The Vatican safehouse.

Dawn stared at the mirror in a daze. Seeing Dumbledore remain silent, as if he had not yet fully processed what he had heard, Dawn spoke again to prompt him.

“Headmaster, you met me in Iceland on December 26, during the Christmas holidays.

But in the course of pursuing me, you somehow ended up inside Snape’s classroom. Do you really think that’s normal?”

Holiday.

Iceland.

Snape’s classroom.

As those key words reached his ears, Dumbledore’s fingers, which had been idly rolling a piece of candy, suddenly froze.

His sea-blue eyes narrowed beneath tightly drawn brows as he slowly straightened in his chair.

Fragments of memory flashed rapidly through his mind. The abruptly broken stretch of time caused confusion—and a faint chill—to surface in the old headmaster’s eyes.

How could this be?

Dumbledore sank into thought.

To be a bit immodest, as a powerful wizard, it was rare for him to encounter something that left him completely at a loss.

Let alone something this strange—something he had not even noticed until he deliberately thought it through.

Yet the many rises and falls of his long life allowed him to remain calm. He did not sink into negative emotions the way Dawn had.

“And I’ve already confirmed it. The date we returned to the castle was January 7. There’s a full twelve-day gap in between.”

“Wait—confirmed?” Dumbledore suddenly interrupted. “Where did you confirm this?”

Dawn paused mid-sentence. “Does that really matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Dumbledore asked gravely. “Dawn, did you read the Weasley twins’ memories? And to have them deliver the two-way mirror, did you use the Imperius Curse on them?”

“Yes. I did all of that.”

Dawn admitted it without hesitation, then countered, “Headmaster, we’re discussing something critically important. Are you sure this is the time to talk about that?”

He genuinely found Dumbledore’s reaction baffling.

At a moment like this, why was the old man fixating on memory reading and the Imperius Curse—things Dawn considered trivial?

“My child, those are not trivial matters.”

Dumbledore sighed. But seeing the agitation and suppressed frustration buried deep in Dawn’s crimson pupils, he swallowed the rest of his lecture.

He knew that in this state, no matter what he said, Dawn would not listen.

Rubbing his temples tiredly, he said, “Very well, Dawn. If we set that aside—what exactly do you want to talk to me about?”

“The twelve missing days, of course.”

Dawn narrowed his eyes. “After something like this, aren’t you curious at all?”

“Curious? Of course I am.”

Dumbledore’s tone was calm. “But Dawn—over the course of a long life, I’ve learned one thing. This world is full of mysteries, and not all of them must be pursued to the end.”

Dumbledore and Dawn were fundamentally different.

Dawn cared far more about himself.

The unknown changes affecting him filled him with pressure and irritation, to the point that he could not understand the old headmaster’s calm reaction at all.

But Dumbledore?

Long ago, his personal curiosity and thirst for knowledge had been pushed to the lowest priority. What he valued now were the responsibilities he had to shoulder.

He wanted to guide Harry’s growth.

He wanted to clean up the mess Tom Riddle had left behind.

He wanted Dawn to understand his mistakes. And more than anything, he wanted to protect every young wizard.

Under such crushing responsibility, how could he simply abandon everything to chase down an answer?

Dumbledore could not do that.

The flame of the oil lamp burned quietly.

Dawn stared at the mirror in silence.

Through the two-way mirror, he seemed to glimpse a certain resolve in Dumbledore’s expression.

Fine.

Everything was different from what he had expected.

Dumbledore did not intend to search for the missing twelve days with him. And Dawn could no longer rely on the old headmaster’s vast experience and knowledge.

But—

That was fine.

Dawn knew there was one thing that was Dumbledore’s absolute weakness. One thing that would make it impossible for him to continue ignoring this matter.

“Headmaster, do you remember our conversation in front of the Mirror of Erised that night?”

Dawn suddenly smiled. His eyes tilted slightly, like a spider weaving a web, patiently waiting for its prey to fall in.

Dumbledore nodded. “Perfectly.”

“That night, you used your own experiences to teach me the importance of love.”

Dawn interlaced his fingers, recalling the scene as well. “And when you spoke of your sister Ariana’s death, I could clearly feel the guilt and pain in your heart.”

Dumbledore’s hand on the desk clenched abruptly. “Child… what are you trying to say?”

Dawn laughed softly and leaned closer to the mirror.

“Headmaster, have you ever considered that everything might be false? That you never caused your sister’s death at all? Or even that you never had a sister?

If all your guilt, all your nightmares, were nothing but false memories—memories that never belonged to your life at all—would you truly accept that?”

Dawn did not mention the original story he had seen in his dreams.

After realizing the world itself had been corrected, he no longer fully trusted those things.

Dumbledore fell silent for a moment. “You’re suggesting that my memories were altered during those twelve days?”

Instead of answering, Dawn asked another question.

“Do you remember the book I was reading when we met in the library last school year? Madness of Magic: Blood and Taboos.”

When Dumbledore nodded, Dawn continued.

“There was a story in it.

A wizard attempted to turn Sika Carter into a thestral through organ transplants, but during the demonstration, everyone discovered it was actually a donkey.

Do you remember that?”

Dawn used this example to explain what they were facing.

Dumbledore’s mind worked quickly. He understood almost immediately.

“You’re saying that absurd story was actually true. Sika Carter really did become a thestral, but for some inexplicable reason, he ended up as a curse-breaker instead.

And now—we’ve encountered the same thing.”

“Exactly. I call it world correction.”

Dawn explained, “Just as you once told me—changing the past and performing full magical creature transformation are iron laws the world does not permit.

Once you cross that boundary, the world corrects reality itself.”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then asked a different question.

“So, Dawn—you completed magical creature transformation in Iceland, and that triggered this world correction?”

