A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts
Chapter 653: Fertile Ground - (1)

Chapter 653: Fertile Ground

Inside the circular room of the Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore sat in the chair behind the long-legged desk, carefully examining a wand. He looked somewhat weary, especially from Harry's perspective; the wrinkles on his face were as pronounced as the remnants of brown eggshells left on boiled eggs.

"Good evening, sir," Harry broke the silence.

"Ah, good evening, Harry." Dumbledore lifted his head from beneath his half-moon glasses—this exposed the wrinkles on his forehead even more, and he smiled, "Please, have a seat. Pomfrey informed me that you were discharged today, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to postpone the classes until next week."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond. He murmured, "Um," and pulled a chair over to sit across from Dumbledore.

"Pomfrey said you're feeling much better, but I wanted to confirm for myself—no lingering discomfort, I hope?"

"No," Harry hurriedly replied, pushing aside his hair to reveal a thin scab on his forehead, "It hasn't bothered me since I woke up. My nose has been itching though, and Madam Pomfrey kept meticulous notes for two days until I found Ginny's gnome droppings under the bed... I think it's because of the Philosopher's Stone." He took off the black gemstone ring on his finger and placed it on the desk.

"I don't need it now, sir."

"The time in the infirmary was indeed tedious... so your friends gave you a travelogue to pass the time? I glanced through a couple of pages; it seems to recount events from a long time ago."

"Yeah," Harry said cautiously, "I found it in the library over the Christmas break... Ron knew I've been reading it lately, so he brought it over to keep me occupied."

Dumbledore nodded understandingly.

"Sir, whose wand is this?" Harry couldn't help asking, looking at the white wand on the desk. It seemed to be made from the bone of some creature, with one end carved into the shape of a beast's claw and adorned with irregular spikes.

"This is made of yew wood, with a phoenix feather core—" Dumbledore's gaze shifted to the side, and Harry followed his glance to see Fawkes perched on a branch, dozing. A sudden realization struck Harry, and he blurted out, "This is Voldemort's wand, isn't it?"

His voice was so loud that even Fawkes was startled, shooting him a reproachful glance before tucking its head under its wing. The portraits of former headmasters on the walls of the circular office discreetly glanced at them.

"This is Voldemort's wand," Dumbledore repeated, "On Christmas during your fourth year, Felix and I raided Voldemort's hideout. He hadn't yet returned, so he fled in a sorry state. This wand was one of the spoils."

Harry glared at the yew wand defiantly; Voldemort had used it to kill his parents and leave him with an unhealable scar...

"Harry, Harry!"

Harry snapped back to attention, seeing Dumbledore stow the wand away in a drawer.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry murmured.

"No need to apologize, Harry." Dumbledore paused briefly, then spoke in a formal tone, "I'm sure you understand why we're sitting together on a weekend evening. While I welcome chatting with you if you need to unwind, it's evident that we have a more important task at hand."

"Yes, I understand," Harry said, "For the fragments in my mind, you mentioned you have a way."

"That's correct," Dumbledore said, "You'll find my approach slightly different from Felix's. I need you to be more involved, to know what you're doing. For that, we need—"

He reached out, and suddenly a cabinet behind Harry swung open, a shallow basin flying out and landing securely on the desk between them.

"—the Pensieve," he finished his sentence.

Harry stared dumbfounded at the Pensieve, not understanding the connection. He tentatively asked, "Are you asking me to learn something?" Perhaps some advanced magic, Harry speculated in his mind.

"More accurately, to witness something," Dumbledore said, waving a finger, and a small crystal vial appeared in his raised hand. He uncorked it, pouring the swirling silver memories into the basin.

"Whose memories are these, sir?" Harry asked curiously.

"Mine," Dumbledore replied shortly, "Let's discuss inside. I need to allocate enough time for our discussion. You first."

Harry took a deep breath and plunged into the memories within the Pensieve. As he descended, he felt a solid touch beneath his feet. Opening his eyes, he scanned the surroundings, knowing from past experiences that the owner of the memories must be nearby.

Then, he saw it.

Before him lay a drab little village, with low, dilapidated houses exuding a timeless aura. Shades of green and brown surrounded the area. But that wasn't the focus. Under a large tree, Harry spotted a young boy with reddish-brown hair, about eight or nine years old, staring intently at his own palm.

Harry took a few steps closer before realizing his mistake. The boy wasn't staring at his hand; instead, a leaf floated above it. Harry was certain the boy hadn't uttered any spells, yet the leaf kept changing colors.

"That's me," Dumbledore appeared beside Harry, introducing.

They watched silently for several minutes, but the scene remained unchanged. Harry couldn't help feeling a bit impatient, yet he also noticed the first virtue of the boy—or rather, the young Dumbledore—patience.

The boy had obviously been there for a long time, as evidenced by the pile of leaves of various colors beside him. But he showed no signs of impatience. Now, he had managed to fix the leaf between shades of red and brown, adjusting the subtle color changes.

Harry suddenly realized the boy was trying to match the leaf's color to his hair.

"Albus! Albus, it's time for dinner."

Another boy appeared. He seemed a couple of years younger than Albus, wearing similar clothes but looking much dirtier, with messy reddish-brown hair.

"That's my brother, Aberforth," Dumbledore chimed in.

Aberforth rushed over, panting heavily, his face flushed. "Albus, it's time for dinner!" he shouted. "Just a moment—almost done," Albus replied. After a dozen seconds, he finally stopped, a satisfied smile appearing on his face.

The leaf now perfectly matched his hair color.

"Let's go," he said cheerfully.

"Ah, you've been practicing magic again!" Aberforth seemed to realize, shouting loudly, "I'll tell Mum and Dad, just wait to be scolded!"

"Then you won't get any colored leaves," Albus teased.

"Is this for me?" Aberforth asked excitedly, reaching out to take it, but Albus dodged away.

"I prepared several with pure colors, but—let Ariana choose first," Albus said as they stood up, walking towards the village along a dirt road.

"We'll follow them, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. Harry noticed a slight tremor in his voice. "I'll introduce you to my family..."

As they passed a signpost, Harry saw the village's name roughly carved on a piece of rough wood: Fertile Ground.

He couldn't help but wonder: Didn't the Dumbledore family live in Godric's Hollow? He had seen it in his mother's letter to Sirius, which couldn't be wrong. Had the Dumbledore family moved there later?

He was about to ask when he noticed Dumbledore's eyes were a bit moist. So Harry remained silent. They quietly followed the young brothers ahead, and Harry couldn't help but speculate where they lived. He scanned the surroundings and spotted a house that appealed to his aesthetic senses. He vowed it must have many features outside indicating wizarding life.

He confidently walked forward, but the brothers turned a corner. Just as Harry began to doubt his guess, he saw a beautiful backyard, shielded by dense hedges.

"Ariana! We're back!" Aberforth shouted loudly.

Harry heard hurried footsteps. He quickened his pace, almost catching up with the memories of the two brothers. With a rustle, the tall and thick hedge parted slightly, revealing a pair of timid eyes.

"Sir, this is—"

Harry turned around to find Dumbledore had stopped far away, his face showing a strange mixture of apprehension and anticipation. Harry suddenly had a strange thought: perhaps Dumbledore was afraid to face this scene alone, so he specifically called him over.

...

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