Chapter 22: A Question from the Graveyard

August 28, 1991.
Three days before the start of the Hogwarts term.
Somewhere in the Austrian Alps.

Rain—heavy, torrential rain—poured down like a deluge from the depths of the sky. Thick, dark clouds hung so low they seemed ready to crush the mountain peaks, and every flash of lightning tore through the gray expanse, illuminating the pale mountains and the dense forests clinging to them. Thunder rumbled, deafening and relentless. Cold raindrops hammered against rocks, leaves, and grass, merging into rapid streams that snaked down the slopes like countless silver serpents crawling toward the bottomless valley below.

Amidst this downpour, a solitary grave sat quietly on the mountainside. It was isolated from the world; the only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of rain against the headstone and the occasional howl of the mountain wind.

A man sat before the grave.

As the rain fell from the high sky, the blurred silhouette in the downpour gradually sharpened. The man wore no umbrella, nor did he have a cloak; his hair and shoulders were already soaked through, his clothes clinging wetly to his frame. Yet, he seemed neither to feel the cold nor to care about the lashing rain. He sat perfectly still on the ground, back against a broken stone pillar, his hands folded over his knees.

His head was bowed, his gaze fixed on the names carved into the headstone. The inscription was simple:

*Dana Nott (Morris), York Nott*
*A great mother, a noble father, a simple and loving couple.*
*Departed 1978.*

The man raised a hand and gently brushed the carved letters, his fingers moving with infinite tenderness, as if afraid to disturb a slumber.

"Do you think... that I have grown up now?" His voice was low and hoarse, seemingly swallowed by the sound of the rain; had one not been close enough, it would have been nearly impossible to hear.

The rain continued to fall, striking his face coldly. He looked up at the sky as if waiting for an answer, but there was nothing save for the rumbling thunder.

"Perhaps you would think that I am... still not mature enough," the man continued, his voice carrying a hint of self-mockery. "I know... you wanted me to be someone gentle, strong, and worthy of trust. But honestly, I am currently headed in the opposite direction of your hopes."

"Mother, you once said that a person should live like a lamp, illuminating both others and themselves."

"But I only feel like a ball of raging fire, burning everything around me, leaving myself scarred and scorched in the process."

"Father, you said, 'Nobility is not a talent, but a choice,'" the man whispered, the memory seemingly softening his gaze. "But I have never seen anyone live an easier life because of their nobility—you are the best example of that."

"You and Mother were so kind, yet in the end, what happened?"

His tone dropped sharply. He stared at the carving, a suppressed rage simmering in his eyes. "You did nothing wrong, yet you were murdered, erased, and forgotten."

The man’s chest heaved violently, as if he were trying to vent all the emotions pent up in his heart, but he eventually took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

"If you are watching me from above..." He paused, his voice growing raspier, "you must think that the time passed has turned your son into a stranger."

Some time ago, an old man had appeared in the curtain of rain. He stood far, far away, holding an umbrella and watching the man silently from beneath a tree. The man, seemingly unaware, continued to speak.

"For the past year, I have been locked away in Azkaban."

"That’s right, that very Azkaban."

"That place," the man paused, his voice dropping until it was almost drowned out by the rain, "is as terrible as the rumors say. Cold, dark, as if time itself had stood still. No sunlight, no warmth, only the sound of Dementors breathing in your ears all day long—you could even hear your own hope being torn to shreds, bit by bit."

A trace of self-mockery crept into his tone. "They say Dementors suck away your happiest memories... but for me, they could hardly find many of those left. After all, ever since the day you left, my happiness has been scarce."

"At first, I didn't think I could make it."

"Especially the first time a Dementor drew near... I felt like a leaf caught in a storm—powerless, hopeless, with nowhere to run." The man’s voice tightened as if suppressing some surging emotion. "But then... then I realized that this pain actually made me clearer."

