It was a pure white space.
Dumbledore stood there in a daze.
Very quickly, he understood where he was.
The place between life and death.
Dumbledore seemed to relax as he looked at this familiar place.
After wandering the world in circles, he had returned to the beginning.
Godric's Hollow.
This had once been his home, and also the place he could never forget.
Every important event in Dumbledore's life was tied to this place.
The two months of his youth.
His sister's death.
Harry's parents had also been murdered here.
"Perhaps I can sit down and rest for a while."
He sat on a bench, like an old traveler who, after a long journey, had finally returned home.
He gazed ahead. As the greatest wizard, his wisdom was equally great.
His thoughts drifted back to his younger self.
The post office over there, the pub, and that little church.
The stream in Godric's Hollow carried with it the scent of grass and damp earth.
It was also at that time that he met them.
"Them?"
Dumbledore suddenly froze.
A scene surfaced in his mind.
It was inside the home of the renowned magical historian, Bathilda Bagshot.
Two figures stood by the wooden doorframe.
One was Gellert Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot's great-nephew.
The other… the other was…
Dumbledore felt as though he had been struck by a powerful Memory Charm. He could not recall who the other person was.
But as a great wizard, he always had special ways to recover memories.
The Pensieve at school. And here…
"This is the place."
He looked toward the neighboring house. That was Bathilda Bagshot's home, and also the Dumbledore family's neighbor.
This world was formed from the fragments that left the deepest impressions on Dumbledore's mind.
So even if Dumbledore himself did not consciously remember, his subconscious would still dig it out. It was bound to appear here.
He walked inside.
Into a room that appeared to be a sitting room.
It should have been dim, but because of the peculiar nature of this world, everything was washed in pure white light.
There stood a bow-front chest of drawers, covered with many photographs.
Seven or eight of them were placed in the highest and most ornate frames.
Dumbledore stepped closer and picked up one of the frames.
In it was a spirited blond boy, lounging lazily within the silver frame and smiling at Dumbledore.
The boy made his thoughts drift back to that summer.
He picked up the next photograph. In this one, the blond boy had someone beside him.
The person next to him had red hair and bright blue eyes.
They stood side by side, both smiling.
That was Dumbledore. The young Dumbledore.
One photograph after another showed either the blond boy or the young Dumbledore.
At last, Dumbledore lifted the final photograph.
It had been placed in the highest position. The first thing he saw was blond hair and red hair together.
But at the back, a trace of snowy white appeared in the frame.
It seemed to be a child who did not wish to be photographed.
There were not two people in the moving picture, but three.
The blond boy shifted his shoulder, as if deliberately trying to reveal the person behind him.
As the shoulder moved, Dumbledore stared closely.
The frame in his hand began to disappear, and Dumbledore froze.
Then everything around him began to vanish as well.
Realising a possibility, Dumbledore reached out and touched the frame. Those things all began to fade away.
Brilliant white light flooded his vision, covering the entire world.
The white light faded.
He slowly opened his eyes.
It was a room. Purple curtains came into view.
Madam Pomfrey's delighted voice sounded.
"You're awake, Albus."
The tension Madam Pomfrey had been holding finally eased, and she said with rare reproach, "I thought Potter's potion hadn't worked."
Dumbledore raised his right hand and pushed himself up, pressing his aching forehead. The blackness had faded from his right hand, though the last two fingers still retained a trace.
He stared blankly at his fingers, his emotions in turmoil.
He understood what Harry had done, even if it was something Harry had not wanted.
Madam Pomfrey was still chattering away.
"You slept far too long, Albus," she said. "Hogwarts has ended the term early."
"I slept very comfortably," Dumbledore said, stretching lazily. "This old man even feels a bit younger."
Madam Pomfrey's expression did not improve at his deflection.
She left to inform the others of the good news.
After she departed, Dumbledore's expression turned complicated as he murmured, "Is that so?"
The third person in that photograph.
At the thought, Dumbledore sighed wistfully.
"Memories fade with time. What happened and what did not happen are no longer important."
…
The aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts was far from over.
John sat inside the Johnny Silverhand specialty shop, holding a newspaper with a shocking headline.
"Johnny Silverhand Is a Butcher!"
Seeing the title, John silently set the newspaper down.
John glanced up at Heinrich, who was being thoroughly pestered by Kim, and wondered whether he should make Kim quiet down for a while.
"What should we do?"
Tommy asked hesitantly, "You really…"
"It is true," John said with a nod, not denying it. "It is not exactly a secret."
Even with John's admission, Tommy still found it hard to accept.
