Hogwarts: Dumbledore reigned over the wizarding world.

Chapter 243 Dumbledore Returns to Nurmengard

Vaughn knew that Professor Snape must have also discovered the theft of the diary.

Most of them, like him, are wondering who stole it.

After a whole morning of Potions class, the professor's lifeless eyes had glared at every single young wizard.

This unusual occurrence was naturally noticed by the young wizards.

It's no wonder they're sensitive; anyone who sees a giant "bat" staring at them menacingly in the damp, cold air of a basement would feel uneasy and inexplicably nervous.

Especially Ron.

He was on edge all morning, not daring to look up, feeling that the gazes that passed over him were as sharp as knives.

My skin broke out in bumps due to the stress.

Fortunately, Snape did nothing until the end of get out of class; he simply had everyone read their summer homework as usual, and then drifted away.

The moment the classroom door closed, Ron let out a long sigh of relief, feeling drenched in sweat.

"I'm never listening to your nonsense again!" he complained to Harry beside him. "I must have been out of my mind yesterday to let you persuade me to go—I didn't even consider how terrible it would be if he caught me, Harry, did you put a curse on me?"

Harry rolled his eyes at him: "What kind of spell do you think I know that could bewitch you?"

"Yeah, we're both idiots."

Ron nodded with relief, completely disregarding the fact that he had also belittled himself, and simply asked, "I forgot to ask you yesterday, did you finish what you were doing in the office?"

"—" Harry paused, a hint of melancholy and confusion flashing across his face. "It should be finished by now—"

"Hmm? Should?"

"It's nothing—" Harry changed the subject, "You really saw Professor Rozier and—Snape fighting?"

Upon hearing this, Ron, who was not particularly cunning to begin with, immediately became beaming: "Of course, of course! Didn't you notice Snape's hair? I bet he used hair growth serum before coming to class, maybe even the one Vaughn developed. Yesterday I saw Professor Rozier cast a spell, grazing his scalp, and the shaved hair flew everywhere—"

"oh"

Exclamations of surprise rippled through the crowd.

Before he knew it, the lion cubs had gathered around him, staring intently at Ron.

"Keep going, Ron!" Finigan urged loudly.

On the other side, the Slytherin snakes glared at him with hostility, after all, Ron had "slandered" their headmaster, no matter what.

Ron glared back defiantly.

He was never afraid of Slytherin—well, Vaughn was gone sometime ago anyway.

Meanwhile, Malfoy, who had always been the leader of the opposition against him and Harry, for some reason, had become unusually absent-minded since the start of the school year.

It's baffling.

Ron didn't bother to think too much. He was happy that no one was disgusting him. He enjoyed the way his classmates listened attentively. He then exaggerated the scene of the battle that had scared him to death the night before.

In his words, the battle between Professor Rozier and Snape was so fierce that it eclipsed the sun and moon and caused rivers of blood to flow.

When he was in high spirits, he even immersed himself in the battle.

Until a loud thud.

Everyone turned around and saw Hermione plop her book down on the table, hug it to her arms, and look at him expressionlessly: "Is what you said true?"

"Of course!" Ron said smugly, seeing Hermione, who had been giving him the cold shoulder, speak up.

"Not a single lie?"

"Absolutely not, or you can poke my eyes out!"

Ron swore an oath.

Hermione suddenly smiled: "So, last night when everyone else went back to rest, you sneaked out of the tower and wandered around the castle?"

"Yes—hmm?"

Ron realized what was happening, stared in disbelief, and watched blankly as Hermione snorted, tossed her long hair, and walked away.

A moment of silence followed.

Dean Thomas patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. "Ron, there's Transfiguration class this afternoon. Professor McGonagall is usually very attentive to rumors circulating in the school—"

Ron turned pale instantly.

Unlike Ron, who was sitting on pins and needles, Vaughn didn't have to attend Transfiguration classes. Last semester, Professor McGonagall recruited him into her Transfiguration Club and started giving him extra lessons.

After having lunch in the canteen, Vaughn went to the principal's office on the top floor of the castle. To his surprise, the ugly dripping stone statue outside the door had been moved aside.

At the top of the descending spiral stone staircase, the door to the principal's office was ajar, and faint sounds of conversation could be heard coming from inside.

Vaughn went up.

Just as they were about to knock, the door suddenly opened, and Professor Snape stormed out with a gloomy expression.

Upon seeing him, the professor paused, his deep eyes fixed on him.

Vaughn greeted him calmly, "Good afternoon, Professor. Have you eaten?"

The peculiar way he greeted her made Snape's lips twitch. He didn't respond, but remained silent for a moment before suddenly asking, "Were you here last night too?"

