December in Egypt was warm.

Unlike Britain’s pale and biting cold, the average temperature between 10 and 20 degrees Celsius allowed people to step outside wearing only a single layer of cotton or linen.

Outside the entrance of the Egyptian Ministry of Magic.

Dumbledore stood beneath the long-absent warm sun. Hearing footsteps behind him, he slowly turned. “How is it, Charlotte?”

“Tch. No idea.”

The Minister of Magic frowned, clearly displeased.

“You know what the Egyptian Ministry is like. With how they indulge foreign wizards, we have no idea where that red-eyed brat has gone.”

She let out a short scoff.

“And besides, in a country filled with curses at every corner, trying to find anyone showing symptoms similar to the curse in New Zealand is… not easy.”

Dumbledore had expected such an answer, but he still felt a twinge of disappointment.

A whole night had passed since he saw Dawn through the Pensieve. Aside from guessing that he had already returned to Egypt, they had nothing else.

A whole country was simply too vast; finding one specific wizard in it was anything but easy.

Even attempting to narrow the search by locating clusters of curse symptoms similar to those in New Zealand was impossible for the Egyptian Ministry.

For a moment, Charlotte couldn’t help thinking that, compared to this, the work she did as Minister back home was truly not bad.

After a brief silence, she glanced at her watch and spoke apologetically:

“Sorry, Albus. My job doesn’t allow me to stay away from New Zealand for long. Since there’s no real information, I have to head back first.”

Dumbledore returned to the present and smiled at her with a nod. “You’ve done enough, Charlotte. Thank you for coming all this way.”

“No, it was I who begged you to help me solve a problem.”

She shook her head, drawing her wand and preparing to Apparate back.

But just before reciting the incantation, she hesitated inexplicably. Frowning, she turned to Dumbledore.

“Albus, I know you’re a wonderful headmaster. A responsible wizard.”

“I’ve also heard that over the past month, you’ve been visiting the Wizengamot members, trying to seek justice for your student.”

Charlotte hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

“I’m aware of the reports in Britain about the savior’s attempted assassination. Until recently, I firmly believed you were right.”

“Even when Fudge sent a request to the International Confederation of Wizards for an arrest warrant, I refused to publicly detain your student in New Zealand.”

“You know this. I’ve never thought highly of Fudge. Even as a simple politician, his decisions show more foolishness than sense.”

“But… maybe this time—he was the one who was right?”

She spoke seriously.

Charlotte considered herself good at reading people, even when only observing them secondhand through memories in a Pensieve.

But her instincts, honed from years of work, told her without a doubt: Dawn Richter could not be considered a good person.

And really—what good person could commit such acts?

Charlotte lowered her eyes and gave a faint smile. “Sorry. I’ve said too much.”

She nodded at Dumbledore, and without waiting for a response, flicked her wand and vanished.

The smile on Dumbledore’s face became strained, bitter. He offered no explanation.

Because he knew very well: no matter the reasons, Dawn had deliberately spread the curse in New Zealand. That was an undeniable fact.

Even if no irreversible damage had occurred, for Charlotte—the Minister of Magic—that was not something she could forgive.

Dumbledore felt tired. And uneasy, as though a train with half its wheels over the edge of a cliff was finally tilting into a fall.

At Hogwarts, he had always tried to find a way into the child’s heart.

Every meeting, every conversation—before speaking, he always weighed his words again and again.

During their nighttime talks, he had even revealed his own past to the boy—laid bare, bloody and all.

After witnessing Tom Riddle’s school years, Dumbledore was no longer the ruthless man who once lit a wardrobe ablaze without hesitation.

He reflected. He changed.

He no longer forced others to do what he believed they should do. Instead, he offered sincerity in exchange for sincerity.

Encounters between people always had the potential to create something.

Dumbledore believed that seven years at Hogwarts would gradually, silently, shift something within the boy.

Even if each ripple was tiny, one day, accumulated over time, they might create a force strong enough to change everything.

But a sudden departure from school had disrupted all his plans.

When a blank sheet of paper leaves the studio, a single splash of dirty water or a footprint is enough to stain it forever—much less a sheet that already had marks on it.

Why had Dumbledore visited the Ministry again and again, pleading for the warrant to be withdrawn, seeking the truth of the incident?

Because he wanted—desperately—to bring that sheet of paper back to the clean studio as soon as possible.

Yet now— It seemed too late.

Dumbledore placed a hand over his heart.

After seeing the journalist’s complete memory in the Pensieve, both he and Charlotte had been tainted by the curse. Both had seen the wolf-headed god.

Fortunately, they had discovered the method to break the curse.

After erasing the strange conversations from their minds with Memory Charms, the shadow of Anubis vanished.

Perhaps because he knew the breaking method, and the curse had not yet caused any irreversible catastrophe…

Dumbledore still held onto a sliver of hope.

Like the moment before receiving exam results—you may already expect the worst, but until you see the paper, you can’t help but fantasize.

What if the examiner marked something wrong? What if your guess turned out to be correct?

What if the child had a reason — something forced, something desperate?

But regardless— Dumbledore knew he had to find his runaway student quickly—before the boy committed more mistakes.

He walked through Cairo’s dusty streets, watching the crowds with a weary expression.

As he had said earlier, finding one specific person in a country this large was no easier than finding a needle in the sea.

Naturally, his thoughts turned to prophecy—one of the least sensible branches of magic.

But although Professor Sybill in Hogwarts was a talented seer, she could only make precise prophecies under particular conditions.

In the search for Dawn, she was of little help.

At that moment, Dumbledore found himself thinking of someone else—

The man who, on a cloudy afternoon long ago, had declared with sunlike arrogance and cunning: We will change the world.

“Gellert…”

The old headmaster whispered, closing his eyes in pain.

___________

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