed it to Ian.
“After several loops of accumulation, I’ve managed to construct this adapted version of Finite Incantatem. You won’t have much time to learn it.”
Not only was time short— each point on the page had to be grasped and enacted without delay. It must be said that the circumstances were certainly hurried. Any other wizard might’ve called it a Herculean task. After all, even the most gifted magical students struggled with the base spell Finite, let alone its advanced counterpart.
But of course—
For Ian, this wasn’t some impossible mountain.
That didn’t stop him from grumbling.
“You lot really know how to pile on the pressure! This looks mad complicated.”
After taking the parchment from Dumbledore, he attempted the spell with cautious flicks of his wand. Several failed attempts followed until finally, a steady, glowing light blossomed, marking the emergence of sustained magical energy.
“Good thing I’ve still got a bit of brilliance tucked away.” As usual, Ian had hoped to impress, saving the reveal for dramatic flair, but it didn’t quite land the way he wanted with Albus Dumbledore or Grindelwald.
“Very good.”
Dumbledore merely nodded without expression. Grindelwald, for his part, raised a hand in approval, but his casual tone made the young wizard feel even more deflated.
“You’ll have to find a new trick next time,” Grindelwald said brightly, and Ian’s sigh of disappointment became his amusement.
“Right then, now that I’ve got the spell down, does it require all three of us to cast it together?” Ian could only shake his head. He’d offered them so much heartfelt emotion, and still, neither of the old wizards had the faintest understanding of emotional reciprocity. Not a shred of encouragement.
“Yes, that is Gellert’s perspective.”
Albus Dumbledore gave a solemn nod, drawing his weathered wand from within his robes, though one hand still gripped the Sorting Hat tightly.
“What’s the reasoning behind it?” Ian’s gaze turned inquisitively toward the professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts.
“There is reasoning, indeed.” Grindelwald’s voice held its usual gravity. “Just as seven is a number deeply rooted in magic, so too is the number three. The most familiar example, of course, is the Deathly Hallows.”
He cast a meaningful glance at Dumbledore’s wand— ancient and powerful and then turned his eyes back to Ian with deliberate intensity.
“I’ve spent years poring over the annals of magical history,” He continued, voice rich with implication. “In my interpretation, seven is the number of fate, of what must be. But three… three stands for that which may defy fate.”
“If you ever delve into magical history yourself, you’ll find a curious pattern: in the tales where the impossible becomes possible, there are nearly always three central figures.”
“It was true long ago, remains true now, and perhaps, even if time itself collapses, it shall be true again…” Grindelwald’s voice carried a haunting weight, as though echoing through some distant corridor of time.
Staring into the lined face of the Defence professor, Ian’s eye twitched involuntarily. For a moment, he wondered whether the old man had been sneaking a read of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, or worse, some fantastical retelling of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.
Seers can be unnervingly accurate…
Which is why, perhaps, even a fate already twisted can still be glimpsed through the cracks. After all, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that Grindelwald’s cryptic musings had something to do with Hermione Granger and her two infamous companions.
“We can test your theory right now,” Dumbledore interjected calmly, neither confirming nor refuting Grindelwald’s view— perhaps because, unlike a true Seer, he lacked the gift of prophecy.
“Does the Sorting Hat serve a purpose in this?” Ian’s gaze flicks toward the ancient hat. Since Dumbledore had brought it forth, the hat had remained motionless and silent.
Could the Sorting Hat be necessary to unravel the cycle?
“It’s merely a safeguard, my boy,” Dumbledore replied gently. “Whenever magic of this depth is summoned through a wand, one must employ other safeguards in case of misdirection.”
Whether he meant misdirection from Arthur or from the architect of the loop himself, Salazar Slytherin was unclear.
However…
Though his words held logic, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that the old headmaster wasn’t giving him the full picture—or rather, that he was deliberately omitting something.
It was a familiar sensation.
