The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 352 Dumbledore's Thoughts (6K) (1/2)

Lynch paused almost imperceptibly.

Although he controlled his expression perfectly, a genuine shock suddenly flashed in the depths of his dark eyes, like a boulder being thrown into a calm lake.

Magic wand.

That wand that Dumbledore confiscated after the Battle of the Forbidden Forest and never returned.

It was not merely a tool for casting spells, but an innate extension of his magic, a "half-body" that accompanied him through his growth, battles, and even his eventual removal. Even when he later formed an alliance with Dumbledore due to Voldemort's threat, allowing him to leave that cage, the wand was never mentioned again, as if it had become a tacitly accepted collateral, an invisible yet undeniably present rein.

He had long been accustomed to using magic in other ways when necessary, and had even secretly prepared for a long period without it.

This sudden "return" has a significance far beyond a magic wand itself.

However, the shock lasted only for a fleeting moment, so fast that it was almost impossible to catch.

Lynch quickly adjusted his breathing, his eyes regaining their deep, still calm, even more profound than before. He turned his head to look at Dumbledore, who was still walking slowly forward, his tone carrying a barely perceptible sharpness: "I thought," his voice was steady, yet like carefully polished ice, "it would lie in your cupboard until—the day Voldemort truly returns. After all, having some insurance" is always more prudent.

Dumbledore finally stopped.

He turned around to face Lin Qi, a complex smile on his face—a smile that contained frank admission, a hint of weariness, and a sense of relief at having made a decision.

“Oh, yes, Jim, I know we’re not friends, but please allow me to call you by your name now—it really was part of the plan.” He admitted it without hesitation, his blue eyes behind his half-moon glasses looking honestly at Lynch. “Plans never keep up with changes, and people—perhaps shouldn’t be seen merely as tools in a plan.”

His gaze fell on a somewhat old bench half-hidden by the shade of a tree on the side of the street.

Then, he walked over to the bench, brushed off non-existent dust, and sat down naturally, as if they were in Hogwarts Gardens.

Dumbledore sat quietly on the bench, leaning back slightly, his hands folded on his knees, his gaze fixed on the sparse vines climbing the brick wall across the street, and the occasional Muggle vehicle passing by in the distance.

The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting shimmering golden spots of light on his dazzling purple robe and silver beard, making him look like a silent statue, out of place yet strangely integrated into the tranquility.

Lynch sat next to him, about a person's distance away.

He didn't urge him or show any impatience. He simply turned his gaze to the street scene, but the focus of his dark eyes didn't seem to linger on any specific object. It was as if he was digesting and analyzing all the aftershocks of that short but earth-shattering statement. His fingers were lightly clasped on his knees, his knuckles steady and without the slightest tremor.

Several gray pigeons paced on the ground not far away, cooing, and then fluttered up into the air.

Finally, Dumbledore's voice slowly rang out, his tone devoid of its usual liveliness or humor, replaced by a deep and weighty tone.

"Jim," he used the name again, as if emphasizing the nature of the conversation to come, "I think I first need to apologize for part of that plan. Not for my caution—which, at that point, was perhaps necessary—but for having, at one time, oversimplified you as a variable that needed to be controlled, a tool that needed to be insured."

He turned his head, and through his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes clearly reflected Lynch's calm profile.

"That night in the Forbidden Forest, I saw a powerful and dangerous force driven by hatred and pain, an avenger willing to trample on rules and even his own bottom line to achieve his goal. Since then, I have viewed you as a force that needs to be carefully guided and restrained. Confiscating your wand is the most direct means of this. It is a safety rope," a reminder, and also—a tangible symbol of the deep unease I feel within myself about the path you have chosen, the kind of resolute determination that cuts through the gray areas of the rules to achieve your ends.

He paused, as if searching for a more precise expression: "Even though we are allied because of Tom's threat, this unease, this sense of vigilance that we must maintain, has always remained. I regard your wand as one of the anchors to ensure that the alliance does not stray from what I consider a safe path."

Lin Qi's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, forming a cool, curved shape, but he didn't interrupt.

