The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 553: Who is the Dark Lord?

A person that Voldemort and Grindelwald cannot compare to.

That.

Who exactly is the Dark Lord?

This doubt and unease was the Minister for Magic's greatest fear. Dumbledore noticed this, but made no attempt to offer any psychological comfort.

His feelings were actually extremely complicated.

The next few hours were filled with lengthy and tedious reporting, questioning, and recording. Dumbledore, with his characteristic patience and precision, repeated the details over and over again.

He answered a variety of repetitive or pointed questions. Regarding the boy's identity, he could only truthfully answer "I don't know"; regarding Grindelwald's presence, he could only explain it as "assisting with the investigation"; regarding Voldemort's strength, he admitted that the other party had indeed broken through to legendary power, far surpassing his former abilities. However, when the word "legendary" came from Dumbledore's mouth, the previously tense atmosphere in the office suddenly became somewhat subtle. This information.

The people in the Ministry of Magic had already heard about it from the Aurors, and almost no one chose to believe it. But now that they heard it from Dumbledore, they still refused to believe it.

Barty Crouch was the first to frown. The Director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, known for his sternness and pragmatism, stared at Dumbledore with an almost skeptical look.

"Legendary? Dumbledore, are you sure you want to use that word?" Barty Crouch's voice echoed in the office, carrying an almost sharp questioning tone. The Director of the International Department of Magical Cooperation, known for his meticulousness, now wore a somber expression on his angular face. His gaze was complex.

After all.

His son was among the Death Eaters, and now he had been captured by Dumbledore and taken to Azkaban. Although he knew his son deserved his fate, it was difficult for him not to feel any resentment.

In this regard.

Dumbledore calmly returned his gaze, his azure eyes devoid of any emotion: "I'm quite certain, Crouch."

Crouch shook his head, stood up, and walked to the center of the office as if to deliver a speech. He looked around at everyone present, his tone becoming impassioned: "Gentlemen, let's calm down and think rationally. Dumbledore—I respect you, we all respect you. But the word 'legend' isn't something to be used lightly! We've all read *The History of Magic*, we've all studied the laws governing the evolution of magic. What is a legend? It's Merlin, Salazar Slytherin, Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff! It's being able to single-handedly fight against dragon legions, create the Philosopher's Stone, and establish permanent spatial portals!"

He turned to Dumbledore, his gaze piercing: "Dumbledore, you are strong, I admit it. You are the most powerful wizard of our generation. But can you create the Philosopher's Stone? Can you build a permanent portal? You can't. Neither can Grindelwald. Because this is the twentieth century! The concentration of magic, the transmission of magic, the circulation of magic throughout the world are completely different from a thousand years ago! This is common sense, this is consensus, this is the most basic principle that every wizard learns in school!"

"That's right!" A senior member of Wizengamo slammed his fist on the table. He was a stout, goatee-wearing old wizard named Everett. "I've studied the evolution of magic for forty years, and I have detailed data to support it! Since the death of the last recorded legendary wizard, 'The Flame Witch' Morgana, in the fifteenth century, for a full five hundred years, no new legend has been born in the magical world! This is not a coincidence; it's the inevitable result of the natural decline of magic! Medieval wizards could summon meteorites with their bare hands, fight dragons, and travel between dimensions—what about wizards now? We can't even apparite properly!"

"I still have a copy of Morgana's magic monitoring records from when she died!" another Wessengamo member excitedly added. "The peak magic power detected by the magical instruments at that time was seven thousand times that of the strongest wizard today! Seven thousand times! And that doesn't even include the data after her magic power declined in her later years!" "Dumbledore, can your current peak magic power even reach one percent of Morgana's?" To be honest, he was still overestimating Dumbledore. This also indirectly shows that Dumbledore is an insurmountable mountain that all contemporary wizards understand.

Dumbledore did not answer, but simply stood there quietly.

But this silence was seen as tacit agreement by those people.

The office erupted in chaos.

"So how could Voldemort be a legend? That simply doesn't conform to objective laws!"

