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Seven o’clock in the evening.
Outside the entrance to the Hogwarts headmaster’s office, the peculiar stone gargoyle stood apart from the rest. It was Ian’s first time here, and he softly spoke the password Dumbledore had given him.
“Jelly Snot Slug.”
As soon as the words left his lips, the gargoyle gave a slow, knowing nod before sliding aside, revealing the moving spiral staircase beyond. Ian ascended steadily, the enchanted steps carrying him higher until he reached the grand wooden door with its brass handle gleaming in the dim candlelight.
There was no need to turn it. Ian simply knocked, and the door knocker— shaped like a winged hippogriff— suddenly stretched its wings as if straining to push the door open. With a low creak, the wooden door swung inward of its own accord.
The ever-burning candles cast a warm glow over the vast, book-lined office, the heart of Hogwarts’ wisdom and history. Ian noted the numerous shelves brimming with books, some ancient, others disturbingly new.
Since Dumbledore showed no sign of reprimanding him, Ian felt considerably at ease. After all, he was the one who had been ambushed.
His gaze wandered to the walls, where portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses watched him with interest. Their painted eyes followed his every move.
“Another troublemaker, is it?”
“I know that boy! The one Dumbledore never stops talking about.”
“Silence, you old gossip!”
A brief squabble broke out among the portraits before they composed themselves, feigning statuesque serenity. Yet their eyes still darted in Ian’s direction, brimming with curiosity.
‘The Most Potent Magic’
‘The Dark Arts Compendium’
‘Blood Oath Contracts’
‘Revealing the Secrets of Dark Magic’
…
Alongside familiar titles such as ‘Break with a Banshee’, ‘Gadding with Ghouls’, and ‘Holidays with Hags’, Ian noted a selection of particularly ominous tomes. These books sat in neat, unassuming rows, as if utterly indifferent to the potential chaos that could ensue should the wrong hands pry them open.
“Then again, they’ve got plenty of headmasters watching over them.”
Ian turned to glance at the portraits, who were clearly playing a game of “Freeze” with him. Every time he looked their way, they immediately stiffened, their expressions frozen in well-practiced innocence.
“Hello, Sorting Hat. I heard you went straight to Professor Snape about me.” Ian’s gaze landed on the tattered Sorting Hat, which had been pretending to slumber the moment he entered.
“Zzz…”
The snoring grew exaggeratedly loud.
Ian picked it up, tilting it from side to side, but the hat remained obstinately limp, as if utterly determined to ignore him.
“Not brave enough, am I?”
With a smirk, he reached inside, hoping to summon the legendary Sword of Gryffindor. Instead, his fingers closed around something far less dignified— an old clump of scalp residue, no doubt left behind by some unfortunate first-year.
It was about the size of his pinky finger.
“Disgusting!”
Ian recoiled, shaking his hand wildly before rushing to the washbasin. He scrubbed his hands vigorously before returning to the office, where Dumbledore was still nowhere in sight. The Sorting Hat, meanwhile, continued its theatrical display of deep sleep.
“If I ever go bald, I’m blaming you,” Ian muttered darkly. “And if that happens, I’ll take you on a very long voyage.”
He grabbed the Sorting Hat and, with a flick of his wand, Transfigured a nearby pebble into a stiff-bristled brush. Marching over to the basin, he set about scrubbing the hat clean.
“The next generation of students will thank me for this,” He mused as he worked. With each brushstroke, he muttered, “Merit +1,” like a meticulous house elf.
Lather.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Lather.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Finally, the Sorting Hat could take no more.
“I should have put you in Gryffindor!” It howled, and with a sudden ‘clang’, something heavy tumbled from its brim.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
The ancient blade gleamed brilliantly, its surface catching the candlelight as if imbued with the very essence of courage. The embedded rubies burned like molten fire, their glow fierce and unyielding.
It was Blazing and Magnificent.
“That’s utter nonsense! I’m a Ravenclaw through and through!” Ian retorted indignantly. “Smell this— luckily, I haven’t washed my robe yet. You should recognize the scent of academic excellence.”
The Sorting Hat gave a shudder, as if personally offended.
