When Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, it was almost dawn.
He didn't go through the main entrance, nor any well-known passageway, but instead emerged directly from the fireplace in the Headmaster's Office, propelled by Floo Powder. The green flames engulfed his figure, then expelled him from the fireplace on this side, accompanied by a faint, sigh-like whistling sound. "I need to add a bet to Tom."
Dumbledore stood before the desk piled high with silverware and ancient books, his robes still stained with the silvery powder of Floo Powder, shimmering faintly in the morning light. Fawkes stood on a golden perch by the door, his golden feathers glowing warmly in the Embers of the fireplace.
It tilted its head, its black eyes looking at Dumbledore.
Then, a clear, bell-like cry rang out. The sound wasn't loud, but it echoed in the quiet Headmaster's Office, carrying an indescribable warm and peaceful power. "It's nothing."
Dumbledore looked at it, a faint, weary smile playing on his lips.
"I'm back."
He spoke softly, his voice hoarse and calm.
Fawkes cried out again, then spread its wings, flew from the perch, and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder. It gently nuzzled his cheek with its head. The movement was light and tender, with the warmth of an old friend reunited. Dumbledore raised his hand and gently stroked its feathers. "Alright, alright, don't be so clingy," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'm fine, just a little tired." Fawkes didn't leave, but continued to nuzzle his cheek, making low, cooing sounds.
Outside the window, the sky gradually brightened. The outline of Hogwarts Tower appeared in the morning light, and the ancient stone walls were bathed in a warm, soft gold. The lake shimmered, and a few Owl Accio from afar, landing on the windowsill of the Astronomy Tower, tilting their heads and gazing at this familiar, tranquil scene.
Dumbledore walked to the window, gazing at the familiar land he had protected for decades. His expression was calm, but complex emotions churned in his deep blue eyes. He didn't know how much longer he could protect it this time.
A knock sounded on the door, very soft and urgent, with a cautious, tentative tone.
"Come in," Dumbledore said, his voice still hoarse, but more composed than before.
The door opened, Minerva McGonagall walked in. Her hair was neatly combed, and her green robe was without a single wrinkle, making her look serious and capable. However, her face was somewhat pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were clearly visible, indicating that she hadn't had a proper rest in a long time.
Albus.
She spoke, her voice carrying an undisguised urgency.
"You're finally back." It could be said that during Dumbledore's disappearance, the entire Hogwarts was in chaos, just like the Wizarding World. Dumbledore turned around, looked at Professor McGonagall, and smiled slightly.
"I'm sorry to have worried you, Minerva."
He responded politely.
McGonagall shook her head, walked to her desk, and glanced at Dumbledore, as if to confirm that he was truly unharmed. She saw his pale face, his weariness, and the dust and wrinkles on his robes that he hadn't had time to clean. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
"What about the other professors?" Dumbledore asked.
"They're all waiting downstairs," McGonagall said. "Everyone's been up since we heard you were injured."
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. "Let them come up."
McGonagall nodded and turned to leave the office. A few minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Professor Flitwick was the first to enter; he was short, but his steps were quick, and his face was etched with anxiety and worry. Professor Sprout followed behind him, her apron still covered in dirt.
They clearly came directly from the greenhouse.
The other professors entered one after another, each wearing the same expression—worry, anxiety, and a hint of barely concealed fear. Dumbledore looked at them, his deep blue eyes swirling with complex emotions. He remained silent for a few seconds, then spoke, his voice hoarse but calm. "I'm fine."
Professor Flitwick breathed a sigh of relief, a look of relief flashing in his large eyes. " Merlin, thank goodness, Albus, you scared us to death. The rumors were flying everywhere. Some said you were critically injured, some said you were ambushed by Grindelwald, and some even said you were already..."
He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone knew what he wanted to say.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Some of those reports are true, and some are false."
The atmosphere in the office froze instantly.
McGonagall's brow furrowed even more. "What do you mean?"
Dumbledore walked to the window, his back to them, gazing at the gradually brightening sky outside. His figure appeared exceptionally old and weary in the morning light. "I am indeed wounded," he said softly and calmly, as if recounting a story unrelated to himself. "A very serious wound. Fiendfyre, the Fiendfyre of Grindelwald. It has eroded my Magic Power, damaged my veins, and even touched my soul."
He paused, turned around, and looked at the professors whose faces were deathly pale.
"Now, I have completely lost my Magic Power."
Dead silence.
The office was deathly silent; even breathing seemed to have stopped. Professor Flitwick's face turned ashen, his large eyes filled with disbelief. Professor Sprout covered his mouth, tears welling in his eyes. The other professors exchanged bewildered glances, their faces etched with fear and despair.
McGonagall was the first to react. Her voice was hoarse and trembling. "You... what did you say?"
Dumbledore looked at her, his deep blue eyes devoid of emotion. "I said, I have completely lost my Magic Power. Now I am just an ordinary old man, devoid of any power." He paused, a faint, bitter smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps, not even as good as an ordinary old man." McGonagall's body trembled slightly, her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms until they bled. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but found herself unable to utter a sound. "But no one knows," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and composed, "No one knows except you. The outside world is still spreading news of my 'serious injury,' but no one knows that I have 'lost my Magic Power.' This is our only chance."
Professor Flitwick's voice trembled. "What opportunity?"
Dumbledore looked at him, an indescribable light gleaming in his deep blue eyes. "An opportunity to intimidate Voldemort." He walked back to his desk, sat down, and placed his hands clasped on it. His movements were slow and steady, but everyone could see that his hands were trembling slightly. " Voldemort is afraid of me." His voice was calm and composed. "He's been afraid of me his whole life. Even now that he's Legend, even with the power of Deep Space, he's still afraid of me. Because he's unsure how many trump cards I still have. He's unsure how much power I still possess."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.
