The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 557, page 566: Ian the Great Demon God 4

This moment.

Voldemort's transformation may have been complete.

However, it was too terrifying.

"Hehehe!!"

Voldemort roared to the sky, but the roar was no longer a human scream; it was a mixture of countless sounds—sharp, deep, frantic, and desperate.

Like a chorus from hell.

"I am no longer a human being!!!"

His voice tore through the sea breeze, echoed in the darkness, and grew increasingly distorted and frenzied with the waving of his countless tentacles. But it was not a wail.

That was a declaration.

That was a new beginning.

That is transcendence.

Surrounded by countless tentacles, encircled by the black seawater, and watched over by the ancient being, the being once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle completed his final transformation.

He is no longer Voldemort.

He is no longer the Dark Lord.

He was no longer the wizard who feared death and longed for immortality.

he is

"Deep space container".

It is a vessel for something ancient.

He is the first "god" to descend upon this world.

And that whisper from deep space rang out one last time, this time carrying an undisguised satisfaction and anticipation:

"Welcome home..."

"One of us..."

The black seawater spun wildly, and the pitch-black sky stared like an abyss. On this desolate island far removed from the civilized world, a new existence was being conceived.

Deep in the Atlantic Ocean, the black sea continues to spread wildly.

The darkness spread outwards from the island at a visible speed, extinguishing life wherever it passed, corrupting the seawater, and even staining the sky with a strange, dark red color, like congealed blood.

Voldemort—no, that name can no longer be used now. The newly born Voldemort stood on the black reef, feeling the changes in his body.

The tentacles were still growing, still adapting, still forging a deeper connection with his soul. He could sense every tremor of each tentacle, as if he could sense his own fingers. The tentacles had their own consciousness, yet they were completely obedient to his will; they were extensions of his body, tendrils of his power.

He raised his hand—what had once been a hand—and looked at the claws that had become completely inhuman. The skin was jet black, gleaming eerily; the five fingers had shrunk to three, each ending in a sharp barb capable of easily tearing through any substance. In the palm, a crack opened, revealing countless tiny, wriggling tentacles within.

He tried to clench his fist.

The air was crushed in his palm, emitting a piercing shriek.

He opened his mouth—the very thing that had once been a mouth—and let out a low laugh. The laugh mingled with countless other sounds, creating a strange resonance in the trembling of the whiskers behind him.

"interesting……"

He spoke, and his voice was no longer human. It was the result of countless frequencies overlapping, capable of piercing both the material and the spiritual realms. Every living being that heard this voice would instantly experience the deepest fear.

He closed his three eyes and began to "perceive".

A portion of that ancient being's consciousness has completely merged with his. The range he can now perceive far exceeds anything he's ever done before. It's not just the surrounding sea, not just the vicinity of the island, but something much farther away.

His consciousness, like invisible tentacles, spread outwards, passing through the sea, the sky, and the membranes between dimensions.

He "saw" the ancient, slumbering beings deep in the Atlantic Ocean—though only vague outlines, they truly existed. He "saw" the faint magical fluctuations on the European continent—the cities of wizards, their supposedly safe havens. He also "saw"—

London.

That city that once filled him with anger, fear, and humiliation.

At this moment, having absorbed the power of that ancient being, his "perception" of London was completely different.

He was no longer angry, no longer afraid, no longer humiliated.

Those emotions are human emotions.

He has already transcended humanity.

But he could still "see" those two beings that had left a deep impression on him.

Dumbledore.

That eternally gentle, eternally calm, eternally aloof old wizard. At this moment, somewhere in London, he was searching for something. His magical energy was still powerful, but in Voldemort's newfound perception, that "power" had become insignificant.

What appears as a giant beast to an ant is nothing more than another ant to a dragon.

There is one more

That "raven".

That black-haired boy.

That was the presence that made him feel real fear for the first time.

Before the fusion, Voldemort couldn't understand the source of the boy's power. But now, after merging with the consciousness of that ancient being, he began to vaguely "see" the boy's true nature.

That was a... abyss.

It wasn't just ordinary power, but a true, immeasurable abyss. The boy's very existence was like a giant vortex, devouring everything around him, yet maintaining an eerie calm.

Even now, even though he has become a "deep space container" and has gained power far exceeding that of a legend, he still cannot "see through" the boy's true nature.

But this time, he felt no fear.

Instead, there was a strange...excitement.

"Interesting...really interesting..."

His voice echoed in the wind, and his whiskers danced wildly with his emotions.

"So this world hides so many...interesting things..."

He opened his three eyes and gazed into the distance. In those (or rather, his three) scarlet eyes burned an unprecedented madness and confidence, as well as a hint of anticipation for the "game" that was about to begin.

"Dumbledore...you wait..."

"That raven...you wait too..."

"Once I've fully adapted to this new body..."

"Once I fully master this new power..."

"When I... truly become... 'the Society...'"

He raised his claws and swung them lightly.

The wildly swirling Black Sea surrounding the island suddenly froze, then receded rapidly as if pumped out, disappearing into his body. The pitch-black sky returned to its hazy gray, and thick fog once again enveloped everything.

The island returned to its lifeless state.

Only the rustling of countless whiskers echoed in the wind, like an eternal, mad murmur.

Deep in a quiet street in London's West End, there is an unassuming little pub.

The tavern's facade was small, its sign so faded the lettering illegible, and dim light shone from the windows. There was no music, no noise, only the occasional, indistinct whispers. Passersby wouldn't give it a second glance—in fact, most people couldn't see it at all. A simple ignore spell was enough to keep this little tavern, "Raven's Feather," forever hidden in the shadows of the Muggle world.

When Dumbledore pushed open the heavy oak door, the brass bell on it rang out with a clear, crisp sound.

