In the corridor.
The torchlight flickered faintly.
Outside the windows, a fine rain fell steadily, droplets pattering endlessly against the glass with a soft, rhythmic sound. The rain stood in stark contrast to the stillness within the corridor.
Ian turned at the sound.
He saw a boy of around sixteen or seventeen.
The boy wore a well-fitted Hogwarts uniform, his robes neat and crisp. His handsome face retained a trace of youthful innocence, while his confident, composed bearing carried an exceptionally rare sense of high spirits.
Although this person lacked the wrinkles of age, the thick beard, and the unruly hair, Ian still recognized him from those refined and distinctive facial features.
"Albus Dumbledore." He had personally witnessed the old headmaster's youth with Grindelwald within the old headmaster's memories, which was why he could be so certain of the person before him.
He was only a few years away from adulthood.
Naturally, there would not have been much change in his appearance—though if there was one difference, it was that Ian sensed a unique aura from this young version of the old headmaster.
It was not merely the composure of a genius.
There was also a sense of... looking down upon the world.
His polite, gentle smile carried an unstoppable, invincible pressure. It was an indescribable grandeur that the headmaster over a hundred years old might no longer possess.
At that moment.
The Young Wizard finally understood why his old headmaster had once commanded such widespread support, enough to turn even Grindelwald, a generation's Dark Lord, into a devoted admirer.
"What a shame my ancestral home isn't Chengdu. I'm not falling for you." Ian's gaze fell upon Albus Dumbledore's hand. That still rather soft hand gripped a wand.
A jet-black one.
It was vastly different from the Elder Wand.
It