Fire gave way to silence.
With a final burst of golden flames, we reappeared in front of a small, crooked cottage that looked like it had been forgotten by the world itself.
No road, no village close by, not even a single sign of civilization.
Just a weather-beaten stone house sitting in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in quiet and old magic.
Fawkes, ever dramatic, resettled himself on my shoulder as if this was simply his natural place in the world.
Dumbledore blinked at him. "…He seems to like you," he observed mildly.
"I have that effect on magical creatures," I replied, smoothing my robes. "It's a gift."
We stepped toward the property, and I immediately felt it.
Magic.
Thick, heavy, ancient magic.
The air itself turned electric as invisible wards swept over me, crawling along my skin like ghostly fingers. Every hair on my body stood on end as the defenses examined me from soul to surface; intentions, magic, bloodline, wand, emotions.
For a heartbeat… I thought they might reject me.
Until the pressure finally eased and we were granted permission.
We walked up the narrow stone path, and as Dumbledore lifted his hand to knock…
The door swung open on its own.
He froze, hand still raised mid-knock.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it hurt.
Merlin help me, it was beautiful.
That awkward, helpless pause? That tiny, dignified moment of being outplayed by a door?
That was exactly my kind of humor. And I know for a fact that it was the sort of thing the old Headmaster loved doing to others when they visited his office.
The great Albus Dumbledore was just gotten force fed a dose of his own medicine and it was magnificent.
"...Shall we?" Dumbledore coughed, lowering his hand and stepping inside as if he'd intended that all along.
I followed him eagerly, and the world changed.
The inside of the cottage felt like stepping into a dream, or a madman's workshop.
Every surface shimmered with quiet life. Glass vials floated gently through the air, filled with shimmering liquids that shifted colors depending on how you looked at them. Tiny metallic birds hopped across shelves, ticking and chirping like clockwork hearts. A teacup sprouted crystalline legs and simply… walked off a table.
Even the walls seemed alive, faintly pulsing with golden runes carved so delicately they looked grown rather than etched.
It felt like walking into a fairy tale. Or one of those strange Muggle "Disney" animations.
Dumbledore walked through it all like it was perfectly normal. He led us past spiraling staircases that moved on their own and past a fishbowl full of liquid silver that whispered softly when I walked by. A Pensieve, I wondered what memory was currently inside it.
We kept going toward the heart of the house.
"The lab," he murmured.
It wasn't hard to believe this was where its owner spent most of his time. Even in retirement, even at death's door, this was clearly the den of a man who could never stop creating.
And sure enough, he was right there, bent over a worktable.
He looked… wrong.
Not grotesque, not frightening. Just… impossibly fragile.
His skin was pale as parchment, so thin it looked like light might pass through him. Long, shoulder-length hair hung around his face in tangled silver-white strands. His robes were ancient white, frayed at the hems, covered in stains that shimmered faintly with alchemical residue.
If not for the fact that he was solid, breathing, and humming quietly to himself…
I might've sworn he was a ghost.
Nicolas Flamel was still alive.
If only just barely.
…
Dumbledore broke the silence first.
"Nick," he called out softly.
The old man lifted his head with effort, eyes focusing slowly, like dusty lenses being wiped clean. His lips twitched.
"Albie…" he rasped in greeting.
His gaze shifted to me, studying me with quiet curiosity. "And this is…?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth, ready to answer for me.
But I beat him to it.
I stepped forward, gave my robes a subtle flick to let them fall just right, and offered my best charming smile.
"Allow me to introduce myself," I said smoothly. "Gilderoy Lockhart."
I placed a hand over my chest.
"Order of Merlin, Third Class. Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League. Five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award…"
I paused meaningfully, then added, "And I suppose I should also add Slayer of Basilisks to my list of accolades now. Possibly Heir of Gryffindor as well…"
I gestured casually toward the scabbard at my waist. I'd conjured it earlier, only a temporary fix, of course, until I could arrange something more suitably legendary, because there was no way anyone was going to pry this sword away from me.
Flamel's thin, papery eyebrows rose higher with every title.
By the end of my introduction, they were practically trying to escape his forehead.
The poor man looked like his soul had nearly left his body.
