That memory did not quite fit with the rest.
It was like a bubble that might shatter at any moment, and yet it remained firmly rooted in Dumbledore's life. It was not the result of tampered memories.
It was history that had truly happened.
Of course, whatever his instincts told him,
All things shall bow beneath my feet, hear my will, and accept this iron law beyond magic.
How could Dumbledore possibly forget those words?
After all,
he clearly remembered that night. He also remembered how he, back then... had chosen to refuse coldly, and had not answered his only sister's question.
And in the summer of that same year,
the tragedy happened.
Of the three people involved in that chaotic accident, even now, Albus Dumbledore alone truly knew whose wand had cast the spell.
After all, he had tried more than once to undo that tragedy.
"I know the regret you speak of. At the time, you hated your family... but Albus, the same ancient text may be discovered by different people."
"Even if that young wizard asked you the same question, it is a coincidence, yes, but it does not necessarily mean anything greater. It only proves they both came into contact with the same sort of material."
"And if the young wizard you met possesses a sufficiently outstanding gift for prophecy, then the moment he saw you, he may have been able to witness your past."
"That may be why he knows so much information he should not know."
Grindelwald's logic was extremely clear, carrying a will of absolute rationality.
Dumbledore said nothing.
Grindelwald looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
"If you want a truly definite answer, bring that child here to see me."
What interested Grindelwald most was the state of mind Iain had been in while writing that novel.
However,
"Absolutely not."
Dumbledore's answer came so quickly it was almost reflexive.
Grindelwald narrowed his eyes.
Those pale pupils became even sharper when narrowed, like two honed blades of ice. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his abdomen, and examined Dumbledore slowly, appraising him from head to toe, from the half-moon spectacles to the hem of his robes.
"Oh?"
The first Dark Lord drew the word out, the final note bouncing off the stone wall.
"It seems you care a great deal about this young wizard."
Dumbledore did not avoid his gaze.
"I owe that child a measure of guilt." His voice was as calm as if stating some fact that had nothing to do with himself. "So I need to shield him from certain temptations."
At that, Grindelwald stared at Dumbledore for about three seconds.
Then his expression changed.
As though he had figured something out.
As though he had glimpsed some secret.
"Don't tell me that, after all these years, you have finally found an awakened wizard of the Ambrosius line? One who inherited Merlin's possibility of crossing life and death?"
Every word Grindelwald spoke sounded like a test.
Dumbledore's expression did not change at all. His brows did not move. His lips did not move. Even his breathing remained perfectly steady.
But Grindelwald had known this man for far too long.
Long enough to read a clearer answer from the way Dumbledore held himself still than from any expression.
"Tsk, tsk. Coveting the power brought by another person's bloodline, all to satisfy your own laughable wish."
Grindelwald spoke as calmly as though commenting on the weather.
"Albus, you are more despicable than your students."
...
Godric's Hollow.
The village was very quiet at night.
A thin layer of dew had gathered on the stone road, shining silver-white beneath the moonlight.
This was a settlement where Muggles and wizards lived side by side, named after the founder of Gryffindor. The entire village was covered in powerful Confundus Charms that prevented Muggles from peering into the magical world.
Of course, precisely because of the wizards, rumors of hauntings were extremely common among the local Muggles. So once night fell, there was hardly a living soul to be seen anywhere in the village. Only a few scattered windows still glowed with warm yellow light, like fireflies strewn across the valley.
Whoosh!
With the completion of Apparition, Dumbledore, returning far later than promised, appeared on the little road at the village entrance, his figure slightly stooped.
Because of the conversation in the tower,
the old headmaster's mood was complicated. His steps were slower than usual, and he did not go straight home. Instead, he followed a road he had walked countless times before.
To the other side of the hill.
The Potter cottage.
Or rather, the ruins of the Potter cottage were there.
The house had been half-destroyed many years ago on Halloween night.
The roof had collapsed. The walls were cracked. The windows were shattered. The doorframe hung crookedly from its hinges, like a person whose bones had been broken.
The Ministry had placed a fence around the ruins and set up a sign that read: Dangerous Structure. Keep Away. But half the fence had already fallen over, and the words on the sign were blurred with age. Only the moonlight still shone on it, illuminating the letters worn smooth by time.
Dumbledore stood outside the fence, looking at the ruins.
His expression was unclear beneath the moonlight, but his posture was very still.
No one knew what the old man was thinking.
Ten minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Dumbledore stood before the ruins for a very long time before finally seeming to make some decision. Then he turned and walked toward his own home.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
When he pushed open the door, he heard sounds.
Crackling. Hammering. Knocking.
The sound of stone striking stone, wood being dragged, and something bouncing along the floor. Anyone who did not know better might have thought they had accidentally walked onto a construction site.
"????"
Dumbledore stepped back outside to confirm he had not grown so old and confused that he had entered the wrong house.
Only then did he return, full of bewilderment, and walk toward the sitting room where a young wizard's voice was loudly ringing out.
"As expected of you, Sister!"
"A simple application of ancient magical power? No! This is magic! This spell should be called Wizard's Hand! In the future, I'll work hard to grow a thousand invisible tentacles!"
"I'm still a child. I have plenty of room to grow!"
"I knew I was right to trust you! What do you mean, I only came to you because I had no other move? You may be my dear senior sister, but you can't slander me like that!"
...
The young wizard seemed to be conversing with someone unknown.
"Has his condition worsened?"
Dumbledore walked a little closer.
Only then did he see that, in the middle of the sitting room, Iain was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Spread open across the boy's lap was a notebook, the same talking diary. At that moment, it lay quietly open, its pages covered densely in writing, the ink still faintly glowing.
Handsome Tabby crouched beside Iain, licking one paw, while Fawkes sat on Iain's head as though treating the boy's messy hair as a new nest.
It was a harmonious scene.
A rather affectionate scene.
If not for the fact that Dumbledore could also see dozens of skeletons carrying building materials upstairs and hammering away on the second floor.
"You... what have you done?"
Dumbledore's voice was trembling.
There was only one place in all Godric's Hollow where so many bones could have been found.
The church graveyard.
At this very moment, Professor Albus Dumbledore, whose entire family was buried there, felt his mind stop working altogether. He no longer dared think any further.
He did not even dare look at those skeletons again.
Distant relatives would be bad enough.
One more glance, and Dumbledore was afraid he might see his own mother.