Allen glanced down at the golden figure sprawled on the ground, and a slight twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask.
To be honest, he didn't expect Lockhart to have failed to create even a decent landing cushion.
He was supposed to be a "Master of Defence Against Dark Magic," yet he fell from mid-air and just landed straight on the ground, like a flattened fly.
Before he could think any further, a feeling of being watched pressed down on him from above, like an invisible veil covering the back of his neck.
Allen slowly raised his head.
Dumbledore hovered in mid-air above him, his silver beard fluttering gently in the night breeze, and his blue eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles calmly watching him.
Allen's heart skipped a beat, and he instinctively tensed up.
However, he showed no outward signs of panic, but his mind raced in that instant.
Lucius's planning ability was like an automatic machine, processing all the information in a fraction of a second.
If he wasn't mistaken, Dumbledore had probably already combined the three storylines: "The man with the fox mask," "the mysterious wizard who could cast Composite Spell," and "the man who killed Quirrell at St Margaret's Bay."
So the question now is, what does Dumbledore intend to do with him?
Looking into those calm blue eyes, Allen suddenly realized something: Dumbledore didn't seem to have any intention of doing anything to him.
If Dumbledore wanted to make a move, he could have done so while he was fighting Riddle.
Allen sighed silently to himself.
He couldn't really tell whether Dumbledore was testing him, observing him, or simply felt that it wasn't appropriate to make a move at this time.
Even with Lucius's scheming abilities, he couldn't see through the old man before him without enough information.
But no matter what, he couldn't stay here any longer.
Tom Riddle's character card expires in less than two minutes, at which point his magic power will drop back to level five, significantly reducing his combat strength.
Moreover, he never intended to deal with Dumbledore directly; it wasn't part of his plan.
He then looked up and nodded slightly in Dumbledore's direction.
The trench coat moved on its own, fluttering and rustling even though there was no wind.
Allen didn't wait for his reaction.
He silently said to the system in his mind, "Teleport."
The stone path beneath our feet shimmered with a pale blue light, standing out starkly at the boundary between the night and the purple flames.
The next moment, he was enveloped in blue light and disappeared from the spot.
The wizards hiding in the corner all stared wide-eyed.
He disappeared?!
"What was that blue light just now?!"
Apparition?
Dumbledore watched as the blue light gradually faded, leaving the stone path empty, without even a scrap of clothing remaining.
He glanced intently at the spot where Allen had disappeared, a thoughtful look flashing in his eyes.
Then he turned his gaze back to the still raging purple sea of fire at his feet.
The Fiendfyre continues to spread.
The giant snakes, lions, wolf-like monsters, and chimeras formed from purple flames still rampage through Diagon Alley.
They surged and roared, Transfiguration and shattering the glass windows of every shop, and baking the cobblestone streets until they were scorching hot.
Some of the wizards who had escaped to the edge of the safe zone looked back and then spotted Dumbledore.
" Headmaster Dumbledore is here!"
"He's here!"
"Can he stop the fire?"
A cheer erupted from the crowd, a cheer that seemed to come from relief, but there was an element of uncertainty in it, because the fire was so strange, almost impossible to extinguish.
Dumbledore ignored those stares.
He slowly raised his right hand, the tip of the Elder Wand drawing an arc in the night sky.
Finite Incantatem.
A silvery-white light surged from the tip of the Elder Wand.
A silvery-white light emanated from the tip of the staff, spreading outwards along the ground in all directions, resembling a vast, boundless net.
The moment that layer of silvery-white light touched the edge of the Fiendfyre, the wizards who were closest to it instinctively took a step back.
When the purple Fiendfyre encountered the layer of silvery-white light, it was like a wild beast suddenly crashing into an invisible wall.
The giant serpents and demonic beasts formed from flames also stopped; their originally ferocious movements became sluggish and dull for a moment.
The silvery-white light enveloped the purple flames in concentric circles, as if someone had covered the entire fire with a silvery-white blanket.
The flames were enveloped in a silvery-white light, struggled a few times, and then began to shrink.
One by one, the fire beasts dissipated, the purple light grew dimmer and dimmer, eventually turning into a few scattered flames that danced futilely in the silvery-white light before going out completely.
The entire process lasted less than ten seconds.
No matter how talented Tom Riddle was, he was no match for Dumbledore at sixteen.
After all, who wasn't a genius in their youth?
The burning shops, charred signs, shattered shop windows, and charred ground in Diagon Alley were all exposed to the moonlight after the silvery glow faded.
The purple flames vanished, replaced by a quiet and desolate gray ruin.
Diagon Alley fell silent.
The wizards who had been hiding in the corner slowly straightened up. They looked at the alleyway that had been burned beyond recognition, and their expressions changed from fear to shock, and then from shock to an indescribable complexity.
"He... he extinguished the Fiendfyre all by himself?"
"That's Fiendfyre."
"This is Headmaster Dumbledore..."
No one in the crowd could utter a complete sentence anymore.
The middle-aged reporter stood behind the collapsed shelves, only the Quick-Quotes Quill in his hand still dancing wildly.
Dumbledore put away the Elder Wand, his gaze sweeping across Diagon Alley before finally settling on Lockhart's still-lying figure.
A flicker of disgust crossed his eyes, his robes fluttered slightly in the night wind, and then his figure blurred in the air before finally disappearing completely from the spot.
The group of wizards standing in the ruins were left looking at each other in bewilderment.
After the Fiendfyre was extinguished, the crowd slowly began to gather.
More and more people gathered in the ruins of Diagon Alley.
The wizards who had fled to safety returned one after another. They stood on the charred stone road, looking at the burned-out shop facades and the shattered glass and blackened rubble scattered on the ground.
A wizard who owned a shop in Diagon Alley stood in front of his burnt-down shop, clutching his wand in both hands, tears streaming down his face.
"My shop..." he said softly, "I've been running it here for twenty-three years..."
The witch next to him patted him on the shoulder, as if she wanted to say something, but her throat seemed to be blocked by something, and she couldn't make a sound for a long time.
More people stood in the alley, looking at the burned ruins, their expressions slowly shifting from shock to anger.
Where are the people from the Ministry of Magic?
I don't know who shouted it first.
Why didn't they come?
" Headmaster Dumbledore is here! Where are the people from the Ministry of Magic?"
"We pay so much tax every year, what exactly is the Ministry of Magic doing?"
The voices went from scattered to rising and falling, from one person's question to the roar of a dozen people.
Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the Diagon Alley.
Dozens of wizards dressed in dark robes poured in from the alleyway. The one in the lead, wearing the badge of Auror from the Ministry of Magic, had clearly just come from Floo Network.
They stood at the alley entrance, looking at the burned ruins before them, their expressions shifting from urgency to embarrassment, and then from embarrassment to bewilderment.
"Sorry we're late."
The leader of the wizards spoke in a low voice, his tone tinged with unease.
No one answered him.
The wizards standing on the ruins turned around and looked at them, their eyes filled with suppressed dissatisfaction.