When the first ray of morning sunlight pierced through the clouds and fell upon the snow-covered castle spire, the chime of the Astronomical Tower began to ring.
In the Headmaster's Office, the two people who had conversed throughout the entire night still had clear eyes, as if the long and deep conversation hadn't drained their energy but rather dispelled some of the unsettling fog.
However, the bluish tint under their eyes still honestly spoke of physical fatigue, reminding them it was time to rest.
Dumbledore stood up, opened the window, letting the cold air rush into the room, driving away the drowsy stillness.
He turned around, paused for a moment, and said, "The baby you brought back—Ezra Hughes, what are you thinking about him?"
After a brief pause, he asked directly, unlike usual probing:
"Do you plan to... because Hosone might hold an important position in the Witch Pure Party in the future, heal him, and make him a bridge between you?"
Vid was momentarily stunned, then said, "When I promised to help them, I hadn't thought about it that much."
A scene seemed to flash before his eyes again—Ezra Hughes shielding Hosone, taking a fatal blow—though Vid hadn't witnessed it himself, Vilan had brought back the recording.
He naturally said, "His future stance isn't important; what's important is, he was a great warrior, someone who strove to maintain peace, willing to sacrifice himself for it."
"So what I think is... for those who carry firewood for others, we mustn't let them freeze to death in the snow and wind."
Dumbledore gazed at him quietly, his sapphire eyes unusually bright in the morning light.
"Very good," he said with full approval, "Will you visit him often during the treatment?"
"Of course," Vid said.
"Then take a good look,"
Dumbledore said warmly, "Observe how this life you saved is reshaped from its trauma, and how it slowly regains itself... I think this process itself will teach you many things not found in books."
Vid nodded solemnly, "I will."
Dumbledore smiled and said, "Now, go and get some good rest. What you need at this moment is sleep, not more contemplation."
"Thank you, Professor," Vid stood up and couldn't help but say, "The same goes for you—adequate rest is essential for everyone."
"Haha," Dumbledore laughed heartily, saying warmly, "Alright, I'll rest soon too."
"Well then, goodnight... no, good morning, Professor."
Vid turned and headed to the door, holding the doorknob, when Dumbledore's voice came from behind:
"Oh, there's one more thing."
Vid turned back.
"After the holidays end, if you still have the energy—"
Dumbledore's eyes behind his glasses blinked happily, "I think we can start some additional lessons, like advanced applications in Memory Magic. I believe this might be helpful to you in the future."
A pure joy instantly lit up Vid's face, and he said without hesitation, "It's settled then, Professor!"
The youthful eagerness and unconcealed happiness also infected Dumbledore, and he laughed heartily, saying, "Go on, have a good dream, child."
The oak door closed softly behind Vid, and the spiral staircase emitted a gentle hum.
The office fell into a brief silence, as Dumbledore gently waved his Magic Wand, and the open window closed with a "click."
But instead of returning to his bedroom to rest, he sat in front of the desk, drew out a Quill and parchment, and began recording and organizing.
"Hey, who promised their student they would go rest?"
From the portrait on the wall, Phineas Black said sarcastically, "Keep going like this, and you'll soon become Hogwarts' first headmaster to work himself to death."
"Thank you for your concern, Phineas," Dumbledore said gently, "I'll go to sleep as soon as I finish up these little tasks."
"Speaking of which, don't you worry about that boy's close ties with the Dark Wizard, Dumbledore?" Armando Dippet said anxiously, "Perhaps he's someone like Tom... just better at disguising."
Phineas clicked his tongue, saying, "You mean if you fell off a broom once, you'd never dare ride it again? Even the chubby kid from the Longbottom Family is braver than you."
Dumbledore nodded, "Neville is indeed a brave child."
"Who mentioned that?" Dippet said, speechless.
Evra, with his stern expression and black short beard, said, "It's indeed wise to be cautious about repeating history, Dumbledore... you shouldn't hand a sharpened sword to a child."
The other portraits opened their eyes, chattering:
"Yes, it's a bit risky."
"Don't let history stifle new possibilities!"
"But a child's thoughts change rapidly, and their sword might swing where it shouldn't at any moment."
"So young... can they really bear such heavy responsibility?"
"He's not an ordinary child, folks, I don't mean his remarkable achievements," Delilah Devante said kindly, "What's truly special is his belief in protecting those who protect society, it's an extraordinary idea."
The witch turned to Dumbledore, saying, "If I were you, perhaps I'd make the same decision, Dumbledore... that child is truly promising."
"Even if the answer might disappoint you?" Dippet asked sulkily.
"Yes," Dumbledore said softly, "Even if it would disappoint me."
Sensing the resolve in Dumbledore's words, the discussions among the portraits gradually subsided, eventually falling into silence.
Dumbledore stopped his Quill, turning to gaze upon Hogwarts, gradually awaking from sleep.
He had experienced too much disappointment in the past: comrades who turned away, people he wished to save who fell, and those he wished to protect who died...
Time and again, the flicker of hope was overwhelmed by wind and snow; he had long learned not to expect everything to follow his heart's desires.
Destiny is a strict teacher, using repeated losses and regrets to tell him—what one can control is much less than one imagines.
But ah...
Even if it ultimately leads to unforeseen forks, he will not cease striving.
At every intersection, he will exert all his strength to tilt the balance towards the "better" side, even if it only moves the scales by an inch.
He gently exhaled, his warm breath hitting the cold glass, forming a small white mist, then slowly dispersing in the warm indoor air.
Dumbledore bowed his head, his long silver-white beard nearly touching the paper, the Quill in his hand gliding smoothly across the paper, leaving line after line of slender handwriting.