Ian himself was rather skilled in the art of half-truths.
“If you say so.” He gave Dumbledore a long, searching look, but the elder wizard’s expression remained unreadable— composed and grave, betraying nothing.
“I remember you said Professor Ronnie Ehrlich is also key?” Ian hadn’t forgotten the chilling conclusion the two old men had reached: that to break the cycle, they would need to kill the unfortunate Acolyte, Ronnie Ehrlich.
“That matter is already settled. He has given his life for our cause,” Dumbledore answered quietly, his gaze lingering toward the distant silhouette of Hogwarts Castle, looking steady and solemn.
Ian opened his mouth to press further—
“In truth, he was meant to die long ago,” Grindelwald said, resting a firm hand on Ian’s shoulder. “So, in a way… ashes to ashes.”
His voice, for once, carried a trace of sorrow.
Ian felt the weight of it press down on him.
“I hope Professor Ronnie Ehrlich finds peace on the other side.” He could only offer silent respect for the man who had borne so much pain for his sake.
Perhaps it would have been kinder had death come swiftly.
“That is what we all hope for.” Dumbledore and Grindelwald exchanged a brief glance and with quiet purpose, raised their time-worn wands.
Ian, too, lifted his wand, standing between the former headmaster and the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
“Finite Incantatem!”
“Finite Incantatem!”
“Finite Incantatem!”
They did not drive their wands into the earth, nor did they need to, their magic laced directly into the fabric of the air itself. Their voices echoed in unison through the still night, ringing out before the tower with ancient authority. A pulse of magic surged outward like a rising tide, shaking the very space around them. The power roared and buckled like a tempest at sea— deep, immense, and terrible.
Wave after wave of magic crashed against the invisible boundary.
At the height of magical prowess, the wizards summoned forth extraordinary power— magic vast enough to shift mountains and drain lakes— unleashing it in a relentless surge, as if intent on drawing all that surrounded them into the eye of the storm.
The dazzling radiance of their combined spells shimmered like a vast arcane net, flaring into existence before gradually sinking into the very air around them. Ian could feel it— something buried, something strange, beginning to stir within the fabric of the world.
Like an egg.
Its shell peeling away, layer by unseen layer.
Though nothing seemed altered on the surface, every pulse of magic struck against some invisible membrane, rippling through space like echoes on the surface of a still pond.
As though time and space themselves had begun to tremble. The two elder wizards and the boy, their robes billowing in the maelstrom, stood at the centre of it all. Ian felt himself being drawn into a terrifying spiral alongside Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
The world around him began to blur. Shapes warped and shifted, colours bled into one another, images twisting into impossible geometries.
Within the storm played scenes he could not quite grasp— fleeting fragments of storylines abandoned by fate, possibilities cast aside into oblivion. Ian squinted into the chaos, but no matter how he tried, he could not discern them clearly.
Voices tangled around him, woven through the air like the chanting of ancient seers or the mutterings of half-remembered gods. He had brushed against such sensations once before— when caught in the fading memories of Professor Ronnie Ehrlich.
“Three of us— is that not enough?”
Albus Dumbledore’s voice cut through the storm, steady and strong. Each surge of his magic struck at the heart of the swirling visions, but the tangled illusions refused to break.
They only twisted harder.
The pace quickened.
“It shouldn’t be like this…” Grindelwald’s expression darkened at last. Linked through their spellwork, he could feel Dumbledore’s power pressing forward again and again— only to falter each time against the sheer weight of magical resistance.
“I’m starting to feel light-headed,” Ian admitted, fighting to stay upright amidst the shifting currents. “What happens if this doesn’t work?”
Among the three, Ian’s magical foundation was clearly the most fragile. His energy waned quickly, and exhaustion gnawed at him with a speed the others did not yet feel.
