Dumbledore remained silent for a long time.

He still could not make up his mind.

Perhaps in the eyes of others, there was nothing in this world capable of troubling a wizard as great as him.

But Dumbledore knew very well that in certain matters, he was no different from an ordinary Muggle.

His guilt, his sorrow, the indescribable mix of emotions he felt whenever he thought of Grindelwald—all of it fueled his instinctive reluctance to face his old friend.

He told himself to wait a little longer. Until the moment he truly had no other choice, he would put off this decision.

A sharp crack split the air.

Dumbledore stepped into an unnoticed corner of Cairo and Disapparated, disappearing into the drifting yellow sands.

Though searching for someone in Egypt was like looking for a needle in the sea, it was not entirely hopeless.

His thoughts were clear. He understood Dawn—knew what kind of temperament the boy had.

Since Dawn chose to come to Egypt after leaving school, what he valued had to be the knowledge buried in the pharaohs’ tombs.

So Dumbledore decided to begin with Luxor’s Valley of the Kings.

It held the greatest number of tombs, the weakest Ministry supervision, and the largest gatherings of wizards.

Starting there gave him the best chance of finding Dawn.

And in truth—

The old headmaster’s guess was remarkably accurate.

He found clues so quickly that even he felt startled.

Using gold as an incentive, Dumbledore walked through the markets near the Valley of the Kings, portrait in hand, and after asking several vendors, someone had indeed seen Dawn.

A potion seller claimed he had seen the boy following one of his regular customers when purchasing supplies.

And coincidentally, the merchant even knew that customer’s address.

Beside the Nile.

After knocking several times with no response, Dumbledore sighed softly, murmured an apology, and opened the door with an unlocking charm.

The house was painfully quiet. Afternoon sunlight angled away from the windows, spilling only the faintest light and leaving the furniture in gloom.

A few careless Christmas decorations still hung in the living room.

Dumbledore walked inside silently. He knew he had likely come too late—the place had already become an empty nest.

But he did not leave. He moved through the rooms patiently, hoping to read from the remnants some trace of Dawn’s past days and future direction.

The living room floor was messy.

Dark stains marked the seams of the wooden planks, probably water that had seeped in and dried.

Dumbledore was not a great detective like Charlotte Holmes, capable of deducing entire stories from scattered clues.

But decades of experience told him one thing clearly: judging from the footprints over the water stains, the home’s owner had left not long ago.

But that was as much as he could determine.

He could deduce nothing further.

“How perceptive,” he murmured to himself.

People always changed.

To Dumbledore, Dawn had likely not shed his habit of looking down on everything, but he had certainly become far more alert to his surroundings than he was at school.

Unfortunately, this was not good news for the old headmaster.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, hoping he might find a photograph somewhere in the house.

He wanted to know who the man was—the one Dawn had been following, as the vendor described.

But he found nothing.

Though many traces of recent living remained, Dumbledore could not glean more from them. He simply lacked the abilities of a detective.

Still, the signs showed no haste. The owner had left calmly and unhurriedly.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

From the moment he saw the two hearts on the airplane and learned Dawn had been there, Dumbledore understood the curse on the boy had grown severe.

He had worried Dawn might have succumbed to it somewhere, losing his life.

But fortunately—

That fear had not come to pass.

Dumbledore pulled open the curtains.

A soft light dispelled the gloom behind him.

The distant Nile flowed quietly, its surface glimmering like a container filled with liquid gold.

Gazing at the distant horizon, Dumbledore remained silent for a long time, then finally exhaled softly, as though accepting a decision.

In 1945— After a legendary duel, the wizarding war that Grindelwald had ignited and led for eighteen long years finally came to an end.

Dumbledore emerged from that war with both fame and deep pain.

And Grindelwald, the defeated, was imprisoned in a castle built solely for him—Nurmengard.

It was a dark fortress. Tall, cold, and suffocating.

Despite its size, despite its width and height, it was destined to hold only one prisoner for its entire existence.

For the Greater Good.

Seeing those words carved at the entrance after so many years made Dumbledore’s emotions twist into something even more complicated.

He opened the door.

Inside was a tower devoid of guards.

Spiral stairs rose upward, covered in dust. The wooden railing was cracked and broken. Everything smelled of stillness and death.

As he ascended, he saw at the top a thin, frail silhouette—standing as though waiting for him.

“You’ve come to see me, Albus,” Grindelwald said with a slight smile.

Dumbledore did not ask how he knew it was him. For a natural seer, this knowledge was as simple as breathing.

He only stared at the emaciated, familiar yet distant figure. Sorrow, deep as the sea, filled his blue eyes.

“It’s been a long time, Gellert.”

“It has.”

Grindelwald laughed warmly. “I’m truly glad to see you again, Albus. Though unfortunately, I don’t have any of your favorite sweets here.”

He gave a gentleman’s bow, extending his hand with surprising elegance. “May I invite you inside? If you don’t mind the simplicity of my home.”

“…Of course.”

Dumbledore spoke softly.

He stepped up the last few stairs and followed Grindelwald into the small bedroom he lived in.

The room was plain and tidy—just a bed, a table, a chair, and a shelf full of Muggle books.

Because it was so tidy, Dumbledore immediately noticed the scattered objects on the desk.

Strips of cloth—torn from bedsheets—covered in small, neat handwriting.

Summer of 1899, Godric’s Hollow. I met Albus for the first time at Aunt Bathilda’s house. My impression of him was not bad.

July 23, 1899. By chance, we spoke for the first time. A delightful conversation. Albus is a gifted man. I believe we can become like-minded companions.

August 13, 1899. Albus and I agreed to search for the Elder Wand together, to change the persecution wizards face from Muggles. I am glad we share the same ideals.

…

One scene after another surged from the depths of memory.

Dumbledore shut his eyes hard, his hand trembling faintly in his sleeve.

“Albus, time alone is difficult to endure,” Grindelwald murmured.

He stood beside the table, gently gathering the ink-stained cloth fragments.

“These years, I’ve read many Muggle books. Countless stories of great men who fell, became weak, and could only find strength from revisiting the past.”

He chuckled. “I haven’t sunk that far, but in all this idle time, reliving beautiful memories has become my greatest pleasure.”

He held out the stack of cloth pages to Dumbledore.

“So I kept writing. Writing about the summer we met. Our shared ideals. Our parting.”

“Writing and writing—always writing.”

“When I ran out of bedsheets, I had the wizards who come for inspections leave their robes behind.”

“I don’t want to forget the things worth remembering, Albus. And more importantly—I don’t want you to forget them.”

Grindelwald looked at him deeply.

Unlike Voldemort, the first Dark Lord never hid his emotions from Dumbledore.

And that unfiltered honesty burned Dumbledore like fire, making him avert his eyes.

Grindelwald kept his hand extended, still offering the memories.

“You might find this amusing,” he said lightly. “When I asked them to leave their robes behind, even though I’m nothing more than an old man who can’t fight back, they still obeyed despite their reluctance.”

“Because you’re Gellert,” Dumbledore whispered.

“Exactly. Because I am Gellert Grindelwald. So they fear me—even when what I ask only benefits them.”

A complex emotion flickered through Grindelwald’s gaze before softening again.

“I thought I would have to rely on memory alone to see you again before I died, Albus. I’m glad… perhaps my dull later years finally have something worth remembering.”

Dumbledore remained silent. Even he could not find words at a moment like this.

Grindelwald looked at him with quiet sorrow.

“Albus… I thought you would at least offer me an apology.”

Dumbledore pressed his lips together.

“But Gellert—I do not regret what I did.”

___________

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