“As the child of heroes, you placed me in a family like this, turning me into a servant for ten years—well, five or six? After all, they couldn’t expect a three-year-old child to cook, mop the floor, and wash clothes for them.”
Harry kept a close eye on Dumbledore, ready to change his tone immediately if he saw any unfavorable change on the old man’s face.
Unfortunately, there was none.
“…In truth, there is a reason for this,” Dumbledore explained, his hand still gripping his wand.
“The blood magic your mother left behind to protect you requires family affection to sustain it. Although the Dark Wizard is gone, he still has many followers. Without the protection of this blood magic, we might not have been able to keep you safe—unless I kept you by my side at all times.”
Harry didn’t speak, merely staring at him through narrowed eyes.
Regarding the events of the previous generation and the world of wizards, there was only a fog before his eyes.
In the face of such unknowns, he held no leverage whatsoever.
Especially since, not long ago, this old man had used some unknown method to easily confuse the minds of the Dursley family.
Yes, right now, the Sword of Triton was in this old man’s hands.
And Harry was merely a crew member on the Queen Anne’s Revenge, waiting for the other party to decide his life or death.
Just like three years ago, when he acquired that sword, possessing absolute power to decide the life or death of others.
“Your mother was a brilliant witch. Her magic stemmed from a branch of ancient magic, and even now, I do not fully understand the exact details of its triggering and operation. But I surmise that only blood relatives who truly regard you as family can allow that magic to remain in effect,” Dumbledore said.
“Therefore, we did not interfere. We could not use memory modification to manufacture false family affection for you, lest that magic be broken.”
Harry weighed the words carefully.
Only after a long silence did he speak up.
“So you’re saying that even though the Dursley family treated me like a servant, from the bottom of their hearts, they actually recognized me as family, and…”
He found the word somewhat difficult to utter.
“…they loved me?”
This sounded even more ridiculous.
“We have always kept an eye on you, and many people are waiting for your return, Harry.
Though your life hasn’t been easy,” Dumbledore said softly, “at least you went to school, had food to eat, and a place to live.
Perhaps it is a matter of eras; in our era, this was already considered quite a wealthy life for Muggles.
Being alive is what matters most.”
Harry’s sitting posture relaxed even further.
Before, his posture had been a pretense.
Now, he was genuinely relaxed.
After weighing the situation against reality and reviewing his memories, he arrived at a fairly good answer.
“Mr. Dumbledore, am I perhaps… very famous in the wizarding world?” he asked another question.
Rummaging through his past memories, he remembered that occasionally, strange people would bow to him, wave, or come over to shake his hand.
“Yes, you are a celebrity,” Dumbledore replied.
“The Boy Who Lived. You are the only person to have survived Voldemort.”
“Voldemort?” Harry asked.
“That Dark Wizard?”
“Yes, Voldemort was that Dark Wizard, though people in the wizarding world prefer to call him ‘You-Know-Who.'” Dumbledore finally withdrew his wand.
Although he didn’t know what had transpired, perhaps there was still a chance—
“Out of fear? That doesn’t sound like a name, but rather a title,” Harry continued to deduce.
“So, does this title carry some kind of magic, causing people to replace it with another title?”
“Harry, you are smarter than I imagined,” Dumbledore looked at him blankly, “far smarter. Standing before you, I don’t feel like I’m dealing with a ten-year-old young wizard at all.”
Harry looked at him with an equally expressionless face.
He had already figured out what sort of countenance to use when facing this old man.
“Mr. Dumbledore, relax,” he stated candidly.
“As things stand, we aren’t enemies, are we? At the very least, I am of value to you. I’ll take your word for all this for now. In this current situation, it’s not like you can do anything to me anyway. After all, I’m a celebrity, the son of heroes. I seem to hold a lot of attention in your—well, our—wizarding world.”
“So what should we do now? Are you going to take me to buy the things I need for school? I think the thing I need to buy most is a wand. By the way, I don’t have any money, but I believe you’ll cover the costs for me. After all, I’m a celebrity.”
Dumbledore sat there, his cloudy eyes full of profound gravity.
“Sleep now, child. Tomorrow, I will take you to buy what you need. That is my duty anyway,” he replied.
The Leaky Cauldron smelled of aged ale and burned fireplace ash.
Inside, it was dark, dirty, and very dingy.
Probably because it was early morning, there weren’t many people inside.
A few hag-like figures sat drinking in the corner.
Two of them leaned against each other, smoking long pipes, the smoke drifting into the air and taking the shape of various animals that chased and tore at one another.
On the other side, several middle-aged wizards gathered, holding dice for some unknown purpose; they didn’t look like they were gambling for money.
A bartender who looked like a shriveled walnut, with almost all his hair gone, was sitting behind the counter wiping glasses.
When the door opened, a jingle of bells rang out.
The walnut face behind the counter looked up, his rag dropping onto the counter with a thud.
“D—Dumbledore?”
He darted out from behind the bar in a single stride, almost tripping over the corner of his apron.
When he came to a stop, his eyes were wide and round.
“Professor, what… what brings you here? And this—this—”
He lowered his head, looking at the thin, small boy beside Dumbledore, his voice suddenly softening.
“Harry James Potter.”
Harry observed him, extended his palm, and introduced himself: “It’s an honor to meet you. Are you a wizard as well, sir?”
“Yes, yes! Mr. Potter, you can call me Old Tom. I run this pub—everyone calls me that.”
Old Tom wiped his hands on his clothes and firmly clasped Harry’s small hand with his two broad ones.
“Oh, my Merlin! You—you are far too thin and small. You must take better care of yourself. Promise me you’ll eat more and take care of yourself, alright, Mr. Potter?”
He cupped the small hand with great care, as if terrified of squeezing it too hard.
Harry narrowed his eyes slightly and replied calmly, “I intend to do just that, Old Tom.”
Beside him, Dumbledore stood impassively.
The witches nearby and the men playing with dice all crowded over, chair legs scraping loudly against the floor.
Hands reached out one after another—some withered and thin, some thick and heavy, some with tobacco flakes embedded beneath the fingernails.
“Welcome back, Mr. Potter! Welcome back!”
“I’m Vexy, Mr. Potter. I can hardly believe it; I’m finally meeting you.”
“Such an honor, Mr. Potter! Such an honor!”
There weren’t many people in the pub, but every single one surged forward, surrounding them in a circle with hands outstretched.
Harry politely shook hands again and again, responding to everyone’s words with composure and poise.
He didn’t hide the fact that he possessed a maturity and manner of speaking distinct from his past.
Though his interaction with Dumbledore had been brief, he knew that what he needed to show in front of the headmaster was candor!
Heh, this didn’t even require deliberate effort.
It was simply who he was.
Captain Potter had always been a candid, great man.