“Yes.”

Dawn admitted it openly.

He was not foolishly exposing his hand. He knew Dumbledore had already deduced the answer.

The proof was what Dumbledore had said to Avery during the Luck Spring ritual—about consulting Newt Scamander on how to restrict Dawn’s Apparition.

Of course, the fact that Dawn could transform into any magical creature was still unknown. He had no intention of revealing that himself.

With his long-held suspicion now confirmed, Dumbledore’s expression grew complex.

“Dawn, you accomplished something I once believed impossible. If Minerva knew, she would be proud of you.”

The old headmaster felt genuine regret.

Such astonishing talent and ability—

Even he could not help but imagine: if Dawn had not left the castle so abruptly, if he had started by making friends with Neville and slowly learned the meaning of love, what might have happened?

Dawn tapped his fingers on the tabletop, pulling Dumbledore back to the present.

“Headmaster, you’re drifting again. Let’s focus on how to deal with this world correction.”

But Dumbledore said instead, “Dawn, I am not particularly curious about the truth.”

“…What?”

Dumbledore’s second unexpected response left Dawn completely stunned.

“But Ariana—”

Dumbledore looked calmly at Dawn’s shocked expression in the mirror and asked gently, “Child, why are you so obsessed with finding the truth?”

“Does that even need a reason?” Dawn replied, baffled. “Memory is tied to the most fundamental question of all—who I am. If even my memories are false, how can I be sure that I truly exist?”

“Then let me ask you something, Dawn.”

Dumbledore’s voice was peaceful. “If one day you discovered that everything was exactly as you fear—filled with falsehoods.

And that in reality, you were a completely different person from who you are now. Cheerful, open, warm.

Then—would learning the truth make you happy?”

Dawn fell silent.

His lips parted several times, but no sound came out.

Dumbledore’s question struck directly at the heart of the matter, leaving him with no answer.

Dumbledore continued, “You asked me earlier whether I would accept it if everything were false.”

“My answer is—yes. Willingly.”

The old headmaster’s gaze was earnest.

“Child, I love everything I have experienced, whether it was real or false. I love Aberforth, even if he broke my nose.

I love Gellert, even though we went our separate ways.

And as for Ariana, I am filled with guilt and regret—but I would rather live with that pain than deny everything I have loved, simply to escape my mistakes.”

Silence fell across the two spaces connected by the mirror.

Dawn had never expected Dumbledore to say something like this.

It was—

So weak.

“Heh.”

After a long silence, Dawn looked at the mirror and let out a cold laugh.

“You’re right, Headmaster.”

“If I learned the truth one day, I might not be happy. I might suffer even more than I do now.”

He smiled bitterly.

“But compared to that, I hate living in ignorance even more. No one gets to control me. Not even the world itself.

So I will uncover what happened, no matter the cost. I won’t hesitate.”

His eyes burned as he spoke, resolute and unyielding.

He truly was nothing like Dumbledore.

“Headmaster, let’s be direct. Let’s make a deal.”

Dawn took a deep breath, clearly tired of the back-and-forth. “Help me find the truth. And I will tell you the locations of two of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”

He intended to use Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup—two Horcruxes he could not currently obtain—as bait.

Dumbledore’s expression changed instantly when he heard that.

“You’ve found two more of his Horcruxes?”

The old headmaster thought of the Ravenclaw diadem still lying on his desk and, for a fleeting moment, wondered if there was some arcane connection between Dawn and Tom.

Still, faced with a deal that carried only benefits and no drawbacks, Dumbledore naturally would not refuse.

He quickly focused. “Dawn, what else do you know about this world correction?”

“Nothing more.”

Dawn shook his head. “If I truly understood it well enough, why would I come to you at all?”

Dumbledore thought for a moment, then asked, “Then tell me—where do you think the limits of world correction lie?

Can it alter the past that has already become history? For example, could it change the founders of Hogwarts from the four Founders into someone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

Dawn denied it.

Though he used the tentative word “think,” he was nearly certain of his answer.

After all, world correction was still tied to natural magic.

And the idea that the past cannot be changed was a fundamental belief shared by both Muggles and wizards.

Under collective consciousness, even world correction should not be able to cross that boundary.

“But Headmaster, there’s something you should keep in mind.”

Dawn continued, “You don’t need to change the past to change history. Starting from the present is enough to completely twist reality.”

“For instance, if someone wanted to replace the four founders of Hogwarts with others.

All they’d need to do is Obliviate everyone who knows the founders’ deeds, implant new memories, and then use Transfiguration or similar magic to replace all related books.”

“No need to alter the past. Hogwarts would still be seen as founded by different people.”

Dawn let out a short breath, the problem feeling more troublesome the more he spoke.

Though it was the same world and the same timeline, once natural magic altered reality and maintained that change permanently, how was that any different from restarting the world altogether?

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“I see. In your view, world correction doesn’t change the past—it casts a spell over the entire world, creating new memories to overwrite the old.”

Hearing that the past itself could not be changed seemed to ease him slightly.

“Dawn, if world correction works this way, then no matter how memories shift, some things can never be altered.”

He continued, “Using Hogwarts as an example—even if everyone believes the school was founded by others, the fact that the four founders discovered the castle remains true within time and history.”

Dawn frowned. “And?”

“I’ve thought of a spell.”

Dumbledore pulled over a piece of parchment and began writing.

“Revelio Temporis—Rapid Manifestation.”

“This spell allows events that once occurred in a place to reappear in the form of phantoms.”

Dawn raised an eyebrow. “Why have I never heard of this spell? Wouldn’t this be the Ministry’s best investigative tool?”

“Because it can’t select a specific time period.”

Dumbledore explained, “Countless events occur in any given place. The spell selects them at random, making it very difficult to see what the caster actually wants.”

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