Chapter 38: Bedside Conversation

"Headmaster Dumbledore." Harry met this most powerful wizard in Britain at the Ministry of Magic; he did not look as composed as usual.

After all, two fists cannot fight four hands, and he was no longer young.

"Harry?" Dumbledore clearly startled, "Why are you at the Ministry of Magic? You should be staying safely at Hogwarts."

"We nearly died, Headmaster," Zhang Qiu stepped forward, sounding displeased, "Because of Quirrell and Snape’s conspiracy, Neville nearly lost his life, and Harry was hit twice by the Cruciatus Curse."

"Quirrell..." Dumbledore murmured, offering no opinion.

"I think we should return to school first," Harry tugged at her sleeve, "We can talk once we’re back."

The man with the long scarf spoke discontentedly: "Dumbledore, in this entire plan, we expected you to prioritize Harry’s safety above all else."

"I’m sorry," the old man offered no defense, only sadly took Harry’s hand, "Let’s go back."

They Apparated back to the school gates; Harry and Zhang Qiu each carried a jumping pot and the Invisibility Cloak respectively, walking silently behind Dumbledore.

"I’m sorry, children," Dumbledore whispered, "As soon as I arrived at the Wizengamot, I was attacked by at least ten Death Eaters, and their numbers kept growing. It took me too long to subdue them—I seem to be growing old."

Facing a dozen adult wizards and successfully knocking them all unconscious and locking them away, he suffered no injuries beyond disheveled robes—and yet he apologized, still feeling he hadn’t done enough. Harry recognized this rhetorical style: it was called Verlaine.

"You really ought to pay more attention to what’s happening at the school," Zhang Qiu’s tone was icy; Harry swore he had never heard this girl speak like this before.

"Hagrid must have warned you many times—Snape and Quirrell are plotting something," she demanded, "Didn’t you consider having another trusted professor watch them? Or better yet, bring them both to the Wizengamot?"

"The Wizengamot only allowed me to go alone," Dumbledore said with slight regret.

"You’re Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard in Britain," Zhang Qiu snapped, "Why do you care about the Wizengamot’s rigid rules? You should oust all those old fools and replace them with people you trust!"

"Child, you and your Master are not the same," Dumbledore knelt down and gently touched her cheek, "Master Xuanjun has lived for an unimaginable length of time—he may be older than the world itself. But I? I’m still just a child."

"Before power and desire, I lost myself. When I finally awoke, I realized I had lost my family and loved ones," Dumbledore said sorrowfully. "I will never again seek power. One Dark Lord in this world is terrifying enough—I refuse to become a White Lord."

Zhang Qiu replied discontentedly: "All I know is you’re bound by these outdated ideals and nearly got Harry killed."

"You may not know, but Snape is one of ours," Dumbledore said slowly. "As you said—have a trusted professor watch a suspicious one."

"I even suspect he holds a grudge against me and planned to use me as a knife," Harry grumbled, "While we were battling Quirrell in the dungeon, he was napping in his office!"

"Snape swore to protect you because your father once saved his life," Dumbledore revealed only part of the truth.

"But..." Harry started to protest, then fell silent. Voldemort had said he would kill Harry himself, so Harry believed Quirrell wouldn’t harm him—and the task of reviving Voldemort had already been completed since Halloween, when he obtained the handkerchief soaked in blood. The Philosopher’s Stone was merely an optional bonus.

Perhaps the one who truly placed Harry in danger was Harry himself—rushing headlong to play the hero.

"Professor, may I ask one final question?" Harry said. "Why was I the one who retrieved the Philosopher’s Stone?"

"That’s my masterpiece," Dumbledore smiled warmly. "The Mirror of Erised reflects the deepest desire of one’s heart. Only those who seek the Stone without intending to use it can obtain it."

Harry pondered these words carefully—he felt he had made a grave mistake.

Quirrell wanted to use the Stone, so he could not take it from the mirror; Neville merely wanted to prevent Quirrell from obtaining it—he wished the Stone would remain trapped in the mirror forever.

Only after Harry arrived on the scene did Quirrell think to threaten Neville’s life—and only then did Harry himself desire the Stone, not to use it.

