"Professor, must we really dwell on such unhappy things?"
Seeing the sorrow etched on Dumbledore's face, Damon shook his head, speaking with quiet reassurance.
"I thought we'd already discussed this. Haven't I given you my conclusion?"
"No, this is different." Dumbledore's voice, usually so gentle, carried an uncommon firmness. "You may have made your choice, but I cannot forgive myself—not until I have told you everything. I cannot accept your forgiveness until you know it all. This is the stubbornness of an old man. Please… allow me to finish."
His expression was more solemn than when he had faced Voldemort. Even in the fierce three-way battle, Dumbledore's face had remained composed, calm, unreadable.
Yet now, with the fighting over, he looked older and sadder before Damon—as if this weighed on him even more heavily than Voldemort ever had.
"Very well," Damon said at last. "Go ahead. But I can't promise I'll listen."
He flicked his wand, levitating a slice of cake into his hand, and ate with casual ease. The battle had been brief, yet thrilling. The Fiendfyre's power was overwhelming, almost uncontrollable. To rely solely on Excalibur and Transfiguration against such a force was reckless.
He would need to find a better way to face that kind of fire.
Dumbledore's face softened as he began to speak. He laid out the entire story of his connection with Tom Riddle—from the first meeting at the orphanage, to Riddle's graduation, to the moment he became Lord Voldemort.
Piece by piece, he unburdened his heart: his plans for Harry, his regrets, his hopes for Damon. Everything poured forth.
Perhaps the only other man who had ever heard such confessions from him was Grindelwald.
Their talk stretched from morning deep into the night. Visitors came and went, but Dumbledore cast Silencing Charms to keep them at bay.
It was more than apology. After the battle, Dumbledore had realized something profound: with Damon beside him, he was not alone in his struggle against Voldemort. The Dark Lord could never deceive or outmaneuver the two of them together.
Even if the Horcruxes made him immortal—what of it?
They would defeat him again and again. And Damon's power, growing steadily by the day, was becoming formidable—so much so that it unsettled even Dumbledore.
When fatigue finally touched the old wizard's features, Damon rose.
"It's late. Let's stop here for tonight."
Dumbledore nodded, then stood, gazing quietly at the young man before him.
"You're so young," he murmured, "and yet you speak as if you've lived a lifetime."
He waited, expectant, but Damon did not immediately answer.
At last, Damon turned back.
"Professor," he said evenly, "I really can't talk in detail about what hasn't happened yet. I don't see the point. If you've decided to trust me, then perhaps you should try to relax. You'll live a long while still. If you're unhappy with what I do, tell me directly. Don't act as if the moment you die, there will be no one left to restrain me. I should not be your enemy, should I?"
Dumbledore's eyes grew misty at his words. For a moment, he seemed lost in a trance. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I see," he whispered.
And with that, the burden lifted from his heart.
---
Christmas arrived.
The luncheon was grander than ever before, magnified by the presence of wizards and witches from across the continent. Dumbledore had announced that he would speak openly at the feast about the incident with Fiendfyre.
Aurors swarmed Hogwarts in preparation, fortifying the castle against even the slimmest chance of infiltration. At the main gates, their wards shimmered like steel, preventing any Dark wizard from slipping through.
Perhaps it was unnecessary—but caution had become second nature.
After all, only recently, the name Caliban Mortos had shaken the wizarding world. In a single night, he had obliterated an entire underground market. Eighteen Dark wizards had struck at once, curses raining upon him—and with a single lotus-shaped shield of ice, he had turned them all back.
The attackers' bodies were later found torn apart by an explosive force. Mortos had reduced the entire marketplace to rubble, all for the sake of dragging out one hidden Death Eater.
The Ministry had been thrown into uproar. Had it not been for the Fiendfyre's appearance at Hogwarts, Mortos would likely have faced trial before the Wizengamot. But instead, his reputation only grew.
Aurors defended him. The public praised him. Dozens of kidnapped children were rescued. Magical creatures were freed and returned to their homes. Even Newt Scamander himself sent a letter of gratitude to the Ministry for Mortos's efforts.
Black market leaders, shaken by the devastation, sent quiet warnings to the Aurors: If you need help, call us—we'll cooperate. Just don't unleash that monster again.
Under such tension, few dared risk causing chaos at Hogwarts. Even Dark wizards lingered uneasily outside the castle grounds, wary of drawing Mortos's wrath.
This year's Christmas feast was unlike any before. Ninety-nine percent of Hogwarts' students remained at school, joined by parents who had been invited to witness the Headmaster's speech. Everyone sensed it—something monumental was about to unfold.
Concern for safety loomed large. Many parents needed reassurance that Hogwarts remained a place fit for their children.
The Great Hall had been expanded a hundredfold by magic, vast enough to hold thousands. Balconies and private chambers lined the second floor for those of importance.
Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge was present, along with Amelia Bones of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Alec Leighton of the Department of Mysteries, and the entire Wizengamot.
The young students hardly grasped the weight of such an assembly. To them, it was merely a grand spectacle—endless tables laden with turkey, the air filled with chatter and speculation.
Hermione's eyes scanned the crowd, searching for someone.
"Stop looking," Ron muttered. "Damon's going to be on stage with the Headmaster later. You know that, don't you?"
Hermione ignored him, her gaze still wandering restlessly.
Earlier, Damon had brushed aside their questions. "It's too long a story," he had said. "Wait for the Headmaster to explain it at the Christmas banquet."
And so they waited.
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(End of Chapter)