HP North Star's Radiance

"Is there anyone else here?" Praris asked.

Aberforth said, "You little thief!"

"Didn't Dumbledore inform me?" Prarese said calmly. "He sent me here."

Aberforth said resentfully, "Who knows if he said it or not? If he dies, I'll be the last to know!"

"Is he not in good condition?" Praris said.

Aberforth snorted twice: "You're starting to be as annoying as Albus."

"When will he be back?" Praris asked, frowning. "Am I supposed to wait for him here forever?"

"That's your business!" Aberforth growled. "Now, an old man like me needs to sleep—so do you, little brat!"

Prairie had no idea how much gunpowder Dumbledore had fed his brother. He shook his head helplessly, picked up his suitcase, and followed Aberforth upstairs.

The next day, before dawn, Praris got up. Aberforth was knocking loudly on the door and shoving breakfast into the room.

"Don't go out, don't make a sound!" Aberforth warned Praris. "I have all sorts of people here, especially those you hid from last night!"

Praris had no objections. She had cast a traceless stretching spell on her suitcase and brought along the crucible, balance, and herbs. She decided to use this place as a quiet retreat to conduct her research.

When Aberforth came to deliver the food again, he found her conducting experiments in earnest—another thing that needed to be warned about.

Aberforth snapped, "Don't make any noise upstairs!"

“No.” Praris calmly held up three fingers. “I haven’t had a single instance of a crucible exploding in the past three years, not even when testing new drugs.”

When she first started experimenting, she was indeed inexperienced and broke the crucible, which broke her heart due to her poverty and kept her up at night. From then on, she was prepared to fail in every experiment, but she would never break the crucible.

Aberforth rolled his eyes and asked Praris, "I've heard you're very good at making potions?"

—Otherwise, the Carters wouldn't have had that incident.

"She's barely passable," Prarese thought, believing she was far inferior to Professor Snape.

The development of new potions is incomparable, but the skill level in potion-making can be compared. Last year, she barely reached the level Professor Snape was at in his sixth year; it's too early to say she was "very impressive."

Aberforth said he was well-connected with Death Eaters because he could provide them with "good stuff" and help them resell potions and drugs.

In short, the Death Eaters sell the good stuff they plunder to Aberforth, who then sells it to other wizards. In return, he provides the Death Eaters with things they want.

“If I give you the names of the herbs and the potion—” Aberforth asked, “can you make it?”

Praris calmly said, "I haven't encountered any potions that I can't make yet. If you give me the opportunity to broaden my horizons... I will study them on the spot until I can make them, and then give them to you for free."

Abu Fusili was overjoyed; it seemed this was a small money tree delivered to him!

Praris was quite willing; there was really nothing she couldn't do now, which was why she had previously considered becoming an apothecary at St. Mungo's.

Aberforth immediately pulled out the backlog of orders for Praris, and Praris actually saw one or two potions he had never seen before, all invented by foreign wizards.

Whether Dumbledore comes or not is no longer important. Prarese has found the meaning of this Christmas and is enthusiastically embarking on his research, while also satisfying Aberforth's needs.

Aberforth also said that the potions shouldn't be made to be of too high quality; six or seven levels of Praris's usual level would be enough. Death Eaters don't deserve to use such high-quality potions!

On Christmas Eve, the wizards all went home, and Aberforth closed the pub earlier than usual.

“Son, you’ll only be able to spend Christmas with an old man like me,” Aberforth said with a sigh.

Praris cheerfully retorted, "Isn't it nice to have someone to spend Christmas with?"

Since he wasn't spending the holiday alone, Aberforth specially roasted a chicken for Miss Money Tree. He also cooked a large portion of macaroni and shook a glass of orchid-colored liqueur for Praris.

“You little girls like this,” Aberforth said. “I understand.”

Chapter 238 Dumbledore's Hand

"There is no alcohol that only girls like."

