Clearly, Harry hadn't suddenly decided to kill the Dursleys.
Through the window, John saw the old man at the door being blasted backward.
He couldn't help but feel a little amused—so even the greatest wizard of their age could be caught off guard now and then.
Harry rushed out after him, looking utterly confused by what had just happened.
"A Level 7 Shield Charm… even that can only fling someone like Dumbledore away if he's not paying attention," John murmured thoughtfully.
Then he noticed a pair of eyes turning toward his direction.
Expressionless, he pulled the curtains shut and tapped the wall with his wand.
Any external detection spells were immediately blocked from entering.
Though he could easily read without light, John preferred to turn on a lamp when examining letters.
Most of them bore a familiar address—
They were from Hermione.
His gaze darkened slightly as he gathered her letters into a neat pile and set them aside.
Then he opened a few others.
One was a letter of gratitude from Lucius Malfoy. Even after learning that John was his son's friend, Lucius still maintained his formal respect.
Narcissa was the same—her letter of thanks carried an undertone of worry.
She wrote about the Malfoy family's betrayal of Voldemort and cursed the Order of the Phoenix for ruining their plans.
"Voldemort's revenge, perhaps?" John muttered, flexing his fingers. The drawer slid open on its own, and a quill floated out.
He penned a letter to Narcissa, acknowledging her concerns.
With two Dark Lords missing in action, either one posed a serious threat to families like the Malfoys.
Especially Voldemort—after personally witnessing the Grail's power, it was only natural he'd shift his attention toward it.
"Spread the word," John instructed in his letter, "let certain people know there's an object capable of granting immortality hidden within Hogwarts."
He entrusted this task to Narcissa—she was the best choice he could think of.
Lucius had already betrayed Voldemort once; his words would never regain the Dark Lord's trust.
But Narcissa was different. She hadn't shown her face during the Ministry battle, and she had completed a task for Voldemort that still earned her a sliver of credibility.
John was confident she'd know exactly how to handle it.
He handed the letter to Basil for delivery.
Pulling out the next envelope, John saw that it was an invitation.
"The Slug Club?" John stared at the letter.
It was from the new Headmaster, Horace Slughorn. Apparently, Voldemort's downfall had emboldened him quite a bit.
Previously, even though Slughorn had expressed concern about Hogwarts, he'd only written letters—always hesitant when it came to taking the Headmaster's position.
Now, in this letter, he was inviting John to join his private little gatherings. Despite being the new Headmaster, he clearly hadn't shed his old habits.
Slughorn was a collector by nature—not of rare or expensive artifacts, but of talented individuals.
As one of the brightest figures at Hogwarts, John was undoubtedly a prize he was eager to add to his collection.
John glanced at the invitation twice before slipping it into a drawer.
Slughorn was being far too eager. In doing so, he'd shifted the balance of power in John's favor.
Now it wasn't John seeking something from him—it was the other way around.
Between attack and defense, the advantage could change with just a single word.
Revealing one's hand too early would only diminish the final payoff.
Just as John picked up the next letter, he heard a tapping sound against the window.
Pulling the curtain open slightly, he saw an owl pecking at the glass with its beak.
He opened the window, and the owl swooped in, dropping off a letter before flying back into the night.
John picked it up—it was from Hermione.
Judging by the sheer number of letters, she must have been writing to him almost every day.
As he held one in his hand, a memory flashed through his mind—the first time he'd stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
"I was such a reckless happy go lucky back then," John murmured with a wry smile.
He gathered the letters neatly and began reading from the first one.
It felt like going through a long academic essay—tiny, precise handwriting filled every inch of the parchment.
The theme throughout was the same: apology.
"Hermione Granger…"
John's gaze went unfocused as he stared at the reflection of the piled letters on the desk.
He could feel her remorse, the repeated, genuine guilt woven between every line.
But she'd fallen short—just by a single step.
John closed his eyes.
Once a choice was made, it couldn't be undone.
He picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and as a bead of black glistened at the tip, about to fall onto the parchment, he finally began to write.
The ink dried quickly after he finished writing. John set the letter aside, planning to wait for Basil's return before sending it out.
He opened a drawer and took out a silver pocket watch engraved with an elegant lily design.
When Basil finally returned from its delivery run, John handed it both the watch and the letter.
The owl gave a couple of indignant hoots but was promptly appeased with a small dried fish.
With the correspondence taken care of, Dumbledore had by then already come and taken Harry away.
