The week passed in a blur.
Nero had pushed himself relentlessly, refining his understanding of spatial laws with an almost obsessive drive.
Each moment had been spent honing his control, testing new applications, and pushing the boundaries of what was possible.
By the time the promised day arrived, he had exhausted every second, leaving nothing to waste.
Now, that relentless pace had stilled.
He stood in the garden with Mu and Zen, the early morning air crisp against his skin.
The scent of dew and earth hung in the air, mingling with the lingering warmth of tea in his hands.
The three of them waited in silence, their conversation light, but the weight of expectation thick in the air.
Zen stretched lazily, tilting his head toward Nero. "What time's the man supposed to show up?"
Nero glanced at the sky, the golden hues of morning breaking through the treetops.
"Any moment now."
Zen raised a brow. "Not exactly punctual, huh?"
Nero smirked. "He's not coming himself. Fawkes is picking me up."
The words had barely left his lips when a sudden warmth filled the air.
A burst of golden-red flame ignited above them, brilliant yet soft, casting flickering light across the garden.
From within the fire, a magnificent phoenix emerged, its feathers gleaming like molten gold, its crimson wings stretching wide before it descended gracefully.
Fawkes landed effortlessly on Nero's shoulder, his warm weight familiar, his song absent but his presence comforting.
He let out a soft trill before rubbing his head affectionately against Nero's cheek.
Nero's smirk softened as he reached up, running his fingers along the phoenix's smooth feathers. "It's good to see you too, Fawkes."
Fawkes let out a low, harmonious hum, an acknowledgment of the bond they shared.
Zen let out a low whistle. "Damn. He really likes you."
Mu, ever composed, simply gave a small nod. "A phoenix chooses whom they trust."
Fawkes trilled again, his eyes filled with something knowing, something deeper than simple recognition. Then, with a graceful shift, he flared his wings.
Nero inhaled. It was time. He nodded once at Mu and Zen. "I'll be back."
Without hesitation, he let Fawkes carry him through the flame.
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The moment they landed, Nero immediately sensed that he was somewhere unfamiliar.
He took a slow glance around, absorbing the surroundings.
The air was fresh, carrying the scent of wildflowers and ancient trees.
They stood at the edge of a vast garden, where tall oak trees cast long shadows over the cobblestone path that led toward a stately yet humble residence nestled against the foot of a mountain.
The house was elegant in its simplicity, made of old stone, ivy creeping along its walls, large windows allowing the golden morning light to spill inside.
A small stream ran nearby, its water crystal clear, its sound a soft whisper against the silence.
It was peaceful. A world apart from the storms he'd walked through recently.
Before Nero could ask, a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"This is my home," Albus Dumbledore said, walking toward him with his usual unhurried grace.
His blue robes flowed behind him, his piercing gaze as sharp as ever.
He looked composed, but there was something weighty in his expression, something that spoke of deep contemplation.
Nero glanced at him. "Didn't peg you for the remote cabin type, Grandpa."
Dumbledore chuckled. "A house full of grandeur has little meaning when one desires solitude."
He motioned toward the house. "Come. Let's sit."
Nero followed him onto the stone porch and inside.
The interior reflected the exterior.
Warm, lived-in, lined with bookshelves and filled with quiet comforts.
A fireplace crackled softly, its flames dancing lazily.
A simple table sat by the window, where a teapot and two cups had already been prepared.
Dumbledore gestured for Nero to sit before pouring tea into both cups, his movements practiced and calm. Nero took his seat, waiting.
He had known Dumbledore long enough now to recognize when something weighed on his mind.
Finally, as the tea steamed between them, Dumbledore let out a long, deep sigh.
Nero's eyes sharpened. "Is this about the Horcruxes?"
Dumbledore glanced at him, then shook his head. "That discussion will come. But first… there is something else. Something I must share with you."
A pause.
Dumbledore set his cup down, folding his hands before him.
His gaze was steady, but something beneath it wavered, something deeply personal.
"Nero," he said quietly, "I must apologize."
Nero blinked, taken slightly off guard. He did not speak, waiting.
"I should have been there for you, when you were younger." Dumbledore's voice was softer now, lower, as if each word carried a weight he had long avoided.
"You are my grandson. Yet I did not seek you. I did not offer you guidance, nor did I take the time to know you as I should have."
Silence hung between them, heavy and unyielding.
"I told myself," Dumbledore continued, his eyes distant, "that it was for the best. That keeping my distance would shield you from my failures. Because I have failed before."
Nero understood before he even said the name.
