That night at the Ministry, Harry returned to Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
Molly Weasley, seeing the members of the Order all injured, hurriedly wiped the blood from Ron's face with a towel.
Dumbledore led Harry upstairs to the 2nd floor.
In the room, there were only the two of them. Dumbledore looked at Harry, asking what John had done to him.
Remembering the moment his soul had been pulled out, Harry shivered.
"Did he… hurt you?" Dumbledore asked the most crucial question.
Harry was silent for a moment, then said, "No."
Then he recounted how he had been drawn into that dreamlike realm, what he had experienced there, and the deal with Death.
Dumbledore listened, unable to return to himself for a long time.
At last, he spoke. "The Resurrection Stone."
"What?" Harry looked at him in confusion.
Dumbledore was steeped in sorrow and regret.
"John spoke with Death about the tale of the Three Brothers," Dumbledore said with a bitter smile. "And once again, this old fool was wrong."
"Professor?" Harry noticed how very wrong Dumbledore's state seemed.
"We were so close to ending it all," Dumbledore said, and even a man like him showed regret. "Tom was right. My lack of trust had killed him."
He finally understood what had happened. John hadn't harmed Harry—he had done something even Dumbledore himself could not accomplish.
John had destroyed the Savior, turning Dumbledore's years of planning into a joke.
And John had done in one year what Dumbledore had failed to do in more than ten.
Yet that plan had been undone by his own mistrust.
"It was a perfect plan—if not for a foolish old man." Dumbledore was paying the price for his own folly.
Thinking of his plan, he looked at Harry. In his design, the fragment of soul within Harry would have been destroyed, but not like this.
Harry could not offer Dumbledore comfort. His conversation with John had made him realize something.
His identity as the Savior existed only because Voldemort's fragment of soul lived inside him.
So then… had Dumbledore known?
As long as he lived as a Horcrux, Voldemort could not die.
What had Dumbledore planned to do?
Was it… to kill him?
Too much confusion clouded Harry's mind, leaving him dazed. He asked, "John said I'm no longer the Savior. And about that prophecy orb—it was smashed."
Dumbledore looked steadily at Harry and said firmly, "Harry, there has never been a Savior. What we have is right here."
He pointed to his own heart. "A heart that resists, a heart that loves—anyone can be a Savior."
"As for the prophecy orb…" Dumbledore sighed. "It held a prophecy about you and Voldemort."
Harry sat dazed as he watched Dumbledore leave the house.
...
"Are you alright, Harry?" Ron's face had gone down a little, though he still looked terrible.
Worried, he came closer to check on him.
Seeing Harry sitting on the bed and not moving, he added gently, "Mum made some pies."
"How's Hermione?" Harry needed time to digest all the news.
At her name, Ron's mood sank too. He sat down opposite Harry.
"Not good. I've never seen her like this," Ron muttered. "She keeps saying she's the stupidest person in the world."
He tried to comfort Harry. "We didn't know then, Harry. All we knew was that you were in danger."
"But it was our fault, wasn't it?" Harry said. "Voldemort was about to die."
"Don't think like that, Harry," Ron said quickly. "There was another one, wasn't there? I heard it downstairs. Someone just as strong as Voldemort."
After a while, Harry's guilt eased a little.
Ron brought up the man who had appeared.
Lupin and Sirius didn't know much about him, but Moody told them his name.
Gellert Grindelwald.
The very first Dark Lord, and Dumbledore's lifelong enemy.
Defeated in 1945, a defeat that made Dumbledore the White Lord.
Even if they hadn't broken the domain, Grindelwald would surely have had a way.
That much was certain.
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
Harry and Ron looked up. It was Ginny, standing in the doorway. "Hermione's really upset," she said.
...
A black long-eared owl soared toward New Zealand, carrying a large bag of gold.
The Moutohora Macaws were troubled by one thing.
A massive bag of Galleons had been dumped, unceremoniously, right onto their training pitch.
A Chaser in red, yellow, and blue team robes descended from his broom and opened the bag. After checking, he called helplessly to the Keeper and captain, "Five thousand Galleons."
