"You know, Harry, Nicolas is a remarkable alchemist. He's exceptionally skilled at crafting magical artifacts like these," Dumbledore whispered.
"Quite fascinating," Harry replied, his eyes gleaming with interest as he surveyed the banquet hall.
Tables, chairs, brooms, teapots, teacups… everyday objects seemed to have come alive—literally sprouting eyes and mouths, capable of seeing, speaking, and even playfully teasing the guests they served.
It was a scene straight out of a Muggle fairy tale.
"Welcome to the old folks' gathering, Harry," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder. "I must admit, finding someone your age at a party like this is a bit of a challenge, but I suspect you won't mind."
"You're right. I'd rather die than babysit kids," Harry quipped, grinning. "You'll have to introduce me around, Dumbledore."
"Of course. Let's head over there," Dumbledore said, gesturing toward the window. "That's Kael'thas, a former Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries. When it comes to unraveling magical secrets, he surpasses even me. You could learn a great deal from him."
"Indeed," Harry agreed earnestly. "The wisdom of elders is the most precious treasure."
"Then you've struck a vein of wisdom today, Harry. After all, by age alone, we're all practically crystallized knowledge," Dumbledore said, bursting into hearty laughter.
Everything was much as Dumbledore had described on the way—a simple Christmas gathering of old friends who hadn't seen each other in years. These were Nicolas Flamel's trusted companions, so the usual formalities and societal constraints didn't apply. No one looked down on Harry for his youth.
"In fact, this gathering was organized because of you, Harry," Ogden said, sipping his wine. "Why else would a bunch of scattered old witches and wizards choose this Christmas to come together?"
"Because of me?" Harry asked, sensing a deeper meaning. "Because of elemental magic?"
"And your soul magic," Madam Marchbanks added, her voice raspy. Harry had met her once before. "You know, Harry, the word 'soul' carries heavy weight. The Wizengamot held over a dozen meetings to debate whether your magic violated any laws."
"Thank you," Harry said, turning to Dumbledore. "I know you helped me."
"Oh, you're welcome, Harry," Dumbledore replied lightly. "Ensuring a new discovery is treated fairly is something we all want. I've been called a doddering old fool by many, but I can't afford to do anything truly foolish."
"Damn it, Albus, do you think we're your students?" Ogden snapped good-naturedly. "Everyone here knows exactly who you are. Why are you playing the martyr? Here, you're drinking another glass for that."
Dumbledore: "…"
"Don't worry, Dumbledore," Harry said, suppressing a laugh as Dumbledore looked at him. "Even if you get drunk, Fawkes will make sure you get home safely."
Fawkes let out a cheerful trill.
Good! That'll teach the man who mixes honey with his herbs!
"He deserves it," Madam Marchbanks said with a grin, filling Dumbledore's glass to the brim. "Those are old stories, Albus. Haven't you noticed? Rita Skeeter's changed her tune. It's been ages since she's written about you being a senile old fool."
"Very well, I misspoke," Dumbledore said, lifting his glass with a resigned expression. "But Skeeter has changed quite a bit. Any theories, Harry?"
His gaze turned meaningful as he looked at Harry.
"Maybe she had a sudden change of heart," Harry said, stroking his chin. "People change, don't they? Maybe something touched her soul, moved her deeply, and she decided to turn over a new leaf. Anything's possible."
"…That would be a good thing," Dumbledore said, shaking his head slightly, asking no further questions.
It was clear Dumbledore suspected something. Knowing the old man's past, Harry was certain he didn't buy the idea of Rita Skeeter suddenly finding her conscience.
But as long as Dumbledore didn't press his usual mantra about not abusing power, Harry was fine with it. He still disagreed with that philosophy.
Guiding someone toward good—how could that be abuse?
The old folks' gathering was far more relaxed than Harry had expected. The music was soothing, the dancing slow, and the food and drinks practically served themselves. Conversations in some corners grew heated at times, but the overall atmosphere remained calm.
For Harry, it felt almost like being back at Hogwarts, teaching his apprentices. As the only young person in the room, he naturally drew attention. After he and Dumbledore took their seats, elderly witches and wizards kept approaching to greet him or simply to observe. When some, who'd had little contact with the outside world, learned who Harry was and what he'd accomplished, their corner of the hall inexplicably turned into a small classroom.
Harry demonstrated elemental and soul magic in the simplest way possible for the curious witches and wizards. He also answered questions from those already familiar with shamanism, who'd begun studying this new magic and were struggling to communicate with the elements.
As a French wizard who'd lived for centuries, Nicolas Flamel's network of friends was vast, including not only witches and wizards from Britain and France but also from America and beyond.
Harry didn't come away empty-handed either. These seasoned wizards each had their own expertise, and while they sought Harry's advice, they shared their own magical insights, experimental notes, and theoretical ideas.
