Rescuing Gringotts

Chapter 382 Rescuing Gringotts (6K) (2/2) (Seeking guaranteed monthly votes)

Dark red and pale green light swept across Dumbledore alternately, and the feedback made Snape's lips tighten even more.

The curse not only eroded flesh and blood but also took root in magic, continuously devouring life force with Dumbledore's own magic as nourishment. Although the spread was barely slowed down by Fawkes' tears, it did not stop.

"Stop your pointless crying, Fawkes." Snape's voice was as cold and hard as iron, but his movements did not stop.

He swiftly retrieved a vial of viscous potion, shimmering with a mother-of-pearl luster, and carefully poured it onto Dumbledore's charred left hand and forearm. The potion, upon contact with the remaining phoenix tears and cursed energy, emitted a more intense hissing sound and billowed smoke mixed with the scent of strange herbs. "Your tears can now only cause two burns. Step back, guard the door, and do not allow anyone to enter and disturb us."

Fox let out a low, aggrieved whimper, but still flew away as instructed, landing on the gilded perch by the office door, its golden eyes still fixed on its master.

Snape's next move was so fast it was dazzling.

He prepared three different ointments, applying and bandaging them to different sections of the arm to layer them, thus curbing the curse's erosion, repairing damaged tissue, and establishing a temporary magical barrier. He then pried open Dumbledore's mouth and poured in a chilling, icy-blue potion to stabilize the heart and brain and combat the exhaustion caused by the loss of life force.

Throughout the entire process, his pale, slender fingers remained steady without the slightest tremor. Every step was precise and efficient, imbued with an almost cold rationality. Occasionally, his gaze would sweep over Dumbledore's face, contorted in pain and unconsciousness, or that mangled hand, but deep within his dark eyes, there was no other emotion besides focused diagnosis and calculation.

About twenty minutes later, the most dangerous erosion was forcibly contained.

The charred color hadn't faded, but it no longer showed any sign of spreading, and the unsettling, writhing, spreading dark lines beneath his skin gradually subsided. Dumbledore's breathing, which had been weak and intermittent, became slightly more even, though still heavy.

Snape took out a small vial of clear, watery potion, dripped three drops onto Dumbledore's temples, then lightly touched his brow with the tip of his wand and whispered a short awakening spell.

"Cough—cough cough—" Dumbledore's eyelids twitched a few times before he slowly opened them.

Those deep blue eyes were now veiled with a heavy layer of weariness and pain, but he had clearly regained consciousness. The first thing he saw was Snape's expressionless, sallow face.

"Si--Fleus--" His voice was hoarse and weak.

"Don't speak, conserve your energy," Snape interrupted him, his voice flat. "The curse is temporarily contained, but not eradicated. You need to continue taking the suppressants I've prepared, and absolutely avoid drastic expenditure of magic or mental energy, otherwise the curse will backfire." As he spoke, he mixed a deep purple potion. "This is the first dose of stabilizing potion. Drink it."

Dumbledore did not argue, and with Snape's help, he swallowed the obviously terrible-tasting potion.

As the medicine went down his throat, a faint trace of color returned to his face, but the suppressed throbbing pain and numbness in his right hand remained vividly clear.

"Minerva—don't worry." Dumbledore's gaze shifted to Professor McGonagall, who was watching anxiously beside him, and he tried to give her a reassuring look, but his exhaustion diminished the effect.

After catching his breath, Dumbledore looked at Snape again, his voice still hoarse but somewhat more coherent: "Severus—this curse—is there a way to completely remove it?"

Snape continued concocting the potion without pause, not even lifting an eyelid, his voice as cold and hard as ever: "It has become entangled with parts of your magical circuits and life essence. Its structure is ancient and malevolent, possessing extremely strong adaptability and counter-resistance. With my current knowledge and methods, I cannot remove it. Forcing an attempt could very well cause the curse to erupt fully, inflicting permanent and irreversible damage on your already weakened magic, and incidentally taking your life."

This answer was clearly within Dumbledore's expectations; a look of understanding flashed in his eyes, but more so a heavy acceptance.

He did not show despair, but simply nodded slowly.

Snape paused his concoction, took two small crystal vials engraved with preservation runes from his medicine chest, and turned to Dumbledore, his tone businesslike: "To find a way to suppress or even remove the curse, I need further research. This requires samples." He held up the vials. "I need some of your blood, one from your right hand corrupted by the curse, and one from your undamaged left hand, for comparison."

