The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 555, page 564: Ian the Great Demon God 2

The light outside the window is getting brighter; a new day is about to begin.

But for the magical world, this dawn may be even darker than the night that has just passed.

Dumbledore remained seated, eyes downcast, motionless. His profile appeared exceptionally aged, exceptionally weary, and exceptionally...lonely in the morning light.

No one knows what he's thinking.

Is he recalling the mad Death Eater's dying laughter?

Is it because they are worried about the unknown variables brought about by that young man named Ian?

Is he contemplating how to deal with Voldemort, who has broken through the legend and gained bizarre powers?

still is……

I wasn't thinking about anything; I just let that heavy, indescribable weight press down on my heart.

As the morning light crept into the office, it illuminated the portraits of past Ministers of Magic on the walls. The figures in the portraits silently observed this scene, equally silent.

After a long while, Dumbledore slowly stood up. His movements were somewhat stiff, as if all the exhaustion from that night had finally come over him. "Fudge, that boy is not an enemy," he said, his voice hoarse but still steady. "I'm going back now. You can contact me anytime regarding further matters."

Fudge didn't open his eyes, only nodded slightly. Dumbledore turned and walked towards the door. His steps were slow, yet resolute. He paused at the door, his back to Fudge, and spoke softly.

"Voldemort will come back."

He paused, then added:

"But we will be prepared."

After saying that, he pushed open the door and went out.

In the office, only Fudge remained, along with the ever-brightening morning light and the unspeakable weight pressing down on everyone's hearts. By the time Dumbledore stepped out of the Ministry of Magic, it was fully light.

At the underground entrance to Westminster, the morning sun streamed through the glass disguised as ordinary shop windows, casting warm dappled patterns on the ground. Several early-rising wizards hurried past him, nodding respectfully, but Dumbledore merely nodded slightly, his steps unwavering.

His mind was still replaying the long interrogation, the questioning voices, the terrified faces, and the last piece of parchment from the Department of Mysteries: "Higher than legendary, impossible to measure precisely."

That boy.

Ian Prince.

That name, and that young, serene face, were etched into his mind like a brand. Who exactly was he? Where did he come from? Why did he possess such terrifying power? And Grindelwald… what secrets did that title, "Professor," hold?

Dumbledore knew he had to find them.

Not as the headmaster of Hogwarts, not as the chief wizard of Wizengamot, but as... an old man seeking the truth.

He walked through the dilapidated phone booth at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic and into Diagon Alley in the early morning.

The mornings in Diagon Alley have a completely different atmosphere from the nights. Shops are just opening, shopkeepers yawning as they unpack their doors, the owls at the Owl Post Office begin their busy day, and a few early-rising wizards are queuing outside Flourish and Blotts bookstores, waiting to buy the latest editions of spellbooks. The air is filled with the mingled aromas of fresh parchment, potion ingredients, and freshly baked bread.

Dumbledore stopped at a fork in the road. There was a small breakfast stall there—or rather, a magically modified cart filled with all sorts of steaming food: golden-brown, crispy pumpkin pies, freshly baked buttered bread, steaming oatmeal, and cups of bubbling hot pumpkin juice.

The stall owner was a short, plump witch, wearing an apron covered in flour, busy attending to customers. Seeing Dumbledore approach, she paused for a moment, then her face lit up with a wide smile: "By Merlin! Professor Dumbledore! I never expected to see you at my stall!" Dumbledore smiled gently: "Good morning, Mrs. Molly. The aroma from your stall is so enticing, it's tempting me to have my breakfast." Mrs. Molly—yes, this stall owner was indeed Molly Prewitt, the Molly Prewitt before she married Arthur Weasley—smiled even more brightly. She deftly wrapped two freshly baked pumpkin pies in parchment paper, poured a cup of hot pumpkin juice, and handed them to Dumbledore: "Here, Professor! It's on me! I heard about last night, though I don't know the specifics, but you must be exhausted! Have something hot to replenish your energy!"

