After Gellert Grindelwald was locked away in Nurmengard, Albus Dumbledore locked himself inside Hogwarts.
He knew he had lost the only person in the world who could still stop him when he went too far.
Self-imprisonment was the only solution he could live with.
His reputation was too great, his power too absolute.
If he ever decided to act, the wizarding world would follow him without question.
The Order of the Phoenix had proven that.
For the rest of his life the so-called “White Wizard” carried a pain that gnawed at his heart like a swarm of ants.
He often spoke of death as “the next great adventure.” For Dumbledore, it was also the only true release.
The one thread still tying him to this world was his wayward former student—Tom.
He had planned to die in peace once he had raised the “Chosen One” and set the trap that would finally end his good student’s reign.
Nothing else had been able to touch him for decades.
Until he heard the three words from McGonagall.
Prophecy.
Platinum-blonde hair.
Heterochromia.
Isaac could have been a seer with platinum hair.
He could have been a seer with mismatched eyes.
He could have been a boy with platinum hair and heterochromia.
Instead he possessed all three.
To anyone else the combination might have seemed strange.
To Dumbledore it struck like lightning.
“Minerva… is this true?” For the first time in years, the White Wizard who had confined himself to the highest tower lost his composure.
The box of Cockroach Clusters tipped over.
The sweets scattered across the desk.
Dumbledore didn’t even notice.
He simply stared at McGonagall as if she held the answer to every question he had ever asked.
McGonagall’s heart ached.
After all these years they were more than colleagues.
They were true best friends—the kind who knew each other’s deepest regrets.
Dumbledore knew hers.
She knew every detail of his past with Grindelwald.
“Yes, Albus,” she said gently.
“I saw it with my own eyes.
Mr.
Waldore gave Miss Granger an extremely accurate prophecy.” He probably foresaw my arrival as well.
“In any case, I thought you might like to fulfill your duties as a professor.” She blinked and held out the slip of paper with Isaac’s address.
Even if the boy’s gift turned out to be fake, McGonagall saw no harm.
She was the one running herself ragged while the headmaster sat in his office eating sweets.
It was about time he did some actual work.
In the wizarding world, a hundred-and-something-year-old wizard running errands for a fifty-something “young” witch was perfectly normal.
This was Hogwarts-style workplace bullying at its finest.
“Very well, Minerva.” Dumbledore lowered his head, fingers tracing the name and address on the parchment over and over.
The half-moon glasses hid his eyes.
Even McGonagall couldn’t read his expression.
She knew he needed a moment alone.
With a flick of her wand she cleaned up the scattered sweets, then quietly left the office.
Not long after, Dumbledore prepared to leave.
— London.
Hampstead Garden Suburb.
12 Medway Street.
With a soft crack, Dumbledore Apparated to the address.
This was Isaac’s home—and one of Grindelwald’s most carefully hidden properties.
He did not knock immediately.
Instead he stood at the garden gate and slowly took in the modest two-story house.
The sight brought a flood of memories.
The two mad, passionate months in Godric’s Hollow.
The nights they talked about magic until dawn.
The fierce debates about wizard-Muggle war.
The grand plans for a better future.
They had even dreamed of buying a little two-story house in London after the war, just like Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, and disappearing into quiet retirement.
Now that long-lost dream stood right in front of him, solid and real.
Dumbledore was still lost in the past when the front door opened.
The old butler, Anthony, stepped out and descended the stairs with measured grace.
“Good afternoon, honored guest.
Welcome.
The young master is waiting for you inside.” His voice was perfectly pitched—loud enough for Dumbledore to hear, soft enough to remain polite.
“Thank you.
Thank you for the welcome.” Dumbledore smiled and nodded, then removed his glasses to polish them with a handkerchief.
He walked up the path and stepped through the doorway.
Warmth and light greeted him.
A record player filled the sitting room with soft music.
In the dining room a temporary chef was preparing dish after dish.
Maids moved efficiently between kitchen and table.
Everything had been arranged by the butler at short notice.
The bill, of course, was being paid from one of Grindelwald’s old accounts.
After all these years, this was Grindelwald’s long-delayed dinner invitation.
The table was covered with familiar favorites: Wiener Schnitzel, beef goulash, apple strudel; Hungarian beef soup, chicken paprikash, Dobos torte; German pork knuckle with sauerkraut and sausages… Dumbledore’s heart, which had been steady for decades, suddenly hammered against his ribs.
Light footsteps sounded behind him.
He turned.
Isaac stood at the top of the stairs.
He gave a small, respectful bow.
Everything this old man had done for the wizarding world deserved respect.
“Professor Dumbledore.
Welcome.” Dumbledore stared at the boy, eyes unfocused.
For a moment he seemed to look straight through Isaac and into the distant past.
Platinum hair.
Mismatched eyes.
And the timing of this perfect welcome.
All three elements were here.
Dumbledore found himself tongue-tied, caught between old grief and new shock.
Isaac didn’t seem to mind the silence.
He came down the stairs and stopped in front of the headmaster.
After a few seconds he glanced curiously at the empty space beside Dumbledore.
Then he gave the old man a small, knowing smile.
“Professor Dumbledore, it looks like I’ve been asked to play messenger.
Someone wanted me to give you a message…”