The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 583-592: When Night Falls 3

All I saw was...

Dumbledore remained suspended in mid-air, the Elder Wand held horizontally in front of him, but a huge, shocking wound was clearly visible on his chest!

The wound stretched from his right shoulder to his left rib, deep enough to expose the bone. Unextinguished black flames clung to its edges, relentlessly gnawing at his flesh and life force, preventing the wound from healing. Blood gushed from the wound like a waterfall, streaming down his body!

It directly stained the entire dark purple robe red!

The White Demon King's once pure white silver hair was now stained with blood, becoming mottled and unsightly. His face was ashen white, devoid of any color, his lips were cracked and purple, and the golden holy light around him had long since dissipated, leaving only a faint fluctuation of magical power that barely kept him from falling.

On the other hand, Grindelwald's situation was several times worse than Dumbledore's.

The Dark Lord's entire right arm, from the shoulder down, was completely torn apart by the golden judgment array, leaving only his bare left shoulder. Blood gushed out wildly from the severed arm, leaving a long, shocking trail in the air before dripping onto the sea surface, spreading out in patches of dark red.

His robes were completely shattered, his body was covered with marks from the holy light, his skin was charred and cracked, and the light in his once sharp heterochromatic eyes had begun to dissipate rapidly, his gaze had become empty, and his body was swaying precariously, as if he might fall from mid-air at any moment.

"Albus————"

Grindelwald spoke with difficulty, his voice hoarse like a broken gong, each word aggravating his wounds, the intense pain causing him to tremble all over.

He, however, continued to stare intently at Dumbledore, a hint of obsessive smugness in his eyes.

You lost.

Dumbledore didn't speak. He just looked at Grindelwald quietly, his azure eyes flashing with incredibly complex light: anger, helplessness at Grindelwald's obsession, a sigh for his lifelong entanglement, and a trace of relief that only he knew.

He didn't refute or defend himself, because he knew that there were no real winners in this battle; they had all lost to each other and to the past.

They lost to a fate destined to result in mutual destruction.

Grindelwald looked at his silent expression, then suddenly laughed. The laugh, so intense and desolate on his pale, haggard, and scarred face, seemed both mad and tragic—a mixture of resignation at the impending end and an unyielding obsession. With his last ounce of strength, he spoke, each word deliberate and deliberate.

"Next time we meet—I will definitely kill you."

The moment the words left his mouth, Grindelwald could no longer hold on. His body lost all magical support and began to plummet rapidly toward the roaring sea below, the sea wind whipping his tattered robes.

He was like a withered leaf with a broken string, utterly powerless to resist. But just as his body was about to plunge into the icy waves, a dense black flame suddenly erupted from his body. The flame had lost its previous ferocity and instead carried a gentle, protective intent.

The flames quickly condensed and took shape, transforming into a giant black raven.

The raven made its move.

Its wings were formed from pure black magic, its eyes were gentle yet firm, and it spread its huge wings to steadily support Grindelwald's weak body.

The raven flapped its wings and flew at incredible speed, carrying Grindelwald towards the horizon where night met dawn. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared into the sky, leaving only a faint black trail that slowly dissipated in the air, leaving no trace.

Dumbledore hovered in mid-air, motionless, silently watching the direction where the black phoenix had disappeared, his eyes vacant, not moving an inch for a long time.

The sea breeze ruffled his blood-stained silver hair and robes. The wound on his chest was still bleeding, and the black flames were still gnawing at his life force, but he seemed to feel no pain. All that flashed through his mind were the times he spent with Grindelwald in Godric's Hollow when he was young.

Those shared aspirations and vows of common purpose have ultimately turned into the devastation we see today.

I don't know how long I stood there.

Dumbledore's last bit of magic was completely exhausted, and his body could no longer maintain its levitation. It began to tilt forward uncontrollably, like a giant tree that had been felled, slowly falling forward.

He slowly closed his eyes, his face deathly pale, blood still gushing from the wound in his chest. The Elder Wand, which he had been clutching tightly in his hand, slipped from his weak fingertips, spinning and falling through the night sky with endless desolation, finally crashing into the roaring waves below.

It was completely swallowed by the surging seawater and disappeared without a trace.

Yes.

The one who was once known as the greatest white wizard in the wizarding world, the omnipotent and forever gentle and composed Dumbledore, was now falling straight down from the sky like a kite with a broken string.

