What was it like to face off against the strongest wizard of the age?
Powerful? Terrifying? Crushing?
No.
Dawn didn't want to use such shallow words.
If he had to describe it, then at this moment, he felt as though he were at the bottom of the Antarctic Ocean.
Looking up at slender icicles drifting downward like mist, freezing every living thing they touched.
Absurd as the feeling was, watching the magic-laden mist around Dumbledore swell and boil, Dawn truly thought of that natural spectacle called the "Pillars of Death Ice."
Beautiful—yet lethally so.
°Summon Mist°
Dawn swung his wand and made the first move.
The spell he cast called forth thick fog, sealing vision completely.
In an instant, the small red-roofed house was engulfed in darkness so thick one couldn't see a hand in front of their face.
Even Iceland's harsh winds couldn't blow away a single wisp.
Though it was also Dawn's first time using this spell, unlike the clumsy snowfall he'd summoned during Christmas, this time the mist came smoothly and with practiced ease.
Perhaps his mind was simply sharper when facing Dumbledore.
Dawn didn't pause. As the mist rose, he silently flicked several Bone-Breaking Curses into it, then shot toward the door without looking back.
The moment he stepped outside, he used Transfiguration to turn piles of snow into long, thin venomous snakes that hissed as they slithered into the fog.
At the same time, he discreetly dropped a small bottle onto the ground.
Dawn's thoughts were crystal clear.
This was nothing like the confrontation before he left the castle—he hadn't truly faced Tom Riddle then. He had only dealt with Quirrell, a puppet under Riddle's control.
Even then, Dawn barely survived. He'd even sacrificed his toad to create a slim opening to land a killing curse, striking a decisive blow.
So.
He knew very well that he stood no chance in a head-on fight against Dumbledore.
His standard for "victory" in this clash was simply to escape from the old headmaster alive.
Dawn swung his wand again.
A three-headed dog sprouted from a bundle of dead twigs on the ground, its necks bound with ropes, a wooden sled trailing behind it.
Dawn gripped the wooden handle and leapt onto the sled. The three dogs were already charging through the snow, their paws throwing up scattering flakes.
Wind howled past his ears.
Dawn clutched his wand, repeatedly trying to Apparate.
He knew the Anti-Apparition Jinx must have a boundary. All he had to do was pass that boundary—then he could leave this deadly place immediately.
But just then—after another failed attempt—his wrist tightened painfully, as if something had looped around it.
"Damn it!"
He cursed under his breath.
He looked down to find that a rope with a closed loop had grown from the sled's wooden seat, coiling around his wrist and yanking downward.
From such a distance, Dumbledore could still cast such precise Transfiguration?
Red light flashed.
Dawn used a Fire-Making Spell to burn the rope away, not caring in the slightest that the flames scorched his skin.
But that was only the beginning.
More ropes sprouted from the sled like new shoots from a tree trunk—or like half-emerged parasites writhing in the air.
Even the three dogs had ropes swaying from their bodies, lunging toward him.
Dawn jumped from the sled, rolled twice in the snow, and blasted the entire sled into flames behind him.
He tried Apparition again—still useless. Cursing, he sprinted away from the house.
He took only a few steps before he abruptly twisted his ankle to stop himself.
Because—
The snowfield ahead had blossomed into a garden of ropes.
For a master of Transfiguration like Dumbledore, a snowy landscape was the perfect battlefield.
Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration stated that Transfiguration couldn't create matter from nothing.
But snow—formed from countless individual flakes—provided near-limitless numbers of objects to transform.
°Incendio°
Dawn slashed his wand through the air, burning a path through the ropes lunging at him.
But as soon as they burned to ashes, from the charred remains, new ropes shot out—this time made of metal wire.
Dawn drew a deep breath. The syllables he exhaled twisted instantly into the Shattering Curse.
But unlike the flames, it couldn't clear a whole swath at once. And after clearing one side, both his wrists and ankles were already bound by thin, resilient strands.
Dawn frowned.
He tried to use Transfiguration on the wires as well, but with the vast difference in magical power between him and Dumbledore, it was like throwing pebbles into the sea.
Crunch.
While Dawn continued firing Shattering Curses, he heard the sound of footsteps compressing snow behind him.
Dumbledore stood about three meters away, the Elder Wand in hand.
"That's enough, Dawn. Come with me."
"Go with you? Then what, you'll throw me in prison?"
Dawn looked at the steel wires cutting into his wrists and laughed softly.
"Headmaster, at this point, are you really going to say that sending me to Azkaban is an act of love?"
"Yes. That's correct."
Even faced with Dawn's obvious mockery, Dumbledore remained calm.
He looked at the boy bound in place. A thousand words seemed to crowd his throat, but in the end he only sighed.
"Dawn, you surely know that ever since Tom, rumors have always spread through the school that I'm biased against Slytherin—that I judge them more harshly."
"Even you believe that, don't you?"
He looked at Dawn. "During our first conversation, you argued back at me with that very idea."
Dawn's expression was cold. "What? Is it not true?"
"The truth… yes. Perhaps."
Dumbledore's expression grew complicated.
"To be honest, if the same student asked to read a restricted book—one from Gryffindor and one from Slytherin—my reaction would admittedly be different."
"I would be more lenient toward the Gryffindor student. And toward a Slytherin, yes… I would be more cautious."
"That may be unfair, but it doesn't mean I dislike Slytherin children. Dawn, I care for every young wizard equally."
Dumbledore shook his head, gazing up at the sun above the horizon—its light offering no warmth. His tone held a kind of helpless sorrow.
"But you know as well as I do—the nature of Slytherin House, its atmosphere, and its traits make its students instinctively yearn for power."
"In that environment, the same book on dark magic could lead to far greater harm for them.
So I must be more vigilant—because they are more sensitive, and more easily led astray."
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