So, what's the reward? (Seeking reads and votes)

Dumbledore did not speak; he lowered his head and fell into silence.

After pondering for a long while, he finally spoke slowly: "Harry, you are the Savior in every sense of the word. You have courage, and you have determination."

Harry remained silent, his slit-like pupils appearing even more elongated in the dim light.

"There are some things I cannot tell you yet..." Dumbledore paused, his tone as gentle as possible.

Harry interrupted him: "Then there is nothing to discuss, Headmaster Dumbledore. I wish you a good night."

Without a hint of hesitation, he turned to leave.

Just as Harry pushed open the office door and had one foot stepped outside.

Dumbledore called out to him: "Wait."

"Harry, sit back down. Let me think."

Harry did not heed his words, but he did not continue his departure either; he leaned halfway against the doorway, watching Dumbledore from afar.

"I only have a theory. If there is anyone who can truly kill Voldemort, it can only be you." Dumbledore's tone was sincere.

"Rest assured, he will not..."

Harry waved a hand, thoughtful: "Only I can?"

"Is it because of this scar?"

At this, Harry paused, his brows knitting into a tight knot: "No one can survive the Killing Curse, except for me."

"Was it my parents who protected me?"

"Some kind of spell that still has an effect to this day?"

Dumbledore was taken aback, his expression growing more complex.

It reminded him of someone else—someone with eyes just as unusual, and a mind just as sharp.

"Dumbledore." Harry walked back into the room, addressing him without the title of "Headmaster" this time. "If you want me to do something, I can."

"Voldemort is the enemy who killed my kin."

"If I can do something, I am more than willing, but you must tell me the reason. I cannot be kept in the dark, knowing nothing, like a fool or a puppet being manipulated."

"I am not the type of person to be incited or flattered into a hot-headed frenzy."

Dumbledore let out a breath: "Very well. I believe you are ready."

He gestured, and Harry sat down.

"During the period when Voldemort was wreaking havoc," Dumbledore began to recount slowly, "a prophecy emerged: the child born as July dies will become Voldemort's nemesis. Of the two, only one can survive."

As he spoke, he scrutinized Harry carefully, attempting to discern something from his face.

Regardless of how the prophecy might come to pass.

Harry would eventually face Voldemort head-on.

Would he... still have the courage?

Harry turned serious: "Neville was also born at the end of July, one day before me."

Dumbledore's expression softened slightly: "Yes, Neville as well. There were two children of the prophecy, but Voldemort ultimately chose you."

"Your mother used a very ancient spell to protect you."

"Voldemort was struck by the backlash of the curse, and you survived."

Dumbledore paused: "That spell contained the greatest emotional power in the world—love."

"Before your parents died, they poured all of their love into you."

"This power will continue to protect you—though the tangible protection will eventually come to an end."

Harry realized: "So... I am a specialized potion meant for Voldemort?"

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry toyed with his wand: "You have no way to kill him because... your power is insufficient, or is it that even after being killed, he still has the means, or rather the opportunity, to resurrect?"

"The latter," Dumbledore replied softly. "But I am not yet certain what method he used."

He met Harry's gaze and added: "Truly."

Harry fell silent.

It reminded him of a certain monster.

A monster that could also... to a certain extent, return from the dead—the Leshen. It would randomly curse travelers in its territory with dark magic; as long as the cursed person did not leave the territory, it could resurrect no matter how many times it was killed.

"I need you to try and face him," Dumbledore continued, seeing his silence. "This ancient spell has not appeared for a very long time, and I need to know what other effects it might have."

"Whether it is merely to protect you..."

"Or if, like that night, it can strike back against the malice he directs at you."

Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to stop thinking about the Leshen.

The magical systems of the two worlds bore almost no resemblance to one another; the magic Voldemort used to resurrect himself could hardly be the same as that of a Leshen.

He picked up his milk, moistening his slightly parched throat: "What is the probability?"

Dumbledore was taken aback, looking somewhat bewildered: "What?"

"The probability that the ancient spell will be effective." Harry broke the question down, speaking as clearly as possible, "It could also fail, couldn't it?"

"Even though the scar reacted."

"But I am certain that there is no magical aura on me that does not belong to me."

In the Witcher world, Triss had already performed a detailed examination on him; if there had been any, she would have told him long ago.

Dumbledore raised a hand, took off his glasses, and set them aside: "The effect of that spell still exists; it has not failed. At least in terms of magic, you can trust me completely right now."

"Then what about the payment?" Harry weighed it in his mind.

Dumbledore was stunned again, looking puzzled: "Payment?"

Harry was quite righteous: "Of course. You are asking me to take a risk to do such a thing; I cannot possibly get nothing in return."

"The Sorting Hat is already in your hands." Dumbledore spread his hands.

Harry shook his head: "I have the qualifications to undergo the Gryffindor trial. It is only right that it is in my hands."

"What is it that you want?" Dumbledore leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, his expression profound.

Harry pursed his lips.

This was a contract, and a Witcher never took on a task without payment.

But he was not short on Galleons.