Dumbledore didn't refuse, took the breakfast, and pulled a few silver shicos from his pocket, placing them on the stall: "I appreciate the kindness, Mrs. Molly. But business is business."

Before Mrs. Molly could refuse, he had already turned and left, taking a bite of the pumpkin pie as he walked away. The piping hot pie was crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, with a sweet but not cloying pumpkin filling and a hint of cinnamon aroma, which was indeed very soothing to a tired body and soul.

Mrs. Molly called out from behind him, "Professor! Come again next time!"

Dumbledore didn't turn around, but simply raised his hand in acknowledgment.

He ate his pie as he walked into a quiet alley. The alley was deserted, except for a few cats dozing on the walls. He finished the pie in a few bites, then drank the pumpkin juice, and casually used magic to turn the trash into a wisp of smoke.

Then, he drew the Elder Wand, closed his eyes, and began to sense.

It wasn't ordinary magical tracking—that would be meaningless to someone like Ian. He was sensing something more subtle, an almost intuitive "connection" that only a prophet or seer could grasp.

The complex and profound connection between him and Grindelwald.

That connection, spanning nearly a century of grudges, love and hate, conflict and entanglement, had long transcended ordinary magical bonds, becoming something deeply rooted in the soul. No matter where Grindelwald was, no matter how he hid, Dumbledore could always find a faint, elusive pull if he so desired.

Sure enough, he felt it a few seconds later.

That direction... is London's West End. Some quiet, unassuming place.

Dumbledore opened his eyes and gently waved the Elder Wand.

"Snapped!"

His figure disappeared into the alley.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, on a desolate island far from all shipping routes and shrouded in thick fog year-round.

Voldemort knelt on the black reef.

He has been here for several hours.

After Apparating away from the ruins of London, he did not return to any Death Eater lairs or contact any of his men. Instead, he traveled thousands of miles back to the isolated island where he had taken the crystal and broken through to Legendary status.

This was his final refuge, and the source of his power.

However, at this moment, he knelt on the reef like a dying man, his hands covering his head, his body trembling violently, and he kept uttering incoherent, incomprehensible babbling:

"Impossible...impossible...how could this be..."

Deep within his consciousness, an unspeakable storm was raging.

Dumbledore.

That damn old man!

In that mental duel, Voldemort believed he had the absolute upper hand—his magic was stronger, his will was more resolute, and his understanding of darkness was deeper. He was absolutely certain that if he held on for just a few more minutes, he could completely crush Dumbledore's mental defenses and turn this old adversary who had troubled him for decades into an idiot.

However, at the very last moment when he was about to succeed...

Dumbledore's mental strength suddenly changed.

It was no longer a gentle, tentative infiltration, but rather like an incredibly sharp and precise needle, piercing deep into the most vulnerable and hidden crack in his consciousness.

That crack was left when he broke through to the legendary level.

By forcibly breaking through with crystals and accepting the gift of the deep space echo, he gained unparalleled power, but it also caused his soul to experience an extremely brief, almost imperceptible "imbalance" at that moment. That imbalance lasted only a fraction of a second, but Dumbledore seized the opportunity.

That "needle" is stuck right there.

It caused no real harm and left no visible trace, but it was like a seed, a seed imbued with Dumbledore's will and some kind of special magic, buried deep within his soul.

Voldemort didn't know what the seed would do. He didn't know if it would sprout, grow, or one day suddenly unleash a power he couldn't control. He only knew it was there, like a thorn, like an eye, like a wound that would never heal. And the most terrifying thing was...

He couldn't find it, couldn't touch it, and couldn't remove it.

It was so subtle, almost fused with his soul. Every time he tried to sense its presence with his spiritual power, it would vanish; every time he relaxed his guard, it would reappear, like a ghost that was forever mocking him.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

Voldemort suddenly raised his head and roared angrily at the sky. His voice tore through the sea breeze, startling a flock of seabirds perched on the rocks.

