Flamel straightened with visible effort, joints cracking softly as he pushed himself upright.
"Let's get to it," he said, voice thin but firm. "There's no time to lose. I must gather a few things and inform Penny before we return to Hogwarts."
After waiting for about half an hour, we stood together and before I could even blink, Fawkes had burst into flame again.
The sensation of travelling through phoenix fire never got any easier to describe; heat without burning, movement without motion, gravity dissolving for a heartbeat, and then we were standing inside Dumbledore's office, the familiar instruments softly ticking and whirring around us.
Flamel looked around slowly, his gaze lingering on the shelves of devices and portraits.
"It's been a very long time," he murmured.
He then turned toward Albus. "Take us to an empty room. Somewhere suitable for a ritual."
We didn't go far. Dumbledore was considerate of Nicolas's fragile frame and led us to an unused room on the same seventh floor. It was bare, stone walls, clean floor, no windows. Quiet and isolated. Perfect for a ritual.
Flamel turned to me and reached into the strangely large bag he carried. He withdrew a silver dagger and a shallow bowl, placing them carefully in my hands.
"You'll need to fill this," he said calmly, nodding to the bowl. "Your blood will be required to draw the ritual."
I won't lie, my stomach turned.
I placed the dagger's edge against my left wrist, my hand trembling slightly. It wasn't the pain I feared, it was the weight of the act itself. Still, I pressed down.
The world narrowed.
The bowl slowly darkened as it filled, and my head started to feel… light. Distant.
"Enough," Flamel said at last.
I barely felt the gentle flick of his wand as he sealed the wound. The dizziness stayed.
"I'm afraid you can't take a blood-replenishing potion," he added gently. "It would interfere with the ritual. So you will have to settle for water."
I did, though it barely helped the strange fog in my thoughts.
Flamel moved to work. He took several small ingredients from his bag, powders that shimmered faintly, crushed leaves, pale crystals, and carefully mixed them with my blood inside the bowl. The liquid began to thicken slightly, taking on a faint metallic sheen.
Then, with great effort, the old alchemist lowered himself to his knees.
He pulled out a simple brush, dipped it into the mixture and began drawing symbols directly onto the stone floor; ancient runes, curved lines, precise angles. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and exact. Making me remember the runes I'd once tattooed on my own body for Gryffindor's ritual and making me feel like those had been drawn by a toddler with Parkinson's.
Dumbledore stepped forward quietly. "Let me help you."
But Flamel didn't even look up.
"No," he said. "This must be done by my hands. There is no room for error. Not a millimeter. If it fails… the life force will simply be lost."
So we watched.
And I sat there, lightheaded, silent, staring at the silver dagger still resting in my palm… wondering how much time I was about to give away.
…
We watched the old alchemist work for what felt like hours, though in truth it could not have been more than one. For someone well over six centuries old, Flamel moved with astonishing speed, his hands trembling only slightly as they traced ancient symbols across the stone.
By the time he was finished, two vast, interconnected circles had appeared on the bare floor, each one large enough to hold a grown wizard, faintly shimmering with the dull, reddish sheen of dried blood and alchemical residue.
I stepped forward at once.
The dizziness had faded to a dull fog by then, and I gently helped him to his feet. I was painfully careful, but even with the lightest touch, I could feel his bones protest beneath my fingers, a disturbing, fragile creak that made me tighten my grip less, not more.
"Thank you, my boy," he murmured, steadying himself.
Then he turned to Dumbledore. "Bring the girl… and make certain she has had a Wiggenweld Potion. She cannot remain under the Draught of Living Death for this to work."
Dumbledore gave a solemn nod and left the room, while Flamel and I waited.
Twenty minutes passed in heavy silence.
When the door finally opened, it was not Dumbledore walking in alone.
A floating stretcher came first.
Ginny Weasley lay atop it, her skin pale as parchment, her lips faintly blue. If not for the very faint rise and fall of her chest, she could have passed for a ghost already.
