His gaze held an uncharacteristic plea.
Flamel was silent for a long moment. "I can, but without the aid of a legend, even if you succeed in bending time, you'll never be able to harness what does not rightfully belong to us."
The alchemist spoke plainly, making no effort to soften the truth.
"Give me time," Dumbledore said with quiet conviction. "I will find him… And even if he refuses, there will be another way."
Their eyes met once more— Dumbledore's as deep and steady as ever, but this time, something in his gaze unsettled Flamel.
"I knew it! You're even madder than your old friend! More reckless than your own student!" Flamel exclaimed, his wrinkled face tightening in alarm.
Dumbledore said nothing.
For a long time, Flamel simply circled him as if studying him anew. Then, finally, he spoke again, his voice tinged with reluctant hope.
"Surely… you must have another way?"
But.
Flamel only shook his head.
"No. I am an alchemist, not a god. I cannot substitute one material for another, not when the properties are irreplaceable. And even if I could… would you trust an unstable creation with this much at stake?"
Saying this, he turned and heaved open a large, heavy chest, his movements slower than they once were.
Dumbledore stepped forward to assist.
"Are you still searching for the one you call the Creator?"
His voice held quiet curiosity.
"Strictly speaking, I am only pursuing the truth of the being described in ancient alchemical texts," Flamel corrected.
"Is there a difference?"
Dumbledore had little patience for legends even more elusive than Death itself.
"Of course, there is a difference. We alchemists know that the true Creator existed— history records those who have glimpsed their works."
Flamel exhaled, slightly winded from the physical effort.
"But you have never found them," Dumbledore countered, though he knew Flamel's stubbornness well.
"If I had more time, I would have," Flamel replied with certainty. Then, after catching his breath, he gave Dumbledore a knowing look.
"I did not expect you, of all people, to doubt what is so clearly written in the past."
He leaned against an old alchemical device, watching the flicker of contemplation in Dumbledore's eyes.
"From what I understand, your founders truly encountered the original creator." Nicolas Flamel's voice was steady and assured, only deepening Albus Dumbledore's confusion.
"Where did you hear such fanciful history?"
When it came to the past of Hogwarts' founders, the old headmaster considered himself well-versed. Yet, his confidence only earned a soft chuckle from Nicolas Flamel.
"You haven't read widely enough, my friend."
The frail alchemist lowered his voice.
"This name is merely a title— bestowed upon them because the first wizard to meet them was cursed to refer to them as such. In truth, the real creator is no wizard at all, but rather a magical being."
"At least, it appears to be a magical being… A bird, to be precise. And for a thousand years, its likeness has adorned the emblem of Ravenclaw House."
Nicolas Flamel's words were nothing short of astonishing.
Dumbledore's keen blue eyes flickered with intrigue, yet what perplexed him even more was the alchemist's next course of action.
Despite his frail frame, after a brief moment of rest, Flamel reached for the box he had brought with him and began hurriedly stuffing various objects into it with surprising energy.
"What exactly are you doing?" Dumbledore asked, watching the peculiar sight.
"Why, I'm going to Hogwarts, of course. Do you not welcome an old friend?" Nicolas Flamel said lightly as he latched his suitcase shut and made for the door.
"Welcome? But of course! You are most certainly welcome!" Dumbledore exclaimed, seizing the opportunity. "Why, our Alchemy professor just abandoned post this very day— perhaps you might lend your expertise to the next generation?"
Dumbledore had extended this invitation more than once before.
Every time, he had been met with polite refusals.
But this time was different.
"No trouble at all. Let me put my remaining days to good use." Flamel agreed so readily that even Dumbledore was taken aback.
"What's prompted this sudden change of heart?" He asked, curious.
"Oh, for a bit of fun, naturally! You should know, Albus— alchemy is about curiosity, not solemnity." Flamel's expression was one of amusement, his manner as carefree as ever.
"Either I'll witness the fall of a legend or the rise of two. Whichever way it goes, I certainly shan't be bored."
"I have seen much in my lifetime," Flamel mused, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "But I have yet to truly witness the making of a legend."
