Chapter 59: Chapter 55: What Was Lost
No matter what Harry or Hermione said to her, she didn't respond. She just sat there in a daze, her gaze unfocused. She had no will to attend the end-of-year party, and even Dumbledore instructed everyone to leave her alone for the time being.
Her footsteps unsteady, she returned to her dormitory and collapsed into a seat.
She wanted to believe it was all just a dream.
Yes, a terrible dream.
When she woke up, Mirabelle would still be at school, she would still be smiling by her side, and... life would continue in peace as if nothing had ever happened.
Yes... that must be it.
Surely, just a little longer, and she would wake up. She was still in bed, she would soon open her eyes, realize she was late, and rush to get ready...
"…Ah."
Near her bed, there was a gift box.
A present from Mirabelle—or rather, from her double.
A gift meant to be opened at the end of the year, prepared by her friend.
With sluggish movements, Edith picked up the box and held it close.
The protective enchantments were gone.
She could open it now.
Carefully, she began to undo the box, taking care not to damage it.
Normally, she wouldn't give a second thought to a box or its wrappings; she'd simply tear it open and toss it aside.
But now, even this simple box felt irreplaceable—like a precious treasure.
Inside was a handmade plush of a Niffler, adorably crafted.
And a single letter.
Edith, compelled by a mixture of urgency and trepidation, carefully unfolded the letter.
A faint glimmer of hope rose within her.
Yes, this gift had been specifically prepared for her to open at the end of the year.
Perhaps she had foreseen what would happen.
If that were the case, perhaps... just perhaps...
Maybe she was alive. Maybe she had only pretended to die.
Yes, that must be it.
Surely she and Mirabelle had planned this all along.
Surely the letter would explain everything.
…If Edith had been her usual self, she would have realized how impossible this hope was—how it was nothing but a convenient fantasy.
In fact, she wouldn't have indulged in such delusions at all.
But now, she was far from her usual self.
The sudden cruelty of reality had crushed her, leaving her anxious and confused.
With trembling hands, she opened the letter.
But what was written inside was not what she had hoped for.
To Edith,
By the time you're reading this, I wonder what you must think of me. Are you sad? Angry? The thought of it terrifies me.
By now, you probably already know that I've been deceiving you all along. My real name is Mary Orwell. I am nothing more than a servant of Lady Mirabelle. While she carried out her work abroad, I attended school in her place, acting as her double to mislead Dumbledore and Voldemort.
The person you thought I was was nothing more than a counterfeit—a complete fabrication.
And yet, somewhere along the way, I came to see you as a true friend.
Will you laugh at me? Or will you be furious? I know it's selfish of me to even hope for your forgiveness. I used you, pretending to be "Mirabelle Beresford" to fulfill my role. But if I could be forgiven… if I could be granted one more chance… I'd like to start over. Not as her double, but as myself—Mary Orwell—and meet you again.
When we meet again, I won't be the person you know. That thought scares me. Even now, as I write this letter, I can't stop thinking about whether you'll still be angry with me.
But even so, I—
…She couldn't read any further.
Her vision blurred with tears, and the words became illegible.
What the letter revealed was the true feelings of a girl who had dared to hope for the future.
She wanted to apologize, to make amends.
If they could meet again, she wanted to be honest this time.
She wanted to go to Hogsmeade with Edith again—not as a shadow, but as herself.
These were the lost dreams of a future that would never come to pass.
And now, Edith wanted nothing more than that same future.
She wanted to see her again.
To meet the real her.
To talk with her.
And to become her friend—truly this time.
But It Was Impossible
That wish could never come true again.
She was gone.
No more laughing together. No more trading jokes.
That future was lost forever.
"...ah... ngh... sob..."
Tears fell onto the letter.
Memories of the past year resurfaced, vivid and bittersweet, replaying the joyful days in her mind.
The way she smiled mischievously.
The way she laughed.
Her happiness, so genuine.
But those days would never return.
"Ah… ahhh… AAAHHH—!!"
Clutching the letter tightly, the girl broke down in tears.
Meanwhile
To Mirabelle, Mary had been the only person privy to her true past.
Stubborn, inflexible, and unafraid to speak bluntly, Mary had often been a challenging presence.
There were countless times Mirabelle found her annoying, moments when she considered hurling herself into a chimney just to escape her sharp tongue.
And yet, now that Mary was gone, Mirabelle couldn't shake an odd emptiness.
Perhaps she had taken her presence for granted.
"…Mary... So this was the answer you chose?"