"Again?" The Keeper and captain descended in frustration.
The other players landed too, and the Seeker said dramatically, "This must be the fifth time, right?"
"Twenty-five thousand Galleons—enough for us to kit ourselves out with Firebolts," the Beater muttered, a glint of greed in his eyes.
The captain cast a conflicted glance at the team's mascot. The Beater whispered, "It's just some blood. Why don't we sell it?"
"Spark's older than my grandfather," the captain said, even more torn. "We don't even know what that person wants it for."
"Anyone who can pay that kind of price isn't someone to mess with."
Throwing down twenty-five thousand Galleons so casually—that kind of extravagance wasn't from an ordinary wizard.
The Moutohora Macaws weren't as strong as they used to be; it had been a while since they'd had any remarkable results.
Even local Quidditch fans had begun voicing their dissatisfaction with them.
And besides, the team's mascot didn't actually belong to them but to the club itself. They technically had no right to use it.
After much hesitation, the captain clenched his jaw. "We'll do it quietly. No one will ever know."
The others immediately nodded in agreement.
Their eyes turned again toward the mascot.
The mascot was called Spark.
It was a phoenix.
The only one ever tamed outside of Dumbledore's family.
A single drop of its blood could sell for 25,000 Galleons.
Only a fool would pass up that profit.
...
Johnny Silverhand's specialty shop.
Tommy stared at the 25,000 Galleons expense, lost in thought.
John sat there, with the unconscious Kim at his side.
"The power to beguile hearts, a vicious curse."
Clutching the ring in his hand, John looked at Kim—imagining how much strength of will it must have taken to bring her back.
He placed the ring into a box, then layered a protective charm over it just to be safe.
"My lord, don't you have exams today?" Tommy asked, puzzled.
"I am taking an exam," John said mysteriously.
"Huh?" Tommy blinked.
He had no idea what John meant.
John held the box in his hand as the black long-eared owl returned, clutching a vial in its talons.
Inside, red blood shimmered faintly with every movement.
"Exam time," John murmured to himself.
...
Night.
John pushed open the door of the Shrieking Shack.
"Still exam day, I suppose."
He took out his pocket watch and checked the time—it was right during the Astronomy exam.
Casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself, he moved through the tunnel of the Shrieking Shack.
Once outside, he found a rock and carefully placed the phoenix blood he had paid dearly for beneath it.
Having done that, he was about to head back.
But then Tom came running over, nose twitching, clearly drawn by the scent, her dog face full of puzzlement.
It was as if she were wondering why it smelled so familiar.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
John sighed, exasperated. "Stop barking already."
Hearing that familiar voice, Tom froze for a moment, then immediately began circling around John in excitement.
John had no choice but to shoo her off toward Fang.
Once Tom left, John suddenly felt a pair of eyes watching him.
He quickly slipped into hiding.
As luck would have it, the Whomping Willow sensed someone nearby and swung its branches toward him.
With a flick of wandless magic, he pressed against the knot on its trunk, freezing the tree in place, then made his way back into the Shrieking Shack.
Halfway up the stairs, he paused.
"Almost forgot this."
He set a small box down in place, then heard footsteps approaching outside.
Quietly moving upward, he stood just behind a door, listening as the footsteps drew nearer.
A voice came from outside.
"Tell me… what should I do?"
The footsteps stopped right outside, and that familiar voice spoke again.
John searched his pockets, pulled out a slip of paper, quickly scribbled a line, and slid it through the crack beneath the door.
"From death comes life."
Hearing the footsteps outside fade into the distance, John opened the door and stepped out.
Cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm, he stopped at the stairwell.
Bathed in moonlight, he looked at the figure below.
The feeling was uncanny.
He was looking at his past self.
John fixed his gaze on him. What would happen if the two of them were to meet?
Two versions of himself existing in the same moment.
From every past experiment with time, the result was always clear—such contact could very likely alter the course of the future.
John lingered for a while, but in the end, chose not to test it.
He simply watched as his other self left the Shrieking Shack, then glanced down at the Time-Turner in his hand.
________
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