"Albus?"
Grindelwald stared at the shadow for a long time before he was certain it really was the person he had longed for day and night.
But just as he was about to step forward, he saw Dumbledore's shadow disappear beside the grave.
It was nothing more than an illusion, a fleeting mirage—before he could even get close, it had already been pierced by the sharp sting of reality.
At that moment, Grindelwald's longing for Dumbledore reached its peak.
How desperately he wished to see Dumbledore with his own eyes once more, to pour his heart out to him again, to tell Dumbledore that he and Cyrus would soon avenge him, that they would eliminate the hidden threat, Herpo, so he could rest in peace and no longer concern himself with the affairs of the living.
How much he wished to tell Dumbledore in person that it wouldn't be long before he went to find him, and then they could set off on an adventure together.
In truth, there was a portrait of Dumbledore in the headmaster's office.
Dumbledore's death had been sudden, but he had always had the habit of extracting memories from his mind and storing them in the portrait, which could also create a version of "Dumbledore."
But Grindelwald knew very clearly that it wasn't truly him. In all this time, he hadn't met with that portrait even once.
That was something false—nothing more than a clump of memories stuffed into a shell!
"But.. But I know what's real."
He slowly walked to the edge of the grave again, sat down leaning against it once more, and then, with trembling hands, pulled out a black stone from his sleeve.
It was the Resurrection Stone again.
That ominous stone had reappeared in the story once more.
It was the one Dumbledore had left behind.
That night, after Herpo killed Dumbledore, he took the Elder Wand but left the Resurrection Stone. And so, the Resurrection Stone ended up in Grindelwald's hands.
He had held out for so long—until today, until Cyrus was about to cross time itself to completely destroy Herpo—only then did he take out the Resurrection Stone. He thought he could finally rest easy now.
He didn't know that behind Herpo stood Death itself. After he gave his power to Cyrus, he had nearly passed out. When Ginny passed information to Cyrus, she had done so directly through the diary, transmitting it straight into his mind.
"No one will disturb our quiet night now, Albus."
He spoke as he turned the Resurrection Stone three times in his palm.
Then, the night at Hogwarts suddenly seemed different.
A faint mist began to spread within the castle. It was a thin silver haze—seemingly heavier than all things in the world, and yet also lighter—lighter than life, heavier than the soul.
Grindelwald had already lost his magic, but he could still imagine that, at this very moment, there must be an old man...
He wore his favorite wizard's robes, slightly bulky but exquisitely made, with intricate decorations...
He had a wizard's hat on, though it wasn't worn straight, slanted askew in a slightly unruly fashion...
He wore gold-rimmed, crescent-shaped glasses, their delicate lenses perched on a nose that had been crooked several times...
That was Dumbledore!
His eyes were blue, more beautiful than the frozen surface of the Black Lake, and the light they reflected was the glow of wisdom.
He had a long beard that flowed like a waterfall, trailing down to his belt, making him look rather aged.
Surely, he would be strolling slowly through each corridor, carefully observing every corner of the castle, greeting each portrait or soul along the way.
He would gently pat the heads of sleeping young wizards, tucking their blankets in for them, ensuring their safety.
And in the end, he would walk through the hallways, into the moonlit courtyard, and step into his—Grindelwald's—dream.
Dumbledore did come.
But he didn't appear as Grindelwald had imagined.
Rather, he looked somewhat like his younger self from fifty years ago—specifically, the cold expression on his face.
"Albus..."
"Don't call me Albus, Grindelwald."
Dumbledore's voice was cold as he shattered Grindelwald's dream.
In an instant, Grindelwald felt as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over him from head to toe—he snapped awake. This had never been a peaceful night—it was a nightmare!
"Your stupidity and selfishness are beyond anything I could've imagined."
The words coming from Dumbledore's mouth sounded full of anger, yet his tone was calm.
He didn't appear furious—only so utterly disappointed in Grindelwald that he couldn't even summon the strength to be angry anymore.
He probably wouldn't have sounded this cold even if he were talking to a stone.
"Because of you, everything Cyrus did was in vain."
"I don't understand what you mean."
At this moment, Grindelwald looked utterly pitiful and pathetic. Compared to Dumbledore, his figure seemed like a starving cat about to die—small, shriveled up into a ball.
He was also like a cat desperately longing for a warm embrace, yearning for the slightest bit of comfort.
But there was none.
Dumbledore shook his head. "You're not worth it."
Grindelwald was stunned.
That short sentence sliced through his heart like a red-hot knife—like a solid pickaxe slamming again and again into the surface of ice, trying to shatter him completely.
But he didn't want to be treated so coldly.
He'd had enough of this feeling—like the damp, icy marble walls of Nurmengard in winter, like this cold, pale white tomb.
He just wanted to hear something warm—something like slipping on a pair of soft wool socks in winter, or drinking a steaming cup of pumpkin juice.
"What did I do, Albus? What did I do to deserve this from you?"
He wept sorrowfully, kneeling at the feet of Dumbledore's spirit, murky tears dripping into the soil.
"A century… Even after a whole century, you still won't forgive me? I thought…"
I thought those ambiguous moments not long ago were a sign of forgiveness.
Grindelwald thought.
But now, it was clear he was wrong—terribly wrong.
Dumbledore had never forgiven him.
But in truth, it was Grindelwald's current thinking that was mistaken. Regarding what had happened with Ariana, it wasn't so much that Dumbledore hated him—
Rather, he hated himself.
He had always held complex feelings toward Grindelwald.
But now, the Dumbledore standing before him was completely rational. He could let go of the past—those things that could no longer be changed—but what was about to happen, he simply couldn't let go of.
"You should not have used the Resurrection Stone," he said.
"Yes…" Grindelwald buried his head and cried.
He looked like a child who had done something wrong, yet didn't even realize what his mistake was.
He cried because he was sad, because he was afraid, because Dumbledore's cold indifference broke his heart.
It was like walking barefoot over shards of glass—every step brought a sharp, stinging pain.
"What do I have to do for you to forgive me?" he pleaded.
"I will never forgive you! You've made all of Cyrus's efforts meaningless!"
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