"How could this be! Grindelwald won!"

The Aurors on the ground stared blankly at this scene. Everyone froze in place, their minds blank. No one dared to move, no one dared to speak, and no one dared to make a sound. They could only watch helplessly as their revered and relied-upon guardian fell from the sky.

All that remained in their hearts was endless despair and panic.

"No!!"

It wasn't until the leader, Gleeson, suddenly came to his senses that he saw Dumbledore falling. His pupils contracted sharply, his heart felt like it was being squeezed tightly, and a wave of pain and panic washed over him. He stood up abruptly and roared with all his might, "Save him!"

"Help! Save them!"

This roar finally startled the stunned Aurors. As if waking from a dream, they all rushed to their feet in a panic. Some immediately cast the Levitation Charm, and golden magical light rushed toward Dumbledore, trying to slow his descent. Others cast the Healing Charm with trembling hands, trying to stop the blood gushing from his chest.

Some people stood there blankly, at a loss, their faces covered in tears; others were busy treating their injured companions. The scene was chaotic, yet filled with extreme urgency.

With the combined force of several levitation charms, Dumbledore's body was finally caught a few meters above the ground and landed gently on a relatively intact rock without being hit again. He lay quietly on the cold rock, his chest rising and falling weakly, his face ashen white.

His lips were bloodless, the old man's eyes were tightly closed, and his breath was so weak that it was almost imperceptible, as if he would lose all signs of life at any moment.

"This shouldn't be happening!"

Gleeson rushed to the edge of the reef and knelt down beside Dumbledore with a thud. His hands trembled violently as he desperately channeled his magic, casting the most powerful healing spell over and over again. Golden healing light enveloped Dumbledore's chest, but the black Fiendfire at the edge of the wound was too sinister.

The black flames clung tightly to the wound, devouring his life force. No matter how hard he tried, the healing spell couldn't penetrate the layer of black fire and couldn't stop the bleeding at all.

It is even more impossible to repair the wound.

"Professor Dumbledore! Professor Dumbledore! Wake up!" Gleeson cried hoarsely, his voice trembling with barely suppressed sobs, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto Dumbledore's blood-stained robes. "You can't die! The wizarding world can't live without you, we can't live without you! Wake up!"

Just when Gleeson was almost in despair, Dumbledore's eyelids suddenly twitched slightly, and then he slowly opened his eyes.

Those usually bright blue eyes, brimming with starlight and gentleness, were now dull and lifeless, filled with weariness and weakness, yet they still maintained a sliver of consciousness, not completely losing consciousness.

He slowly turned his head to look at Gleason beside him, whose face was streaked with tears and who was in a state of panic. His lips moved slightly, and he spoke in a voice so faint that only the two of them could hear it.

Dumbledore said softly, "I'm fine—I just—need to rest—"

Gleeson stood frozen in place, unable to react for a moment. He stared blankly at Dumbledore's open eyes and his weak yet steady breathing until he was sure that Dumbledore was really alive. Only then did he let out a sigh of relief, as if all the strength in his body had been instantly drained, and he collapsed to the ground.

The Auror gasped for breath, his body drenched in cold sweat, his back icy cold. He looked at Dumbledore's pale face, at the still-burning black fiend, and felt a deep sense of dread. Just a hair's breadth away, and this great white wizard would have been gone forever.

The magical world will completely lose its last pillar.

"Medical care!"

After a brief moment of distraction, Gleeson quickly regained his senses. He forced himself to his feet and roared at the Aurors around him, "Medical Wing! Quickly! Get the professor to the Medical Wing immediately! No, to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries! Apparate to St. Mungo's right now! Hurry! We can't delay!"

Several agile Aurors immediately stepped forward and carefully lifted Dumbledore, their movements extremely gentle, as if afraid of aggravating his chest wound. The group hurried towards the Apparition point on the shore, their steps hurried and filled with urgency. The remaining Aurors stayed behind, cleaning up the ravaged battlefield, treating their seriously wounded comrades, and extinguishing the remaining black flames, but none of them showed any joy of victory.

Only heaviness and confusion remained.

Gleeson stood alone at the highest point of the battlefield, gazing into the distance where Grindelwald had disappeared, at the sky that had been completely torn apart by the battle and was still murky, at the traces of blood and black fire remaining on the sea, his heart filled with unspeakable fear and confusion.

