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His breath returned once again, the air filling his nose and chest, as if announcing his sudden arrival. It had been a long time since he had felt anything, immersed in a deep rest from which he had managed to emerge. His heart made its presence known with faint beats, and with his eyes closed, he listened to his calm pulse; centuries could have passed, and he wouldnât have noticed his heartbeat due to the level of dissociation he had been subjected to.
He didnât know how much time had passed or how he ended up in this state, and even less did he focus on the exact moment when his consciousness returned. It didnât take long for him to question everything, and with equal speed, he sought to leave that state. No matter how comfortable it might have been, he could be in danger.
However, just being in that situation was enough to make him think.
The desperation to find an answer consumed him, everything around him was nothing but darkness. Time passed, but he couldnât grasp it; however, little by little, he started feeling more sensations that promised his resurgence.
Breathing and his pulse were the first; then came the temperature, the headache, and the horrible dehydration. The thirst he felt was so severe that his lips were completely dry and he couldnât moisten them with his own saliva, as they cracked with every small movement.
A yellowish glow pierced his sensitive eyelids, making him crack his eyes open. The light was so intense that he thought he had gone blind, so he dropped his eyelids to adjust his vision. The glow slowly diminished, spreading to every corner of the room, which allowed him to focus on his surroundings: the light had come from a large crystal chandelier on the ceiling.
He blinked once more to awaken his eyes and cautiously analyzed his surroundings. The room was Renaissance in style; it was dominated by scarlet colors and golden patterns; there were large shelves filled with ancient books, as well as desks, chairs, and tables scattered everywhere. A room far too large for a single person.
He was propped up on a bed, covered up to his abdomen with warm, heavy blankets that made movement difficult. The mattress conformed to his posture, a charm being the simplest explanation for this characteristic. No mattress is this comfortable after a long time on it.
He turned his gaze to his right side and encountered a nightstand, on top of which there was a carved wooden mechanical clock. Every detail of the object was sculpted with subtlety and determination: it featured some magical creatures that kept moving, with a dragon wrapping around the clock being the most striking. Despite the animalâs stern, expressionless gaze, it seemed beautiful and conveyed a sense of protection.
When he stopped admiring the clock, he searched for his wand in the drawers of the nightstand; it had to be nearby. After a brief search, he realized that the wand was not around, and his heart began to beat quickly. However, he continued to observe the room with caution.
Michelangelo would be jealous if he saw the paintings on the high walls, carved in marble, around the edges of the ceiling, and the sculptures made of light stone. A room that any king would envy for its visual art.
In front of him, there was a large window that allowed him to admire the majestic landscape; he was surrounded by towering mountains. The mountains of Hogwarts seemed tiny in comparison.
Now that he thought about it, he wasnât in Hogwarts (for obvious reasons). Where else could he be, if not Scotland or England? He had rarely left those countries, except for emergency trips to other cities to prevent Grindelwaldâs attacks. Most of the time, it was Newt and some members of his army who handled disputes abroad. Although he didnât remember everything that happened with Grindelwald, he suspected that something related to that process had to do with his current state.
Dumbledore had a sense of familiarity with the place, but he couldnât recognize it. The room he was in was so detailed and spacious that it could belong to a mansion or a castle. Perhaps thatâs why it felt familiar. He couldnât keep examining that mystery, as the door suddenly opened, and a witch in a white robe entered, followed by a frail-looking house-elf.
She was a healer.
She had the Grindelwald emblem on her robe.
The surroundings had made it clear, and the dragon on the clock was undoubtedly the most obvious clue.
Dumbledore shuddered and understood the disappearance of his wand. Now everything made sense.
"How long have you been awake?" the healer asked, taking out her wand to perform a diagnostic spell.
He remained silent; there was nothing about this woman that inspired trust. On the other hand, the healer seemed confused, looking for something in her diagnosis, and when she couldnât find it, her face paled in a mix of surprise and concern. The witch cast a more complex diagnostic spell; although he knew many details about magical medicine, he had no idea which spells the healer used.
"You have no injuries, no ailments, except for the headache you had before waking up, correct?" she asked, though it was clear she already knew the answer. Meanwhile, the healer scribbled some notes as she waited for a response.
The atmosphere was tense, perhaps only Dumbledore perceived it that way. Still, he wouldnât answer any questions until he found an explanation, one that would indicate which details of himself he should reveal.
"Where am I?" he asked, completely ignoring the previous question.
"Iâm not allowed to tell you," the healer replied curtly. Another reason to withhold his information.
Minutes passed in silence; the healer murmured things Dumbledore couldnât understand because she said them too quickly. Although the check-up was simple and didnât last long, the healerâs eyes reflected uncertainty and seemed unsatisfied with the results.
Dumbledore doubted the medical attention was for his benefit, for as much as he was without injuries, his body had become as fragile as glass. And the explanation for how he had reached that point gave him much to think about. On the other hand, the healer seemed ready to speak, not just ask questions, something he was inwardly grateful for.
"For now, youâll need to stay in bed, at least for a few weeks until you regain the strength youâve lost in these months," she informed, without revealing the true diagnosis. She then looked at the elf, who had almost been forgotten. "I recommend the use of nutritional potions between meals; no more than 300 ml per day, no more. Your stomach might be sensitive."
The elf nodded repeatedly before answering:
"Eru will inform the master."
The healer put her wand away and took the notebook where she had been writing the notes. She scribbled on a new page, and when she was done, she handed it to the elf. It contained more specific details, but it wasnât necessary to pay much attention to them.
"Leave a potion for the headache and one for general discomfort; they may occur over time. He needs to hydrate, make sure he drinks liquids," she told the elf, then looked at him. "I must leave; Iâll return in three weeks to check on your progress." The healer left the room; the elf snapped his fingers, and the prescribed potions appeared on the nightstand.
When Dumbledore was sure they were alone, he prepared to question everything that mattered.
"Who is your master?" he inquired, hungry for information, though he knew it was unlikely that such details would be revealed.
"Eru cannot tell you," and just as he had predicted, they wouldnât provide him with information. Meanwhile, the elf tugged at his clothing with some timidity.
"Did he order you to do this?"
"The master forbade Eru from giving any information to Mr. Dumbledore without his permission." Dumbledore sighed; house-elves would never do anything against their masters; they couldnât even think of it.
"Can you give a message to your master from me?" Dumbledore asked kindly. The elf hesitated and pressed his lips together; he was clearly a novice.
"EruâŠ" he hesitated for a few seconds, "Eru could try."
Dumbledore leaned in as much as he could toward the elf.
"Tell your master I want to see him."
"Eru doesnât think the master will come to..."
"Tell him," Dumbledore interrupted. The elf lowered his gaze, and before he could respond, Dumbledore added: "Tell Grindelwald I need to see him."