Erwin met Dumbledore's gaze evenly. "Forgive my candor, Professor, but the Dark Lord's fate means nothing to me. I live by one rule: the strongest survive. Whether Voldemort lives or dies, it won't touch my life. At worst, if he seizes power and lets me walk away unscathed, I'd consider switching sides. You know me well enough by now, Headmaster. All I want is to survive—no more, no less."
Dumbledore fell silent, the truth of Erwin's words hitting like a blunt force. The boy truly didn't care about Voldemort's survival. For once, the headmaster found himself off-balance, a rare discomfort for someone accustomed to holding all the cards.
He tried another tack. "Erwin, you called Harry your friend. Doesn't that compel you to stand by him?"
Erwin's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Come now, Professor, let's not play the innocent. The moment you mentioned your visit to the Burrow, everything shifted. No more good-boy act from me. This is the straight talk you wanted, isn't it? If you're after my help, name your price. Friendship won't guilt me into it—you know that."
Dumbledore sighed, the weight of his misstep settling in. By exposing Erwin's guarded nature, he'd shattered the fragile rapport between them. No more subtle manipulations or pretense. Erwin spoke freely now, unburdened by caution, and it was entirely the headmaster's doing. Some truths were better left unsaid, but the damage was done.
He sat quietly, his fingers steepled. Erwin waited patiently, lifting the teacup from the desk and taking a sip. He grimaced. "Sweetened black tea? Tastes like syrupy regret."
Dumbledore shrugged, a faint smile breaking through. "Sweetness has its charms—it's the flavor of contentment, after all."
"Perhaps," Erwin conceded. "So, what's your offer, Professor?"
"I've considered what I can provide," Dumbledore replied.
Erwin shook his head. "No, there's something specific you have that piques my interest."
Dumbledore paused, his blue eyes sharpening. "The Philosopher's Stone?"
"Exactly," Erwin said, his smile sharpening. "But not the depleted one hidden here. I want a fresh one, full of power."
Dumbledore's expression hardened. "Impossible. Even Nicolas Flamel couldn't craft another."
"You're not being honest with me, Professor." Erwin leaned forward. "I stumbled on something fascinating in the library. Care to hear?"
The headmaster eyed the boy's confident grin, his brow furrowing slightly. Erwin pressed on, undeterred.
"The records describe how the great alchemist Nicolas Flamel, after transmuting mercury to gold, had a bold vision: to infuse that power into an object, granting it the ability to turn base metal to gold indefinitely. His alchemical genius was unmatched, but he couldn't achieve it alone. So, he partnered with a powerful wizard. Together, they sourced a rare material. With Flamel's expertise and the wizard's potent magic, they succeeded. Ecstatic, Flamel named it the Philosopher's Stone. But the infusion proved volatile—the wizard's magic was too immense. To stabilize it, Flamel secretly divided the stone's power into two parts, sharing the secret only with his collaborator.
"He handed the second portion to the wizard as both payment and a safeguard. Years later, as Flamel's health waned yet his curiosity burned, he refined his share further, weaving in alchemy to grant extended life. But true immortality eludes us all; what he created was a twisted facsimile, more curse than gift. The other stone, stripped of that life-extending essence, vanished with the wizard. And you, Professor Dumbledore, hold it now, don't you?"
A flicker of surprise lit Dumbledore's eyes behind his half-moon spectacles. "Erwin, where did you uncover this?"
Erwin's pulse quickened, but he kept his face impassive. He'd fabricated the tale on the spot, drawing from a half-remembered online theory from his old life—a speculative post backed by obscure historical clues. It was a bluff to probe deeper, his real aim the spent stone for study. Yet Dumbledore's reaction suggested there might be truth to it after all.
"As I said," Erwin replied coolly, "a book in the library. It's documented there."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. "If you're not inclined to elaborate, I won't press. Yes, another Philosopher's Stone exists. Your account is mostly accurate—no one beyond Flamel and myself should know of it. I won't inquire further on your source. This one only transmutes metals; its other powers are long gone. You're hardly in need of gold, so why pursue it?"
"I have my reasons," Erwin said firmly. "You don't need to know them. Give me that stone, and I'll ensure Harry's safe this term—as long as I'm at Hogwarts."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Not sufficient. I need you as his full-time guardian."
Erwin rose with a scoff. "It's getting late, Professor. Evening study awaits. Goodnight."