"Who are you?"
Dumbledore asked in a low, steady voice.
It wasn't that he liked wasting words—only that the Headmaster's office was too cramped for a proper duel. One wrong move and the unconscious Harry Potter or Fawkes could be gravely injured.
"Me? Surely you've heard of me, Professor Dumbledore. My name is Dio Brando."
Louis struck a flamboyant JoJo-style pose as he introduced himself.
Dio Brando?
Dumbledore's pupils constricted sharply.
This man was one of the members of that bizarre organization—and not a low-ranking one either.
But why on earth was he making such a ridiculous pose? What was wrong with him?
Dumbledore gripped the Elder Wand, his gaze flicking every so often toward Harry, still slumped over the desk.
Louis glanced at the wand in Dumbledore's hand and smiled. "Professor Dumbledore, are you thinking of making a move against me?"
He caught the look in the old wizard's eyes and smirked. "But it seems today isn't convenient. Perhaps another time—we'll have the chance to cross wands."
The moment his words faded, gentle phoenix fire wrapped around his body. In the blink of an eye, he vanished, consumed as if by his own flames.
Dumbledore didn't strike to stop him. Dio Brando was an even trickier opponent than Voldemort, and with Harry and Fawkes both here, he couldn't risk a reckless attack. He could only let the intruder go.
When the uninvited guest had gone, Dumbledore hurried to Harry's side.
Harry still slept soundly, without the slightest sign of pain—the phoenix tears had completely healed his injuries.
He would need rest, of course, and Dumbledore would have to send him to Madam Pomfrey shortly.
But Fawkes was another matter.
Dumbledore cradled the phoenix, who lay limp on the floor, too weak to rise. Its body felt cold, as if it were at death's door.
A phoenix could not truly die, but only if it could be reborn in flame. Fawkes's fire, however, had been drained by more than half. Dumbledore had no idea what this would mean.
There was no precedent for this. The Dumbledore family had been bound to phoenixes by contract for generations, and never had anyone succeeded in stealing a phoenix's flame. It was more inconceivable than killing one outright.
The thought made Dumbledore's fear of Dio Brando deepen. A man who could not only devour fire but wield it instantly…
"Practically the incarnation of flame itself…" Dumbledore muttered under his breath.
Suddenly, his face was lit by a soft red glow. Weak as it was, Fawkes's body began to smolder. Its dim feathers sloughed away, crumbling into ash.
With a mournful cry, the phoenix's body collapsed into the gray dust, vanishing beneath it until nothing remained but a small heap of ashes.
Fawkes had entered rebirth—half a year ahead of time.
Dumbledore stared tensely at the ashes, praying to see a newborn phoenix rise.
But time crawled by, and the ashes lay still.
His beard trembled as he stared without blinking, terrified of missing the miracle of rebirth.
At last, a faint cry emerged from within. Dumbledore, fluent in the phoenix tongue, recognized it instantly—it was a call for help.
A look of joy burst across his face as he dug into the ashes, pulling free a bedraggled, featherless chick of a Fawkes.
But this rebirth was clearly flawed—the newborn phoenix was half the size it should have been.
Still, the very fact that Fawkes could be reborn was a good sign—it meant there was hope for recovery.
But Dumbledore's joy was quickly overshadowed by the gloom settling on his face.
He placed Fawkes gently back onto the perch of the sycamore branch, then sat at his desk and began to write letters.
He needed to gather intelligence on the group calling itself United Villains of the World, One Big Family.
Dumbledore had many friends. Nearly two centuries of life had allowed him to form bonds with gifted individuals all across the globe.
Some of them specialized in collecting intelligence, others controlled networks through which such information flowed. Perhaps they could give him answers.
And yet, when he wrote down the name of that organization, even Dumbledore himself couldn't help but feel speechless.
"I just hope they won't think I'm joking with them," he muttered helplessly, shaking his head as he sealed the letters.
To be honest, the name alone made the whole thing sound like a farce. If he hadn't seen with his own eyes the power of two members, heard Quirrell's testimony, and watched Voldemort's shaken response, he wouldn't have believed it.
But the facts were undeniable. Such a terrible group did exist—and under this ridiculous name, they had already stirred chaos within Hogwarts.
They had nearly killed Fawkes… and had stolen the Philosopher's Stone!
Dumbledore was already certain the Stone had been taken by them. What he did not know was whether they intended to use it to resurrect Voldemort.
"They shouldn't… according to what was said, Voldemort is only their candidate under assessment, not a true member. Surely the Elixir of Life wouldn't be granted to one under examination."
That was his reasoning—but speculation was never certain.
To place hope in the intentions of others was foolish. Thus, in his letters, Dumbledore discreetly hinted that Voldemort's return might be imminent.
But compared to that organization, Voldemort's revival no longer seemed the greater threat.
"Fawkes…" Dumbledore called out instinctively, wishing to summon his most reliable messenger. But when he heard Fawkes's confused, weak chirp, he remembered.
"Sigh… Fawkes can't deliver letters for now. That makes the authenticity of these letters… somewhat questionable." He sighed with helplessness.
Phoenix-delivered letters were Dumbledore's privilege and hallmark. Except during the brief window of rebirth, a phoenix was always his most loyal courier.
But now Fawkes was incapable.
So Dumbledore reluctantly opened the envelopes again, adding the distinctive magical traits that marked them as his personal letters.
It was the customary method to be used during a phoenix's rebirth.
He placed the letters neatly in the corner of his desk, where a house-elf would later retrieve them and send them off.
Among them lay one letter of apology, written with sincere remorse, addressed to Nicolas Flamel—Dumbledore's old friend and mentor.
He had lost his good friend's Philosopher's Stone, even though Flamel had not intended to reclaim it in the first place.
Hopefully, Nicolas and Perenelle had enough Elixir of Life stored away.
The normal letters were finished, but Dumbledore still felt it wasn't enough.
After hesitating for a long while, he took up his quill again and began a new letter.
This one did not flow easily. He scratched out words, rewrote, crossed out phrases, agonized over the tone.
It had been ages since he'd felt so conflicted—just as it had been ages since he had last seen the man to whom this letter was addressed.
He had once thought their lives would never again intertwine. But the emergence of that mysterious organization left him no choice.
Because when it came to dealing with villains… perhaps no one in this world was more suited.
At last, a letter was completed—meticulously worded, stripped of all emotion. Dumbledore sealed it into an envelope, and on the front he wrote the recipient's name:
Gellert Grindelwald.
---
RedX43's Note:
➤ Want More? Read Extra Chapters on Patreon!
➤ [email protected]/RedX43
➤ Thanks for the support! 🙌