Though, when Dumbledore stepped back outside, his beard still showed a few singed ends.
...
Harry couldn't make sense of it—how the wooden sculpture had turned into a giant plush dog that tried to bite people, or how the Dursleys suddenly had a wizard chess pawn in their house.
The moment Dumbledore entered and conjured a sofa for the Dursleys to sit on, the wooden dog sculpture had leapt up and clamped onto his beard.
Fortunately, it ended without incident, and Dumbledore succeeded in his purpose—taking Harry along with him.
But before leaving, Dumbledore asked Harry to accompany him somewhere first.
He told Harry to bring out his Invisibility Cloak. Even if Voldemort might currently be occupied elsewhere, one could never be too careful.
Dumbledore sent Harry's trunk and Hedwig to the Burrow with a spell.
Then, standing together at the end of Privet Drive, Dumbledore instructed, "Hold on to my arm tightly."
Harry did as he was told, and with a twist, Dumbledore Apparated them both away from the street corner.
It felt completely different from using a Portkey—Harry felt as if he were being squeezed through a narrow rubber tube.
When they reappeared, he gasped for breath, gulping down the cold night air.
Tears streamed from his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like he'd just been forced out of an elastic pipe.
It took him two and a half seconds to recover.
Looking around, he realized they were far from Privet Drive, standing in what seemed to be an abandoned village square.
In the center stood a war memorial, with a few benches scattered nearby.
"Are you all right?" Dumbledore asked, glancing down at him with gentle concern. "It takes a bit of getting used to, that feeling."
"I'm fine," Harry muttered, rubbing his ears, which still didn't quite feel like his own. "But I think I prefer flying by broom."
Dumbledore chuckled, wrapping his traveling cloak tightly around his neck. "This way."
He set off down the path.
Harry followed, noticing how deserted the place was—an empty pub, a few small houses, all silent under the night sky.
A church clock told him it was nearly midnight.
"Tell me, Harry," Dumbledore suddenly said, "does your scar still hurt?"
Harry instinctively touched his scar—it had faded so much it was almost as if nothing had ever happened there.
"No," he said dully, "it hasn't hurt since the night at the Ministry."
He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw a mix of relief and faint regret on the old man's face.
"It seems that, in some matters, John has always been honest with you," Dumbledore said quietly. "Voldemort can no longer influence your thoughts."
"Professor… what do you think of John?" Harry asked hesitantly. "He's Johnny Silverhand, and your position…"
"In his eyes, I was never a qualified headmaster," Dumbledore said with a small shake of his head. "And looking back now, he was right—I was not suited for that role."
They turned a corner, passing a phone booth and a bus stop.
Harry still had no idea where they were heading.
"This is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton, Harry," Dumbledore explained. "Ah, yes—I haven't told you yet."
Meeting Harry's confused gaze, Dumbledore continued, "Though I'm no longer headmaster, there are still duties I must attend to. Tonight, we're visiting an old colleague—someone who might be able to tell us a few things."
"This old friend is a very clever man, and he keeps… certain connections."
Harry remained puzzled, unsure why Dumbledore had brought him along.
"He'll want to see you, Harry."
The night air was cold. Harry tightened his cloak around himself, glancing at the rows of houses ahead, wondering why Dumbledore didn't simply Apparate again.
"Because that would be as rude as kicking down someone's front door," Dumbledore explained. "Courtesy dictates that we give other wizards the chance to refuse us entry. Most wizarding homes, after all, are warded against unwanted Apparition."
For some reason, Harry suddenly thought back to what had happened at the Dursleys'—Dumbledore insisting on entering the house, only to be blasted back by that wooden shield.
Maybe that was exactly what it meant to be an unwelcome guest.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside.
"For example, Apparition isn't possible inside Hogwarts or anywhere on its grounds," Harry said quickly. "Hermione Granger told me that."
"She's quite right. Now, we'll need to take a left here," Dumbledore said, straightening his beard.
The walk felt long. Along the way, they discussed a few things—chiefly the Ministry.
"Barty Crouch is a remarkable man," Dumbledore remarked thoughtfully. "He prepared for Voldemort's return long before it happened, and he managed to keep the wizarding world from falling into chaos. I couldn't have done better myself."
"Still, fear spreads easily. Sales of Dark Arts defense trinkets have risen in every household."
Their conversation carried on until they reached their destination—
A house with a broken front hinge, its door hanging crookedly from the frame.
It didn't look like a very promising sign.
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