It was invaluable knowledge. When Dumbledore finally dragged Harry away from the crowd of elderly witches and wizards, Harry felt a pang of regret.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Harry," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "I assume you haven't forgotten the person you most wanted to meet?"
"Nicolas Flamel?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Exactly. Follow me," Dumbledore said, leading the way. "Since he decided to give up the Philosopher's Stone, Nicolas's health has been declining."
"That's noble," Harry said admiringly. "To abandon eternal life—not for some grand cause like world peace, but by choice. Not many could do that."
"Well, your interpretation might be slightly off, but Nicolas would be delighted to hear you think so," Dumbledore said as he pushed open a door.
The room was ornately decorated—very French, as the British might say. A thick carpet covered the floor, and the windows were gilded, revealing a snowy storm outside. But something felt off to Harry. Upon closer inspection, he noticed there wasn't a single sharp edge in the room.
The corners of tables and chairs were cushioned with velvet, as was the windowsill.
"Harry Potter?" A frail, white-haired man in a plain robe, with no beard, stood shakily from his chair.
"That's me," Harry said. "Mr. Flamel?"
"Yes, it's me," Nicolas Flamel replied, his laugh faint and reedy. "Sorry, Harry. Surprised?"
"A little," Harry admitted. "You're much frailer than I expected. I thought old wizards were more like Dumbledore or the others out there."
"Wait, Harry, are you saying I'm fat?" Dumbledore interjected, feigning offense. "That's quite an accusation for an old man."
"Of course not. You're just… sturdy," Harry said, stifling a laugh.
Sturdy was the word. If you sliced Dumbledore in half, one half of his flesh and bones could easily make up Nicolas Flamel's entire frame. Even many of the centenarian wizards outside looked robust by comparison.
Nicolas Flamel, however, could only be described as gaunt. His face and arms lacked any trace of flesh or fat, as if his skin were merely draped over bones.
"Hahahaha!" Nicolas laughed, his spirit surprisingly lively. "You really should cut back on the sweets, Albus."
"No chance," Dumbledore said firmly. "But enough about me, Nicolas. I've brought the person you wanted to meet."
"Thank you. Please, sit. What would you like to drink?" Nicolas asked, gesturing weakly.
"Water," Harry said.
"Honey water," Dumbledore added.
Nicolas didn't need to lift a finger. A pair of elegant teapots, accompanied by teacups, hopped over and filled themselves.
"If you think I looked better last year when you saw me, Harry, you're mistaken," Nicolas said, his voice youthful despite his age. "When Perenelle and I stopped taking the Elixir of Life, we were in even worse shape than now. Oh, Perenelle is my beloved."
"They're very devoted," Dumbledore whispered, covering his mouth.
"Thank you, Albus, I can hear you," Nicolas said with a smile. "Perenelle's not feeling well, so I can't introduce her today. Anyway, you've seen me now, Harry. Are you frightened? This withered body, this aged face… Since last year, I've had to pad the room with soft materials. If Perenelle or I fall, we could be seriously hurt."
"Are you warning me not to misuse the Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked calmly. "I haven't started studying it yet. If you'd like—"
"No, no, I'm not trying to reclaim the Stone," Nicolas said, waving a frail hand. "You're Albus's favorite student now. I don't know how you compare to Newt from decades ago—"
"Nicolas?" Dumbledore interrupted, exasperated.
"Oh, sorry," Nicolas said, chuckling. "What I mean is, if Albus trusts you, so do I. He rarely misjudges people."
"I think you could skip to the magical discussion, Nicolas," Dumbledore interjected again. "I only learned today that Harry has mastered another form of immortality."
"Another?" Despite his frailty, Nicolas rubbed his hands excitedly. "Through what? Potions? Spells? A ritual? Or even a curse?"
"A shaman skilled in the ways of the elements can ascend their mortal body into an elemental form, living as an elemental being until they're killed," Harry explained.
"You can already do this?" Nicolas asked.
"I can, but there's no need," Harry said, shaking his head. "I'm not tired of my mortal body yet, and I don't quite share the elements' aesthetic tastes."
"Elements…" Nicolas murmured, seeming lost in thought. "One moment."
With that, the frail old man shuffled to a side room and soon returned with a small box.
"Take a look at this little fellow," Nicolas said, delighted, as he placed the box on the table.
As he spoke, a pair of dull silver hands gripped the box's edge. A tiny creature, no bigger than a palm, climbed out. Its translucent body shimmered like mercury, but duller, resembling a water elemental yet thicker, like molten metal.
"What is it?" Dumbledore asked, intrigued.
"A little life that appeared at home," Nicolas said happily. "If you ever use up the Philosopher's Stone, Harry, you'll find it transforms into something like this."
Nicolas pulled a stone from his pocket and placed it on the table. Irregular in shape, translucent, and nearly identical in color to the creature.
"You mean… this is an elemental spirit born from a used-up Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked, astonished.
"Elemental spirit? Is that what it's called?" Nicolas asked, equally curious.
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