This is a logical and hard-to-refuse request.

Dumbledore glanced at his charred right hand, then at Snape's expressionless face, and said almost without hesitation, "Yes."

Snape's movements were precise and swift.

He first used a sterilized silver knife to gently cut the pad of Dumbledore's left index finger, squeezing out a few drops of bright red blood into the first bottle.

Next, he treated his right hand more carefully, avoiding the most charred areas that still seemed to be throbbing faintly. On a relatively light-colored patch of skin near his wrist, which had just been temporarily "soothed" by the medicine, he obtained a few drops of blood that were noticeably dark in color and even had an ominous black sheen in the bottle. He then injected this blood into the second bottle.

He carefully sealed the two bottles and put them into his medicine box.

Then Snape took out a roll of silk thread, as thin as a hair, yet shimmering with a soft golden light.

He picked up his wand and whispered a long and obscure incantation over the silk threads. A pale golden light emanated from the tip of the wand and slowly seeped into the threads.

After finishing the incantation, he carefully wrapped the enchanted golden thread around Dumbledore's cursed right wrist, avoiding the wound, and finally tied a complicated knot that would automatically adjust its tightness.

"In conjunction with regularly consumed potions," Snape explained, his voice still calm, "this Binding Thread can help suppress the curse's activity further, keeping it confined to your right hand as much as possible, slowing its spread to your torso and life core. But remember, this is only a delay, not a cure. Any violent magical fluctuations, emotional shocks, or excessive physical weakness can weaken its effects."

After this treatment and a short rest, Dumbledore was clearly in better spirits than when he had just woken up.

He raised his charred, withered right hand, now wrapped in golden threads, and placed it in front of his eyes, moving his stiff fingers with some effort.

Then, a faint, slightly self-deprecating smile appeared on his pale face. He turned to the worried Professor McGonagall beside him and said, "It seems, Minerva, I'll need to pick out a few particularly nice, yet well-covering, pairs of gloves for myself. Hopefully, the latest catalog from Elegant Wizarding Clothing Shop has something suitable for this—well, a unique style."

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Professor McGonagall was both amused and exasperated by his inappropriate joke, but her worry deepened: "Professor Dumbledore! What's going on? How could you—"

The smile on Dumbledore's face gradually faded, replaced by a deep weariness and solemnity.

He shook his head slightly, interrupting McGonagall: "I made a mistake, Minerva. A fatal mistake."

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her face filled with urgency and confusion. She couldn't accept such a vague explanation: "Professor Dumbledore, what exactly was the mistake? What is that thing? Where did you go?" Dumbledore raised his intact left hand, the movement subtle yet carrying an undeniable air of obstruction. His gaze met McGonagall's; his deep blue eyes still held weariness, but now held an unyielding resolve, and a heavy, almost pleading tone hidden beneath. This simple gesture and look sealed McGonagall's questions more powerfully than any words.

His gaze swept over Snape and McGonagall, his tone turning serious and low. "That's the end of it. Except for this..."

"No one else can know about us in this room. Especially," he paused, his voice soft yet carrying undeniable weight, "Professor Jim Lynch cannot detect anything amiss. Understand?"

Professor McGonagall's chest heaved. She looked at Dumbledore's weak yet unusually resolute expression, then glanced at his gruesome right hand, and finally forced down all her questions, worries, and confusion. She pursed her lips tightly, nodded forcefully, and said nothing more, but her clenched fists betrayed the turmoil within her.

“Unless there are no other emergencies,” Snape said, gathering his medicine kit and rising to his feet, his black robes cascading down. “I need to begin analyzing these samples immediately. While the spread of the curse has been slowed, every step we take to understand its nature increases our ability to formulate a response.” His gaze seemingly casually swept over the scattered silver artifacts on the office floor, broken by Dumbledore earlier, then lingered for a moment on a piece of velvet cloth covered with an unidentified object on a distant table before returning to his own. “I will be back at the same time tomorrow to change the potions and check the binding threads.”

Having said that, he said no more, nodded slightly to Dumbledore, then nodded to Professor McGonagall, before turning and quickly leaving the headmaster's office.

The black robe stirred up a tiny gust of air, and the door closed gently behind him.

The room fell silent again, save for the occasional low moan from Fox and the suppressed sighs of the portraits.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on his right hand, which was wrapped in gold thread and looked like a withered tree trunk, his eyes deep and unfathomable.