Mirabelle looked down at the lifeless body before her—a replica of her own, occupied until recently by her loyal subordinate, Mary.
Mary had flawlessly fulfilled the command to deceive Dumbledore's gaze for an entire year.
Death, Mirabelle had thought, was trivial.
If it came to that, she could always resurrect her. She had been optimistic.
But Mary wasn't coming back.
Her soul had already moved "beyond," beyond even the reach of resurrection.
Mary could have remained in this world.
When someone dies, they can choose: to pass on or to linger as a ghost.
Had she wished, she could have stayed behind and waited for Mirabelle to bring her back.
But Mary had not done so.
Most likely... for the sake of her friendship with Edith.
Mary couldn't betray her master, Mirabelle.
Yet she couldn't bring herself to stand as an enemy to Edith, either.
In the end, the choice Mary made was to simply die.
Thinking of it that way, the situation made sense.
"Fool... If you were going to die, you should have joined Lineagle's side and opposed me outright instead."
The words slipped out, surprising Mirabelle herself.
She smirked faintly.
She realized how much she regretted losing Mary, far more than she had anticipated.
"Stubborn to the very end, weren't you?"
The body before her was soulless.
It wasn't even Mary's real body—it was an imitation Mirabelle had created.
And yet...
Perhaps, at least in the end, it wouldn't hurt to bury her properly.
The thought brought an unfamiliar pang of sentimentality. She realized just how much she had valued Mary as a subordinate.
"…Thank you, Mary Orwell, for serving me so faithfully.
You've done well… Rest in peace."
Using the Philosopher's Stone, Mirabelle transformed the replica body back into Mary's true form.
She lifted the body, preparing to give it a proper burial.
And then, finally, it dawned on her.
Ah, I see…Now that I think of it, after Letis passed away, Mary was the only one I ever called by name…
"The Return of He Who Must Not Be Named."
The Ministry of Magic's announcement sent shockwaves across the entire British wizarding world.
Following the news, Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore were hailed as heroes.
They were now celebrated as tragic figures who had endured harsh criticism and isolation while bravely proclaiming the truth.
The same people who had treated Dumbledore and Harry as delusional misfits now shamelessly reversed their stance.
However, what disappointed Harry and Dumbledore most was that every newspaper focused solely on the terror of Voldemort, failing to acknowledge an even greater threat.
Mirabelle Beresford and Gellert Grindelwald.
This dangerously destructive duo aimed not to control the wizarding world but to obliterate it entirely.
Despite Dumbledore's warnings, the Ministry was reluctant to take the threat posed by these two seriously.
It was, perhaps, understandable.
With Voldemort already overwhelming their resources, the idea of another imminent danger was something they didn't want to accept.
At least this time, they didn't dismiss Dumbledore's claims outright as lies, but their level of caution fell far short of what was needed.
For now, Mirabelle was simply classified as "missing."
Meanwhile, the Ministry sought to cozy up to Harry, proposing to elevate him as a symbol of hope.
Dumbledore, however, rejected all overtures, even forbidding the Ministry from approaching Harry.
Frustrated, the Ministry took its next step, publicly declaring Sirius Black innocent and revoking his fugitive status.
But Dumbledore dismissed this as the "bare minimum they should do" and refused to engage further.
This decision, driven by Dumbledore's desire to shield Harry from additional burdens, only deepened the rift between him and the Ministry, hampering cooperation.
Although Rufus Scrimgeour, the new Minister of Magic after Cornelius Fudge's death, maintained an outwardly cooperative relationship with Dumbledore, the tensions left behind by his predecessor remained unresolved.
The two leaders eyed each other warily, resulting in a fragile and unstable alliance.
Around the same time, St. Mungo's Hospital confirmed the deaths of Heathcote and Simon Beresford, while the youngest brother, Sidney Beresford, mysteriously vanished.
Having lost her husband, daughter, and son simultaneously, Maeve Beresford succumbed to grief, resigned as deputy headmistress of Durmstrang, and took to her sickbed.
Her successor was an eerie masked figure known only as "Selevus."
Meanwhile, a handsome, golden-haired young man with curls was rumored to have taken the vacant headmaster position left by Igor Karkaroff's disappearance, though details remained unclear.
At Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Olympe Maxime continued as headmistress. She remarked that "a dark atmosphere is enveloping all of France," prompting her to urge students to remain vigilant.
After the end-of-year festivities, Hogwarts was tranquil once again, its students having returned home.
