The morning light was dazzlingly bright.
It squeezed in through the gap in the curtains and landed on Iain's eyelids. The air under the blanket quickly turned warm, still carrying that last trace of nighttime laziness.
"So it's morning?"
Rubbing his eyes, Iain slowly got up. He had gradually thought everything through the night before, so now he felt refreshed and clear-headed, to the point that he had even "pardoned" the notebook that had led him astray.
"Don't let it sneak out and corrupt other young wizards outside. Not every child wizard has my unbreakable will of steel."
Iain entrusted the diary to the little skeleton for safekeeping.
The little skeleton's jaw moved once, and it nodded lightly.
"Yes, yes. I knew you were my best ghost friend!"
Seeing the little skeleton hugging the notebook tightly, Iain provided it with a bit of emotional encouragement before finally putting away his suitcase.
The space under the bed had always suited this kind of object perfectly.
Iain changed into a fresh set of clothes. The washroom downstairs was at the turn of the first-floor stairs, and there was a little mirror there with a film of dust over it that made it look slightly dull and grey.
"Mirror, mirror, who's the handsomest boy in the world?"
Even while brushing his teeth, Iain could not resist trying.
Unfortunately, the mirror in this old house did not seem to come with magic attached.
"Why, you are."
Iain had no choice but to lower his voice and answer for it himself.
And just at that moment, the front door opened.
He quickly splashed cold water over his face and looked outside.
Dumbledore stood in the doorway, morning light flooding in behind him and outlining him in a golden glow. He was wearing robes different from the ones he had worn the night before. These were deep blue, with silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, looking very much like the sort of thing one wore only for formal occasions.
At that moment, the old headmaster was eating cake with one hand and carrying a paper bag in the other.
"Good morning, Iain. I brought you breakfast. I hope you'll like it."
Dumbledore smiled slightly and came in, setting the paper bag down on the table in the sitting room.
He quite clearly did not yet know that one of the rooms on the second floor had "exploded" again.
"Good morning, Professor."
Iain followed behind him, his nose already hard at work. There seemed to be a direct correlation between how quickly the grease stain spread across the paper bag and how active Iain's nostrils became.
Grilled sausages, smoked kippers, a few slices of toast, and tomatoes.
A very classic breakfast combination.
After the dramatic ups and downs of yesterday, Iain immediately set about devouring it with gusto.
"Delicious."
The human squirrel with suspiciously overdeveloped cheeks made a return to the mortal world.
"You can eat slowly. There's no rush."
Dumbledore sat across from him, picked up his tea, blew on it, and took a sip. As if by habit, he placed a small cloth pouch on the table.
It promptly drew the young wizard's attention.
"Professor, what's that?"
Iain initially assumed it was something edible.
Dumbledore set down his teacup and looked at him. Those pale blue eyes seemed especially clear in the morning light, as though washed clean by the night's rain.
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he reached to the bottom of the paper bag, took out the little package, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward Iain with his fingers pressing on the edge of the greaseproof wrapping.
"This is the Philosopher's Stone, child."
Dumbledore's tone was gentle.
"What is the Philosopher's Stone?"
Iain was not really pretending ignorance. It was just that all his attention had been on eating, and only after speaking did he realize that he was technically asking a question he already knew the answer to.
Dumbledore's expression did not change in the slightest.
He simply placed his teacup back on its saucer, producing a soft clink of porcelain against porcelain.
"The Philosopher's Stone is an alchemical creation. It can turn any metal into gold, and it can also brew a potion known as the Elixir of Life."
"Nicolas Flamel is its creator. He is now more than six hundred years old. He and his wife, Perenelle, have lived for a very long time through the use of the Elixir of Life."
"The Stone is their greatest achievement, and also their heaviest burden, because the body still ages. It is only the continual drinking of that potion that prevents death from arriving."
Dumbledore patiently explained to the young wizard what he knew the boy already knew.
He said quite a lot.
Unfortunately,
"Gold..."
Iain's eyes lit up.
His mind had focused on only one thing.
Dumbledore let out a small laugh, as if mocking his own needless concern, and seemed to relax.
"So immortality does not tempt you."
Iain nodded.
"To be remembered, that's the truly interesting way to transcend life and death. Though of course, now that I'm a wizard, having the right to choose when to die would not be bad either."
That was his genuine view.
Though not the entirety of it.
There was no way he was going to tell Dumbledore that he thought Nicolas Flamel's research direction had major flaws.
If the existence of the soul had already been proven, then surely replacing the frailty of flesh with machine, or pursuing biological cloning and soul transfer, were all far more valuable than endlessly dragging along a decaying body.
Such brilliant research directions were not something Iain wished to reveal and risk having stolen.
"To be remembered... yes, that is indeed an extraordinary perspective."
Dumbledore did not like Legilimency, and if he had, he would not have been smiling quite so approvingly at that moment.
Iain picked up the last slice of bread, spread jam over it, and shoved it into his mouth, mumbling something along the lines of, "You have excellent taste."
Out of politeness, he omitted the rest:
Then you should praise me more.
That line, Iain decided, he would save for later use on the professors at Hogwarts.
"I think many professors would like a student as mature in thought as you."
Seeing that Iain had finished eating, Dumbledore rose and straightened the table.
With only a gentle tap of his wand, all the leftovers and dirty dishes that could have started a marital argument in most households vanished completely before Iain's eyes.
"That's a good spell! I need to learn that!"
Iain's eyes lit up again.
"To study magic, you first need a wand. Come along. I'll take you to Diagon Alley."
Dumbledore smiled and extended a hand toward Iain.
"Mm-hm!"
The young wizard quickly put his hand in Dumbledore's.
Then,
as Dumbledore Apparated, the world began to spin.
This time, Iain had prepared himself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth, and fully expected to be hit once more by that horrible wave of nausea and vertigo.
To his surprise,
this time he adapted with astonishing ease.
There was not the slightest unpleasant sensation.
"As expected of my body of iron!"
Iain generously praised his own extraordinary adaptability.
When his vision cleared, he looked around and found that Dumbledore and he were now standing on a street paved with cobblestones.
On both sides of the road stretched an endless stream of people, along with a dazzling array of shops. The people wore extravagant and peculiar clothing, giving the whole place the feeling of having stepped into the Middle Ages.
And yet,
it was not shabby.
Films and novels were not enough to truly capture the real thing. Though it was merely a gathering place for Britain's wizards, it was absolutely not some crumbling relic from an old age.
It possessed a liveliness and splendor not inferior to London's commercial streets, and in some ways even more vivid.
"A wizard over there is actually kissing a giant toad-spider! On that point alone, I admit this place is more open-minded than London!"
Iain spoke with near-lyrical admiration.
He knew.
He had arrived in Diagon Alley.
The place where countless dreams began.