"Nicolas…" Dumbledore looked at the old alchemist across from him, and for a moment, even he could not find the right words. Not everyone could give up immortality so calmly. Voldemort had spent his entire life chasing it, tearing apart his own soul for even the ugliest imitation of eternal life.
"Albus, you should know better than most that the Philosopher's Stone can create the Elixir of Life and keep a person alive, but it does not make one truly immortal," Nicolas Flamel said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, as though he were discussing the weather rather than his own death. "As the years pass, our bodies still grow old. I am six hundred and sixty-five this year, and this old body of mine has become so fragile that even a slight bump can break a bone."
He lowered his eyes to his thin hands, the skin stretched like parchment over narrow bones. There was no fear in his expression, only a tired acceptance that came from having lived far beyond the natural measure of a man. "That kind of immortality is not what Perenelle and I want. We have already decided to stop using the Elixir and slowly step into death."
Dumbledore listened in silence, his blue eyes soft behind his half-moon spectacles. He had seen many people fear death, rage against it, and bargain with it in every foolish way imaginable, yet Nicolas spoke of it with a peace few living souls could ever reach.
"Besides, Albus," Nicolas added with a small laugh, "aren't you always saying that to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure?"
Dumbledore sighed, though there was warmth in his eyes. "Nicolas, I respect your choice. But regarding that Philosopher's Stone, I still need to ask you for one more favour."
Nicolas looked at him and waited. Though he had already accepted the loss of the Stone, he understood Dumbledore well enough to know the matter was not finished.
"I cannot allow the Philosopher's Stone to remain in the hands of a dangerous dark wizard," Dumbledore said, his expression turning grave again. "Nicolas, you have the gift of prophecy. Can you help me find him?"
"The Stone falling into the hands of a dark wizard is certainly not ideal," Nicolas said after a brief pause. He reached into his robe and drew out a crystal ball, its surface clear and cold beneath the candlelight. "Very well, Albus. I will try, but I cannot promise that I will be able to find him."
In the wizarding world, prophecy was not a talent that could simply be learned through effort. Divination could be studied, its symbols memorised and its methods practised, but true sight was usually something a wizard was born with. Without that gift, no amount of work would turn a person into a real seer.
Many magical talents were tied to bloodlines in that way. Pure-blood families did hold certain advantages over Muggle-born wizards, not because every pure-blood was stronger, but because some inherited gifts had been preserved through generations. Of course, inheritance was never fair, and blood alone did not guarantee greatness.
Nicolas placed the crystal ball on the Headmaster's desk and rested both hands near it. Dumbledore leaned forward slightly from his chair, watching in silence as the old alchemist began the divination.
The crystal ball clouded. Mist twisted inside it, slow and pale at first, then darker, folding in on itself like smoke trapped under glass. The office seemed to grow quieter, and even the portraits on the walls fell still, their painted eyes fixed on the desk.
Time passed, but Nicolas did not speak. His brows drew together, and the calm certainty in his face gradually gave way to confusion. The fog inside the crystal ball thickened until nothing could be seen beyond it.
"Nicolas, what do you see?" Dumbledore finally asked. His patience had not broken, but concern had entered his voice.
"Fog," Nicolas said slowly. "Only fog. I cannot see any image at all."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. "The divination failed?"
"Yes." Nicolas sounded puzzled now, and that alone made the result troubling. "That is what makes it strange. My crystal ball has never failed me like this before, yet this time, I can divine nothing."
He withdrew his hands and let the mist inside the crystal ball settle. The object returned to its clear, ordinary state, but neither of them looked relieved.
"Divination is not omnipotent," Nicolas said at last. He shook his head, put the crystal ball away, and gave Dumbledore an apologetic look. "I am sorry, Albus. I cannot help you."
Dumbledore frowned and sat back in his chair. "Who is that person?"
According to what the dark wizard had said before, he should have been someone who knew Dumbledore very well. Otherwise, he would never have known so many old secrets or chosen such precise words to provoke him.
Perhaps he was someone from Dumbledore's own generation. Perhaps he was from a later generation, someone who had studied him obsessively and learned things that should have remained hidden.
Unfortunately, even if Dumbledore thought until his head split, he would never imagine the truth. There was another visitor in this world, someone who did not belong to its past, present, or future.
At Number 17, Godric's Hollow, deep beneath the manor house, Tyler Blake stood in his basement and stared at the blood-red stone in his hand. It looked like a gem carved from condensed fire and old blood, beautiful in a way that made it difficult to believe how dangerous it was.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Tyler murmured.
This should have been the only Philosopher's Stone in the entire wizarding world. Its previous owner had been Nicolas Flamel, the legendary alchemist who had lived for more than six centuries because of it. Now, however, it belonged to Tyler.
"It's said that the Philosopher's Stone can turn any base metal into pure gold," Tyler said, turning the stone between his fingers.
He walked over to a pile of rusty scrap iron in the corner of the basement. He did not know the proper method for using the Stone, so he chose the simplest approach and poured his magic directly into it.
A soft light flashed across the surface of the Philosopher's Stone. In the next instant, the pile of corroded iron turned bright gold, the rust vanishing as though it had never existed.
Tyler crouched down and examined it with interest. The transformation was complete, not some cheap illusion or surface-level trick. The entire heap had become pure gold.
"The Philosopher's Stone really is a good thing," he said, though his excitement faded almost at once. "Unfortunately, I don't have much use for gold."
After robbing the Gringotts vaults of several pure-blood families, his stores of Galleons had already piled up like a hill. There was enough gold there for him to spend across several lifetimes, even if he lived extravagantly. At this point, he was not short of money at all, and money itself barely interested him.
Tyler placed the Philosopher's Stone on the workbench. Then he took out a beautifully bound book and began turning through its pages with careful fingers.
This book was his greatest reliance in this world. Its title was the Magic Divine Codex, and the so-called divine being in the name might well refer to a god of magic.
The Magic Divine Codex had come into this world with Tyler. It contained a vast amount of magic that did not seem to exist in the modern wizarding world, spells and rituals stranger, older, and more dangerous than anything taught at Hogwarts.
Tyler did not know whether the magic inside the book came from another world entirely or whether it had once belonged to this world and was simply lost over time. Across the long history of wizardkind, countless wizards had been born, and countless spells had likely disappeared into the dust of the years.
Whatever the truth was, the Codex had helped him enormously. The dark magic array he had placed beneath Gringotts in Diagon Alley had come from this book, and so had the dark ritual he had used to sacrifice the fire dragon with blood magic. Even then, Tyler knew he had only grasped the surface of what the Codex contained.
"Equal-Fate Twin Magic," Tyler said softly as he flipped to the page he wanted. "All the materials are ready now, including the most important one, the Philosopher's Stone. The next step is to complete the spell."
Equal-Fate Twin Magic was an extremely profound spell recorded in the Magic Divine Codex. Its effect was somewhat similar to the Horcruxes described in Secrets of the Darkest Art, but it was far more advanced than that crude form of dark magic.
A Horcrux was made by splitting one's soul and hiding the torn fragment inside an object outside the body. That object became the Horcrux, an anchor that kept the creator tied to life. As long as the Horcrux remained intact, even if the main body was attacked or destroyed, the creator would not truly die.
But that immortality was deeply flawed. Once the physical body was destroyed, the remaining soul would become extremely weak, reduced to something even worse than a wandering spirit. Voldemort was the clearest example, for after his body was destroyed, he survived only because of his Horcruxes and became so weak that he could only cling to small animals like rats and snakes to survive.
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