"However, time is the best observer and the most convincing evidence." Dumbledore's voice softened, tinged with a frank admiration. "The past few years, and especially the recent series of events, have forced me to re-examine the foundation of this unease. You helped Sirius Black, not only clearing his name but also, in a way, mending a corner of the almost irreparable wound left by the Potters' sacrifice."

"At Hogwarts, although I know you didn't completely agree with certain teaching methods—or rather, some of my practices—you never took that disagreement out on the students. You protected them, taught them, and even—"

He seemed to recall something, a complex glint in his eyes: "You reminded them of the cruelty of the world in your own way, yet you provided reliable shelter when they truly needed it. Your decisions and actions were crucial to the Longbottoms' chance to be reborn today."

"I see your path more clearly than ever before, Jim," Dumbledore concluded solemnly. "It is still different from mine, still clashes with certain fundamental ideas. You value efficiency more, and are more willing to blur—even reshape—the boundaries of the rules when necessary. But at its core, it still points to justice, to protection, to a world you believe is better. You have not been swallowed by darkness, nor have you been lost by power. You walk your own path, steadfast and clear-headed. In that case, my continued restraint on your wand, under the pretext of preventing a fall that has not yet occurred, is no longer out of caution, but rather—an impudent constraint, an obsession based on past prejudices."

He sighed softly, a sigh that carried a sense of relief at the weight of his burdens, but also a hint of weariness that the years had brought on.

"This leads to my second thought, which is perhaps more personal." Dumbledore's gaze became somewhat distant. "I'm getting old, Jim. Not just physically—though that's obvious enough—but also mentally, habitually. I cling to the frameworks I've built, I trust the paths I'm familiar with, and even when new possibilities are presented to me, I often—blindly, or subconsciously measure them by the old standards."

His voice held a rare hint of self-deprecation: "Giddro Lockhart's magic, the magic that can heal certain psychological traumas—I know it exists, I know its principles, but I've never truly tried to push it forward, to delve into it, to transform it from an opportunist's tool into a practical healing instrument. The excessive caution that comes with age, the preference for the stability of the existing order, and perhaps a touch of weariness at the risk of the unknown—all these have confined my thinking within the walls of rationality and caution. I accepted that St. Mungo's conclusion was the end, that their suffering was an unchangeable destiny."

He shook his head, his silvery-white beard and hair swaying slightly.

"This isn't a mistake I would have made in my youth. In my youth, I was also—more daring to break the rules, more willing to explore gray areas, to try even the slimmest possibilities. But now, I'm more of a guardian, a balancer, the one who worries that rash action will shatter the fragile scales. Perhaps this is a necessary maturity, but also a pathetic rigidity. And you," he looked at Lynch again, "you reminded me that sometimes, doing something—even if the method is imperfect, even controversial—can be far more valuable than maintaining the status quo—with perfect caution. The renewed light in Neville-Longbotton and Mrs. Augusta-Longbotton's eyes today is the gentlest yet sharpest criticism of my aging mind."

Across the street, a mother walked by with her toddler, whose clear laughter briefly broke the silence.

Dumbledore waited for the laughter to fade away before continuing to speak, his voice lower and more solemn.

"Finally, it's about the future, about the magical world we're all fighting for, yet which may lead us to different ends." He paused for a moment, as if choosing the most precise words. "Amelia Bornes is a member of your First Order—that's no longer a secret to me after the Quidditch World Cup."

He calmly met Lin Qi's gaze, which held no surprise, only understanding and a profound anticipation of what would follow.

"Director Burns is a capable and upright wizard, and her achievements in the Department of Law Enforcement are evident to all. She has reached her current position as a result of her own abilities and character. And you, and your First Order," are clearly a significant force driving her forward, or rather, a vital force accompanying her.

Dumbledore's tone contained no accusation, only a statement: "I don't get involved in politics, Jim, at least not voluntarily."

My life's energy has been largely devoted to education and dealing with direct threats like Grindelwald and Tom. But I am not ignorant of how power works. I see the trajectory—with Director Burns' current prestige and position, becoming Minister for Magic after Cornelius Fudge is not out of the question. And behind her is you, and your ideals.”

