The Sorting hat added, "No one knows what that world is like, nor what kind of enemy you'll face. You might never come back."
"I know exactly what I'm doing,"Cyrus said.
His enemy, of course—was Death!
"When do you plan to depart?" Dumbledore's portrait asked.
"I'm not fond of grand farewell ceremonies. It's better if I leave alone, without telling anyone." Cyrus replied.
He didn't want to make things too sorrowful. Even if everyone believed he would return victorious, there would inevitably be worry. So he planned to slip away quietly, without letting anyone notice.
"Though it might sound untimely," Dumbledore warned, "you must be prepared to fail. You should carefully consider—if you lose, who will succeed you and take on the task of stopping Death."
The words sounded harsh, but coming from Dumbledore's mouth, they didn't feel that cruel.
After all, this was the man who, in the original timeline, had planned his own death.
"Of course, I'm not acting on impulse," Cyrus said. "If I lose, Bella and Cassandra will carry on my work. They won't let chaos break out. Every student who graduates from Ilvermorny will understand Muggles. This movement will gradually spread across the world. As for Death…"
"If even I lose—"
Cyrus paused as he spoke. His tone was calm, but anyone could hear—or at least imagine—the despair hidden within it.
If even he lost, who else could possibly win?
If even he lost, there would be no point in speaking of the future at all.
But Cyrus forcibly tore that despair apart—
"If I lose, there's still Harry!" he said with a smile.
"You think Harry could win?" the Sorting Hat asked in surprise.
It wasn't just the hat—many of the other headmaster portraits on the wall also expressed doubt about Harry's capabilities.
"Oh, come on, the boy couldn't even score twelve Os," Headmaster Black was the first to shake his head.
"I know what you all want to say, and I know Harry is far from being the most outstanding," Cyrus said, "but sometimes, you just have to admit—at the most critical moments, he always manages to unleash a power that none of us could've imagined."
"Because he has a selfless and kind heart," Dumbledore said with a smile.
He was the only one who, like Cyrus, believed in Harry. But he was still puzzled by Cyrus's decision: "I thought you'd decided not to let him take risks anymore."
"I didn't want to," Cyrus replied, "but children have to grow up eventually. Before, it was you. Now it's me. But someone can't always be standing at the front. If I lose too, then there'll be nothing left between Death and him."
"He'll have no choice."
Of course, Harry did have a choice—but both Cyrus and Dumbledore knew what he would choose. Just as Cyrus now chose to face everything alone, if that day truly came, Harry would also bear all responsibility on his own shoulders.
In the end, Cyrus asked:
"Is there anything else you want to say, Dumbledore?"
"There's only one thing I can say: the last enemy that shall be defeated is death," he said. "To defeat it—not to run from it."
"Of course, I think you already know that. Because I've noticed—you always seem to know so much, things I never understood, yet you grasp completely." Dumbledore smiled.
At the same time, Fawkes gently nuzzled Cyrus in a final gesture of farewell.
Because of Cyrus, Fawkes had remained at Hogwarts even after Dumbledore's death. But now, at last, it had flown away.
"I have to go too."
Cyrus departed.
...
Night—
Department of Mysteries.
Cyrus walked across the floor so dark it seemed to glow, his reflection cast in all directions—up, down, left, and right. His footsteps echoed through the desolate space, as if an army of thousands marched alongside him.
Fudge had been a traditionalist.
Even after being destroyed once, the rebuilt Ministry of Magic looked almost unchanged. Only in the Department of Mysteries had a few ancient magics disappeared.
Once again, he stood within the circular chamber where blue flames danced—thirteen doors surrounding him, each one hiding a fundamental, innate form of magic behind it.
Cyrus watched the doors as they spun endlessly. A sense of understanding seemed to flicker in his mind—yet it remained just out of reach.
He had no time to think further, because a clear yet ethereal voice was already echoing in his ears—
He immediately understood: it was the call of Death.
Whenever someone was about to die, voices would emerge from the archway in the Death Chamber. They were the voices of the departed—Death's summons.
Cyrus took a deep breath. With a raise of his hand, a finely crafted diadem settled onto his head, Slytherin's locket hung on his chest, Gryffindor's sword was fastened at his waist!
In his hand, he held the Elder Wand; the Resurrection Stone rested between his fingers; and he draped the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders.
He vanished.
But the door to the Death Chamber swung open.
Fine specks of dust rose from the ground as he stepped onto the staircase that led to Death itself. He stopped in front of the tattered archway, veiled in a shroud of white.
At that moment, the calling voice grew stronger.
The curtain—fluttering despite the absence of wind—brushed against Cyrus's cheek, like a gentle and familiar hand.
Clearly, Death had been waiting for him for a long time!
The archway in the Department of Mysteries represented death—no one who ever walked through it had returned. People often heard the voices of the departed there, voices like strands of waterweed in a deep lake: drifting, swaying, but once they caught hold of someone, they would drag them into the abyss.
Cyrus was about to step through the arch.
"The magic of the Invisibility Cloak will keep the arch from harming me," he thought.
It was a Deathly Hallow that could ward off death itself. With it draped over his body, any fatal blow could be avoided. It would allow him to safely walk up to Death.
At the same time, the Resurrection Stone would be his guide back—if there was still a path back.
Finally, the Elder Wand would serve as his weapon against Death.
Even though it had been fashioned from a casually snapped branch by Death, it should still remain invincible!
As long as the Elder Wand's magic had not failed, Death would not be able to craft a wand more powerful than it—because from the moment the legend began, it was destined to be the most powerful wand in existence. Otherwise, Death would have broken His own promise.
Now—
It was time to cross into death!