Pop!

Dumbledore Apparated.

When he reappeared, he stood in front of a neat stone cottage in Budleigh Babberton, Devon.

This was Slughorn’s residence.

He pushed open the door and entered.

The lamps were unlit, but daylight still filtered through the windows, and the fireplace burned steadily, filling the home with warm flickering light.

The house was empty.

Dumbledore paused, then walked to the side of the fireplace. He tapped a framed picture hanging above it with his wand.

Thunk.

The picture frame elongated downward, stretching and shifting until it reshaped itself into a tall red door.

Dumbledore didn’t blink. He had worked with Slughorn for years—he knew the man’s fondness for secret rooms was hardly surprising.

He turned the handle and stepped inside.

Shelves lined the hidden room from floor to ceiling, every space filled with neat rows of potions and rare ingredients.

“He hasn’t returned?”

The headmaster murmured softly.

He had assumed that if Dawn’s goal in abducting Slughorn was to obtain valuable potions, then the boy would certainly come here to clean out the place.

But it seemed Dawn hadn’t come.

Did he have another motive? Or had he predicted Dumbledore would come here to intercept him?

The old wizard stood silently for several moments before turning away.

Truthfully, he no longer understood Dawn’s intentions at all.

When he had first seen the Dark Mark above Avery Manor and captured Jiggs, he had believed—however briefly—that Voldemort was behind it.

But returning to the banquet had made everything clear: it was all orchestrated by Dawn.

But why?

If Dawn simply wanted revenge on Avery and feared Dumbledore would interfere, he could have attacked at any time later using Polyjuice to infiltrate the manor.

There was no need to stage such theatrics during the banquet.

Which meant—

Dawn’s true goal tonight had been Slughorn.

Was he in urgent need of some potion?

Dumbledore frowned. With so little information, deducing Dawn’s motives felt almost impossible.

He sighed and closed the door gently.

After a moment’s thought, he cast a sealing charm and an alarm spell over the entrance—to prevent Dawn from taking anything after his departure, and to alert Dumbledore if the boy appeared.

Stepping back outside, he squinted up at the soft winter sunlight warming the village.

Normally, he would have enjoyed the rare brightness.

Not today.

He only wished Grindelwald would contact him soon with Dawn’s location. Or perhaps he should warn the Avery family again… and any other wizards Dawn might target.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore felt the weight of the year pressing down on him.

Inside Hogwarts lurked Voldemort. Outside it, Dawn was wreaking havoc.

Both were exhausting.

Forget it…

He would return to the school first.

If Grindelwald provided no information in the meantime, he would deal with Voldemort inside the castle.

Massaging his temples, Dumbledore whispered a charm and vanished into the wind.

…

At this time, Hogwarts was still in session.

The castle halls were quiet.

Amir, after two days of staff training, now understood his duties clearly.

They were simple: inspect returned library books for damage, maintain discipline in the library, and assist Madam Pince.

Having once suffered the humiliation of being unable to find a job, he treasured this position deeply.

Even though he carried a blood curse that could kill him at any moment, he worked diligently—but whenever he had free time, he wandered the castle to admire the winter scenery he’d never seen before.

However…

Every time a group of young students ran laughing past him, he couldn’t help thinking of Dawn—and remembering the money he’d barely touched before it was stolen.

“So cruel. Couldn’t he have left me some? When I found the gem, I even planned to share with him.”

He muttered miserably.

Just then—

A sharp chirp echoed through the corridor.

A burst of golden flame illuminated the hallway. Out of it emerged a huge purple-robed man and a beautiful phoenix.

“Fawkes, you’re back?” Amir greeted in surprise. “And this gentleman is…?”

Fawkes chirped once more, preened a feather, and disappeared in another whirl of flame.

Jiggs, meanwhile, staggered and collapsed on all fours, groaning. Phoenix Apparition was nothing like normal travel—it felt like being launched through a cannon.

After several moments, he managed to stand and introduce himself.

“I–I’m Jiggs. Professor Dumbledore told me to come.”

“Dumbledore?” Amir scratched his head.

Unsure what else to do, he awkwardly offered, “Should I… take you to the headmaster’s office to wait?”

Jiggs agreed at once.

As they walked down the dim corridor, Amir’s eyes caught sight of the fiery mark on Jiggs’s wrist.

“Mr. Jiggs… is that the mark of an Unbreakable Vow?”

“Yes… yes.” Jiggs instinctively covered it, uncomfortable. “Why are you asking?”

“No reason. It just reminded me—I knew someone once who had sworn the same magic.”

Amir rubbed his head. Seeing the mark made him recall things Dawn had mentioned during the month Amir had lost his memories.

Hating the silence between them, he continued:

“You’re British—you should know Dawn Richter, right? My friend was forced into that vow by him.”

“Heh… haha… really—?”

Jiggs’s face twitched. His laugh came out dry and strangled.

It wasn’t until after Dumbledore hauled him back to the banquet that he’d learned—from Avery’s own lips—just who had attacked him.

And now he was terrified to discover someone else who’d been bound by Dawn as well.

“So… where is that person now?” Jiggs asked hesitantly.

“Oh, he’s dead,” Amir said gloomily.

“…Dead?”

