The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 602, Section 611: That Deceptive Game 4

The two stood in the small town for a moment.

"Are you hungry?" Grindelwald suddenly asked.

Ian glanced at him.

"A little."

Even though he wasn't hungry, he knew how to answer; after all, he has high emotional intelligence.

Upon hearing this, Grindelwald turned around and walked towards the end of the main street.

"Let's go, I know a place."

The "place" he was referring to was a small café next to a church. It had a small storefront with only a few tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths, and each table had a small bottle of dried flowers on it.

Several freshly baked egg tarts and croissants were displayed in the window, their golden crusts gleaming enticingly in the sunlight. A blackboard by the door displayed today's recommendations in chalk: French onion soup, Niçoise salad, and beef stew in red wine.

A middle-aged woman in a white apron came out and greeted Grindelwald with a warm smile. "Sir, you're here again! Same spot as always?"

Grindelwald nodded without speaking. The middle-aged woman led them to a table by the window, a good spot with a view of the entire church square, of the people coming and going, and of the children playing in the morning light.

"The egg tarts are great today, fresh out of the oven," the middle-aged woman said as she poured water. "And the croissants, also just baked this morning."

Grindelwald glanced at Ian. Ian nodded. Grindelwald said to the middle-aged woman, "Two egg tarts, two croissants, a cup of black coffee, and a cup of hot chocolate."

The middle-aged woman smiled, wrote it down, and turned to leave.

Ian leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window. The church spires gleamed golden in the morning light, and children chased and played in the square, their laughter ringing out. An old man sat on a bench, a newspaper in his hand, a peaceful smile on his face. Everything was so calm, so harmonious, as if last night's battle were just a distant, unreal dream.

"I didn't expect you to like staying in a place like this," Ian said, his voice calm and composed.

Grindelwald did not answer immediately. He looked out the window at the people coming and going, his heterochromatic eyes swirling with complex emotions.

"Aurora grew up here." His voice was hoarse but calm.

Ian paused, taken aback. "Aurora?"

Grindelwald offered no explanation. He simply continued to look out the window, at the children playing in the morning light, at the old man sitting on the bench reading the newspaper, at the ordinary, happy people coming and going.

"Her mother is the baker here." His voice was soft and calm, as if he were telling a story unrelated to himself.

The story goes that "her father was the church organist. She was born here, grew up here, and learned to walk, talk, read, and write here. She loved feeding pigeons in the church square, catching fish in the river in the summer, and building snowmen in the winter."

He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile appearing on his lips.

"She was an ordinary child. Very ordinary, very ordinary."

Ian looked at him, his deep eyes swirling with complex emotions. He didn't speak, but listened quietly.

A middle-aged woman walked over carrying a tray and placed egg tarts, croissants, black coffee, and hot chocolate on the table. The egg tarts had golden crusts sprinkled with powdered sugar, which glittered in the sunlight; the croissants were crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, exuding a rich buttery aroma; the black coffee was steaming, with a bitter taste and a hint of caramel; and the hot chocolate was topped with a few marshmallows, looking warm and sweet.

"Enjoy your meal," the middle-aged woman said with a smile as she left.

Grindelwald picked up his black coffee and took a small sip. The bitter taste spread across his tongue, overlapping with a fragment of his memory. He was silent for a few seconds, then put down the cup, picked up a croissant, broke it open, and put it in his mouth.

Ian didn't eat right away. He just looked at Grindelwald, at his aged, wrinkled face, and at the unspeakable emotions churning in his heterochromatic eyes.

"So," Ian began, his voice soft, "the one using this body now is that professor I know?"

Grindelwald paused. He looked up at Ian, a complex light flickering in his heterochromatic eyes. Then he smiled. The smile appeared exceptionally gentle and serene on his aged face.

"There aren't many prophets like me." His voice was hoarse but composed. "It's a talent, a skill passed down from our ancestors."

He didn't elaborate. He simply broke off another croissant, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly, as if savoring something, or perhaps just enjoying this rare, peaceful morning.

Ian looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he also picked up an egg tart and took a bite. The egg tart was sweet and fragrant, with a crispy crust and a soft, chewy filling, carrying a hint of cinnamon.

He ate slowly, looking out the window at the children playing in the morning light, at the old man sitting on the bench reading the newspaper, and at the ordinary, happy people coming and going.

Ian ultimately didn't ask.

He just kept eating his egg tarts, kept looking out the window, kept watching those ordinary, happy people who had no idea what had happened the night before.

Grindelwald picked up his black coffee and took another sip.

The bitter taste spread across his tongue, overlapping with a fragment of his memory. He looked out the window, at the children playing in the morning light, at the old man sitting on the bench reading the newspaper, at the ordinary, happy people coming and going.

Complex emotions surged within those heterochromatic eyes.

He didn't speak.

Ian didn't say anything either.

The two of them simply sat there quietly, eating breakfast, looking out the window, and waiting.

Waiting for the person who is meant to come.

The egg tarts were finished, and so were the croissants. Half of the hot chocolate was gone; the marshmallows had long since melted in the warm liquid, leaving only a faint sweetness on the tongue. Grindelwald's black coffee was also finished; only a thin, brownish residue remained at the bottom of the cup, gleaming in the sunlight.

Ian leaned back in his chair, hands in his pockets, gazing out the window. The sun was high in the sky, casting a bright, warm glow on the church steeple. The square was more crowded; several elderly people chatted by a bench, canes in hand, peaceful smiles on their faces. A few young women pushed strollers past, the babies inside babbling and waving their tiny hands. The woman with the brown dog had returned; the dog still wagged its tail, sniffing around with curiosity.

