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The morning sun was just beginning to rise.
On a mountaintop a few miles north of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole stood a bizarre house under the blue sky.
It resembled a huge black tower, with a shattered, saucer-like object hanging listlessly behind it.
Three hand-painted signs were nailed to the intact gate.
The first read: "The Quibbler," Editor: X. Lovegood.
The second: "Please pick your own mistletoe."
The third: "Don't touch the Dirigible Plums."
This scene would strike anyone as odd—Muggles and even ordinary wizards alike.
Creak. Creak.
A tall, old man with long, silver-white hair and a beard pushed open the gate.
Today, he wore greyish-white robes, quite different from his usual attire.
A trace of sadness was revealed in his deep blue eyes.
Ignoring the two crabapple trees on either side of the front door, bent crookedly by the wind,
he walked alone down the winding path filled with strange plants.
An adult owl, with a slightly flattened head resembling an eagle's, peered down from a tree branch.
The man reached the heavy black door, embedded with iron studs and an eagle-shaped knocker.
At this moment, Dumbledore stood silently, hesitating for a rare moment.
He did not immediately knock.
After a few seconds of silence, he finally lifted his hand and knocked.
Soon, the tinkling sound of glassware colliding came from inside.
About half a minute later, the door slowly opened.
Xenophilius Lovegood appeared.
His gaze was hollow.
His face haggard.
The light of curiosity and wonder that once filled his eyes was gone, replaced by an unspeakable sorrow and despair.
His robes were disheveled, as if he hadn't changed or tidied them for days.
A few strands of silver hair clung limply to his forehead, making him look particularly aged.
The sorrow in Dumbledore's eyes deepened.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Xenophilius," Dumbledore said softly.
"Oh, Dumbledore? Thank you for coming... truly, thank you. I thought I'd never see you again," Xenophilius murmured blankly.
He moved aside. "Come in... I think I still have some Gurdyroot left... brewed, it tastes quite good..."
His voice was empty, almost like a whisper blown away by the wind.
Dumbledore followed him silently inside.
Even Dumbledore, who had seen countless strange places, found the kitchen rather unusual.
Everything curved to match the round walls—the stove, sink, and cupboards all bent with the shape of the house.
The walls were covered in colorful doodles of strange creatures.
The high saturation of the colors made it dazzling for a moment.
Dumbledore followed Xenophilius up a cast-iron spiral staircase to the second floor.
The place was a chaotic mess.
Had Devlin been here, he might have re-evaluated whether Goyle's bunk was truly the messiest place on earth.
Books and newspapers were piled in every corner.
A strange wooden contraption stood against one wall—
a tangle of gears, magical mechanisms, and old shelves.
It was unclear what it was supposed to do, for now it sat silent and still.
"Wait a moment. Sit anywhere... I'll get some Gurdyroot," Xenophilius said faintly.
His voice was light, as if every word exhausted him.
Dumbledore scanned the room for a suitable spot.
In the end, he chose a relatively clean area and sat down carefully.
He didn't conjure a chair by magic—such an act would have felt disrespectful to the host's dignity at this time.
A heavy silence fell like a thick curtain, weighing on them both.
Before long, Xenophilius returned, staggering slightly, carrying two cups of warm tea.
The faint aroma of the brew barely cut through the stifling air.
He handed one cup to Dumbledore and then sat across from him, his gaze wandering endlessly.
"Luna... how is she?" Dumbledore asked softly, carefully keeping his tone calm.
Xenophilius's hands trembled as he gripped his cup tightly, as if drawing strength from it.
"She... she is resting now," he said slowly.
Each word seemed pulled from his throat by invisible force.
"What happened that night... was too sudden. I couldn't protect her..."
Dumbledore nodded gently but said nothing, allowing Xenophilius to speak at his own pace.
"She... she suffered misfortune..."
His voice almost disappeared into the air.
"But I believe that as long as there's still a glimmer of hope... we can find a solution. I've already begun studying the relevant literature—yes, yes, hoping to find a cure..."
Yet as he said this, his body trembled more violently.
The tea spilled from his cup, leaving dark stains.
"But... but..."
When mentioning the perpetrators, his frail tone suddenly burst with rage and despair.
"Those... those Tindalos demons—how could they do this! She's such a pure and innocent child!"
His voice cracked under the weight of pain and fury.
It became almost unbearable to listen to.
"Oh, my God! Luna, my sweet baby—she's only ten years old! How could they! How could they be so cruel?!"
His shoulders shook uncontrollably.
He clutched his cup so tightly it seemed it might shatter.
Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, dropping silently to the ground.
"I wish all this had never happened..." he sobbed.
Dumbledore leaned forward and clasped Xenophilius's trembling hands tightly.
"We will find a way, Xenophilius," Dumbledore said solemnly.
"I believe that, no matter what hardships lie ahead, Luna will be as brave as her father. And we will never give up hope."
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