I'm back.
Grindelwald took a deep breath, sensing the thin Magic Power around him. Compared to ten thousand years ago, the Magic Power of this era was like a desert. But the Legend power surging within him meant that he no longer needed to rely on external Magic Power —he himself was a mobile source of Magic Power.
I'm back.
Grindelwald took a deep breath, sensing the thin Magic Power around him. Compared to ten thousand years ago, the Magic Power of this era was like a desert. But the Legend power surging within him meant that he no longer needed to rely on external Magic Power —he himself was a mobile source of Magic Power.
Dumbledore felt all of this as well. He looked up at the sparse stars in the sky, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"You're back," he said softly.
Ian carefully put the Time Machine away, then looked at the two old men. Their youthful faces bore a hint of weariness, but even more so, a sense of relief at having completed their mission. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Have you adapted to the power of the Legend?"
Dumbledore sensed the surging power within him and nodded. "It will still take time, but... things are different now."
Grindelwald didn't speak, but simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers lightly. A ball of black Fiendfyre danced at his fingertips, purer and deeper than before, as if containing the darkness of the entire universe. He gently clenched his fist, and the flame vanished.
"That's enough," he said.
Ian smiled. He turned and walked toward the tavern. "Come on, let's go in and have a seat. We've been up all night—no, up for ten thousand years—it's time to rest." Dumbledore and Grindelwald exchanged a glance, then followed him.
The tavern door was pushed open, and the brass bell on the door rang out with a clear, crisp sound.
The old Wizard with gray hair was still behind the bar. When he saw them return, he merely nodded slightly and continued wiping his glasses. The person in the portrait curiously observed the two old men, seemingly sensing some change in them.
The three of them walked to the table by the window in the corner and sat down. It was the same spot, the same dim lighting, as if they had never left. But everything was different now.
Ian leaned back in his chair, watching the two silent old men. He knew they were feeling, processing, and adapting to the power they had just gained. The silence lasted for several minutes.
Then, Dumbledore suddenly spoke:
" Gellert, do you think... those lives will remember us?"
Gellert paused for a moment, then understood what he meant. He shook his head, his gaze becoming distant:
"No. Everything is gone. The forest, the animals, the Dragon, even the traces we left behind—all will be completely erased in that apocalypse." Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then nodded slightly. He didn't say anything more, but a complex light flashed in his bright eyes. Ian looked at them, his deep eyes gleaming with a light beyond his years. He spoke softly, his voice calm yet carrying an indescribable power. "The river of history will not change course because of a few stones. The stones we threw were completely submerged in that apocalypse. Ten thousand years later, no one will know what happened in that forest, no one will know that the Ancient Dragon once existed, and no one will know—two Legendary Wizard from the future once fought, ate, and laughed there." He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips:
"But that doesn't matter. What matters is that we know. We remember."
Dumbledore looked at him, a hint of relief flashing in his deep blue eyes. He gently patted Ian's shoulder without saying a word, but that gesture was enough. Outside the window, the night remained deep.
In the distance, the faint roar of the waves could be heard—an ominous sign from the direction of Voldemort, belonging to this era. But for the moment, the three simply sat quietly, enjoying this brief moment of tranquility.
Because they knew the storm was coming soon.
And they are ready.
The primeval forest of 10,000 years ago has completely changed.
The lava covered everything. The towering trees that once reached into the clouds, the ancient creatures that once roamed, and the open spaces that had witnessed the three's battle—all were swallowed up by the crimson lava, turned to ashes, and vanished into nothingness.
The volcano was still erupting, and the sky was covered with a thick layer of volcanic ash, like an eternal darkness. Occasionally, lightning would flash across the sky, illuminating this devastated world—nothing but lava, no trace of life could be seen.
The enormous Ancient Dragon corpse, along with its remaining dragon bones, was also swallowed by the lava. Those indestructible bones slowly melted in the extreme heat, eventually merging with the lava to become part of this apocalyptic world.
All traces left by the three—the trenches of battle, the scorch marks from the Fiendfyre, the leftover bones—were erased, covered up, and forgotten, as if they had never existed.
It was as if the Dragon had never existed.
It was as if everything in that forest was just a dream.
And that is history.
History erased by the apocalypse.
A history that will never be known.
But Ian is right—that doesn't matter.
The important thing is that someone remembers. Ten thousand years later, three people sit quietly in an unassuming little pub in West End of London, remembering. The pub's lights are still dim and warm, the night outside the window is deep, and the distant roar of the waves can be faintly heard. The three sit around a table in the corner. In front of them are several cups of tea that have gone cold—none of them have the heart to drink them.
Ian leaned back in his chair, his deep eyes sweeping over the two men's faces, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Now that we've eaten and drunk our fill, it's time to get down to business."
Dumbledore put down his teacup, a hint of seriousness flashing in his deep blue eyes. "Have you thought about what to do specifically?"
Ian nodded, took a piece of Parchment from his pocket, and spread it on the table. The Parchment contained a simple diagram—the outline of Azkaban, the surrounding sea, and several key landmarks.
"The plan is simple." He pointed to Azkaban's location. "First, you put on a show—in front of everyone at the Ministry of Magic, Grindelwald 'betrays' Dumbledore and severely injures you. The injury must be convincing enough for Voldemort to believe you're incapacitated."
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow. "And then?"
"Then you 'escaped, severely wounded.'" Ian looked at Grindelwald. "The more pathetic your escape, the better. Ideally, everyone should think you were also severely injured and near death. That way, Voldemort will lower his guard and think he has an opportunity."
Grindelwald sneered, a mischievous glint in his heterochromatic eyes. "Acting? I'm good at that. I did plenty of acting back in Europe." Dumbledore shook his head, a helpless smile playing on his lips. He looked at Ian: "And you? What role do you play in this play?" A sly glint flashed in Ian's eyes:
"Me? I'm about to be dragged into Misty Illusion by ' Death '."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly. " Death?"
