When Dumbledore stepped out of Nurmengard, he was still alone. Inside that bleak black fortress, blazing magical fire had been lit—no raging inferno of destruction, but a fierce flame meant to bring light.
The glow surged from behind him, brightening the dim world, yet all Dumbledore could see was the long shadow of himself stretched across the snow in front of him.
In the Austrian pine forest, snowy owls lifted into the air and circled beneath the silent moon. Dumbledore looked up and spotted a dark figure standing on a pine branch—steady as a stone statue on a spire.
"Skyl." The old educator sounded helpless. "Don't stand that high up. You'll fall."
Skyl drifted down lightly and landed in front of Dumbledore, firelight haloing him, a young man's bright grin on his face. The owl settled on Skyl's shoulder and gave the old educator a polite little nod.
"Professor, looks like you just sat through a reunion you didn't enjoy," Skyl teased.
"How long have you been here?" Dumbledore's smile was warm.
"Just passing by," Skyl said. "Oh—Merry Christmas, Professor."
Dumbledore blinked. "Christmas?" He pulled a brass pocket watch from his coat. The hands had passed midnight. "Ah. It is Christmas, isn't it. Merry Christmas to you too, Skyl. Are you getting ready to travel?"
He'd noticed Skyl had already changed out of his robes—now wearing a hooded coat, sturdy boots, and a practical, sharp look, like a young mountain hunter coming home from a deer hunt.
"I already started," Skyl said. "Want to see my campsite? It's not far."
"I'd be delighted."
They walked down a narrow path where snow sifted through the pine boughs, gradually putting distance between themselves and Nurmengard. Skyl asked about the conversation in the tower. He already knew the answers—he just felt Dumbledore needed to say it out loud.
"Gellert… he's always been like that," Dumbledore said. He was wearing slippers. An eastern Austrian night in December was brutally cold; his old, swollen feet were red and raw with frost, speckled with snow and mud, and he didn't seem to care in the slightest. "From the very first day I met him. You could tell he was pure in a way—someone who would throw everything away for his ideals and convictions."
"You two go way back," Skyl said.
"Nearly a hundred years. The summer of 1899. My mother had only recently died, and I had to return to the village—to care for a disabled sister and a willful brother. Gellert was in Godric's Hollow too. Pure coincidence. Through his great-aunt's introduction, we met…" Dumbledore sighed softly. "Even now, it still feels like yesterday. When I was young, I believed every meeting in life was chance. Now I know fate pulls people toward each other."
Dumbledore's eyes were brighter than the snow's reflected light, his face full of an aching, nostalgic smile. He was over a hundred years old, and Grindelwald had been the dearest friend—eventually the lover—he'd met at seventeen.
Their intimacy had lasted barely two months before Ariana's death severed everything between them, yet the feeling itself had endured for a century, never truly broken.
"Seeing Grindelwald come back—Professor, you're kind of happy," Skyl observed, reading him. "Better than letting him rot in prison until he dies of old age. Better to burn one last time at the end. Toss a little more fire onto this crazy world."
Dumbledore blinked rapidly, pretending not to understand.
"You stayed there half an hour," Skyl said. "Did you pick up any inside information?"
"Yes," Dumbledore admitted. "Grindelwald believes the timing is right. He intends to publicly duel Lockhart—crush him, and the Muggle forces behind him."
Skyl couldn't help clapping. "Our new Minister for Magic is so blessed! With that personality of his, if he hears Grindelwald is back, he'll be thrilled to invite him to a duel. Compared to holding a school dueling tournament and trading meaningless blows with an overworked Professor Snape, getting to face the first Dark Lord head-on is the kind of thing that makes you famous overnight."
Dumbledore's look turned strange. He felt like Skyl had been planning this for ages—like the boy knew another layer of history.
"Gellert will kill him," the old educator said with certainty. "Prison didn't change his nature. I can see he's a little softer than he was in youth—slightly kinder, perhaps—but he will never show mercy to an enemy blocking his road."
"You think Lockhart is guaranteed to lose? He could actually win."
"How could he?" Dumbledore snorted. "Gellert can't be bought."
"I mean win the right way," Skyl said. "Fair and square. With magic."
Dumbledore fell silent for a long moment, then burst into laughter.
