The tavern's lights remained dim and warm, while the night outside grew ever deeper. The distant roar of the waves was faint, like some kind of ominous premonition.
It was like a whisper of Destiny.
"That's the situation." Ian turned his gaze away from the window and sat back down in his chair. His small figure seemed somewhat out of place in the adult-sized chair.
But at this moment, no one would underestimate him in the slightest because of his youthful appearance. His gaze fell on Dumbledore's face, and his deep eyes gleamed with a probing light.
" Headmaster Dumbledore, to be honest, I'd like to ask, if I may," Ian began, his voice still calm, "There's something I've always been curious about."
He asked a question.
Dumbledore picked up his teacup, took a sip, and gestured for him to continue.
"In that battle of wits, Voldemort must have possessed a Legend soul and spirit," Ian said. "How did you defeat Voldemort?"
Yes, this is indeed a very puzzling thing. Logically speaking, although Dumbledore indeed exceptionally talented, his talent should be insignificant in the face of the gap between Legend.
Voldemort, as Legendary Wizard, possessed an exceptionally powerful mental state, making it virtually impossible for Dumbledore to find an opportunity to defeat him, although Dumbledore seized this only chance of victory.
But the odds of winning should be extremely slim. This question made Dumbledore pause slightly. He put down his teacup, a complex emotion flashing in his azure eyes—not pride, not boasting, but a complex feeling, almost pity, for his former student, now his enemy.
Grindelwald also put down his glass, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Dumbledore with interest. He hadn't personally participated in that duel; he was busy dealing with those Horcrux Clone at the time. But he was equally curious about how Dumbledore had managed to achieve a mental victory over Voldemort, who had already reached the Legend level.
Both men stared at Old Deng. Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then smiled slightly. There was no smugness in that smile, only a faint sense of relief after seeing through the ways of the world.
" Ian, may I call you that?" he said slowly. "Do you know what Tom Riddle's greatest weakness is?" Ian tilted his head, pondered for a moment, and said, " Horcrux? The instability caused by split souls?"
Dumbledore shook his head.
"Arrogance? Overconfidence in power?"
Dumbledore shook his head again.
"Fear of death?"
"Closer," Dumbledore whispered, "But not really."
He paused, his gaze deepening, as if piercing through time to see that lonely, angry boy in the Orphanage years ago. " Tom's greatest weakness," Dumbledore's eyes flashed with a profound wisdom that revealed his deep understanding of human nature, "Is his intellectual poverty." These words...
"A lack of intellectual capacity?" Ian frowned slightly.
Dumbledore nodded and spoke again, "He possessed immense power, he was proficient in Dark Magic, he created Horcrux, he even broke through to the Legend. But all of this was merely an accumulation of 'power.' On the level of 'mind,' he never truly grew." He raised his hand, his fingertips lightly tapping the table, as if striking some unseen rhythm. "You know, Ian Tom, from childhood to adulthood, has only pursued one thing—power. Greater power, more power, enough to make him no longer fearful, no longer weak, no longer ignored."
"His entire life revolved around this core concept."
He studied Dark Magic for power. He created Horcrux for immortality—and immortality is just another form of power. He founded the Death Eater to rule—and rule is just another manifestation of power. Everything he did was built on the single, barren idea of "might makes right."
Dumbledore was definitely the person who knew Voldemort best in the world.
Ian listened attentively without interrupting.
"But true strength..." Dumbledore continued, "Is never merely the accumulation of power. A truly powerful person needs a rich mind, a profound soul, and a heart capable of embracing and understanding the complexities of this world. And Tom..." He paused slightly.
He shook his head and sighed:
"His soul was riddled with holes from its fragmentation; his mind was barren and arid from its singularity. He was like a craftsman who only knew how to pile up bricks, thinking that as long as he piled the bricks high enough, he could reach the sky. But he didn't know that true architecture needs structure, aesthetics, and an inner logic that can withstand wind and rain."
