The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 584, page 593: When Night Falls (4)

Faced with orders.

The Aurors nodded and took their places. Gleeson glanced again at the closed door, then strode towards the fireplace at the other end of the corridor. He needed to report to the Ministry of Magic, to draft that report that was giving him a headache, and he didn't know what else he needed.

All he knew was that he couldn't stop. If he did, those images would surge back and engulf him.

He disappeared into the green flames of the fireplace.

In the corridor, the onlookers gradually dispersed. Some had come to visit relatives and friends, some to have their old injuries checked, and some were simply passing by. But at this moment, they all left St. Mungo's with the same message—Dumbledore was seriously injured, his fate unknown.

The news spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the magical world.

In the top-floor intensive care unit of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries, the air was as still as a thick cloth soaked in ice water. Even the fireflies floating in the corridor seemed to be dimmed by the heavy atmosphere, their dim yellow light barely illuminating the smooth stone floor.

Among those who left, one figure walked away in an unusually hurry.

He wore the light green robe of a St. Mungo's intern therapist, with a small brass badge on his chest bearing his name—Edmund Faulkner. He had only joined St. Mungo three months prior and, being relatively inexperienced, had been assigned to the most inconspicuous logistics department, responsible for tasks such as recording drug inventory and organizing medical records.

Nobody noticed him.

He left St. Mungo's through a side door, without using the fireplace or Apparating, and walked briskly along the back street, glancing back every now and then to make sure no one was following him. His pace was quick, but his breathing was somewhat rapid, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

He walked for about twenty minutes and turned into a narrow, almost sunless alley. At the end of the alley was a black iron gate with no handle, no keyhole, and only a small rune hidden by magic.

He took a deep breath and placed his palm on the rune.

The iron gate slid open silently.

Behind the door was a small, dimly lit, and cold room, filled with a musty smell of decay. In the center of the room was a round table with an unlit oil lamp on it. Several people sat around the table, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods.

"You're here?" A hoarse voice came from one end of the round table.

Faulkner nodded, walked to the round table, but did not sit down. His body was trembling slightly, whether from fear or excitement, it was hard to tell.

"Dumbledore has been sent to St. Mungo's," he said, his voice low. "A Fiery wound, in his chest, very serious. Webster said he'd call Nick Flamel."

The people around the round table remained silent for a few seconds.

Then, that hoarse voice rang out again, tinged with barely suppressed laughter: "Good. Very good."

He stood up and stepped out of the shadows. Beneath the hood was a pale, gaunt face with a cold smile playing on his lips.

"Keep an eye on it," he said. "Send in any news immediately."

Faulkner nodded and turned to leave.

The iron gate slowly closed behind him, plunging the room back into darkness.

Beside the round table, the hoarse voice whispered, "Go tell the master. Dumbledore is dying."

No one answered, but he knew his order had been carried out.

In the most hidden corners of the magical world, in places where the sun never shines, countless eyes are watching St. Mungo's, watching that tightly closed door.

They also watched the old man struggling between life and death.

The news reached Voldemort's ears in the early hours of the morning.

He wasn't in London, nor in any Death Eater's lair, but on that desolate island. The transformation that had utterly changed him was complete, but his body still needed time to adapt to this new, inhuman form.

He stood on the reef, facing the sea. Behind him, countless tentacles swayed gently in the sea breeze, like the most eerie creatures in the deep sea. His three scarlet eyes opened simultaneously, reflecting the sparse stars in the sky.

"Master." A voice sounded behind him, respectful yet fearful.

Voldemort did not turn around. He simply gazed silently at the sea, at the ceaseless waves.

"explain."

The voice trembled as it said, "Dumbledore—severely wounded. Grindelwald betrayed him and fought him in Azkaban. Dumbledore was struck in the chest by Fiendfyre, and now at St. Mungo's, his fate is unknown."

silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Voldemort didn't speak, didn't move, and even his whiskers stopped swaying. He simply stood there, gazing at the sea.

Then-

He smiled.

The laughter was low and hoarse, like countless pieces of glass scraping against each other. It spilled from his torn, tooth-filled mouth, echoing in the sea breeze, making the Death Eater who was delivering the message tremble and almost collapse to the ground.

"Good," Voldemort said, his voice soft and satisfied.

He turned around, and three scarlet eyes burned in the darkness, like three stars from hell.

"Dumbledore—you're going to die eventually too."

"9

He raised the hand that was no longer human and waved it gently. An invisible force surged from his palm, lifting the Death Eater who was delivering the message, and then gently setting him down.

"Keep watching," he said. "I need to know every single thing about him—whether he woke up, died, coughed, or turned over. Everything."

"Yes—yes, Master." The Death Eater scrambled back and disappeared into the darkness.

Voldemort turned around again and looked at the sea. A hideous, inhuman smile spread across his lips.

"Albus—" he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, almost tender emotion, "You're going to die eventually too."

He spread his arms wide, letting the sea breeze whip his contorted body. His tentacles danced wildly behind him like celebratory flags.

"Wait for me." Voldemort laughed maniacally. "Once I'm sure you're dead, I'll come and take over the world you've protected your whole life."

His laughter echoed across the sea, startling countless seabirds perched on the rocks.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in London, in the deepest intensive care unit of St. Mungo's Hospital, Dumbledore lay quietly.

The black flames still burned on his chest, but they no longer spread or consumed him. Webster and two other healers surrounded him, carefully applying counter-spells to the wound. Each counter-spell slightly diminished the flames, but they still burned stubbornly.

Nicolas Flamel hasn't arrived yet. He's so old that he needs assistance even to Apparate. He's on his way, but it will take some time.