“You cheeky little rascal! I am not a Niffler! Now put me back where I belong!” It grumbled, clearly disgruntled by the entire ordeal.
Now thoroughly scrubbed, the Sorting Hat was no longer its usual weathered self. It looked almost… presentable.
Old, yet oddly refreshed.
“Well, that’s two approvals now,” Ian remarked, securing the sword at his waist before carefully placing the hat back on its perch.
“I had a thousand years of dignity…” The Sorting Hat groaned, sounding utterly betrayed.
Around the office, the portraits were barely stifling their laughter. One of them let out a muffled snicker before hastily composing themselves.
Ian whipped around, hoping to catch them in the act, but their reactions were lightning-fast. He saw nothing but the pristine, composed faces of the former headmasters.
And then, in the doorway, he spotted Dumbledore, watching him with that ever-present twinkle in his eye.
“Headmaster Dumbledore, you really do move like a ghost,” Ian remarked, startled once again. He had already been caught off guard by Dumbledore once before and hadn’t expected it to happen again so soon.
“I didn’t want to disturb you as it seems that you and the Sorting Hat are enjoying yourselves,” Dumbledore observed before speaking with a twinkle in his eyes as his gaze fell upon the long sword at Ian’s waist.
“Headmaster, have you noticed my fine virtues? Bravery, loyalty, kindness, a love of peace, fearlessness, justice, and trustworthiness?”
With a flourish, Ian swept back his robes, revealing the gleaming Sword of Gryffindor.
“…”
Dumbledore was silent for a moment before finally speaking.
“While it’s not entirely unexpected, Mr. Prince, I’m afraid I must ask you to part with that sword for a time. It has certain… duties to fulfill. My apologies.”
His tone was genuinely regretful.
Ian, however, felt no disappointment.
It wasn’t as though he were particularly skilled with a sword, after all.
“As long as I can take it for a quick stroll through Gryffindor Tower first, that’s fine. No harm intended— just thought they ought to see the living embodiment of courage, loyalty, kindness, and a love of peace…”
Ian trailed off, attempting to cover his real intent.
But before he could finish—
“Clang!”
A sharp cry rang through the air as the window swung open and a much smaller Fawkes swooped inside, his vibrant feathers gleaming in the candlelight.
As expected.
The phoenix landed squarely on Ian’s head, perching upon it as though it belonged there. Ian, quite accustomed to this by now, retrieved the dried treats he hadn’t yet managed to give to Professor McGonagall in her Animagus form.
“Clang!”
Fawkes let out another shrill call, making it abundantly clear he was not interested. His cry sounded more like a reprimand than a request. Ian held the treat up to the phoenix’s beak and sniffed it himself. Nothing seemed amiss.
Just then—
“Dumbledore! Look at what he’s done to me! Quick! Send this little menace to Azkaban! I have connections there!” The Sorting Hat erupted into a dramatic tirade, practically shaking with indignation.
Dumbledore, however, merely regarded it with amused curiosity.
“I must say, your new look rather suits you.”
The Sorting Hat fell into stunned silence.
“…It does?” It asked in a much smaller voice.
“But my embroidery…”
Though it was somewhat mollified, it still sounded a little mournful. A thousand years of tradition wasn’t so easy to let go.
“Pfft, Pfft, Pfft!”
Ian rushed to the nearest wastebasket, spitting several times. When he returned with Fawkes still firmly balanced on his head, he lifted the dried treat once more.
“Headmaster, would you care for a snack?” His tone was that of someone eager to share.
Dumbledore, however, was not so easily swayed.
“I think I shall stick to Cockroach Clusters.”
He declined Ian’s offering with an air of finality, instead reaching into his desk and producing a handful of peculiar brown sweets.
“Would you like one?”
Ian eyed them warily. They could have been merely cockroach-shaped candies, or they could have been actual cockroaches charmed to look like sweets. Either way, the outcome would be unpleasant.
“No, thank you.”
Tucking the dried treat back into his robes, Ian decided not to let it go to waste. He could always feed it to Scabbers. That rat would eat anything.
And when hungry enough, Pettigrew’s Animagus form wouldn’t turn up his nose at slightly stale food.
