The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 558, page 567: Ian the Great Demon God 5

There's too much information coming in.

Even Old Deng couldn't figure it out for a while.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. His gaze fell on Ian's face, his deep blue eyes flashing with a complex light.

There was shock, curiosity, confusion, and a touch of... indescribable relief.

"So, I'd like to ask you something," he began slowly, his voice calm yet carrying a certain certainty, "Mr. Ian, if you allow me to address you this way—you are a future student of Hogwarts, are you?"

At this moment, although Dumbledore was asking a question, his tone already carried a sense of confirmation. From the known clues, he had also deduced some information.

Ian looked at him but did not answer immediately.

Dumbledore continued his analysis, tapping his fingers lightly on the table: "In a future timeline, Grindelwald becomes a professor at Hogwarts. And you are his student. That's why he calls you 'final exams are coming soon,' why you have such knowledge of his 'prophetic' abilities, and why—when you first met him, you said, 'I'm a little surprised that it's you who came to see me.'"

He paused, his gaze sharpening further: "Because you originally thought that someone else would come looking for you. Perhaps... someone from our time?"

He truly is incredibly intelligent, almost demonic.

A subtle flicker of surprise crossed Ian's eyes.

He was genuinely surprised.

It wasn't because Dumbledore's deduction was particularly accurate—the information was obvious enough that anyone who knew Grindelwald was the future professor could deduce he was a student. What surprised him was that Dumbledore could piece together such a clear picture from these fragmented pieces of information. And—he hadn't been wrong.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Ian said, his voice carrying for the first time a genuine, almost admiring tone, "your observational skills are indeed well-deserved."

Dumbledore shook his head slightly: "It's just that I've lived a long time and seen a lot. With the long years, one can always develop some skills in deduction."

“No,” Ian interrupted him, a serious glint in his deep, pool-like eyes. “I’ve met many intelligent people, and many wizards who have lived a long life. But to make such an accurate judgment in such a short time, with so little information—I’ve only ever met one person like that.”

He paused, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly—the first time he had shown an almost "expression" that evening—a faint, sincere smile: "That's you."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, then smiled, a smile filled with warmth and satisfaction: "To receive praise from someone like you, it seems my old bones aren't entirely useless after all."

Ian shook his head: "You're more useful than anyone I've ever met. You may not know this, but in my time..."

He stopped abruptly halfway through his sentence.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald both looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

But Ian didn't continue. He was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly, a sigh carrying an indescribable mix of emotions: nostalgia, regret,感慨, and a sense of... relief at finally being able to shed the pretense.

"Forget it," he said. "Since you've already guessed so much, there's no point in pretending anymore."

As soon as he finished speaking, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers lightly.

Dumbledore's pupils suddenly contracted!

Before him, the black-haired boy, the young man who looked seventeen or eighteen, with a handsome face and a calm demeanor—his body began to twist and change!

Like a lump of clay being kneaded, or a painting being redrawn. The tall figure began to shrink, the broad shoulders began to narrow, the sharply defined jawline began to soften, and the deep contours began to... become youthful.

A few seconds later, the change stopped.

Dumbledore stared blankly at the person in front of him, almost dropping his teacup.

The person sitting opposite Grindelwald was no longer the composed seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy.

But a one

An eleven or twelve-year-old child.

Yes, child.

His black hair and eyes remained the same, but his face had completely shed the facade of maturity, revealing the youthful innocence and naivety that belonged to his age. His figure had shrunk considerably; sitting in the adult-sized chair, his feet couldn't even touch the ground, only swaying gently. The composure and detachment of before were gone from his face, replaced by a... more genuine, childlike expression—though his eyes were still unbelievably deep.

Seeing Dumbledore's reaction, Grindelwald let out a low laugh. The laugh carried a hint of mischief, a hint of smugness, and a hint of... the pleasure of seeing his old friend finally experience "shock."

"What's wrong, Albus? Surprised?" Grindelwald picked up his glass, took a sip, and said, "When I first saw him in person, my expression was similar to yours."

Dumbledore finally came to his senses. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found his voice stuck in his throat. He tried several times before managing to utter a few words with difficulty:

"How...how old are you?"

Ian tilted his head, a gesture that, combined with his current appearance, made him seem exceptionally...childish. But his answer once again shocked Dumbledore:

"Twelve years old."

"In three months, you'll turn thirteen."

silence.

Absolute silence.

Inside the tavern, the dim yellow light seemed to freeze. The person in the portrait forgot to doze off, staring blankly at the scene. Behind the bar, the old wizard's wine glass fell to the ground with a "clatter," shattering into countless pieces.

Twelve years old.

A twelve-year-old child.

An existence even more powerful than a legend.

A twelve-year-old child who could easily suppress Voldemort's five clones, cover an entire area with illusions, and leave Grindelwald helpless...

Dumbledore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed time to process this information.

After a long time, he opened his eyes again. The shock was gone from his deep blue eyes; instead, there was a more complex and profound emotion—awe of the unknown, a sense of loss for fate, and a light that was almost compassionate.

"Twelve years old..." he murmured, "To have reached this level at twelve... what kind of place was Hogwarts in your time?"

Ian—no, he should be called Ian Prince now, a true little wizard—shaked his head, a deep seriousness beyond his years flashing across his youthful face:

"It was a... very complicated place. There was good and bad, light and darkness. But in any case," he paused, his gaze softening, "that was my home."

"Hogwarts is my home."

Dumbledore's eyes welled up slightly. Not for any other reason than the emotion contained in those words—a child's purest longing for school, for that place. No matter how powerful he was, no matter how far away he came from, in his heart, Hogwarts would always be home.

He nodded, his voice gentle yet firm:

"That's good."

"That's good."

