Fine grains of drifting cloud spread across the dark blue sky.
Moonlight stretched through the windows, illuminating two long shadows racing down the corridor.
Where was Dumbledore going at this hour?
Half-hidden behind the door of the Room of Requirement, Dawn watched the old headmaster disappear into the distance.
Thinking of the thought synchronization that stubbornly refused to occur, his curiosity got the better of him, and he followed.
He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and used another spell to silence his footsteps before sneaking after them.
After only a few steps, however, he slapped his forehead.
There was really no need to be this cautious. Besides, there was no guarantee he could fool Dumbledore anyway.
Still, he was too lazy to change his approach now.
The hurried footsteps ahead echoed through the corridor.
Turning a corner, the passage opened up. At last, Dawn saw who was accompanying Dumbledore.
Madam Pomfrey.
His eyes narrowed immediately.
Something had happened in the hospital wing.
Instinctively, he thought of the Slytherin boy who had been admitted that morning.
Had something happened to him again?
Or perhaps...
Had Voldemort made another move?
Countless possibilities surfaced in Dawn's mind.
Descending the stairs to the first floor, he slipped through the open doors and entered the hospital wing.
Inside stood Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey.
Dawn walked forward openly, no longer bothering to hide.
As he approached, the smell of blood became overwhelming.
Through the gap between the two adults, he saw a hospital bed drenched in blood. The sheets were soaked crimson, blood still dripping from the edges.
And lying atop them—Was a boy staring blankly at the ceiling.
A wooden stake had pierced straight through his heart. His arms hung limply over the edge of the bed.
A gray-blue pallor had already spread across his face.
So it really was...
Though he had suspected it, Dawn still raised an eyebrow at the sight.
In front of him, Nicolas Flamel took a deep breath and asked quietly, clinging to a final shred of hope:
"Madam Pomfrey... can he still be saved?"
"No."
Pain filled her voice.
"I wish I could say otherwise, but someone who has been dead for over twenty minutes with their heart pierced cannot be brought back."
Her eyes gradually filled with tears.
"This is all my fault!"
As she recounted what had happened, Dawn slowly pieced together the story.
Not long ago, the boy had suddenly awakened. He had ambushed Madam Pomfrey with a Stunning Spell.
By the time she regained consciousness, he was already dead.
Flamel frowned.
Having been briefed by Dumbledore about the castle's situation, he naturally understood that Voldemort's soul fragments existed within many students.
This incident was most likely Voldemort's work.
"Damn it. Of all times..."
Flamel pressed a hand against his temple.
Although he had assumed Dumbledore's role, he did not possess the authority of Hogwarts' headmaster.
Had Dumbledore himself been here, he might have detected something beforehand.
Perhaps the boy could have been saved.
The thought saddened Flamel, but he quickly forced himself to focus.
What mattered now was deciding what to do next.
Turning to Madam Pomfrey, he said, "Madam, could you please notify all the Heads of House? Starting tonight, every student will sleep together in the Great Hall."
"I understand, Albus." Madam Pomfrey wiped her eyes. "I'll go immediately."
She hurried away.
Flamel looked down at the lifeless boy. His expression remained grim.
Truthfully, he had little confidence that his decision would solve anything. Would gathering all students in the Great Hall help?
Not really.
Students determined to kill themselves had countless opportunities.
A child could simply walk into the Forbidden Forest and stab themselves. Preventing such acts completely was nearly impossible.
His order was merely an attempt to do something.
And perhaps compensate for the fact that, unlike Dumbledore, he lacked the castle's full monitoring capabilities.
With that thought, Flamel reached into his robes and withdrew a small mirror he had been studying earlier in the Headmaster's Office.
Dawn raised an eyebrow.
What's that?
Curious, he leaned closer.
The mirror was no larger than a palm.
Round, framed in wood, it looked entirely ordinary. But its surface was divided into numerous tiny squares.
Each square displayed a different scene.
Most appeared to be student dormitories.
After a moment's thought, Dawn decided there was no point remaining hidden.
He canceled his Disillusionment Charm and asked directly:
"Is that some kind of alchemical device modeled after Muggle surveillance cameras?"
"Exactly."
Flamel answered calmly.
Clearly, he had noticed Dawn long ago.
Then Dawn suddenly hesitated.
Looking at the face identical to Dumbledore's, he asked tentatively, "Nicolas Flamel?"
"Hm?"
Confusion appeared on the borrowed face.
Flamel did not deny it. Instead, he asked, "How did you figure it out?"
So it really is him.
Dawn shrugged.
"Instinct."