Everything was peaceful, harmonious, and beautiful. No one remembered what happened last night, no one knew about those eerie lights, and no one remembered the twisted monster. They simply continued their lives, their daily routines, and those ordinary, repetitive, yet incredibly precious little things.

Grindelwald picked up the empty glass, stared at the brown stain at the bottom, and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he put the glass down, looked up, and gazed at Ian.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice was hoarse but calm.

Ian didn't answer immediately. He continued looking out the window, watching the people coming and going, watching the children playing in the morning light. After a few seconds, he spoke, his voice very soft.

"I think they're really lucky."

Grindelwald didn't ask why. He knew what Ian meant. Those Muggles were lucky because they didn't remember.

They didn't remember the eerie lights, the twisted monster, or the terrifying images that kept them awake all night. They only remembered it was an ordinary, peaceful, and beautiful morning. And that was enough.

"Yes," Grindelwald said softly, "they're lucky."

A middle-aged woman walked over and cleared the empty plates and glasses from the table. She glanced at Grindelwald's empty glass and asked with a smile, "Another one?"

Grindelwald shook his head. The middle-aged woman then looked at Ian, who also shook his head. She smiled, cleared away the dishes, and turned to leave.

Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window. Sunlight streamed onto his aged face, deepening the wrinkles and highlighting the marks of time. His expression was calm, but his heterochromatic eyes held a complex mix of emotions.

Time flowed by quietly.

After an unknown amount of time, Grindelwald stood up.

"Let's go," he said.

Ian stood up and followed him out of the café. Sunlight bathed them, warm and bright. Pigeons paced the square, searching for breadcrumbs. Children chased and played, their laughter clear and loud. Everything was so peaceful, so beautiful, as if last night's battle were just a distant, unreal dream.

They walked past the church, past the cemetery, past the gray stone house. No one noticed them, no one saw them; the Muggles simply continued with their daily lives as if nothing had happened.

On the hill, the morning wind howled, rustling the withered grass. Ian stood at the highest point of the hill, gazing into the distance. Grindelwald stood beside him.

They were also gazing into the distance.

The two of them are now lying in wait here, waiting for their prey to come to them.

Waiting for Voldemort to return.

In southern France, an ancient stone house is hidden deep in the lavender fields of Provence.

This place belongs to no map, to no one’s memory; only those who are invited can find it.

The stone house's exterior walls were covered with vines, the windows had faded shutters, and some of the roof tiles had fallen off, revealing the black waterproof layer underneath.

This place looks no different from the ordinary farmhouses around it, but if anyone tries to get close, they will find that no matter how far they go, the stone house is always in the distance and can never be reached.

This is Nicolas Flamel's safe house, one of the secrets he accumulated over six hundred years of life. There are no complex defensive magics here, no fancy, dazzling protective spells. Only one kind of magic has been forgotten.

This stone house has been forgotten by the world, forgotten by time, forgotten by fate itself. No one will come looking for it, because no one remembers its existence.

Alchemists are often quite powerful.

The interior of the stone house appeared much more spacious than the exterior. The first floor housed a living room and kitchen; the furniture was old but clean. The fire in the fireplace was still burning, illuminating the entire room warmly and brightly. Several yellowed oil paintings hung on the walls, their faces appearing and disappearing in the firelight, as if gazing at something.

In the corner were some seemingly useless trinkets—rusty gears, a broken crystal ball, and yellowed parchment scrolls.

There were also some strangely shaped things that I couldn't name.

Nicolas Flamel sat in a rocking chair in front of the fireplace, a blanket over his legs, and a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

His hair and beard were snow-white, each strand like the finest silver thread; his face was covered with wrinkles, as if dried up.

The riverbed: His body was thin and hunched, and he looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

But his eyes—those were blue, clear as a baby's, and shone with a light beyond his years.

Dumbledore sat on the sofa opposite him, also holding a cup of tea. He wasn't wearing his signature purple robe, but rather a plain gray loungewear coat. His silver-white hair was neatly combed, and his beard was trimmed. He looked much younger and more relaxed than he had at Hogwarts.

"So," Le Maire began, his voice hoarse but calm, "you're just going to dump this mess on those two kids and come here for tea?"

Dumbledore smiled slightly, a smile that seemed particularly gentle on his aged face. "They are not children, Nico."

At least, that guy named Ian wasn't.

Lemaître gave a soft hum, offering no rebuttal. He looked down at the teacup in his hand, remained silent for a few seconds, and then spoke: "Are you sure he's reliable?"

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. "Unsure."

His voice was calm and composed, "But he is our only hope."

Flamel looked up at Dumbledore, his clear blue eyes swirling with complex emotions. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only sighed softly.

"You're always like this, Albus. Always placing your hopes on others."

Dumbledore didn't answer, but simply picked up his teacup and took a small sip. The tea was hot and fragrant, with a hint of honey sweetness. It was tea leaves grown by Flamel himself, ripened with magic and dried by moonlight; each leaf contained a faint magical power. Drinking it warmed him completely, as if enveloped and protected by something.

"This tea is good," said Dumbledore.

Lemaître glanced at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Six hundred years of craftsmanship, of course it's excellent."

He put down his teacup, stood up from the rocking chair, and walked to the pile of clutter in the corner. He squatted down and rummaged through it, pulling out a rusty iron box. He opened it, revealing some seemingly useless fragments—shards of glass, fragments of metal,

There were also some strangely shaped things that I couldn't name.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, handing the metal box to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore took the pieces and looked down at them. He stared at them for a long time, then shook his head.

"have no idea."

Dumbledore answered honestly that although he was also highly skilled in alchemy, he was clearly no match for the old man in front of him, after all, the other party was the most powerful alchemist in the world.

The bizarre and varied labor often even surpasses that of Muggles.