I, Hogwarts Second Time Around.

Chapter 570 The Heroic Spirits—A Second Encounter with Dumbledore

The personality and memories captured in a portrait need to be constantly infused by the wizard. A portrait painted by a wizard in his youth can remain in sync with the person as long as new magic is continuously infused into it.

This lack can only be explained by the fact that the wizard never again infused the portrait with magic.

The most likely cause for this is the death of the wizard.

"Death," Principal Dexter's words echoed in the empty hall, carrying an indescribable solemnity and sorrow, "is both the end and the test for those wizards who embark on the journey to the Tower of Gods. Every step they take treads on the edge of life and death, building a defense line with their flesh and blood to stop the rampant expansion of darkness."

Regulus, that brave child, was one of them.

Irving listened quietly, his eyes flashing with complex emotions, but not fear. Years of growth and experience had already taught him the courage to face the unknown.

Moreover, not all the wizards who entered the Tower of Divine Gifts lost their lives; at least her mother came out alive.

"Sir," he said slowly, "Has Headmaster Dumbledore been here before?"

"Hmm—you guessed it?" Headmaster Dexter said. "He's come three times. Twice he came with a wizard named Grindelwald."

"Grindelwald? My grandfather too," Irving repeated the name softly, a strange emotion welling up inside him.

He never told himself that.

"The headmaster of Hogwarts has fulfilled his responsibility. Just as you first came here—his promise—that my students will not embark on that absurd fate alone before I fall."

Irving took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil in his heart.

"Well then, it's my turn now," he said.

"I'm ready."

"Be prepared to live, or to die."

The hall was deathly silent, as if time itself had frozen at that moment.

Principal Dexter gazed silently at Owen, his weathered eyes, seemingly able to see into the annals of history, now glistening with tears. These tears were not only for the young man about to embark on an unknown journey, but also for the deep remembrance of the countless heroic sacrifices of the past.

A complex mix of emotions surged within him. Those young wizards who had once shone brightly before him, possessing limitless potential, were like the brightest stars in the night sky, throwing themselves headlong into the torrent against the darkness.

Some transformed into dazzling fireworks, illuminating the sky; others, like faint flames, stubbornly flickered despite the wind and rain, though their light was no longer dazzling and even teetering on the brink of extinction in the endless darkness.

He had long ago figured out why Lady Hufflepuff had entrusted him with the task of having a Hufflepuff wizard reside there before her death.

Watching young lives go to their deaths. To go into the unknown darkness to save the world, year after year, until the end of time—this is not glory, but torture.

Only the gentle Hufflepuffs could have endured this long without going mad.

Only Hufflepuff would foolishly maintain their original intentions, even after going through many trials and tribulations.

Badgers are stronger than lions, snakes, and eagles.

"I wish you good health," Principal Dexter finally said, his voice trembling slightly.

Then, the sapphire-like ground beneath Irving's feet seemed to be stirred by some force, like ink painting.

The light flowed and converged delicately like water, eventually weaving into a dazzling galaxy that stretched across the sky, as if pouring out all the mysteries of time and space, as if the secrets of the entire universe were gathered here, ready to be revealed to him.

The Milky Way shone even brighter, and the twinkling stars, like countless eyes, gently and mysteriously enveloped Irving in the night sky.

Suddenly, he felt an irresistible force rising from the soles of his feet, as if he were being pulled by an invisible vortex, and his body involuntarily sank downwards.

At that moment, he felt as if he had crossed the boundaries of time and space and fallen into the abyss of another dimension—a lonely, dark, and profound world, like an unknown realm hidden beneath a black lake.

When Irving opened his eyes again, the scene before him was completely different.

Everything around him was no longer the familiar sight he knew.

Irving slowly stood up. The sand beneath his feet was soft and cool, seeping into his heart through his shoes. The air around him was filled with a faint, indescribable scent, neither the salty dampness of the sea breeze nor the dust of the land, but a strange aroma that blended antiquity and decay.

He looked around and realized that he seemed to be on a small island.

The island is very small, much smaller than Black Lake.

Outside, it was pitch black, like ink or smoke.

There should have been a grand building on the island, but now it's just ruins.

Moreover, it seems that a fierce battle took place here, as the ruins are covered with scars.

Just as he was lost in thought, a faint gust of wind broke the silence of the night, bringing a distant whisper, the sound sometimes near, sometimes far, like a ghost murmuring in his ear.

Irving walked involuntarily toward the direction from which the sound came, crossed a patch of ruins, and arrived at a relatively intact set of stone steps.

The stone steps led to the highest point of the ruins, and each step felt exceptionally heavy. As he ascended, the whispering voice grew clearer until he stood atop the ruins, where a breathtaking view unfolded before him—in the center of a wide-open space stood a half-ruined stone tablet, inscribed with ancient runes, shimmering with a faint blue light, like the brightest star in the night sky.

Irving approached the stone tablet, reached out and gently touched the runes. A warm and powerful force instantly surged into his body, followed by a series of fragments of memories that came flooding in like a tide.

He saw many illusory figures.

He can name many of them.

Dean Bridged, Chronos Stewart, and the sixteen-year-old young Weasley heir, Galahad Weasley.

There were many more figures whose names he couldn't recall.

These people all possessed ancient magic, regardless of how they acquired it—whether through inheritance, magical artifacts, or other means. And they all rested here in peace.

These memories are a brief summary of their lives.

It was full of sacrifice.

Irving didn't have time to process anything more.

Because the malice from the darkness has already surged forth.

"call--"

With a soft sigh from Owen, the Phoenix Crystal Wand appeared out of thin air in his palm, as if responding to some kind of summons, radiating a faint, warm light.