After dealing with Dumbledore for so long, he had developed a strange sense for these things.
And Flamel's expression whenever alchemy came up had been a dead giveaway.
Still, Dawn found the situation odd. Looking at the disguised alchemist, he asked, "Then where's Dumbledore?"
Why wasn't he here during something this serious?
"Oh, him?" Flamel replied casually. "He has some business of his own to attend to."
The dismissive tone was obvious.
Dawn chuckled and let the matter drop.
Instead, he focused on the mirror.
Thinking about surveillance, he realized that thanks to his thoughts being distributed among numerous students, he was almost like a living camera himself.
The problem was that the signal was unreliable. Voldemort's interference severely affected the connection.
And with countless overlapping perspectives, sorting through the information was difficult.
Otherwise, he should have sensed the boy's suicide attempt that morning immediately rather than discovering it through Blaise's perspective.
His thoughts drifted.
Studying the mirror's twenty-odd sections, he casually asked, "Only these? Why not place one in the hospital wing too?"
"Child, do you think I'm a god?"
Flamel finally lowered his head and looked at him.
"In the limited time I had today, covering all four common rooms was already difficult enough."
Dawn blinked.
These had all been made today? He was genuinely surprised.
He had assumed they were old creations Flamel had stored away.
And this was supposedly someone who "wasn't skilled at making magical items?"
Shaking his head, Dawn suddenly remembered something else. "If you have these mirrors, why move everyone to the Great Hall?"
He disliked that decision.
It severely restricted his freedom to wander at night.
"To be safer."
Flamel answered simply.
Then, unwilling to waste more time discussing it, he asked, "Dawn, what do you think about all this?"
His eyes drifted toward the blood-soaked bed.
"This morning, the boy had every chance to die, yet he only suffered serious injuries.
Less than a day later, he's dead in the hospital wing. What do you think Voldemort is trying to do?"
"That is strange."
Dawn shrugged.
"Maybe Tom realized the rumors weren't spreading the way he hoped and decided to go all in."
Flamel murmured thoughtfully.
"That makes sense."
Then he looked at Dawn again.
"Albus told me quite a bit about the castle's situation, but I'd still like your opinion. What should we do?"
"Cover it up."
The answer came immediately.
Dawn explained:
"Right now, only the three of us know. Even after the Heads of House arrive, the number of people involved will remain small.
If we keep it quiet, Voldemort loses any chance of generating public panic."
"Voldemort exists inside other students as well." Flamel shook his head. "He won't help you hide it."
"We can use Polyjuice Potion." Dawn had clearly considered this. "Seeing is believing. Hearing is not."
Walking over, he plucked a hair from the corpse.
"I can disguise myself as him tomorrow, appear in public, and announce that I'm taking leave to return home."
The only question was whether hair from a dead person would still work in Polyjuice Potion.
Dawn examined the strand thoughtfully.
He decided he should either check a book later or ask Snape directly.
Flamel asked, "And the boy's parents? How do you stop them from revealing the truth?"
"What's difficult about that?" Dawn looked at him strangely. "Just don't tell them."
Flamel stared.
At that moment, he finally understood some of Dumbledore's opinions regarding Dawn.
Without hesitation, he shook his head.
"No, Dawn."
"Failing to protect a student is already our fault. We cannot hide something this important from his parents."
Dawn snorted.
Personally, he had no problem with the idea.
But seeing Flamel's expression, he knew arguing further would be pointless.
Silence settled over the hospital wing.
"Why so quiet now, Dawn?" Flamel suddenly asked. "I thought your next suggestion would be to confess in Voldemort's place again."
"Dumbledore really tells you everything."
Dawn rolled his eyes.
"But it hasn't reached that stage. I only control two bodies right now. I'd rather not waste one."
He walked to the bedside and dipped a finger into the blood. "Fortunately, not many people know yet. I have another solution."
Crossing to the wall, he began writing with his blood-covered finger.
[Dumbledore,
Do you like the gift I left you?
But this is only the beginning.
If you still refuse to hand over the Sorting Hat, I will continue killing.
— Dawn Richter]
"Not bad."
Flamel raised an eyebrow.
For once, he offered no objections.
Dawn shrugged.
After admiring his handiwork, he washed the blood from his finger with a little summoned water and wiped it clean with a cloth.
This was exactly why he believed directly controlling collective perception in reality was so difficult without manipulating minds.
Rumors remained rumors precisely because they lacked evidence.
Until something became undeniably real, public opinion could be steered almost anywhere.
Thus, when facing Voldemort's campaign of fear, Dawn relied firmly upon three sacred principles:
Concealment.
Fabrication.
