Ever since he sent off the letter, Harry had been eagerly awaiting a reply.
Because it was summer vacation, Dudley’s friends often came over as guests, and their greatest joy was picking on him.
The ten-year-old Harry would have reacted to this with annoyance, confusion, and a sense of grievance.
But the current Harry was Captain Potter, who had endured over six years of life on the high seas.
So, he chose to avoid them.
Aside from time spent doing chores, he spent most of his days wandering the neighborhood near the front door, waiting for a reply.
In his mind, he had quite a few ways to resolve his current situation, such as lodging a complaint with the community, resorting to violence, or using witchcraft…
However, he needed to select the most suitable plan from among them.
Besides—
If that letter wasn’t a prank…
Then I can use the power of magic to resolve my current situation.
But if that letter was fake, I’ll need to bide my time for three months or half a year until I can change things.
At the very least, I need to build a relatively sturdy physique for someone my age.
Harry strolled aimlessly, calculating his future in his mind.
Biding his time.
His life as a pirate had taught him how to lie low.
And the reply arrived much faster than he had anticipated.
That very evening, just after Harry had finished preparing dinner for the family of three, the doorbell rang.
Petunia hollered, “Get the door, Harry!”
The one opening the door was still Harry.
Of course it was Harry.
Six years ago, at this point in time, he was treated like a servant in this house.
And an unpaid servant at that.
Perhaps the Dursleys even received child welfare benefits and orphan subsidies because of the Family Allowances Act.
This really is a guaranteed, profitable arrangement.
Holding that thought, Harry opened the door.
Outside stood an old man.
A very old man.
He had pure white hair, as bright as snow, and his beard was equally white, long enough to sweep down to his chest.
The old man wore dark robes—robes that looked distinctly antique, like something worn by the figures hanging in oil paintings inside ancient castles.
The fabric looked heavy, and he carried an air of distinction.
And at first glance, he seemed rather kindly.
Harry appraised him, and he, in turn, was appraising Harry.
Harry could feel the old man’s kindly gaze passing through his half-moon spectacles and landing on his face—more specifically, on his forehead.
“Harry?”
The old man spoke, his voice deep, carrying an old-fashioned, polite cadence.
“Are you Harry James Potter?”
As he asked, Harry could clearly sense the old man’s gaze shift from its initial kindliness to something stern and scrutinizing.
“Of course, I am Harry Potter.”
Harry understood who he was.
Clearly, the only connection to him in this household was that letter.
“Are you from Hogwarts?” he asked.
Just as the old man was about to speak, the heavy thud of Mr. Dursley’s footsteps echoed from the stairs behind him.
“Who is it, Harry? At this hour—”
Petunia’s voice erupted from the kitchen, trembling as if she had seen a ghost.
“Dum—Dumbledore!”
Her shriek made Harry dig at his ear.
He recalled Elizabeth’s scream when she first saw them in their skeletal forms under the moonlight.
Hm, do these women have whistles stuck in their throats?
How can they make such a sharp sound?
The next moment, however, he realized something.
Harry turned back to look at Aunt Petunia’s furious, flushed face, then turned back to look at the old man at the door.
The doubt in his eyes deepened.
Yes, the old man in front of him belonged to Hogwarts.
Moreover, he was the headmaster of Hogwarts.
The headmaster had come in person to fetch him.
And Petunia knew this headmaster.
In the quiet living room, only Harry and Dumbledore remained.
As for the Dursleys, under the tap of that thin, long wand, they had wandered back into their rooms to sleep like fools.
Ordinary people were utterly fragile against the power of a wizard!
“I thought wands would be longer,” Harry remarked, observing the wand Dumbledore kept held tightly in his hand.
He crossed his legs on the sofa, adopting a relaxed posture, while keeping his hands clearly visible to the other man.
“And that they’d be inlaid with some magical gems or something.”
Just like his Sword of Triton.
“My child, a wand merely serves to guide. The true power originates from the wizard themselves,” Dumbledore explained softly, his blue eyes behind his spectacles never leaving Harry for a moment.
And Harry maintained eye contact with him from start to finish.
Six years ago, his cowardly, weak self might have chosen to avert his gaze when faced with such a look.
But now, the one sitting here was Captain Potter!
“A change has taken place within you, child,” Dumbledore said, looking at him, though his gaze seemed to be searching for something else entirely.
“You are entirely different from the Harry Potter I knew. What on earth happened? Could you satisfy a slight bit of curiosity in an old man?”
His voice carried a hint of perplexity.
Harry met his gaze directly, his eyes narrowing involuntarily.
“Are you reading my mind?”
His voice grew heavy, cooling down significantly.
“Were you just digging through my brain for what you wanted?”
Magic was far more versatile than he had anticipated.
“Forgive the rashness of an old man,” Dumbledore said, still not lowering his wand and keeping a slight distance.
“But a change has occurred in you, and I need to ensure that this change is moving in the right direction, rather than a wrong one.”
Pausing for a moment, he added, “However, I can assure you that a monumental change has indeed taken place within you. I am unable to read your inner thoughts—they are shrouded behind a veil of mist. As far as I know, only wizards who have mastered and perfected certain mind magic are capable of doing so.”
His gaze turned even more wary.
In short, this was not something a young wizard who hadn’t even enrolled yet should be capable of!
“…What do you mean by a ‘wrong direction’?”
Harry looked at him, suppressing the anger in his heart.
He dialed back the coldness in his tone, relaxing his body as much as possible to appear harmless.
“I think you ought to answer my other questions first, respected Headmaster.”
“First, why did I receive an acceptance letter to this magic school?”
“Second, why does my aunt know you? Is it because of my parents? Didn’t they die in a car accident? Were they wizards, too?”
Aside from that dream, his life had nothing notable going for it.
His timid, cowardly past was hardly enough to draw the personal attention of this headmaster.
And given that Petunia also recognized the headmaster standing before him, there was only one answer left: the cause lay with the previous generation—his parents.
A very straightforward deduction.
“Yes, your parents were wizards, and great ones at that,” Dumbledore answered, his gaze shifting away from Harry’s eyes to observe his expressions and body language.
“Over ten years ago, a cruel, fanatical Dark wizard appeared in the magical world. He sought to slaughter every wizard who opposed his ideology. Your parents, myself, and many others fought against him together. Later… he killed your parents. But on that night, your mother used an ancient blood magic to protect you, which in turn destroyed him.”
Harry fell silent.
“…So they were heroes?” he said, his voice laced with a touch of irony.