"Uh, if you mean a shameless old man who led me to spy on you—yes!"

Upon hearing him call him a "shameless old man," Snape's lips twitched involuntarily, but he quickly suppressed it: "Why didn't you stop them?"

The problem is incomplete and lacks context.

But Vaughn understood. He shrugged. "Unfortunately, Professor, Harry didn't take the diary shortly after you went out—"

"Stealing—is not taking!"

Snape corrected him, drawing out his words.

Vaughn blinked: "————Okay————Harry didn't steal the diary, so I left with the headmaster, and I only sensed its theft this morning."

"Sensory?" Snape caught the word precisely. "You can track it?"

"Yes, Harry lived in the Burrow before school started, and I had many opportunities to access that diary. To ensure Harry's safety, I did something to it."

"ha!"

Snape, his face long, let out a short, emotionless laugh, dripping with sarcasm: "If you really wanted to guarantee safety, shouldn't you be trying to keep Harry away from it?"

Vaughn didn't seem to mind, and smiled gently, "Professor, you did separate the notebook from Harry, but is it safe now?"

"————"

Snape remained silent, his dark eyes reflecting Vaughn's image. After a long while, he slowly asked, "You said you used a little trick. So, can you find it?"

"Sorry, there was a slight mishap," Vaughn said apologetically.

"—Is this what you call security?"

Without waiting for Vaughn's reply, he flicked the hem of his robe and quickly walked past him: "A summer has passed, and you've become a stranger to me—"

After watching his retreating figure for a while, Vaughn shook his head and went into his office.

In the office, where blue fairy flames burned, Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his chin resting on his hands, his azure eyes unfocused.

He seemed to be thinking about something.

"Professor, you still can't accept fate?" Vaughn asked.

Dumbledore snapped out of his reverie and, instead of answering, asked, "And you?"

"Of course I've always believed it."

"Vaughn said."

Dumbledore shook his head slightly: "Yes, you've always believed, but you've never truly understood Him. Your so-called belief is an attempt to comprehend secrets, to decipher principles—a belief that is aggressive, devoid of respect and reverence."

"Isn't that what smart people are like? Or have you, Albus, ever bowed down to fate?"

Faced with Dumbledore's veiled warning, Vaughn responded with a noncommittal question.

""

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then sighed and gave a wry smile: "That's true. I wouldn't have made the same choices when I was young, so I have no right to ask you to."

Gazing at him and listening to the sighs in his words, Vaughn looked for a while, then suddenly tilted his head and interrupted, "If you have something to say, just tell me directly. There's no need to beat around the bush like this."

Dumbledore's rambling came to an abrupt halt.

Behind the lenses reflecting the pale blue light of celestial fire, his eyes, so blue they seemed to glow, stared intently at Vaughn. After a few seconds, a hint of weariness appeared in his eyes: "Don't look for the diary for now, Vaughn—I understand you want to understand and decipher Him, and I've been through what you went through, but now is not the time. Having a Severus who refuses to compromise and always tries to interfere with fate is already enough of a headache for me. If you continue to get involved—"

He rubbed his temples helplessly, looking very troubled.

Vaughn watched his performance quietly and said, "It seems you already know who stole the diary."

"—Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, you've never been a good actor, Albus—oh, aside from pretending to be crazy, sometimes I really can't tell if you're genuinely crazy or just faking it."

[”

After a moment of silence, Dumbledore took off his glasses, waved to the side, and a tray carrying a wine bottle flew over and automatically poured him a glass of wine.

Picking up the cup, Dumbledore's helplessness, sorrow, and inner turmoil seemed to vanish as he removed his glasses. He put on a smile again, offering a half-hearted apology: "Sorry, I'm used to putting on an act in front of Severus. He may seem cold and ruthless, but he can't stand seeing people looking conflicted in front of him. He's a truly gentle person."

He emotionally wiped away non-existent tears from the corner of his eye.

Vaughn pursed his lips, too lazy to pay attention to this drama queen, and asked directly, "Who stole the diary?"

Dumbledore was equally straightforward: "Peeves."

"Can spirits also be affected?"

Peeves is not a ghost, but some kind of elf. It was born at Hogwarts, never had a life, and therefore never died.

Its existence once attracted many wizards to study it, but they never figured it out. They only knew that it had some characteristics of a ghost and was likely a life form that did not belong to reality, born from the strong emotions and memories of young wizards.

Of course, like ghosts, it is not affected by some magic, making it difficult for wizards to continue their research, and ultimately the research was abandoned.

"Of course, even Tom, who is like a shadow, is inevitably caught up in fate, let alone it." Dumbledore took a sip of his drink, seemingly unconcerned.