Professor McGonagall silently stepped forward and began to clean up the mess on the ground, her movements gentle, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The ring, covered by velvet, still lay quietly on the ground in the distance, like a silent, black sentence.

The dots mark everything that happened that night.

Lynch leaned back in his chair with a relaxed posture, almost blending into the shadows, with only his face and clasped hands bathed in a warm, ever-changing halo of light from the flickering fire.

He seemed to be staring at the flames, or perhaps he was simply waiting.

Snape pushed open the door and entered, his gaze sweeping over the figure without a trace of surprise, as if he had expected it. He silently walked to his workbench, smoothly placed the specially made potion case down, unlocked it, and began to remove the remaining vials and jars one by one, placing them back in the cabinet against the wall. His movements were methodical, the slight rustling of his black robes standing out clearly in the quiet room.

Only after placing the last vial and closing the cupboard door with a soft click did Snape turn to face the fireplace. Half of his face was hidden in shadow, while the firelight flickered on the other half, making his dark eyes appear unfathomable.

"Did you get it?" Lin Qi's voice rang out first, not loud, but clearly penetrating the crackling sound of the fireplace firewood.

He didn't turn around; he kept looking at the flames.

Snape did not answer immediately.

He walked to the lab bench and took out the two small crystal bottles from the hidden compartment of the medicine box he had just put back. He took them and went to the fireplace, holding the bottles out where the firelight could clearly illuminate them.

Two bottles lay side by side in his pale hand. The one on the left contained blood that was a normal, vibrant dark red. The one on the right, however, had an ominous, somber appearance; even in the firelight, faint wisps of black mist, seemingly alive, could be seen slowly drifting within it.

Snape tapped the bottle on the left, the one with the normal color. "Got it." His voice was flat, revealing no emotion of accomplishment, as if he were simply stating an objective fact.

Lynch finally shifted his gaze from the flames to the two vials of blood, lingering particularly long on the right one. His face remained expressionless, though he gave a barely perceptible nod.

"That's good."

A brief silence fell, with only the fire merrily devouring the firewood and making soft popping sounds.

The firelight cast flickering shadows on their faces.

After a while, Lin Qi spoke again, his voice lower than before: "How are his injuries?"

"It's serious." Snape's answer was concise and direct. He carefully placed the two vials of blood on the low table beside the fireplace.

"Is it fatal?" Lin Qi asked, his gaze returning to the flames, his profile clearly defined in the firelight.

This time, Snape did not answer immediately.

He stood there, his dark eyes fixed on the leaping flames, as if recalling every detail of the diagnosis he had just made, weighing his options.

The accuracy of his word choice. The office was so quiet you could hear his own breathing. The heat from the fireplace warmed the hem of his robe, but he still seemed to emanate a chilling, cellar-like aura.

The silence lasted for about ten seconds.

"Based on my knowledge of the principles of magic and potions, and the manifestations of that curse—" Snape finally spoke, each word slow and clear, carrying a near-cruel objectivity, "it's fatal. It's deeply intertwined with magic, having eroded the very essence of life. Current methods can only delay, not eradicate. The final outcome is merely a matter of time, and—how much power he can retain before the end arrives."

After he finished speaking, the office fell silent again.

The only sound was the gentle, rhythmic tapping of Lynch's knuckles on the armrest of the chair, as if he were silently calculating something.

Another spark erupted from the fireplace, briefly illuminating Lynch's sharply defined profile. The tapping of his fingers on the armrest ceased.

"Do everything you can to heal him, Severus." Lynch's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable calmness. "Use all your knowledge and any materials in your inventory that you might be able to use, and try every theoretically feasible solution, whether it's potions, ancient magical rituals, or those—less orthodox magical medical methods."

He finally turned his head, his gaze shifting from the flames to Snape, his eyes reflecting a flickering light, but devoid of warmth.

"You can send me your diagnostic report and strategy projections anytime. I will provide corresponding assistance—for certain rare cases..."

Medicinal materials that are difficult to obtain through normal channels, or—references in specific fields that are not so easy to find.

His promise sounded practical, even generous, but Snape showed no gratitude on his face, only nodding slightly to indicate that he had heard.

Lynch's gaze lingered on Snape's face for a moment, as if trying to catch some subtle reaction, but Snape's expression remained as still as a frozen lake. Lynch leaned back in his chair and naturally shifted the topic to another subject, as if the discussion had not been about the headmaster's life or death, but rather a routine handover of duties.