Even so, the staff remained at the school.
In the headmaster's office, Dumbledore sat in his chair, gazing at an object on his desk.
"..."
It called to him, powerfully, irresistibly.
Though Dumbledore knew such thoughts were foolish, he couldn't tear his eyes away.
On the desk sat a single ring.
In his hand, he held his wand, poised to destroy the ring with magic.
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to act.
"The Resurrection Stone…"
The object before him was none other than the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows.
It was an heirloom passed down through the Gaunt family and now carried an even darker significance.
—A Horcrux.
Through the forbidden dark magic of splitting one's soul, Voldemort had come closer to immortality than any wizard before him.
In his quest to uncover Voldemort's secret to eternal life, Dumbledore had discovered this horrifying truth.
If his suspicions were correct, Voldemort had created six Horcruxes and, unknowingly, a seventh.
Unless all were destroyed, Voldemort could never truly die.
One of the Horcruxes, Tom Riddle's diary, had already been destroyed three years ago.
And now, Dumbledore was certain that this ring was another.
However, Voldemort seemed unaware of the ring's true nature.
It was not just a ring.
More precisely, the stone set in the ring was extraordinary.
The Resurrection Stone allowed its bearer to speak with the dead—a legendary artifact.
As he stared at it, Dumbledore felt a long-buried desire reignite within him.
He knew he mustn't give in. He must not defy reason or the natural order.
He had taught his students this very lesson countless times.
And yet, he couldn't stop himself.
"Could I… see them again? Father… Mother… Ariana… Could I see you and finally apologize?"
His trembling hand reached for the ring.
He had regretted his youthful mistakes every day of his life.
The guilt of his actions—of the choices that led to his sister's death—never left him.
His normally sharp and intelligent blue eyes were now fevered and unfocused, fixed solely on the ring.
With this… with this alone, he could see the family he had lost.
He could apologize for his failings on that fateful day.
It was a temptation too sweet to endure.
Albus Dumbledore had once burned with ambition.
Intoxicated by his own brilliance, he believed it only natural to dominate those less gifted.
But that arrogance blinded him to what truly mattered, leading to his sister's tragic death.
"Humans have a curious habit of desiring what is worst for them."
This was Dumbledore's own maxim—a lesson he had imparted to both Mirabelle and Harry.
It was also the truth of his own life, not just his past but his present.
Here and now, Albus Dumbledore yearned with all his heart for the Resurrection Stone.
—See? You can't resist. No matter how much you spout pretty words, this is your true nature.
A triumphant girl's voice echoed in his mind.
The voice belonged to a girl who reminded him of his former self—a terrifying demon that had broken all brakes. A manifestation of the evil he could have become. That graceful voice, so unapologetically indulgent, was, of course, a figment of Dumbledore's guilt.
And yet, to the present Dumbledore, it was undeniably his own voice.
Slowly, almost entranced, Dumbledore extended his hand.
Three centimeters... two centimeters... one centimeter...
A calm, rational part of him—the wise part—warned him not to touch it.
But the younger Dumbledore inside him, screaming to see his family again, drowned out the warning.
Finally, his fingers brushed against—
"Stop right there, Albus. That ring is cursed... wear it carelessly, and it will kill you."
"!"
Startled by the voice coming from the doorway, Dumbledore jerked his head up.
There stood a figure he could never mistake: golden curls framing a perfectly chiseled face.
It was Gellert Grindelwald, his friend of old. Though they were the same age, Grindelwald still looked as youthful as he had in their younger days, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, arms crossed.
"Gellert... Why are you here?"
"What a silly question, Albus. Who do you take me for?
This school's security might as well be nonexistent, as far as I'm concerned."
"There should have been a statue at the entrance…"
"Ah, yes, that. I just rattled off a list of sweets you like, and it let me through without hesitation.
You still have quite the sweet tooth for Muggle confections, I see."
Grindelwald's sly smile was accompanied by a soft laugh, and Dumbledore couldn't help but smile back warmly.
Though Grindelwald's sudden appearance had caught him off guard, he knew better than to let his emotions show. He had to remain calm, composed, and in control.
"Yes, Muggle sweets never disappoint. They're a far cry from the magical kind."
"Ah, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, is it? You used to hate those. Always managed to pick the worst ones."
"Indeed. And you always got the good ones. That's why I came to loathe them."
"Ah, yes. I remember that well."
Grindelwald chuckled, his laughter laced with a wicked playfulness.
