Hogwarts: Voldemort, don't stop me from studying

Chapter 1007 Disappointment and Hope

As the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone on the snow-covered castle spires, the clock on the Astronomical Tower chimed to mark the hour.

In the principal's office, the two men, who had been talking all night, still had clear eyes, as if the long and in-depth conversation had not depleted their energy, but rather dispelled some of the unsettling gloom.

But the dark circles under their eyes honestly betrayed their physical exhaustion, telling them it was time to rest.

Dumbledore stood up, opened the window, and let the cold air from outside rush into the room, dispelling the drowsy, stuffy atmosphere.

He turned around, pondered for a moment, and said, "What are your thoughts on that baby you brought back—Ezra Hughes?"

After a pause, instead of probing and speculating as usual, he asked directly:
"Are you planning to... cure Hawthorne so that he can become a bridge between you two, because he might hold an important position in the UMNO party in the future?"

Wade paused for a moment, then said, "I didn't think much about it when I agreed to help them."

The image of Ezra Hughes shielding Hawthorne with his fatal blow flashed before his eyes again—Wade hadn't witnessed that moment firsthand, but Whelan had brought back the video footage.

He said naturally, "It doesn't matter what stance he takes in the future. What matters is that he was an excellent soldier in the past, someone who tried hard to maintain peace and was willing to sacrifice himself for it."

"So what I'm thinking is... those who carry firewood for the masses should not be left to freeze to death in the wind and snow."

Dumbledore gazed at him silently, his deep blue eyes shining brightly in the morning light.

"Very good." He said approvingly, "Will you visit him often during his treatment?"

“Of course,” Wade said.

"Then let's take a good look."

Dumbledore said gently, “Look at how this life, saved because of you, is rebuilt from trauma and how it gradually finds itself again… I think the process itself will teach you a lot that you can’t learn from books.”

Wade nodded solemnly: "I will."

Dumbledore smiled and said, "Now, go back and get some rest. What you need right now is sleep, not more thinking."

“Thank you, Professor.” Wade stood up, then couldn’t help but add, “The same applies to you—proper rest is necessary for everyone.”

"Haha." Dumbledore laughed and said gently, "Very well, I'll go rest right away too."

"Then good night... no, good morning, professor."

Wade turned and walked toward the door, and just as he grasped the doorknob, Dumbledore's voice came from behind him:
"Oh, there's one more thing."

Wade turned around.

"If you still have energy after the holiday—"

Dumbledore blinked his eyes behind his glasses with amusement and said, “I think we can begin some additional lessons, such as advanced applications of memory magic. I think this might be helpful to you in the future.”

A surge of pure joy instantly lit up Wade's face, and without hesitation, he said, "Then it's a deal, Professor!"

The boy's enthusiasm and undisguised joy also infected Dumbledore, who smiled sincerely and said, "Go, sweet dreams, boy."

The oak door closed gently behind Wade, and the spiral staircase hummed softly.

A brief silence fell over the office. Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the open window clicked shut.

But instead of returning to his bedroom to rest, he sat down at the table, took out a quill and parchment, and began to record and organize his thoughts. "Hey, who promised the kid they were going to rest?"

In the portrait on the wall, Phineas Black says sarcastically, "If you keep going like this, I think you'll soon become the first headmaster in Hogwarts history to die from overwork."

“Thank you for your concern, Phineas,” Dumbledore said gently. “I’ll go to bed as soon as I’ve finished this little thing.”

“Speaking of which, aren’t you worried at all, Dumbledore, about that kid’s close ties with dark wizards?” Armando Dippet said anxiously. “Perhaps he’s like Tom… only he’s better at disguising himself.”

Phineas clicked his tongue and said, "Just because you fell off the sky once, does that mean you'll never ride a broom again? Even that fat little Longbottom is braver than you."

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Neville is indeed a brave boy."

"Who told you that?" Dippet said speechlessly.

With a stern expression, Evra, sporting a short black beard, said, “We must be wary of history repeating itself, Dumbledore… You shouldn’t have handed a sharpened sword to a child.”

The other portraits opened their eyes and began to chatter amongst themselves:
"Yes, it's a bit risky."

"Don't let history stifle new possibilities!"

"But a child's thoughts can change in an instant, and his sword may be swung in the wrong direction at any time."

"So young...can he really shoulder such heavy responsibilities?"

“That was no ordinary child, ladies and gentlemen. I’m not referring to his remarkable achievements,” Delilah de Winter said kindly. “What’s truly remarkable is his extraordinary idea of ​​protecting those who protect society.”

The witch turned to Dumbledore and said, “If I were you, I might have made the same decision, Dumbledore… that child is indeed something to look forward to.”

"Even if the answer will disappoint you?" Dippet asked in a muffled voice.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said softly, “even if it will disappoint me.”

Sensing the determination in Dumbledore's words, the murmurs in the portrait gradually subsided and eventually fell silent.

Dumbledore put down his pen and turned to look at Hogwarts, who were gradually waking up from their sleep.

He had experienced too many disappointments in the past: those who wanted to stand by his side turned their backs, those he wanted to redeem fell into depravity, and those he wanted to protect died...

Time and again, the flames of hope were battered and extinguished by the wind and snow, and he had long since learned to stop hoping that everything would go according to his wishes.

Fate is the harshest teacher, showing us through repeated losses and regrets that what we can control is far less than we think.

But...

Even if it eventually leads to an unexpected detour, he will still not give up his efforts.

At every fork in the road, he would do his utmost to push the scales toward the "better" side, even if it was only by an inch.

He exhaled softly, the warm breath hitting the cold glass and condensing into a small wisp of white mist, which then slowly dissipated in the warm airflow inside the room.

Dumbledore lowered his head, his long, silvery-white beard almost touching the paper, and the quill in his hand moved smoothly across the paper, leaving lines of fine writing.

(End of this chapter)