“Then we stay trapped here in this crack between worlds. Forever, perhaps,” Grindelwald replied with maddening cheer, as if the idea amused him. His tone was too light to be comforting, and Ian couldn’t tell whether the old wizard was being sincere or making one of his maddening jokes.
“Now is not the time for levity, Gellert,” Dumbledore said firmly. His focus never wavered, and his command of the magic flowing around them was masterful, even attempting to synchronise Ian’s and Grindelwald’s efforts with his own to pierce the veil.
But the madness would not yield.
In fact, the space around them began to twist further, warping like a mad painter’s canvas— shapes smeared into nonsense, stars bleeding into soil, as though the heavens and earth had forgotten where they belonged.
“Clearly, we underestimated Salazar Slytherin’s spellwork,” Grindelwald muttered, even managing a dry chuckle. “Tsk, tsk.” Though the magic spilling from his wand matched Dumbledore’s in sheer force, Ian couldn’t help but feel the man wasn’t pushing himself fully.
Did he want to remain here forever— with his old friend?
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!”
Ian didn’t usually give any credence to the schoolyard rumours about the two old men, but this surreal trap made him uneasy. Was he going to be stuck here with them forever?
“Can’t we just… go back?”
He turned hopefully to Dumbledore, who at least appeared more dependable in moments like this.
But—
The old headmaster said nothing.
That silence gnawed at Ian’s composure. The more distorted the world became, the stronger his unease grew.
He had the overwhelming sense that they were all being dragged toward something worse—toward the heart of this broken place.
Into the chaos.
Into the abyss of fate.
A place that wished to consume everything.
Maybe Grindelwald wasn’t joking after all.
“Don’t worry,” Dumbledore said suddenly, as though reading the thoughts spiralling in Ian’s mind. His eyes glinted with determination, a spark of something ancient igniting behind the calm. “I gave my word— I will get you out of here.”
But just as the headmaster appeared ready to act—
Ian’s wand began to tremble violently.
The magical link binding him to Dumbledore and Grindelwald flickered, the stabilising flow between them unraveling. Grindelwald’s eyes went wide with alarm.
“Damn it! I wasn’t joking!” He shouted. “Don’t try to cast anything else!” There was a rare hint of panic in his voice, and without hesitation, he lunged— grabbing the young wizard at his side.
“This will erase you from history entirely!”
Grindelwald bellowed the warning, his voice heavy with urgency as he addressed Ian.
However—
“I wasn’t trying to cast anything else…” Ian replied cautiously, just as shimmering silver threads began to snake from the tip of his wand. By the time he’d finished speaking, the threads had multiplied— countless luminous strands swirling into the air.
They spun and wove between Ian, Albus Dumbledore, and Grindelwald, gradually converging and taking form. From the intricate lattice emerged a graceful figure. The girl glanced curiously around at the warped and shifting space.
And then—
Under Ian’s astonished gaze, Dumbledore’s stunned silence, and Grindelwald’s sharp intake of breath, Ariana Dumbledore looked not at the three of them— but at the Sorting Hat held tightly in her elder brother’s hands.
Her gaze, however, seemed to pierce deeper— as though she were seeing something far beyond the surface.
“Ian, Pandero said you needed me?”
The girl drifted forward, looking weightless.
And so—
Before the breathless eyes of Albus Dumbledore— his expression unreadable but flooded with emotion— she reached into the Sorting Hat and drew forth a long, gleaming sword. As it emerged, golden patterns spiraled along its blade, ancient and elegant.
It was the same spectral sword that hung at Ariana’s side, now made solid in her grasp.
“That sword…”
Grindelwald stared at the runes igniting along the blade, his expression tightening as though some long-forgotten memory had returned. His pupils contracted sharply.
“It’s a gift from Pandero,” Ariana said softly, casting a glance at Grindelwald, who still wore the guise of another man. But in her eyes, his true form stood clear as day.
There was a quiet conflict in her expression, the faintest flicker of grief, perhaps, for the man who had once torn her family apart. Yet she turned swiftly away, facing the writhing distortion around them.
