Jerusalem.
The temperature continued to climb.
As Dawn and Voldemort unleashed Fiendfyre over and over again, the ground was scorched black and dry, crisscrossed with charred scars.
After Voldemort had been killed and resurrected another two or three times under their relentless assault, the local Ministry of Magic finally responded. Wizards began arriving at the scene.
Dawn was the first to notice.
He could feel his ever-expanding Fiendfyre being suppressed along the outer edges by an unfamiliar force.
Not long afterward, the faint sound of something cutting through the air echoed overhead, like the rotors of invisible helicopters.
Dawn narrowed his eyes and looked up.
The heat had distorted the air, but there wasn't a single shadow in sight.
He immediately guessed they were using Disillusionment Charms while observing the situation.
"Wait... Mr. Flamel? That's Nicolas Flamel, isn't it?"
A startled voice rang out from above. Someone had recognized the legendary alchemist.
Flamel looked up as well.
Adjusting his half-moon spectacles to pinpoint the newcomers' location, he gave them a small wave.
Muffled discussion drifted through the sky.
A moment later, several dull thuds sounded as figures landed on the rooftop beside Dawn and revealed themselves.
There were seven of them, men and women alike.
Leading them was a gaunt middle-aged wizard whose skin clung tightly to his bones.
"Mr. Flamel," he said, unable to hide his frustration despite remaining polite, "what are you doing here? And why are you using Fiendfyre of all spells?"
"I'm sorry. We had no other choice."
Flamel smiled bitterly.
He had only begun to explain when one of the younger wizards behind the man stared at Voldemort for a few moments before crying out in shock.
"That's... the Dark Lord from Britain! Merlin's beard! Weren't they saying he was killed by some Chosen One? Why is he here?"
The middle-aged wizard's expression changed immediately.
He looked from Flamel to Voldemort and understood the situation almost instantly.
His face only darkened further.
Dawn snorted quietly, blending into the group like an unimportant bystander as he watched their expressions shift at the mention of those two names.
It was one thing for Flamel to be recognized everywhere. He was a living legend.
But Voldemort? A Dark Lord who had terrorized only Britain. Why did people here know who he was too?
Dawn clicked his tongue in annoyance.
The middle-aged wizard finally collected himself. "Mr. Flamel... why is the Dark Lord here?"
"Sir, it's a long story."
Flamel clearly had no intention of wasting precious time.
"The more urgent matter is limiting the damage to the Muggle world."
"You're right."
The man nodded immediately and ordered the younger wizards behind him to begin their work.
He himself, however, remained where he was.
"Mr. Flamel," he asked hesitantly, "you're fighting the Dark Lord, correct? Forgive my bluntness, but how much longer will this take?"
"I'm sorry," Flamel answered honestly. "I can't estimate it. But I can tell you that it won't be over anytime soon."
The middle-aged wizard fell silent.
He said nothing, but the resentment in his eyes deepened.
He looked at the French alchemist, then at the British Dark Lord, and finally at the devastated landscape surrounding them.
What a disaster to inherit.
Dawn let out a cold laugh. He had no patience for that kind of attitude.
"Let's get one thing straight," he said sharply. "We're protecting you. Without us, do you have any idea how much destruction Voldemort would have caused here?"
He delivered the accusation with complete confidence.
"Protecting us?"
The middle-aged wizard rolled his eyes and pointed at the wasteland around them.
"You've certainly done an excellent job."
He had no interest in asking why Flamel had brought a child into such a battle.
Instead, he silently wondered how they were supposed to minimize the consequences.
At that moment, Voldemort apparently overheard their conversation.
Using some unknown spell, he projected his voice clearly across the battlefield.
"Nicolas Flamel. Remove your anti-Apparition barrier, and I'll stop immediately. I'll leave this country at once. What do you say?"
His tone sounded almost considerate.
The middle-aged wizard's expression changed. He looked toward Flamel, clearly tempted.
There was no need to question what choice he would make if the decision rested solely with him.
Should they pay an enormous price to destroy Voldemort here?
Or simply let him leave Jerusalem?
He would choose the second option without hesitation.
Call him shortsighted. Call him selfish.
