Facing the motionless Dumbledore.
Stop pretending.
Nick spoke up, dissatisfied.
Dumbledore's eyelids twitched slightly.
LeMay continued, a hint of mischief in his 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, a helpless expression on his face, and a gentle, slightly apologetic smile slowly rose at the corners of his lips. " Nicolas, I didn't expect this," he said softly, his voice steady and composed, "You really are still as perceptive as ever."
Dumbledore slowly sat up, the shocking wound on his chest slightly reopening with his movement—but no blood flowed. Then he raised his hand and gently touched the wound, instantly extinguishing the Black Flames, like a candle being extinguished. The skin around the wound began to heal, at a visible speed, new flesh gradually filling the deep crack, eventually leaving only a faint, almost invisible pink mark.
This is the power of Legendary Status.
"I'm sorry, we have our reasons." Dumbledore stretched his shoulders, his bones cracking slightly, then took a deep breath, as if to confirm that his body was still functioning properly.
LeMay watched his actions, shook his head, sighed, but the smile on his lips deepened.
"Your performance... tsk tsk." The old Alchemy 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 assessing the restoration of the robe.
"To be honest, it's already quite good." LeMay knew exactly what the other person was talking about. "At least we've fooled everyone. Do you know what's going on outside? Dumbledore injured, his life hanging in the balance. Fudge is already thinking about his affairs—not your affairs, but the affairs of the Wizarding World." "After all, that person escaped, but he's more terrifying than Voldemort." He was obviously referring to Grindelwald; compared to Grindelwald, Voldemort was merely a terrorist.
Of course, this is all before anyone knows that Voldemort has sided with the Deep Space and become a vessel for evil gods. Right now, the greatest threat to the world is still Voldemort.
Or rather, the gaze from Deep 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 eyes deep and serene.
" Nicolas," he whispered, "Do you think that fish will take the bait?"
LeMay walked over to him, 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 gone too far," LeMay stated his opinion. "Half of Azkaban is destroyed, the Dementor have escaped, Grindelwald has 'betrayed' us, and you yourself are 'mortally wounded.' If Voldemort doesn't take this bait, then he wouldn't be 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." LeMay also offered a helping hand, intending to cooperate with his old friend to make his act more believable.
"May I?"
Dumbledore laughed too.
"We can't just leave you lying here pretending to be dead. Those healers outside are racking their brains trying to figure it out." LeMay laughed heartily. Dumbledore laughed too. He looked down at the scar on his chest—the mark from the Fiendfyre was now just a faint pink line, barely visible against his pale skin. He pressed it gently; there was no pain, only the tingling sensation of new flesh. "Indeed," he said apologetically, "If you keep pretending, Healer Webster will probably bring out his entire collection." LeMay pulled an ordinary-looking wand from his pocket—not the Elder Wand, the legendary Elder Wand, which lay quietly on the bedside table, a faint golden light still lingering at its tip. LeMay's wand was short, only two-thirds the length of a normal wand, its shaft a dark brown, engraved with fine, almost invisible runes.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Dumbledore 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 Power, and Black Flames burned again at the edge of the wound—only this time, the fluctuations of the flames were more stable, 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.
In the corridor, Webster paced anxiously back and forth. Two young therapists stood behind him, holding thick treatment manuals, their faces filled with confusion and frustration. Gleeson leaned against the wall, clutching the emergency contact badge, his knuckles white. Several Auror stood at either end of the corridor, warily watching everyone who passed by.
When LeMay came out, everyone crowded around him.
" Mr. Flamel!" Webster exclaimed eagerly, " Professor Dumbledore, he..."
"I'm taking him away," LeMay 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 LeMay's gaze rendered him speechless. He was St Mungo's'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 Magic —but Fiendfyre remained unmoved.
He knew he had done his best. But the words "did his best" seemed so insignificant in front of Dumbledore.
" Mr. Flamel, this isn't a good situation." Gleeson stepped forward, his voice hoarse and strained. " Professor Dumbledore is the Ministry of Magic —I know he's the Wizarding World's most valuable asset." LeMay continued, his tone calm yet undeniable, "That's precisely why he can't die here."
Gleeson fell silent. He knew, of course, Dumbledore was. If Dumbledore died—no, he didn't dare think of the consequences. "Are you... are you sure you can save him?" Gleeson's voice was very soft, almost inaudible.
LeMay looked at him, his clear blue eyes gleaming with a light beyond his years in the dim corridor.
"I have lived for over six hundred years, Mr. Gleeson," he began firmly. "In those six hundred years, I have seen too many people die." But Dumbledore paused, his voice growing 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 resentment, " Mr. Flamel, you know the properties of Fiendfyre better than I do. Once it enters the body, it merges with the victim's Magic Power; forcibly separating it will only..."
"It will only kill the victim." LeMay picked up where he left off, nodding. "I know. That's why I don't intend to peel it away."
Webster was stunned.
LeMay 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 around, "Where no one will bother me. Three days. After three days, whatever the outcome, you'll know."
The door slowly closed behind him, shutting everyone out.
Silence fell over 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. Gleeson, may I ask you something?" Webster suddenly spoke, his voice low and hoarse, "Do you know what Mr. Flamel 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 Magic Power 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 Power 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 Power, the longer and more painful the process of being consumed by Fiendfyre.
Gleeson closed his eyes, unable to bear thinking any further.
In the ward, LeMay 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 fluttered 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, a helpless expression on his face, and a gentle, slightly apologetic smile slowly rose to his lips. "I'm sorry, Nicolas," he said softly, "For dragging you into this."
LeMay 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, each one 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. The skin around the wound began to heal at a speed visible to the naked eye.
" Grindelwald, that boy," LeMay said, a complex glint in his eyes as he looked at the healing wound, "His Fiendfyre has indeed reached its peak. 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."
LeMay looked at him for a long time. Then, the old man sighed softly, a sigh that contained understanding, helplessness, and a hint 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 Legend Alchemy, the two of them vanished from the sickroom.
The message was like a stone sunk into the deep sea; after the initial ripples, it never echoed again.
The news of Dumbledore being taken away by Nick LeMay spread among the higher-ups of the Ministry of Magic, only to come to an abrupt halt. No one knew where he had been taken, no one knew if he was still alive, and no one even knew if LeMay could make 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 growing sense of dread.
Gleeson sat in the corner of the Auror Office at the Ministry of Magic, the report he had revised countless times spread out in front of him. The neat and cold handwriting on the Parchment recorded everything that had happened that night— Grindelwald breaking free of his shackles, Dumbledore battle with him, the destruction of Azkaban, the disappearance of the Dementor, and Dumbledore injury.
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 Auror at the scene, the Dementor was driven away by an unidentified Raven. The Raven was unusually large and appeared to possess characteristics of Magical Creatures. 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 whispered in their hideout, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "That old LeMay, he hasn't left the house in over six hundred years, and then he suddenly shows up and takes Dumbledore away—what else could he be but dead? They're just keeping it a secret."
Things are developing in the direction everyone hoped for.
At least.
The Death Eater have already taken the bait.
Is the Dark Lord far behind?