Chapter 319: You may call me.. DEATH!

"Albus Dumbledore Resigns as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; All Affairs Temporarily Handled by Vice President Babajide Akingbade."

Early in the morning, the Daily Prophet delivered this shocking news to every witch and wizard.

Having just returned from the giant clans, thinking the war was finally over, Hagrid could hardly believe what he was reading. He read each word aloud in disbelief, the large newspaper looking no bigger than a handkerchief in his oversized hands.

"Hard to believe," he said. "If Dumbledore's stepped down, who else could do the job?"

"Cyrus, of course," said Harry and the others, who had come to visit him. They looked at Hagrid with visible concern—he wasn't in good shape. His entire body was covered in injuries, and his face was almost entirely black and blue.

"Are you alright, Hagrid?" Hermione asked again.

"I'm fine. Dragon meat helps a bit, and I'm a lot tougher than most folks. These scratches are nothing," Hagrid replied, putting down the newspaper and reaching out his enormous, calloused hand to pick up a piece of bloody meat from the table, pressing it to his face. "But Cyrus… yeah, he's not bad. Besides Dumbledore, he's the only one who could do it."

He nodded vigorously, his matted beard twisting together like a knotted fan, stirring the air with the motion.

"But I reckon it won't be that easy," Hagrid added. "Some people aren't too keen on him. Can't really blame them, what with him wanting to break the Statute of Secrecy and all."

Now, Cyrus had become the person Hagrid admired the most—second only to Dumbledore.

Their connection came through magical creatures; Cyrus had once introduced Hagrid to Newt Scamander, something Hagrid was deeply grateful for. But more importantly, Cyrus had saved Harry on multiple occasions and had defeated Voldemort.

Hagrid knew all too well how terrifying Voldemort was, yet Cyrus had accomplished what even Dumbledore had not.

Who else could be the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, if not him?

Unfortunately, on the international stage, not as many people acknowledged Voldemort's threat. In their minds, the Dark Lord had always been Grindelwald. In this regard, some people revered Grindelwald almost like an unbreakable wall.

A mere show of power could eventually be defeated, but someone like Grindelwald had wielded control over ideology.

Of course, Cyrus had also defeated Grindelwald.

And precisely because of this, the international community was even more cautious about whether or not Cyrus should become the next president of the International Confederation of Wizards.

He was too exceptional!

He possessed possibly the most powerful magical strength in wizarding history and, like Grindelwald, sought to break the Statute of Secrecy. No one could guarantee he wouldn't eventually walk the same path as Grindelwald.

Fifty years ago, Grindelwald still had Dumbledore to stop him. But now?

Even Dumbledore was no match for Cyrus.

"I'm telling you, he really shouldn't be thinking about breaking the Statute of Secrecy," Hagrid said. On that point, he just couldn't support Cyrus.

As a half-giant, Hagrid's rough exterior masked a deeply sensitive nature. He knew all too well what it felt like to be an outsider. Whether it was him, Madame Maxime, or even Lupin...

Once their bloodline was exposed within the wizarding world, it became nearly impossible for them to live freely.

Even though people knew werewolves only lost control during the full moon, even though they knew Wolfsbane Potion now existed, even though they knew a half-giant could be gentle...

They still couldn't accept those who were different.

And if even wizards couldn't do that, what could be expected of Muggles?

If the Statute of Secrecy were broken, wizards would essentially become werewolves in a different form. Magic and wands would be their claws—wizards could kill with a flick of the wrist, a simple spell. Maybe they could live in harmony with Muggles, but from the Muggles' perspective, why should they gamble with their lives, hoping a wizard was one of the "good ones"?

"But... there have to be some benefits, right?" Harry tried to speak up for Cyrus.

He thought that if the Statute of Secrecy were truly broken, he would finally be able to use magic in the Muggle world. He could cast a small jinx or two to mess with Dudley, instead of just waving his wand around pretending.

Unfortunately, with Hagrid's level of understanding, deeper reasoning like that was lost on him.

He just felt things were fine the way they were—why go and change it?

