"Oh... I was just passing by." Dumbledore replied shamelessly, his expression unchanged.
"And you expect me to believe that?" Victor rolled his eyes. "But thank you, all the same, for healing me."
"It's nothing, but you..."
"Don't ask, I'm not telling you." Victor immediately cut off Dumbledore's question, glaring at him with a deadpan expression. "You're over a hundred years old. Why do you worry so much? Just focus on raising your saviour."
"..." Dumbledore felt a wave of frustration, but there was nothing he could do. He turned his gaze back to Harry's distant figure. "Thank you. To be honest, I've never known how to guide Harry, and I even thought about sending him back."
"No wonder you managed to raise a Dark Lord. He finally escaped the hell he grew up in, and you want to send him back," Victor retorted mockingly. "Even though Voldemort was born evil, he was also an orphan and lacked affection. Why couldn't you have treated him with the same attitude you have toward Harry now? Perhaps with some guidance, he wouldn't have gone down that path."
"I have been reflecting on my actions, but the mistakes I made are now a reality. I can only try my best to make up for them," Dumbledore said, a flicker of emotion finally appearing on his face. He remembered all the people who had died fighting against Voldemort.
"So, I'd like to ask if you can make it up to me?" Victor suddenly asked, a playful grin on his face. "Professor, I remember the Dumbledore family is a very old one, isn't it? I was wondering if you have a library. Could I borrow some books to look at?"
"..." A question mark appeared above Dumbledore's head for the first time in a while.
The day after Victor woke up, Harry, after a sleepless night, got out of bed with mixed feelings. He walked out of the Room of Requirement, stood in the corridor, and stared at the sky for a long time, finally making a decision.
He arrived at Privet Drive and stood by a large tree, looking at the house where he had lived for more than ten years.
Memories flashed through his mind...
When he was little, he often had to go to school in ill-fitting clothes with dragging pant legs. Dudley and his friends would mock him almost every day.
There were many times at home when Dudley would hit and kick him while throwing toys at him. Every time this happened, Aunt Petunia would pull Dudley away, then yell at him with all sorts of vile words. She would comfort Dudley, promising to buy him new toys, saying the old ones were now dirty because he had touched them.
Another time, during a winter Christmas, he couldn't stand the coldness of the house and ran away. As a result, Aunt Petunia found him at the police station in the middle of the night and brought him back home, where she gave him a severe beating.
Although he had not a single good memory of living at Number 4, Privet Drive, he still felt a complicated attachment to the place.
Just then, the front door of the Dursley's house suddenly opened. Harry was startled and instinctively hid behind the tree, slowly peeking out. He saw Vernon Dursley, his uncle, leave the house with a suitcase. The chubby, well-dressed Dudley followed behind him, while his aunt, Petunia Dursley, stood in the doorway.
It looked as if they were saying goodbye to each other. Petunia first showed a look of disgust, then her expression suddenly changed, and she bent down to kiss her son's cheek twice. Finally, she stood at the door and watched her husband and son drive away in the car.
Only after the Dursley's door closed again did Harry come out from behind the tree. Because he was a bit far away, he hadn't heard what the Dursleys were talking about, but he recognized that expression of disgust—it only ever appeared when they looked at him!
Harry stared at the Dursley's house, his fists clenched, his fingers fidgeting in his palm. He wanted to knock on the door of the hated house, but he couldn't bring himself to take that step. He was in an internal struggle.
"Child?" But just then, Harry suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He quickly turned around and saw a kind-looking, white-haired old woman.
"Oh... hello, ma'am!" Harry was a bit flustered. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Oh, no, I don't need any help, child," the old woman said, then turned to look at the house Harry had been staring at. "I remember... you're a Dursley, aren't you?"
Harry was stunned by the question. He glanced nervously at the Dursley's house and stammered, "Oh, um... yes, yes, that's right! I'm a Dursley!"
"Then why don't you go inside?"
"I... I..."