He took a deep breath, his blue eyes shimmering with a complex light, the ripples of thoughts that had been tangled for a long time finally being laid bare.

"Over the past few years, besides Tom, I've also been thinking about the problems you've brought up, and even being troubled by them. I've seen the decisiveness and effectiveness in your actions that I admire, but I've also seen the inherent dangers of your flexible application of the rules, which contradicts my beliefs. I worry that an overly powerful, overly centralized power, even if well-intentioned, can lead to unexpected wrong turns when there are no effective checks and balances. I've tried to find the fatal flaws in your path, trying to convince myself that I must do something to correct or balance it."

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His shoulders slumped slightly, a subtle gesture of acknowledging his powerlessness.

"But I've ultimately found it to be a dead end, Jim. As long as you don't cross that final line—no indiscriminate killing, no siding with the dark, no ruling yourself and your supporters through sheer terror—you operate within the existing rules of wizarding society. You strive for support, build prestige, and exercise your due rights to participate in the Ministry of Magic's work. I have no position, no right, to prevent the rise of a legitimate political force supported by a segment of the population simply because I fear a certain future possibility. That in itself would violate many principles I've upheld throughout my life."

His gaze refocused, becoming sharp and sincere, and he looked directly at Lynch.

"Therefore, I have decided to return your wand."

"This is also my first step in trying to change how we interact. It's not a complete 'letting go'."

This is not an endorsement of all your future choices, nor is it a signal to remove any other constraints between us.

He was clearly referring to that unbreakable vow, something both of them knew perfectly well.

"It's a statement from me: I see your value, your principles, and the undeniable influence you're building. I acknowledge that the past approach of simply guarding and restricting was perhaps too simplistic, even a waste of your abilities, and a squandering of opportunities for us to collaborate, or at least communicate, in a more complex but also more effective way."

He slowly stood up, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the setting sun.

"This means I'm choosing to give you some trust initially, based on your resistance to darkness and your insistence on a certain kind of justice, as you've shown so far. I hope this can also be a new starting point for us. A starting point where we can discuss our differences more frankly, and perhaps even explore limited cooperation in certain areas. After all, our greatest enemy is still Tom. And beyond him, regarding the future of this world—" His blue eyes flickered with a complex light, containing expectation, reservation, and a heavy sense of relinquishing some of the power of choice. "I hope that at least we can keep our communication channels open. The wand is a natural extension of your power; returning it is a fundamental respect for restoring your full spellcasting ability. As for deeper trust, and whether the future paths will be parallel, intersecting, or diverging—that will require time, and each step that follows, to write together."

Lynch remained seated on the bench, his posture as straight as a pine tree.

After listening to this long, complex, and reserved explanation, his face remained expressionless. However, in his unfathomable black eyes, the initial icy demeanor seemed to crack slightly, revealing a sharp scrutiny and assessment.

He remained silent for a moment, as if digesting the multiple meanings behind each word.

"Then," he finally spoke, his voice steady, "when can I get it back?"

Dumbledore seemed to have anticipated this question, answering without hesitation: "October."

Lin Qi raised his eyebrows. He naturally knew about the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, so he grasped the full meaning behind that key place name almost instantly.

"—Beauxbatons," he repeated slowly, "you've kept it at the Beauxbatons School in France all this time?"

Dumbledore met his surprised gaze, his gentle expression unchanged, but a sly glint flashed in his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles.

“Yes,” he readily admitted, even nodding slightly as if praising Lynch’s keen observation, “being separated by oceans, and with the ancient and powerful protective magic of Beauxbatons Castle itself, it’s one of the few places that could effectively sever that—subtle resonance. After all, Jim, I’ve witnessed the connection between you and that wand; the necessary precautions need to be taken more thoroughly.” He paused, then added, “Madame Maxime is an extremely reliable friend; her personally returning your wand is a perfect way to put an end to the responsibility that was unexpectedly placed upon her.”

Lynch nodded very slightly.

