Facing the motionless Dumbledore.
"Stop pretending."
Nick spoke in displeasure.
Dumbledore's eyelids trembled slightly.
Nicolas Flamel continued, his voice carrying a hint of teasing. "And, Albus, your breathing pattern is wrong. A truly unconscious person breathes irregularly—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow. But your breathing is far too regular. Three deep breaths, followed by one shallow breath. Precise as a clock. Were you counting?"
Silence hung for several seconds.
Then Dumbledore opened his eyes.
Those azure eyes were clear and bright, without the slightest weakness or fatigue.
Looking at his old friend standing beside the bed with helplessness written across his face, the corners of his mouth slowly lifted into a gentle, slightly apologetic smile. "Nicolas, I didn't expect it," he said softly, his voice steady and composed. "You truly are as sharp as ever."
Dumbledore slowly sat up. The horrifying wound across his chest split open slightly with the movement—but no blood flowed out. Then he raised a hand and lightly brushed over it. The black flames went out at once, like a snuffed candle. The skin around the wound began to heal at a visible pace, fresh tender flesh gradually filling that deep gash until only a faint pink mark remained, almost impossible to see.
Such was the power of a legendary rank.
"My apologies. We had our reasons." Dumbledore rolled his shoulders, his bones letting out a soft crack, then took a deep breath, as though confirming that his body could still function properly.
Flamel watched this entire sequence of movements, shook his head, and sighed, though the smile at his lips deepened.
"This performance of yours, tsk tsk." The old alchemist looked him up and down before speaking. "It was truly frightening, though I can roughly guess why you did it."
Dumbledore got down