The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 585-594: When Night Falls 5

Facing the motionless Dumbledore.

Stop pretending.

Nick spoke up, dissatisfied.

Dumbledore's eyelids twitched slightly.

LeMay continued, a hint of mischief in her voice: "And, Albus, your breathing is off. A truly unconscious person's breathing is erratic, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow. But your breathing is too regular. Every three deep breaths followed by one shallow breath. Precise as a clock. Are you counting?"

There was a few seconds of silence.

Then, Dumbledore opened his eyes.

Those deep blue eyes were clear and bright, without a trace of weakness or fatigue.

He looked at his old friend standing by the bed, looking helpless, and slowly raised the corners of his mouth to reveal a gentle smile with a hint of apology.

"Nicole, I didn't expect that," he said softly, his voice steady and composed. "You really are as perceptive as ever."

Dumbledore slowly sat up, and the shocking wound on his chest slightly reopened with his movement—but no blood flowed out.

He then raised his hand and gently touched the wound. The black flames instantly extinguished, like a candle being extinguished. The skin around the wound began to heal, and at a speed visible to the naked eye, new flesh gradually filled the deep crack, eventually leaving only a faint, almost invisible pink mark.

This is the power of a legendary rank.

"I'm sorry, we have our reasons." Dumbledore stretched his shoulders, his bones making a slight cracking sound, then took a deep breath.

It was as if they were confirming whether their bodies could still function normally.

Lemaître watched his series of actions, shook his head, sighed, but the smile on his lips deepened.

"Your performance...tsk tsk." The old alchemist looked you up and down, then said, "It's truly terrifying, but I can roughly guess why."

Dumbledore got out of bed and stood barefoot on the cold floor. He looked down at his blood-stained robe, waved his hand, and the bloodstains vanished instantly, restoring the robe to its original purple color, though the tears remained.

"Actually, it's still not perfect," Dumbledore said, seemingly evaluating the restoration of the robe.

"To be honest, it's already quite good." Flamel knew exactly what the other person was talking about. "At least we've fooled everyone. Do you know what's going on outside? Dumbledore is seriously injured, his life hanging in the balance. Fudge is already thinking about his affairs—not yours, but the affairs of the wizarding world."

"After all, that guy escaped, but he's even scarier than Voldemort." He was obviously referring to Grindelwald; compared to Grindelwald, Voldemort was just a terrorist.

Of course, this is all before anyone knows that Voldemort has sided with the Deep Space and become a vessel for the evil god. Right now, the greatest threat to the world is still Voldemort.

Or rather—the gaze from the depths of space behind Voldemort.

"I'm sorry to have startled everyone." Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. In that sigh, there was helplessness, apology, and an indescribable heaviness.

"But it's necessary."

His tone was incredibly firm.

The old man walked to the window and opened it.

Night fell, bringing with it the chill of early winter and the faint sounds of distant shouts. He gazed into the distance, at the sky illuminated by lights.

His gaze was deep and serene.

"Nico," he whispered, "do you think that fish will take the bait?"

Le Maire walked to his side, also gazing at the night outside the window. The two old men stood side by side by the window, one wearing a blood-stained robe, the other with a hunched and thin body, both looking so old and so tired.

"You've used too much bait—" Flamel stated his opinion, "too much. Azkaban is half destroyed, the Dementors have escaped, Grindelwald has betrayed us," and you yourself are critically wounded and dying. "If Voldemort doesn't take this bait, then he's not Voldemort."

He certainly knew who Dumbledore was trying to hook.

People become shrewd with age.

Dumbledore didn't speak, but simply gazed quietly into the distance.

The night breeze blew in through the window, ruffling his silvery hair.

"He will come, yes, I know," Dumbledore finally said, his voice calm and resolute. "He has waited too long for this day."

Whether this is true or not, we will soon find out.

"Come on, let me take you away, and I'll add another bargaining chip." Le May also offered a helping hand, intending to cooperate with his old friend to make his act more realistic.

"May I?"

Dumbledore laughed too.