"Azkaban stripped away all external noise, forcing a person to face themselves." His eyes grew deep. "It forced you to relive the past over and over, to examine your own soul... I discovered how blind I had been—trusting the wrong people, walking the wrong paths, and even my very ideals were once blurred."

A bitter curve touched the man’s lips. "You would never imagine that Morris, who loved to joke, would sit in Azkaban all day talking to himself, dissecting every mistake I’d ever made—why? Where did I go wrong? How could I change it? Or should I have changed it at all?"

His hand traced the edge of the headstone, his tone dropping. "But in the end, I found how absurd those answers were. In truth, there are some things I should never have regretted. Some decisions, even if they cost me my freedom or even my life, even if they trapped me in nightmares time and again—I do not regret them."

"So, during my time in Azkaban, I told myself over and over—'Bern Morris, you cannot fall.' I saw hope in the cracks of the walls, I learned endurance from the shadows of the Dementors, and I found the meaning of survival in that void of silence." He looked up. "They wanted me to give up, but I didn't. They wanted me to despair, but I didn't. They wanted me to forget, but I remember—I remember you."

"1978... has it really been that long?" Morris looked up at the rain-filled sky, his expression complex. "Sometimes, I feel your departure happened just yesterday. But at other times, it feels like a series of dreams so distant they are almost illusory."

He fell silent for a moment, as if waiting for a response from the gravestone. Then, he leaned slowly toward it, resting his forehead gently against the cold stone, and closed his eyes.

"So, I have returned, Father, Mother," he said. "I returned to the wizarding world because someone told me I still had unfinished business. There are still some people who owe us too much; it is time for me to collect."

His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles turning white, as rainwater dripped steadily from them.

"Don't worry, I won't be like them." The man’s voice grew low again, barely audible. "I still remember what you said: 'Justice will not come on its own; it requires someone to seize it and drag it back.'"

Morris was silent for a while, then opened his eyes and gently reached into his coat to pull out a small white flower.

The flower was soaked through by the rain, its petals trembling, yet it remained pure white.

Just as he prepared to place the flower before the headstone, a rush of footsteps sounded nearby. The noise grew from the distance, and blurred figures began to emerge from the curtain of rain—at least eleven or twelve of them, cloaked in black with hoods pulled low, approaching slowly from behind the mountain trees. They held their wands in hand, moving in formation with an air of urgency; they had clearly come prepared.

Morris stopped his movement, tilted his head slightly, and his brows furrowed imperceptibly.

"Bern Morris," the leader of the black-cloaked figures spoke coldly, his voice cutting through the rain like a frigid dagger. "We have finally found you."

"Ahem."

It was the cough of the old man who had been silent all along.

"You are not to go any further."

The black-cloaked figures turned toward the old man. He stepped slowly out of the shadows. Rain dripped from the brim of his umbrella and splashed onto the ground, forming an invisible barrier between them and Morris.

"And who are you?" the leader asked coldly, his tone filled with wariness. He raised his wand slightly, pointing it at the old man. "A helper for Morris? What a surprise. Is he so desperate for help that he’s hired a guard who’s ready for the grave?"

The old man did not answer; he simply stood there, watching them quietly.

The leader’s face darkened, his eyes scrutinizing the old man. "I warn you, we are not here to tangle with bystanders today. If you are wise, you will leave immediately, or else—"

"Or else what?" the old man finally spoke. His voice was deep, yet surprisingly carried a sense of inherent authority. He swept his gaze across the leader’s wand, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

"Or else you will be dealt with alongside him!" a hot-headed young figure in the back shouted, his wand already positioned to strike.

However, at that very moment, one of the figures in the group suddenly froze. His eyes were fixed intently on the old man, as if he had realized something impossible. His voice trembled as he cried out: "Impossible... he... he is—"

"Shut up!" the leader barked, but it was already too late.

"Grindelwald!" the cloaked figure screamed the name, the sound piercing and jarring against the downpour.