But the fact remained that even Flamel himself had admitted he had no way of ending the battle quickly.
More importantly...
This was their Ministry's jurisdiction.
Every bit of destruction caused here would ultimately become their responsibility.
From the middle-aged wizard's perspective, if Voldemort had no particular interest in Jerusalem itself, letting him leave was far from the worst solution.
Dawn ignored the man's gaze.
Instead, he looked down at Voldemort, who remained surrounded by blazing fire.
His brow furrowed.
Remove the anti-Apparition barrier, and Voldemort would leave immediately.
So perhaps Dawn's earlier assumption had been wrong. Maybe Voldemort wasn't trapped in Jerusalem after all.
Was there another explanation? Or was he simply bluffing?
Thoughts raced through Dawn's mind.
Flamel had evidently reached the same conclusion.
He turned toward Dawn.
"What do you think, child?"
Dawn didn't answer immediately.
He closed his eyes for a moment before finally saying, "At the very least... we wait until tomorrow."
The middle-aged wizard, who had been listening nearby, frowned.
Realizing that this masked child was actually making the decisions, he demanded,
"And who exactly are you, boy?"
Dawn didn't even acknowledge him.
Flamel could only offer an awkward smile and smooth things over.
The wizard was clearly dissatisfied.
"Mr. Flamel, it's not that we lack a sense of responsibility.
But you know as well as I do that because of our history with the Church, the wizarding population here is extremely small.
We simply don't have the manpower to deal with something on this scale."
After voicing his complaints, he asked, "And what if tomorrow comes... and you still haven't defeated him?"
"Then we'll give up."
Flamel answered without hesitation.
Dawn glanced sideways at him, narrowing his eyes, but ultimately remained silent.
After further discussion, perhaps out of respect for Flamel's reputation, the middle-aged wizard finally compromised.
He agreed not to interfere until the following day. He still refused to stay and help, however.
Like the younger wizards, he departed to contain the impact on the Muggle world.
Soon, only the three of them remained once again.
Working together, Dawn and Flamel killed Voldemort several more times.
After confirming that the black ashes were not a limited resource, they gradually reduced the intensity of their attacks.
Then something occurred to Dawn.
"Tom. I have one more question."
"If the Castle Consciousness alone could resurrect you, why abandon it in favor of this ritual?"
Voldemort laughed coldly. "That? You'll understand someday, Richter."
That was all he said.
No matter how many more questions Dawn shouted afterward, Voldemort refused to answer another word.
Unable to sit quietly, Dawn turned toward Flamel instead.
"Mr. Flamel, what exactly are those anti-Apparition devices? I still haven't actually seen one."
"Oh, those?" Flamel shrugged. "They're much less impressive than you imagine."
He explained:
"You know that long before wands and incantations became widespread, wizards practiced magic through runic inscriptions.
The devices are simply mithril plates engraved with the runic version of the Anti-Apparition Jinx.
There's really nothing technically remarkable about them."
Dawn raised an eyebrow. "And how do you deactivate them?"
"Simple. Dig them up and destroy them."
Simple indeed.
Oddly enough, Dawn found that primitive solution even more appealing. He quietly committed the information to memory.
Turning his head so Flamel couldn't see his expression, his eyes narrowed slightly.
A decision had quietly taken shape.
Thus another day passed.
There was little worth mentioning.
Beyond endlessly hurling Fiendfyre at one another, nothing significant happened.
Within the ceaseless inferno, Dawn licked his dry lips, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and swallowed another potion to sharpen his mind.
It was the first time he had maintained Fiendfyre for such an extended period.
Although the battle had become noticeably less intense during the latter half of the day, the strain still left him mentally exhausted.
Voldemort looked no better. In fact, fighting two opponents alone had worn him down even more.
His already pale skin had become almost completely bloodless.
Apparently, resurrection did not fully restore his condition.
The thought briefly crossed Dawn's mind.
"Are you all right, child?"
Flamel asked.
After an entire day, even his own voice had become hoarse.
Oddly enough, he looked almost exactly as he had before. He hadn't even broken much of a sweat.
Then again...
He was mainly operating alchemical devices and occasionally casting a spell or two.