"We can't just let you lie here pretending to be dead forever. The therapists outside are racking their brains trying to figure it out." Lema laughed heartily.

Dumbledore smiled too. He looked down at the scar on his chest—the mark of Fiendfire now reduced to a faint pink line, barely visible against his pale skin. He pressed it gently; there was no pain, only the tingling sensation unique to new, tender flesh.

"Indeed." He said somewhat apologetically, "If we keep pretending, the therapist Webster might have to bring out all his treasured possessions."

Flamel pulled an ordinary-looking wand from his pocket—not the Elder Wand, but the legendary Elder Wand, which lay quietly on the bedside table, a faint golden light still lingering at its tip. Flamel's wand was short.

It is only two-thirds the size of a normal person's wand, with a dark brown shaft engraved with fine, almost invisible runes.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and lay back down on the bed. He closed his eyes, the color draining from his face, his breathing becoming weak and erratic. The scar on his chest reopened under the influence of some kind of magic, and black flames burned again at the edge of the wound—but this time, the fluctuations of the flames were more stable and more "real."

LeMay looked at his "dying" appearance, shook his head, and smiled helplessly. Then, he turned around and pushed open the door to the ward.

Webster paced anxiously back and forth in the corridor. Two young therapists stood behind him, holding thick treatment manuals, their faces etched with confusion and frustration. Gleason leaned against the wall, his knuckles white as he clutched the emergency contact badge. Several Aurors stood at either end of the corridor, warily watching everyone who passed by.

When Lemaître came out, everyone crowded around him.

"Mr. Lemaître!" Webster exclaimed urgently, "Professor Dumbledore—"

'

"I'm taking him away," Lemaître interrupted him, his voice calm and resolute, carrying an unquestionable authority. "He can't be cured here."

The corridor fell silent instantly.

Webster's face turned grim. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but Lemaître's gaze rendered him speechless. He was St. Mungo's most senior healer, and his team had been fighting continuously for an unknown amount of time. They had tried every known anti-curse, consulted every available text, and even risked using several experimental healing spells, but Fiendfire remained unmoved.

He knew he had done his best. But the words "did his best" seemed so pale in the face of Dumbledore.

"Mr. Flamel, this isn't a good matter." Gleeson stepped forward, his voice hoarse and strained. "Professor Dumbledore is from the Ministry of Magic—"

"I know he is the most precious treasure of the magical world," Flamel said, her tone calm yet undeniable. "That's precisely why he cannot die here."

Gleeson fell silent. He knew, of course, how important Dumbledore was. If Dumbledore died—no, he dared not imagine the consequences.

"Are you sure you can save him?" Gleason's voice was very soft, almost inaudible.

Lemaître looked at him, his clear blue eyes gleaming with a light beyond his years in the dimly lit corridor.

"I've lived for over six hundred years, Mr. Gleason," he said firmly. "In those six hundred years, I've seen too many people die. But Dumbledore..."

He paused, then his voice became even more resolute: "He won't die before me."

Gleeson didn't know what to say. He just stood there, looking at the hunched, thin old man, at his clear, all-seeing eyes. He suddenly had a strange feeling—this old man seemed to know better than anyone else what he was doing.

"But—" Webster began with difficulty, his voice tinged with reluctance, "Mr. Flamel, you know the properties of Fiendfire better than I do. Once it enters the body, it merges with the victim's magic, and forcibly separating it will only..."

"It will only kill the victims." Lemaître picked up where he left off, nodding. "I know. That's why I don't intend to peel it away."

Webster was stunned.

Lemaître offered no explanation. He simply turned around, pushed open the door to the ward, and walked inside.

"I need a quiet place," he said without turning his head, "where no one will bother me. Three days. After three days, whatever the outcome, you will know."

The door slowly closed behind him, shutting everyone out.

Silence fell in the corridor once again.

Gleeson stared at the closed door, his heart filled with mixed emotions. He didn't know who to trust, or what to do. All he knew was that, at this moment, the old man who had lived for over six hundred years was Dumbledore's only hope.

