Chapter 98: The Pragmatist's Path to Victory
The three old men chuckled at the boy's bold declaration. One minute to neutralize the conceptual curse of a top-tier alchemical artifact.
"Youth," Nicolas Flamel said with a smile. "So full of spirit."
"We were all young and brash once," Dumbledore added wistfully.
"I like him," Gellert declared. "In our younger days, we would have despised each other. But now, I find I quite approve of your style. I'll have to teach you a few tricks sometime."
None of them believed for a second that Ryan could actually do it. He was just a fifth-year student, after all. Even Gellert's five-minute estimate was pushing the bounds of what they thought possible. A wound of this nature would take even the Hogwarts Heads of House a minute or two to handle.
"Don't go back on your word, now," Ryan said with a confident grin.
The three of them watched, curious to see what he would do.
To their astonishment, Ryan simply conjured a small scalpel and, without a flicker of hesitation, carved away the afflicted flesh from his fingertip. It wasn't just a small piece; he excised the flesh from the entire tip, leaving the clean, white bone exposed. He then produced a series of vials and powders, sprinkled them onto the bone, and watched as new flesh began to regenerate.
"Done," he announced, looking up at the clock. "One minute. I win."
The three wizards, with a combined age of over eight hundred years, stared in stunned silence. They had been expecting a display of subtle, complex magic to counteract the killing intent. They had not been expecting him to simply... amputate the problem.
"Well," Gellert said, breaking the silence and beginning to clap. "He did neutralize the threat. The ends justify the means. A bet's a bet. I concede."
"The problem is, indeed, solved," Dumbledore said, a look of wry amusement on his face. He had been looking forward to seeing what clever method Ryan would devise, not a demonstration of his pain tolerance.
"Ryan," Nicolas Flamel said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Your answer to my question was brilliant. Pragmatic and effective. From now on, you will come to my home every Wednesday to study alchemy."
"Thank you, Master Flamel. Thank you, Headmaster, Mr. Gellert," Ryan said. He had a thousand questions. What was the status of the Order of Merlin, the bait in their plan to capture Voldemort? Where had the dagger come from?
As if reading his mind, Dumbledore handed him a copy of that day's Daily Prophet. The headline announced that Ryan Welles, creator of the communicator, had been awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class.
"So quickly?" Ryan asked. The Ministry was not known for its efficiency.
"A lot of people wrote letters of support," Gellert said, his eyes darting between Dumbledore and Flamel.
Of course, Ryan thought. The Headmaster and Master Flamel must have called in a few favors. In the current wizarding world, the most influential figures were not the heads of the various Ministries, but four individuals: Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Nicolas Flamel, and the noseless Tom Riddle. With the two most respected and well-connected wizards in the world personally endorsing a candidate, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The fact that the communicator was a genuinely revolutionary invention was almost an afterthought.
"The paper says the award ceremony is in two days," Ryan said. "Headmaster, we'll need to find some people to take the Polyjuice Potion." He didn't mention the brewing; with Snape at Hogwarts, there was never a shortage of any potion.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a long, theatrical sigh. "But the professors and I, along with Gellert and Nicolas, are all quite busy preparing for our... guest. We simply don't have the time to find suitable, trustworthy candidates." He shot a glance at Ryan's Adventurers' Club cufflink, his acting skills leaving much to be desired.
The dagger of Yan has been unsheathed, Ryan thought wryly. Voldemort is a lucky man, isn't he? To be waited on by Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Nicolas Flamel, and the four Hogwarts Heads of House. What an honor. For a fleeting moment, he felt a strange sense of pity for the Dark Lord.
"One more thing," he said, changing the subject. "The prophecies. I was at Master Flamel's house for five days, and when I finally came to, I had seen... some things." He couldn't very well admit to having daily visions; he didn't want to give the three old men a heart attack. This new vision was not a continuation of the doomsday prophecies, but it concerned a very sensitive figure in the wizarding world, and he felt it was best left in their hands.
"A prophecy? What did you see?"
"You've had another one?"
The mood in the room shifted. Before, a prophecy from Ryan would have been an interesting curiosity. But now, after the three simultaneous doomsday predictions and the discovery of the mysterious dagger, a new prophecy was a cause for alarm. The portraits on the wall seemed to lean in, one of them even producing a makeshift listening device.
"Tell us, Ryan," Dumbledore said, his voice grave. "What did you see?"
~~~
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