“Perhaps something else, then?” Dumbledore offered, his tone warm as he popped a Cockroach Cluster into his mouth, motioning for Ian to take a seat.
“Can I have steak?”
Ian hadn’t eaten much at dinner, thanks to Marcus Flint keeping a close eye on him, which had significantly hindered his ability to compete with his roommates for food.
“Must it be steak? I believe I only have desserts here.” Dumbledore stroked his beard, looking mildly troubled.
Ian considered this for a moment.
“Then I’ll have honey steak.”
This was a massive compromise.
“…”
Dumbledore was silent for the second time that evening. After a moment, he clapped his hands in the air.
A goblet of honey water appeared before Ian, no doubt courtesy of the house elves.
Ian’s expression dimmed slightly.
“I suppose there’s still some steak left in my stomach,” He muttered, attempting to console himself. Taking a sip of the honey water, he decided this was, in some abstract way, the same as having honey steak.
“…”
Dumbledore looked faintly bewildered.
“Well then, Headmaster, I’m ready to talk.”
Ian set down the goblet, straightened his back, and braced himself for Dumbledore’s impending lecture.
“There is no need to have any form of talk between us, Mr. Prince. I am quite aware that you have shown remarkable restraint in this situation, and for that, I commend you.”
Dumbledore’s gaze, deep and thoughtful, held an inscrutable weight. His voice, gentle yet firm, carried a certain quiet understanding.
“That’s not restraint, that’s being bullied!” Ian corrected indignantly.
“Indeed. An unfortunate series of events… but one I happened to witness,” Dumbledore conceded. “I trust Severus will be able to manage his students accordingly. I have already sent the rather shaken young wizards to him.”
Ian smirked, satisfied at the thought of what awaited them in the dungeons.
“I’m the one who was frightened! Look, I’ve lost weight from sheer terror.” Ian sighed, still feeling the lingering effects, and patted his not-so-full stomach.
“…”
Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, a trace of helpless amusement flickering across his face. “As I said, Mr. Prince, I bore witness to the entire ordeal— without missing a single detail.”
He emphasized the words “the entire ordeal.”
“I was only hoping for a little compensation.”
Ian chuckled awkwardly, abandoning any lingering hope, and his tone turned more candid. The phoenix, Fawkes, perched atop his head, seemed to have settled in quite comfortably.
“In truth, there are two reasons I refrained from stepping in. First, I wanted to see how you would handle the situation yourself. Second, you framed the confrontation as a duel from the very start.”
Dumbledore spoke with complete openness, not concealing his personal motivations. His voice carried its usual warmth, gentle yet brimming with authority. “A duel is a sacred tradition, a test of honor. Even I could do no more than ensure that no serious harm was done.”
“Of course, your performance did not disappoint me. A lesson that left a lasting impression, yet without truly harming anyone— such restraint is a rare quality in wizards who possess power.”
“Especially that final, rather spectacular Lumos Charm. Even I was nearly caught off guard… Hmm, quite the ingenious approach— it felt remarkably convincing.”
Dumbledore’s tone took on a curious note but Ian pretended not to hear him.
“My original intention was to guide them toward better choices, to help them recognize their mistakes. If they were willing to compensate me, it would at least prove they were capable of remorse.”
Ian had not yet abandoned his hope for some form of reparation.
His choice of words left Dumbledore silent for a long moment.
“I believe the young ladies and gentlemen of Slytherin have already come to realize the inappropriateness of their actions. However, extracting compensation from them will be no simple feat.”
Dumbledore’s tone was carefully diplomatic.
“Is it because Marcus Flint’s family has strong connections in the Ministry?” Ian recalled how Marcus had boasted of his family’s influence more than once during both of their clashes.
This one was an even bigger classic than Malfoy— before Malfoy had even started school.
“It is because the proud wizards of Slytherin are not known for lowering their heads to others.” Dumbledore’s answer was, to Ian, an entirely unconvincing attempt to placate a naïve young wizard.
Ian knew perfectly well how swiftly these so-called proud pure-bloods had bent the knee to Voldemort.
Hmm.
They hadn’t merely bowed their heads.
They had groveled.