Grindelwald escaped, severely wounded but still alive, and will surely make a comeback someday.

Professor Dumbledore was seriously injured, his life hanging in the balance, and even St. Mungo's might not be able to completely heal the evil Fiendfire wound.

Oh, and there's that mysterious black bird that vanished without a trace with Grindelwald. No one knows its origins, and no one knows where Grindelwald might be hiding.

"These are turbulent times!"

He looked up at the horizon, where the morning light was finally beginning to appear on the distant sea. A faint golden-red glow pierced through the clouds and spilled onto the broken shore. A new day was about to begin, a morning that should have been full of hope, but in Gleason's heart, there was not a glimmer of light.

He knew perfectly well that from now on, the magical world would never have a peaceful day again. This great war was just the beginning, and the real catastrophe might have only just begun.

The sea breeze still howled, the waves still surged, and the smoke from the battlefield gradually dissipated, but the gloom that shrouded the entire magical world could no longer be easily dispelled.

That ultimate showdown in the sky and sea ultimately failed to determine a true victor, leaving only a mutually destructive outcome and a tragic and desolate past destined to be forever etched in the memory of the magical world.

at the same time.

The Aurors swiftly reached their destination.

The moment Dumbledore was admitted to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries.

The entire hospital was in an uproar.

The news spread too quickly—or rather, someone deliberately made it spread too quickly. By the time several Aurors carefully carried Dumbledore through the hospital doors using a levitation charm, the corridors were already packed. Healers rushed in pushing stretchers, while intern nurses stood by, covering their mouths.

Everyone's eyes were filled with terror.

Meanwhile, the wizards who happened to be receiving treatment there all stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look at the pale-faced old man on the stretcher, whose chest was still burning with black flames.

"Get out of the way! Everyone get out of the way!"

Herman Webster, St. Mungo's most senior healer, pushed through the crowd and rushed to the stretcher. His own light fell on the horrifying wound on Dumbledore's chest, and his pupils contracted sharply. The black flames were not fierce, but they were unusually tenacious, slowly writhing at the edges of the wound as if they were alive.

It devours any magic that tries to get close.

"Fiendfire." Webster's voice was low and solemn. "And it's highly concentrated Fiendfire, imbued with the caster's will. Ordinary healing spells are ineffective against it."

He looked up and said to his assistant beside him.

"Prepare the anti-curse sequence. Call Portman, Avery, and," he paused, as if making a great decision, "go and invite Nick Lemaître. If he's still alive."

The assistant paused for a moment, then turned and ran away.

Webster personally pushed the stretcher towards the innermost intensive care unit. His steps were quick yet exceptionally steady, as if afraid of jolting the extremely weak old man on the stretcher. Several Aurors tried to follow, but he stopped them at the door with a single glance.

"This isn't Azkaban," Webster said coldly. "In St. Mungo, patients come first, everything else second. You wait outside."

immediately.

After dealing with the Azkaban matter, Gleeson arrived shortly afterward, opened his mouth as if to say something, but found himself unable to utter a word.

He could only watch as the heavy oak door slowly closed before his eyes, revealing Dumbledore's pale face, the still-burning wound, and the Elder Wand that had been sent inside with it.

Everything was shut out behind the door.

An eerie silence fell over the corridor.

The onlookers hadn't dispersed, but they had stopped whispering and stood silently, staring at the closed door. Occasionally, someone would look up and exchange a glance—a glance filled with fear, unease, and something else indescribable…

A sense of bewilderment, as if the sky had collapsed.

Dumbledore is wounded. The invincible, greatest white wizard in the wizarding world lies deep within this hospital, his fate unknown.

Gleeson leaned against the wall, closing his eyes wearily. The image of that battle was still replaying in his mind—golden light intertwining with black flames, the ruins of Azkaban collapsing with a roar, and Dumbledore falling from the sky like a kite with a broken string.

He suddenly opened his eyes, forcing himself to stop thinking about it.

Now is not the time for reminiscing. He has more important things to do.

He turned around and spoke to the several equally exhausted Aurors behind him.

"You lot, stay here and keep watch. No one is allowed to enter that room unless Webster, the therapist, gives me his personal permission."

The order has been issued.

Whether it can be complied with or not.

Nobody knows.