“He said it was forged as the bane of magic itself.”
Her voice trembled slightly— an honest hint of fear. But after a brief moment’s hesitation, she raised the sword and slashed into the chaos.
Not with brute strength—
—but with startling speed.
The blade moved like a bolt of silver lightning, cutting not through matter but through the very tapestry of the place. The air shrieked and tore as a rift opened wide, splitting the contracting madness like a great canyon in the sky.
And through that rift—
Dawn’s light poured in.
Not sunlight—
—but the moon’s gentle glow.
The twisted, knotted visions that had ensnared the three began to unravel, dissolving like ice dropped into boiling water, breaking down into flickers of soft starlight.
And when it was all gone—
The sky returned.
Moonlight spilled across the earth once more, stars blazing in their rightful places. The violent waves of magic that had raged moments ago faded into calm.
“Did I… just save your life, Ian?” Ariana’s spirit hovered in the quiet, her tone dazed— as though she couldn’t quite believe it herself.
“You did! You absolutely did, Ariana!” Ian exhaled a long breath, raising both hands to give an enthusiastic thumbs-up to his ghostly friend.
“Then… is that worth ten boxes of Chocolate Frogs?” She asked, a little bashful now, the way some people grow shy even in triumph.
“Oi! You’re saying my life’s only worth a single Galleon to you?” Ian shot back in mock outrage, his voice rising dramatically.
“Ten boxes! Every day! And don’t let anyone else see them, either! I’ve got a reputation to maintain— don’t make people think my life’s only worth a handful of sweets!”
Such a bold declaration left the girl visibly stunned.
“!!!!”
Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.
And truth be told—
She may have had the most normal reaction at that moment.
Because if one looked beside Ian, the expressions on the two elder wizards told a deeper story.
Grindelwald was staring fixedly at the sword in Ariana’s hands, his eyes bulging ever so slightly as though witnessing something he had long deemed impossible.
And Albus Dumbledore—
The old man had fallen to his knees.
Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, his face contorted not only by sorrow but by a grief so old and so deep that it seemed to stretch through lifetimes.
“It had to be this way… I knew it… I always knew it…”
At the foot of the tower—
Albus Dumbledore wept.
Not the careful, composed weeping of a master wizard but the raw, unguarded sobs of a brother who had just glimpsed a miracle.
His gaze never left the sword glowing in Ariana’s hands, though his vision blurred with tears. His shoulders shook with every breath, and the silence around them felt impossibly sacred.
It was in that moment—
Ian, for the first time, felt an overwhelming clarity in sensing the old headmaster’s emotions.
That fragile sort of grief, one that only settles into the bones of the very old.
“Why are you crying, Albus…? We’re all safe now, aren’t we?” Ariana hovered gently in front of Albus Dumbledore, lifting one translucent hand to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks.
That soft, shimmering touch felt as if it reached into the very core of Albus Dumbledore, binding together the frayed edges of his soul and sorrow.
“If that day had never come… if I had only understood you sooner, Ariana…” Dumbledore murmured, head bowed low, voice thick with remorse. “Your life should have shone brighter than all of ours.”
Perhaps in this moment, the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts— unraveled and unguarded was truly grieving not only what had been, but what could have been. He had seen that alternate path with his own eyes.
“But I am shining, Albus. Don’t you see?” The girl replied with a smile, spinning slowly in mid-air like moonlight on still water. One had to admit, for a spirit echoing like a Patronus, Ariana had a brilliance that even Winky might describe as dazzling.
Dumbledore said nothing. He kept his eyes lowered.
Then, at last—
“Ian,” He rasped, “Let her return. There are things we must speak of.” His voice was hoarse, and the weight of his gaze made Ian’s chest feel tight.
“Alright,” Ian replied quietly.