“So it really is because Marcus Flint’s family is shielding them, isn’t it? These so-called ancient families are all the same— never willing to admit fault, even when it’s undeniable.”
Ian sighed.
Dumbledore neither confirmed nor denied, merely nodding.
“In truth, Severus will need to make considerable effort to contain the repercussions of this incident on your behalf. The greatest pressure comes from the families of the students involved.”
“Mr. Flint’s relatives do indeed hold sway in the Ministry, given the Flint family’s longstanding influence. Other pure-blood families also carry a certain degree of power.”
“Mr. Prince, you are more perceptive than many young wizards your age. You must understand that among certain circles, questions of right and wrong are often irrelevant.”
Dumbledore’s words seemed to be a subtle warning against seeking further retaliation.
“You’re right.”
Ian nodded, though with some reluctance.
His fingers brushed against the Sword of Gryffindor, which rested across his lap since he was seated. He wished the blade possessed some enchanted will of its own— one that would simply act first and explain later.
Unfortunately.
It did not.
“So not only am I unlikely to get any compensation, but I also have to brace myself for a swarm of petty grievances. Professor Snape will probably be run ragged dealing with the fallout on my behalf.”
Ian felt thoroughly vexed.
All he wanted was to focus on his studies and improve his abilities. How had he gotten entangled in this mess? Everything had seemed to spiral out of his control ever since Marcus Flint had been placed under the Imperius Curse.
“Don’t think Severus is always gritting his teeth at you. In truth, he is more than willing to handle matters like this for you. It grants him a measure of self-reconciliation.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft as he spoke.
“Self-reconciliation?”
Ian frowned.
“That is something he will have to tell you himself, should he ever choose to.” Dumbledore’s tone was low, carrying a weight of unspoken meaning.
Alright, alright.
Riddles, is it?
Very well— let’s all be riddlers, then!
There is no need for any rush, of course!
“Fine, I understand. Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore. If there’s nothing else, I should return to prepare for tomorrow’s lessons.”
Ian knew perfectly well that Dumbledore had not summoned him to the office merely to offer praise for his conduct. The headmaster of Hogwarts was hardly one to waste time on idle chatter.
Especially not when the Ministry had already taken an interest in investigating the death of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. After all, Penelope had subtly alluded to her own conversation with Dumbledore.
With Old Dumbles’ sharp mind, he had probably already pieced together quite a few things.
Of course.
What confirmed this for Ian was that when he first entered the headmaster’s office, he noticed a bookshelf that appeared to have been recently added, filled with ancient, well-worn tomes that had little to do with traditional magical knowledge.
Titles such as ‘Songs of the Soul’ and ‘The Legend of Merlin: Between Life and Death’ stood out among them.
“Good night, Headmaster Dumbledore.”
Ian gently removed the reluctant Fawkes from his head and placed the phoenix back onto its gilded perch. He waved and made to dash out of the office.
“Mr. Prince!”
As expected.
Dumbledore couldn’t let him go so easily.
“Huh?”
Ian turned back, feigning innocence.
“The Sword of Gryffindor.”
Dumbledore’s tone carried a note of resignation as he eyed the object Ian was cradling in his arms.
“Oh, right! I almost forgot. My apologies.” Ian scratched his head, looking genuinely abashed as he walked over to the Sorting Hat, picked it up, and carefully slid the sword back inside.
“Slowly! Slowly! Ah! I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Not Slytherin, not Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor— I should’ve sorted you into the Dementors’ lair!”
“It’s murder! Dumbledore, look! He’s stabbing me with a sword!” The Sorting Hat shrieked dramatically as it accommodated the Sword of Gryffindor, sounding thoroughly put upon.
Just as Ian turned to leave again, Dumbledore hesitated for a moment before raising a hand to stop him.
“Mr. Prince, didn’t you wish for compensation?” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles as he unexpectedly revisited the topic that had seemingly been settled.
“At this point, I’d be satisfied if those pure-blood nobles just left me alone. Some of them might have ties to the school governors and could try to use their influence to have me expelled on the spot.”
Ian tested the waters with his question but Dumbledore slowly shook his head.
