-622: Sealing the World Coordinates, Returning to One's Own Universe

Chapter 613, Section 622: Sealing the World Coordinates, Returning to One's Own Universe

Voldemort's corpse lay silently amidst the ruins. His tentacles were completely withered, like dried vines, shattering at the slightest touch. His eyes had all fallen out, crumbling into dark red powder on the ground, mingling with the dust and scattered by the sea breeze. His inhuman face finally held a semblance of peace; his three eyes were closed, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile played at the corners of his mouth—not a look of savagery, not of madness, but of resignation.

Dumbledore stood beside the corpse, looking down at his face, silent for a long time. Grindelwald stood in the doorway, wand hanging at his side, his heterochromatic eyes looking at the once arrogant Dark Lord, his eyes devoid of mercy and hatred, only a faint, indescribable something.

Ian didn't look at Voldemort. He was looking at the lingering dark red specks of light in the air—the power of the Deep hadn't completely dissipated after Voldemort's death. These specks floated in the air, escaping from the corpse, passing through the collapsed ceiling, and drifting towards the sky. If left unchecked, the power of the Deep would return to the Void, perhaps to be captured by some unspeakable being, becoming the coordinates for their next invasion of this world.

Ian can't let it happen.

"You all step back," he said, his voice calm but carrying a hint of command.

Dumbledore looked at him. Grindelwald looked at him too. They watched as Ian walked to Voldemort's corpse, knelt down, and stretched out his hand, palm facing the dissipating dark red dots of light. A silvery-white light shone from his palm, this time not dazzling, not intense, but gentle, calm, and as cool as moonlight.

The moment those dark red specks of light touched the silvery-white light, they stopped. They ceased to float upwards, ceased to struggle, and simply hovered in mid-air, trembling slightly, like tamed wild beasts.

Ian closed his eyes, and the silvery light gradually spread forward, enveloping, compressing, and pulling the dark red dots towards his palm. The dots pierced his skin, and his body trembled violently, his brows furrowed, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Dumbledore took a step forward. "Ian, don't come any closer." Ian's voice was a little hoarse, but still calm. "I can control myself."

Grindelwald grabbed Dumbledore's arm and shook his head. "Let him do it."

Dumbledore stood there, watching Ian's retreating figure, watching the dark red dots being slowly absorbed into his body. His expression was grim—not with worry, but with something more complex. He knew what Ian was doing, and he knew what it meant.

Voldemort's power is a gift from deep space, a power from an indescribable being beyond dimensions.

That power was chaotic, insane, and corrosive, capable of twisting any life that came into contact with it. Ian had previously seized a portion of the Old Ones from Cthulhu and was able to suppress and absorb this power, but Voldemort's power was too vast and too chaotic; even for him, it was a gamble.

Ian's body trembled slightly. The dark red specks of light were drawn into his skin, surging through his veins, tearing at his muscles, and ravaging his bones. He could feel those forces resisting, struggling, being forcibly transformed into another form by his old authority. The cold, chaotic, empty essence of deep space was being stripped away, purified, and tamed bit by bit.

He gritted his teeth and poured more silvery-white light into his body. The dark red specks struggled even more fiercely, but the silvery-white light tightly bound them, pressing them into the deepest recesses of the old authority.

Time passed quietly.

He didn't know how much time had passed—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. Finally, all the dark red dots were absorbed into Ian's body. He knelt on the ground, panting heavily, his body drenched in sweat, his face pale, his lips bloodless, but his deep eyes remained bright and calm.

"All done." His voice was hoarse, but carried a hint of relief.

Dumbledore walked over to him, knelt down, and looked at his face. "How are you feeling?"

Ian thought for a moment. "I'm full."

Grindelwald paused for a moment. Dumbledore paused for a moment too. Then the two old men laughed. The laughter echoed through the ruins, easing the tension and heaviness of the moment.