He gave a small wave to Ariana, who pouted in protest but obeyed. With a soft sigh, Ian released the charm binding her presence. Instantly, her form shimmered and dissolved into stardust, scattering gently across the wind.
The world seemed dimmer without her. The Sword and the Sorting Hat, lying forgotten on the ground, flickered faintly before vanishing, perhaps cloaked by a subtle Disillusionment Charm or simply whisked away by Hogwarts itself.
“So… what is it we need to talk about?”
Though Ian asked, he already suspected the answer.
“It’s time to say goodbye. You’ve realised that by now, haven’t you?” Dumbledore said, still gazing out over the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts.
“The ripples left behind must be stilled. And we, Ian, we are the ripples.” He had timed his words perfectly. As the last syllables fell, both he and Grindelwald began to fade slowly.
At the same moment, Grindelwald’s outline blurred and flickered.
“Dust to dust, earth to earth… just as I told you once before.” Grindelwald’s voice was quiet but steady. The ancient robes of both wizards stirred faintly in the night air, their forms becoming ever more translucent as if preparing to vanish with the breeze.
Ian felt his heart twist.
For these two men, meant to be long buried in the folds of history— yet who had lingered through a cycle of magic and memory to help him fulfil a greater purpose— there were no words that felt sufficient.
He wanted to speak.
But his voice caught.
“Do you remember what I always told you?” Grindelwald asked lightly. Though fading like smoke beside Albus Dumbledore, he kept smiling, determined to have the last word.
“Of course I do. Your favourite phrase,” Ian said with a glimmer of tears, managing a smile. “For the greater good.”
As Dumbledore’s body shimmered into final transparency, he lifted his eyes to Ian.
“Precisely. Never forget it. We’re showing you what it truly means.” Grindelwald chuckled softly, the sound echoing faintly as his figure vanished entirely.
And then—
He gave Ian a final wink.
Their presence vanished utterly.
No weight.
No warmth.
No breath.
They had become like morning mist— faded with the night wind.
Like the end of a dream.
Or a story never told.
“This has been… profoundly enlightening.”
Ian’s expression shifts. The mirth gave way to calm reverence. He bowed slightly to the empty space where the two had stood, holding the moment in stillness before finally turning back toward the castle.
The wind rustled through the trees.
Far off, the soft babble of the Black Lake echoed against the stone.
The night had grown deep.
Only the stars bore witness to what had transpired.
…
“Dong~ Dong~ Dong~”
The bells of Hogwarts tolled through the castle, marking the dawn of Christmas Day. Ian had finally stepped into a moment he had long yearned for—byet had remained just out of reach for what felt like an age.
And yet…
The joy he had imagined did not quite rise to meet him. As he made his way up the empty, echoing staircase, Ian hesitated, casting a glance toward the headmaster’s office as he passed.
Truth be told…
There were still far too many mysteries left untold in the endless loop he’d escaped.
The old headmaster’s thoughts were always veiled in riddles, and Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that Albus Dumbledore had left more unsaid than shared.
Take, for instance, the Sorting Hat that Professor Dumbledore had produced at the very end— claiming it was merely a precaution. Ian couldn’t decide if the old wizard had foreseen everything that followed, or if even he had been unsure.
A mind as deep as Dumbledore’s is not easily plumbed.
“Hōng lóng lóng~!”
Perhaps he’d lingered too long before the entrance. The stone gargoyle guarding the office stirred to life, sliding aside with a low rumble to reveal the hidden staircase beyond. Ian steps inside, climbing the spiral stairs that lead to the headmaster’s door.
It was a place he had visited often during the cycle, and yet now it felt unfamiliar— festively transformed. Charming, enchanted reindeer pranced through the air above twinkling garlands, and a jolly Father Christmas waved merrily from a snow-globe shelf.
“Is there something you need, Ian?”
Albus Dumbledore’s voice floated from within, calm and unmistakable. Ian hadn’t knocked nor spoken ,but the old headmaster, as always, knew exactly who stood outside his door.
