Chapter 2: Dumbledore
He turned and curled back into the corner of the sofa, rubbing his icy fingers, trying to summon that flame again. The white bird seemed not to have expected this reaction; it tilted its head and gently pecked at his trouser leg with its beak, as if reminding him of something. Edward lifted his foot and gently pushed it away, his voice so flat it was almost indifferent: "You've got the wrong person."
A trace of confusion flashed in the white bird's amber eyes. It lowered its head to peck at the list on the floor again, but seeing that the boy remained indifferent, it finally had to flap its wings, let out a crisp cry, turned, and flew out the window, disappearing into the gray, foggy sky.
Edward ignored this completely.
Life went on as usual.
At four o'clock the next morning, before dawn had fully broken, he tucked the only two pennies in his pocket and stepped out into the frost and dew. The bakery at the alley entrance had just opened, and the smell of wheat mixed with butter wafted out. He clutched the coins and bought the cheapest hard bread, gnawing on it as he walked down the empty street, the plastic bottles clinking in his sack.
He helped the elderly woman who lived alone next door carry a basket of potatoes, and she stuffed a hot roasted sweet potato into his hands. He tucked it into his chest, and it was so warm that his chest felt burning hot. He avoided the patrolling police, ducked into an alley filled with trash, and skillfully rummaged for plastic bottles and cans that could be sold for money. It wasn't until the sun rose to the top of the sky that he dragged the heavy sack and slowly walked back to the apartment.
He did not know that on the other side of London, in Hogwarts Castle, Albus Dumbledore was staring at the Book of Admittance, lost in thought.
The Book of Admittance was a magical tome that had existed since the founding of Hogwarts. It only rigidly recorded the names and enrollment eligibility of all wizarding children who had turned eleven, regardless of the strength of their magic or their family background, no matter which corner of the world these children were hiding in.
When the line "Edward Black," accompanied by the unique dark golden thorn pattern of the House of Black, suddenly appeared on the page, Dumbledore's fingers, which were turning the pages of the tome, stopped abruptly.
His sharp blue eyes landed on that name, his gaze deepening.
Black.
In the history of the wizarding world, this surname had always been tightly intertwined with darkness, rebellion, and paranoia.
At this moment, Sirius Black was still locked in the dungeons of Azkaban, bearing the monstrous crimes of betraying the Potters and causing the deaths of twelve Muggles; and Regulus Black - that second master of the House of Black who had gone missing at the mere age of eighteen - had long been deemed by the wizarding world to be a fanatical Death Eater who perished under the Dark Lord, leaving not even a corpse behind.
Dumbledore stroked the ring on his finger, the smile at the corners of his lips fading slightly.
Pure curiosity coiled around his heart like vines.
The branches of the House of Black had always been intertwined and complex, yet no one had ever mentioned this name; who exactly was this Edward Black?
Who was his mother?
And why was he hidden away in the Muggle world, never having any contact with the wizarding world?
He did not have Professor McGonagall send a second letter, nor did he send anyone to investigate.
Some secrets needed to be uncovered in person.
At dusk three days later, the setting sun dyed the sky a molten, golden orange.
Edward carried a sack full of plastic bottles, walking slowly back to the bottom of the apartment building, the strap of the sack digging painfully into his shoulder.
Just as he lifted his foot to step onto the stairs, a gentle voice suddenly sounded behind him.
"Hello."
Edward's footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
He whirled around, looking at the newcomer with vigilance.
In the afterglow of the sunset stood an old man wearing snow-white robes, his silver beard reaching his waist, perched upon his nose was a pair of half-moon spectacles, and in his hand, he held a strangely shaped wooden stick with a shimmering stone embedded in the tip.
The evening breeze blew past, causing the hem of his robes to flutter gently, giving Edward the illusion that he was melting into the sunset.
The old man's presence was very gentle, like a sun-warmed quilt, yet it made Edward subconsciously grip the sack's strap tighter, the skin at his fingertips growing slightly hot - a sign that his inner spark was about to surge forth.
"I am Albus Dumbledore," the old man said with a smile, his voice as rich as honey, "the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Edward's pupils constricted.
Hogwarts.
The word was like a small pebble tossed into the dark, gaping void in his mind, stirring up a faint ripple.
He remembered the letter from three days ago that had been tossed into a pile of newspapers, and he remembered that strange name - Edward Black.
"I don't know you," he said, his voice raspy as if rubbed by sandpaper, carrying a coldness that kept people at a distance, "and that is not my name."
Dumbledore did not mind his aloofness and continued to smile, his gaze falling on the boy's clenched wrist, where a faint orange-red glow was faintly visible, though the boy had deliberately hidden it behind his sleeve.
He raised his hand slightly, holding that wooden stick, and waved it casually.
There was no incantation, no dazzling light.
The sack in Edward's hand suddenly floated up, light as a feather.
The opening of the sack turned downward, and the plastic bottles clattered out, spinning and arranging themselves in mid-air, actually forming the shape of a small, bird-like creature.
The light of the setting sun fell upon Edward's pale face.
He watched the plastic-bottle bird hovering in mid-air, looked into the old man's gentle yet sharp eyes, and the frozen void in his mind suddenly gave off a faint cracking sound.
His clenched fist unconsciously loosened, the coldness in his eyes faded a fraction, replaced by a flash of bewilderment.
The wind blew past, carrying the scent of grass and a faint, sweet smell of ash.
Dumbledore took in this subtle change, his smile remaining gentle: "Have you been living alone all these years?"
Edward didn't make a sound, just lowered his eyes and stared at the pebbles on the ground, as if he hadn't heard.
Dumbledore asked again: "Do you have any memories regarding your parents?"
These words were like a needle, gently pricking Edward's heart.
His eyelashes trembled, and in his mind, a pair of blurred hands flashed by, along with a whisper as light as the wind, but he couldn't grasp it, nor could he speak of it.
He remained silent, not even raising his head.
Dumbledore did not force him, only sighed softly. His gaze swept over the faded, worn-out clothes on his body, then looked at the mottled outer wall of the apartment building, before asking softly: "May I go and see where you live?"
Edward was stunned for a moment, then looked up at the old man.
The light of the setting sun refracted a soft halo on his spectacle lenses, and within those blue eyes, there was no scrutiny, only a faint gentleness.
He pursed his chapped lips, hesitated for a few seconds, but in the end, said nothing, just turned around and stepped onto the stairs - a tacit agreement.