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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!"
(To Be Continued…)