If Harry hadn’t rushed down so hastily, Quirrell, unable to obtain the Stone, would have continued torturing Neville—but he likely wouldn’t have killed him, since Neville was Quirrell’s last hope of acquiring the Stone.

No—had Harry arrived with the Professor, Quirrell, in a frenzy before fleeing, would surely have cast a Killing Curse. So the current outcome is already the best possible one: the young wizards saved their friend’s life through courage and wit.

Moreover, they preserved the Philosopher’s Stone and destroyed the freshly obtained blood of their enemy. If the blood Quirrell obtained on Halloween had not yet been delivered to Voldemort, then they had effectively prevented his resurrection.

But so much time had passed since Halloween—Harry couldn’t be certain this guess was true.

"I have one last question," Harry said. "What do you think of Neville? He said he too was the child of the prophecy."

"Oh, you’ve heard the prophecy," Dumbledore looked hesitant. "In truth, only one child can fulfill it, for the prophecy states: 'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.'"

"But Neville also wishes to prove himself, and his parents were also attacked by Death Eaters..."

"I know, I know," Dumbledore said dejectedly. "The Longbottoms—but I have no choice, Harry. Only you possess the power to defeat him."

"Headmaster Dumbledore, I have a request," Harry said. "I ask that no other students be dragged into my conflict with Voldemort."

"...I’m sorry." Dumbledore had said this word several times today, but each time Harry heard in his deep regret the quiet certainty that he would do it again.

The three parted at the castle gates; Harry and Zhang Qiu planned to visit the hospital wing to see Neville, while Dumbledore returned to his office to handle matters.

"Dumbledore is a classic white left," Zhang Qiu said bluntly on the way to the hospital. "Blindly chasing political correctness, naively believing enemies are as childish as he is."

"Uh, that’s a bit harsh," Harry felt this was too offensive.

"Revolution isn’t a dinner party—it can’t be conducted with polite manners," Zhang Qiu’s words were fierce. "Look at what he’s done: designed a trial game, subtly nudged you to defeat the enemy, while he himself walked straight into a Death Eater trap. Does he think he’s writing a fairy tale? Brave Harry cleverly completes the trial and defeats the Death Eater at the end?"

"But isn’t divination written the same way?" Harry said optimistically. "When I endured the Cruciatus Curse and refused to yield, I finally understood what 'indomitable' means."

"Why didn’t he just carry the Philosopher’s Stone on his person from the start?" Zhang Qiu voiced the most fatal mistake: "Even if he was bound by rules and couldn’t directly deal with Quirrell, he could’ve protected the Stone—instead of entrusting the task of stopping Voldemort’s resurrection to an eleven-year-old!"

"Neville said something similar," Harry frowned. "Perhaps Dumbledore is a master duelist, but he’s dangerously naive in matters of strategy."

Walking and talking, carrying faint resentment toward Dumbledore, they entered the hospital wing.

As soon as they stepped inside, they saw Neville lying on the bed, bandaged in several places. Hannah sat quietly beside him; Ron and Hermione were absent.

"Hi, Hannah," Harry greeted. "How’s Neville?"

"Madam Pomfrey says the burns and muscle strains can be treated, but soul fatigue can only heal with time," Hannah said, worried.

"Soul fatigue?" Harry grew concerned. "What dark spell did Quirrell use?"

"It was my own spell," Neville opened his eyes, weak and drained. "The high-speed movement placed immense strain on both body and soul."

"Oh, you’re back," Ron entered through the door. "Thank goodness everyone’s safe."

"Sorry Quirrell got away," Zhang Qiu spoke before Harry could.

"Well, at least you look great, Harry," Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Looks like the Cruciatus Curse didn’t affect you."

Harry thought: I lay dead for at least half an hour before my bones stopped hurting so much.

But since Zhang Qiu refused to speak of those events, he pretended he’d never been to the afterlife: "Maybe I’m just unusually resilient."

The ward had no other patients, so their chatter went unchallenged. Neville joined the conversation, and soon Hermione arrived with a pile of snacks. The children chatted about their heroic deeds, mocked Snape’s cowardice and Dumbledore’s missteps, their faces lit with smiles of survival.

"How wonderful," Dumbledore thought with satisfaction, watching the children’s noise without disturbing them. "Eleven-year-old Harry has already learned to keep secrets."