Dumbledore, as if he had completely exposed Voldemort, which was perhaps the real reason why he always felt that Voldemort was not worthy of being discussed.
Grindelwald chuckled softly. "Well said, Albus. Our ' Dark Lord ' is indeed a man of barren ideas. When I was wreaking havoc in Europe, at least I knew what kind of new order I wanted. But Tom Riddle... he only knows he wants to 'rule,' but he never knows what to do after he rules."
Grindelwald couldn't even see the Voldemort.
Dumbledore looked at Grindelwald and nodded slightly. "Exactly."
Ian nodded thoughtfully, then asked, "So, you actually used this to defeat him in the mental duel?" He seemed to realize something.
"Yes, that's right, I did take advantage of that..." Dumbledore. "He thought that a battle of wits was a contest of Magic Power strength and willpower. But he didn't know that at that level, what truly determines victory is the depth of thought and the richness of the soul." He raised his hand, pointing to his temple:
"His Magic Power is stronger than mine, and his will is unwavering. But his thoughts are too simple. So simple that I don't even need to 'confront' him, I just need to... let him 'see' himself."
Ian's eyes lit up slightly. "Let him see himself?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Let him see the real him, the one he's hidden behind power and fear. Let him confront the truth he's been running from his whole life."
He was silent for a few seconds, then looked at Ian, a gentle light flashing in his eyes:
Would you like to see it?
Ian paused for a moment, then asked, "What are you looking at?"
"That duel," Dumbledore said, taking out a small object from inside his robes—an ordinary-looking stone basin —the Pensieve. The Pensieve is a large stone basin, usually passed down through Wizard families. It contains a luminous, liquid-like, gaseous substance. When Wizard extracts extraneous thoughts or specific memories from their brain and places them into the basin, these memories float in the basin as silvery filaments.
This thing is common in the magical world. Its main function is to allow Wizard to temporarily store some of their memories in the basin when they feel confused or overwhelmed, so that their brains can rest and clear. Users can also put their faces into the basin, and their bodies will feel as if they are being sucked in, thus reliving that memory from a third-person perspective.
This is much more vivid and objective than simply recalling things in your mind, because you can see all the details of what happened at the time, even things you didn't notice at the time.
at the same time.
The Pensieve can also share memories.
This is the most unique function of the Pensieve. The user can invite others to view the memories within the Pensieve, allowing them to witness past events firsthand. It's often used for court testimony or teaching, such as when Dumbledore shows Harry Barty Crouch Jr.'s trial in * Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire *. In * Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows *, a dying Snape asks Harry to take his memories and place them in the Pensieve. Harry then examines these memories, revealing Snape's enduring love for Lily Potter and his true stance as a double agent—one of the most emotionally charged parts of the book. Dumbledore was also fond of the Pensieve.
It's perfectly normal to carry it with you.
He placed the Pensieve on the table; the Pensieve was empty, except for a faint, misty, silvery-white light that swirled slowly within it. Then Dumbledore spoke again, "I can share my memories of that duel. Not everything—at that level, many things cannot be fully preserved in memory—but enough for you to see the key parts."
He looked at Ian: "Would you like to take a look?"
Ian nodded without hesitation.
Grindelwald leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued as well. Dumbledore drew his Elder Wand and pressed it against his temple. He closed his eyes, and a few seconds later, a silvery-white thread of memory, like liquid moonlight, slowly emerged from his temple, coalescing at the tip of the wand into a shimmering orb of light.
He threw the ball of light into the Pensieve.
The silvery-white mist in the basin instantly began to churn, rippling like the surface of a lake after a pebble has been thrown in. The mist spun faster and faster, rising higher and higher.
Ultimately, it coalesced into a three-dimensional, semi-transparent image above the rim of the basin.
Dumbledore nodded slightly to Ian: "Go in."
