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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.
“Master! It’s still this color!”
It turned to Nicolas Flamel, its expression filled with despair.
“That’s fine; just another failure. Let it simmer a bit longer, and we can use it to water the garden,” Nicolas Flamel said nonchalantly as he passed his worktable.
“Understood, Master.”
The house-elf let out a long sigh, its shoulders drooping.
“Cheer up; success isn’t always necessary.” Nicolas Flamel offered a gentle reassurance before adding, “Remember, happiness increases the success rate of alchemical experiments.”
Unexpectedly, even the greatest alchemist of the age put stock in such superstitions.
“It’s all Prolo’s fault! Prolo didn’t bring good luck to Master!” The house-elf wailed before beginning to pound its own head in self-punishment.
Nicolas Flamel sighed and swiftly stopped it. “I’ve told you countless times— don’t hit yourself. You’ll damage your brain.”
Then, in a voice laced with mock severity, he delivered his verdict: “As punishment for your mistake, you are required to purchase two tickets to the fashion showcase in France. I’ll personally supervise to ensure you sit through the entire event.”
Nicolas Flamel shot a glance at Albus Dumbledore, hesitating slightly before correcting himself. “No, three tickets. A second chaperone will ensure you take your punishment seriously.”
Upon hearing this.
The house-elf nodded and vanished from the laboratory.
“…”
Albus Dumbledore was momentarily speechless. Even after all these years, his old friend remained as whimsical as ever.
“I think I’ll pass.” He politely declined Flamel’s unspoken invitation.
“Your loss.” Nicolas Flamel shrugged.
“Still want honey water?” He asked Dumbledore again.
“How about honey lemonade?” No sooner had Albus Dumbledore spoken than a cool drink materialized in his hand. Clearly, more than one house-elf worked within these walls.
Of course.
Dumbledore, who had not sensed the elf’s presence, was more inclined to believe that the house itself had performed the task.
He took a moment to observe his surroundings.
Beyond the countless alchemical artifacts, the room housed bookshelves rivalling those of the Hogwarts library— filled with volumes that Hogwarts itself had never been fortunate enough to acquire.
The space had clearly been expanded with enchantments, but that was not all. The walls were lined with countless runes inscribed in ancient alchemical scripts. Their presence suggested that this house was a fortress— perhaps one even more impenetrable than Hogwarts itself.
The only part of the room untouched by inscriptions was a section where six portraits hung, each depicting Nicolas Flamel and his wife, Perenelle.
Each painting was separated by exactly one hundred years, marking the passage of time. The first image captured their youth— vibrant and full of life while the last bore the weight of centuries. Yet, they still remained in this world, standing side by side.
“Are you attempting to create a universal potion?” Albus Dumbledore’s gaze fell upon the experiment still brewing before him, its contents labeled as failures.
Despite his humility, Dumbledore was a master of magic in all its forms. His alchemical expertise might not match the true elder of this house, but his knowledge and insight were second to none.
“The Philosopher’s Stone I gave you has very little magic left, so naturally, I want to explore other alternatives. Unfortunately, even I am not immune to the limitations of time.”
Nicolas Flamel sighed softly.
“When I was young, you told me that death is merely another great adventure. I didn’t expect that I would be the only one who truly believed in that sentiment.”
Albus Dumbledore teased.
Nicolas Flamel chuckled heartily.
“Oh, I still believe it. But given the choice, who wouldn’t want to see just a little more?” His gaze drifted towards the rain-kissed landscape beyond the window, where the world shimmered anew under the glistening light.
“I haven’t seen enough yet.”
His tone carried a wistful air, but there was no desperation— his demeanor, his entire being, suggested a man who had long made peace with the passing of centuries.
“Yes, this mortal world… is beautiful…” Albus Dumbledore lowered his head slightly, as if to hide the sorrow lingering in his eyes.
“Hold on a moment.” Nicolas Flamel pulled out a tall ladder and began rummaging through his expansive bookshelf, slipping on a pair of dragon-hide gloves to protect the delicate, timeworn pages of ancient tomes.
After all, some books were simply too old, too fragile, and impossible to replicate.
“We have all the time we need,” Albus Dumbledore said patiently, using the opportunity to scan the room for any new alchemical inventions his old friend had been working on.
And indeed, there were.
A peculiar contraption caught his eye— something Ian might have dismissed as childish, yet it held Dumbledore’s interest. It resembled a magical interpretation of a Muggle arcade machine, though imbued with the unmistakable handiwork of Flamel’s alchemy.
Inside, miniature figures moved with a realism that would challenge even the most advanced Muggle illusions, depicting a fantastical game where one could interact directly with the world inside. When frustration struck, the user could even reach in and alter the course of the game by hand.
Predictably, within minutes, Dumbledore was engrossed. He reached into the machine and swiftly dispatched the final boss— a miniature Welsh Green dragon that had incinerated his controlled character at least ten times.
“If you enjoy this little creation, you’re welcome to take it back to Hogwarts,” Nicolas Flamel said with amusement, watching Dumbledore’s absorbed expression.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about your enchanted orchestra all this time.” Dumbledore set the arcade aside and turned his attention to a small table near the workbench.
Upon it stood dozens of miniature, enchanted musicians, not unlike tiny clockwork figures. The moment Flamel snapped his fingers, the band came to life, playing an elegant symphony in perfect harmony.
Not only that.
The instant they launched into a composition by Bach, the figures themselves transformed, taking on the likeness of the composer as they played. Their magic carried the sound across the vast laboratory, creating an immersive musical experience unlike any mundane performance.
“Bach’s music is already two hundred years old— give me Beethoven instead. He only passed a little over a century ago, so his work is still fresh by my standards.”
Flamel’s perspective on what was considered ‘new’ was, unsurprisingly, rather unconventional. But as soon as he issued the request, the tiny musicians seamlessly shifted their forms, transforming into perfect replicas of Beethoven, adjusting their melodies accordingly.
“Still as fascinating as ever.”
Albus Dumbledore smiled with a trace of admiration. He was fully capable of enchanting objects himself, but his own lack of musical talent meant he could never bring them to life with such artistry.
“They are among my greatest treasures. You may have them after I’m gone.” Flamel descended from the ladder at last, empty-handed.
“Is there a way?”
Dumbledore quickly set down the tiny conductor, his focus returning to the true reason for his visit.
“I have pinpointed the exact points in history where some of the lost materials once existed. Fortunately, if you can acquire a Time-Turner from the Department of Mysteries, then ours can be restored.”
“You’ll have to bend the rules of time once again… but I still believe that such meddling always exacts a price.”
Nicolas Flamel had clearly discovered a method to repair the ancient Time-Turner. Of course, in his mind, this was only a theoretical possibility, with consequences that remained unknown.
“We both understand the limitations of Time-Turners, which is why you still need the legendary assistance you mentioned,” Flamel continued, addressing the most crucial element of the plan.
Albus Dumbledore frowned.
Neither he nor Grindelwald had yet uncovered the location of Salazar Slytherin’s fabled forest— if it even still existed— let alone determined whether Slytherin himself could be persuaded to aid them.
“I take it you’ve had no success in tracking down that legend?”
Flamel immediately read the difficulty in Dumbledore’s expression.
“This will take time,” Dumbledore admitted with a quiet sigh.
“In my view, even if you do find him, convincing him to help will be another battle entirely… No one but you would dare to toy with time and fate like this.”
Flamel made to hand the ancient Time-Turner back to Dumbledore.
But.
Dumbledore did not reach out to take it.
“Can you begin the other restoration work first?”
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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