Dumbledore found himself at a rare loss for words.
They passed through the outer hall.
"You're leaving? Just like that?" Perenelle Flamel eyed her husband, both surprised and amused.
"Only a trip to Hogwarts, my dear. Once I'm settled, I'll bring you along— you wouldn't want to miss the spectacle, after all. A real show is about to unfold. Mind you, we may not survive long enough to see the final act, but it'll be worth the price of admission."
At this, Perenelle Flamel's aged yet sharp eyes gleamed with sudden excitement.
"???"
Dumbledore, who had already endured quite the conversation, was once again rendered speechless. He opened his mouth as if to object but thought better of it, instead sighing and resigning himself to carrying Flamel's luggage out of the house.
"At least take something to eat on the way!" Perenelle called after them, hastily wrapping some food— though Dumbledore noted, with mild alarm, that she seemed to be slipping something extra into the parcel at the last moment. Whatever it was, she was a fraction too slow, missing her chance to pass it directly to Flamel before he was out the door.
...
Hogsmeade Village.
Nicolas Flamel had been brought there by Albus Dumbledore. Though still a formidable wizard, his waning magical strength no longer allowed him to travel great distances unaided.
"I need a room— something spacious." Nicolas Flamel strode ahead.
Albus Dumbledore followed closely behind. The bustling street was lined with curious onlookers, many whispering in astonishment at the sight of Nicolas Flamel.
The two elderly wizards quickened their pace. A gentle breeze rustled through the secluded village, lifting a single golden leaf into the air. It twirled gracefully before settling onto a chessboard beneath an ancient tree.
Two middle-aged men sat at the board, deep in their game.
They were dressed simply, blending into the village scene with an air of quiet anonymity.
"What does this move mean?" One of them asked, placing a piece carefully, though his question seemed to hold a weight beyond the game itself.
"You know as well as I do— I'm doing what I must," The other responded evenly, his gaze unwavering from the board.
"You ought to be doing more than that," The blond-haired man murmured, his voice light, yet piercing. "I can see it clearly."
"I do what I must, but that does not mean I am without choices," The dark-haired man replied, his thick hair stirring slightly in the wind.
"Look at me. Do you think this will end well?" The blond-haired man shook his head, idly adjusting a bronze ring on his finger as he moved a piece.
"I am new to this, but I am better than you." The thick-haired man's voice carried unshaken confidence as he captured his opponent's knight.
"Then I wish you luck," The blond-haired man said, utterly unruffled, as he deftly maneuvered his piece to deliver checkmate in a single move.
The game was over.
The blond-haired man spread his hands and grinned. "I win! Time to pay up."
His smile was dazzling.
"You cheated."
The thick-haired man did not move. His reluctance to hand over the wager was not due to the loss itself but rather to his belief that the game had been subtly manipulated.
"Cheating? Me?" The blond-haired man chuckled, making a casual motion with his hand. A single gold Galleon seemed to flicker from his opponent's pouch into his own palm as if drawn by an unseen force. The other man showed no reaction, as though resigned to the trickery.
"It's just as well you're leaving soon." The thick-haired man sighed.
"Alas, the term isn't over yet," the blond-haired man mused, flipping the coin in his fingers. "Still, I got what I came for so it's hardly a loss."
He rose, stepping away from the board.
The thick-haired man watched him go in silence.
He melted into the crowd.
"Next year, I'll return. Of course, under a new name."
A youthful voice drifted through the throng.
Amidst the bustling streets of Hogsmeade.
The blond-haired boy turned back, casting a long glance at the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. His eyes gleamed as though they could pierce through stone, witnessing the young witches and wizards inside as they wrestled with their holiday gifts.
"I can't open it!!" Ian had been toiling in the Room of Requirement for hours.
"Eight-Pointed Nimbus!"
"Shadow Tempest!"
"Merlin's Beard— Avada Kedavra!"
He hurled every spell he knew at the pile of presents from Father Christmas.
And when that failed, he resorted to Fiendfyre, lashing at them with roaring flames.
Yet.
The presents remained unscathed.
(End of Chapter)
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