"It'll only bring him trouble," he said. "I reckon lots of people won't want to see him take the position. They'll write to Dumbledore in droves—some might even show up at the school, begging him to retake the post of Supreme Mugwump."

And on this point, Hagrid wasn't wrong.

Ever since Dumbledore officially announced his resignation, hundreds of owls had been tapping their beaks against the windows of the Headmaster's office every single day.

That section of glass had already been magically repaired several times.

Dumbledore carefully read every letter. Many came from old friends. And each time, he would silently write his own letter in his heart—one of trust in Cyrus, believing that Cyrus could handle everything ahead.

He had never entrusted anyone with such immense confidence before.

Perhaps part of it was that Cyrus had truly convinced him. But another part was simply that Dumbledore wanted to finally let go—he wanted to set down the burden he had carried for so long.

The entire magical world was not a weight that could be borne by one man's shoulders alone. He was wise, powerful, and had protected every soul in the magical world worth loving like a true elder… sigh.. even he had his limits.

But elders must eventually let go and allow the children to forge their own paths.

In truth, he was grateful that Cyrus and Voldemort were not the same kind of person. While Cyrus's initial intent in breaking the Statute of Secrecy was also rooted in the desire to rule over both worlds, Voldemort had craved absolute obedience in a world of chaos. Cyrus, on the other hand, sought order.

"Perhaps I should have let go long ago, allowed the world to grow on its own, and watched to see what it might become," he wrote softly in his final letter. "Maybe… it wouldn't necessarily become worse."

He finally finished writing the last letter, then stood up from his chair, stretching his slightly stiff fingers.

It was already quite late. He glanced out the window, then turned his gaze to the wand resting on the desk.

The Elder Wand.

In the last battle, Dumbledore had passed it to Harry, and then Cyrus had taken hold of it. But in the end, neither of them had clung to that power—they returned it to him.

And yet, he still held onto it, unwilling to let go. Just like how Grindelwald had secretly kept a part of Voldemort's magical legacy.

Always trying to leave a back door open.

He let out a laugh, one filled entirely with self-mockery.

He thought that from now on, he probably wouldn't need this thing anymore—when his life finally came to an end, the Elder Wand would lose its magic along with his natural death, because there would be no one left who had defeated him.

So he left empty-handed—well, not quite empty-handed. He carried the spare Resurrection Stone as he walked out of the headmaster's office.

Though he knew the Resurrection Stone couldn't truly bring someone back to life, he still hoped to use its power just to catch a glimpse of Ariana. He didn't intend to revive her—he just wanted to see her again.

He wanted to find a place secluded enough that no one would discover this small, selfish wish of his.

The headmaster's office would've been a good choice, but it was too small.

His poor sister, Ariana, had been locked away at home her entire childhood. How could he bear to let her remain in such a cramped space even in death?

He walked slowly, passing through dim corridors, and even ran into Fred and George. He gave the energetic twins a wink, raised a finger to his lips, and silently promised to keep their secret.

Later, somehow, he found himself at the Astronomy Tower.

Perhaps it was because this was the closest place to the stars in all of Hogwarts—the vast world could be seen with just a glance upward.

The massive orreries loomed nearby, resembling planetary rings suspended in the air.

Bathed in the glow of the Goblet of Fire's blue flames, Dumbledore turned the Resurrection Stone three times.

Then, in the darkness, footsteps seemed to echo faintly—someone was approaching.

Dumbledore thought he heard two sets of footsteps, but his mind was hazy now, muddled and unfocused, especially when he saw a small figure emerge from the shadows.

She was painfully thin, her cheeks sunken, her eyes filled with pain and fear.

And yet, somehow, she looked cheerful and brave.

She barely came up to half of Dumbledore's height.

The faded floral dress she wore had lost all its color, dulled to near transparency. Her entire figure shimmered in grey, like mist—like a ghost.

Dumbledore opened his mouth. His lips and teeth were trembling, his vocal cords felt like they were being gripped by an invisible hand. No sound came out.

It was Ariana who spoke first.

"Hello, brother."