Dumbledore, traitor that he is, chose that exact moment to step in, clearly amused.
"He's also Hogwarts' current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," he added mildly.
I inclined my head. No need to boast, the facts spoke for themselves.
Then Dumbledore's tone turned serious.
"We came because we are in need of your help, old friend," he said. "A first-year student… a young girl… has had most of her life force drained. The situation is… dire."
Flamel's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
"We were hoping," Dumbledore continued, ever the diplomat, "that you might still possess a small quantity of the Elixir of Life. Enough to stabilize her."
The silence that followed was… not encouraging.
Finally, Flamel let out a weary sigh that seemed too large for his fragile chest.
"I am sorry, Albus," he said quietly. "Perenelle and I… we drank the last of it three days ago."
The words hit the room like a dropped glass vial, soft, but devastating.
"Six months," he went on. "That is what it will give us. Time enough to put our last affairs in order."
Then he lifted a hand, cutting off Dumbledore before he could speak again.
"And no," he added calmly, "before you ask… there is no time to make another Stone."
His gaze flicked to Dumbledore, sharp despite the age.
"And from what you've told me… the girl should have been given the Draught of Living Death to extend what little she has left of life, hasn't she?."
Dumbledore inclined his head.
"Then she does not have the luxury of time," Flamel said flatly. "Even if I gave you the formula; which, I might remind you, you once refused, there would not be enough time to complete the work."
I felt my jaw tighten.
Of course. Of course it wouldn't be simple. Nothing ever is.
But I didn't come all this way to accept no.
And judging by the look in Dumbledore's eyes… Neither did he.
I stepped forward before Dumbledore could, my heart pounding in a way no applause had ever managed to provoke.
"There has to be another way," I said, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. I met Flamel's paper-thin gaze without flinching. "You're Nicolas Flamel. If anyone knows an alternative to the Elixir… it's you."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His skeletal fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his worktable. His eyes; ancient, tired, and far too knowing, studied my face as if weighing something fragile and dangerous.
"…There may be a way," he said at last.
Even Dumbledore went still.
Flamel's voice dropped, turning brittle. "An old ritual. Forgotten by most, forbidden by many. It allows one person to share their own life force with another."
Hope flared in my chest.
Then he shook his head slowly. "But it is not so simple. Life does not transfer cleanly. Much of it is lost in the process." His hollow eyes flicked briefly to Dumbledore. "That is why the caster must be a very powerful wizard. Only those with unnaturally long lifespans can survive the loss."
Silence fell like a weight.
"A normal wizard," Flamel continued softly, "would not have enough life to give. Not enough to buy the child the time she needs."
He paused… then added, firmly: "And no, Albus. It cannot be you. At your age, the ritual would kill you before it ever reached the girl."
The air felt colder somehow.
And for the first time since stepping into that strange, living house…
I understood exactly what kind of sacrifice this "alternative" truly demanded.
I drew a slow breath, the kind that settles somewhere between the ribs and the heart.
"I'll do it."
The words left me before doubt could catch up.
Flamel's pale eyes sharpened as they lifted to me. For a man who looked like a strong wind could carry him off, his gaze still carried unbearable weight. He studied me the way one might examine a cracked but still functional wand.
"I should be able to," I added, quieter now. "Right?"
Silence stretched.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "You are… more than strong enough." He looked almost regretful as he continued, "But understand this, boy. This ritual will take from you. Most of you. It will not be gentle. You will be left with… perhaps a few years at best."
My fingers curled slightly at my sides.
"And even then," he added softly, "the girl will not be 'saved' in the way you imagine. She will live… but she will still die young. Likely before she's even old enough to graduate from Hogwarts."
Was it worth it?
That question hung in the air without ever being spoken aloud.
I let out a breath that might have been a laugh, if I'd been someone else.
"What kind of teacher," I said quietly, "could I call myself… if I couldn't even save one of my students?"
It wasn't dramatic, it wasn't clever.
It was just… true.
Behind me, I felt it more than saw it.
Dumbledore's silence.
Different than before. He wasn't just listening now. He was watching me.
And suddenly I understood, I hadn't been brought here just to accompany him.
I was being tested. For what exactly? I was sure I was about to find out.
…