He lowered his head, his other hand gently resting on his furrowed brow, trying to sort out the jumbled memories that came rushing in.

These memories came flooding back like a tide, mixed with fragments of the past, unsolved mysteries, and deep-seated emotions, causing his heart to churn and making it difficult for him to find peace.

His heart finally calmed down when he saw the countless wands lying beside the half-ruined stone tablet at his feet.

"Origin and Flow: The Starfall of Creation".

"Illusory Body Spell".

"Origin and Flow: The Starfall of Creation".

Two Irvings suddenly appeared on the ruins.

They all held their wands high.

I coldly gaze into the boundless darkness.

A sudden gust of wind swept through this strange place. Perhaps it was because the Phoenix Wand had unleashed too many galaxies, compressing the sky and affecting the air pressure.

The wind, carrying the long-silent dust of the ruins, weaved through the mottled engravings on the stone tablets, blowing through Owen's snow-white long hair, and seemed to stir the remaining thoughts and dreams of countless talented and ambitious people over the centuries.

In the dim light, Irving seemed to hear the whispers of the surrounding starlight.

He heard a familiar voice.

"You can't help them."

Owen turned his head sharply, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing in surprise. Albus Dumbledore had suddenly appeared beside him.

The old headmaster stood upright, wearing a flowing dark blue robe.

"Professor?" Owen's voice was tinged with confusion and bewilderment. He wanted to say something, but was momentarily speechless. The scene before him was so shocking that he almost forgot how to organize his thoughts.

But then his gaze went past Dumbledore's shoulder and landed on the half-destroyed stone tablet.

The stone tablet was emitting a soft, milky-white light, like the gentlest moonlight in the night sky. Orbs of light kept leaping out of it, then coalescing in the air into specific human figures—familiar faces from his memory, ancient heroes who sacrificed themselves here to resist the spread of darkness. Among them were successors and powerful wizards; each name was worthy of being engraved on the monument of history.

"I didn't intend to help them." Owen withdrew his gaze, glanced at the heroic souls rushing into the darkness like sparks, and said calmly.

"I just..."

"I feel a little resentful. I feel a little pained, like it's all not worth it," Dumbledore said calmly.

He reached out his illusory hand and gently patted Owen's head.

"Irving".

"Do you know why Professor Quirrell couldn't stand Harry touching him?" Dumbledore suddenly changed the subject, posing a seemingly unrelated question.

Before Owen could answer, he continued, "Because of his mother, Lily Potter, she sacrificed herself because her love was stronger than Voldemort's."

"You've known this principle from the beginning."

Dumbledore looked at him. "Child, do you really understand?"

Irving remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ancient spirits that traversed between the ruins and the darkness, battling the malice of the darkness.

The monstrous forms, the abominations beyond his imagination, were disappearing one by one.

Above the sky, Irving's Starfall spell continued, with starlight raining down on this forgotten land.

That was a galaxy created by his magic.

However, at this moment, Irving felt an unprecedented surge of emotion.

He suddenly realized that the heroes, shining with milky white light beneath the starry sky, seemed even brighter than the empty Milky Way.

"Why did they show up?" Owen finally spoke, breaking the silence, his voice filled with urgency and longing.

Why did you appear?

"Is this just my imagination?"

Instead of answering Dumbledore's question directly, he threw out all the doubts in his heart in one breath.

"This is certainly not a fantasy," Dumbledore said gently.

"Because those who love us never truly leave us. You will always find them."

"As for why I'm here," the old headmaster said, then looked around, "Hey, I was just about to ask you that. Why do you think we're here?"

Hearing this, Owen frowned, and after thinking for a moment, said, "Because of ancient magic? The ancient magic left behind by the brave souls who died here was activated by me? The specific reason is probably still related to the principle of causality. Your appearance here is also because some of your magic was left behind. I heard from Principal Dexter that you came here three times, more than any of the previous successors. Although you left this place alive, you left behind magic?"

"When did you become so boring, like an old man?" Dumbledore suddenly asked. "Remember your age, you're only seventeen years and two months old, son."

Irving remained silent.

A moment later, he raised his head again. "You're here, they're here. Because—of love. The heroes who save the world love everyone in this world. I needed them, so they appeared?"

Upon hearing Owen's answer, Dumbledore's smile widened. "A good answer."

"Remember, child—be full of love for the stardust."

Only by doing so can one reach the other side of the stars.

Never repeat the same mistake.

"What do you mean?" Owen frowned; he hated that Dumbledore had treated him the way he had treated Harry the Riddler.

I hate riddle tellers the most.

"You'll understand, but not now. I've entrusted the most important thing to others."

"..." Owen rolled his eyes at his headmaster. Before Dumbledore could become even more irritating, he asked again, "About Grandpa, about the Elder Wand and Harry. You..."

"Oh—the Deathly Hallows." Dumbledore's expression changed slightly when he mentioned the name, and Owen was pleased to see the smile on his face disappear.

"Yes." The old headmaster's expression was calm yet full of sadness.

"The sacred relic, the sacred relic! The fool's bait. I used it as bait, hiding what was truly important."

And Gale."

"My child. We're all getting old," Dumbledore said, taking a deep breath. "He agrees. We've all made our own choices."

"So he'll lose his life?"

"I didn't originally choose him."

"You originally chose Snape," Owen blurted out.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, surprised that the child before him knew these things.

He had no way of answering the question.

Because someone always has to make a sacrifice.

There will always be someone whose soul sinks into the abyss.

"After that, will it be my turn?"

"To die the right way?" the boy said sternly.

(End of this chapter)