“That is not a concern. As long as I am headmaster of Hogwarts, the school governors cannot overrule my decisions. That was established long ago.”
Dumbledore’s tone was firm.
Then, he hesitated briefly before continuing, “This might not be the most conventional request, but I would like to ask if you would accompany me on a journey tonight.”
As he spoke, Dumbledore rose from his seat.
With an air of solemnity, he extended his hand toward Ian.
“Mr. Prince, after this journey, I promise you will no longer need to concern yourself with pressure from pure-blood families. You will receive the apology and compensation you seek.”
“And you will be free to focus on your studies without further distractions.”
It was a tempting offer.
Ian had little choice but to smile, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and step forward.
“It would be my honor.”
Though his tone was tinged with hesitation, Ian still reached out and clasped Dumbledore’s hand. In an instant, the world shifted. Ian felt as though he could hear the ticking of a clock, the rustling of parchment being turned.
The scene around them changed.
Before long, a new landscape replaced the familiar setting of the Hogwarts headmaster’s office. It was a valley, bathed in gentle sunlight and surrounded by lush greenery. A town lay nestled in the distance, one Ian recognized from his memories.
“What kind of magic is this? Apparition? No… This feels different from any I’ve experienced before!” Ian stared in wonder at the small town he had only seen before in fleeting visions.
“This is merely a memory.”
Dumbledore gazed at the distant town, his expression unreadable, tinged with nostalgia and something deeper.
“A memory?”
Ian was astonished by the sheer vividness of the experience. The scent of the grass beneath his feet, the fluttering of butterflies in the air, the rustling of leaves in the breeze— it all felt too real to be an illusion.
“A rather intricate application of memory magic. I may have studied this field a little too thoroughly…” Dumbledore’s tone grew somewhat wistful.
“This is Godric’s Hollow.” Ian suddenly spoke.
Dumbledore’s previously dim expression brightened ever so slightly.
“Ian… May I call you that? Would you guide me?” The once-indomitable Dumbledore now seemed hesitant, almost cautious.
Ian turned to the elderly wizard beside him, sensing something unfamiliar— uncertainty, vulnerability. Emotions that one would never associate with the legendary Albus Dumbledore were now laid bare before him.
For the first time, Ian truly perceived the weight of Dumbledore’s burdens.
“It would be my honor.”
He gave the same answer as before.
Ian had a rough idea of where this memory would lead, and he found himself curious— what kind of person had Ariana Dumbledore been in her brother’s eyes?
Walking along the grassy path, Ian took the lead.
Dumbledore followed, as though needing someone to guide him back through the past. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the ground in patches of golden light.
The old post office, the familiar pub, the quaint church with its pointed spire— all looked just as Ian remembered them. The only difference was the presence of more people, passersby moving about their day.
“Can this be eaten?”
Ian paused beside a street vendor selling what appeared to be hot pancakes, curiosity piqued. He reached out, only to find that while he could grasp the steaming food, he couldn’t truly interact with it.
The pancake touched his lips, but he could neither taste nor swallow it.
“This is only a memory, Ian,” Dumbledore observed as Ian continued attempting to snatch food from oblivious passersby, finally unable to hold back a remark.
Ian sighed, finally accepting the illusion for what it was.
Ian walked ahead, guiding Dumbledore through the town until they reached a house at the very edge— identical to the one in his memories, but devoid of any identifying marks.
“I met her here. She was the only one in the town, but at least the fruit was edible.” Ian still found himself preoccupied with the pancakes from earlier.
However, Dumbledore had already bowed his head, his frame trembling.
“We’ve come this far.”
Ian sensed an overwhelming sadness, pain, and a deep-seated need to retreat. He realized this memory might be from the day Ariana died.
“You don’t have to force yourself.”
In the end, Ian quelled his curiosity and quietly reassured him. After all, the headmaster might be seeking confirmation of something he already knew the answer to.
“I have long since recognized your uniqueness, Ian. This is not for me.” Dumbledore inhaled deeply and lifted his head.
The reflection in his glasses revealed the house, but his eyes held no discernible color. “This may be the only lesson I can teach you.”
As soon as he finished speaking, the hesitant headmaster seemed unable to summon the courage to enter. Ian felt the world shift around them, and before he could process it, they were inside the house.