"Of course," he added slowly, his fingertips lightly tracing the smooth wood grain of the armrest, "while we devote our energy to this matter, we still need to ensure that the potion-making work we value is completed as soon as possible."

Snape's lips twitched down almost imperceptibly for a moment.

"I understand." Snape's voice remained flat, devoid of emotion. "I'll make time."

Lynch seemed unconcerned by his lack of enthusiasm, simply nodding. "Very good." His gaze returned to the fireplace flames, the flickering light casting an inscrutable expression on his face. "Then, go do what you must do, Severus. Time," he paused, a faint, almost sighing tone in his voice, "is a variable that requires careful consideration for all of us."

Sirius Black tightened his travel cloak and stepped into Gringotts’ marble hall, his boots echoing clearly on the polished floor.

He held in his arms a rather large object wrapped in thick, dark green velvet, its outline vaguely visible, like a large bird with folded wings. Several fairies behind the counters looked up from their ledgers, their gazes lingering on the package for a moment before quickly looking down.

He could sense the curiosity and awe in those gazes, perhaps with a lingering trace of past wariness.

"Mr. Black," the fairy pull tab slid down from behind a higher counter, bowing slightly with practiced precision, "what service do you require?"

"Enter my vault," Sirius said succinctly, carefully placing the heavy bundle he was carrying on the polished marble countertop before pulling out a slender gold key from his pocket.

"Store this item."

Pull-ring took the key, carefully tracing its grooves with his long fingernail, and nodded. But he didn't immediately return the key; instead, he raised his dark eyes: "According to regulations, in addition to the key, identity verification is required to enter the highest-security family vault area. Please show me your wand, Mr. Black."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, revealing a hint of impatience, but still pulled out a wand from his sleeve—a simple, dark brown wand.

The pull ring took the wand and scanned it with a complex brass instrument inlaid with crystals. The instrument emitted a soft hum, and its tip glowed with a steady white light. The fairy handed the wand back: "Identity confirmed. The Black family vault is deep inside. Please follow me."

They passed through a heavy bronze gate, and then through a second, sinister silver gate, inscribed with verses warning thieves.

The air suddenly turned cold, carrying the smells of earth and metal. A small cart sat on the tracks, gleaming coldly in the dim light. Pull-Hand jumped on first, while Sirius carefully placed the large package at his feet, holding onto it with his hands, before stepping into the cart. The cart suddenly started moving, plummeting and turning wildly through the labyrinthine tunnel, the wind whipping through his half-long black hair.

His face was expressionless, only his tightly pursed lips revealed a hint of impatience. He disliked this feeling of being controlled, of being pushed to the core, just as he disliked any form of restraint.

The tunnel began to feel damp, and a strange smell, like ozone mixed with water, filled the air. A louder rushing sound came from the darkness ahead, followed by a rough grinding sound—the miners' goblins were working deeper in the tunnels; even today, Gringotts is still developing new underground vaults.

The cart slowed down and finally stopped on a wide stone platform.

In front of the platform, a wide, pearly white curtain of water descended from the sky, completely blocking the path to the deeper tunnel behind. The water flow crashed against the bottomless ravine below, producing a continuous roar.

Sirius Black stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing deeply. "Thief-proof waterfall," he said in a low voice, his voice filled with disgust, as if he were chewing on something filthy. "Having to go through this thing every time we come here? A disgusting charade."

"This is a necessary security measure, sir," the pull ring replied calmly. "It washes away all disguises, magical illusions, and enchantments. It ensures—it's the real person going in."

Sirius scoffed, his expression full of disdain.

He thought of Azkaban, and of the Dementors' cold, sucking-out kiss, which, in some ways, was like this waterfall—an invasion that forcibly stripped away all your outer shell.

He tightened his grip on the bundle, took a deep breath, bent down, and lifted the velvet bundle with all his might—it was now clearly about two and a half feet long, and its outline did indeed resemble a large bird. He strode confidently into the waterfall.

The moment the water flows down, it creates a peculiar, not entirely physical, tactile sensation.

It was as if an invisible film had been torn away from his skin and clothes, or as if countless cold eyes had seen right through him in an instant. Sirius knew that at this moment, any Polyjuice Potion, or any illusion or confusion spell, would be exposed underwater and he would revert to his original state.

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