Without hesitation, Ian stood up and walked to the Pensieve. He took a deep breath and buried his face in the silvery-white light. Instantly, he felt his body lose its weight, and his consciousness was drawn downwards by a gentle yet irresistible force—or rather, upwards?
In short, in that silvery-white light, direction lost its meaning; there was only an endless, warm, motherly embrace. Then, he "fell" into another world.
To be fair, this is a rare instance of Ian using the Pensieve. In the past, when he needed to memorize things, he and his future Old Deng would choose a different kind of memory magic.
It's possible that Dumbledore hasn't fully mastered that kind of magic yet, which is why he brought out the Pensieve at this moment. Of course, he might also simply want to show off that he has the Pensieve.
In conclusion
Ian experienced this magical item.
This is a gray void.
There was no sky, no earth, no direction, no coordinates to refer to. There was only endless gray, and two figures facing each other within that gray.
Ian "stood" on the edge of this void—or rather, his consciousness was placed in a position where he could observe everything without being drawn into it.
He knew that it was Dumbledore's memories guiding him, making him a spectator in this spiritual duel.
All I saw was...
In the gray center, two figures faced each other from afar.
One was Dumbledore. He stood there, the Elder Wand in his hand, his purple-gold robes standing out starkly against the grey backdrop. His expression was calm and composed, his azure eyes devoid of any emotion, as if this were not a life-or-death duel, but merely a routine classroom lesson. The other was Voldemort.
No, Voldemort at this moment is different from the pale, snake-faced figure in reality. In this spiritual world, he "manifests" a more essential form of the soul.
It was a tall but twisted figure. His face was still pale, and his snake-like face was still ferocious, but beneath that ferocity, Ian could "see" something deeper.
It was a fear that was almost transparent and hollow.
Voldemort wore a maniacal grin, his crimson eyes burning with confidence. He spread his arms, sensing everything in this mental world, then let out a sharp, cold laugh, " Dumbledore! You dare to oppose me in my mental world? Don't you know that here, I am the ruler?"
He was incredibly arrogant.
Dumbledore didn't speak, he just watched him quietly.
That silent gaze caused Voldemort's smile to freeze slightly.
"What are you laughing at?" Voldemort hissed, seemingly trying to mask his unease with his loud voice. "What do you think your pitiful Mental Power can do? I'm already Legend! My Magic Power is many times greater than yours! Here, I can shape anything I want!" Deep down, he was still afraid of Old Deng.
Therefore, they were very uneasy until they understood Old Deng's purpose.
Violence was often used by Voldemort to mask his unease. He raised his hand, and the surrounding gray instantly surged, transforming into countless ferocious monsters that lunged at Dumbledore with bared fangs and claws.
Dumbledore remained motionless.
Just as the monsters were about to reach him, they suddenly stopped. They twisted, struggled, and roared, but could not advance another step. Then, they began... to melt.
Like ice and snow exposed to sunlight, those ferocious monsters turned into wisps of gray mist and vanished into nothingness.
Voldemort's smile froze.
"What... what did you do?" For the first time, a hint of uncertainty appeared in his voice.
Dumbledore spoke slowly, his voice gentle yet possessing a power that penetrated the soul:
" Tom, you are indeed very powerful here. You can create anything you want, and shape anything you can imagine. But there's one thing you can't do."
"What is it?" Voldemort hissed.
Dumbledore's lips curled up slightly, revealing a smile that was almost one of pity:
"You can't stop me from creating what I want to create."
As soon as he finished speaking, the surrounding grayness began to churn.
It wasn't the kind of surging controlled by Voldemort, but a different kind—a gentler, more natural, yet even more irresistible surge. The gray mist began to condense, forming a series of images.
The first image is of a dilapidated Orphanage. A dark-haired boy stands by the window, gazing forlornly at the world outside. Other children play in the distance, but no one calls him to join them. His eyes are filled with longing, anger, and... the inferiority complex of being abandoned.