Eleven years had passed. Dumbledore had experienced countless deaths and partings during the last century, and although he could handle sorrow and nostalgia calmly, he was still moved by the thought of the young mother who had blessed her child with her life.
Dumbledore finished recounting the events of the past and paused to drink his hot beverage, allowing Melvin and himself to sort out their thoughts. Then he secretly observed the young professor sitting across from him, wondering how he would avoid Melvin's questions about Voldemort's Horcruxes and ancient magic. He might tell a Scottish joke, or perhaps a wizard's joke from New York...
Unfortunately, Melvin asked no questions. He simply drank his tea, quietly absorbing his thoughts like Dumbledore.
I am 111 years old. I am not sure how much time I have left, let alone how many times Voldemort might resurrect. Last time we barely defeated him, at a high cost. This time, with much effort, we might still overcome him. And the future? — Dumbledore asked softly.
The old headmaster's expression was so calm it didn't seem as if he was speaking of his own lifespan, but Melvin detected a subtle tinge of worry in his voice. It was not about himself, but about Voldemort's thorny Horcruxes.
As President of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief of the Wizengamot, his achievements rivaled those of the Founders, but even a legendary wizard was still just a wizard. Dumbledore was not omniscient, and though he cared little for his own life or death, he firmly believed that Voldemort's resurrection would be thwarted. Yet he still worried that he might not be able to destroy Voldemort completely, and that he would lurk in ghostly form, reviving within a decade—or even decades.
"The future needs young wizards like you to shape it."Dumbledore looked at the ring on his finger, then shifted his gaze and solemnly observed the young wizard sitting before him. "I also need your help, Melvin."
"That sounds like a lot of trouble."
"..."
Hearing his agreement, Dumbledore smiled kindly and returned to the topic of Voldemort: "According to my original plan, Professor Quirrell will take action at the end of this term and give Harry an introductory lesson on the Dark Lord."
"Professor Quirrell is diligent,"Melvin nodded.
Professor Quirrell was devoted to his duties, pouring all his energy into the great cause of education. To shape outstanding students, he was willing to burn himself to ashes.
Dumbledore also approved of the professor he had hired, though he had a small complaint about the course schedule. Voldemort was inhabiting Quirrell, constantly draining his vitality. Quirrell's claim of being gravely ill on Christmas Eve was not entirely false. The body had already begun to decay, and with tonight's use of magic, the situation would only worsen. Death had found this master and servant. Before, they could lie dormant and wait for the right time, but after tonight, their patience might wither along with their flesh. Harry and the others needed to hasten the process.
Melvin shook his head, warning: "Not necessarily."
Dumbledore looked at him in confusion.
Drawing on a distant memory deep within his soul, Melvin reminded him: "Voldemort and Quirrell are hiding, fearing the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in the castle. As long as you, Headmaster, remain at the school, they can only keep waiting for the opportune moment. Before, they used herbs to stave off death's avalanche, but now that the situation has worsened, they should resort to stronger potions."
There were only a few potions in the entire wizarding world that could stave off death's onslaught—and one of them was right in the Forbidden Forest.
Dumbledore frowned slightly, then suddenly realized what was happening. He murmured: "Unicorn blood."
When Hagrid awoke, his head hurt a little and he was still groggy. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the long sleep. Struggling upright, he grabbed his canteen and drank half a jug of cold water. He felt fully awake, and the headache eased considerably.
He threw off the blankets and got out of bed to see Fang sprawled beside him. A pot of broth still sat half full on the table.
Hagrid was stunned for a moment. "Did you do this?"
Then, realizing he was lost, he covered his head and began recalling the events of the previous night.
He had left The Three Broomsticks and invited them for another drink at the Hog's Head... Dumbledore and Flitwick declined, so Melvin and the handyman accompanied him to the bar... He ordered three bottles of firewhisky, and the two sat down to chat about the tavern's mirror...
He had gone to the restroom, and his memory blurred.
"Did one bottle of wine get me drunk?"
Hagrid couldn't accept it. He smacked his head and tried to recall, but all he could remember were the names of several dragons and the image of a dragon spewing flames.
"What kind of dragon breathes that silvery white flame?"
The more he thought, the more puzzled he became, and the more puzzled he was, the more his head ached. Hagrid racked his brains but could only deduce that Professor Lewyn had brought him back. He didn't know the rest.
"Woof, woof!"
Fang circled at his feet, tugging at his trouser leg as he approached the table, reminding him of the half pot of broth.
Hagrid rubbed his head with a smile. "You're right, breakfast first."
Ten minutes later, Fang watched the half-giant slurp his broth and sighed in satisfaction. Then he looked at the plate of boiled meat in front of him and stayed silent for a long while. That was clearly his dog food...
Hagrid was full and burped, his stomach warm.
He thought Professor Lewyn was a pure-blood wizard, but he was surprisingly kind, and his broth was delicious. Someday he would invite him for a drink...
On the third night after Christmas, a small quarrel broke out in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory.
...
At nightfall, Harry donned his Invisibility Cloak, left his dormitory, crossed the common room, and slipped out of the portrait hole.
"Naughty boy! Who on earth are you?" demanded the Fat Lady, angry. She had been disturbed three consecutive nights, and although the headmaster had warned her, she still had to scold him.
...
Soon, Harry reached the abandoned classroom and stood before the Mirror of Erised.
"Mom... Dad..."
Harry stared at the mirror obsessively, caressing it and sitting on the floor. He wanted to stay there all night.
"Here again, Harry?"
Headmaster Dumbledore!
...
In an abandoned classroom of the castle, the kind headmaster began a session of psychological counseling for the new student.
Eight hundred kilometers away, in London, Melvin crossed Charing Cross Road, pushed the revolving door of an old pub, and stepped inside.
The pub buzzed with activity... The old Tom idled behind the counter, chatting with some wizards.
Hearing the bronze bell chime behind the door, old Tom glanced up. Seeing the visitor, his eyes lit up, and he smiled broadly...
"Professor Lewynter!" exclaimed old Tom, quickly leaving the counter and leading him upstairs.
...
He complained about the rise of Quidditch viewings at The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, mentioning the famous match where Harry Potter caught the Golden Snitch against Slytherin.
...
Soon after, Wright and Borgin entered, carrying butterbeer. Borgin explained that many wizards, impressed by the Shadow Mirrors, could only find them at Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley.
"How many people want to buy it?" asked Melvin, delighted.
His lead on the Magical Court was resolved.
(end of chapter )
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