"I would very much like to meet this 'Death' you speak of," Dumbledore said.
Maurise shook his head. "There might be a chance for that. He is probably looking for me."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "Why is that?"
"I have no idea," Maurise said honestly. "Perhaps he is just petty and thinks I offended him."
This answer gave Dumbledore an instant headache. What exactly had his student been up to over the summer?
"So," Maurise asked, "do you have a solution?"
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. He simply turned his head toward the wall and called out, "Fawkes!"
Maurise suddenly realized what was happening. Of course. Dumbledore had a phoenix.
Professor Binns had mentioned that breaking the curse required a power completely opposite to death: rebirth, creation, continuation, and hope. A phoenix could be reborn from the flames, rising anew from its own ashes. If that was not the very antithesis of death, what was?
"Fawkes's tears possess profound healing properties," Dumbledore explained, "but I cannot be certain if they will be effective against this."
"They definitely will," Maurise said with unwavering certainty.
Dumbledore cast a curious glance at Maurise, unsure where the boy's confidence came from.
Meanwhile, Fawkes had flown over. Maurise extended his arm to give the bird a place to perch. The phoenix's talons gripped his forearm through his robes, its weight surprisingly heavy.
"One moment," Dumbledore said. "Fawkes needs a little time to prepare."
Fawkes closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a glistening droplet had formed at the corner of his eye. The phoenix bowed its head and let the tear fall onto Maurise's finger.
Maurise could feel the magical energy contained within it. It radiated a comforting, warm aura. So these were phoenix tears. Without hesitation, he smeared the liquid over the cursed marks on his face.
A mild, entirely bearable stinging sensation followed.
He drew his wand and gave it a gentle flick, Transfiguring an empty candy box on a nearby desk into a mirror. He then levitated it over to hover in front of him.
In the reflection, the dark, twisting veins had visibly lightened in color.
He closed his eyes, concentrated, and used his mental probe to carefully examine the area. He could feel it. The curse's power was slowly receding.
"Is it working?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes," Maurise nodded, letting out a long breath of relief. "If things go smoothly, a few dozen more applications should cure it completely."
Dumbledore glanced at Fawkes on his perch, his expression turning slightly awkward.
A few dozen? Wouldn't that wring the poor bird completely dry?
"Phoenix tears are not ordinary tears," Dumbledore explained, sounding a bit helpless. "They take time to well up. Every time Fawkes sheds a tear, it drains a significant amount of his stamina. Overusing it might even disrupt his cycle of rebirth."
"That makes sense," Maurise murmured, stroking his chin. Phoenix tears were incredibly rare; it would be absurd if they could be harvested so easily.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore added, "I suspect Fawkes would be quite unwilling to produce that many tears on demand."
Beside them, Fawkes let out a short, indignant trill. Even if he cried his eyes out, he couldn't produce that much.
"You see?" Dumbledore chuckled. "He cannot do it."
Maurise looked a little disappointed. "Then I suppose I will have to think of another solution."
Fawkes helping him was a favor, not an obligation. He had no right to demand more.
"That will not be necessary," Dumbledore smiled mysteriously, walking around to the back of his desk.
There was a cabinet there, seamlessly blended into the background wall. Dumbledore reached out and gave it a light tap. The door swung open silently.
Maurise peered inside with curiosity, expecting to see a hoard of magnificent magical artifacts. Instead, the shelves were sparsely populated with seemingly ordinary clutter.
Dumbledore rummaged around for a moment. When he turned back, he was holding a small vial, his sleeve dusted with a bit of cobweb.
Maurise's attention was immediately drawn to the vial. The glass was peculiar, slightly cloudy, making it impossible to see the contents clearly.
"What is that?" he asked, a suspicion already forming in his mind.
Dumbledore set the vial on the desk with gentle care.
"There was a time in my youth when I deliberately collected and preserved Fawkes's tears using special magic. You may not know this, but he was quite a crybaby back then."
Maurise thought this was a brilliant idea. If Fawkes ever couldn't cry, or if they ran into a dire emergency, these tears would be a literal lifesaver.
"May I use them?" Maurise asked.
Dumbledore offered a warm smile. "Of course."
Receiving such an affirmative answer actually made Maurise hesitate. Dumbledore taking out the phoenix tears right now clearly meant they were intended for his use. But the item was simply too precious.
He asked again, "Is there anything you need me to do? Or rather, what is the price for this?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"Maurise, not all gifts require a return." He sat back down in his chair, looking at the boy with a peaceful, almost fatherly gaze. "Helping my students when they are in trouble is my duty as a professor."
"But if you truly wish to do something in return, I hope that if Hogwarts ever falls into peril in the future, you will do everything in your power to protect this school."
Maurise replied solemnly, "You have my word, Professor."
This hardly even counted as a request. He was a student of Hogwarts. If the school was in danger, it was only natural for him to step up.
Dumbledore smiled in satisfaction.
"If these tears are not enough, I am afraid I will be out of options," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You will just have to beg Fawkes for help. Try grooming his feathers a bit more. He might just agree to it."
Maurise picked up the vial, pulled out the stopper, and gave his right hand a gentle wave.
The liquid inside flowed out in a thin stream, evenly coating the black veins on his face.
Hiss...
This time, the pain was exceptionally sharp, as if his very skin were rotting away. He could feel that vile death energy struggling, resisting, putting up one final, desperate fight.
But it was all in vain.
Under the purifying power of the phoenix tears, the patterns on Maurise's face violently twisted and shrank. Finally, they dissolved into wisps of black mist, seeping out from his pores and floating into the air.
Fawkes let out a piercing, urgent cry.
Maurise reacted instantly.
''Zhaj... Vok... Thur.'' (Energy Convergence)
He extended his right hand. As if guided by an invisible force, the wisps of mist began to gather toward his palm, eventually condensing into a tiny black bead.
It was only the size of a pea, perfectly round and smooth, yet so deeply black that it seemed to devour all surrounding light.
Maurise looked at the bead and smiled. It contained pure Death Energy.
This was quite the harvest, after all. It was a true blessing in disguise.
...
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