Ian stood up and stretched his shoulders. A silvery-white light flowed within him, merging with his old authority. He closed his eyes, sensing the form of that new power—no longer Voldemort's chaos and madness, but a relatively docile power purified by his authority. It couldn't enhance his magic, it couldn't change...

His nature is such that he can only do one thing—shield himself from the perception of deep space.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. The dark red light had completely dissipated, leaving only hazy clouds and a few rays of sunlight filtering through the gaps.

"That should be enough," he murmured.

Dumbledore looked at him. "What's enough?"

Ian raised his hand, palm facing the sky. A silvery-white light shot out from his palm, soaring into the clouds and exploding high in the sky, transforming into countless tiny, silvery-white specks of light. These specks of light slowly spread outwards, like ripples or waves, enveloping the entire sky in a faint, almost invisible curtain of light.

"The authority of the old," Ian said. "I can use it to shield myself from the perception of deep space. From now on, those indescribable beings will no longer notice this world. They will think that this place has been occupied by some ancient entity."

Grindelwald frowned slightly. "They'll believe that?"

Ian nodded. "They won't come to see for themselves. They're too ancient, too arrogant, to waste their time on a tiny world. They'll avoid anything that smells of the past."

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. "So, it's really over."

Ian looked at him and nodded. "It's over."

Three people stood silently amidst the ruins for a long time. The sea breeze, carrying a salty, fishy smell, seeped in through the cracks in the broken walls, ruffling their robes and hair. In the distance, the Aurors were busy on the other side of the ruins, treating the wounded, assessing the damage, and hunting down fugitives. No one came to disturb them; no one dared to approach.

Grindelwald was the first to speak. "And then?"

Dumbledore didn't answer, looking at Ian. Ian looked at him, a complex mix of emotions churning in his deep eyes. "I should go back."

Dumbledore didn't speak, he just looked at him.

"The time machine is fixed." Ian pulled the intricate device from his pocket. It glowed a soft, silvery-white in the morning light, its gears turning slowly, its crystals shimmering slightly, the entire device like a beating heart. He looked down at it for a long time. "Just now, Voldemort died, my mission was complete, and it automatically repaired itself. Perhaps it was a program set by the female Titan, or perhaps it was fate itself."

Grindelwald stared at the device, a complex light flickering in his heterochromatic eyes. "What was your era like?"

Ian thought for a moment. "It's pretty much the same as now. There's Hogwarts, Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick. Except—" He paused, "except Voldemort isn't there. He died a long time ago."

He died at the hands of an infant.

Dumbledore paused, taken aback. "A baby?"

“Harry Potter,” Ian said, “a very special boy. His mother protected him with the magic of love, and Voldemort’s Killing Curse rebounded on him, nearly killing him. He then hid for over a decade, only to return and be killed. In the history of my time, Voldemort never reached the level of a legend. He was just a rather powerful dark wizard.”

Grindelwald was silent for a few seconds. "What was I doing in your time?"

Ian looked at him. "In Nurmengard. After being defeated by Dumbledore, I've been imprisoned there ever since."

Grindelwald didn't ask, "Do I regret that?" or "Have I seen Aurora?" He simply nodded and said nothing more.

Dumbledore walked up to Ian, looked down at him, and a complex mix of emotions swirled in his deep blue eyes. He wanted to keep him, but knew he couldn't. Ian didn't belong to this era, this timeline; he had his own mission, his own world, his own future.

"Thank you, child."

Ian looked at him. "You're welcome. I'm a Hogwarts student; it's only right that I do this."

Dumbledore smiled. The smile on his aged face appeared exceptionally gentle and serene.

Ian turned to Grindelwald. "Professor."

Grindelwald paused, taken aback. "What did you call me?"

"Professor," Ian repeated, a slight smile playing on his lips, "in my time, you were a professor at Hogwarts. You taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. You were quite good at it."

Grindelwald remained silent. His heterochromatic eyes swirled with complex emotions.

Ian didn't explain further. He took a few steps back, placed the time machine on the ground, and returned to its side.

Dumbledore looked at him. "Will we meet again?"

