"Even if we bear the weight of sin, we must... fight for the greater good!"
Amidst the fervor and zeal.
The tide of darkness surged ever stronger.
In the midst of it all, the young Albus Dumbledore wavered. He was conflicted and saved some lives, but he never truly intervened in this world-altering war.
A flash of crimson flickered.
"That is a blood pact, far more binding than an Unbreakable Vow." Dumbledore, standing beside Ian, murmured. "Those bound by a blood pact cannot raise a hand against one another. My agreement with Aurora's grandfather was to change the world together; it was our mutual assurance and bond."
After a brief pause.
Dumbledore continued.
"Of course, I do not offer this as an excuse for my inaction. In truth, during this time, I was consumed by an obsession with something else."
It was clear.
The young Albus Dumbledore was searching for the Resurrection Stone. Yet he never found what he sought in those years, and only when the cries for help became unrelenting did he finally step forward.
Newt Scamander's voice echoed in the memory, as he and the young Albus Dumbledore worked together to counter Gellert Grindelwald's growing threat.
When the blood pact shattered.
As history recorded, a fateful duel between old friends began. Gellert Grindelwald ultimately suffered a crushing defeat and was imprisoned within a cold, lightless fortress.
A phoenix's silhouette flickered within the scene, shifting rapidly. Ian caught only a glimpse of its fading form before it disappeared— just as a young man awaited the arrival of death.
Time flowed on.
Many celebrated.
Few noticed that Albus Dumbledore had grown even more somber. He had claimed the wand said to command fate, yet he had failed to prevent the tragedy fate had chosen for him.
On what seemed to be a tranquil day.
The weary Albus Dumbledore, lost in searching and reflection, stepped into a familiar courtyard— one Ian recognized.
The firelight flickers in the cupboard reflecting the fear and ambition in the eyes of a handsome young boy.
"This is the beginning of another story. I do not believe there is a lesson to be learned here, only that you must never overlook the influence your actions have on those around you."
Albus Dumbledore gazed at the boy in the memory.
"Perhaps he was inherently flawed, but if I had shown him more guidance instead of keeping him at arm's length with cold suspicion, he might not have fallen so far."
The old headmaster sighed, the weight of past regrets pressing heavily upon him.
He looked utterly exhausted.
And indeed, he was.
This journey through memories had been no small ordeal.
Dumbledore had, in essence, reopened an old wound, one that had never truly healed, simply to offer Ian a lesson— to ensure he would not repeat the same mistakes.
"Is he Voldemort?" Ian asked, though he already knew the answer.
"His name was Tom Riddle. Of course, calling him Voldemort is not incorrect, but in his pursuit of power, he chose to cast aside his given name, as though severing his ties to humanity itself."
Albus Dumbledore turned away, and the scene began to dissolve. The world twisted, blurred— until the familiar surroundings of the Hogwarts headmaster's office reappeared.
The past vanished like a mirage, leaving behind only the faint scent of parchment and candle wax. The silver instruments on the desk continued to hum and release curling wisps of steam, the portraits of former headmasters whispered amongst themselves, and the Sorting Hat grumbled to Fawkes about Ian.
"You have to believe me, I'll deal with him sooner or later."
"Even Godric Gryffindors didn't even dare to dust me with a feather, yet this little rascal thinks he can manhandle me like an old sock!"
"If Dumbledore weren't watching over him, I'd have leaped up and knocked him right on the nose!"
Fawkes paid no attention, but the hat continued to mutter indignantly— right until it noticed Ian looking directly at it. Then, with a dramatic huff, it fell silent and slumped over as if lifeless.
"That settles it, Fawkes. Take it to the Black Lake for a wash. And next time, I'll let you perch on my shoulder a little longer!" Ian declared.
The phoenix let out a soft trill of approval before swiftly seizing the Sorting Hat in its talons and soaring out of the window.
"You wretched scoundrel! When you have a child at Hogwarts, I'll see them Sorted straight into Azkaban!" The Sorting Hat shrieked as it vanished into the distance.
"Ridiculous. I'm not having children," Ian scoffed at the hat's theatrics before turning to Dumbledore, who had just plucked a book from one of the high shelves.
"Consider this a gift, as thanks for your time," The old wizard said, handing him a copy of ''The Tales of Beedle the Bard''.
"Thank you!"
Ian accepted the book eagerly, flipping to the first blank page. As expected, there was a handwritten note from Dumbledore himself, scrawled in elegant script.
And beneath it— his signature. Unlike the cramped marginalia scribbled throughout the Restricted Section's grimoires, this page still had ample space left.
"It'll come in handy sooner or later," Ian murmured with satisfaction.
Dumbledore regarded him curiously.
"You're not going to ask about the Deathly Hallows?" He prompted, setting his ancient wand on the desk.
Ian didn't even glance at it.
"I've read about them in other books. No offense, but if the Deathly Hallows were truly invincible, how did Aurora's grandfather still lose to you?"
Ian knew the truth of the Hallows. While powerful, they were ultimately just masterfully crafted magical artifacts. His own knowledge of enchantments and alchemy was still far from sufficient to analyze them in depth.
As for their supposed legend…
Whether it was the Resurrection Stone or the Invisibility Cloak, their reputations far outweighed their actual utility. Perhaps the Elder Wand lived up to its fearsome history, but Ian firmly believed that true power came from the wielder, not the wand itself.
After all— how many so-called "invincible" wizards had still fallen to a well-aimed Killing Curse?
"A very wise perspective. You understand more than most fully grown witches and wizards." Dumbledore exhaled softly and sank into his chair, looking utterly drained.
He resembled a Ministry official who had just endured a full day of Wizengamot deliberations, only to return to find a mountain of paperwork still waiting for him.
"I hope today's journey has been enlightening."
Ian tucked 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard' into his robes.
"Don't you have anything to ask?"
It was only fair, he thought, to return the favor.
A great man, brilliant and revered, had laid bare his painful past simply to impart wisdom. It was only right to respond with sincerity.
Especially since, during the course of their conversation, certain truths had already been inadvertently revealed.
"You've already answered my question— through your actions. I don't need to hear it spoken aloud."
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment before shaking his head with a weary smile. He removed his spectacles, their lenses fogged slightly and wiped away the moisture at the corners of his eyes with a small handkerchief.
"To be honest… The day I realized the answer, I was jealous of you. Truly, Ian. Jealous."
His hands trembled ever so slightly.
"What an extraordinary talent. I have read that Merlin himself possessed such a gift, yet I have spent my entire life unable to prove whether the stories were true."
"In truth, it is not just Merlin. Among certain unpublished relics at Hogwarts, I once discovered a journal belonging to Helga Hufflepuff— one of the school's founders."
"For the longest time, that journal was the clue I held onto with the greatest hope." Dumbledore replaced his glasses, his expression tinged with deep regret.
"What clue?" Ian asked, his curiosity piqued.
Dumbledore did not attempt to be cryptic. "In ''The Tales of Beedle the Bard'', there is a story about the Deathly Hallows— of three brothers who struck a bargain with Death."
Hearing this, Ian reached into his robes, retrieved the book, and flipped to the corresponding page.
[Once, there were three brothers who came upon a river too treacherous to cross…]
The story was not lengthy.
(To Be Continued…)
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