Exaggerated as it sounded, it wasn't much different from standing still and admiring the scenery.
Dawn rolled his eyes at him and said nothing.
All of his attention remained fixed on Voldemort.
Then the sun rose over the horizon once again.
Dawn and Flamel steadied themselves and broke through Voldemort's defenses one more time.
Another Killing Curse struck him directly.
Yet...
The familiar ashes drifted through the air once more.
Both their hearts sank.
Voldemort ignored the Killing Curse just as he had the previous day. Even the speed of his resurrection remained completely unchanged.
His immortality had not vanished with the arrival of the fourth day.
Still unwilling to give up, they waited longer.
The sun drifted westward.
More than twenty-four hours had passed since Voldemort's first resurrection.
They tried again.
Nothing had changed.
"Enough, child."
Looking at the silent Dawn, Flamel sighed first.
Dawn slowly shook his head.
"Just a little longer. I refuse to believe such a simple ritual can grant true immortality. There has to be a key we're overlooking."
"You're right," Flamel replied gently. "I'm certain there are additional conditions as well. But if we can't find them, they may as well not exist."
He placed a reassuring hand on Dawn's shoulder.
"Voldemort is dangerous, yes. But with you and Albus alive, his influence can still be contained.
But if we continue like this, what then?
If the wizarding world is exposed to the Muggles, we may ignite another witch hunt. Countless lives would be lost, all for nothing."
The old alchemist gestured toward the ruined land around them. "It's time to stop, Dawn."
Silence settled between them.
Only the roar of flames filled the air.
Then Dawn asked quietly, "Is the Statute of Secrecy really that important?"
"It depends on the circumstances. And on what you're comparing it to."
Flamel sighed.
"At least until we discover Voldemort's weakness, destroying it for no practical gain simply isn't worth the cost.
If I truly believed we could eliminate him today, I would gladly fight to the end."
He stopped himself and merely shook his head.
"So... choose the lesser evil."
Dawn murmured softly. "That does sound like you."
Flamel pressed his lips together.
Before he could continue persuading him, Dawn let out a slow breath, as though arriving at a decision.
"I understand."
Something about that expression made Flamel pause.
Then he nodded.
Pulling the wooden door closer, he prepared to destroy every anti-Apparition rune hidden throughout Jerusalem.
Suddenly—
°Avada Kedavra°
Flamel heard Dawn's quiet voice behind him.
The blazing air erupted into violent winds. An overwhelming sense of danger surged through him.
Before he could react, something struck him squarely in the back.
He crashed heavily onto the ground.
It happened too quickly.
Far too quickly.
Feeling the warmth and strength draining from his body, Flamel painfully turned his head.
His eyes were filled with disbelief.
"Dawn...? What... are you doing?"
Dawn did not answer immediately. Half-closing his eyes, he lowered his wand.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Flamel.
Honestly, I enjoyed the time we spent together.
And I'm grateful for everything you taught me, as well as everything you've left behind.
But what I'm about to do... You would never allow. So rather than let you stand in my way...
I think it's better that we part here."
He bowed slightly.
"If one day I truly succeed in bringing the dead back to life... I promise... I will bring you back from the world of the dead."
The initial shock gradually faded from Flamel's face.
Surprisingly, he became calm.
Suppressing his growing weakness, he asked, "Then tell me, child. What is it that you intend to do?"
"A war."
Dawn lifted his head.
His crimson eyes burned like living fire. "A war fierce enough to claim countless lives."
The instant those words left his lips, the Fiendfyre raging in the distance exploded out of control.
In a single heartbeat, it swallowed one of the unsuspecting young Ministry wizards.
Still unsatisfied, the greedy flames surged beyond the protection of the Muggle-Repelling Charm.
They spread toward places where ordinary people could finally witness them.
Flamel stared in stunned silence.
Looking at Dawn's back as he turned away, he tried to speak. But his rapidly failing body no longer obeyed him.
What an unexpected ending.
A bitter smile crossed his lips.
Lying against the rough ground, his vision blurred as he felt his consciousness slowly lifting away.
To be honest...
He had imagined his second death countless times. He had always believed it would be different from the first.
He would not die alone. His friends would be there.
Albus, at the very least.
