Hermione was sitting alone in a chair outside the operating room, waiting anxiously, when she suddenly felt a pain in her calf.
"Miss Granger is a bad girl! She attacked Dobby, deceived Dobby, and even hurt Master!"
It turned out that Dobby had been repeatedly punching her legs. After completing the task Malfoy had given him, he had begun taking his revenge.
"Behave yourself!"
Pai, who had worked at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, happened to pass by. She tapped Dobby on the head, silencing him.
Dobby lay on the ground, struggling to get back up, his large eyes filled with hatred and resentment.
"Are you all right, Dobby?"
Hermione's voice trembled slightly.
"Dobby doesn't want to talk to Miss Granger! Miss Granger is full of lies! Dobby was deceived by you!"
Dobby spoke in his usual high-pitched voice, but his tone was low and irritable. Even so, he was still concerned about his master.
"Shut up."
Pai gave him another rough tap on the head.
"What are you doing?"
Hermione demanded of Pai, her voice barely audible.
"Dobby sent Master Malfoy to Hogwarts! Hogwarts' restrictions are useless against house-elves!"
Dobby raised his head, twitched his slightly red nose, and proudly declared it.
Voldemort looked down on the behaviour of house-elves, just like all pure-blood wizards who treated them as mere animals.
He would never have imagined that house-elves possessed magic that even he could not account for.
Just then, Fleur returned. As she anxiously tried to push open the ward door, Pansy stopped her.
"Dumbledore is inside."
He was checking Malfoy's injuries.
"I'm the professional! What is he doing in there? Haven't you hurt him enough already?"
Fleur took several steps back, covering her face in anguish.
The memories had resurfaced, leaving her with little goodwill towards Dumbledore.
Inside the ward, everything was completely quiet, thanks to the soundproofing magic.
"You're still alive? You're very lucky, Mr Dumbledore."
Malfoy had already sat up and was scrutinising the old man, who was also wearing a striped hospital gown.
"It's not far off now."
The old man smiled helplessly.
"Are we running out of the Elixir of Life?"
"You can't drink too much."
Dumbledore raised his charred right hand and waved in refusal.
There was a price to pay for the Philosopher's Stone.
It was not simply a decline in intelligence, but rather the loss of one's spirituality. Each time the Elixir of Life was consumed, a little more of that spiritual light was diminished as the price for prolonging life.
The same had happened to the alchemist Nicolas Flamel. Having lost the meaning of life, continuing to live had become pointless.
Because there was no desire left.
This was acceptable to Dumbledore. He only hoped to live for another six months—enough time for him to make his final arrangements.
Dumbledore had gone to Nicolas Flamel's house to obtain the potion.
It was a simple place, without tiles or even a proper floor, merely some uneven earth. Yet strangely enough, the bookshelves made of purple wood stood firmly upon it.
Even so, the bookshelves were empty. They must have already been cleared out.
There was a hidden compartment in the middle section of the fourth column from the left.
The upper part was dark in colour, mainly purplish-red, and carved with drawings of birds and a rustic fountain.
An ordinary glass engraved with several runes lay quietly on a soft brown cushion. It was filled with a liquid as clear as water.
Beneath it lay a yellowed piece of parchment covered in densely packed, tiny characters.
«"My dear old friend, Albus Dumbledore, if you have come here, it must be because of our agreement, and you must have a reason for coming to retrieve it.
"Of course, I still advise you not to use this potion. The price of the Elixir of Life is very high.
"I know you probably understand the side effects of this potion better than I do.
"You know, for me, death is a long-awaited relief."»
Dumbledore gently shook his head, pulling himself out of his reverie.
"It seems we were still outmanoeuvred."
He said this helplessly, raising his charred arm and examining it as though it were a work of art before asking:
"But Draco, what I'm curious about is…"
"How did you know Voldemort's weakness?"
"Like I said, he did something stupid."
"He chose to repent."
"The creation of Horcruxes is restricted. Seven is the most magical number, and also the number that cannot be surpassed."
"He discovered that his Horcruxes could be destroyed. He was very worried."
"Whether you keep Nagini with you or release her back into the wild, neither is the best option."
"If we want to create more Horcruxes, we can only push the boundaries and become even more evil."
"Or rather, repentance allows the soul to return to a certain degree of wholeness before it is divided."
"I see."
Dumbledore nodded in approval.
"I heard that one night Harry suddenly…"
"That must have been the piece that was removed."
Dumbledore agreed wholeheartedly.
Malfoy continued telling him everything he knew.
"I read some of Nagini's memories. In order to deeply repent, Voldemort simulated another 'good' personality."
"It subtly influenced him, but he himself was unaware of it."
"I found it very strange that he so readily agreed to my mother's request that day."
"His magical power remained unchanged, but the Killing Curse, which requires the concentration of murderous intent, was affected most severely."
"In the end, just like in the story of the dragon, his confidence crumbled."
A relieved smile appeared on Malfoy's face.
"Of course, I was just gambling."
"Looks like we made the right bet."
Malfoy shrugged, then gasped, apparently aggravating his injuries.
"You've worked hard, child."
Dumbledore said this meaningfully, reaching out to gently pat him on the shoulder, but then stopping himself.
"Oh, right."
Dumbledore suddenly remembered something.
"Good luck."
A mysterious smile appeared on the old man's face.
Malfoy quickly understood what Dumbledore meant by "good luck" when he noticed several figures lingering outside the door.
"Please tell me I'm still unconscious. Thank you."
Malfoy coughed several times, trying to hide his embarrassment.
"That would be a disservice to those devoted girls."
Dumbledore deliberately raised his eyebrows, his smile growing even wider.
"You have no right to talk to me like that," Malfoy retorted. "Go see your old flame. I had no idea you used a life-sharing spell back then."
"If we hadn't done that, he wouldn't have lived to see the final battle."
Dumbledore said helplessly.
The consistently poor conditions Grindelwald had endured over the years had nearly drained his body completely.
Victory always came at a price.
And this price seemed acceptable.