Vaughn frowned slightly: "What are you planning to do next?"

"Don't worry, my dear," Dumbledore reassured with a smile. "As an elf of Hogwarts, Peeves can't leave here. That poor little fellow, though unruly, isn't bad at heart—just like the mischievous children who brought him into being. He doesn't even know magic and is illiterate. The diary is safe in his hands; it's probably hidden somewhere no one can find it."

is it?

Vaughn scrutinized Dumbledore, as if trying to see into his heart.

But the old wizard may not be a good actor, but he must be a seasoned mute and a master of memory magic.

When he is unwilling to show his emotions, no one can read what he is thinking from his deeply lined face.

All Vaughn knew was that the other party genuinely didn't want him or Snape to continue chasing the diary and interfering with fate!

Sure enough, Dumbledore then said curtly, "Believe me, my dear, as long as the diary hasn't left Hogwarts, everything is still under my control—to be honest, I care more about your and Professor Rosier's teaching plans than Harry's. The construction of the Proving Grounds needs to be accelerated; we can't let Harry delay you."

"Also, there's your international potion exchange project. You said last time you had a plan; are you ready?"

Dumbledore feigned interest, attempting to change the subject.

Vaughn stared at him expressionlessly for a while, but ultimately didn't say anything discouraging. "Isabella and I are just assisting with the construction of the trial grounds. The progress mainly depends on you. I hope you can work harder in the next few days. As for the international potion exchange, if nothing unexpected happens, my paper will be published in the weekend's issue of Extraordinary Potions. The apothecaries will be interested in that paper."

Despite having accomplished little in potions throughout his life and possessing little talent for them, Dumbledore remained intrigued and pressed on, "The paper? Could you elaborate?"

Vaughn glanced at him, then at the corner of the table where Fox had been staring at him longingly ever since he came in, seemingly waiting for him to "reward" him with two bottles of magic potions to satisfy his craving.

She turned her head away, saying coldly and disdainfully, "You wouldn't understand even if I told you!"

Dumbledore: "*—"

More than half an hour later, Vaughn finally left the principal's office.

Dumbledore breathed a sigh of relief as he watched his figure disappear into the distance.

Tired.

He knew perfectly well that Vaughn himself didn't care about the whereabouts of the diary; what the other party was interested in was "fate," not the love-hate relationship between Harry and Tom.

Of course, being fooled by "fate" last night might have left Vaughn in a bad mood.

But Dumbledore knew that Vaughn was not a very emotional person; on the contrary, he possessed a calmness and rationality that most wizards lacked.

As long as Vaughn cannot understand how "fate" influences him through his most familiar means—such as memory magic—he will not act rashly.

-

Vaughn's presence tonight clearly indicates he hasn't grasped the underlying principles; otherwise, he wouldn't have remained completely silent about being...

Things influenced by "fate".

He came to find out if there were any other arrangements.

"A cunning fellow."

Thinking about it, Dumbledore gave a wry smile, but his mood also relaxed a bit.

At least there was one less person causing him trouble. Just as he said to Vaughn, Snape alone was enough of a headache for someone who dared to interfere with fate.

"At my age, why am I always so busy?"

With a sigh, he stood up and extended his hand to Fox: "Fox, let's go!"

Fox let out a rough cry, flew over and grabbed his shoulder, a burst of fire flashed, and the man and the bird disappeared.

Faraway Austria.

It was only early autumn, and the heat of summer still lingered, but Nurmengard Castle, nestled among the mountains, seemed as if the season had never changed, covered in a layer of snow just like at the beginning of the year.

On the other side of the mountain, a firelight flickered in the darkness, and Dumbledore and Fawkes emerged from the flames.

The tranquility of the mountains and forests in the "cold winter" was broken for a moment.

They breathed in the cold mountain air and slowly walked into the castle through the thick snow.

As the creaking sounds from the somewhat decaying doors ceased in an instant, the entire castle, the entire mountain range, and the snowfield marked with footprints seemed to return to the tranquility of a moment ago.

Below the snow line, in a undulating coniferous forest, the evening breeze rustles the branches, the icy air causing the grassy canopy to rustle as snow falls in a soft patter.

Then, a transparent human figure is outlined in the air.

"Damn it!"

The wizard, whose invisibility spell had been broken by being hit by snow, cursed as he tried to shake the snow that had fallen into his collar, while simultaneously breaking the spell to reveal himself.

"Damn Leonid, I told you, staying in this lousy woodland to keep watch was the stupidest thing to do!" He pulled out some ice-cold snow from his collar and cursed at another tree not far away.