Grindelwald watched this scene, a complex light flashing in his heterochromatic eyes. He set down his wine glass and slowly spoke:

"Now, let's get down to business."

His gaze fell on Ian's face:

"You come from the future—or rather, from a future timeline. You didn't come to this era just to eat London snacks and feed pigeons, did you?"

Ian—the real Ian, the twelve-year-old—smiled slightly. That smile, on his youthful face, seemed particularly…meaningful. “Of course not.”

His gaze passed over Grindelwald, past Dumbledore, and landed on the deepening night outside the window:

I came here because of one...

He stopped.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald both held their breath.

Ian turned his head and looked at them, his deep eyes now flashing with an unprecedented seriousness and solemnity:

"It's because someone told me that in this era, at this point in time, a door is about to open."

"A door that should never have been opened."

"A door to..." He paused, his voice low but booming like thunder in their ears, "...the door to deep space." Grindelwald's hand jerked violently, spilling the red wine in his glass.

Dumbledore's face turned pale instantly.

Outside the window, the night grew even deeper.

In the distance, the roar of the waves could be faintly heard.

"The Gate to Deep Space".

These words struck Dumbledore and Grindelwald's hearts like the heaviest hammer.

Grindelwald was the first to recover, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Ian, his voice unusually serious: "How much do you know?" Ian looked at him, his youthful face displaying a calmness and depth completely incongruous with his age:

"I know more than you think. But I also know... less than you think."

He raised his hand, his fingertips lightly tracing a path of light across the table—the shape of that path caused Dumbledore's pupils to contract slightly.

That's a symbol.

A symbol he had seen on Grindelwald's invitation.

A slightly concave arc, like the outline of the sky or an arched bridge, is adorned with three tiny, star-like dots above the arc; below the arc is a simple rectangle, like a doorway or a foundation stone.

"This symbol," Ian said, "is the reason I came into this world."

Grindelwald's breathing quickened. He recognized the symbol, of course—it was the mark he had seen repeatedly in prophecies, closely associated with the "raven." But he had never imagined that the symbol itself was a "door."

"This door," Dumbledore began slowly, his voice low, "leads to?"

Ian looked at him, a complex emotion flashing in his deep eyes:

"Leading to the 'outside'."

“Outside?” Grindelwald frowned.

“Your understanding of the universe,” Ian said, “is limited. You think the universe is just the starry sky, those twinkling points of light, endless space. But in reality, it’s just… a thin membrane.”

He raised his hand and lightly touched the air with his fingertips. As the fingertip touched the air, visible ripples spread through it, as if he had not touched emptiness, but some unseen, tangible existence.

“Beyond this membrane,” he continued, “there are things. Lots of them, big things, old things, very… terrifying things. They’ve been watching this place, waiting, searching.”

"Waiting for what?" Dumbledore asked.

"Waiting for the door to open."

Ian's voice turned cold:

"In this era, at this point in time, this door is about to open. Not because someone wants to open it, but because... it was always meant to open."

He looked at Grindelwald:

"Your prophetic abilities allow you to 'descend' upon yourself at different times. Have you ever tried descending upon... what happened after the door opened?"

Grindelwald's face turned pale instantly.

He remained silent for a long time before finally speaking with difficulty:

"I've tried it."

Dumbledore looked at him sharply.

Grindelwald didn't look at him, but stared at Ian, his voice hoarse: "Unfortunately, I was already dead by then, so naturally I couldn't see what happened."

"In fact, I can no longer perceive the future; it's as if the future has been erased."

"That was definitely not an ordinary death. It was... non-existence. Like being erased from paper with an eraser, as if it had never existed." He raised his eyes.

A deep fear flickered in his heterochromatic eyes.

Dumbledore's hands trembled slightly. He finally understood why Grindelwald was so determined to come out, why he wanted to find the "Raven," and why he had shown such complex emotions in front of Ian.

Because he already knew that if he did nothing tonight, he would disappear.

Everyone will disappear.

Ian looked at Grindelwald quietly and nodded:

"Your prophetic abilities are indeed very special. They allow you to see things you shouldn't see."

He paused, his gaze becoming even more profound:

"But you haven't seen far enough. If you could travel to a much more distant future, you would find that—the door has opened, but the world hasn't been destroyed." "At least, not completely destroyed."

Dumbledore and Grindelwald both looked at him, waiting for what he would say next.

Ian didn't explain further. He jumped off the chair—the movement, combined with his current appearance, made him look like an ordinary little boy—and walked to the window, gazing at the night outside.

“I’m here,” he said, “because someone told me that in this day and age, at this point in time, someone needs to… give us a push.” “A push?” Dumbledore asked.

"The door is about to open," Ian said. "That's destiny, it can't be changed. But what happens after the door opens depends on how many people... are ready at that moment."

He turned around and looked at the two of them:

"I am here to make sure that you—the guardians of this era—are ready."

Grindelwald remained silent for a long time, then slowly spoke:

"And what about Voldemort?"

A complex emotion flashed in Ian's eyes:

"He... was an accident. In the history of my time, Voldemort was indeed powerful, but never legendary. He should have died at the hands of Harry Potter or me, at another point in time. But for some reason, in this timeline, he came into contact with something he shouldn't have." He paused, his voice becoming even lower:

"He may no longer be Voldemort."

Dumbledore's heart sank.

"You mean...?"

“I can’t be sure,” Ian interrupted him, “but if my senses are correct, he has become the key to some door…” “The key?” Grindelwald asked.

"The gate to deep space requires a sacrifice to be fully opened," Ian said. "And the most perfect sacrifice is a soul that willingly embraces deep space."

The night outside the window grew even darker.

In the distance, the roar of the waves could be faintly heard.

The roar seemed to be mixed with some eerie whispers that didn't belong to this world.