The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 552: Who is the Dark Lord?

The atmosphere at the scene was somewhat delicate.

In response to Dumbledore's words.

Ian nodded and turned to Grindelwald.

"Let's go."

He did have something to discuss with the professor, and Grindelwald didn't move. He stood there, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Ian, his voice low. "You still haven't told me how you knew."

He was quite surprised that Ian had guessed his secret. A very faint smile appeared on Ian's lips, which was almost the first time he had shown such an expression that night.

"You didn't tell me when... you became a Hogwarts professor."

Grindelwald remained silent.

under the moonlight.

The two looked at each other.

Silence fell again.

The Aurors around them couldn't understand what they were saying at all and could only stare blankly at the scene.

Professor Hogwarts?

Grindelwald?

How is that possible?

When did the first Dark Lord get involved with Hogwarts?

Only Dumbledore, in his deep blue eyes, showed a complex emotion—understanding, surprise, and a hint of...deep worry.

He finally understood.

He understood why Grindelwald's attitude towards Ian was so strange, why Grindelwald would ask a strange boy for help, and he also understood... the true meaning of Ian's use of "Professor." Actually, for Dumbledore, knowing Grindelwald's secret, it wasn't difficult to guess this.

Such is the case with people who are so intelligent they are almost supernatural.

"Let's go."

Ian spoke again, this time in a calmer tone, yet with an undeniable authority. Grindelwald took a deep breath and finally stepped to Ian's side.

The next second, the two figures disappeared into the moonlight at the same time.

The Aurors remained rooted to the spot, unable to recover for a long time.

"Professor Dumbledore..." Scrimgeour began with difficulty, his voice hoarse, "Who exactly is that...that Mr. Ian? And Grindelwald...what he just said..."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly, his voice carrying a hint of weariness that even he himself could not hide:

"I don't know either, Scrimgeour. Before tonight, I didn't know such a young man existed. After tonight..." He paused, gazing in the direction Ian had disappeared, his gaze distant, "Perhaps, many things need to be reconsidered."

The night wind blew by, carrying away the last trace of the stench of blood, but it could not take away the shock and mystery that lingered in everyone's hearts.

Who exactly is that boy?

What secrets does Grindelwald hold?

What changes will Voldemort's escape bring?

Nobody knows the answer.

Only the moonlight, coldly spilling onto the empty streets, stood like an eternal, silent witness.

As night deepened, the Aurors continued their final preparations amidst the ruins of London's East End.

Forty-seven Death Eaters were arrested—the largest number captured in a single operation since the First Wizarding War. They were chained together with magical chains, crouching on the ground like livestock awaiting slaughter, trembling. No one resisted, no one tried to escape. Not even one dared to look up at Dumbledore, who stood not far away.

Ian has already left with Grindelwald.

But that terrifying sense of oppression still loomed over the hearts of every Death Eater like an invisible shadow.

"Take them all away!" Scrimgeour waved his hand and gave the order. The Aurors began to escort the Death Eaters in batches through the Floo Network and Apparitions to the Ministry of Magic's temporary detention center, and then transfer them to Azkaban.

Dumbledore volunteered to accompany the escort. Although utterly exhausted and pale from mental strain, as a firsthand witness to tonight's events and the most authoritative source of information, he felt it necessary to personally ensure the prisoners' safe arrival and to provide firsthand testimony to the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry's temporary detention center was located in the Emergency Management Hall deep underground. When the forty-seven Death Eaters were brought in, the night-shift clerical staff and Aurors all gasped in shock. These dark wizards, usually so arrogant and rampant in the shadows, were now ashen-faced, ragged, and their eyes vacant, like those of walking corpses.

"This is... total annihilation?" a young Auror murmured.

"It's worse than being wiped out." His companion lowered his voice. "I heard they were taken down by one person. One person, who took down five of Voldemort's clones, scaring those idiots into kneeling and surrendering on the spot."

"A person? Who? Grindelwald?"

"I don't know. Director Scrinker won't say anything, only that things are complicated."