Moreover, to ask only for Galleons from the greatest white wizard of the century would be like returning empty-handed from a mountain of treasures.

Spells?

Given his age, he couldn't learn any advanced magic, and besides... a powerful spell couldn't decide everything; what combat required most was a brain.

"Have you decided?" Dumbledore spoke up at the right moment.

Harry shook his head: "No, let me think about it carefully. I will give you an answer before the end of the term."

Seeing Dumbledore about to open his mouth, he immediately added: "It won't be anything too excessive; I know my limits."

Dumbledore nodded and smiled slightly: "Of course, Harry. I trust you."

Harry rubbed his face, finished the remaining milk in his glass, and turned to leave without any hesitation.

Inside the office, there was silence.

Dumbledore sat blankly, holding his glasses, lost in thought.

"Albus, aren't you spoiling him too much?" one of the portraits couldn't help but speak up, "Bargaining with you."

Dumbledore let out a breath, his tone somewhat weary: "I must trust him."

In the Gryffindor common room.

Just as Harry climbed inside.

He was greeted by a deafening cheer.

"The Champion who slaughtered the Troll has returned!" someone shouted, raising their arms.

"Well done!"

George squeezed to Harry's side, skillfully handing him a Butterbeer, "We heard from Ron that you killed a Troll all by yourself."

"That's something many sixth-year wizards haven't even managed to do yet," Fred chimed in.

A sixth-year wizard nearby, who had clearly been dealt a heavy blow, turned red in the face and argued back, struggling and reluctant: "Is it that I can't do it?"

"We change professors every year."

"Having to keep up with their different teaching styles every time is so annoying!"

Harry faked a smile and responded to them one by one.

Suddenly, someone complained with concern: "Potter, I know you're very capable, but you shouldn't take such risks next time."

"Hermione was there," Harry replied.

The person frowned: "Ron said so, but she isn't worth..."

"No, she is worth it," Harry interrupted her, "Hermione is also a Gryffindor, and besides... the reason she was injured and ended up in the Hospital Wing was because she wanted to help me."

Ron blinked his eyes.

He really wanted to ask—Harry, don't you feel guilty saying that?

The person was stunned.

"She is still just an eleven-year-old child; it is normal to be immature, and if she makes a mistake, she should be given a chance to correct it, shouldn't she?" Harry pressed further.

The people around them fell silent.

Harry picked up the Troll's head placed in the center of the table and beckoned to Ron: "Let's go, Ron. Don't you still have something to tell me?"

The two of them walked toward the dormitory.

"Harry, do you know what I saw when I went to find the professors?" As soon as they entered the dormitory, before the door had even closed, Ron shouted impatiently.

"What?"

Ron took a deep breath, his expression serious: "I saw Professor Snape heading toward the fourth floor—you know, the fourth-floor corridor the Headmaster said was off-limits."

Harry rubbed his head: "So, the reason you delayed until I had already killed the Troll before bringing the professors back was because you were tailing Snape?"

Ron froze, his expression sheepish as he ducked his head.

But he quickly poked his head back out, gesturing wildly: "Harry, you should know what this means!"

Harry dug out his trunk and stuffed the Troll's head inside: "What does it mean?"

"The day we first went to see Hagrid." Ron talked excitedly: "He said that on the day Gringotts was robbed, he went to retrieve a package for Headmaster Dumbledore."

"It was something very precious."

"Nothing else was stolen from Gringotts; the criminal's target must have been that item."

"And that item is definitely hidden on the fourth floor."

Harry nodded: "Right, you're very clever, that is indeed the case."

Ron tossed his head triumphantly, looking pleased with himself: "That person must be Snape. I wonder what kind of treasure it is to make him so..."

"It's the Sorcerer's Stone." Harry waved a hand, cutting him off.

Ron blinked, his expression stiffening: "You know about that thing?"

"Dumbledore told me." Harry picked up the Sorting Hat and examined it carefully: "And it isn't Professor Snape trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone; it's Quirrell."

"Quirrell?" Ron exclaimed: "How could it be him?"

"He's so timid and cowardly, it must be that Snape is coercing..."

Harry waved a hand, cutting him off: "No, Professor Snape has nothing to do with it. It's only Quirrell; Headmaster Dumbledore and I have both confirmed it."

Ron looked disappointed and sighed: "Oh, alright. But what is that Sorcerer's Stone?"

"I don't know. Maybe you can go ask Hermione." Harry shook his head. He preferred to read for quality rather than quantity, and he almost never looked at things he couldn't use right now.

Ron's expression was complex.

He clenched his fists and then relaxed them.

Harry didn't continue the conversation with Ron; he didn't mention a single word about his agreement with Dumbledore—this was not something a young wizard should have to bear.

He poked the Sorting Hat: "Speak. Didn't you say you had something to tell me?"

"Bathing is truly a painful affair." The Sorting Hat sighed: "You have no idea how rough this Weasley lad is."

Ron muttered: "You're too dirty."

Harry didn't speak, his gaze sharp.

"Put me on, Harry." The Sorting Hat gave in, whispering: "I can only let you know the news about the trial."

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