For a fleeting moment, Dumbledore felt as though he'd been transported back to simpler times—back to when they laughed together without a care in the world.
But their paths had diverged, and they would never converge again.
Even as they shared this brief laughter now, that truth remained immutable.
"Gellert... What brings you here? Surely it's not just to reminisce about old times?"
"While I wouldn't mind that, I'm here for something else. I've come to retrieve what I left in your care."
Grindelwald ran a hand through his hair, his lips curling into a suave smile.
It was an affected gesture, but on someone as strikingly handsome as him, it worked effortlessly.
"The Elder Wand... you still have it, don't you?"
Dumbledore's expression hardened. So, this was why he had come.
The Elder Wand—the most powerful wand in existence, said to guarantee victory to its wielder.
Though not invincible in truth, it was strong enough to make such claims believable.
If it fell into the wrong hands, the consequences would be catastrophic.
"Hmph. I've no idea what you're talking about. As it happens, I'm perfectly content with my own wand.
I have no need for any other."
"You're a terrible liar, Albus."
Grindelwald had once been the wand's master.
It was Dumbledore who had defeated him and claimed its ownership.
Knowing Dumbledore, it was obvious he wouldn't have let such a dangerous artifact out into the world.
It was clear to both of them that the wand was still in his possession.
"I know you have it… hand it over.
You are no longer its master."
"That's true, Gellert. But you are no longer its master, either."
"Indeed. However, I can deliver it to its rightful owner."
"That may be so. Which is why I cannot give it to you."
Dumbledore had been the master of the Elder Wand until his recent battle in the Department of Mysteries. In that fateful duel, he had suffered his first-ever defeat at the hands of Mirabel. His wand was taken, his leg crippled, and, had Grindelwald not intervened, he might not have survived.
Thus, Dumbledore could no longer wield the Elder Wand. Its loyalty, as with all wands, lay with strength, and it now belonged to another.
Without that loyalty, the wand could not unleash its full power.
"I cannot allow that fearsome girl to gain possession of the Elder Wand."
"Then what will you do? Fight me? With an Elder Wand that no longer obeys you?"
All wands choose their master, and loyalty is not immutable. It can shift through conquest, whether by duel, disarming, or even death. The Elder Wand, in particular, is infamous for this trait. Even if it wasn't wielded in battle, it would still transfer allegiance to the victor.
Unlike regular wands, the Elder Wand completely severs its bond with its previous owner, leaving no trace of loyalty behind. This trait had sparked countless conflicts, bringing death to all its masters throughout history.
"If we fight here, the other professors will surely come running. You'll be at a disadvantage, Gellert."
"You think mere pawns could stop me?"
"Of course. The professors here are exceptionally skilled."
As Dumbledore and Grindelwald faced each other, their expressions calm and composed, their hands hovered near their wands, ready to strike at any moment.
The slightest trigger would turn this into a battlefield.
But the moment never came. Grindelwald lowered his hand, returning his wand to its place.
"It seems I have no choice… I'll withdraw for now."
"You won't fight me?"
"The time will come for us to settle this. But this place is far too small for what must be decided… A more fitting stage will be required."
Grindelwald leaped onto the window ledge, his robe billowing dramatically.
"A final piece of advice—do not put on that ring.
You are mine to defeat, Albus… Don't let some petty curse take you from me."
"I'll take your advice to heart."
Satisfied with Dumbledore's reply, Grindelwald gave a small nod before vanishing out the window.
Grindelwald's visit had been entirely unexpected, yet it was true that his intervention had saved Dumbledore.
Had it not been for his interruption, Dumbledore might have succumbed to temptation, worn the ring, and been overwhelmed by its curse.
Even if he had survived, his arm would have been rendered useless, and his life drastically shortened.
In hindsight, Grindelwald had appeared at precisely the right moment.
(...To think he came here for that reason… Perhaps I'm expecting too much.)
Though they were now enemies, the encounter with his old friend left Dumbledore with a faint sense of solace.
Gripping his wand, he conjured a flicker of fire.
The cursed flames—Fiendfyre—he had mastered in his ambitious youth.
Dumbledore's greatness as a wizard was no exaggeration.
Though he had long since sealed away these dark arts, they were always within his reach. He chose not to use them, deeming them a symbol of past mistakes.
To say he had no desire to see his family again would be a lie. Regret lingered still.
But fulfilling his mission before reuniting with them would not be too late.
Now, he would fight as a guardian of the young and the future.
With quiet resolve, Dumbledore steeled his heart.
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