Isaac cleared his throat and copied Grindelwald’s exact tone and posture.
“Albus, you look so much older.” “Gellert…” Dumbledore’s eyes flashed.
He drew his wand in one smooth motion.
“Isaac, I’m sorry, but I need to check the house first.
May I?” “Of course.
Go right ahead.” Isaac didn’t mind at all.
This house had been prepared by Grindelwald as their private love nest.
Strictly speaking, Dumbledore was the other rightful owner.
Isaac was just a poor student borrowing the place and living off the “male owner’s” generosity.
If the other master of the house wanted to do a quick magical sweep, who was he to object?
When Dumbledore began casting, Isaac finally understood what the highest peak of the wizarding world looked like in action.
Dumbledore barely moved.
He simply flicked his wand.
A wave of glowing dust burst from the tip and rolled through every room of the house like a living tide.
Once he was satisfied there were no traces of dark magic—nothing connected to Grindelwald—Dumbledore lowered his wand.
“Is he still in Nurmengard?” he asked quietly.
“Of course.
What you saw just now was only an illusion.
Only I can see it.
It’s a side effect that comes with developing the gift of prophecy.
It only works between prophets.” Isaac gestured toward the dining room.
“Would you like to eat something, Professor Dumbledore?” “Absolutely!” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.
“I’ve been smelling beef and apple pie since I walked in.
I was already trying to figure out how to politely invite myself to dinner.” “You’re too funny.
This entire meal was prepared for you.” Isaac noticed that the kitchen and serving staff had shown zero reaction to Dumbledore’s earlier spell.
It wasn’t professional composure—they simply hadn’t seen anything.
Dumbledore had shielded them completely.
After the last dessert was served, Anthony paid the temporary chef and maids and saw them out, exactly as Isaac had instructed.
The staff would only get in the way of a real conversation.
“They’re all Muggles?” Dumbledore asked, though he already knew the answer.
Isaac nodded like it was obvious.
“Of course.
I live here, so my neighbors are ordinary people—sorry, Muggles, in your terms.
Before I got my Hogwarts letter I went to a Muggle school.
Anthony is Muggle too.
You can’t throw a proper dinner party without help.” “Luckily the account Anthony manages is still very healthy.
I didn’t even have to dip into my little fortune-telling earnings.” Isaac had nothing to hide from Dumbledore.
None of it mattered anyway.
He was eleven.
Merlin himself would forgive any slip of the tongue.
“Oh yes—McGonagall mentioned you gave a prophecy to a young witch who hasn’t started school yet.” “Actually, that wasn’t really a prophecy.” Isaac laughed along with him.
He had simply seen that McGonagall would visit Hermione Granger the very next day.
Since McGonagall herself was coming, and since Hermione was one of the Golden Trio, the family’s worries would disappear the moment she arrived.
A tiny bit of foresight, a dash of logic, and a whole lot of vague, lucky-sounding words.
That was the real secret behind why his stall worked so well in the wealthy streets of Barnet.
To his regular customers, Isaac wasn’t some all-knowing prophet.
He was just a charming, lucky young man.
People came for good luck and kind words, not because they believed every word was carved in stone.
Dumbledore threw his head back and laughed.
Same prophetic gift.
Same title of seer.
At Isaac’s age, Grindelwald had probably already been thinking like the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Dumbledore couldn’t call Grindelwald wrong.
The world had been changing at breakneck speed while wizards stood still.
For a prophet with strong convictions like Grindelwald, that stagnation had been painful.
But Isaac had been raised in a rich Muggle neighborhood.
He could never fully accept the more extreme parts of Grindelwald’s worldview.
Still, Dumbledore knew exactly how persuasive his old lover could be.
Isaac was a good kid.
Before that kid grew up, it was his duty to make sure he didn’t absorb too many of those radical ideas.
When he finished laughing, Dumbledore waved Isaac over to the table.
Of all the dishes, Isaac’s favorite was still the German pork knuckle with sauerkraut.
It gave him the closest feeling to home from his previous life.
He had been from Northeast China last time around.
Halfway through the knuckle, Dumbledore asked casually, “Isaac, do you know when Gellert left Nurmengard?” Isaac shook his head without hesitation.
“Actually, I’ve tried many times to look into Nurmengard’s future.
Unfortunately I can never observe the place—or Gellert himself—directly.
Which means unless I go there in person, he can come to me, but I can’t reach him the same way.” He wasn’t surprised or disappointed.
Grindelwald had been a prophet for over a hundred years.
After being locked away he had only grown stronger in isolation.
At eleven years old, Isaac knew he was nowhere near that level yet.
No cheat codes had appeared to change that.
He was just an eleven-year-old wizard with good magical talent and one extra special gift.
Nothing more.