The escort process proceeded in silence. Registration, body searches, sealing of wands, application of shackles to suppress magic... the Death Eaters were manipulated like puppets, not a single one uttering a sound, not even the most basic curses or threats.

This bizarre compliance sent chills down the spines of everyone present from the Ministry of Magic.

What exactly did they go through to be so terrified?

Finally, all the formalities were completed. Dumbledore and an elite squad of Aurors, escorting forty-seven Death Eaters, arrived at Azkaban, a remote island in the North Sea, via the Floo Network.

Azkaban's reputation is known to everyone in the wizarding world.

This ancient fortress, perched on the desolate reefs of the North Sea, appears from the outside merely as a sinister black stone castle, weathered day and night by the sea. But when the prisoners pass through the rusty iron gate and step inside, the true horror of Azkaban is revealed—it is indeed hell on earth. The air is icy cold, not just ordinary cold, but a chilling cold that seeps into the bone and freezes the soul. Behind the iron bars on both sides of the corridor, one can vaguely see huddled figures and hear faint, eerie whimpers. And in the deeper darkness, monsters with tattered cloaks and rotting hands float.

Dementors.

They are the guardians of Azkaban, and the most horrific form of punishment. Their very existence can drain away all joy, hope, and warmth, leaving only the deepest despair and terror.

When the first Dementor slid out of the shadows and pointed its rotting hand at the Death Eaters—finally, the Death Eaters, who had been like walking corpses, erupted.

"No! No! Don't come any closer! Don't come near me!" A Death Eater frantically retreated, but was pulled back by magical chains and fell to the ground. He struggled and screamed, his face filled with extreme terror, "Dementors! Dementors! They'll suck my soul away! Don't let me be with them!"

No wizards are afraid of Dementors.

"Help! Master will come to save us! Lord Voldemort will not abandon us!" another Death Eater screamed, his voice filled with the last vestiges of desperate madness.

"Master is a legend! He's omnipotent! He'll come to save us! Then, all of you lackeys of the Ministry of Magic will die!" "Yes! Master will come! Azkaban can't hold him! He's stronger than Dumbledore! Stronger than anyone else!" A few Death Eaters, barely managing to stay conscious, began to shout wildly, trying to use their fanatical faith in Voldemort to combat the fear brought by the Dementors. But most others simply collapsed to the ground, trembling, their eyes filled with utter despair.

Dumbledore's voice rang out amidst the chaos. Not loud, yet clearly reaching everyone's ears, carrying a chilling calm: "Voldemort cannot save you."

The shouting Death Eaters suddenly looked up and stared intently at him.

Dumbledore's gaze swept across their faces, his azure eyes devoid of any emotion, offering only a cold, factual statement: "Just hours ago, your 'omnipotent' master abandoned you and fled alone. And his five avatars—you watched them vanish—were easily suppressed by one man. A legend? Yes, he is a legend. But so what?"

He paused, his voice still calm, yet carrying a chilling undercurrent: "Before true power, even so-called 'legends' can flee in disarray. Voldemort's only concern now is himself. As for you all..."

Dumbledore's gaze swept over all the Death Eaters. "Just expendable pawns."

His words were cold.

Dead silence.

The Death Eaters who had been shouting moments before suddenly froze their fanaticism and madness, replaced by a despair that was even more profound than the fear instilled by the Dementors.

Yes, they saw it with their own eyes.

The black-haired boy suppressed five of Dumbledore's clones with a mere wave of his hand. And the master? From beginning to end, the master was bogged down in a mental battle with Dumbledore, powerless even to destroy the clones. In the end, he simply Apparated away, without even glancing at them.

Master... will you really come to save them?

Or rather, does the owner still have the ability to save them?

The silence was broken by a burst of wild laughter.

A disheveled, distorted-faced middle-aged Death Eater—once the patriarch of a pure-blood family—laughed wildly, his laughter filled with madness and despair, echoing through the corridors of Azkaban and startling a chorus of Dementors' hissing whispers.

"Hahaha! Dumbledore! You're right! Our master can't save us! But so what?"