"Perhaps he used some forbidden technique to forcibly increase his magic power? But that couldn't possibly make him a legend!"

"Dumbledore, are you under some kind of illusion spell? The Death Eaters are masters of that!"

"Yes! Voldemort always wanted to kill you. Creating an illusion to make you believe he had broken through to legendary status, thus demoralizing the enemy, makes perfect sense!" "And that so-called 'stranger'? A seventeen or eighteen-year-old legend? More absurd than a fairy tale!"

"It might be Grindelwald's scheme! He was released on parole and conspired with Voldemort to put on a show for us!" Speculation, doubts, and rebuttals flooded Dumbledore like a tidal wave. Those officials who were usually so respectful to him were now red-faced and visibly angry. They waved their arms, their voices growing louder and sharper.

In this environment, Dumbledore remained silent. He stood there quietly, like an ancient lighthouse, unmoved by the crashing waves.

Until that sharpest sound rang out

"Dumbledore, I need to examine your memories." It was Barty Crouch who spoke. He stood before Dumbledore, his gaze intense, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He is still targeting the people who harmed his son.

In a fair manner.

The office fell silent instantly.

Everyone held their breath.

They all knew how pointed this was. To examine a wizard's memory—a grave offense to any wizard. Especially to someone of Dumbledore's stature; it was practically a slap in the face. This wasn't just questioning; it was blatant humiliation. Fudge's face turned deathly pale, and he quickly stood up to smooth things over: "Crouch, this…this isn't appropriate, is it? Dumbledore is…" "Is what?" Crouch interrupted him, his gaze still fixed on Dumbledore. "The Headmaster of Hogwarts? The First Wizard of Wizengamot? The hero who defeated Grindelwald? I know all that. But that's precisely why his words cannot be trusted. If he's telling the truth, then his memories are the strongest evidence. If he's lying…"

He paused, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Then his memory is the best tool to expose lies."

All eyes were on Dumbledore's face, awaiting his reaction.

Dumbledore slowly raised his eyes and looked at Crouch.

Just one glance.

There were no magical fluctuations, no threatening words, and not even a change in expression.

But that one glance froze Crouch in place.

Those deep blue eyes were now as unfathomable as a bottomless abyss, as calm as the eternal starry sky. But beneath this calm, Crouch seemed to see a power capable of devouring everything—not anger, not a threat, but a pure, absolute, and unquestionable sense of existence.

It's as if it's telling him: You can try. But you can't afford the consequences.

Crouch opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found that his throat felt as if it were being choked by an invisible hand, and he couldn't make a sound. His back was instantly soaked with cold sweat, and his legs trembled slightly involuntarily.

One second, two seconds, three seconds.

Dumbledore looked away.

Crouch, as if all his strength had been drained, staggered back two steps and slumped into a chair, panting heavily. His face was filled with terror, and his eyes were still trembling with the lingering fear of the terrifying power he had just felt.

The office was completely silent.

No one dared to voice any further questions.

Fudge wiped the cold sweat from his brow and cautiously broke the silence: "Well... Dumbledore, of course we don't doubt you. It's just... this matter is far too important, we need... we need..."

"More evidence is needed," Dumbledore finished the sentence for him, his tone as calm as if nothing had just happened. "I understand."

He sat down again, his gaze sweeping over each of the still-shaken people present: "Then let's find the evidence. The Merlin Order should have received the news by now. Let them come. If they're not authoritative enough, then call the Department of Mysteries. Use instruments to test, use divination, use every means at your disposal. Facts are facts, and they won't change just because you don't believe them."

"My memory is unreliable, because I can weave my memories at any time." After he finished speaking, he picked up the cup of tea that had long since gone cold and took a small sip.

It was as if all this strife had nothing to do with him.

The atmosphere at the scene was tense.

The men of the Sir Merlin Order arrived an hour later.

All three surviving members were present—albeit 137-year-old Alfred Windsor, and two relatively "younger" members: 92-year-old Margaret Ashworth and 88-year-old Edmund Foley. They wore deep purple robes symbolizing the highest honor, with jewel-encrusted Merlin medals on their chests, and every movement exuded an air of authority beyond their years.