In the small, filthy bar, two wizards, one old and one young, sat at an old wooden table in the middle of the first floor, the faint flames of the short candles crackling.

Praris took Aberforth's glass and said slowly, "But thank you for mixing my drink."

Aberforth didn't react to Praris's words; his eyes merely glanced out of the corner of his eye at the portrait of the blonde, blue-eyed girl on the wall next to him.

Praris noticed this, took a sip of the drink, and found that it hardly resembled alcohol; it was more like some kind of sweet beverage.

Perhaps the girl who likes this kind of wine is actually Ariana on the wall? Praris remained silent about this; to respect someone is to not casually touch their scars.

Aberforth's roast chicken was delicious, with a slightly charred skin and tender, juicy breast meat, making Hogwarts' roast chicken pale in comparison.

"Why isn't this dish on the bar menu?" Praris asked instinctively, enjoying her meal. "It tastes really good."

Aberforth said with a strange expression, "You usually seem so clever, why do you keep asking such stupid questions? Kid, nobody comes to my bar just to eat an hour of roast chicken!"

“That’s not necessarily true.” Praris said cheerfully, having almost finished half a roast chicken. “If I could come to Hogsmeade, I’d be happy to spend an hour eating roast chicken at your bar.”

Aberforth was actually praised. He was usually hard to please, but Praris wasn't flattering him; he genuinely thought the roast chicken was delicious, which made him feel quite pleased.

Such nights are rare because, like the Leaky Cauldron, the Pig's Head Bar has a bar on the first floor and a hotel on the second. In other words, people occasionally stay overnight on the second floor.

But the situation is chaotic now, Hogsmeade has a curfew, and tonight is Christmas Eve—almost no one would stay in a pub or hotel on such a night.

Aberforth muttered under his breath, "A child!"

Praris smiled, looking down. She didn't feel looked down upon. In her eyes, being considered a child was a happy thing.

Even she occasionally has the urge to go back to the past—although she was poor and weak a few years ago, the peaceful and happy times are always something to miss.

But even if such an opportunity were to arise, she wouldn't accept it. After all, time moves forward, and those who always look back are more likely to bump into trees.

boom!

Just as the two were enjoying their dinner together, a figure suddenly appeared and fell heavily to the ground, startling both Praris and Aberforth.

Praris immediately gripped his wand and stood up, only then recognizing the person's face: "Dumbledore!"

She rushed to Dumbledore and checked on his condition.

Although Aberforth had been cursing Dumbledore for days, he was now anxiously standing behind Prarese, looking around, not daring to disturb Prarese's examination.

Dumbledore rarely allowed himself to be manipulated by Prasris like this, and Prasris had almost never examined him so thoroughly before. He was always reluctant to reveal his true condition, even to those he could entrust his life to.

Prarese discovered that Dumbledore was not in good condition; he had probably not rested much and was extremely tired and weak.

At the same time, the physical damage reduced his magical potential. In other words, even if Dumbledore recovers through rest, the magic he uses will likely not be as powerful as before.

Under these circumstances, it's clear that Dumbledore had recently disregarded his physical condition and used magic repeatedly. In addition, he had numerous other ailments, both major and minor.

Praris turned to Aberforth and said, "Please bring me my briefcase."

Aberforth responded and hurried upstairs. Only after Aberforth left did Prairie cast several healing spells on Dumbledore.

“How amusing! I almost thought you’d tricked the whole world into coming back to life—” Praris said in a cold, sarcastic tone, “just to die!”

Dumbledore seemed to have calmed down a bit, and he said gently, "Prareth, I'm glad you're here... You're starting to sound more and more like Severus."

"Ha, you knew I would come," Praris sneered. "But you yourself aren't omnipotent, so how could you think I could clean up this mess you've made?"

Dumbledore smiled and said, "I believe you can do it."

“Aberforth said you were nasty,” Praris said, putting away his wand. “Now it seems that’s true.”