Ian nodded, raised his hand, and a faint, misty gray light appeared at his fingertips. The light condensed in his palm, eventually forming a blurry, cloaked humanoid figure—the outline had no face, only two eerie green lights flickering in the eye sockets, radiating a chilling aura of death.
"This is an illusion I conjured with Magic Power," Ian said. "It will leave a 'fatal blow' mark on me, then drag me into Misty Illusion. Everyone who sees this will think I'm dead—or at least, completely incapacitated."
Grindelwald stared at the shadowy humanoid silhouette, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes. " The Misty Illusion... You really can hide there?" Ian smiled slightly, a smile that seemed Outer Gods on his youthful face, "I've said it before, the Misty Illusion is the place I know best. There, no one can find me—not even Voldemort, not even the being behind him."
He withdrew the dark illusion and looked at the two of them again:
" Voldemort's target is Headmaster Dumbledore. His hatred for you is currently his strongest emotion. The moment he sees you 'mortally wounded,' or sees me 'killed,' he won't be able to resist taking action. And at that moment..."
He paused, a cold glint flashing in his eyes:
That's when we'll truly make our move.
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. "The plan is feasible. But there's one problem—the Ministry of Magic must witness it all firsthand. Only then will the news get out and reach Voldemort." Grindelwald smiled, a smile full of confidence, "That's simple. Auror patrol the gates of Azkaban every day. We'll 'make our move' there." Ian nodded, putting away the Parchment: "Then it's settled. But before we act..."
He looked at Dumbledore:
"You should let Mr. Nicolas know you're safe. He's still waiting for news of our return."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then smiled. He stood up, walked to the window, and took out a small, Winky silver Mirror from his pocket—a Two-Way Mirror, his special means of communication with Nicolas Flamel. He tapped the mirror gently, and a few seconds later, Nicolas Flamel's aged and kind face appeared in the Mirror.
" Albus!" Nicolas's voice rang with obvious relief. "You're back? Did it go smoothly?"
Dumbledore smiled and nodded. "Back in, all right. Thank you, Nicolas. We couldn't have done it without your help." Nicolas waved his hand, a smug smile on his face. " Albus. It's only right that I help my apprentice. By the way," he leaned closer to the Mirror and lowered his voice, "How's the boy? Is he alright?" Dumbledore glanced back at Ian, Ian was waving at him. He smiled and said to Nicolas, "He's fine. He just made a pot of spicy blood tofu with dragon's blood, which really gave us two old folks a run for our lives." Nicolas paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. The laughter echoed in the Mirror, filled with satisfaction and pride.
"Good! Good! That's my apprentice! By the way, what does that Dragon Blood Mao Xue Wang taste like?"
Dumbledore, then said seriously, "To be honest, it's quite delicious."
Nicolas laughed even harder. He waved his hand. "Alright, alright, you guys go about your business. I know you have important things to do. Remember, no matter what happens—" He looked at the small figure in the distance in the Mirror:
"Child, your teacher's wife said she'll cook you something delicious next time you come."
Ian smiled, a smile that shone brightly on his youthful face, "Thank you, Madam!"
The image in the Mirror disappeared.
Dumbledore put away the Two-Way Mirror and turned to look at the two. His expression turned serious again, but his deep blue eyes burned with an unprecedented light. "Let's go."
Grindelwald stood up and stretched. He looked at Ian, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes:
"Kid, when you make your move later, don't actually kill me."
Ian blinked, his innocent expression making you want to punch him. "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. After all, you're my professor." Grindelwald snorted and turned his head away, but a smile was clearly on his lips.
The three walked out of the tavern and stood on the quiet Street. The night was deep, there was no moon, only sparse starlight.
Ian pulled a pair of magical shackles from his pocket—shackles that Dumbledore had "borrowed" from the Ministry of Magic, specifically for imprisoning dangerous Wizard. Grindelwald stretched out his hands, allowing Ian to fasten the shackles onto his wrists. The shackles shimmered with a faint silver light and looked indestructible.
Grindelwald looked down at the shackles on his wrists, a hint of amusement flashing in his heterochromatic eyes:
"This thing can lock up Legend?"
Ian smiled slightly, "It can't be locked, but it looks like it is, and that's enough."
Grindelwald nodded and said nothing more.
Dumbledore walked over to the two men and extended his hand. Ian took his hand, and Grindelwald also extended his hand, placing it on Ian's shoulder. The three leaned against each other.
Ian took a deep breath, and Magic Power surged forth.
"Smack!"
With a loud bang, the three figures disappeared into the night.
When they reappeared, they were standing on a dark reef.
The waves roared at my feet, crashing against the rocks and splashing up icy foam. The night wind howled, carrying a biting chill and the salty smell of the sea. In the distance, a black fortress stood atop another, larger reef, battered day and night by the waves, eerie and terrifying. That was Azkaban— the most notorious Wizard prison in the Wizarding World. Several figures patrolled the gates of Azkaban; they were Auror from the Ministry of Magic, responsible for guarding the prisoners on this isolated island. Their wands gleamed faintly as they warily scanned the surrounding darkness. Dumbledore gazed at the black fortress, a complex light flashing in his azure eyes.
Grindelwald looked at it too. Fifty years ago, he had been imprisoned here—no, not here, in another tower. But he would never forget that feeling. Ian released their hands and took a few steps back. He looked at the two old men, a serious light shining in his deep eyes:
"Professors, are you ready?"
Dumbledore deep breath and nodded.
Grindelwald's lips curled up slightly, revealing a complex smile tinged with self-deprecation:
"It's been prepared for a long time."
Ian nodded.
The real show is about to begin.