“Yes. Dawn Richter burned him alive.”

Jiggs stared, stunned.

He looked at Amir. Then at his own wrist.

And finally—broke down completely.

Tears streamed down his face. He clutched his head and sobbed with despair.

…..

“Not bad luck at all.”

In a house in Vatican City, Dawn—now sober—looked at the shimmering golden potions he had taken from Slughorn and let out a satisfied laugh.

He had originally planned to wait until Dumbledore left the banquet, then bring Slughorn home to loot the man’s reserves.

Felix Felicis took more than half a year to brew. Dawn wasn’t going to wait for a new batch.

But, annoyingly, the alcohol had loosened his discipline and he had wasted precious time tormenting Avery.

Which meant he’d had to abandon the plan to visit Slughorn’s home.

Still— The results weren’t bad.

Slughorn carried a surprisingly generous assortment of potions on his person, including a sizable amount of Felix Felicis.

Just then, the Polyjuice effect ended.

A groggy Slughorn stirred awake. His unfocused gaze watched the purple-robed fat man twist and shrink until a small boy stood in his place.

It took several seconds for his brain to reconnect.

“You—Dawn Richter?!”

Slughorn jolted violently.

Seeing those blazing red eyes, he froze in disbelief.

He tested his bindings and realized he was tied securely. Panic surged. “W–where are we?! What do you want with me?!”

His last clear memory was Dawn driving a knife into Avery’s hand. Now he was alone with the boy in some unknown house.

His eyelid twitched uncontrollably.

“Professor Slughorn,” Dawn said without looking at him, “I need your help.”

He turned slightly, glancing at the bound man.

No pleasantries—just straight to the point.

“Since ancient times, there has been a belief that Felix Felicis has a deep connection with the Fountain of Fair Fortune. I am very interested in that Fountain.

So I want your expertise as a potions master. Starting from Felix Felicis… help me find it.”

“Find what? The Fountain of Fair Fortune?” Slughorn blinked.

He had expected threats—violence—but instead he received… a child asking about fairy tales.

It was absurd.

“That’s just a story,” Slughorn said stiffly. “There is no real Fountain.”

“Perhaps. But if I were you, I wouldn’t say that in this situation.” Dawn didn’t raise his voice, but something in the calm tone chilled the room.

He turned back to the table, studying the shimmering potions. His voice remained quiet.

“But if the Fountain truly doesn’t exist… then you’ve already lost your value to me.”

The coldness in the words made Slughorn shiver.

He immediately tried wandless magic—muttering spells silently, hoping adrenaline would unlock hidden abilities.

Nothing happened.

Of course. Books lied.

Slughorn sagged helplessly. Just as he tried to speak to prove his usefulness, Dawn ignored him entirely.

He was thinking.

Should he steal Olivia Carter’s portrait from Hogwarts?

It wasn’t difficult.

Older students visited Hogsmeade weekly. With the Imperius Curse, he could easily make someone retrieve the painting.

But after a moment, he dismissed the idea.

Olivia never spoke about her past.

And Dawn had no magic that could compel a portrait. Besides… during his time in Egypt, he had already learned much of her history from Harris.

The portrait wasn’t essential.

Dawn tapped the table lightly.

He currently knew of two methods used by witches and wizards who attempted to locate the Fountain.

First: the ancestor of Headmistress Derwent—who inhaled the vapors of Felix Felicis during brewing, slipped into a half-dreaming state, and found the Fountain.

Second: Olivia Carter—who drank a seventy-two-hour dose of the potion and, during the dreamlike trance, learned a magic that eventually caused her disappearance.

Dawn swirled the Felix Felicis vial thoughtfully.

He would try the first method himself.

But he wasn’t pinning everything on those two tales. When he began seriously considering the Fountain, he had already formed a hypothesis.

Everything miraculous in the world was tied to magic—especially natural magic.

If the Fountain existed, it must be intertwined with natural magic. And natural magic responded to collective belief.

Therefore—

Perhaps the method for finding the Fountain was hidden in collective imagination.

Which story about the Fountain was most widespread? Most deeply rooted in people’s minds?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the battered copy of [The Tales of Beedle the Bard].

He opened to the story.

“The Fountain of Fair Fortune…”

His red eyes scanned the illustration—a lush forested mountain, three witches and a knight helping each other climb.

In the tale, how did they find the Fountain?

At the foot of the mountain, they encountered a blind white worm that demanded proof of their suffering.

All failed, until Asha cried from despair. The worm drank her tears, quenched its thirst, and let them pass.

Midway up, they met the second challenge. Words written on the ground read: “Give me the fruits of your labor.”

The knight offered his coins, but nothing happened.

Then Altheda—Derwent’s ancestor—shed sweat while encouraging them, and her sweat unlocked the path.

Finally, they reached a river blocking the way. On a stone in the center were the words: “Give me your past riches.”

No one understood.

Until Amata drew out her memories of her lover with her wand and cast them into the river. The waters carried them away, opening the way forward.

At last, the four reached the Fountain.

Simple. Childlike. Innocently symbolic.

Dawn considered it, then asked, “Slughorn… can you brew a potion using tears, sweat, and precious memories?”

“…What?”

Slughorn stared at him, dumbfounded.

___________

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