Some were like the Selwyns—polite, cooperative in the face of their arrival.
Others… not so much.
But of course, Harry always managed to employ that signature Hunter eloquence of his, persuading even the most reluctant to cooperate.
At the Three Broomsticks, tucked into a corner—
After the drinks arrived, Harry flicked his wand, sending a quill and parchment flying out to begin writing a letter.
"Not a single Horcrux found…" Dumbledore sipped his honey water, visibly surprised.
Harry nodded, tucking a sealed envelope with a sigil into its packet. "Seems we were wrong. Voldemort never trusted his Death Eaters that much."
"Malfoy and Lestrange were the exceptions."
Dumbledore took another thick sip. "Then where did he hide them?"
"Any other places tied to his childhood?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Afraid not. I visited his old orphanage—it's still there, even nicer than before. But there was no Horcrux."
Harry tapped the Sorting Hat, passing it a message.
They fell into silence.
When Hedwig finally swooped in, Harry laid over a dozen heavy letters before her.
The snowy owl tilted her head, hooting discontentedly.
Something felt off about the weight.
"Borrowed things need returning," Harry soothed, gently stroking her feathers.
Hedwig bit him back and hopped on his face, stomping around in protest—this summer was already a disaster. No trip to Privet Drive, no lovingly cooked meals by Aunt Petunia, and now, before break even started, she was saddled with ten letters.
Ten! And her owl instincts told her she'd be flying across all of Britain.
"You'll go to Privet Drive later," Harry promised.
Two skeptical hoots.
"Well, not sure how long I'll stay," Harry admitted.
Hedwig shot him a withering look. She knew it! Hah! Trying to trick her? No chance.
She didn't even bother with the letters. A few flaps later, she returned to Hogwarts, and soon returned with an equal number of school owls—each one gripping a letter as they soared into the night.
"She really has… a lot of friends," Dumbledore tugged at his beard, half-musing, half-amused.
"All thanks to Aunt Petunia," Harry chuckled.
"Now I'm curious to try it," Dumbledore mused again.
Harry gave him a strange look, reached into the Sorting Hat, and pulled out a sack of owl treats, tossing it across. "Don't overdo it. Hedwig keeps count."
"She used to keep them herself, but she's been eating more, flying less. Gained some weight. So she asked me to guard the stash for her. But she knows the exact count."
Dumbledore opened his mouth to deny interest, but his hand spoke louder—he popped a treat into his mouth.
"By the way, did we ever check on that old lady Voldemort was cozy with?" Harry asked as he cleared the table.
Dumbledore shook his head. "No need to worry. Her relatives likely scavenged through her house better than we ever could. It was her inheritance, after all."
He paused, his voice tinged with a complex emotion. "I visited—some vagrants had taken over. The place was stripped bare, even the floorboards were gone."
When the lonely die, the struggle isn't over—there's always the battle over what they left behind.
"Don't worry. That won't be you," Harry said. "I'll protect your home."
Dumbledore gave a noncommittal grunt.
"You even have a home? Besides Hogwarts?"
"I'm not homeless, Harry," Dumbledore protested. "I do have the Dumbledore estate—just haven't been back in a long time. Neither has Aberforth."
"You two don't have kids, right? Aberforth too?"
Dumbledore went silent, then shook his head. "He's different from me."
"He's always been a good Dumbledore. I'm just Albus."
The unspoken sentence hung in the air—Albus destroyed Aberforth's foundation as a Dumbledore.
Then Harry asked, "Is it possible Voldemort hid a Horcrux in Avalon?"
Dumbledore's expression grew solemn.
"Avalon. The land of miracles," Harry tapped the table. "He might've found the Holy Grail, made it a Horcrux. Didn't he say he'd been there once?"
"Very possible," Dumbledore agreed.
Harry lifted his glass. "Albus, let's go visit your old lover."
Dumbledore froze.
"He told me he knows something about Avalon," Harry continued. "And doesn't he have the Sight? He might know more about Horcruxes. You never asked, did you?"
He lowered his voice.
"Also, about that commission—we've met Aberforth. Now it's time to meet Grindelwald."
Dumbledore rubbed his temple. "Of course…"
"You're right."
"But Avalon's not easy to find. Even Gellert and I never found it."
"We can try." Harry waved his wand, summoning a notebook from the Sorting Hat. It hit the table with a thump.
"Hermione compiled this from the summer after third year—myths, rumors, wizarding folklore. Everything."
"She even enchanted it."
He tapped the cover. It flipped open halfway—blank.
"Just write your question on it, and it answers," Harry explained. "She based it on the Horcrux enchantments."
Dumbledore pushed up his glasses, turning a page. He instantly detected the embedded magic.
"Brilliant work," he murmured. "Are her regular notes like this too?"
Harry nodded.
"I must archive a copy in the library once she graduates," Dumbledore said in awe, conjuring a quill to try it.
Harry stared him down. "Professor. Stop stalling."
Dumbledore froze.
"Don't let your personal feelings get in the way," Harry added, knocking the table with his glass.
Dumbledore sighed. "Fine, if that's what you want."
He summoned Madam Rosmerta for food and drink.
Then, near midnight, he gripped Harry's wrist, and with a crack, they vanished from the tavern.
—
They reappeared in a mountain range, before a towering, spire-like fortress.
Fresh spells glimmered over the castle—it had been cleaned and restored. The phrase "For the Greater Good" was etched in gleaming new letters over the entrance.
"He knew we were coming," Harry said. "He prepared for us."
Dumbledore said nothing, walking forward.
Just as they reached the door, it slammed open. Music burst from the walls—trumpets, drums, violins—and a red carpet rolled itself out.
"Well. He's enthusiastic," Harry remarked.
Still, Dumbledore said nothing.
They followed the carpet to a grand hall. The floor gleamed like glass, reflecting their silhouettes. A long banquet table sat at the end, with three ornate place settings, vibrant decorations, and at the center—mistletoe and a brilliant violet flower.
"Welcome!" said the old man at the head of the table, rising to applaud softly.
"My dear Albus Dumbledore. How long has it been?"
"Fifty-one years," Dumbledore replied.
"Fifty-one years and three hundred forty-three days," he corrected gently, voice warm. "In the future I once saw, we would never have met again after fifty-one years and three hundred fifty days."
"It's a joy to see you, while we still can."
Harry said nothing.
Grindelwald turned to him. "Ah yes. Mr. Potter."
"The accidental child who altered fate."
Harry's eyes narrowed.
Accidental child—a familiar term. Every Witcher was one: Geralt, Ciri… and now him.
He didn't expect to hear it from Grindelwald.
Grindelwald met his gaze. "Don't worry, Potter. I can't see much about you."
He pointed to his eyes—the same deep shade as Dumbledore's. "The Sight isn't omnipotent."
"It gives direction, not outcomes."
Harry nodded.
"Now, sit! I've prepared a feast," Grindelwald said, clapping.
Harry raised an eyebrow at the empty table. "You inviting us to dine on air?"
"This is Nurmengard, Potter," Grindelwald waved, and items flew from Dumbledore's pocket.
"I've done all I can with Transfiguration. But I knew my dear Albus would fill in the rest."
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates