Albus—I've been in this hellhole for fifty years.
Emaciated and scarred, I find it hard to believe I was once beautiful.
I'm the only prisoner left alive.
The guards have left, and a house-elf pushes food to me over the bars.
Even the magic on my watch is wearing off.
The hands tremble, and the date is hard to read.
I guess an owl takes three days to get here from Hogwarts? Or more? Does the world stretch out farther beneath my feet? Otherwise, why do I feel further away from you? Judging by the position of the sun, I think it's sometime in January.
I try not to think—no thoughts of you, no memories, just pacing.
There are symbols engraved on the door—a triangle, a circle, and a vertical line.
But please write to me once in a while.
Dumbledore reread Grindelwald's letter from the locked cabinet.
His hand trembled slightly as he scanned the handwriting, as if the very words themselves held a unique charm. Replying to a letter so deeply woven with emotion was undoubtedly a difficult task; a single mistake could result in burns.
However, the usually almighty White wizard was now truly overwhelmed. Not even the impending return of Voldemort could have placed such pressure on him.
He thought of Damon's advice, "If plucking a single hair would benefit the world, I would not do it."
But then he recalled Damon's zero-tolerance approach to all Death Eaters. He had read Damon's mission reports, and in most cases, he could have held back.
He had done it on purpose.
He preferred personal judgment over the judicial system or Wizengamot. Respecting life yet demonstrating extreme disregard for it, created a contradiction.
What should he do?
Dumbledore closed his eyes, his hand still resting on the envelope he had already tucked away.
He felt the touch of the letter on his fingertips, his mind brooding on Damon, but more memories began to flow uncontrollably.
"Professor, what did you see in the Harris Mirror?"
"Me? I saw myself holding a pair of thick wool socks."
"Don't believe him, he's just bragging. He's so old, still lying to children, shameless."
He considered the Godric's Hollow duel. Could Ariana's tragic mistake, Dumbledore's lifelong regret, happen again?
"Master White is undoubtedly a true genius, Dumbledore. I must say, you are overprotecting him. A genius like him should be exposed to more masters of Transfiguration. Geniuses can collide with each other and spark new ideas!"
What would Cornelius think if he knew Master White, whom he considered overprotected, had changed his identity and become a sought-after Auror?
Would he still be so easygoing and pretend to be magnanimous?
Dumbledore suddenly laughed.
But soon, the smile in his eyes disappeared.
Without a trace.
He finally sat up, made up his mind, and picked up the wool pen.
[Gellert,
after all this time, I am writing to you again.
Well, I remember—I said I'd never write to you again.
But now, I accept your apology, of course, I accepted it many years ago.
But I don't know what else to do. I can only ask for your patience.
I'm sending this letter to you out of deep trust.
I remember saying long ago that I have no true confidants.
Strangely enough, even after all these years of no contact, even after countless arguments, you're the one I trust most—you're the only one who will keep these secrets for me, about this unfinished war, about England, about Voldemort— but none of that has anything to do with what I'm about to say.
I want to discuss a child, one you've probably never heard of—Damon White.
He was a freshman at Hogwarts in '91. The Sorting Hat said he was a natural Slytherin, but he was ultimately sorted into Gryffindor.
He excelled academically and had excellent relationships with his teachers and peers, but he seemed to have few close friends and devoted himself to only a few students.
Before coming to Hogwarts, he grew up in an orphanage. Even in Muggle circles, he seemed remarkable. They called him a musical prodigy, but he modestly claimed it was all a hoax. I'm racking my brains to describe him, a boy who's so unusual, so troubling.
But one thing I'm absolutely certain of, Gellert, is that he's a good boy.
He is best described not as strong, brave, or clever, but as powerful and independent.
When I realized your full plan—the brutal methods of rule and the torment you inflicted on Muggles—I was horrified.
When you escaped Ariana's body like a serial criminal, yes, of course I was angry.
Extremely angry.
But I don't hate you. I never intended any misfortune to befall you.
So, no matter what you do, whether waking or sleeping, eating or breathing, I never thought of burning you with eternal phoenix fire. Yet, I wanted to do the same to Voldemort—no, Tom Riddle, that's his real name; the rest is just an illusion.
Daemon is infinitely more powerful than Tom ever was. This isn't an exaggeration. This kid is only in his second year, and he's already mastered nearly every high-level spell, even creating a destructive spell as powerful as the Killing Curse. I'm thankful he doesn't seem to have any interest in the Dark Arts.
But precisely because of this, I can't let what happened to Tom happen to this kid!
I can't accept it.
Absolutely!
And I'm certain of it.
Neither can the wizarding world.
I write to you in despair. After admitting the bitterness between us, I burden you with my worries.
But, Gellert, you said that neither Nurmengard nor I can destroy you.
Yes, neither can we.
But, Gellert, the worries this child has brought me are nearly enough to destroy me.
I believe, after all, you're stronger than I am.
I don't know how to proceed with this child.
I'd like to hear your opinion.
Albus Dumbledore.
The other one is for us.
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(End of this chapter)