A few weeks later, Hogwarts was quiet.
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Harry had refused all the possessions magic had transferred to him. He’d demanded they be returned to the school or given to those in need. Only Dumbledore’s Pensieve remained in his room. Sometimes, he’d dive into it, searching for answers.
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As for Dumbledore, he’d stayed at the castle. He was no longer Headmaster. No longer a professor. He simply lived in a secluded room at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Some said he was writing his memoirs. Others whispered that losing his magic had broken him.
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But one evening, Harry knocked on his door.
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“I’ve seen your memories.”
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“Then you know.”
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“I know you wanted to protect the world. But you believed your choices were above the rules.”
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Silence.
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“I forgive you, Professor. But I can’t forget.”
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Dumbledore nodded slowly.
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“And you shouldn’t. That is how the world moves forward. By remembering mistakes… and refusing to repeat them.”
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The night was still. Magical justice had spoken. And for the first time in a long while, the wizarding world had chosen truth over habit.
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