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Chapter 49: Love Is the Greatest Magic
"Wait, Severus."
As Snape turned to leave, Dumbledore halted him, holding up a parchment. "What is this?"
Snape hesitated briefly, his expression turning somewhat peculiar.
"You don't know?"
"Clearly not—I'm not as all-knowing as they say. In fact, I often feel I know too little."
Snape scrutinized Dumbledore as if beholding a giant ballet-dancing monster. His lips twitched, hinting at mockery or satisfaction.
"It's quite peculiar—a Christmas gift for me, not for the great Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore remained unruffled by Snape's sharp tone. Instead, he flicked his wand towards the room's gift boxes, catching Snape's attention.
The boxes swayed, then stilled.
Dumbledore sighed wistfully. "Seems there truly isn't."
"Hm," Snape grunted dryly.
He'd noticed—Dumbledore's room overflowed with gifts, nearly to the ceiling. Reflecting on his own sparse collection, Snape's mood soured.
Gift count didn't concern him; he simply disliked others' inadvertent boasting—
With a flick of his finger, Snape shot a note at Dumbledore like a bullet.
"This is the user manual."
As Dumbledore caught the note, Snape turned and strode away. Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, reading through the instructions.
"Ah—could this replace Muggle telephones? A fascinating concept—"
He incanted a spell, examining the magic within the parchment—or the Friend's Book.
"Ingenious concept, a brilliant fusion... It appears Mr. Wade's alchemy studies bear fruit—he's quite gifted. No wonder Murray's so proud."
Realizing he alone hadn't received a gift, Dumbledore recalled several children's expressions from earlier and gleaned something.
"So that's it... A clever, sensitive child... Quite unlike Harry; this one prefers independence—"
Speaking half to himself, Dumbledore was interrupted by an aged, soft-spoken voice in the room.
"Rarely do I see such an eleven-year-old," the voice remarked. "Reminds me of young Albus Dumbledore; also of Tom Riddle—intelligent, perceptive, different."
Dumbledore modestly replied, "You overestimate me. At eleven, I knew no more of alchemy than any ordinary child."
His gaze fell upon a very old house-elf standing near the fireplace. Wrinkled skin peeked from beneath a Hogwarts tea towel, ears adorned with tufts of white hair. Fragile as though he might break, the elf's large green eyes shone with clarity.
In a whisper, the elf remarked, "Albus Dumbledore is too proud. His words suggest he's different, knows everything."
"Don't be so blunt, dear Ralph," Dumbledore sighed. "You see too clearly, often leaving me humbled."
Wiping his glasses, Dumbledore settled at the table. "Would you help organize these gifts? I need to write."
"Ralph serves willingly, Master."
The elf bowed, stepping back, slender fingers extending.
Gift boxes unpacked on their own, books neatly arranged on shelves, food leaped into cupboards—doors closing with soft clicks. Greeting cards and letters found their place in tidy stacks on the table. Problematic gifts gathered, magically crushed, then disposed of with wrapping paper.
Soon, Ralph vanished with the "rubbish."
Only two or three unopened gifts remained—Dumbledore would handle those himself.
As the elf worked, Dumbledore inscribed his name in each Friend's Book—**Albus Dumbledore**.
During the Christmas break, professors without family or relatives gave their only Friend's Book to Dumbledore, fostering one-on-one connections.
Thus, despite not receiving a Friend's Book as a gift, Dumbledore woke to the thickest Friend's Book that morning.
After stowing the book, Dumbledore sat, deep in thought. Years flashed before his eyes, casting ripples in his azure depths.
Are they similar? Undoubtedly.
Recalling Wade Grey's gaze among the crowd that day, Dumbledore couldn't shake the resemblance to his younger self.
But he'd never forget how he'd mishandled Tom Riddle's upbringing.
After much contemplation, Dumbledore picked up his pen, writing a letter—
[Dear Murray,
Your owl brought your gift. Truly clever, even remarkable. Hard to believe an eleven-year-old crafted it... Simple yet profound; its brilliance lies in its simplicity. I trust you understand... I foresee it will revolutionize the wizarding world...
Yet, this delights and alarms me—for such a prodigious child, what education should we offer?
I've encountered few as sharp and gifted in my years—a student fifty years past comes to mind... You'll recall him—Tom Riddle... I won't arrogate my influence over Voldemort's fate, but I erred in his upbringing...
Precocious and restrained by intellect, isolated by wisdom... Despite his surroundings, he remained solitary, privy to humanity's selfishness, greed, and darker impulses. He kept others at bay, masking disappointment and indifference behind humor and charm... More prone to stray than less astute peers...
Not only Tom Riddle but Wade Grey.
Thus, I propose perhaps immature advice for your student Wade...
Dear friend, facing much younger children, we adults often grow unwittingly arrogant, believing our knowledge and experience grant us superiority. We dictate what they should know, conceal what we deem unfit—all under the guise of bettering them...
What hubris!
Worse, we seldom recognize it.
Granted, immature thoughts and actions demand guidance, lest they harm themselves and others. But for students like Wade Grey, conventional schooling may prove counterproductive...
If I've learned aught from my missteps, love proves the most challenging and potent magic. Its workings remain enigmatic, yet it can alter all and decide everything...]