Adam sat silently on a wooden chair, sunlight filtering through the lush canopy outside, casting dappled shadows across his small face, flickering between light and dark.
His thoughts drifted back to that dreamlike night beneath the hillside, the sea of flowers swaying in the breeze, and the girl with wine-red hair fluttering softly in the wind.
With a sigh, he stood and reached for an old, worn copy of Legendary Alchemy from the walnut bookshelf.
The yellowed parchment pages rustled faintly as he turned them, and an envelope, used as a bookmark, slipped onto the desk. His small hand struggled to press it flat before gently sliding it across the table.
"It seems, Adam, you still don't trust me," Dumbledore said, a bitter smile crossing his face. "I would never doubt any Hogwarts student, including you. No one can choose their origins."
"Professor, you might want to take a closer look before saying that," Adam replied evenly, his young face clouded with frustration and heartache.
He had originally planned to hold onto this treasure, a trump card to wield Dumbledore's influence over the wizarding world at a critical moment. At the very least, it could've given him leverage to stride through the goblins' underground kingdom unchallenged. But now…
Dumbledore's gaze fell on the envelope, and when his eyes caught the handwriting in the top left corner, his blue pupils trembled violently, shrinking like tinder flaring in a hearth.
His half-moon glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. He hurriedly wiped the lenses with his sleeve, leaving a blurry streak on the glass.
When he put them back on and focused again on the childish, cursive script, a lifetime of guilt and sorrow surged through his heart.
"This is…"
Dumbledore's voice quivered.
"Yes, it's Ariana's letter," Adam said softly.
Dumbledore fell silent, his trembling hands brushing the edges of the envelope, his eyes brimming with bitterness and pain.
The sound of rain pounding against windowpanes suddenly roared in his ears.
Wounds he thought time had healed were now being gently pried open by that familiar handwriting.
That stormy night, Ariana's pale face flickered in the candlelight, her frail body growing colder in his arms until it became nothing more than a small inscription on a tombstone—a shadow that haunted the rest of his life.
The grief didn't strike suddenly. It crept in during fleeting moments, resurfacing in sleepless nights or unexpected memories.
Whenever he saw first-years clutching books and scampering through Hogwarts' corridors, he'd imagine Ariana perched on the castle walls, gazing at the Forbidden Forest and asking, "Do Hogwarts' ghosts take classes with us?"
Passing the Quidditch pitch, he'd hear her silvery laughter in the wind, picturing her zooming across the grass on a broom, her gold-and-red scarf trailing behind like a burning banner.
Or in Potions class, he'd see her hiding behind a cauldron, giggling as she snuck a pinch of moonstone powder into the simmering brew when the professor's back was turned.
When called on to answer a question, she'd leap up in a panic, sticking out her tongue at her friends.
He'd imagine her exploring the castle's corridors at night with friends, wands glowing, only to be doused in ink by Peeves and frowning at a ruined House trophy.
The moonlight outside, filtered through sparse tree shadows, gleamed on Dumbledore's silver hair but couldn't pierce the sorrow churning in his eyes.
But Ariana had never attended Hogwarts. She'd been confined to that cramped attic, staring out the window at a world she could never join, her short life spent entirely within those walls.
The girl who always said, "I want to go to Gryffindor with my brothers," was forever frozen at an age too young to wear the Sorting Hat.
In the end, she lay in a dark, narrow box, never having seen Hogwarts—not even once.
She'd collapsed on the floor, frail as a kitten, whispering, "Brother, I'm so cold."
The attic had trapped Ariana for over a decade, just as Hogwarts had been Dumbledore's prison for nearly a century, each day spent atoning for the past.
Tears blurred Dumbledore's vision as his trembling hands reached for the envelope.
He yearned to touch the familiar handwriting, seeking forgiveness, yet froze at the thought of the truth it might reveal.
His hands stopped midair, hovering like a child caught in wrongdoing, lost and helpless.
"I've imagined this day countless times, but I never knew how I'd face it…"
In Adam's relieved gaze, those trembling hands finally grasped the envelope, fingers clutching the paper's edge.
Though still shaking, they held a certain resolve, as if, in that moment, the old man had steeled himself to confront his past.
"Dear Albus, my brother…"
Dumbledore's eyes traced every letter, afraid to miss a single detail, any trace of Ariana's emotions woven into the words.
His expression shifted from anxious dread to fleeting joy as he read, only for that joy to ebb like a tide, leaving a faint melancholy in his eyes.
"Professor, what you've been searching for doesn't exist," Adam said gently, watching the old man steeped in pain and guilt.
"Ariana's doing well there. She has close friends, loves picking flowers in the forest, and enjoys sitting by the stream, lost in thought. She's even found a good teacher recently…"
"She's remembered a lot because of it."
At this, Dumbledore's face flashed with avoidance and regret, an indescribable sorrow pooling in his eyes.
He looked at Adam in disbelief, his voice trembling. "Ariana… she really told you all this?"
