I, Hogwarts Second Time Around.

Chapter 552 About Dumbledore

(This chapter has been revised)

Harry's scar burned and ached for several days.

Every night he had to use all his strength to restrain himself from groaning loudly.

He knew that the only reason his forehead was throbbing again was because that person was angry.

In fact, during the few sleeps he had in the past few days, he kept dreaming about that person.

He saw that the man was angry.

They were holding a thin, haggard old man, dressed in rags.

"You told me that this wouldn't happen if I used someone else's wand."

"But clearly—you deceived me, you deceived Lord Voldemort."

"No—no!"

Voldemort tossed the man to the ground like trash. Then he cruelly cast the Cruciatus Curse on him.

The old man lay on the stone ground, letting out a terrible, long scream, his voice filled with unbearable pain.

"No—no—I beg you—have mercy—have mercy."

"You will no longer receive Lord Voldemort's grace, Ollivander! I will slowly tear your soul from your body and throw it into the black flames to burn for a hundred years!"

"No—" Ollivander wailed, "I didn't, I swear I didn't—"

"You want to help Potter! You want to prevent Potter from dying at my hands!"

"I swear I didn't—I thought changing my wand would work—"

"Then explain this matter. Why is this crystal wand still connected to Potter?"

"I—I don't understand, that connection—only exists—between your two wands—"

"lie!"

"Please—I beg you—"

Harry saw the white hand raise the wand, felt Voldemort's raging fury, and saw the frail old man writhing in agony on the ground—

The torment lasted for several days.

After an unknown period of time, the coldness and pain became bearable habits, and together with the shackles, they pieced together a chapter called life.

In August, the summer sun poured down on the ancient castle ruins, dispelling the lingering chill.

Harry, however, never truly grasped the historical glory emanating from the castles around him. Earlier, he had wondered what the castle the Queen had gifted to Granger would look like.

Like Hogwarts? Or Buckingham Palace?

Or perhaps Rozier Estate?

He had only been to these places, and his impression of castles was even less than that of ordinary Muggles, who at least could see many silent medieval castles in magazines and on television.

He had hoped for it—but now, with Dumbledore's passing, that curiosity and wonder have vanished.

All that remained was the endless darkness, the incessant rage and groans from the other half of the soul.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"Harry—Harry—Harry!"

It felt like someone was calling out to me in a dream.

Gradually, the voice became clearer and clearer.

Finally, standing in front of the glassless window of the castle, Harry, feeling the cold wind blowing, came to his senses.

He rubbed his forehead; the pain had lessened considerably compared to a week ago.

Now, there is only a slight sting and a long, lifeless silence.

"Harry, go back inside," Hermione said softly, stepping forward. "You're not still thinking about leaving, are you?"

"Are you alright—" the little witch leaned closer, scrutinizing Harry's face. "Your complexion is horribly pale!"

"I'm fine," Harry said, his voice trembling. "I probably look better than Ollivander."

In the past few days, he has told everyone else about all the memories he has seen of Voldemort.

"Harry, stop contacting Vader," Hermione said sternly. "You need to practice your Occlumency more. You've only grasped the basics of the spell, but you're not proficient yet."

"These days, the Mystic has taken over the Ministry of Magic, the newspapers, Hogwarts, and most of the wizarding world. His servants are everywhere in Europe, Africa, and the Americas. Don't let him take over your mind any further."

Harry did not answer.

He felt lost.

Over the past few days, most members of the Order of the Phoenix have come here, but they don't stay long before leaving.

Everyone's face was etched with deep sorrow.

However, there was some good news—at least the people they knew were still alive—temporarily.

He and Hermione went back up the old stone staircase to the upper floor.

The castle was severely damp, and the ground floor was uninhabitable.

In a large room with a well-preserved fireplace (which they used as their living room), the group of young wizards were all staying.

Ron, Ginny, Koyatl, and Irving.

No one speaks.

The fireplace was lit to dry the room and dispel the cold.

Sunlight streamed through the broken window frames, casting dappled patterns on the decaying wooden floor, creating a tapestry of light and shadow that spoke of a desolate wasteland where grief was left undone.

The lime on the walls of the room has peeled off severely, exposing the rough stones underneath. These stones are uneven due to the erosion of time, and there are moldy patches in the corners of the walls due to the constant dampness.

In front of them were a long wooden table and chairs, just ordinary tables and chairs, but in this environment, they seemed desolate.

There were many newspapers on the table.

Magical newspapers from all sorts of sources.

They were all collected by Dobby.

The one directly above is naturally the Daily Prophet.

Everyone present read it several times.

The news of Dumbledore's death has caused a huge uproar in the wizarding world these past few days.

Even if Voldemort controlled the Ministry of Magic and the newspapers, he could not stop such news from spreading, nor could he stop people from remembering Dumbledore (secretly).

Because Dumbledore, aside from his external conflicts, made unparalleled contributions to the wizarding world, both in wars and academic endeavors, including his tenure as headmaster of Hogwarts—although some pure-blood wizards felt that Dumbledore was solely responsible for the chaos and disorder at Hogwarts, such people were always in the minority. Most wizards genuinely admired him.

Harry sat in the chair, gazing out the window.

He couldn't help but keep thinking about Dumbledore being alive, couldn't help but think about how that traitor Snape would choose to betray them. He couldn't help but wonder what would happen to them in the future.

It's like a person has lost their backbone, and suddenly loses their direction for the future.

Even though a week has passed, this feeling has not dissipated.

The room was quiet. They had been mostly silent these past few days, only becoming slightly more lively when Sirius or Lupin came to visit.

But during this turbulent time, the Order of the Phoenix was in a state of flux, and Sirius and his friends didn't have much time to spend with them.