"Dumbledore! You old bastard! I'm already a legend! I'm stronger than you! Why! Why can you still find my weakness! Why can you still hurt me!"

No one answered him.

Only the sound of waves crashing against the rocks never ceases, like an eternal mockery.

He knelt there, panting, trembling, his facial muscles contorted with anger and humiliation. For the first time, a third emotion appeared in those crimson eyes—an emotion beyond confidence and madness.

fear.

Fear of Dumbledore, fear of an enemy that can never be truly defeated.

Just then

"..."

A faint, low-frequency humming sound, directly affecting the soul, resounded in his mind.

Voldemort suddenly raised his head and looked up at the sky.

The sky was gray and hazy, thick fog shrouded everything, obscuring the clouds, the sun, and anything else.

But he knew where the sound came from.

He closed his eyes, letting the buzzing sound engulf him.

Then, he "heard" it.

The whisper from deep space rang out once more.

"You...are embarrassed..."

The voice had no specific language, no specific tone, yet Voldemort could clearly "understand" what it wanted to express. It was a transmission of information that acted directly on the soul, transcending language.

"You...are afraid of...that being...weaker than you..."

"I didn't!" Voldemort retorted almost instinctively, his voice hoarse and frantic, "I just...I just..."

"You're just... not strong enough."

The voice interrupted him, cold and ruthless.

"You accepted...our gift...and became...a being beyond the mortal realm...but your heart...still remains...within that lowly...fearful...human shell..."

Voldemort's body trembled violently.

"Look at yourself...you possess...the power to change reality...yet you're still afraid of...a tiny thorn...how ridiculous..."

"What am I supposed to do?!" Voldemort roared. "Tell me! What am I supposed to do?!"

silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Then, the voice rang out again, this time carrying an indescribable allure and anticipation:

"Give up...that...fragile...human body..."

"Embrace...the true...existence..."

"Let our...power...completely permeate...every cell...every drop of blood...every wisp of spirit..."

"At that time... you will no longer be... that fearsome... Voldemort..."

"But...one of us..."

Voldemort's eyes flashed violently.

Abandon the human body?

To become...one of them?

What does that mean?

he does not know.

But he knew he had had enough of this humiliation, enough of being suppressed by Dumbledore, and enough of every time he thought he was strong enough, only to find that there was an even stronger being standing in his way.

He wants to be stronger.

He was so strong that no one could hurt him.

He was so powerful that Dumbledore could only kneel down and beg for mercy in his presence.

So powerful that even that damned "Raven" boy could only tremble at his feet.

"Okay..." he murmured, his voice growing more resolute and frantic, "Okay! I promise! Come! Let me become one of you! Let me gain true power!"

The moment the words fell

The world changed color!

The previously hazy sky suddenly turned pitch black. No, not ordinary darkness, but an absolute darkness, like the void of the universe, capable of swallowing all light. The thick fog swirled wildly, forming a gigantic vortex, and at its center, countless shimmering, incomprehensible stars could be vaguely seen.

The waves began to roar, no longer ordinary waves, but as if controlled by some force, they surged up to tens of meters high, only to freeze just before crashing into the island, forming black walls of water that emitted an eerie light.

And Voldemort's body

It begins to twist.

First, the skin.

His skin, which had been as pale as paper, began to ripple and surge like water. It wasn't just ordinary trembling; it was as if something was writhing, struggling, and trying to break free beneath his skin. The ripples grew more and more intense, more and more frantic, and sometimes one could even see some slender, tentacle-like outlines tracing patterns beneath his skin, leaving behind eerie raised marks.

Then comes the muscle.

His body, already weakened by the Horcrux, began to expand, contract, and expand again, like clay being repeatedly kneaded by an invisible force. Muscle fibers throbbed wildly beneath his skin, bones creaked with a teeth-grinding sound, and his entire physique began to... no longer resemble a human.