"I'm sorry, Nico. I lost your Philosopher's Stone," Dumbledore said, voice heavy with guilt.
"That doesn't matter, Albus." Nicolas Flamel's tone was calm. "As long as your goal was achieved, it's enough. Didn't you say in your letter? Voldemort hasn't returned."
"But the Stone still ended up in someone else's hands," Dumbledore frowned.
"The Stone is merely a catalyst for alchemical reactions. It cannot create something from nothing, nor can it grant true power. At most, it can extend a person's life."
As the master of the Stone, Nicolas was surprisingly detached about it.
"I worry Voldemort might use the stolen Stone to return," Dumbledore admitted, still uneasy.
"Impossible. The prophecy has already shifted. Voldemort will return—but not yet." Nicolas shook his head. "Though I am curious about those people you mentioned, the ones who stole the Stone."
"'All Villains Unite as One Big Family.'" Dumbledore repeated the absurd name with a grimace, as though it didn't belong in this story. "We know nothing about them. Not I, not even my friends… not even him."
The vague phrasing pointed unmistakably at someone. Nicolas understood exactly who Dumbledore meant.
"Even he doesn't know?" Nicolas's brow furrowed. "So you wish to consult the prophecy?"
"If possible," Dumbledore nodded.
"I can try. But it may not succeed. Prophecy isn't like reading a book—it doesn't always give us the exact answers we seek." Nicolas led him into the inner chamber.
The room was filled with magical items and tools—clearly Flamel's workshop.
At its center sat a crystal ball, perfectly pure and transparent. As they approached, white mist swirled inside, twisting like the unpredictable threads of fate.
"Where's Perenelle? Why don't I see her?" Dumbledore asked.
"She's gone back to France. After years of Voldemort's disturbances, and now with his threat lifted, she feels freer. Knowing death is near has made her more active than ever." Nicolas gave a faint smile.
"…I'm sorry." Dumbledore could only offer another pale apology.
"No need. It was our decision long ago. Mortality has given us a deeper sense of life itself. Even our old memories shine more vividly now."
Nicolas spoke with serenity, utterly unafraid of death. To him, it was nothing more than an invitation from the Reaper—one he would accept with grace.
"I've lived more than three hundred years. There's nothing left to regret, is there?"
Standing before the crystal ball, he touched it lightly with a fingertip. The swirling mist inside shuddered and shifted.
"Tell me, what exactly do you wish to see?" Nicolas asked, his tone casual—like a waiter asking for an order.
After all, asking was one thing. Whether or not the dish could be served was another.
Prophecy was an unstable art. Even the greatest Seers couldn't guarantee success—nor that the visions they spoke were true.
This is the common flaw of those with a touch of prophetic talent who try to self-study the art.
Unless one is born with a special bloodline that grants true foresight, most of their predictions are vague. But when they enter a special state, what they speak then is almost always something that will happen.
Professor Sybill Trelawney, who taught Divination at Hogwarts, was the perfect example of such "fate-favored" prophets. A great-granddaughter of the Seer Cassandra Trelawney, she might usually bluff and ramble, but in her trances she delivered prophecies of astonishing accuracy.
"I want to know what that organization will do in the future," Dumbledore said.
"A wise choice," Nicolas Flamel nodded. Prophecies with broader targets had a higher chance of success.
The mist within the crystal cleared, revealing a haughty face: short golden hair, and eyes so chilling that Dumbledore recognized him instantly.
"Dio Brando, one of their high command," Dumbledore said grimly. "Can we see more detail?"
The image only showed Dio Brando's dangerously handsome face, no hint of his surroundings.
"I'll try," Nicolas murmured, sweeping his palm to shift the viewpoint.
The image pulled back, showing Dio Brando's full figure. He seemed to be speaking to someone, holding a gleaming arrowhead decorated with ornate insect-like carvings.
And standing across from him was someone both Flamel and Dumbledore knew all too well…
"Grindelwald?" Flamel's arm trembled. Forty years ago, this man's Fiendfyre had nearly consumed all of Paris.
He glanced at Dumbledore, doubt flickering in his eyes. Not doubt of Dumbledore, but of Grindelwald—for Dumbledore had once said that Grindelwald knew nothing of this strange organization.
"Calm yourself, Nico. This is prophecy—anything might happen in the future." Dumbledore spoke quickly, unwilling to believe the man had deceived him. "Can we hear what they're saying?"
"This is prophecy, not a Muggle recording machine," Flamel rolled his eyes. "I can't do that."
"Then make another prophecy. A closer one," Dumbledore urged. "Try to learn who leads this organization from the shadows."
"That kind of precision is almost certain to fail. The odds of success are very low," Flamel warned.
"We still have to try. You can't abandon it just because it's unlikely," Dumbledore said firmly.
"You're right." Flamel nodded, stirring the fog inside the crystal ball.
To their surprise, the crystal responded immediately. An image formed: a map—an unmistakable map of the island of England.
There's a lead!
Both Flamel and Dumbledore held their breath as the map zoomed in, becoming sharper and sharper, the location of the mastermind seemingly about to be revealed—
When suddenly, a faint starlight shimmered across the crystal, destabilizing the vision, scattering most of the map back into mist.
"No—something's interfering!" Flamel exclaimed, trying to force the process, to accelerate the revelation. But the starlight fractured, tearing open a rift inside the crystal ball.
And then—a pair of cold, indifferent eyes, woven from countless stars, appeared within the orb, staring directly at Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.
---