The pub's guests had left, and house-elves bustled in to clear away the tankards. Wright sat in his chair, straining to express the Monkstanley family's three-generation reverence for Nicolas Flamel, only to be firmly held down by Melvin.
One hand on Wright's shoulder, Melvin stepped aside to let a house-elf pass. The repair shop owner's stubbornness was giving him a headache.
"Let me go!" Wright squirmed, mortified to be pinned in place in front of a legendary alchemist. The Monkstanley name was losing face.
"Should've known better than to invite you," Melvin sighed.
"Why not? I'm a member of the Mirror Club! I poured my heart and sweat into the Shadow Mirror!" Wright's face twisted with indignation. "When you commissioned me to develop it, you called me a descendant of the Radiant Witch. Now that you don't need me, I'm suddenly surplus?"
"No one said you're surplus," Melvin said, exasperated. "I invited you here specifically to introduce you to Flamel. I didn't even invite Borgin."
Wright calmed slightly but muttered, "That's only because retired Aurors were here today, and Borgin couldn't show up…"
"Then you, a repair shop owner dealing in contraband, are even less suited to be here." Melvin released his grip.
This time, Wright didn't overreact. Representing the Monkstanley family, he expressed his admiration for the legendary alchemist. Flamel shook his hand politely, mentioning he'd met Wright's ancestor, Levina, and they'd had friendly exchanges. When the Hogwarts Express was being designed, the Ministry had consulted Flamel, and he'd seen Wright's grandfather's blueprints.
"Your grandfather was about your age back then, with an even hotter temper," Flamel said.
Wright was struck silent, awed by the weight of time.
"I know your Monkstanley family excels in Muggle craftsmanship," Flamel continued, his tone distant and enigmatic. "For centuries, you've tried blending Muggle technology with alchemy—a remarkable endeavor. I'd love to discuss it with you, but today's not ideal. Albus and I have matters to attend to. How about next Friday evening?"
"Y-Yes, that works," Wright stammered, flustered.
"Then I cordially invite you to my home near Buckfast Abbey in Devon," Flamel said. "Perenelle's learned a new English dish…"
Wright, utterly bamboozled by the old wizard, left the room in a daze, his mind fixated on one thing: A legendary alchemist invited me to his home! Melvin, worried Wright might trip down the stairs and hurt himself—bad for pub business—escorted him out and watched him leave the street.
Melvin had genuinely meant to introduce Wright to Flamel, but after Wright's embarrassing display, he'd thought the chance was lost. Surprisingly, it went smoothly.
Back in the room, the house-elves had cleared the table and brought fresh drinks. Steaming chips fresh from the fryer sat on a plate, sunlight streaming through the window. Melvin took a seat by the window, careful not to interrupt.
Dumbledore, holding a fragrant mead, was recounting the events of three days ago. "The state of the soul fragment is peculiar," the silver-haired Headmaster said. "The connection between Voldemort and Harry is deeper than I anticipated. He didn't realize it himself, but that night, after killing James and Lily, his soul was so destabilized by the murders that the rebounded Killing Curse not only destroyed his body but tore his soul apart. A piece of it latched onto Harry's scar."
Flamel's brow furrowed, stunned. "Like—"
"Like Quirrell," Dumbledore said, glancing at Melvin. "It's a rare situation. I'm still observing the effects of this soul connection…"
Melvin ignored the Headmaster's look, leaning back in his chair, breathing deeply. Outside, Hogsmeade's February streets glistened as snow melted. Harry's Parseltongue during the rope incident was telling—such a rare ability was almost always inherited, tied to Salazar Slytherin's descendants. The Potter family had no such lineage for generations, but the Gaunts were infamous for it.
Dumbledore had long suspected Harry's condition and now knew he was an accidental Horcrux—a living one. Destroying all Horcruxes to kill Voldemort would mean killing Harry. A brutal moral dilemma. The old man was cagey about mentioning Horcruxes in front of Melvin, probably losing sleep over it lately.
Melvin gazed at the scenery, amused.
"Lily's ancient magic was stronger than I expected," Dumbledore said, wistful. "Quirrell had no direct link to Harry, but as a vessel for the soul fragment, when Harry touched him, the magic ignited, burning both soul and body to ash."
"A mother's sacrifice for her child, woven with love, holds immense power—something dark wizards can't comprehend," Flamel said. "But the witch who cast it is gone, and the magic in her blood fades daily."
Dumbledore nodded, sipping his mead. "That's why I placed Harry with his aunt. It shields him from the wizarding world's chaos and extends Lily's protection."
"Wizards are the source of magic," Flamel said. "Once the source dries up, even blood ties can only sustain it until he's of age. You don't want him dying at seventeen, do you?"
"Exactly," Dumbledore agreed.
Flamel lowered his voice. "So, what's your plan?"
"Voldemort saw Quirrell's body and soul disintegrate. He knows he can't touch or harm Harry—an intolerable failure for a Dark Lord. Most dark wizards might use other means to destroy an enemy, but Voldemort's too proud. He won't let someone else kill the boy who stripped him of his body. He'll find a way to break the protection."