Their own boss had actually gone and wiped out a magic school in Asia.
The International Wizarding Press was condemning Johnny Silverhand's atrocities, calling him a butcher.
Products from the Silverhand line were also facing an international boycott, with more than a hundred thousand people demanding Johnny Silverhand's arrest.
And yet this coverage stood in stark contrast to John Wick, the hero who killed Voldemort, the true savior.
One side received endless curses, the other endless praise.
Two utterly opposite figures, yet they were the same person.
"The Ministry of Magic wants to award me the Order of Merlin, First Class, in recognition of my contributions."
"The International Confederation of Wizards wants to list Johnny Silverhand among the world's top ten Dark Wizards."
John let out a light chuckle and said indifferently, "These people are quite amusing, are they not?"
Tommy gave a bitter smile. What was amusing about that?
The world's top ten Dark Wizards were figures like Grindelwald and Voldemort.
One could say that once you made that list, calling you a Dark Lord would not be wrong.
Kill the Dark Lord, only to become one yourself?
The demon slayer becomes the demon?
"Is it really fine not to respond?" Tommy sighed. "The push for werewolf equality is also running into obstacles."
"Those pure-bloods are determined to oppose us."
"It does not matter," John said casually, tossing the newspaper aside. "In the face of absolute power, it is all futile."
"I am waiting for an opportunity. One chance to crush them completely."
John laced his fingers together beneath his chin and smiled faintly. "Let them struggle a little longer."
"An opportunity?" Tommy asked, confused. "What opportunity?"
"This opportunity."
John tapped a finger against the newspaper.
Tommy looked down.
"John Wick, Slayer of the Dark Lord, to Be Awarded at Eight Tonight."
John stood and walked toward the wardrobe.
"I should pick something presentable," he said with a faint smile. "After all, a very good show is about to begin, is it not?"
Tommy found John increasingly difficult to read.
But he understood one thing. When John looked like this, it meant he had absolute confidence.
…
Eight o'clock at night.
Countless reporters flooded into the Ministry of Magic.
They had all come for John Wick.
The last time they heard this name was in connection with the Blood Potion, when John received the Order of Merlin, Second Class.
Back then, they had all thought he was a rising star in the wizarding world.
But in the span of a year, that rising star had become a brilliant comet, leaving Hogwarts behind and turning into the most sensational and dazzling figure in the magical world.
Together with Neville Longbottom, he had slain the once-invincible Voldemort.
While others were still attending classes, he had already become a legend.
Chocolate Frog Cards would record his story. Just like Johnny Silverhand, one was hailed as a hero, while the other was reviled.
And the birth of a hero was enough to lift spirits at a time when rumors were spreading about the possible emergence of a third Dark Lord.
Eight o'clock arrived quickly.
John stepped into the Ministry of Magic.
The moment he entered, he was greeted by a barrage of flashing cameras.
Through it all, he remained perfectly composed as Bartemius Crouch Sr. personally presented the award.
Since it was not an academic honor, there was naturally no Wizengamot-style academic defense segment.
John spotted the Longbottoms, along with Augusta Longbottom.
They were proud of their son's achievements.
Neville stood beside John, visibly nervous, dressed in the most flexible outfit Madam Longbottom had specially prepared.
Bartemius Crouch Sr. pinned the Order of Merlin, First Class, onto John's chest and said in a voice only the two of them could hear, "What do you intend to do about the magic institute?"
John replied just as quietly, "I will handle it."
Crouch was half convinced and half doubtful. After all, it was a magical school, on the same level as Hogwarts and Durmstrang.
John shook hands with Crouch as the cameras began flashing again.
Neville stepped forward stiffly and went through a process similar to John's.
As one of the heroes who killed Voldemort, the boy of July as well.
Now the wizarding world was beginning to speculate that perhaps Neville Longbottom was the true Chosen One.
After the award ceremony ended, there was the scheduled interview.
Neville clearly did not enjoy this kind of occasion, while John answered with calm composure.
At the very end, someone raised a question.
"What is your view on Johnny Silverhand? Some say he will become the third Dark Lord."
A male reporter in a newsboy cap asked the question.
All eyes turned to John.
What they hoped to hear was John Wick declaring war on the third Dark Lord, or delivering some rousing "as long as I stand" speech.
Either one would make explosive news.
Expectant gazes converged on John.
John let out a soft chuckle and met the reporter's eyes, answering calmly.
"I am Johnny Silverhand."
click! click! flash! flash!
____
Iron Man I, déjà vu?
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Bro, wtf is happening in the world? Stay safe, guys!
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