"…Cassandra."
Dumbledore's expression darkened, just slightly.
"I failed your mother. And in my fear of failing you as well, I did nothing. I remained passive, convincing myself that it was better than trying and failing again... Your mother was not the only person that I have failed."
His voice lowered, and names began spilling forth, one after another, like a litany of ghosts.
"Benjy Fenwick. Dorcas Meadowes. Edgar Bones. Caradoc Dearborn. Emmeline Vance. Emrys Fletcher. Madoc Blight. Elspeth Proudfoot. Amelia Greengrass. Marlene McKinnon. Fabian Prewett. Gideon. Gideon's fiancée… I never even learned her name."
A shallow breath.
"Robert Wilkes. Juliana Travers. Marcus Meadowcroft. Lysandra Fawley. Orion Bletchley. Catriona Burke. Alric Selwyn. Maeve Goldstein. Aldwyn Mulciber. Sturgis Podmore. Alastair Rowle. Cassian Yaxley."
He swallowed. His eyes drifted toward the floor.
"A toddler named Margaret. Alecto Thorn. Basil Carrow. Pippa Nott. Elric Shunpike. Elara Toke. The young Patil girl. A boy named Davian, no more than twelve. I remember his spectacles. They were always too big for his face."
His voice cracked, barely above a whisper now, yet still the names came.
"Clara Whitethorn. Ulric Shafiq. Anthea Dolohov. Rufus Wren. The Clearwater twins, Rhea and Corwin. Edmund Rosier. Dylan Macnair. Serena Macnair."
A pause. A trembling exhale.
"Aleida Avery. Ewan Fenwick. Bridget McLaggen. Lorcan Montgomery. Thalia Diggle. Morrigan Pruett. Sebastian Travers. Liliane Greengrass. Rowan Crabbe. Aiden Mulciber…"
These were not just names.
They were memories.
Lessons. Laughter. Sorrow. Screams.
People he had taught. People he had led.
Those he had failed to protect.
Those who were lost, because he had chosen inaction.
The long list went on until for what felt like hours before finally, he whispered,
"…Ariana."
Silence.
Dumbledore did not stop speaking, even as a tear traced a line down his cheek.
"Nero… I started to realize… that all of that may have only been excuses. Excuses aimed at keeping myself at a standstill… Even my apology to you seems empty, as long as I do not act, as long as I do not change. I cannot undo what has or hasn't been done, but…maybe…"
Nero let the silence stretch.
For a moment, he simply watched Dumbledore.
And in that stillness, he realized he wasn't standing before the Headmaster or the Legend of the wizarding world.
In front of him was the real Albus Dumbledore, his grandfather.
A man who had endured more than most could ever understand.
Nero's gaze shifted to the fading light through the window, his thoughts drifting between past and present.
Then, quietly, he stepped closer and placed a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder.
"You know, Grandpa… after losing Grandma Melina, I realized that regrets weigh far heavier than mistakes."
His eyes met Dumbledore's. Steady. Honest.
"Ever since then, there's been one thing I try to hold onto. A principle I chose to live by."
A beat.
"I want to live a life with no regrets."
Silence.
"To me, failure isn't defeat, it's a necessary step toward growth. Mistakes can pass. Regret… it lingers. That's why I'm doing everything I can to grow stronger. As a wizard, and as a person. I don't want to look back one day and feel like I let something slip away."
Dumbledore said nothing at first.
He simply looked at Nero, truly looked at him.
In that moment, the boy felt like the man Albus had once dreamed of becoming.
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his throat tight. "I know, Nero. I've observed you."
Then, more softly, "And you have surprised me."
He looked at Nero now, fully, as if seeing him with new eyes.
"When I saw you cleaning the Sorting Hat during your ceremony, wielding a spell so precise, so controlled, far beyond your age, I realized you wouldn't be bound by limits. And since then, you've proven it, again and again."
His expression turned knowing.
"I have watched you, Nero. Training until exhaustion, learning new spells late into the night, pushing yourself even in your sleep. Day after day. And yet, even after all of that, your determination never wavered. You even went to the Shatterveil. All of that not to have any regrets. All of that to be ready, whatever path you and your friends may walk.."
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze lowering to the steam rising from his teacup.
When he looked up again, his expression had softened, not the headmaster, but the grandfather Nero had never truly seen until now.
"You chose to trust me, to share with me more than just visions…"
Dumbledore's voice grew quieter. "That trust carried a weight I did not expect."
Dumbledore inhaled deeply. "It made me reflect. Not only on you, but on myself."
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