Soon, Aberforth came downstairs carrying a suitcase.

Upon seeing that Dumbledore had "come back to life," Aberforth reverted to his usual hot-tempered self and began to mock Dumbledore relentlessly.

Prader didn't stop Aberforth; she felt Dumbledore really needed a "lesson." She opened her briefcase, took out some medicine, and pondered what else she might need to "force" Dumbledore into a stupor.

Dumbledore's body was like an underground cavern; one end was blocked while the other was still leaking air, and new openings were constantly being created without anyone noticing.

Prareas is not as skilled in pure healing magic as Madam Pomfrey, nor as adept at potions as Professor Snape. However, fortunately, she excels in both areas and is more mobile than either of them.

All she can do now is temporarily block up the more obvious "holes" so that Dumbledore's "cave" won't be leaky from all sides.

This peaceful and happy Christmas night was successfully shattered by Dumbledore's arrival. No one had any appetite to continue eating, so Aberforth cleared away all the remaining dishes.

Dumbledore was placed next to Prasris by Aberforth so that Prasris could keep an eye on Dumbledore's condition at any time.

The cauldron originally contained the poison Aberforth wanted, but Prarese simply disposed of it, washed it clean, and used it to brew medicine for Dumbledore.

Dumbledore tried to lighten the mood: "Are you sure what boils in this cauldron won't poison me?"

"Perhaps," Praris said calmly. "I will take responsibility for giving you the antidote."

Dumbledore took a few seconds to make sure Prares wasn't joking, and he couldn't help but chuckle softly.

Honestly, sometimes this strange seriousness inexplicably tickles Dumbledore's funny bone, making him want to tease him. But having just returned, he really didn't have the energy to tease anyone, which was a real shame.

“Dr. Prince,” Dumbledore suddenly asked, “how much longer do I have to live?”

Asked this question out of the blue, Praris was a little surprised: "I thought you longed for death?"

"Something like that." Dumbledore lay flat on his back, looking at the uneven texture of the ceiling, and for some reason felt it resembled a ground bat. "But I still have a reason to live."

"Even if it means bearing the stigma?" Praris asked softly. "If they knew you were alive, they would hate you, wouldn't they? They would think you deceived their feelings, and perhaps even question the righteousness of your choice."

During this time, Dumbledore's past was all dug up, including his relationships with Aberforth, Ariana, Candela, and Grindelwald.

Harry will definitely question Dumbledore's plan and doubt whether he truly understands Dumbledore, yet he is risking his life to carry out Dumbledore's decision.

Prareas still doesn't know how Dumbledore saved Harry's life, but Harry will eventually find out the path he's about to embark on.

If Dumbledore hadn't died, yet he demanded Harry die, such a decision would seem hypocritical and utterly deceitful.

“That’s right, even if it means bearing the infamy.” Dumbledore lowered his eyelids, obscuring his blue eyes. “Prareth, sometimes victory requires lies, and that torments me more than death.”

Sometimes, it takes more courage to live than to die.

Choosing to die is an easy thing; you just go and die, and leave the rest to the living to think about.

But to live is to endure the pain of life, to face all the changes and difficulties, and sometimes even to be questioned about why you are still alive.

Dumbledore was no better off alive than dead.

Prass fell silent. She sensed Dumbledore's pain, a pain that was utterly genuine—perhaps because Dumbledore knew perfectly well that lying to Prass was pointless; he would simply remain silent.

Suddenly, she slowly turned to look at Dumbledore and said softly, word by word, "Sir, are you speaking to Harry as a confession, or to me?"

The air seemed to freeze, as suffocating as the waters of a black lake.

"Why won't you answer me?" Prarese demanded of Dumbledore. "Why won't you look at me—what are you afraid of?"

During this time, Dumbledore secretly gathered most of the forces he could unite under other identities, and kept track of Harry, Harry, and his friends' movements.