Sometimes Albus would ride a Thestral out on his travels.
Thestrals were not cute animals like reindeer, and the "white-bearded old man" did not wear red like Santa Claus. He would drape himself in an Invisibility Cloak and fly through the night sky.
No one knew where he went, but that place was undoubtedly dangerous, requiring a wizard like Albus to conceal his tracks.
Perhaps he had come to this very place, the dwelling of "Death."
While Voldemort contemplated "The Paradise," Pomona inspected the figures standing upon those steps.
She hoped to find the white wizard's face, yet also hoped she would not.
At the same time, she compared those faces with portraits of famous people.
Whether through chance or by their own abilities, those who reached this place would, like the three Peverell brothers, rise from obscure mercenaries into legend.
"Who are you?" Xenophilius Lovegood asked, staring at Pomona's face.
"Secret." Pomona smiled. "What are you doing here, Xenophilius?"
Xenophilius did not answer that question.
"What did you encounter just now?"
"A Phoenix that kept shedding tears. After our wounds were washed by the Phoenix's tears, they healed. I heard you encountered a black eagle."
"Have you ever heard the story of The Spirit in the Bottle?" Xenophilius asked, staring at a statue holding a sickle.
"No," Pomona said. "What is it?"
"A Muggle fairy tale."
"You really do love telling fairy tales," Pomona said. "Does that tale have something to do with this person?"
"It is a fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm," Xenophilius said.
Once upon a time, there was a poor woodcutter who worked from dawn till dusk every day, saving up a little money for his son's schooling. The young man studied diligently, but before he could finish his education, the money ran out,