That voice…
He had only heard it recently, yet now it sounded gentler, more at ease— exactly the way Dumbledore always had when speaking to his students and staff.
“Er…”
Ian steps inside. The old wizard sat peacefully behind his desk, reading spectacles perched upon his nose, nose buried in a thick, leather-bound tome, exactly as he always had— before everything.
The recent memory of a very different Dumbledore flickered in Ian’s mind. This quieter version, with his twinkling eyes and worn robes, made Ian feel as though time itself had folded strangely.
“Let me try to explain…” Ian began, sifting through tangled thoughts, uncertain how to begin describing all he had seen and endured.
His hesitant tone caught Dumbledore’s attention. The headmaster looked up, his gaze sharpening behind his half-moon glasses.
“I get the sense you’re about to spin me quite the tale,” He said with a knowing smile, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement and unmistakable interest.
But—
Before Ian could get a word out—
“If it’s a long one,” Dumbledore said, stifling a yawn behind one hand, “We may have to save it for later. You know how these old bones of mine feel about staying up past midnight.”
“…”
Ian’s carefully prepared words were swallowed back into his throat. Looking up, he could see that the headmaster genuinely looked a bit weary.
“Well then… Merry Christmas, Professor. Here— your gift,” He said instead, offering a carefully wrapped parcel. The story, for now, would have to wait.
“Thank you, my boy.”
Dumbledore accepted the gift with a warm smile and then reached into a desk drawer, producing a small, square box wrapped in silvery ribbon.
“And it would hardly be proper if I didn’t return the favour,” He added with a wink.
Ian took the gift, and as his fingers touched it, he noticed something: the once-burning magical brand that had haunted him throughout the cycle was now entirely gone.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, was visibly growing drowsier.
Not wanting to overstay, Ian nodded politely and turned to leave. He weighed the box in his hands, already half-sure of its contents— after all, the headmaster had once promised him this very thing during one of their many looping encounters.
Back then—
Dumbledore had said he would give him the lantern.
“I reckon it’s the lantern, then,” Ian muttered at the door, as if guessing the answer aloud one last time—knowing that once outside the cycle, there would be no more room for prophecy games.
“Quite right. It is a lantern.”
Dumbledore confirmed the guess with a smile— but to Ian’s mild disappointment, the old wizard didn’t look even remotely surprised. Ian let out a small sigh, then slipped quietly from the office.
Moments later.
“That gift you gave the lad was rather valuable; I saw how much effort you poured into brewing it.” A voice drifted from the wall— a portrait of a former headmaster, known in life to be a touch on the thrifty side, speaking with something that almost resembled sentimentality.
Albus Dumbledore gently closed the book in his hands.
“I did promise him,” He replied, his voice soft and even, as he returned Fool’s Fate to its place on the high shelf behind him.
Now that the young wizard had gone, Dumbledore no longer looked the least bit drowsy. Or perhaps, truthfully, he had never been tired at all. For several hours thereafter, he remained seated, quietly reading through a number of old, well-thumbed tomes.
The Secrets of Time-Turners
The Whisper of Cross-Time
The Testimony of Legends: The End of the Age of Magic
…
The headmaster appeared to be waiting— for someone or something.
And soon enough.
As dusk slipped into night.
He paused, sensing a shift, and looked up just as Grindelwald entered the office without so much as a knock. His expression was somewhere between curious and contemplative.
“I had a dream,” Grindelwald said plainly.
Albus Dumbledore let out a long breath, a rare note of relief escaping him.
“Good. That means my part of the enchantment held.” He stood slowly, gathering the books stacked before him and returning each one to its proper place on the shelves.
“And yours?” He asked, glancing sidelong at his old companion.
Grindelwald gave an exaggerated shrug. “When have I ever botched an incantation?” He said, casually strolling toward the sleeping Fawkes. Dumbledore followed, gently nudging the dozing phoenix awake.