He had even wondered whether Dawn would be reluctant to see him go.
Perhaps, like something out of a Muggle novel, the boy would cry with reddened eyes and beg him not to leave.
Flamel managed one final smile.
He knew it had always been a ridiculous fantasy. Yet somehow, imagining it had always made him laugh.
He truly liked this child.
Even now...He still did.
Well.
Looking on the bright side...
At least he wouldn't have to return and endure the awkwardness of facing a newly awakened Dumbledore.
The only one he truly felt sorry for... Was the child whose body he had borrowed.
'Abel Davis.'
'That was his name, wasn't it?'
'I'm sorry.'
'If we ever meet again beyond death... I swear I'll do everything I can to make it up to you.'
'And Albus...'
'I've left you one final, enormous problem.'
With those scattered thoughts fading away, the last light disappeared from Nicolas Flamel's eyes.
Darkness consumed everything.
A cool breeze brushed gently across his skin.
"Dawn, what are you thinking about?" A familiar voice suddenly reached his ears. "You seem troubled."
Warm sunlight bathed the world.
Dawn slowly came back to himself.
Turning his head toward the elderly headmaster, he shook it. "No. It's nothing."
"Are you sure?"
Dumbledore asked again.
"Of course."
Dawn answered without the slightest hesitation.
After all...
He certainly couldn't tell Dumbledore that he had just been thinking how convenient it would have been if Dumbledore had died in Flamel's place.
"Has something happened inside the castle?"
After a brief pause, Dumbledore asked once more, his instincts picking up on something.
"You've seemed distracted for quite some time now."
"You're overthinking it, Headmaster." Dawn shrugged, the lie coming effortlessly. "What could possibly go wrong inside the castle?"
He looked toward the dream unfolding before them.
"I suppose watching these false memories just makes me lose myself from time to time."
The truth, however, was entirely different.
His distraction came from the events in Jerusalem. Most of his attention remained focused on Blaise.
At this moment, within the past recreated by the dream...
The two of them were sitting inside an indoor tennis center in London.
Bright green tennis balls bounced rapidly across the synthetic court, each impact producing a crisp, rhythmic sound.
Dumbledore wisely chose not to press further.
Instead, curiosity got the better of him.
"So your childhood dream was to become a tennis player?"
"Perhaps."
Dawn answered vaguely.
He turned his head.
Nearby, a woman was playing tennis with a small boy. Though calling it tennis might have been generous.
His younger self held a child-sized racket, wildly swinging at every ball the woman gently tossed toward him.
Resting his chin in his hand, Dawn smiled faintly.
"It wasn't really a dream."
"She asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I happened to see someone carrying a tennis racket."
Then something amused him.
A small smile spread across his face. "You know, Headmaster, I had a lot of dreams when I was little."
"A painter."
"A lawyer."
"A race car driver."
"I've said so many things over the years that even I can't remember them all."
"So they were only passing interests?" Dumbledore looked toward the woman's profile. "But she seems completely serious."
Dawn froze.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"Yes. She was."
"Even when she knew it was only a passing whim... she treated every one of those dreams with complete sincerity."
He gave a quiet laugh.
"Sometimes I honestly don't know what to say."
Watching the red-eyed little boy impatiently swing his racket, Dawn suddenly lost the desire to continue speaking.
He leaned back against the wooden bench.
Tilting his head until his neck rested against the backrest, he stared upward through the glass ceiling.
Beyond it stretched a brilliant blue sky dotted with spotless white clouds.
Everything looked impossibly clean.
Then suddenly—
Something dark streaked across the sky.
"Hm?"
Dawn blinked.
His wandering gaze sharpened.
But when he looked carefully, the sky remained perfectly clear. Nothing was there.
"Just a bird?"
he murmured to himself.
After watching a little longer and finding nothing unusual, he slowly sat upright once more, his gaze returning to the woman on the court.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Far away, two tennis players continued their match. The scoreboard flipped constantly beside them.
For some reason... It reminded Dawn of a calendar turning its pages.
The changing score felt like time itself flowing onward.
He let out a weary sigh.
He knew all too well.
If this dream did not end soon...Then that day...Would arrive very soon.
___________
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