However, when they heard what had happened, they also showed expressions of disbelief.

"Legendary? Now?" Margaret Ashworth frowned, her well-preserved face filled with doubt. "Dumbledore, you're not joking, are you? I've lived for over ninety years and seen many powerful wizards, but a Legendary? That's a different level altogether." "Since Morgana's death, magic has been steadily declining," Edmund Foley chimed in, leaning on a cane inlaid with a large cat's-eye stone, his voice hoarse but clear. "That's an undeniable fact. The current concentration of magic simply cannot support the cycle of a Legendary level. If someone were to forcibly break through, there's only one possibility—"

He paused, a glint of light flashing in his cloudy eyes: "With the help of external forces. Some kind of external force that doesn't belong to this world."

This statement caused everyone present to gasp in shock.

"You mean..." Fudge's voice trembled.

"I don't know," Foley shook his head. "I'm just suggesting a possibility. But if Dumbledore is right, and Voldemort did indeed break through to the Legendary level, then the source of his power is definitely not normal."

"And what about that boy?" Crouch finally caught his breath, his voice still a little weak. "If he was also a legend, even stronger than Voldemort, where did his power come from?"

No one can answer this question.

The debate erupted again, this time even more intensely.

"Perhaps that boy is the incarnation of some ancient being? It's mentioned in some ancient texts..."

"Ancient beings? You mean gods? Don't be ridiculous, that's just mythology!"

"Myths often originate from reality! Ancient shamans were able to communicate with spirits; this is documented!"

"That was the Middle Ages! What era is this now? If gods still existed, they would have shown themselves long ago!"

"Perhaps he comes from another magical civilization? The East? Africa? Their magical systems are different from Europe's!"

"There can be no legend if things are different! Magic decay is a global phenomenon!"

"But we all know Dumbledore's character! He wouldn't fabricate such a lie without a reason!"

"Nobody said he was lying! But maybe he was mistaken? Deceived by some kind of dark magic?"

The heated argument lasted for a full two hours. Everyone stuck to their own point of view, and no one could convince the other. The three members of Merlin's Order also joined the debate, and their opinions were equally divided—Windsor tended to believe Dumbledore, Ashworth was skeptical, and Foley insisted on seeing evidence first.

Dumbledore remained silent throughout the argument. He simply sat there quietly, sipping his tea, which had already been changed three times, like an uninvolved bystander.

Finally, Windsor raised his hand. His slow movement seemed to require all his strength, but everyone fell silent, waiting for the eldest of the lords, Sir Merlin, to speak.

"Dumbledore," Windsor's voice was hoarse and weary, "would you be willing to let us see your memories?"

The office fell silent once again.

Crouch made the same request earlier and was nearly scared to death by a single look from Dumbledore. Now that Windsor is making the same request again, how will Dumbledore react?

All eyes were once again focused on Dumbledore.

Dumbledore put down his teacup and slowly stood up. He looked at Windsor, remained silent for a few seconds, and then nodded.

"Can."

He drew his wand, pressed it against his temple, and slowly pulled out a wisp of silvery-white, mist-like memory thread. The thread condensed at the tip of his wand into a shimmering orb of light, radiating a soft and mysterious glow.

Windsor took the memory orb and placed it into the prepared Pensieve. Then, he took a deep breath and buried his face in the Pensieve for one minute.

Two minutes.

five minutes.

Windsor never looked up. His aged back trembled slightly, as if he were experiencing something unbelievable.

Ashworth and Foley exchanged a glance, both seeing shock and anticipation in each other's eyes.

Finally, Windsor raised his head. His face was terribly pale, and his eyes were filled with a complex mix of emotions—shock, fear, disbelief, and a deep sense of apprehension.

"It's true." His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible. "It's all true."

Ashworth and Foley stood up simultaneously and strode to the Pensieve. They lowered their heads, burying their faces in the silvery sea of ​​memories. The truth.

It is a spur to everyone's understanding.