"After that, I stopped obsessing over The Book of Abraham and wandered through regions where the plague hadn't fully subsided. I helped locals burn bodies, gave sick Muggles their final send-off, and in my spare time, I flipped through books, studying alchemy.
"In the early 15th century, Paris still saw occasional small-scale plague outbreaks. Decades later, when Muggles finally emerged from the shadow of the Black Death, I discovered that the elusive magic gifted to me by Muggles had been hiding deep within my soul all along.
"By then, I'd worked out how to craft the Philosopher's Stone, channeling those faint threads of magic into a ruby through a ritual—what later became known as the Sorcerer's Stone."
Nicolas Flamel finished his tale slowly, sipping mead to soothe his throat.
Over the past half-hour, the old wizard had shifted from discussing plays and films to the Black Death six hundred years ago. His firsthand account carried an epic, almost mythic weight, but the allegorical riddle-game felt tedious—every interpretation seemed plausible.
Was this magic the key to crafting the Philosopher's Stone?
Was the magic Flamel collected different from Melvin's?
"…"
Melvin mulled it over, unable to hold back. "Sir, if you have advice for me, could you just say it plainly? What is this magic drawn from Muggles? Are there risks? Is it cursed knowledge from that book?"
"No, it's knowledge I pieced together myself, unrelated to Abraham, and free of curses," Flamel replied candidly. "I'm telling you this because I'm nearing my end. Reflecting on the past… you know Albus's view of death as a new adventure? I'm not like him."
Before achieving immortality, Flamel had witnessed too much death, realizing how fragile both Muggle and wizard lives were—humans no sturdier than ants.
Over centuries, he'd reveled in the pleasures of wealth and a long life. But as his body aged, his flesh withered, and his bones grew brittle, even minor bumps caused injury. This fragility reminded him of plague victims left in the streets, stirring fear.
Around three or four hundred years old, he began avoiding danger, concealing his identity, and living reclusively.
That changed fifty years ago when a dropout wizard and a reckless Muggle broke into his home, dragging him into a fire that nearly burned Paris to the ground.
After that, he became more open, though not to Dumbledore's extent.
He was, after all, just an ordinary wizard with a bit of talent.
Sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the old wizard as he sipped his mead. He picked up a chip, then set it down, taking a deep breath that whistled through loose teeth, easing his aching gums.
Seeing the legendary wizard who'd just recounted history make such a mundane gesture, Melvin suddenly felt Flamel come alive. No longer a distant icon, he was a real, ordinary wizard.
This realization brought a pang of sadness. Melvin knew why—this ordinary old wizard was dying.
"Spending too much time with Albus does rub off on you," Flamel chuckled softly. "About that magic, I've scoured records for centuries and found something. Throughout history, others have tapped into it: Hogwarts' four founders, Merlin, and the dark wizard Herpo the Foul."
"All legendary wizards," Melvin noted, intrigued. "Did they spread their fame among wizards to gather this magic?"
"Emotions are the soul's overflow; the soul is the root of magic," Flamel said slowly. "The four founders taught students to value courage, wisdom, kindness, and ambition. As more students revered their names, their power grew rapidly, surpassing their peers in no time."
"You're saying… Merlin and Herpo did the same?" Melvin caught on.
"Just my speculation," Flamel said carefully. "They may not have realized it themselves. Their extraordinary growth wasn't just talent—or not only talent."
"They absorbed this magic…" Melvin echoed softly.
The founders soared after establishing Hogwarts.
Merlin became legendary after aiding King Arthur.
Herpo's deeds were murky, but his name echoed loudly.
Melvin thought of his own journey. At Sorting, all four houses wanted him. His talent shone in later years but stayed within normal bounds, like his mentor Seraphina Picquery or young Hermione.
Then came the Horned Serpent's gift. In two years, he transformed.
With the Memory Mirror's rise, Melvin Levent's name would soon spread across the wizarding world.
He glanced at the old wizard in the sunlight, his expression odd.
Compared to those legendary figures, Flamel's fame lacked intimidation or dueling prowess.
"Because I was weaker, I survived this long," Flamel said, sensing Melvin's unspoken thoughts but unbothered. "As the Muggle saying goes, there's no free lunch. Transfiguration can't conjure food from nothing, and magic works the same—every gain has a cost."
A breeze drifted through the window, carrying faint footsteps. Flamel's voice was soft but clear. "Magic drawn from others carries their wills. Thousands of tiny wills merge like streams into an ocean, crashing against the wizard's own will, twisting their thoughts." His tone was calm. "When that happens, is a wizard driven by others' wills still themselves?"
Melvin followed his words, a chill creeping up his spine, like spring's thaw after February's snow.
In seconds, pieces clicked into place: Herpo's bizarre suicide, Merlin trapped by Viviane, the founders' falling out…
No wonder these celebrated wizards met grim fates in their later years.
"Legendary wizards are still legendary," Flamel said. "They're the brightest stars in magical history. The founders were sharp, crafting vessels to purge foreign wills from their bodies—Gryffindor's sword, Ravenclaw's diadem, Hufflepuff's cup. Slytherin was secretive, even abandoning his reputation to leave the school. I don't know how far he got or if he succeeded."
