A cool morning breeze, unique to the Scottish Highlands, swept across the surface of Loch Lomond, carrying a touch of moisture as it gently brushed past the town of Ras.
Professor McGonagall, who left the orphanage in a huff, gradually calmed down amidst the gentle breeze.
Taking a moment to reflect on the conversation in the cottage, Professor McGonagall swiftly noticed numerous abnormalities, most notably Elena's depth of understanding of the magical world. It simply didn't align with someone raised in the Muggle world.
As for Elena's theory about the wealth division between the two worlds, well, McGonagall confessed she didn't quite grasp it and had no interest in delving into the mathematical and financial intricacies related to Muggles.
However, Elena's demeanor exuded a level of expertise and arrogance that surpassed most adults, leaving McGonagall somewhat caught off guard.
Prompting McGonagall's swift decision to leave Ras and head straight back to Hogwarts, seeking Dumbledore's counsel, was a phrase that should never have come from a child of Elena's age—the "Heart-Piercing Curse," known as one of the three unforgivable curses of dark magic.
"Which means Miss Kaslana here knows more about the wizarding world than we had imagined. In fact, she's more insightful than most in the magical community. That's certainly beyond my expectations," Dumbledore remarked in his office, fingers interlocked on the desk, after carefully listening to McGonagall's account.
Nodding in empathy, McGonagall found some of Elena's bold statements a bit extreme, yet acknowledged that certain viewpoints weren't entirely devoid of reason.
"Apologies, Professor Dumbledore. Ideally, I should've continued conversing with her, but for some reason, I found it hard to control my emotions in her presence. More importantly, she actually ate an owl!"
As she mentioned this, McGonagall felt a surge of indignation, waving her right arm in frustration. "Dumbledore, can you imagine? Owls, the creatures used to deliver letters, being caught and eaten in this world?!"
"Calm down, Minerva. This might not be your fault," Dumbledore said, blinking agilely, adjusting his half-moon glasses, smiling as he continued, "Didn't I remind you earlier? She's a half-blood witch. Though young, with her talents, a simple emotional suggestion could be accomplished."
Pausing, Dumbledore continued with a more serious expression, "This child's clear purpose is frightening. Right from the start, she had no intention of entering Hogwarts. But that doesn't mean she's unaware of her potential."
Perplexed, McGonagall asked, "But what could her purpose be?"
This remained her greatest post-meeting puzzle because, given Elena's displayed talents, mastering magic would seemingly facilitate her ideals.
"Because of the International Statute of Secrecy, the Muggle Protection Act, and the Wizengamot. As long as she doesn't step into the wizarding world, she can forever live as a Muggle, a magical being unrestrained by society," Dumbledore explained.
"But she's just a child..." McGonagall uttered unconsciously.
"More precisely, a child who can casually and accurately recite the Forgetfulness and Heart-Piercing Curses," Dumbledore added, shaking his head. "I have no doubt most fifth-year students couldn't achieve that."
"As a half-blood witch, she naturally has easier access to the magical world than most wizards. It's apparent that someone from our world has already made contact with her. And as for your sense of unease, perhaps you need to see this..."
While speaking, Dumbledore rose, fetching a shallow basin from a black cabinet behind him, etched with runes and symbols, containing a strange silver substance.
It was hard to determine whether it was liquid or gas, bearing a bright silver hue that kept moving; its surface rippled like wind over water, yet it also resembled clouds, shifting intermittently. It seemed like a liquid form of light—yet akin to a solid form of wind.
"The Pensieve? You don't mean to say this child appeared in your memories," McGonagall raised an eyebrow.
As Dumbledore's close friend, she knew about this incredible magical item Dumbledore used to store thoughts and memories.
"No, this is a memory from Mr. Newt Scamander. Many years ago, someone said something similar, albeit from a slightly different standpoint," Dumbledore said, reaching out to McGonagall, leading her into the memory.
Suddenly, Dumbledore's office seemed to tilt. McGonagall felt herself lurch forward, plunging headfirst into the basin. Yet, her hair didn't touch the bottom; she fell into a cold, pitch-black substance, as if pulled into a black vortex.
Looking around, she found herself on a circular dais, enclosed by a stone dome, surrounded by wizards dressed as though from fifty or sixty years ago.
On a raised central platform below, a white-haired man in a black cloak slowly raised his head, gazing at her and Dumbledore, more precisely at the wizards around them—his iconic white mane and a nearly unmistakable handsome face—Gellert Grindelwald, one of the most dangerous dark wizards of all time.
McGonagall felt as though her heart was tightly gripped by something. The strikingly similar arrogant gaze startled her, prompting her to turn to Dumbledore, unable to contain her shock.
"Grindelwald?! Are you suggesting..."
Shaking his head, Dumbledore gestured for McGonagall to stay silent, placing a finger to his lips.
Grindelwald's deep and convincing voice echoed from below. "My brothers, my sisters, my friends."
His voice carried a persuasive power that compelled everyone to continue listening.
"Many believe I despise Muggles, Squibs, Mudbloods, and all those without magical ability. But the truth is, I have never hated those people. We must admit, wizards are the minority."
"...Magic only thrives among a few. So, we must lurk in the shadows."
Grindelwald raised an eyebrow, displaying a contemptuous expression, pacing as he continued, "However, the old rules no longer apply."
As Grindelwald spoke, a commotion stirred among the wizards. Many gathered there guessed what Grindelwald was about to announce.
"My dream is for us, those living for truth and love, to claim the rightful place in this world."
Ignoring the murmurs in the crowd, Grindelwald glanced around, raising his voice, "It's time for us wizards to regain our freedom."
"Our time is running short, and there's a vital prophecy about the future I must show you..."
With that, Grindelwald lifted a mysterious skull, red markings seemingly etched upon it.
A misty fog emanated from Grindelwald's mouth into the air, gradually forming a chaotic scene—a scene of noisy ruins.
Before McGonagall could discern the scene in the mist, she heard Dumbledore's voice.
"That's enough. I believe we've seen all we need to. It's time we return."
Dumbledore whispered to McGonagall, extending his hand to support her elbow.
In the next moment, McGonagall felt herself rising slowly. The platform began to dissolve until only darkness remained. Then, as if
sucked through a pipe, she was pulled back into Dumbledore's office, landing softly on the floor.
Her senses returned, and she glanced at Dumbledore with a mix of disbelief and fear.
"I have seen that skull before. It's the symbol Grindelwald used," McGonagall exclaimed, pointing at the silver basin.
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Indeed. And the child, Elena, spoke of a prophecy. There might be a connection between them."
Stunned by the revelations, McGonagall muttered, "What could a child possibly have to do with Grindelwald's prophecy?"
With a heavy sigh, Dumbledore's eyes reflected concern. "That, my dear Minerva, is the very question we must endeavor to answer."