“We’ll need a bit of your help, old friend…”
Once Fawkes had ruffled his feathers and given a mildly reproachful trill, Dumbledore and Grindelwald both laid their hands on the phoenix’s tail.
In a flash of golden fire—
They vanished from the office.
Such was the magic of the phoenix: a creature capable of transporting those it trusted to places even Apparition could not reach.
…
It was morning in Austria.
A delicate, near-painterly scene unfurled in the cool breath of dawn.
As the first fingers of sunlight crept over the snow-dusted crests of the Alps, the mountains glimmered as though cloaked in golden silk. Mists curled through the valleys, twisting lazily in the glow, shrouding the world in a kind of ethereal splendour.
Swish~
Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald appeared at the edge of a secluded manor, standing before a grave— one that had clearly been disturbed. The tomb lay open, its contents removed, as if someone or something had ransacked it.
“Sir.”
A faint voice drifted from the direction of the house nearby. It was Ronnie Ehrlich, his voice frail as he wheeled himself slowly toward them.
“You see?” Grindelwald said with a grin. “Nothing went wrong.”
He turned slightly, catching the way Dumbledore’s hand trembled at his side, as if battling some powerful emotion.
“Very good,” The headmaster murmured, steadying himself before crouching beside Ronnie. He examined the young man carefully; though clearly weakened, there was nothing unnatural about his condition.
“I feel… well, to be honest, I feel better than I have in years,” Ronnie whispered, blinking up at them with wide eyes. “Everything before— everything I remember feels like a dream.”
“Then let it remain one,” Grindelwald said gently. “As of today, that identity— the one that ‘died’ must be left behind. You’ll take up a new name, a new life.”
He guided Ronnie’s hands back to the armrests as the young man tried to stand.
“Am I part of your plan?” Ronnie asked, voice shaking with the weight of it. There was both awe and uncertainty in his gaze.
Grindelwald gave Dumbledore a sidelong look before speaking softly.
“Rest now. You’ve a greater task ahead of you.” With that, the two old wizards walked toward the open grave.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to keep this hidden from him,” Dumbledore said quietly, a note of caution in his voice.
“It won’t be a problem,” Grindelwald replied breezily. He peered into the disturbed earth, eyes glazing over as though seeing beyond what lay before them— into realms still obscured by time or fate.
“After all, the real trial hasn’t even begun, has it?” His tone was tinged with something ancient— part nostalgia, part thrill. “I never imagined that boy would prove to be such a key. But I knew… I knew placing my trust in him would pay off.”
Clearly—
Not everything had failed to leave a mark on the world.
“You ought to thank more than just Ian,” Albus Dumbledore said softly, a quiet sigh escaping him. Grindelwald nodded, responding in a rare, solemn tone.
“Naturally. We must also thank… ourselves.” The former Dark Arts professor’s voice was low, and it was clear that, in this moment, his situation was far removed from what Ian might have imagined.
“You speak with Ronnie. Make sure he understands only what he needs to. I have other matters to see to.” Dumbledore’s expression was layered— complicated, even.
He turned swiftly and strode toward the manor’s exit, not waiting for a reply.
Grindelwald didn’t stop him.
He simply shook his head as Ronnie Ehrlich wheeled himself over with a puzzled look on his face.
“I thought you said there were preparations to be made. Why has he gone?” Ronnie glanced in the direction Dumbledore had taken, the older wizard’s figure retreating with uncommon urgency.
“Because, compared to our affairs, he’s got something else he holds far dearer,” Grindelwald murmured, watching Dumbledore vanish from sight. There was a faint trace of sentimentality in his voice as he glanced at the young man beside him.
“I knew he couldn’t be trusted,” Ronnie muttered, bitterness in his tone.
“On the contrary,” Grindelwald said, his voice suddenly firm, “After today, he’ll be more trustworthy than ever before.”