The tavern's interior was far more spacious than it appeared from the outside—clearly, spatial expansion magic had been used. Several old-fashioned oil lamps hung from the beams, casting warm, flickering light. Ancient portraits adorned the walls; some depicted people dozing, others curiously peering into the entrance. Behind the bar, an elderly wizard with graying hair was wiping glasses; seeing Dumbledore enter, he merely nodded slightly and continued his work. At a table by the window in the corner sat two figures that Dumbledore knew all too well.

Grindelwald stood with his back to the door, holding a glass of red wine, seemingly savoring something. Opposite him, the dark-haired young man, Ian Prince, was also facing the door, his deep, unfathomable eyes calmly watching Dumbledore approach, as if he had anticipated his arrival.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Ian nodded slightly, his voice still calm, "Please sit down."

Grindelwald turned his head as well, a complex emotion flashing in his heterochromatic eyes—displeasure at being disturbed, anticipation that it would happen, and a hint of inexplicable...relief? He pointed to the empty seat next to him: "Albus, faster than I expected."

Dumbledore didn't stand on ceremony and sat down in the empty chair. The Elder Wand was placed on the edge of the table, within easy reach, but his posture was relaxed, without a trace of defensiveness. He knew that in front of this young man, any defense would be futile.

The bartender appeared silently and placed a cup of hot tea in front of Dumbledore—Earl Grey, just the right temperature, its aroma filling the air. Dumbledore glanced at Ian, who simply returned his gaze calmly.

"Thank you." Dumbledore picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then set it down. His gaze shifted between Ian and Grindelwald, finally settling on Grindelwald's face. "Did I interrupt your conversation?"

"That concludes that discussion," Grindelwald said casually. "We were discussing... why I know about him."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow slightly. This was precisely the question he had been wanting to ask—how exactly did Grindelwald find the "Raven"? Was it through prophecy? Through the remaining network of saints? Or some deeper connection?

"If it's convenient," Dumbledore said, "I'd like to know as well."

Grindelwald didn't answer immediately. He picked up his glass, gently swirling the deep red liquid inside, his gaze fixed on the night outside the window. After a few seconds, he slowly spoke:

"Albus, you know that our family—the Grindelwald family—has always been renowned for its prophetic abilities. But you may not know that our prophetic abilities are fundamentally different from Trelawney's so-called 'prophetic bloodline'."

Dumbledore's gaze became focused. He had indeed studied the Grindelwald family's prophetic tradition, but there was very little information on it; most of it had been destroyed or hidden by Grindelwald himself during his rise to power.

"What's the difference?" he asked.

Grindelwald turned his head, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Dumbledore, a light gleaming in them that was beyond human comprehension, almost superhuman. "Prophets like Trelawney, they 'see' illusions. Vague, fragmented illusions that need interpretation. Those are the true prophecies, and also… the most unreliable prophecies. Because illusions can be distorted, misinterpreted, and interfered with by all sorts of factors." He paused, a hint of pride curving his lips.

"But the Grindelwald family's prophetic abilities are different. What we 'see' is not an illusion."

"What is that?" Dumbledore pressed.

Grindelwald was silent for a few seconds, then gave the answer that made Dumbledore's pupils shrink:

"It's true."

He raised his hand, his fingertips tracing a faint trail of light in the air:

"Our family's bloodline talent allows our consciousness to... descend upon different versions of ourselves at different times. Not a vague sensation, not a fragmented illusion, but a true and complete 'descendance.' My consciousness can return to myself ten years ago, or it can travel to myself ten years in the future. In this way, I can personally 'see' what happened in the past and what will happen in the future."

Dumbledore's breath hitched slightly.

Does it descend upon different versions of myself at different times?

That means

"You can see the future?" His voice unconsciously lowered. "The real, certain future?"

Grindelwald shook his head: "There is no definite future. Each 'descent' is what I see as the 'present' that 'I' was experiencing at that time. And that 'present' can change due to countless factors—including my own choices, the choices of others, and all sorts of unpredictable variables. So, rather than seeing the 'future,' I would say I see 'possibilities.' A web of fate woven from countless possibilities."

He put down his wine glass, his gaze becoming distant:

"But it is precisely because of this that I can see things that other prophets can never touch—the wrinkles of time, the fault lines of fate, and those... beings that do not belong to this era."

His gaze fell on Ian.

Dumbledore understood instantly.

That's why Grindelwald was able to find Ian.

His consciousness, during one of his "descents" into his future self, had already "seen" this boy.

Ian listened quietly to everything, without the slightest surprise on his face. It was as if he already knew—or rather, had already guessed—what Grindelwald was saying.

When Grindelwald's gaze fell upon him, he merely nodded slightly, then spoke, his voice still calm, yet carrying a barely perceptible...感慨 (gǎnkǎi, a complex emotion encompassing regret, emotion, and reflection):

"It seems I was right to call you professor."

Grindelwald's lips twitched slightly, but he did not refute.

Dumbledore's gaze darted back and forth between the two. Although he had heard Grindelwald mention the "time traveler" theory in the tower, hearing Grindelwald admit that he came from the "future"—or rather, that he had served as a professor in the "future"—still deeply shocked him.

Grindelwald, who once fought alongside him and then became his enemy, who once ruled the European wizarding world and then imprisoned himself, and is now old and frail, has somehow become a professor at Hogwarts in a certain "future" timeline? To be honest, even Dumbledore doesn't know how such a future came about. What could have motivated him to send Grindelwald to Hogwarts?

And the boy in front of me.

The being known as "Raven," a being even more powerful than a legend—is also astonishing; he is actually Grindelwald's student in the "future."

No, I should say they are also my students.

This moment.

Dumbledore, who was not yet too old, had very complicated feelings.