"When a Niffler can beat a fire-breathing dragon, that's when Lockhart can beat Gellert."
"Professor, magic is the power of belief," Skyl said. "If the entire Muggle world believes Lockhart is stronger than Gellert, then he can defeat the Dark Lord."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. Of course he knew belief was strange and powerful. Fear could make Voldemort feel unbeatable. Love could protect Harry from harm. The roots of magic tangled with conviction—that was part of its underlying color.
"But it's not without cost," the old wizard said bluntly. "The strength of belief is fickle—like clouds on water. When it's clear, it feels close enough to touch, but the moment you reach for it, it shatters into ripples."
"It only seems untouchable because you don't have the method," Skyl replied. "Professor, do you remember the three-layer soul model I proposed?"
"Of course," Dumbledore said. "Simple, effective. A refreshing way to frame it."
"The thoughtform is made of belief," Skyl said. "It's built from those thinking-strings that cling to a name. A powerful enough thoughtform can make someone a god. If you want to see your own thoughtform, I can help—pull your soul out and dissect it on the spot."
"Absolutely not!" Dumbledore rejected that instantly.
"There are indirect ways to observe it," Skyl continued. "Like the Mirror of Erised. It reflects the scene in your thoughtform that represents your deepest longing. And if you see someone else in that mirror, it means they occupy an enormous weight inside your thoughtform."
A flash of sadness crossed Dumbledore's eyes. He didn't want to stay on the Mirror of Erised. "You have a way to use thoughtforms, don't you?"
"Yes. I know one method, and I'm testing a second," Skyl said. "The first is simple: separate the soul from the body. Without the armor of flesh, the thoughtform rises to the surface. In some folk tales, famous mortals become gods after death—that's why. Where I come from, it happens now and then."
"Interesting," Dumbledore said. "And the second?"
"The second is to anchor belief inside an object," Skyl said. "Even lifeless things can have a thoughtform. And because it's the only 'soul' they have, it's naturally easier to use… Oh. We're here. My campsite."
Dumbledore was still turning Skyl's words over when he looked up—and in the silent pine forest stood a brightly lit two-story tavern. It looked like it had stepped straight out of Victorian London: red brick walls, a sharply peaked roof, and a steaming chimney. Warm light glowed through foggy, frost-laced windows.
A hanging sign by the door read: The Three Cups Travelers' Tavern.
What a strange name, Dumbledore thought.
Why would there be a tavern in the middle of nowhere? The old wizard felt a suspicion forming.
Skyl walked up and knocked.
A girl in an old-fashioned maid outfit pulled open the newly painted green wooden door from inside.
In the lamplight, she was clearly beautiful—sixteen or seventeen, perhaps. Her left eye remained shut, and her short hair was chestnut with a reddish tint. Youthful and lovely, but always expressionless, cool and distant.
"Welcome," she said, lifting her skirt in a proper curtsy. When she saw Skyl, she couldn't help a small smile, but she didn't say anything else.
"Thanks," Skyl said. "Professor, this is Melina—my friend."
"Hello, Miss Melina," Dumbledore said, removing his hat and bowing, every inch the courteous old gentleman. "Forgive an old man for intruding at such an hour."
"It's lively tonight," Skyl said, hurrying a few steps inside. He called toward the bar, where Marika stood behind the counter: "Two cups of Cackling Spirits, please!"
Dumbledore stepped into the tavern and found it shockingly loud and cheerful—packed, clattering with conversation. Guests in the hall toasted and laughed, spirits high. Ms. Moonshadow, Savos Aren, the Dragonborn, Lydia, Thorin, Bilbo, Gandalf… familiar faces. And others he didn't recognize: Sellen, Thops, Ranni, Millicent—visitors from the Lands Between.
"Dumbledore!" Bilbo shrieked when he saw him. "I thought I'd never see you again!" They hugged fiercely. Everyone turned to greet him.
Skyl returned to Dumbledore's side and handed him a cup. "A Christmas limited-run tavern. I've been setting it up for days, invited a bunch of friends. Well? Not bad, right?"
"I have a feeling," Dumbledore said, "this will be the most unforgettable Christmas of my life."
Skyl clinked his cup against Dumbledore's. They drank the Cackling Spirits—and both burst into helpless laughter. The crowd immediately dragged them into a drinking contest. The night was still young.
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