Seeing Harry's nervous demeanor, the old woman suddenly smiled and asked kindly, "Child, would you be interested in a slice of my blueberry pie?"
"Er... huh?" Harry was stunned and wore a blank expression, surprised by the sudden invitation.
At the same time, in London's largest Chinatown, Victor was looking for a traditional medicine shop. Out of all the countries he knew, China, India, and Greece were very known for their traditional medicine.
However, out of the three, Victor preferred China. Being Japanese, he had grown up with Kampō medicine, Japan's own branch of healing that originally came from Chinese tradition.
To him, China's medical heritage was like an elder ancestor, the source from which his own culture had drawn wisdom for centuries.
Ayurveda felt foreign, and Greek medicine was something locked in history books, but Chinese medicine was woven into his childhood, into the teas and herbal powders his grandmother once gave him.
It was familiar, dependable, and close to home.
That was why, in seeking to restore his health, he had come to Chinatown to find the medicinal herbs he trusted most.
The battle in the Fiendfyre world had caused him to lose a lot of blood, severely weakening him. Furthermore, his meridians, where magical power flows and is stored, had been torn apart by the excessive amount of magic power he had used when casting the Abyssal Maw spell.
Although the torn meridians were eventually repaired by his Sky Magic, as the saying goes, "a hundred days to mend a broken bone." The injuries to his meridians couldn't be healed with just magic alone. Eating and supplementing with food could only restore his body's energy. He still needed the help of medicinal herbs to properly recuperate.
This was like a person's leg bone being broken and then being reattached with Sky Magic. On the surface, it might look fine, but if they ran on it immediately, the bone would definitely break again.
Walking down the street and asking around, Victor finally arrived at London's largest traditional medicine clinic. He pushed open the antique-looking door and walked in, greeted by a blend of traditional and modern decor.
Just inside the door was a vermillion wooden front desk. To the right, he could see floor-to-ceiling cabinets filled with medicinal herbs. Several people were weighing herbs on copper scales at the bottom. The left side was likely where patients were seen, with a straight corridor leading to the back of the clinic. A faint scent of traditional medicine filled the air.
Upon seeing a customer, and a familiar face at that, the receptionist at the front desk didn't seem to mind Victor's young age and quickly stepped forward, asking respectfully, "Hello, sir. Is there something we can help you with?"
"I'm here to get some medicine," Victor replied.
"Okay, sir. What kind of medicine would you like to get? Could you please show me your prescription?"
"Uh... I don't have a prescription," Victor said, scratching his head. He then looked at the area where the herbs were stored. "Do you have any ginseng or other strong tonics? I'll buy as much as you have."
"Um... I'm very sorry, sir. We do have the tonics you're referring to, but could you please tell me what you plan to use them for?" the receptionist asked, a bead of cold sweat running down her forehead.
"Use them for? To eat, of course," Victor replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Then I'm truly sorry, sir. We have a rule here. If a customer has a prescription, we can get the medicine for them directly. But if they don't have one and want to buy herbs directly, they either have to bring the patient to our doctor to be examined, or we can send a doctor to them. We can then prescribe the right medicine. But we absolutely do not sell herbs directly," the receptionist explained slowly.
"Huh? What kind of ridiculous rule is that? You're turning away business?" Victor's head was filled with exclamation points and question marks.
"I apologize. It's because in the past, some customers bought random herbs from us and made their own concoctions. When they had problems, they would blame us. Especially those with ulterior motives, who deliberately poisoned themselves and then accused us. Our manager was so scared after having to pay for it a few times that we made this rule..."
"Well... fine, I'll follow your rules. Do I need to wait in line?" Victor sighed helplessly and asked. He couldn't believe this kind of scamming happened everywhere!
"Are you the patient?" the receptionist asked tentatively. Victor looked so healthy and full of life; aside from his pale complexion, he didn't seem to need a powerful tonic like ginseng at all.
"Yes, I am." Victor nodded.
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