Adam met his gaze steadily, speaking deliberately. "Yes, Professor. She saw the blood oath you swore in the barn and remembered the night that changed everything…"
"Stop… please, don't say any more…"
Dumbledore's pupils contracted sharply, as if a raw wound had been struck. His voice broke with pain as he clutched Adam's hands, pleading, grasping at a final lifeline.
Adam hesitated briefly, but resolve overtook him. He pressed on.
"I'm sorry, Professor, but this is Ariana's wish. Avoiding the truth is like hiding behind a lie. Only by facing it can you lift the veil of reality."
"She remembered the argument she overheard in the attic that night. When she came downstairs, she saw the three of you locked in a heated dispute."
"She didn't fully understand the conflict between you. She only wanted her two beloved brothers and their best friend to set aside their differences and get along."
"Please, no more…"
Dumbledore bowed his head, his hoarse voice thick with grief and unease, each word tearing at his soul.
Adam steeled himself, his gaze sweeping the room's corners before continuing coldly.
"But none of you listened to her. Grindelwald, in a fit of emotion, drew his wand. Aberforth, already on edge, fought back. And you, caught in the middle, were forced into the fray."
"Until that final spell flashed, engulfing her vision…"
"Enough! I said enough!"
Dumbledore clutched his white hair, roaring in anguish, his voice raw with despair.
With his cry, a torrent of magic surged, laced with boundless sorrow, erupting like a volcano.
The entire cottage shook under the force. The chandelier swung wildly, ornaments rattled on the walls, and loose parchment fluttered from the shelves, all swept into an invisible storm.
Adam, prepared, grabbed the drowsy Fawkes nearby, holding the phoenix in front of him.
The startled bird instinctively released gentle flames, forming a protective barrier around Adam.
"But do you know what her final thought was?"
"Ariana said she never resented any of you. She only wanted everyone to live happily. She loved her life there, until she meets you again, a century later, at the foot of that snowy mountain."
Adam pulled an object from the cupboard and placed it before Dumbledore, speaking softly.
"This is Ariana's gift to you."
The storm stilled instantly. Dumbledore's blue eyes stared blankly at the flower crown before him.
Lush green leaves intertwined with vibrant purple-red amaranths, topped with unfamiliar red berries carefully chosen by the girl.
Dumbledore gazed at the crown, only snapping out of it when Adam placed it on his head.
He wiped at the tears streaming down his face, his voice like crumpled parchment, heavy with unhealed grief.
"I'm sorry, child, I just…"
"It's okay, Professor," Adam said, watching a petal fall from the crown onto Dumbledore's hair, recalling something Ariana had said.
"That summer in Godric's Hollow has trapped you for too long."
He suddenly bolted for the door, the frame banging against the wall with a soft thud.
"It's fine, Grandma Tina! Professor Dumbledore's just teaching me magic."
At the stairwell, Tina, clutching her apron, relaxed at the sight of Adam's grinning face.
When Adam returned, he found Dumbledore had removed the crown, carefully casting spells to make its colors even more vivid, treating it like a priceless treasure.
Dumbledore glanced back at Adam, his tone half-resentful, half-playful, like a child insisting on fairness.
"If I hadn't come, were you planning to wait until this crown wilted before giving it to me?"
Adam scratched his head sheepishly, staying silent.
Dumbledore laughed, then cried again.
Crying is exhausting, a way for the body to purge grief and tears, like a natural defense.
But Adam felt the old man before him was, through his tears, piecing together memories, stitching up the past. With the crown's vibrant glow, he seemed to regain a spark of life.
"Thank you… child… thank you…"
Dumbledore murmured, wiping his tears.
A breeze lifted the curtain, carrying the scent of summer into the room. The amaranth petals swayed, one falling onto the parchment.
It landed precisely over the blurred date in A History of Magic: "Summer, 1899."
As if fate had gently closed a creaking door, leaving an eternal spring on its lintel.
Adam waited patiently for the old man to compose himself before asking softly, "You used the Philosopher's Stone to lure Voldemort out of Albania's forests, didn't you? But you accidentally drew out the Death Eaters' remnants too."
The moment the words left his mouth, Adam regretted them.
Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "The Philosopher's Stone! I must say, you've surprised me again."
Adam's face twitched, and he resisted the urge to slap himself. So I'm the one who gave him the idea?
"Though I don't know how you deduced Tom was in Albania's forests, you're correct—it aligns with my intelligence," Dumbledore said.
"But I can tell you plainly, everything that happened today was a coincidence. I came to Gringotts only to look into some old books from my youth."
"I gave you the key to that vault last time, but it seems you've never visited it."
His tone was warm and sincere, like speaking to a younger family member.
"Does this have to do with what you've been busy with lately?" Adam asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Yes. After our last meeting, I revisited things I'd long sealed away. In my youth, I chased fleeting legends to no avail."
"Until I met you. After reviewing those ancient texts again, I found a fascinating legend that closely resembles what's happened to you."
Adam leaned forward, holding his breath for Dumbledore's next words.
"The figure in the biography claimed to have entered a realm of illusion and called the method to reach that land of the dead…"
"The Boundary of Life and Death."