He stared intently at Dumbledore, his eyes burning with a final, twisted smugness:

"Your era has come to an end! You witnessed firsthand that your master had become a legend! And what about you? You're old! You're tired! You couldn't even kill him! You could only watch helplessly as he escaped!"

His voice grew louder and louder, more and more frantic:

"I admit it, we lost tonight! We lost to a monster that appeared out of nowhere! But so what?! Master is alive! He will become stronger! He will find that monster, kill him! And then—none of you will escape!"

He opened his arms wide, as if embracing his destiny:

"Just seeing this is enough for me to die happy! Dumbledore, you will come to hell to join us! You will! Soon! Soon!" The maniacal laughter echoed through the corridors of Azkaban, lingering for a long time.

Dumbledore stood silently, his azure eyes fixed on the crazed Death Eater, his face expressionless. Only when the laughter gradually turned to sobs, then to whimpers, did he speak slowly, his voice still calm:

"Take him away."

The Dementor slid forward, its rotting hand resting on the Death Eater's shoulder. His body instantly stiffened, all the madness and smugness drained from his eyes, leaving only an empty, deathly despair.

The other Death Eaters dared not utter another sound, allowing the Aurors and Dementors to lead them into their cells one by one. The sound of the iron gates closing echoed through the cold corridor like a death knell.

After the last Death Eater was imprisoned, Dumbledore turned and left Azkaban.

Dumbledore didn't say a word during the swift journey back to the Ministry of Magic from Azkaban.

The Aurors traveling with him carefully observed his expression—that usually gentle and composed face, which seemed to always be in control, now carried an undisguised weariness and… a deeper, unspeakable heaviness.

The Death Eater's maniacal laughter and the words "You'll come to hell to keep us company" were like a thorn stuck in everyone's heart.

The Ministry of Magic building remained brightly lit. The events of the night were too significant; almost everyone had been urgently recalled. Footsteps hurried down the corridors, owls darted back and forth, and various departments were working through the night to handle this sudden event that had shocked the entire wizarding world.

Dumbledore was taken directly to the minister's office.

The office was already packed with people—Minister of Magic Fudge, Auror Chief of Staff Scrimgeour, Director of International Magical Cooperation Barty Crouch, several senior members of Wizengamor, and some officials Dumbledore didn't recognize but were clearly of high rank. All eyes turned to him the moment he entered.

"Dumbledore!" Fudge practically jumped to greet him, his face a mixture of anxiety, relief, and bewilderment. "Thank God you're alright! Please, have a seat! What happened tonight? Were all those Death Eaters really captured? Forty-seven?! And someone said they saw Grindelwald? What on earth…?"

“Minister,” Scrimgeour interrupted him, his tone weary but methodical, “let Professor Dumbledore catch his breath. Tonight’s events are complex, and we need a complete account, not a jumble of questions.”

Fudge sat back down awkwardly, but the urgency in his eyes did not diminish in the slightest.

Dumbledore sat down in a chair, took a cup of hot tea, but didn't drink it. He was silent for a few seconds, as if organizing his thoughts, then slowly began to recount the events of the evening, from his trip to the night market with Grindelwald to search for clues, to Voldemort's sudden appearance and encirclement.

Then there was the astonishing power displayed by that young man named Ian Prince—all of this was recounted by Dumbledore in its entirety at this moment.

Of course, he omitted Grindelwald's speculations, and also Ian's final word, "Professor," which made Grindelwald's expression change. Those things were too complicated and too bizarre.

It wasn't appropriate to reveal this in such a public setting. Even so, what he said was enough to leave everyone present speechless. "A…a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy?" Fudge's voice trembled. "One person, suppressed five legendary-level avatars of Voldemort? And then those Death Eaters…surrendered?"

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded.

"Where's Grindelwald? What's he doing there?" Crouch asked sharply, a wary glint in his eyes.

"He was... assisting," Dumbledore said carefully, "He was also saved by that young man."

"Saved by a boy?" Crouch asked incredulously. "The first Dark Lord, saved by an unknown boy?"

Dumbledore did not answer.

She just glanced at him quietly.

There were too many unspeakable things in that one glance.