Harry reached out and picked up today's Daily Prophet from the table. Everyone else had seen it, but he hadn't.

He only glanced at the headlines before he knew that the Ministry of Magic had put pressure on the Daily Prophet, because there was no news about Voldemort in the paper.

The most important one after that was the tenth edition, which was an obituary.

Written by Ephias Dorji.

Suddenly—Harry remembered that Owen had said at the wedding that Aphias Doge was going to write an obituary for Dumbledore—he thought Owen was joking—did Dumbledore know he was going to die back then?

Harry frowned slightly and glanced at Owen.

Was Dumbledore's death part of a plan?

In the past, he would have immediately asked. But now, he didn't press the matter. If Dumbledore wasn't telling him, there must be a deeper meaning. If this plan was to deal with Voldemort, then the fewer people who knew, the better. This was to prevent the information from leaking out.

Unconsciously, Harry began to look at the problem from a holistic perspective.

With that thought in mind, Harry continued reading.

—In memory of Albus Dumbledore.

I met Albus Dumbledore on the Hogwarts Train the day I entered Hogwarts; I was eleven years old at the time.

We were all freshmen that year, and our friendship was established the moment we entered the same private room.

The reason we are attracted to each other is undoubtedly because we both feel like outsiders.

I contracted pox shortly before starting school. Although it was no longer contagious, my face was covered in pimples and my skin turned bluish, so not many people wanted to be near me.

Albus, on the other hand, came to Hogwarts under the pressure of a bad reputation.

Less than a year ago, his father, Percival, brutally attacked three young Muggles, an incident that caused a great uproar. Albus never tried to deny that his father (who was imprisoned for life in Azkaban) had committed the crime. Instead, when I mustered the courage to ask him, he made it clear to me that he knew his father was guilty.

Besides, Dumbledore refused to talk about this sad matter, even though many people tried to get information out of him.

Some even praised his father's actions with relish and concluded that Albus was also a Muggle-hating person. But they were sorely mistaken. Anyone who knew Albus can attest that he never showed the slightest anti-Muggle inclination. In fact, his later staunch defense of Muggle rights earned him many enemies.

A few months after enrolling, Albus's reputation began to surpass that of his father.

By the end of his first year, he was no longer seen as the son of a Muggle-hating individual, but as the brightest student the school had ever seen.

We are fortunate to be his friends, and we have benefited greatly from taking him as our role model, not to mention that he always generously gives us help and encouragement.

Years later, he confessed to me that he knew back then that his greatest joy was teaching.

He not only won various important awards from the school, but also quickly established frequent correspondence with the most famous magic masters of the time, including the famous alchemist Nicolas Flamel, the well-known historian Bathilda Baghatt, and the magic theorist Adbe Wolflin.

Several of his papers have been published in academic journals such as Transfiguration Today, Spell Innovation, and Potions Master.

Dumbledore was a huge success at Hogwarts, becoming more famous than all the professors even before graduating. His future seemed bright, the only question being when he would become Minister for Magic. In the years that followed, although many predicted he would take on the position, he never harbored any ambition to become Minister.

Three years after we enrolled, Albus's younger brother, Aberforth, also arrived at Hogwarts. The two brothers were quite different; Aberforth never liked reading, and he preferred dueling to resolving problems through rational negotiation, which was unlike Albus.

However, some say the two brothers don't get along.

This is also not true. Although they have very different personalities, they get along quite well.

To be fair to Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in his shadow was not a particularly comfortable thing. As his friend, being constantly overshadowed by him was truly demoralizing; as his brother, it certainly wasn't much more pleasant.

After Albus and I left Hogwarts, we planned to travel the world together, following the tradition of the time, to visit and observe wizards abroad, and then pursue our own careers.

However, tragedy struck.

The day before we set off, Albus's mother, Candra, passed away, and Albus became the head of the family and the pillar of the household.

I postponed my departure to attend Candela's funeral, and then embarked on a solitary journey alone.

Albus has to take care of his two young siblings, and his family is struggling financially, so he can't travel with me.

That period is the time we have the least contact with in our lives.

I wrote to Albus, describing the strange sights I had on my journey, from escaping the Chimera in Greece to witnessing the experiments of Egyptian alchemists, and so on.

Perhaps I am being inconsiderate, because his letters rarely mention his daily life.

I imagine that must have been incredibly boring and frustrating for such a brilliant wizard.

I was engrossed in my travels when, as my year-long journey drew to a close, tragedy struck Dumbledore's family once again; his sister Ariana died.

I was shocked to hear this. Although Ariana had been frail and sickly for a long time, her two brothers were still reeling from the blow of their mother's death.

All those close to Albus, including myself, agree that Ariana's death, and Albus's sense of responsibility for it (though he was not actually guilty), cast a shadow over him for the rest of his life.

When I returned to China, I saw a young man experiencing the suffering of an elderly person that was disproportionate to his age.

Albus was more taciturn than before, and his mood was much heavier.

What pained him even more was that Ariana's death did not bring Albus and Aberforth closer; instead, it distanced them. (This estrangement gradually improved, and they later re-established a relationship, which, while not intimate, was undoubtedly friendly.)

Since then, Albus has rarely spoken of his parents and Ariana, and his friends have also avoided talking about them.

In the years that followed, his remarkable achievements would be described by others.

Dumbledore's immense contributions to the treasure trove of magical knowledge, including the discovery of twelve uses for dragon's blood, and the wisdom he displayed in many judgments during his tenure as Chief Wizard of Wizengamor, will benefit future generations.

People also say that no wizarding duel can compare to the contest between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945.

(End of this chapter)