Three people were engaged in a fierce argument. One of them, a boy with striking blue eyes and golden hair, exuded an air of rebellion. Ian had a strong feeling he knew exactly who he was.
Sure enough.
“That is Aurora’s grandfather, Gellert Grindelwald. I suspect you’ve already looked up information about him.” Dumbledore’s gaze was laced with complexity.
The scene before them contained his younger self, his brother, his old friend… and his lost sister.
“That’s my younger brother, Aberforth.” Dumbledore introduced each figure in turn. Both he and his brother, red-haired and strikingly handsome, bore an unmistakable resemblance.
However, Aberforth, the younger of the two, was slightly thinner. Though their features were similar, subtle differences set them apart.
Ian’s eyes finally landed on a little girl curled up in the corner, visibly distressed, wanting to intervene but too frightened by the tension in the room.
A child in her early teens with the innocence of someone much younger.
It was only natural for her to feel afraid.
“Ariana,” Ian whispered her name softly.
Dumbledore had already shut his eyes, tears gathering at the corners.
“We kept her safe at home. She suffered terribly when she was younger, which made her loathe her own magic. In our neglect, she became an Obscurial.”
The old headmaster’s voice trembled heavily.
“An Obscurial? I remember reading about it in the library. Young witches and wizards who suppress their magic can develop a parasitic force called an Obscurus.”
“Those who become Obscurials rarely live past the age of ten. The Obscurus perishes alongside its host, but in extreme cases, it can survive and continue to exist as a formless entity.”
Ian began to piece together the terrible fate that had befallen Ariana.
“It could have been avoided… I could have… I should have…” Dumbledore murmured in anguish, unable to meet Ian’s eyes.
“Was it because of an Obscurus outbreak?”
Ian speculated about Ariana’s death.
“Keep watching.”
Dumbledore’s response was barely above a whisper.
In the memory, the three figures were indeed locked in a heated argument.
“Your plan is reckless and dangerous. What Ariana needs is peace, not the chaos of war. I will not allow you to drag her into this madness!”
The younger Aberforth lashed out at his older brother. “Albus, do you want her to suffer again? You’ve gone completely mad!”
His words struck like a curse.
The young Albus Dumbledore’s face twisted with conflict and turmoil. But at that moment, the blond-haired Gellert Grindelwald stepped forward, roughly pushing Aberforth aside.
“You coward! Muggles did this to your sister! They’re the reason she’s like this! Shouldn’t they be held accountable for ruining her life?”
“If we change the world— if we make Muggles fear us— tragedies like hers will never happen again. Those who harm wizards must be brought to justice!”
Grindelwald’s fervor was palpable as he spoke.
“You refuse to see the truth! Hiding will only lead to our extinction. Your brother and I have the power to reshape the world for wizardkind!”
“We can create harmony!” Grindelwald turned to young Dumbledore then, his voice low and insistent, laced with temptation.
“Albus, for us— for the future of wizardkind— for Ariana.”
His words struck a deep chord in young Dumbledore, strengthening the resolve that had already begun to waver.
“We must act. Someone has to take the first step.”
He turned to Aberforth, speaking as though delivering an unshakable truth.
“Are you abandoning us? Abandoning me, abandoning Ariana, abandoning our home— just to follow this expelled Durmstrang student into madness?”
Aberforth’s expression was one of utter betrayal.
Shock.
And then, uncontrollable rage.
“We will succeed.” Young Dumbledore’s reply was quiet but firm. Just like the older man standing beside Ian now, the younger Albus in the memory refused to turn and look at his frightened sister in the corner.
“You shameless, treacherous liar! A madman! You’ve deceived my brother! Get out of this house at once— go back to wherever you came from!” Aberforth brandished his wand, his stance tense and ready for a duel.
Gellert Grindelwald merely looked at him with disdain.
“Aberforth, calm yourself!” The young Albus Dumbledore tried to interject, but his younger brother, eyes red with fury, had lost all sense of reason. In his mind, Grindelwald was the sole architect of their family’s downfall.
“Reducto!”