And behind her came the entire Weasley family.
For a single, terrible moment, it felt as though all of them might rush forward at once. Grief, fear, hope, it writhed across their faces.
Fortunately, Arthur Weasley stepped forward first and extended his hand to me.
I took it unconsciously.
His grip was tight, warm, and shaking slightly. His eyes shone in a way that made my throat constrict.
"Professor Lockhart," he said, voice thick, "thank you. For… for doing this. For my Ginny. If you ever need anything, anything at all, the Weasley family stands with you."
I nodded, unable to find the words I usually carried so easily.
He let go, stepping back to join his wife Molly and their children.
That's when it struck me, Dumbledore had told them.
Not just about the ritual… but what it would cost me.
I hadn't needed their thanks. I hadn't needed their loyalty.
And yet… I could feel it. Like invisible threads tightening in the air between us.
It felt… deliberate.
Calculated.
Was this really about Ginny alone? Or was this another one of Dumbledore's plans?
A strange, chilling thought crept into my mind: Is he… preparing me to replace him one day?
With all the silent observations. The pushing. The watching.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
…
Flamel ushered everyone out with a firm sweep of his hand. Even Dumbledore was pushed beyond the door, the old wood shutting with a solid, final thud that echoed through the empty room.
Then he turned to a small pouch at his belt and withdrew two simple white tunics. The fabric looked unremarkable; no shimmer, no warmth of magic, no hint of enchantment.
"Purity of cloth," he said quietly. "Nothing that could interfere."
He flicked his wand, and Ginny's clothes were replaced instantly by one of the tunics. Then he looked at me.
"Do you need assistance?"
I swallowed. "I… can manage."
With a short, practiced motion, I cast the switching spell on myself. My previous clothes folded themselves neatly and floated to the corner beside Ginny's, stacking with unnatural precision. The stone floor felt cold beneath my bare feet as I stepped forward.
Flamel's wand lifted, and Ginny's body rose gently, as if cradled by invisible hands. He guided her into one of the chalked circles and lowered her down with reverence.
I placed my wand with my discarded clothes and walked to the other.
The runes looked different from this angle. Vast. Hungry. Old.
Lowering myself onto the stone, I lay flat within the markings, the chill of the floor seeping into my skin.
Flamel's voice drifted to me. "Are you prepared, Gilderoy?"
I tried to smile. But I couldn't quite manage it. "As I'll ever be."
He nodded once. "This will not be pleasant."
His wand touched the edge of the circle and the runes flared.
Then, he began to chant.
The language wasn't anything I had ever studied. It sounded ancient and heavy, as though each syllable had weight. I guessed it was Sumerian, but honestly… it could've been older than language itself.
The pain started almost immediately.
Not sharp, not clean. It somehow felt like something was drinking me.
Not my blood, not even my magic. Me.
My limbs went weak as a sensation like freezing fire crawled through my veins. Every breath turned shallow. Every heartbeat thundered loud and wrong in my ears.
It was like my essence itself was being pulled through a straw; slowly, painfully, relentlessly.
Time stopped existing.
I tried to move, but I couldn't.
I tried to scream, but my throat refused to work.
My thoughts came apart in broken fragments; faces, memories, laughter, light, all of it tugged away piece by piece.
I felt myself teetering on the edge of darkness several times, but the ritual wouldn't let me escape. It held me there. Forced me to stay awake. To feel every single excruciating second.
And then, just as suddenly as it began…
It was all replaced by silence and a sense of weightlessness.
The pressure had lifted.
I barely had time to register the relief before my body gave out completely.
The last thing I saw before my vision faded was Ginny's eyes slowly opening, color finally returning to her cheeks.
And in that final moment, before unconsciousness took me…
I felt nothing but relief. And a quiet, ridiculous hope that, if I didn't wake again, they'd make my death sound properly heroic.
…
(Extra chapter today, Happy New Year! There's still about 10 hours to go here, but I guess in some parts of the world it's already 2026.)