In October, in Beauxbatons, Mrs. Maxime—this was not merely a time for return; it was a carefully crafted buffer and ceremony. It clarified the boundaries of the "return"—not immediately, nor privately, but a formal handover with distance, time, and a third-party witness.

This is a direct manifestation of Dumbledore's philosophy of "limited trust" and "gradual adjustment." For Lynch, this eliminated uncertainty, provided a clear timeline, and also confirmed the extent to which Dumbledore had gone in the matter of "insurance"—which in turn gave him a clearer understanding of the old wizard's bottom line and methods.

"A very thoughtful arrangement." Lin Qi's evaluation was neither praise nor criticism; it was simply a statement of fact.

For him, the result was what mattered—the wand would return, and the time and place would be clear. As for the symbolic meaning and buffer design, he accepted and incorporated them into the calculation parameters.

"I understand." That was all he said in the end.

Dumbledore didn't seem to expect any further reaction from him.

The old headmaster straightened his magnificent purple robe, as if the conversation he had just had about trust, power, and transnational arrangements was nothing more than a casual afternoon chat.

"Well then, I think I should head over now," Dumbledore said casually, as if suddenly remembering another trivial matter. "I still need to go to the Ministry of Magic to discuss the Gringotts vault. You know, procedures are always tedious."

He winked at Lynch, a gesture that made him look like the Hogwarts headmaster who loved sweets and was occasionally a bit playful.

Then, Dumbledore nodded slightly to Lynch, turned, and walked with steady, light steps toward the other end of the street. His conspicuous robes quickly blended into the increasingly dense crowds and rising twilight of London's evening, leaving behind a seemingly indifferent silhouette.

Only Lynch remained on the bench.

He did not get up immediately.

The dappled shadows of the trees moved slowly across him, and the distant hum of the city seemed to be separated by an invisible barrier, appearing blurry and distant. He sat alone, his figure appearing somewhat solitary on the empty bench, a still contrast to the bustling Muggle world around him.

The pigeons gathered again, tentatively pacing a short distance from his feet, cooing softly.

Lynch lowered his gaze, looking at the gray-feathered birds who were completely unaware of what had just happened, his eyes deep and unfathomable.

His fingers tapped twice very rhythmically and lightly on his knee, then stopped completely.

Then, a very soft, very long sigh, as if slowly exhaled from the depths of his chest, escaped from the corner of his lips.

Immediately following was a short, almost breathy laugh.

The laughter lacked warmth, yet strangely it released a long-standing, meticulously calculated burden, revealing a rare sense of relief, or rather, a helpless acceptance, in the face of unforeseen variables.

—I really didn't expect that.

The thought clearly surfaced deep within his mind.

He certainly hadn't expected Dumbledore to take this step at this time and in this way.

As he had confessed to the old headmaster not long ago, in his deduction, the return of the wand should be a desperate release of leverage closely tied to the worst event of "Voldemort's true return".

That was a clear and alarming signal, marking the beginning of a state of total war.

Therefore, he had already begun planning and searching.

In his original calculations, there were several priorities for where Dumbledore might have hidden the wand: a top-secret location at Hogwarts; a safe house within the Order of the Phoenix; or entrusting it to an absolutely trustworthy old friend.

Having obtained the authorization from the founder of Hogwarts, the possibility that the wand was hidden inside the castle was essentially ruled out.

He also turned his attention to Dumbledore's many friends, including, of course, his oldest and perhaps most powerful friend—Nick Flamel.

In retrospect, Mr. Lemaître remained loyal to his old friend and successfully fooled Reggie.

The thought flashed through Lin Qi's mind, and a different meaning was added to the smile that had not yet faded at the corner of his mouth. This was not a big problem. Loyalty was a virtue, and he should not be blamed for being loyal.

Now, the word "Beauxbatons" is like a key, instantly unlocking the puzzle he had not yet fully solved.

This also means that most of the effort and work involved in the expensive "search network" that I have laid out and woven has suddenly lost its meaning.

Dumbledore, with an unexpectedly gentle gesture, pushed the piece he wanted from the other end of the chessboard.