While Annabelle and Milosan were catching up and Richie was flipping through Simple Alchemy, Dawson Godwin was riding his motorcycle into a small town, eventually parking in front of an ancient, weathered house.
Bang! Bang!
Dawson aggressively pounded on the faded, sun-bleached mahogany door. The heavy impacts were so violent they shook the snow loose from the eaves.
A moment later, with a heavy creak, the wooden door slowly swung open.
It was a clear afternoon. Even in the dead of winter, the sunlight outside was plenty bright. Yet the inside of this house was pitch black—so dark you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.
Dawson's mouth twitched into a scowl. He pulled out his pipe and wand, ignited the pipe with a quick spell, and clamped it between his teeth. Only then did he cast a Lumos charm and step inside.
The door slammed shut behind him without a breeze, entirely cutting off the outside light.
The interior was clearly rigged with heavy magic, specifically designed to completely disorient anyone who stepped foot inside.
Dawson didn't trust a single thing his eyes were showing him. Instead, he carefully navigated forward by silently reciting a specific sequence of steps.
Soon, another light appeared, radiating actual warmth. Dawson looked up.
Not far ahead in the darkness, a red brick fireplace materialized, burning with crackling firewood.
It only cast enough light to illuminate a tiny perimeter. Everything else remained swallowed by the dark. And within that darkness, two or three faintly glowing faces seemed to hover. You could sense they were there, but you couldn't actually make out their features.
Seeing the hearth, Dawson let out a breath of relief. He snuffed out his pipe, lowered his wand, and picked up his pace.
Once he reached the fireplace, he deliberately stepped back into the shadows, leaving only his partially obscured face visible. He closed his eyes and waited in dead silence.
After what felt like an eternity, the sharp chime of a bell rang out.
When Dawson opened his eyes, eleven other faces had materialized around the fire. Counting him, there were twelve in total—each face representing a wizard from a completely different region of the world.
"It's been a while, everyone," a raspy, ancient female voice echoed from a face with a sharp, pointed chin. "I am genuinely thrilled to see you all still breathing."
"Look, you old hag, could you maybe dial back the complexity of this 'Realm of the Lost'?" a bizarrely accented voice complained. It came from a short wizard with a heavily scrunched-up face. "Every time I come here, it costs me a drop of Mermaid's Tear! Do you have any idea how long that takes to harvest?"
"Heh. You're from a tiny island nation. Of course you're short on potion ingredients. Makes sense," a mocking voice sneered right next to Dawson.
"Oh, like you're doing any better?!"
Seeing the two about to go at it, Dawson frowned deeply.
"I didn't come here to waste my time listening to you two bicker!" He shot a glare at the pointy-chinned witch. "Pointy Chin, why did you trigger the assembly call?"
Hearing Dawson snap, the two arguing wizards immediately shut up. The rest of the group shifted their gaze directly to the witch.
"Haha, your words always carry weight, Big Beard," the pointy-chinned witch chuckled eerily. Then, her tone dropped. "High Hat is dead."
The flames in the hearth completely froze for a split second before violently flaring up.
Realizing the implications, the atmosphere between the twelve of them instantly turned incredibly heavy.
"So he finally died?" a shadowy figure rasped. "How did it happen?"
"One of his 'seeds' vanished at a critical moment. His soul couldn't handle the strain, and he self-destructed," the witch answered casually.
"Are you kidding me?" someone muttered in disbelief. "He was tethered to thirty-two seeds. And he died... just because a single one disappeared?"
Someone else clicked their tongue in a sigh. "Heh. The soul is the most bizarre, unpredictable thing in existence. Honestly, the fact that he managed to survive in that state for five years is impressive enough."
"What a useless piece of trash!" another voice spat angrily. "Do you realize how much time and how many resources we dumped into him? All down the drain!"
Dawson frowned, his paranoia spiking. "And the remaining seeds?"
"They were completely retrieved by Him. No issues there."
Hearing that, the rest of the group visibly exhaled. The violently crackling flames in the fireplace slowly began to settle.
"Another five years gone... How many more five-year cycles do we actually have left to wait?"
"We should just say screw it and go steal the Sorcerer's Stone."
"You idiot. The Sorcerer's Stone can't accomplish what we're trying to do."
Hushed, tense whispers rippled through the shadows.
Cutting through the noise, the short wizard from earlier looked directly at the witch. "Where exactly did this seed disappear?"
"England. To be highly specific... inside Hogwarts."
Hearing that, Dawson's gaze sharpened into daggers.
"Hogwarts?!"
"Oh god... you don't think that damn White Wizard figured out our plan, do you?!" a panicked witch whimpered. Her voice was trembling so violently she sounded like she was on the verge of a total mental breakdown.
"Relax, Baldy. There is absolutely zero chance he found us out," a wizard with a distinct, pig-like nose sneered coldly. "Dumbledore is senile. He's so terrified he refuses to leave that run-down castle. Remember? Even back then, right after that little brat Voldemort died, he still didn't dare step foot outside. That's exactly when we planted our seeds, wasn't it?!"
"Enough! Stop wasting time with this useless garbage!" someone finally snapped. "Since High Hat is dead, our only priority right now is finding a new candidate and starting the grooming process over from scratch!"
Just then, the pointy-chinned witch spoke up again, her voice slow and deliberate.
"Unfortunately, we have to face reality. We simply do not have the time for another trial run. Because of that, we have to take His advice. We are executing that plan."
In the shadows, every single figure froze dead in their tracks.
Dawson's hand started shaking slightly. He desperately wanted to reach for his pipe but forced himself to keep his hands still. He swallowed hard, his voice bitter.
"Are we really going to do exactly what he says? Because if we pull that trigger... the endgame is completely out of our control."
The pointy-chinned witch shook her head slowly.
"None of us—or at least the vast majority of us—have any other choice."
The space fell entirely silent once more. The flames in the hearth leveled out and then slowly began to dim.
The bell chimed again.
"Well, happy hour is always too short. We miserable beggars have to crawl back to our cruel reality," the witch announced. "It's time to leave, unless you actively want to get lost in here forever. Remember, once you make your decision, leave the stamp in the usual drop spot."
The shadows writhed uncomfortably in the dark.
"Every man for himself," one of the figures muttered before becoming the first to vanish.
Rapidly, one by one, the rest of the shadows completely disappeared.
Seeing them leave, Dawson took a few steps backward, fading deeply into the darkness. After walking a short distance, he finally lit his pipe.
"Every man for himself..." he muttered softly into the dark.