"Mr. Gleason, may I ask you something?" Webster suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse, "Do you know what Mr. Lemaître intends to do?"

Gleeson shook his head.

Webster was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly: "Fiendfyre is alive. It has its own will, its own instincts. It seeks out the magical core of its victim, then slowly devours it until the victim is reduced to an empty shell. This process can be quick or slow, depending on how powerful the victim's magic is. And Professor Dumbledore's magic—"

He didn't finish speaking, but the unspoken words were already on the tip of his tongue.

The stronger Dumbledore's magic, the longer and more painful the process of being consumed by Fiendfire.

Gleeson closed his eyes, unable to bear thinking any further.

In the ward, Flamel stood by the bedside, looking down at the "dying" Dumbledore. The old man sighed softly, a sigh tinged with helplessness.

There was also a barely perceptible smile.

"That's enough," he said softly. "I'll take you away."

Dumbledore's eyelids trembled slightly, and he slowly opened his eyes. His deep blue eyes were clear and bright, without a trace of weakness or fatigue. He looked at his old friend standing by the bedside, looking helpless, and a gentle, slightly apologetic smile slowly rose at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Nico," he said softly, "I've dragged you into this."

Lemaître shook his head and sat down beside the hospital bed. His thin body sank into the soft mattress, making him look even more hunched over.

"Over six hundred years, Albus," he said. "I thought I'd seen it all. But you little rascals, you're all more troublesome than the last."

Dumbledore sat up, and the "wound" on his chest slightly reopened with his movement. He casually wiped it away, and the black flames instantly extinguished, while the skin around the wound began to heal at a speed visible to the naked eye.

"Grindelwald, that boy," Lemaître said, a complex light flashing in his eyes as he looked at the healing wound, "his Fiery Blaze has indeed reached a state of perfection. It's a pity he's using it in the wrong place."

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then gently shook his head.

"This time," he said, "I didn't use it wrong."

Le Maire looked at him for a long time. Then, the old man sighed softly, a sigh that contained understanding, helplessness, and a touch of indescribable emotion.

"You people," he sighed, "are all so stubborn."

Dumbledore didn't speak, only smiled slightly. And so, under the spell of this almost legendary alchemist, the two of them vanished from the hospital room.

The news was like a stone sinking into the deep sea; after the initial ripples, it never echoed again.

The news of Dumbledore's abduction by Nick Flamel spread among the higher echelons of the Ministry of Magic, only to abruptly cease. No one knew where he had been taken, whether he was still alive, or even if Flamel had made it in time. That name that had once brought peace of mind to the entire wizarding world vanished from sight, leaving behind only endless speculation and a deepening fear.

Gleeson sat in the corner of the Auror's office at the Ministry of Magic, the report he had revised countless times laid out before him. The neat, cold handwriting on the parchment recorded everything that had happened that night—Grindelwald breaking free of his shackles, Dumbledore's battle with him, the destruction of Azkaban, the disappearance of the Dementors, and Dumbledore's severe injuries.

Every word is true. Every word is chilling.

-

But Gleeson knew that the report was missing the most important thing—the raven.

He stared at the parchment for a long time, and finally added a line after the description of the Dementor's disappearance: "According to eyewitness accounts from the Aurors at the scene, the Dementor was driven away by an unidentified raven. The raven was unusually large and appeared to possess characteristics of a magical creature. Further investigation is underway."

After finishing writing, the man put down his quill, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes wearily.

To be honest, he didn't know what that raven was. But he knew that his Auror intuition was telling him that some changes were happening in the world that he couldn't comprehend.

In those sunless corners, speculation about Dumbledore was brewing wildly.

"He's definitely dead," a Death Eater said in a low voice from his hideout, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "That old man Flamel hasn't left the house in over six hundred years. He suddenly comes and takes Dumbledore away. What else could it be but death? They're just keeping it a secret."

Things are developing in the direction everyone hoped for.

At least.

The Death Eaters have already taken the bait.

Is the Dark Lord far behind?