A girl who looked no older than ten addressing a white-haired man—whose beard could be tucked into his belt—as "brother" felt so jarringly out of place. It didn't seem real at all. It was like a mirage. A dream.

"You still recognize me?" Dumbledore forced a smile onto his face, but his eyes were already brimming with tears.

"I've always been watching you," Ariana said softly. "You should go see Aberforth."

In his younger years, Dumbledore would occasionally visit his not-so-literate—but far more grounded—brother during school breaks. But after 1945, when Grindelwald harmed a member of the Dumbledore family—Aberforth's son—the two brothers had rarely seen each other since.

Especially during the fight against Voldemort, Dumbledore had needed to keep his connection to Aberforth hidden, for safety's sake.

Over time, the distance between them simply became a habit.

"I doubt he'd welcome me," Dumbledore said sorrowfully.

But he couldn't blame anyone but himself.

Dumbledore knew that most people in the world saw him as someone who radiated sunlight from every pore—a figure of greatness. But that was far from the truth, and Aberforth might have been the only one who truly knew the darkness inside him.

He didn't dare return, not because he feared Aberforth's fists—which could very well knock his nose crooked.

That, at least, would be the least of his worries.

He was afraid that Aberforth would rip open his wounds, expose the lies that cloaked his supposed nobility, and force him to face how selfish he truly was.

He was the kind of bastard who valued himself more than his family. Not just back in Godric's Hollow over a century ago, when he'd resolved to leave his sister behind—he was still that man. Even now, when he looked into the Mirror of Erised, what he saw was himself in Grindelwald's embrace.

That was his punishment: to be alone, desolate, bound to Hogwarts. And every Christmas, the only gifts he received were endless volumes of magical texts—how ironic. Weren't those the very things he had once dreamed of?

Back then, he had felt bursting with talent, weighed down by a pitiful family. He wrote letter after letter to the most influential names in the magical world, desperate for recognition.

And he got it.

In the dark of night, the two of them fell into a long silence. Dumbledore slowly walked out beneath the starlight, toward the edge of the tower. He didn't notice the strange change in Ariana's appearance.

She was becoming unstable, her form flickering like a faulty signal.

The connection between the resurrection stone and the world of the dead was weakening. Her shape twisted, and her expression turned to one of fear.

In the shadowy darkness of the tower, another tall figure silently approached.

Ariana's eyes widened with panic. She was trying to say something. She wanted to warn Dumbledore, but she couldn't.

And then Dumbledore spoke the question—

"Ariana, do you remember…" Dumbledore didn't turn around. The words caught in his throat, twisting and tangling before he could finally force them out. "Do you remember, back then… whose curse hit you?"

That question had haunted him for nearly a century.

He desperately needed to know the truth.

He had once feared that he was the one who had killed her—but now, in a twist of private, selfish hope, he wished it had been his mistake. That way, both Grindelwald and Aberforth could be innocent.

Dumbledore was willing to shoulder all the guilt.

But no reply came.

The silence gnawed at his insides. He turned around—and saw Ariana standing in front of the Goblet of Fire. The flickering blue flame passed through her translucent body, making her seem even less real, more ghostly.

"Ariana?" He immediately sensed something was wrong. His brow furrowed.

"Albus…" Ariana's expression was starting to contort with pain. She looked at him with mournful eyes, as if already mourning him.

She pitied this old man.

Then, Dumbledore saw another phantom overlapping with Ariana's image.

The figure was shrouded in grey, most of his form hidden beneath a cloak. With a wave of his hand, Ariana's form began to distort.

"Ariana!" Dumbledore lunged forward in alarm, trying to grasp something—anything—but Ariana scattered like sand, slipping through his fingers.

And now, the shadow's features became clear—Dumbledore's eyes widened.

"..Cyrus?"

But the man who looked exactly like Cyrus gave a scornful shake of his head.

"I'm not Cyrus," he said. "You may call me Death, Albus Dumbledore."

He raised the Elder Wand—Dumbledore didn't know where it had come from—and aimed it straight at his chest.

BOOM!!!

In an instant, a massive bolt of lightning struck the grey tower.

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