As the curses continued, a human figure slowly emerged from the bare ground beneath the tree, which was otherwise empty except for snow. It was a middle-aged wizard wearing a cloak.

He was balding, looked somewhat distressed, and wore glasses.

If it weren't for his wizard-style robes and the wand in his hand, one would almost think he was just an ordinary middle-aged office worker in Muggle society.

He glanced indifferently at his cursing colleague, his voice unremarkable and unremarkable: "So, where do you want to go, Poirot? Guarding the gates of Nurmengard? Don't forget, the higher-ups suspect Grindelwald has regained his spellcasting abilities. You may want to die, but I don't!"

Upon hearing this, the wizard named Poirot, who was still scooping snow, paused for a moment.

He glanced upwards instinctively.

This is a reverse slope, with the mountain arching upwards, forming a cliff-like depression on the other side of the slope, which extends all the way up to a castle that is almost embedded in the mountain.

Poirot had to admit that Leonid's choice to "monitor" Nurmengard from this location was somewhat clever; the reverse slope here conveniently allowed them to observe Nurmengard's front and sides, as well as its only main entrance.

They can also use the terrain to reduce the view from the direction of the castle, thus hiding themselves well.

He stopped complaining and instead observed the castle, which had returned to its deathly silence, for a while: "Why is Dumbledore here?"

"He's the president of the Federation, and also Grindelwald's good friend and old rival. What's so strange about him coming to Nurmengard?" Leonid, also gazing at the castle, said calmly, "Besides, he was the first to discover that Grindelwald was suspicious."

Speaking of this, Poirot looked puzzled. "I've been wanting to ask this for a while now. Is the information from above really correct? If I remember correctly, the Federation confirmed a few years ago that Grindelwald was dying, that his magic was waning to the point where he couldn't even cast a spell—this was a judgment made jointly by several vice-presidents, committee members, and Dumbledore. Why has it changed now? Was the initial judgment wrong?"

Leonid glanced at him: "What have you been doing for the past two months? How long has it been since you last read the Daily Prophet?"

"Uh—" Poirot scratched his face, a little embarrassed, and changed the subject: "What happened?"

Leonid, too lazy to press further, said, "You know Vaughn Weasley and WAC, right? They've been all over the newspapers these past few days, haven't they?"

"Of course!" Poirot nodded.

How could I not know?

The werewolf parade at WAC has been making headlines recently.

Not only the English wizarding community is paying close attention, but the whole of Europe is also quite concerned. This is because this is the first time in nearly a thousand years that the death of a werewolf has caused such a big "political and civil rights storm".

Yes, in the eyes of many, the werewolves' march was not just a simple march, but a political upheaval, a harbinger of a shake-up of the power base.

A very simple fact: before this, would the death of the werewolf have caused such a huge uproar?

of course not!

Before this year, werewolves were not even as highly regarded by wizards as some of the rarer magical creatures.

If a unicorn dies, the Magical Creatures Protection Society will immediately urge the local Ministry of Magic to investigate.

If a dragon that is outside the "legal hunting" range dies, not only will the Ministry of Magic investigate, but the International Federation will also be alerted.

As for werewolves—no one cares about their fate.

In the eyes of many wizards, they are the source of plague, dangerous elements who should only hide in the deep mountains and forests and never come into contact with human society.

Like rats in Muggle society.

Who would care if a rat died?

But now, this situation has arisen.

The werewolves' procession in England made it crystal clear to all of Europe that an intelligent race beyond wizards and fairies was rising alongside Vaughn Weasley and the WAC.

For many people, this is a pretty bad thing.

Because anyone with a modicum of knowledge understands that the total amount of resources in the world is fixed. When an intelligent race that was originally far removed from the civilized world attempts to return to civilization, it is a serious problem.

The first problem they bring is—the right to survive under the existing order!

Or rather, the right to allocate resources for survival!

This kind of "plundering" has no concept of good or evil, and it can't even be called subjective. Rather, it is the instinct of a group of living beings, an objective fact that cannot be avoided no matter what.

This "plundering" undoubtedly provoked the purebloods.

The right to life is the bottom line for many pure-bloods. In order to monopolize magic, they may have cooperated with the Muggles they despised in the Middle Ages to launch a witch hunt.

Alternatively, more than three hundred years ago, the Secret Service Act was forcibly implemented, completely separating the wizarding world from Muggles.

Whether it's promoting the evils of wizards, inciting conflict and hatred between wizards and Muggles, or pushing for the de-Muggleization of the entire wizarding world under the guise of secrecy and protection, the fundamental reason is that they don't want the wizarding world to expand endlessly.

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