Taking the blame.
He intended to drag Tom Riddle straight into the abyss.
Truthfully, after all these experiences, if Dawn ever pursued a normal career, he would probably rise remarkably high within the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic.
Cold wind rattled the windows.
After some time, Flamel glanced at the mirror to check Madam Pomfrey's progress.
Then—
His expression changed abruptly.
Hm?
Noticing this, Dawn leaned closer.
Inside one of the mirror's squares, showing a Hufflepuff dormitory, a student suddenly opened his eyes.
Without expression, he transformed his pillow into a knife.
Then drove it directly into his own throat.
"Fawkes!"
Flamel's pupils contracted.
A phoenix burst into existence amid flames.
Already prepared by Dumbledore beforehand, Fawkes seized Flamel's shoulder and vanished in another burst of fire.
He had gone directly to the scene.
Dawn immediately decided to follow.
Only after beginning the spell did he remember he currently could not Apparate.
He would have to run.
Before leaving, however, he sealed the hospital wing doors shut with magic.
The last thing they needed was some wandering student stumbling upon the corpse.
Moments later, he arrived outside the Hufflepuff common room.
Facing the stacked barrels built into the wall, he recalled the tapping pattern he had observed earlier.
He reproduced it exactly.
Boom.
The entrance swung open.
Dawn hurried inside.
Guided by scent and faint noises, he quickly located the dormitory in question.
Flamel crouched beside the bed, examining the student.
The knife had already been removed. Blood no longer sprayed from the wound.
Judging from the empty potion bottle nearby, emergency treatment had already been administered.
Looks like he survived.
Dawn scanned the room. The other students remained asleep.
"Have they been sleeping this whole time?" he asked.
"No."
Flamel shook his head.
"Fawkes' arrival woke them."
"I simply decided that witnessing this would be too much for them and put them back to sleep."
So they saw everything, then got knocked out with a Stunning Spell.
Dawn immediately understood. "Should we use Memory Charms on them?"
There was no benefit to letting this spread. It solved nothing and merely advanced Voldemort's agenda.
"Agreed."
This time, Flamel nodded without hesitation.
Clearly, when the circumstances justified it, even he was willing to employ methods outside normal rules.
Just to be safe, however, he performed the charms personally rather than letting Dawn do it.
One by one, the students lost all memory of what had happened.
Including the victim.
Dawn leaned against the doorway and watched quietly.
The erased memories likely belonged only to the students themselves. The fragments of Voldemort inside them probably still remembered.
After all, even Dumbledore's Pensieve had failed to access Voldemort's memories.
Still, the principle remained unchanged. Without firsthand witnesses, rumors could always be redirected.
Afterward, Flamel cleaned every trace of blood from the dormitory.
Soon, it looked as though nothing had happened.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the weary face of the ancient alchemist.
Truthfully, Flamel had expected trouble.
But not this much.
Not on the very first night.
Looking around the now peaceful dormitory, he felt a strong premonition: Worse problems were still coming.
"Albus," he murmured internally, "now I'm the one losing hair."
Thinking of the dead student in the hospital wing, he genuinely did not know how he would explain this to his old friend.
But after a moment, he pushed those thoughts aside and returned his attention to the mirror.
The night was far from over.
As Dawn, Flamel, and Voldemort continued their shadow war over rumors and students' lives, employing every trick available—
The true Headmaster of Hogwarts, the great Dumbledore, remained fast asleep.
Like a stalker trailing a family from afar, he continued observing the ordinary yet deeply unusual life of three people.
During that time, using his role as the household butler and his considerable experience dealing with others, Dumbledore had gathered a great deal of information from the servants.
He had pieced together a rough picture of Dawn.
A genius suffering from mental illness.
Late that night, after secretly entering Mr. Richter's study, Dumbledore discovered several medical reports written by different doctors.
Their conclusions varied.
Some suspected schizophrenia. Others believed it was a dissociative disorder.
Yet all agreed on one thing: Prone to fantasy. Unable to distinguish imagination from reality.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes.
He recalled something Mr. Richter had mentioned.
Dawn had learned many things entirely on his own. This seemed like more than a simple psychological disorder.
After all, Dawn was a wizard.
Perhaps his condition was some magical phenomenon instead.
History offered precedents.
There had once been a Seer whose uncontrolled visions before magical outbursts caused people to mistake them for mentally ill.
But Dawn's situation felt different.
Not prophetic.
Something else entirely.
Dumbledore pondered these possibilities. Eventually, he returned the reports to their proper place.
After carefully removing all signs of his intrusion, he quietly slipped out of the study.
___________
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