The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 605, Section 614: That Deceptive Game 7

When Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, it was almost dawn.

He didn't go through the main entrance, nor through any well-known passageway, but instead came out directly from the fireplace in the principal's office through Floo Powder.

The green flames engulfed his figure, then expelled him from the fireplace on this side, accompanied by a faint, sigh-like sound of wind.

"I need to add some bets to Tom's chances."

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.

Fox stood on a golden perch by the door, his golden feathers gleaming warmly in the embers of the fireplace.

It tilted its head, its black eyes looking at Dumbledore.

Then, it let out a clear, bell-like cry. The sound wasn't loud, but it echoed in the quiet principal'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 up from the perch, and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder. It gently nuzzled his cheek with its head.

The movement was light and gentle, carrying the warmth of an old friend reuniting. Dumbledore raised his hand and gently stroked its feathers.

"Alright, alright, you don't have to be so clingy." He said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I'm fine, just a little tired right now."

Fox didn't leave, but continued to rub against his cheek, making low, cooing noises.

Outside the window, the sky gradually brightened. The outline of Hogwarts' towers appeared in the morning light, the ancient stone walls bathed in a warm, soft gold. The lake shimmered, and a few owls flew in from afar, landing on the windowsill of the Astronomy Tower, tilting their heads as they gazed at this familiar, tranquil scene.

Dumbledore walked to the window and looked at the familiar land he had protected for decades. His expression was calm, but his deep blue eyes were churning with complex emotions.

He didn't know how long he could protect them this time.

The knocking sounded, 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, and Minerva McGonagall walked in. Her hair was neatly combed, and her green robe was without a single wrinkle, giving her a serious and capable appearance. 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 tinged with barely concealed 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, the weariness in his eyes, 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 all night ever 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 stained with dirt.

They clearly came directly from the greenhouse.

Several other professors also walked in one after another, each with the same expression on their face—worry, anxiety, and a hint of barely concealed fear.

Dumbledore looked at them, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his deep blue eyes. He remained silent for a few seconds before speaking, his voice hoarse yet 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 seriously injured and dying, some said you were ambushed by Grindelwald, and some said you were already..." He didn't finish his sentence, but everyone knew what he was about 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, and looked at the sky gradually brightening outside. His figure appeared exceptionally old and weary in the morning light.

"I am indeed injured." His voice was soft and calm, as if he were telling a story unrelated to himself. "A very serious injury. Fiendfire, the Fiendfire from Grindelwald. It has eroded my magic, damaged my meridians, and even touched my soul."

He paused, turned around, and looked at the professors whose faces were pale.

"Now, I have completely lost my magic."

Dead silence.

A deathly silence fell over the office; 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 any emotion. "I said, my magic has been completely lost. Now I am just an ordinary old man without any power."

He paused, a faint, bittersweet smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps, even ordinary..."

Even worse than an old person.

McGonagall's body trembled slightly, her hands clenched into fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but found herself unable to utter a sound.

"But nobody knows," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and composed. "Nobody knows except you. The outside world is still spreading news of my 'serious injury,' but nobody knows that I've 'lost my magic.' This is our only chance."

Professor Flitwick's voice trembled: "What opportunity?"

Dumbledore looked at him, a strange light flickering in his deep blue eyes. "An opportunity to intimidate Voldemort."

He walked back to his desk, sat down, and placed his hands clasped on the table. His movements were slow and steady, but everyone could see that his hands were trembling slightly.

"Voldemort feared me." His voice was calm and composed. "He feared me his entire life. Even now that he's a legend, even with the power of deep space, he still fears 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 merely severely injured, not that I have lost my magic. We must make him believe that I could recover at any moment, could appear before him at any moment, and could deliver a fatal blow at any moment."

McGonagall's voice was hoarse and low: "How long can this last?"

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. "I don't know. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks, maybe a few 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, and 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 longing 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 gratified smile playing on his lips.

"Continue your work. Teach, nurture, and protect your students. Keep Hogwarts running smoothly and ensure no one outside notices anything amiss. Leave the rest to me."

He paused, his voice becoming even lower.

"Also, this matter must not be known to anyone. Not other professors, not 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 about this, the safer it was.

McGonagall was the last to leave. She stopped at the door without looking back.

"Albus." Her voice was very soft.

"Um?"

"You really—have you lost all your magic?"

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

McGonagall's shoulders trembled slightly. She didn't say anything more, pushed open the door, and went 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 magical world for decades. Now, it was just an ordinary old man's hand, devoid of any power.

He sighed softly and lowered his hand.

"Fox," he said softly.

Fox looked up, his dark eyes meeting his.

"Keep an eye on things for me," Dumbledore said. "If anyone gets close, let me know."

Fox let out a low cry, then spread its wings, flew up 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 solitude—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 an owl.

"I heard Professor Dumbledore has returned."

"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 hallway, every corner. Students whispered among themselves, their faces etched with fear and unease. The professors struggled to maintain order, but their expressions were equally grim, their eyes betraying a shared sense of unease.

His anxiety was hard to conceal.

No one knew the truth. No one knew that Dumbledore had lost all his magic. 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.

Among these whispers, one voice stood out, unusually low and cautious.

"Are you sure?" a boy asked in a low voice, leaning against a pillar in the corridor. His face was pale, and his eyes were filled with tension and excitement.

The other boy nodded, also lowering his voice. "I'm sure. I heard it with my own ears. Professor McGonagall said that Professor Dumbledore is very weak now and needs help to walk."

"And what about his magic?"

"I don't know. But Professor McGonagall said he needs to rest" for a long time. "Rest"

Do you understand? When does a wizard need to "rest"? Only when his magic—"

He didn't finish his sentence, but both of them understood.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"We have to tell the master," the first boy said.

The second boy nodded. "Tonight. The owl."

That night, an owl flew out of the Owl House 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.

The parchment contained only a few lines of text, but each word was enough to shake the magical world.

"Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts. Severely injured. Weak. Magic may be lost. Needs a long period of 'rest'." The information is very brief but extremely valuable.

then.

The owl carried the message 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 was 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.