He looked Ronnie straight in the eyes, his words weighty with meaning. “You must understand, everything we’ve achieved so far is only possible because of my old friend’s daring… and his dangerous sense of conviction. He’ll stop at nothing when he believes the cause is right.”
The blunt honesty in Grindelwald’s words left Ronnie momentarily stunned.
“Is that really the same Dumbledore we once knew?” The young Acolyte sounded genuinely confused.
“Of course not.” Grindelwald chuckled with a soft and nostalgic look on his face.
“But this— this is the Albus Dumbledore I’ve always known.”
Indeed, of all the living wizards, Grindelwald may well be the one who knew Dumbledore best. And while they spoke, the headmaster had already Apparated away once again.
…
In Hogsmeade Village.
Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the Hog’s Head Inn, holding a fractured, ancient device he had just retrieved from his brother’s wrist— after rendering Aberforth unconscious.
“An old time-turner…” He murmured.
Once, Aberforth had searched high and low for this device, believing it might serve a higher purpose. Now, it was taken— forcefully, without explanation.
What did it mean to stop at nothing in pursuit of one’s goal?
Albus Dumbledore had just demonstrated it.
Even his own brother had not been spared— not out of cruelty, but because Aberforth had refused to listen.
“To live in the future by tampering with the past…”
He vanished again in a whipcrack of Apparition, reappearing at the edge of a distant estate cloaked in obscurity and warded with layers of enchantments.
At once, he was surrounded.
A legion of alchemical guardians had sprung to life: soldiers with bodies of interlocking enchanted brick and automaton girls with clockwork eyes glowing faintly. Some bore spellforged halberds; others bristled with what were unmistakably modified Muggle weapons— runes carved into the barrels, magically reinforced for devastating effect.
These were not mere trinkets of curiosity.
They were lethal.
“Stand down.”
The command came with the sound of deliberate steps.
A thin, silver-haired old man emerged from the shadows. At his words, the mechanical guards froze mid-movement, returning to their hidden alcoves.
“Your security seems to have multiplied since I last visited,” Dumbledore remarked, facing the elderly wizard who now stood before him— none other than Nicolas Flamel.
The legendary alchemist, though clearly aged, smiled faintly and sighed. “Even without the Philosopher’s Stone, there are still those who think me worth robbing. Peaceful retirement, it seems, is a luxury few of us can afford.”
Despite the slight tremble in his gait, Flamel moved with surprising vigour, a flicker of fire still alive in his sunken eyes.
“I hope my arrival hasn’t caused any disruption,” Dumbledore said, a touch apologetic, nodding toward the large, ivy-clad manor.
Inside, a woman nearly as aged as Flamel could be seen orchestrating a kitchen full of animated utensils and alchemical constructs— preparing what appeared to be a rather elaborate meal.
“The arrival of an old friend is never a disruption,” Flamel said with genuine warmth, though he was not one to miss subtle signs. “Though, if I’m not mistaken, you’re not here just for a visit. Something’s troubling you. You’ve come seeking help.”
His gaze dropped to the bulge in Dumbledore’s robes.
“You used to be the one who kept my wilder impulses in check. Now I see the same glint in your eye.” Flamel’s voice turned pensive. “It’s stronger now.”
Without another word, Dumbledore withdrew the broken device from his pocket.
The ancient time-turner.
“You and your brother have both shown me this before,” Flamel said, handling the object with care. “I’ll say again: repairing it is… exceptionally difficult. So many materials, so many runes lost to time.”
He turned it slowly in his hands.
“But what worries me more… is why it’s come back to you now.”
Dumbledore’s eyes shimmered faintly, emotion brimming just beneath their calm surface.
“I believe,” He said, voice thick with conviction, “That what’s guiding me now… is a hope I’ve already proven true.”
There, in the dim light of the workshop—
His eyes shone with unmistakable purpose.
And something else.
Belief.
(End Of This Chapter)
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