Not long after Percy left, Kingsley finished reading the report on werewolves. He took a deep breath, suppressed the turbulent emotions in his heart, then set aside his work completely and turned his gaze once more toward Dumbledore's portrait on the wall.
"Did you know from the very beginning that it would turn out like this?" Kingsley refilled his cup with strong tea, took a small sip, and calmly looked at the old man in the portrait, who was resting with his eyes closed.
Upon hearing Kingsley's question, the old man in the portrait slowly opened his eyes and looked at him.
"What a mess." Kingsley's tone was filled with resentment. "Every last one of you is like this. You, Albert Anderson—you all just dump this mess on me. What do you expect me to do?"
Dumbledore understood Kingsley's feelings very well and wanted to offer him some help, but he was already dead.
He was merely a portrait now.
There was very little a painting could do. Even if he offered Kingsley advice, it might not prove useful and could instead disrupt Kingsley's train of thought.
Besides, the dead were not allowed to interfere with the world of the living. Dumbledore understood that better than anyone.
That was why, ever since Kingsley had hung him in the Minister's Office, he had remained silent, pretending to be nothing more than an enchanted portrait and refusing to interact with Kingsley.
But Kingsley seemed convinced that he could speak.
Well, Albert had probably tipped him off.
To be honest, it was not difficult for Dumbledore to guess why Kingsley had hung him here: it had something to do with himself.
While he was alive, Dumbledore had thrown quite a few problems at Albert to solve, so Albert had promptly tossed them back