Aberforth unleashed a devastating curse at Grindelwald. But the latter, already anticipating the attack, raised a hand and deflected the spell with ease.
Between the two brothers.
Though Aberforth possessed formidable magical talent, he was nowhere near the level of Albus or Grindelwald, two prodigies standing at the very pinnacle of wizarding power.
“Crucio!”
Grindelwald retaliated without hesitation, striking with brutal efficiency. Aberforth collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony as the curse took hold.
“Stop it, Gellert! That’s my brother!” Young Albus panicked, his wand drawn as he fired a counter-spell to break Grindelwald’s curse.
The hex was interrupted just in time.
“He is blind to the future, unable to see what we wizards must do. A fool like him is nothing but an obstacle, unworthy of standing in our way!” Grindelwald sneered, his voice laced with contempt. Yet, despite his frustration, he ceased his assault.
Unexpectedly, as soon as he was freed, Aberforth attempted to strike again, this time aiming a vicious hex at Albus himself.
“Entrail-Expelling Curse!”
It was a jinx of horrifying cruelty.
Grindelwald sidestepped, his eyes narrowing in sudden fury.
“You dare?!”
His voice was thick with murderous intent.
“Calm yourself, Gellert!” Albus cried out, fear gripping him. He knew Grindelwald’s rage could be deadly— especially now.
A chaotic duel erupted.
The shouts and screams of battle filled the entire room.
“Don’t… please, stop fighting…” A small, terrified voice trembled from the corner.
Ariana.
Curled up, overwhelmed, black mist rising faintly from her fragile frame.
But none of the three noticed.
“Ian, this lesson is of great importance to you.” The aged Dumbledore’s voice quivered with sorrow as he forced himself to speak, his grief barely contained.
At that moment.
A curse was hurled, intercepted midair by a hastily cast Protego.
It ricocheted.
And in that instant, as Ian watched in horror, Ariana— already on the verge of an Obscurus outbreak— fell lifelessly to the floor. Her pale face stilled, her once-bright eyes empty of life.
Aberforth let out a strangled cry, rushing to his fallen sister.
Even Grindelwald, usually so composed, paled at the sight.
Albus stood frozen, wand raised, unable to move.
“What!?”
Ian watched the memory unravel, eyes wide in disbelief. The trajectory of the spell had been unmistakable.
It had come from the young Albus Dumbledore’s wand.
His emotions churned violently, an internal storm he struggled to suppress.
“Some mistakes leave no room for redemption.” The memory didn’t fade completely; instead, the scene shifted, giving way to a tranquil valley where a gentle breeze whispered through the grass.
A crystal-clear river wound its way through the hills, shimmering like liquid silver. Sunlight filtered through the mist, casting a soft glow over a solitary gravestone.
“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
Ian read the inscription on the stone, and beside it, the aged Dumbledore knelt, his fingers hesitating over the carved letters of his sister’s name.
“Did you… did you kill Ariana by accident?”
After a long silence, Ian finally spoke.
“Did you not already see?”
Dumbledore let out a bitter laugh, his voice laden with agony and regret.
Ian’s gaze flickered as he took in the frail, grieving figure before him. For the first time, he truly understood why people called Albus Dumbledore great.
“Thank you for this lesson.”
Ian bowed his head slightly in respect.
“My uncle once told me I was a natural Legilimens. I may not agree entirely, but I do believe I have a certain talent for reading emotions.”
“And today… you did not hide yours well.”
Before he could finish, Dumbledore suddenly lifted his head, eyes filled with alarm.
“Say no more, child. Memories do not lie!” His voice, though trembling, was firm— pleading, even. His face was streaked with tears.
“I only saw a memory, not the truth.” Ian’s eyes glimmered.
“Your Legilimency is far stronger than an old friend of mine. Sometimes, that is a gift. Other times, it leads one to unearth secrets best left buried.”
“A powerful ability… but a dangerous one.”
Dumbledore rose unsteadily, casting a lingering glance at the gravestone as the illusion around them began to dissolve.
“I trust you will keep this secret safe.”
His words carried the weight of a plea.
On that day.
He had lost his sister.
And he could not bear to lose his only brother as well.
(End Of This Chapter)
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