"So we must keep him afraid. We must make him believe that I am only 'severely injured,' not 'have lost my Magic Power.' We must make him believe that I could recover at any time, could appear before him at any time, and could deliver a fatal blow at any time."
McGonagall's voice was hoarse and deep. "How long can this last?"
Dumbledore silent for a few seconds. "I don't know. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe months. But no matter how long it takes, we need this time. This time is enough for Ian and Grindelwald to prepare, enough for Voldemort to reveal a weakness, enough for us to find an opportunity to counterattack."
The atmosphere in the office remained heavy, but the fear on the professors' faces began to fade, replaced by something more complex—hope, or rather, a yearning for hope. Professor Sprout wiped away his tears, took a deep breath, and asked in a hoarse but firm voice, "What should we do?"
Dumbledore looked at her, a faint, somewhat relieved smile playing on his lips.
"Continue your work. Teach, nurture, protect your students. Keep Hogwarts running smoothly, and make sure no one outside notices anything amiss. Leave the rest to me." He paused, his voice growing even deeper.
"Also, this matter must not be known to anyone. Not the other professors, not the students, not even the Ministry of Magic. The fewer people who know, the safer it is." The professors nodded in agreement; no one raised any objections. They knew Dumbledore was right. Indeed, the fewer people who knew, the safer it was. McGonagall was the last to leave. She reached the door, stopped, and didn't look back.
" Albus." Her voice was very soft.
"Um?"
"You really... have no Magic Power left at all?"
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. "Yes."
McGonagall's shoulders trembled slightly. She didn't say anything more, pushed open the door, and walked out.
The office door closed behind her, shutting out all sound. Dumbledore sat alone at his desk, watching the silverware gleam in the morning light, watching Fawkes preen his feathers on the perch, and watching the sky outside the window gradually brighten.
He raised his hand, looking at his old, wrinkled hand. That hand had once cast countless powerful spells, defeated Grindelwald, and protected the Wizarding World for decades. Now, it was just an ordinary old man's hand, devoid of any power.
He sighed softly and lowered his hand.
" Fawkes," he said softly.
Fawkes looked up, his dark eyes meeting his.
"Keep an eye on things," Dumbledore said. "If anyone gets close, let me know."
Fawkes let out a low cry, then spread its wings, flew from the perch, and landed on the windowsill. It tilted its head, looking out the window, its golden feathers gleaming warmly in the morning light. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
He was tired. Not physically tired, but emotionally tired. Decades of guarding, decades of fighting, decades of loneliness—he was exhausted. But he couldn't fall. Because there were still people waiting for him, still people relying on him, still people believing in him.
He could only keep going.
In the corridors of Hogwarts, news travels like wildfire, faster than Owl.
"I heard Professor Dumbledore is back."
"Really? Wasn't he seriously injured?"
"He's back, but he still seems very weak. Professor McGonagall's face is pale."
" Merlin, what will we do if Professor Dumbledore is no longer able to help us?"
Whispers filled every classroom, every corridor, and every corner. Students whispered among themselves, their faces etched with fear and unease. The professors Hard Work to maintain order, but their expressions were equally grim, their eyes revealing barely concealed anxiety.
No one knew the truth. No one knew that Dumbledore had lost all his Magic Power. All they knew was that Dumbledore had returned, but he was weak, tired, and old. This once invincible, greatest white Wizard in the Wizarding World now looked no different from an ordinary, frail old man.
Amidst these whispers, one voice stood out, unusually low and cautious.
"Are you sure?" a boy leaned against a pillar in the corridor, his voice low. His face was pale, his eyes filled with tension and excitement. Another boy nodded, also in a low voice. "Sure. I heard it with my own ears. Professor McGonagall said that Professor Dumbledore is very weak now, he even needs help to walk." "And what about his Magic Power?"
"I don't know. But Professor McGonagall said he needs to 'rest' for a long time. 'Rest'—you know what I mean? When does a Wizard need to 'rest'? Only when his Magic Power..." He didn't finish, but both of them understood.
There was a few seconds of silence.
"We have to tell the owner," the first boy said.
The second boy nodded. "Tonight. Owl."
That night, an Owl flew out of the Owlery at Hogwarts, through the night, through the clouds, and into the distance.
A very thin silver letter tube, which could only be opened by secret means, was tied to its leg. Inside the letter tube was a neatly folded Parchment. There were only a few lines of text on the Parchment, but each word was enough to shake the Wizarding World.
" Dumbledore to Hogwarts. Severely injured, weak, and possibly losing his Magic Power. He needs a long period of 'rest.'" The message was brief but incredibly valuable. The Owl carried it away.
The Owl flew for a long time, over fields, over rivers, over mountains, and finally landed on the windowsill of a manor hidden in the mist. A pale hand reached out from the window, took down the letter tube, and unfolded the Parchment.
The hand had long fingers, sharp nails, and skin covered with fine, dark scales.
Voldemort stared at those lines of text, his three scarlet eyes swirling with complex emotions.
He remained silent for a long time.
Then he smiled.
That smile looked particularly ferocious and dangerous on his distorted, inhuman face.
Dumbledore...
His voice was soft and husky.
"You finally couldn't hold on any longer."
Voldemort was in a really great mood.
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the night outside. Tentacles emerged from his body, swaying gently in the darkness like celebratory flags.