Chapter 720: Dawn
Gellert Grindelwald’s expression flickered slightly, then he tapped the ground with his Walking Staff and said,
"Let’s all agree—laws are merely the chains庸人 use to bind geniuses."
"I once dismissed such things entirely. But a small friend of mine inspired me to reconsider. After a second look, I realized... behind those dry, tedious statutes lie some remarkably fascinating logic."
He stroked the Walking Staff, letting out a low chuckle.
"For instance… performing magic in front of Muggles severely violates the Confidentiality Act. But if their memories are properly modified, the penalty is merely a few Galleons..."
"Another example—laws do protect the rights of House-elves. Yet, 'voluntary service' and 'proactively punishing oneself after a mistake' do not constitute enslavement. Isn’t that delightfully ironic?"
Dumbledore gazed at him with calm, steady eyes—eyes that held not anger, but something deeper: a quiet sorrow.
"Gellert Grindelwald… perhaps laws are indeed imperfect, as you claim. But their existence is not merely to restrain. It is to protect… to preserve the fundamental order of this world."
"If they have flaws, then we should strive to correct and repair them. Not exploit loopholes for personal gain, then mock those who still choose to follow them as fools."
Gellert Grindelwald suddenly erupted into a low, chilling laugh.
"Such a moving speech, Albus…"
"But if I recall correctly, over the past five years, you’ve published at least twenty-three essays identifying 117 provisions in need of revision. You’ve proposed changes three times in Wizengamot meetings. How many were adopted by the Ministry of Magic? Shall I count them for you?"
A cruel smile curled his lips.
"Correct? Repair? How hypocritical. The saintly Dumbledore!"
"You know your words are never even read by the bureaucrats. Yet you console yourself with the thought that you’ve done your best—better than the madman who wants to tear everything down, isn’t that right?"
Dumbledore’s face went pale. His body stiffened as if turned to stone. A faint tremor ran through his fingers beneath his robes.
Suddenly, sharp crackling sounds echoed from nearby.
Rufus Scrimgeour arrived with a squad of Aurors, their steps uneven as they rushed to Dumbledore’s side. They drew their wands against the members of the Wizard Purity Party—but deliberately avoided locking eyes with Gellert Grindelwald.
Scrimgeour cleared his throat, his voice dropping eight octaves:
"Professor Dumbledore… Minister Fudge instructed us… to come and assist… to follow your orders completely… He said… he said… the future of Britain’s Wizarding World rests entirely in your hands…"
Of course, Cornelius Fudge hadn’t been this perceptive. He simply felt the weight on his shoulders growing unbearable. He’d already resolved to resign—and was quietly courting the next Minister of Magic.
Every time Scrimgeour recalled Fudge’s craven performance, the hardened Auror felt heat rise to his cheeks. His message came out halting and awkward.
But their timing was impeccable. And behind it all, Fudge’s true intentions were as transparent as glass to both Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
Gellert Grindelwald suddenly laughed—softly, almost amused. The sound sent shivers through everyone nearby.
He waved a dismissive hand.
"Let Britain’s criminals remain in your hands, Ministry of Magic. As for us unwelcome guests… it’s time we returned home."
He glanced at the boy in Dumbledore’s arms, then casually waved his wand. A swirl of幽蓝色 light bloomed in the air, spinning like a whirlpool. Anyone touched by it vanished instantly from the spot.
"To that Auror," Grindelwald said lightly, "give my regards to Minister Fudge. If I have the time, I’ll visit him."
With those words, he stepped calmly into the blue light.
As he disappeared, the ruins filled with the relieved gasps of the Aurors—and the faint, weak groans of the injured Death Eaters.
Scrimgeour glanced at Dumbledore, seeking permission. Under the Headmaster’s silent gaze, he gave a curt order. His subordinates moved in, seizing the powerless Death Eaters and binding them with magical restraints.
"Never thought it’d be you, McNeil… you’re one of them!"
A young Auror with a short beard whispered bitterly as he tied up his colleague. "Your parents would be ashamed. Your wife, your daughter… Merlin above, you’ve ruined their lives!"
An awkward silence settled over the scene.
The Death Eaters were dragged from the ground, dazed and hollow-eyed, their bodies shackled in magic chains.
Harry watched.
He saw the once-proud Death Eaters now reduced to empty shells—like victims of Dementors. Yet, instead of triumph, a dull ache welled up in his chest.
Perhaps it was that Auror’s words that made him realize: these weren’t born monsters or murderers. They had parents. Loved ones. Children. Families. Friends.
He noticed one thing—the list of captured Death Eaters contained no Lucius Malfoy.
That discovery brought an involuntary wave of relief. Then, almost immediately, he frowned at himself.
At that moment, something in the corner of his vision caught Harry’s eye.
A faint glow—like a dewdrop—rose slowly from a blade of grass, trembling as it transformed into a creature no larger than a firefly: a young deer.
This late-born light-beast danced through the air, light-footed and graceful. Each step scattered tiny sparks of light.
For its brief existence, it reveled in the wind’s rush, darting across the battlefield without pause—chasing the glowing trails of its own tail, stepping lightly over a Death Eater’s nose, skimming past tree branches and rock ledges.
Harry’s gaze followed it instinctively. When it passed by him, he reached out, fingers brushing the air—touching nothing, yet feeling a warmth against his skin.
In just a few seconds, the fawn began to fade, becoming translucent.
It paused at the edge of the broken wall, turned to face Harry. Its eyes—two drops of morning dew—seemed to hold the entire sky.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it vanished. Like smoke, it dissolved into the growing light of dawn.
To the east, the sky lightened. A single beam of sunlight pierced through the heavy clouds, striking the spire of the monastery straight on. The shattered statue at the top, though damaged, still bore the faint, sorrowful curve of a downcast brow.
"The dawn has come, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. His voice seemed distant, yet clear as a bell in Harry’s ear.
"Let’s go home."
(End of Chapter)
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