Dumbledore's voice softened. "But Lily's magic, rooted in love, is greater than dark magic. Voldemort will never understand it."
"Magic tied to blood can only be undone by blood of the same source," Flamel said, a glimmer in his eyes. "Are you confident?"
"It's a theory," Dumbledore replied, "but my theories are rarely far off."
The two old wizards spoke in riddles, their words vague and scattered, but Melvin pieced it together. Dumbledore had realized Harry's scar housed a fragment of Voldemort's soul, making him a living Horcrux. To destroy Voldemort, Harry would have to die.
Yet, in just three days, Dumbledore had devised a way to save him. He'd been sustaining Lily's blood protection through family ties, but that would only last until Harry was seventeen, as his Muggle aunt couldn't fuel it indefinitely. So, Dumbledore turned to Voldemort himself.
If Voldemort's blood could carry that magic, the greatest dark wizard in history could become its source, making Lily's protection stronger and permanent—an ancient magic that could defy even the Killing Curse. If successful, Harry and Voldemort would enter an unprecedented symbiotic state: Harry, a Horcrux, ensured Voldemort's survival as long as he lived; Voldemort, the source of Harry's protection, ensured Harry's survival as long as he lived. A conjugate immortality.
Melvin, who'd long known the story's outcome but not the details, finally understood. After destroying the other Horcruxes, Voldemort would kill Harry once, destroying the soul fragment in his scar. Harry would revive under Lily's protection, with Voldemort as its source, but without any remaining Horcruxes. Voldemort couldn't harm Harry—his attacks would be nullified—while Harry's attacks would barely scratch him. The skill gap could be addressed later, but Harry would be invincible, and Voldemort's defeat inevitable.
What a cunning old Headmaster. Without accidents, this scheming wizard could live to two hundred.
Melvin sipped his mead, gazing at the melting snow outside, where green weeds sprouted through cracks in the pavement. He stayed quiet, listening.
The riddle-masters' conversation was exhausting, jumping from ancient magic to cryptic references without naming Horcruxes directly, despite mentioning soul fragments and immortality. Were they fooling him or themselves?
As they sipped mead, Dumbledore nibbled chips, and Flamel, who'd never touched such crispy food before, tried one, savoring it slowly. They traded stories, revealing secrets. Seven hundred years ago, before Flamel's birth, Herpo the Foul had devised a way to split his soul for immortality, succeeding on himself. A pioneer of dark magic, Herpo's power and Horcrux made him unstoppable, a global menace.
No wizard like Dumbledore existed then to challenge him. Many feared Herpo would dominate the world, but, inexplicably, he ended his own life. The method and reason were lost, leaving historians with only speculative scraps.
"Death is a strange and mysterious thing," Flamel said.
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, finishing his mead, a faint sadness in his blue eyes.
Flamel smiled, his wrinkles softening, looking almost grandfatherly. Setting down his glass, he said, "That's enough for now, Albus. I'd like to discuss plays with Professor Levent. Let's say goodbye here."
"Happy adventuring," Dumbledore said softly, leaving quietly.
Melvin sensed something odd in their farewell. Perhaps it was their long lives—one cloistered in a school, the other a recluse—making their interactions unique. One was a 111-year-old wizard, the other 665. A strange farewell was par for the course for ancient riddle-masters.
Nibbling a chip, Flamel said to Melvin, "Old wizards like us don't sleep well. Insomnia leads to overthinking. Albus went through tough times in his youth, trusted the wrong people, made mistakes. It's hard for him to fully trust now. When you deal with him, don't be so formal or reverent. Speak plainly. I'm over five hundred years older than him, and we chat like friends. He's only a few decades older than you—why be intimidated?"
Melvin, who could outtalk a dozen wizards in the Wizengamot, was at a loss for words.
"Last week, Albus wrote about the school's events and sent me the Philosopher's Stone," Flamel continued. "Perenelle and I saw The Merchant of Venice, and afterward, we decided to destroy the Stone. I'd been considering it since last year in New York. We prepared two years' worth of Elixir of Life, and the Stone was destroyed last night."
Flamel met Melvin's gaze calmly. "So, I'm here to genuinely discuss plays and the Shadow Mirror."
The old wizard had only two years left.
Melvin caught on, following his lead. "Instead of putting plays on the Shadow Mirror, I'd rather make wizarding films."
"Films…" Flamel's eyes grew distant. "I first saw a moving Muggle picture 120 years ago—an English photographer's six images of a horse in motion. Perenelle found it fascinating. A decade later, a Muggle inventor in Yorkshire used a camera and paper film to capture a garden. He was French, and I knew his son, so I saw that three-second clip."
Melvin, used to these waves from the river of time, nodded calmly. "Muggle tech moves fast. With enough film, the movie can be as long as you want."
"Plays or films, they touch the heart with stories and images," Flamel said, finishing his chip with a relieved sigh. "In my nearly seven-hundred-year life, the most moving scene was in 1349…"
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