Ian thought for a moment. "Maybe. Maybe not. Fate is a tricky thing."

He didn't say "definitely," nor did he say "definitely not." He simply stood beside the time machine, looking at the two old men, at the era he had fought for, protected, and changed, for a long time.

"Then I'm leaving."

Dumbledore nodded. "Go. Take care."

Grindelwald didn't speak, he just looked at him.

Ian crouched down and channeled magic into the time machine. A burst of silvery-white light instantly surged, enveloping him entirely. The gears spun wildly, and the crystals lit up simultaneously, the light growing brighter and more intense. In the ruins, the light swallowed everything, illuminating every corner.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald closed their eyes at the same time.

When the light faded, Ian was gone.

The time machine is gone too.

Only a small, round scorch mark remained on the ground, a trace left when the time machine was activated.

Dumbledore crouched down and gently touched the scorch mark. The stone was still hot, the heat radiating from his fingertips. He stared at the scorch mark for a long time, then stood up, turned, and walked out of the ruins.

Grindelwald followed behind him. "Where to?"

Dumbledore didn't turn around. "Back to Hogwarts. There's still a lot to do."

Grindelwald was silent for a few seconds. "I'll go with you."

Dumbledore stopped and turned to look at him. "Are you sure?"

Grindelwald nodded. "I owe you."

Dumbledore looked at him for a long time, then sighed softly. "Let's go."

The two old men walked side by side out of the ruins. The morning light shone on them, casting long shadows. In the distance, waves rose and fell on the sea, and seabirds soared. Everything was peaceful and beautiful, as if there had never been war, never been death, never been that black-haired boy.

Fawkes swooped down from the sky and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder with a clear cry. Dumbledore raised his hand and gently stroked its feathers. "Let's go home."

Fox called out again, its golden feathers gleaming warmly in the morning light.

In the ruins, only the Aurors still busy at work remained, along with the deep, circular scorch mark. And in the distance, Voldemort's corpse lay silently among the rubble, gradually being bathed in the morning light.

Beside him lay a shattered mirror. The flowing liquid on its surface had dried, leaving only a dull, gray pane of glass. The glass reflected the sky, the clouds, and the rising sun in the distance. It also reflected the blurry image of the boy who had once come, fought, and left.

The wind blew across the ruins, swirling up the ashes and dust, and scattering them into the sea.

Everything will pass.

But some people will never be forgotten.

The silvery-white light engulfed everything.

Ian felt as if he had been grabbed by an invisible hand, pulled out of the river of time, and then shoved back in. The sound of the gears turning grew denser and louder, eventually merging into a continuous hum. He closed his eyes.

The light faded.

A solid sensation came from beneath his feet. It wasn't the gravel of Azkaban, nor the slate of Hogwarts, but a softer ground, carrying the scent of grass. Ian opened his eyes.

He stood on the lawn of Hogwarts.

The Black Lake shimmered in the sunlight, and the tentacles of a giant squid lazily stretched out of the water. In the distance, several students in their school uniforms were training on the Quidditch pitch, their brooms tracing arcs through the air. The castle windows reflected the light, and flags fluttered in the wind atop the towers. Everything was peaceful and beautiful.

But they are different.

Ian stood there, looking at the castle, the students, and the flags. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different, but it was different nonetheless. The air was different, the concentration of magic was different, and even the students' laughter was different—more relaxed, more unrestrained, lacking the oppressive atmosphere of being shrouded in the shadow of war.

He strode toward the castle.

On the lawn, several younger students were chasing and playing. One boy ran too fast and bumped into another, both falling to the ground. Instead of being angry, they laughed even louder. A girl ran past them, her braids fluttering in the wind, a magic wand in her hand, its tip sparkling with golden light. An older boy leaned against a tree, reading a book, sunlight filtering through the leaves and falling on him, a peaceful smile on his face.

Ian looked at them and slowed his pace.

He remembered these students. In the original history, they were here too, but they didn't have this kind of smile on their faces.