"Herpo split his soul to make a Horcrux to purge those wills…" Melvin recalled records of the dark wizard, connecting them to another Horcrux-maker, Tom Riddle.
As a student, Voldemort was calculating—unleashing the Basilisk, framing Hagrid, leaving Dumbledore clueless. He investigated his lineage, killed the Riddles, and framed Morfin Gaunt with meticulous planning. But two years after graduation, forming the Death Eaters and stealing from Smith while blaming a house-elf was sloppier.
As the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord's fame grew, Voldemort showed signs of losing control.
Once an elegant schemer, Tom Riddle became the volatile, cruel Dark Lord, cunning but lacking his former brilliance.
Would Melvin, too, be warped by others' wills like Voldemort?
"You're saying… I should stop drawing this magic?" Melvin asked tentatively, brows furrowed.
"No, that's not my point," Flamel said, spreading his hands. "Even Seers can't fully predict the future. I'm just sharing my experiences and knowledge. It might sound long-winded, but I sincerely hope you uncover the nature of this magic and forge a path no one's walked before."
"I'm sorry to say, I can't give you The Book of Abraham. Even I only half-understand the Stone's creation…" Flamel said softly, handing over a notebook. "This has some of my research. It should help."
The notebook was plain, bound in brown paper with no title. Melvin flipped through it, finding Flamel's handwritten accounts of talks with famous wizards. The scribe-turned-wizard's penmanship was neat, paired with vivid illustrations—likely drawn by Flamel's wife, Perenelle—depicting speakers' clothing and accessories in bright colors, with gold-flecked ink that shimmered like a children's storybook.
"Paracelsus, late 15th-century astrologer…" Melvin began, looking up to ask a question, but stopped at the sight of the old man's expression, carefully tucking the notebook away.
The six-hundred-year-old wizard sat quietly in a high-backed chair by the window, silver hair draped over his shoulders, sparse but neat. His half-closed eyes gleamed with faint weariness in the sunlight's glow.
"This is as far as I can help you, Melvin," Flamel said softly.
Melvin stood, bowing slightly. "Goodbye, Mr. Flamel."
"We likely won't meet again."
"…"
"A joke." Flamel's eyes opened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Don't mourn me yet. Perenelle and I still have an estate to settle. I hope to see your Memory Mirror in Paris."
"It won't be long," Melvin nodded, turning to leave.
As the young professor's figure faded, Flamel sat up slowly, spreading his hands. A mysterious ancient book appeared, its brass spine gleaming, pages filled with near-extinct scripts detailing obscure alchemy. Every seven pages formed a set, each in a different language, with the seventh page always blank.
But on the seventh page of the first set, a serpent coiled around a wand, biting its own tail.
Leaving Hogsmeade, Melvin followed the winding path through the winged boar gates, strolling across the melting snow of Hogwarts' grounds, the air cool and damp.
Gazing at the castle under the azure sky, he'd heard of Hogwarts in the future and seen it in the past. Its towers loomed, flanked by dense forests and rolling hills.
Walking the wet grounds, carrying memories from thirty years ahead and six hundred years past, he felt light and enigmatic, like a raven soaring above history's river. Behind him, Flamel scribed letters six centuries ago; ahead, Voldemort turned to ash five years hence.
Firelight glowed from the towers' hearths, blending with the blue skyline. Hagrid's hut flickered with light, the lake beyond shimmering in the sun.
Legendary wizards, like ripples on water, were pushed by waves along fated paths, drifting toward a distant future.
After his morning tale, Flamel had sipped butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, its frothy foam salty-sweet. He drank slowly, not wasting a drop, chatting with Melvin, his robes stained with yellowed foam.
Melvin watched him drink, his gaunt frame frailer than a Lumos spell, foam on his lapel like moth-eaten pages of a history book.
Flamel spoke of fearing death, yet when he mentioned his two years left, his eyes held no fear or sorrow—just the calm of recounting a plague-stricken neighbor's fate.
Gifted by the Horned Serpent, Melvin had stumbled onto this path, only to be warned before he could explore it. He pondered his future, Flamel, the Serpent, and the notebook's secrets, anticipation stirring.
"Emotions and wills, souls and magic…" Melvin murmured. "More like faith and divinity."
A rustle came from nearby bushes.
"Professor Levent?" Hermione's voice called.
"It's freezing out here. Why aren't you in the castle?" Melvin asked, pausing.
"…" The young witch kept a straight face, but her eyes darted, subtly studying him.
Melvin had a good reputation among students. As a foreign professor, he favored no house, cared little about Gryffindor's point deductions, and was patient and lenient. Most importantly, he was relaxed about school rules.
Hermione flashed a sweet smile, her tone flattering. "Professor, you're friends with Hagrid, right?"
Melvin chuckled, glancing at Hagrid's hut. He already knew—a Norwegian Ridgeback egg was hidden in its hearth.
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