Gleeson stood in the doorway of the ward, peering through the small glass window at the busy therapists inside. His face was pale, with clearly visible dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips, and disheveled hair. He hadn't slept in a long time—in fact, he hadn't even had a sip of water since the Azkaban incident.

But he dared not sleep. He dared not close his eyes.

He was afraid that if he closed his eyes, he would see Dumbledore falling from the sky.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Gleeson turned and saw Minister of Magic Fudge approaching quickly with a group of officials. Fudge's face was even more pale than his own; his lips trembled slightly, and his usually shrewd eyes were now filled with fear and confusion.

"Gleeson!" Fudge shouted, his voice sharp and urgent. "How is Dumbledore? Is he still alive? How serious is his condition? When will he wake up? Has Grindelwald been captured?"

Gleeson took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady: "Professor Dumbledore is still being treated. Webster the healer says the Fiendfire is stubborn, but under control. As for Grindelwald..."

He paused, his voice growing even lower: "He escaped."

Fudge's face turned even paler. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found himself speechless. He just stood there blankly, staring at the closed door and the old man behind it, his fate unknown.

After a long silence, he finally managed to speak with difficulty: "Then—what about the Dementors? I heard that Dementors are also—"

Gleason shook his head: "They all ran away. A raven took them away."

Fudge's lips twitched, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just sighed.

He walked to a chair and sat down, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders trembling slightly.

The corridor was silent.

The officials didn't know what to say or do. They just stood there, staring at the door and at the old man struggling between life and death.

They knew that if Dumbledore died, the wizarding world would be in chaos.

But unseen by them, in those dark corners, countless eyes are watching all of this, waiting for that moment to arrive.

Waiting for the moment when the sky falls.

Outside Dumbledore's ward, Gleeson leaned against the wall, feeling his bones ache. He had been standing there for who knows how long—perhaps hours, perhaps a whole day. Time blurred in the dim corridor; only the tightly closed oak door and the occasional whispers coming from behind it reminded him that everything was still going on.

Fudge was gone. The minister had been there for less than an hour, then left, pale-faced, saying, "Notify me immediately of any news," before disappearing into the green flames of the fireplace. The other officials also dispersed, each returning to their posts with their own worries. Only Gleason and a few Aurors remained at the door, waiting for it to open.

Footsteps came from the end of the corridor, unhurried and with the steady composure of an old man. Gleason looked up and saw a hunched figure slowly approaching.

He was an old man, a very old man. His hair and beard were snow-white, each strand like the finest silver thread; his face was covered with wrinkles, like a dried-up riverbed; his body was thin and hunched, and he walked very slowly, as if he might collapse at any moment. But his eyes—those eyes were blue, as clear as a baby's, and shone with a light beyond his years.

Behind him followed an elderly woman with gray hair, equally aged and hunched over, yet possessing the same clear eyes. She gently supported the old man's arm, carefully navigating around the obstructing chairs and carts in the corridor.

Gleason's pupils contracted slightly. Of course he recognized this person. The entire magical world knew him.

"Mr. Lemaître," Gleeson greeted him hastily, his voice trembling with barely suppressed excitement, "You've arrived."

Nick Lemaître stopped and looked up at Gleeson. His clear blue eyes lingered on Gleeson's face for a moment before he nodded slightly.

"Is he inside?" The old man's voice was hoarse but calm, carrying a sense of composure born of a life well-lived.

Gleeson nodded: "Yes. Webster the healer has been inside, but the Fiendfire is too stubborn; ordinary counter-curses aren't very effective."

Lemaître didn't speak. He gently patted his wife's hand that was supporting him, then slowly walked towards the oak door.

An Auror guarding the door instinctively tried to stop him, but Gleason stopped him with a glance. The door was gently pushed open and then gently closed, swallowing the old man's figure behind it.

The ward was quiet.

Webster and two other healers stood around the bedside, their foreheads glistening with sweat. The afterglow of their counter-spells lingered on their wands, but the black flames still burned slowly around the edge of Dumbledore's chest wound, stubbornly clinging to him like a malignant tumor.

"Mr. Lemaître." Webster quickly made way for the old man as he entered, his voice tinged with relief. "You've finally arrived. We've tried every known anti-curse we could find to completely remove this Fiendfire."

Lemaître didn't speak. He simply walked slowly to the bedside and looked down at Dumbledore lying on the bed.

The face was deathly pale, the lips devoid of color, the eyes tightly shut, and the breath so faint it was almost imperceptible. A deep wound stretched from the right shoulder to the left rib, the edges of which were still writhing with black flames, devouring any magic that approached. The wound was deep, revealing the bones and internal organs beneath, but strangely, there was no blood—or rather, any blood that did flow was instantly evaporated by the black flames.

Lemaître stared at the wound for a long time. Then, he sighed softly.

The sigh was so soft it was almost inaudible, but Webster and the two therapists simultaneously felt a chill run down their spines.

"You may leave," Lemaître said, his voice calm but firm. "Let me be alone with him for a while."

Webster paused, wanting to say something, but the old man's gaze silenced him. He nodded and left the ward with the two therapists.

The door closed behind them.

Only LeMay and Dumbledore remained in the ward.

The old man stood there, silently watching Dumbledore, who was "dying," on the bed, for a long time. Then, he reached out and gently touched the still-burning black flames.

There was no burning, no pain. The flame danced meekly on his fingertips, like a tamed pet.

Lemaître shook his head, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth revealing a helpless yet somewhat amused smile.

"Albus, you bastard," he said, his voice hoarse but calm, having seen through the situation. "They're all gone. Stop acting."

""

silence.

Dumbledore lay on the bed with his eyes still closed, his chest still rising and falling slightly, and the black flames still burning at the edge of his wound.

Nothing has changed.