I became Voldemort

Chapter 217: New Wand

Her bright eyes fixed on Harry. "I'm not saying those Death Eaters aren't guilty, but ultimately, the root of it all is Voldemort. Now they've become part of the force against him—that's their way of atoning."

"I'd love to get a mark on my arm!" Ginny said angrily. "I'm Cyrus's first follower!"

"We can all be!" Ron had considered Cyrus a friend ever since he received his Christmas gift from him.

It wasn't the gift itself that mattered to Ron, but the fact that Cyrus remembered he had lost his pet. That small detail, seemingly insignificant, sometimes had a way of winning over hearts.

"Worrying about this is pointless. The real question is, where have Voldemort and the Death Eaters gone now!" Hermione, still rational, opened the Daily Prophet, which featured news from several months ago.

—The Azkaban Mass Breakout.

"Look at this, so many Death Eaters, and not a single one has been captured. The Dementors have scoured almost all of Britain, and still no sign of them," Hermione said.

"Do you think they've left the country?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded seriously.

But Ron had a different opinion.

"They might just be hiding, using an Undetectable Extension Charm," he said with a confident look. And he actually had some experience with it—after all, The Burrow used that very charm. Even though there were seven or eight kids living there, it was still spacious enough. It just looked a bit shabby from the outside.

"I don't care where Voldemort is. I just want to know where Cyrus went," Ginny said, clearly determined to find Cyrus and get a mark on her arm as well.

"Maybe he left the country too," Ron said. "Things have been pretty chaotic lately. You know about Fudge, right?"

He paused dramatically, catching the attention of the other three.

"Fudge? You mean your dad's boss? We saw him last year in Hagrid's hut," Harry said.

Of course, Harry remembered. 

Last summer, after he ran away from Privet Drive, Fudge had arranged a room for him at the Leaky Cauldron. And when Sirius was finally cleared, Fudge had been involved too. So far, Harry had a fairly good impression of him.

"He released all the Dementors from Azkaban," Ron said with a shake of his head, almost mockingly. "I've heard the Aurors have been working non-stop, but they can't catch any Death Eaters. Rumor has it that Fudge has started randomly arresting dark wizards and throwing them into Azkaban, pretending they're escaped prisoners."

"Has he lost his mind?" Hermione frowned deeply, and it wasn't just her—Harry and Ginny also found this behavior far too extreme.

"He has to give people some sort of explanation," Ron shrugged. "I'm starting to worry if the Quidditch World Cup this summer will even happen."

The Quidditch World Cup, held every four years, was one of the biggest events in the magical world, and this year, it was supposed to be held in Britain.

Ron had been looking forward to it for ages, but with the current situation, it seemed like it might not happen. After all, with so many Dementors roaming about, foreign wizards might not be willing to come and risk it.

Their conversation shifted to Quidditch, and the two girls lost interest. Even Ginny, who had once been passionate about Quidditch, was now less interested.

After all, no matter how exciting the sport was, it was still just a game, and there were far greater causes in the world!

...

"For the greater good…"

Dumbledore's trembling lips murmured the once-familiar vow, as his pale, frail hand held the corner of a letter, the other hand resting on his desk for support.

He looked like a crumbling gray tower, on the verge of collapsing, as if nearing the end of his life.

The letter was from Nurmengard.

The letter spoke of Nurmengard's sudden collapse.

The once-mighty tower had become a grave, burying the soul that had both filled Dumbledore with love and caused him so much pain.

Behind the half-moon spectacles, tears blurred Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes. But it wasn't just his vision that was unclear—it was also the love he had endured and struggled with for fifty long years.

A wave of fear washed over him.

How terrifying it was that, after all these years, the memory of Grindelwald's face had grown so hazy. The encounter in Godric's Hollow, nearly a century ago, seemed now like a sand painting, wiped away with a single brushstroke, leaving no trace behind.

Never again would he receive those endless letters, written in hopes of just one reply.

But quickly, Dumbledore buried his sorrow deep within the darkest recesses of his soul.

His suppressed emotions formed a deep abyss within him, so much so that the portrait of Fitzgerald on the wall looked at him with concern. She even feared that if Dumbledore's pain were ever torn away from him, it might give birth to another monster.

"You shouldn't keep repressing your emotions, Albus," she cautioned.

The stronger the wizard, the greater the risk of instability.

A wizard's power stemmed not just from their physical magic, but from the intensity of their emotions.

"Don't worry, Fitzgerald," Dumbledore replied, his voice now calm. He was a rational man, not one to be swayed by emotions.

Or perhaps, since his youth, after making irrevocable mistakes driven by the passion of love, Dumbledore had intentionally repressed himself. The greater the person, the more difficult it is to atone for their mistakes.

At the very least—

He believed in the world beyond death.

"Rather than this, I'm more interested in what's happening with Cyrus."

He spoke softly, but mentioning Cyrus at this moment felt like a way to change the subject.

"Since that dinner, there has been no news of him. I've asked Ollivander, and apparently, there haven't been any new faces buying wands from him recently."

At that moment, Cyrus, who Dumbledore had just mentioned, was standing beneath a towering and twisted ancient tree.

Moonlight filtered through the branches of the snakewood tree, casting a serene glow on Cyrus.

A large, serpentine snake lay coiled beside him, raising its head and wrapping itself around Cyrus, gently resting its small head against his cheek.

"Good evening, Nagini."

The great serpent hissed and flicked its forked tongue, as if offering a familiar greeting.

Cyrus took a step forward and reached out towards the sturdy snakewood tree.

Then—the enormous snakewood began to contract, transforming like collapsing quantum space into a short, sturdy wand.

This was another legacy of Salazar Slytherin.

—The Snakewood Wand!

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