The first light of dawn.
The silhouette of the manor slowly emerges through the morning mist as golden sunlight filters through the ancient oak branches, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across every corner of the estate.
It bathes Albus Dumbledore, draping the century-old wizard in a warm glow as though wrapping him in a gossamer veil of gold.
The light glimmers through his silver-white hair, seeping, it seems, into his very soul— Nicolas Flamel senses a vitality, a fervor, within the greatest wizard of the age that he has never perceived before.
A spark named hope burns within Albus Dumbledore.
In their long years of friendship, never once had Nicolas Flamel seen such a fire ignite in Dumbledore's heart.
As a master of alchemy, Nicolas Flamel understands at once that this is a fire that cannot be quenched.
"It would appear that, unbeknownst to the rest of us, you have once again accomplished something extraordinary," Nicolas Flamel remarks, setting aside his idle musings and turning his gaze back to the damaged, timeworn Time-Turner in his hand.
"May I be granted the honor of knowing which particular taboo you have dared to test?" His words are laced with both amusement and certainty, for the alchemist who forged the legendary Philosopher's Stone has already arrived at his own conclusions.
Albus Dumbledore inclines his head, his gaze drifting to the blossoms in Flamel's garden. Though it is winter, the flowers sway gently in the breeze, vibrant and full of life, as though untouched by the turning of the seasons.
"We have outwitted Death itself, with the hand of a legend long thought lost," The old headmaster replies, his words deliberately veiled, for what he speaks of remains an affair of secrecy shared between him and Grindelwald.
Even so, this cryptic admission is more than enough for Nicolas Flamel. It aligns precisely with his own suspicions.
Naturally.
There are still things even he has not foreseen.
"There are no legends left in this age, Dumbledore. We both know that the Four Founders were the final embers of true legend, and it is the weight of time itself that burdens you so."
Nicolas Flamel's expression betrays a flicker of surprise.
He leads Dumbledore towards his home, an architectural masterpiece of perfect golden proportions, its beauty not ostentatious, but quietly, mathematically profound, evoking an unspoken sense of harmony.
It appears unremarkable.
And yet, one cannot help but admire it.
"There are always ways to hold Death at bay, as you well know," Dumbledore continues. "Your Philosopher's Stone is a testament to that. Perhaps remnants of the old world yet linger in our time— waiting to be found."
Dumbledore follows closely behind. His words are carefully chosen, but the certainty in his voice halts Nicolas Flamel mid-step.
"Are you certain?" The six-hundred-year-old alchemist's expression hardens ever so slightly.
"Without question." Dumbledore meets his gaze unwaveringly.
Their eyes locked against each other.
Nicolas Flamel does not need further confirmation.
"This," He murmured at last, "is even more astonishing than you and that lunatic meddling with life and death yet again."
Nicolas Flamel, wise and tempered by the centuries, does not ask for further clarification.
From the briefest exchange, he has already discerned much— for those who master the arcane craft of alchemy are not merely skilled in transmutation but in perception and foresight as well.
"Gellert's mind is not as wild as it once was, and both Hogwarts and I require his assistance," Dumbledore says, a note of quiet justification in his voice. "You know as well as I do that the true madman remains a danger in the shadows."
Dumbledore's defense of his old friend lacks conviction. Nicolas Flamel merely regards him in silence, his gaze deep and knowing. But he does not rebuke him.
"How do you know he isn't even more unhinged now?" Nicolas Flamel mused. "Of course, I don't particularly care— soon, the affairs of the mortal world will be behind me."
Nicolas Flamel led Albus Dumbledore into the house, where an elderly woman, equally aged, greeted him warmly.
Severus Snape, had he been present, might have suffered a heart attack at the sight— for the lady's apron was made of dragonhide, her coat likewise crafted from the same durable material, and draped over it was a cloak woven entirely from unicorn tail hairs. It was both warm and extravagantly ostentatious.
"You've arrived just in time; I'm attempting to make Cornish pasties," She declared. Though she claimed to be learning the culinary arts, it was evident that the house-elves under her employ were the ones doing most of the work.
"My dear, our friend here won't be able to eat a single bite until he's gotten a clear answer from me," Nicolas Flamel said with a chuckle, wrapping an arm around the woman.
They had six centuries of marriage, and their bond had only grown stronger.
After all, they had been childhood sweethearts.
Unlike many couples who grow weary of each other within a mere seven years.
The world knew Nicholas Flamel as a legendary alchemist, the genius who created the Philosopher's Stone— but few delved into his personal life.
That tale began six hundred years ago.
A young Nicolas Flamel studied at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France, where he met his future wife, Perenelle Flamel. Their love was a rare and enduring one, and after more than six centuries together, they remained as devoted to one another as ever.
"Family ties are among the few things untouched by time," Perenelle Flamel remarked, her gaze briefly flickering toward the object her husband held.
"Acquiring the sands of time these days is no easy feat. They're under tighter security than the Muggles' most dangerous weapons. The Department of Mysteries has made certain that the necessary materials for refining them are nearly impossible to obtain."
Perenelle Flamel was no stranger to alchemy— much like an investor watching a spouse lose a fortune in risky trades, she had learned the intricacies of the field simply by living alongside its greatest master.
Even if she had not pursued it as a profession, she had been profoundly influenced by her husband. And besides, Perenelle Flamel was no ordinary witch— she was an alchemist in her own right, a formidable one at that.
To share a lifetime with a man on the verge of legend, she could be nothing less. After all, in any era, "a suitable match" remained an undeniable truth.
It did not necessarily mean social status.
But it certainly meant capability.
"Our real problem lies in the absence of another rare component," She continued. "The sands of time themselves are the least of our worries. They rest safely within the Department of Mysteries."
"Isn't that right, Dumbledore?"
Nicolas Flamel turned to Albus Dumbledore.
The old headmaster hesitated, an air of discomfort settling around him.
He could only respond with a silent nod.
"Alright, I won't tease you any longer," Flamel relented with a hearty laugh. "Let me check my texts— I may be able to offer some assistance."
With a sweeping gesture, he led Dumbledore to his laboratory— or rather, what could only be described as an alchemist's wonderland. The space brimmed with strange and marvelous creations, a treasure trove of enchanted artifacts.
Were a young wizard to step into this room, they might mistake it for paradise.
The number of alchemical objects was staggering— easily in the thousands.
Glass bottles containing miniature storms and lightning bolts lined the shelves, their interiors alive with tiny figures dashing for cover. A peculiar spinning wheel stood in the corner, a faded label affixed to its surface: "Damaged. Do not use."
It was an enchanted device, a dream-weaving contraption capable of crafting beautiful visions for the user. But Albus Dumbledore's memory of it remained particularly vivid— because, long ago, curiosity had driven him to use it in secret.
It was the recklessness of Gryffindor and it had left him with a lasting psychological scar.
Since that incident, Nicolas Flamel had affixed a warning label to the machine and never repaired it again. Perhaps the way it twisted pleasant dreams into nightmares was simply an unfortunate coincidence or perhaps something more sinister.
"Gū lūgū lū~"
At that moment, something bubbled and brewed in the laboratory and a rather eccentric-looking house-elf crouched in front of it with intense focus.
(To Be Continued…)
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