Chapter 49: Love Is the Greatest Magic
“Wait, Severus.”
As Snape turned to leave, Dumbledore called out to him, holding up the parchment in his hand.
“What is this?”
Snape paused, then blinked—his expression shifting into something unreadable.
“You don’t know?”
“Obviously—I’m not the omniscient figure people like to paint me as. In fact, I often feel I know far too little.”
Snape studied Dumbledore with an amused, almost mocking gaze—like he was watching a giant tiptoeing through a ballet. A faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, tinged with both mockery and grim satisfaction.
“How extraordinary. Someone actually sent me a Christmas gift… and didn’t send one to the great Dumbledore?”
His sharp tone didn’t faze Dumbledore. The Headmaster simply drew his wand and waved it across the room. The gifts trembled slightly, then stilled.
Dumbledore sighed, regretful. “It seems… it’s true.”
“Oh.” Snape replied dryly.
He had already seen it—Dumbledore’s study was piled high with presents, nearly touching the ceiling. And in contrast, his own bedroom held only a handful of wrapped boxes. The urge to mock vanished.
He didn’t care about the number of gifts—only the smug, careless pride that came with being seen as the center of attention.
With a flick of his finger, Snape shot a note toward Dumbledore like a bullet.
By the time Dumbledore caught it, Snape had already turned and strode away.
The old Headmaster adjusted his glasses and read the note. Moments later, he understood its purpose.
“Oh… a device that could replace Muggle telephones? Quite an interesting idea…”
He murmured a spell, examining the parchment—the Book of Friends—and its magical workings.
“Clever design. Genius-level integration… It seems Mr. Gray has made real progress in Alchemy. And clearly possesses great talent. No wonder Mor is so proud.”
Thinking back to the children’s expressions that day, Dumbledore suddenly grasped the truth.
So that’s it… a clever, sensitive child… unlike Harry. This one probably dislikes being guided, doesn’t want to be led.
He spoke softly, almost to himself—yet a faint, aged voice answered from the shadows.
“Relf has rarely seen a child of eleven like this.”
The voice was soft, like wind through old leaves. “There’s something of the young Albus Dumbledore in him. And a little of Tom Riddle, too—sharp, perceptive, different.”
Dumbledore looked down. “Oh, you flatter me. At eleven, my knowledge of Alchemy was no greater than any ordinary child’s.”
Before him, standing by the fireplace, was an ancient house-elf. His skin was deeply creased, wrapped in a tea towel emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest. His ears were tufts of thick, silvery hair. He was skeletal, as if one could snap him in half with a flick of the wrist—yet his large green eyes were clear, bright, and full of wisdom.
“Albus Dumbledore is arrogance,” the elf whispered. “To say such things is to assume he is unique—and that he should know everything.”
“Now, now, dear Relf,” Dumbledore sighed. “You see me too clearly. It makes me feel quite exposed.”
He wiped his glasses, then sat at the table and murmured, “Would you help me sort these gifts? I need to write something.”
“Relf will be honored, Master.”
The house-elf bowed, then stepped back, stretching his long fingers.
Gift boxes scattered across the room began to open on their own. Books flew into the bookshelves, arranging themselves neatly. Clean food leapt into cabinets with a soft click. Greeting cards and letters slid into designated boxes, stacked precisely on the table, waiting for Dumbledore’s attention. Other items were placed with care around the room.
The problematic gifts—those with dangerous or unstable magic—were gathered into a pile, then crushed and dismantled by invisible force.
Within moments, Relf vanished with the wreckage, the scraps of wrapping paper and trash disappearing into thin air.
On the table remained only a few untouched gifts—sealed, meant for Dumbledore alone.
As the house-elf worked, Dumbledore carefully inscribed his name—Albus Dumbledore—onto every single Book of Friends.
Every professor still at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays had no family. Some had no relatives at all. They had each chosen to give Dumbledore one of their own personal Books of Friends—the rare, one-to-one connection only shared between two people.
So, though Dumbledore had received no gift this year, on this morning he held a Book of Friends thicker than any other in the world.
He closed the book and sat in silence, staring into the distance. The light of years passed before his eyes, rippling in the depths of his blue gaze.
Was he like him?
Of course he was.
Recollecting the moment in the crowd, Wade Gray’s eyes—so like his own at that age—had looked into the world with the same quiet intensity.
But Dumbledore remembered all too well how he had ruined his own life.
After long reflection, he finally dipped his quill and wrote:
> To my dear Mor,
>
> I’ve received your owl’s gift. I must say—remarkably clever. Almost great. It’s hard to believe this came from an eleven-year-old’s hands. Of course, in a way, its construction is deceptively simple. But that’s precisely what makes it extraordinary. I’m certain you understand what I mean.
>
> I can almost see the future—the way this will transform the wizarding world.
>
> Honestly, it fills me with both joy and fear. For a child so gifted, what kind of education do we owe him?
>
> The last time I encountered a student so brilliant it made my skin crawl… was fifty years ago. You remember him—Tom Riddle.
>
> I won’t pretend my own attitude determined Voldemort’s fate. But I must admit—my teaching of him was a failure.
>
> Talented prodigies… their emotions are restrained by thought. They are isolated by their own wisdom. Even among crowds, they are lonely. Because their minds see too clearly—the selfishness, greed, and ugly desires, the arrogance of fanaticism that others hide.
>
> They keep their distance. They mask their inner cynicism with humor, kindness, or politeness—anything to avoid the pain of knowing how flawed humanity truly is. And they’re far more likely to lose their way than those who are less perceptive.
>
> You see—this isn’t just about Tom Riddle. Or Wade Gray.
>
> So I offer you, perhaps unwise, a few thoughts about your student…
>
> My dear friend, we adults often forget how much younger we are than these children. With our knowledge and experience, we slip into a quiet arrogance—looking down on them from a position of superiority, wielding absolute power like a monarch. We feed them the information we want them to know, hide what we think they shouldn’t, manipulate their words, guide them toward the paths we’ve chosen.
>
> What a terrible arrogance.
>
> And even more dangerous—because we don’t realize it. We believe we’re doing what’s right, shaping them into “better” people.
>
> I won’t say it’s always wrong. Children’s thoughts lack maturity. Their words and actions are often unrestrained. Without proper guidance, they can easily go astray—hurting themselves and others.
>
> But for a student like Wade Gray? Ordinary education may only backfire.
>
> If I’ve learned anything from my own failures, it’s this:
>
> Love is the greatest magic of all.
>
> It is the most elusive, the most mysterious—impossible to predict, impossible to measure. Yet it can change everything. It can determine everything.
(End of Chapter)
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