The memory faded.
The towering hall, the shattered desks, the lingering echoes of Voldemort's laughter, all of it dissolved like mist in the morning sun.
And then, there was silence.
Nero found himself standing in Aberforth's office once more, the dim glow of candlelight casting long shadows across the ancient room.
The gentle ticking of the silver instruments, the only sound grounding him back to reality, felt oddly distant.
His breath was still uneven.
His body, though untouched, felt heavy, as if it carried the weight of something immense, something beyond him.
That duel, no, that battle.
It was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
For a long time, Nero said nothing.
His mind was still caught between the past and the present, between the sight of Voldemort and Jonathan, between the impossible clash of magic that defied all understanding.
And then, softly.
"So this…" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "This is the summit of magic."
Dumbledore, standing quietly behind his desk, stroked his beard, his eyes filled with quiet understanding.
"Yes," he murmured. "Very close to it, at least. Close to the highest level that I know, Nero."
Nero clenched his fists.
This was true power.
Not just spellcasting.
The best wands, the strongest curses, or the vastest knowledge couldn't compare to this display.
This was beyond all of that.
A realm where magic itself became an extension of one's will.
Jonathan had rewritten reality as if it were a mere story, words to be edited at his whim.
Voldemort had commanded shadows as if they were mere threads in his tapestry.
Their magic was not just powerful, it was alive.
Can I ever reach that level?
The thought whispered at the edges of his mind.
For a brief moment, doubt tried to creep in.
But before it could take root, before it could poison his resolve.
Something deep within him rebelled.
A familiar, unyielding determination surged through his veins.
No.
This was not something to fear.
This was something to chase.
"Now, you know why you couldn't do much against your father," Dumbledore said gently.
Nero exhaled, his fingers slowly uncurling.
He had suspected as much.
But seeing it with his own eyes made it undeniable.
His father was operating in a realm of magic that he simply could not touch.
Yet.
"I must step into that realm one day."
His voice carried no hesitation.
Dumbledore studied him for a moment before giving a soft chuckle.
"I thought you might say that."
The wizard turned towards the Pensieve, tapping its edge lightly.
"As you have seen, Nero, at such a level, magic is no longer about mere spells or incantations. It is about understanding, intent, adaptability, and, most importantly, Principles."
Nero nodded, absorbing each word.
"Principles," he repeated.
His mind was racing.
He had started to understand the barest fundamentals of magical principles with Space.
But Jonathan and Voldemort…
They had embodied them.
Voldemort had become Shadow and Destruction.
Jonathan had become Time itself.
That was the path to the summit.
Dumbledore's voice was gentle, but firm.
"The road is long," he warned. "And perilous. Many who seek such power lose themselves along the way. I could tell you countless stories of people who lost themselves to Principles."
Nero's gaze was steady.
"But some succeed."
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled.
"Yes. Some do."
A pause.
Then, a thought surfaced, one that had nagged at him during the memory.
Nero's gaze darkened slightly.
"Jonathan called Voldemort… Tom."
Dumbledore's expression shifted.
For the first time since the memory ended, there was something undeniably serious in his face.
"He did," the old wizard acknowledged. "And that, Nero, is quite… disturbing."
Nero frowned.
"That is also what I was thinking."
Dumbledore gave a slow nod.
"Very few people knew that name at the time," he added. "And yet, Jonathan spoke it as if it were nothing unusual."
He paused, voice lowering. "That is not a truth Tom would ever willingly share."
They knew each other.
There was no doubt about it.
The way Voldemort had spoken, casual, taunting, left no room for ambiguity.
Voldemort and Jonathan had crossed paths before.
"Then they must have had dealings in the past," Nero said.
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
"Perhaps," he said simply. "But if so, the nature of those dealings remains a mystery. "The question is… how did Jonathan learn that name in the first place?"
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Nero's mind raced.
Jonathan Ravenclaw…
If he had interacted with Voldemort in the past, what did that mean?
What was his role in all this?
Was there any connection to Grindelwald?
And, most importantly…
"What was his goal?"
Finally, Nero shook his head.
There was one last thing he needed to know.
His mother.
The curse Voldemort had placed on her.
"What about my mother?"
Dumbledore's expression turned solemn.
A shadow passed over the old wizard's face, as if the weight of time itself had settled upon his shoulders.
He let out a slow breath.
"The curse Voldemort used on her…"
For a moment, he said nothing.
And then. "A tragedy."
Nero's chest tightened.
That single word carried weight.
It wasn't just some powerful dark magic.
It was something far worse.
"What kind of tragedy?" Nero pressed.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he turned to the window, gazing at the night sky as if searching for words.
"Some curses wound the body," he said at last. "Some shatter the mind. And then… there are those that do something far crueler."
He turned back to Nero, eyes filled with unspoken grief.
"They end up changing a person's very essence."
A chill ran down Nero's spine.
Voldemort had called it a persuasive reminder.
"What did he do to her?"
Dumbledore remained silent.
His expression was unreadable.
The room felt colder.
Nero's hands trembled slightly.
The silence between them was suffocating.
What had been done to his mother?
And. Could it be undone? Was she even alive?
A heavy stillness filled the air.
"Headmaster…Grandpa…" Nero's voice was low. "Tell me."
Dumbledore closed his eyes.
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