His gaze held an uncharacteristic plea.
Flal was silent for a long mont. "I can, but without the aid of a legend, even if you succeed in bending ti, you'll never be able to harness what does not rightfully belong to us."
The alchemist spoke plainly, making no effort to soften the truth.
"Give ti," Dumbledore said with quiet conviction. "I will find him… And even if he refuses, there will be another way."
Their eyes t once more— Dumbledore's as deep and steady as ever, but this ti, sothing in his gaze unsettled Flal.
"I knew it! You're even madder than your old friend! More reckless than your own student!" Flal exclaid, his wrinkled face tightening in alarm.
Dumbledore said nothing.
For a long ti, Flal simply circled him as if studying him anew. Then, finally, he spoke again, his voice tinged with reluctant hope.
"Surely… you must have another way?"
But.
Flal only shook his head.
"No. I am an alchemist, not a god. I cannot substitute one material for another, not when the properties are irreplaceable. And even if I could… would you trust an unstable creation with this much at stake?"
Saying this, he turned and heaved open a large, heavy chest, his movents slower than they once were.
Dumbledore stepped forward to assist.
"Are you still searching for the one you call the Creator?"
His voice held quiet curiosity.
"Strictly speaking, I am only pursuing the truth of the being described in ancient alchemical texts," Flal corrected.
"Is there a difference?"
Dumbledore had little patience for legends even more elusive than Death itself.
"Of course, there is a difference. We alchemists know that the true Creator existed— history records those who have glimpsed their works."
Flal exhaled, slightly winded from the physical effort.
"But you have never found them," Dumbledore countered, though he knew Flal's stubbornness well.
"If I had more ti, I would have," Flal replied with certainty. Then, after catching his breath, he gave Dumbledore a knowing look.
"I did not expect you, of all people, to doubt what is so clearly written in the past."
He leaned against an old alchemical device, watching the flicker of contemplation in Dumbledore's eyes.
"From what I understand, your founders truly encountered the original creator." Nicolas Flal's voice was steady and assured, only deepening Albus Dumbledore's confusion.
"Where did you hear such fanciful history?"
When it ca to the past of Hogwarts' founders, the old headmaster considered himself well-versed. Yet, his confidence only earned a soft chuckle from Nicolas Flal.
"You haven't read widely enough, my friend."
The frail alchemist lowered his voice.
"This na is rely a title— bestowed upon them because the first wizard to et them was cursed to refer to them as such. In truth, the real creator is no wizard at all, but rather a magical being."
"At least, it appears to be a magical being… A bird, to be precise. And for a thousand years, its likeness has adorned the emblem of Ravenclaw House."
Nicolas Flal's words were nothing short of astonishing.
Dumbledore's keen blue eyes flickered with intrigue, yet what perplexed him even more was the alchemist's next course of action.
Despite his frail fra, after a brief mont of rest, Flal reached for the box he had brought with him and began hurriedly stuffing various objects into it with surprising energy.
"What exactly are you doing?" Dumbledore asked, watching the peculiar sight.
"Why, I'm going to Hogwarts, of course. Do you not welco an old friend?" Nicolas Flal said lightly as he latched his suitcase shut and made for the door.
"Welco? But of course! You are most certainly welco!" Dumbledore exclaid, seizing the opportunity. "Why, our Alchemy professor just abandoned post this very day— perhaps you might lend your expertise to the next generation?"
Dumbledore had extended this invitation more than once before.
Every ti, he had been t with polite refusals.
But this ti was different.
"No trouble at all. Let put my remaining days to good use." Flal agreed so readily that even Dumbledore was taken aback.
"What's prompted this sudden change of heart?" He asked, curious.
"Oh, for a bit of fun, naturally! You should know, Albus— alchemy is about curiosity, not solemnity." Flal's expression was one of amusent, his manner as carefree as ever.
"Either I'll witness the fall of a legend or the rise of two. Whichever way it goes, I certainly shan't be bored."
"I have seen much in my lifeti," Flal mused, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "But I have yet to truly witness the making of a legend."
Dumbledore found himself at a rare loss for words.
They passed through the outer hall.
"You're leaving? Just like that?" Perenelle Flal eyed her husband, both surprised and amused.
"Only a trip to Hogwarts, my dear. Once I'm settled, I'll bring you along— you wouldn't want to miss the spectacle, after all. A real show is about to unfold. Mind you, we may not survive long enough to see the final act, but it'll be worth the price of admission."
At this, Perenelle Flal's aged yet sharp eyes glead with sudden excitent.
"???"
Dumbledore, who had already endured quite the conversation, was once again rendered speechless. He opened his mouth as if to object but thought better of it, instead sighing and resigning himself to carrying Flal's luggage out of the house.
"At least take sothing to eat on the way!" Perenelle called after them, hastily wrapping so food— though Dumbledore noted, with mild alarm, that she seed to be slipping sothing extra into the parcel at the last mont. Whatever it was, she was a fraction too slow, missing her chance to pass it directly to Flal before he was out the door.
...
Hogsade Village.
Nicolas Flal had been brought there by Albus Dumbledore. Though still a formidable wizard, his waning magical strength no longer allowed him to travel great distances unaided.
"I need a room— sothing spacious." Nicolas Flal strode ahead.
Albus Dumbledore followed closely behind. The bustling street was lined with curious onlookers, many whispering in astonishnt at the sight of Nicolas Flal.
The two elderly wizards quickened their pace. A gentle breeze rustled through the secluded village, lifting a single golden leaf into the air. It twirled gracefully before settling onto a chessboard beneath an ancient tree.
Two middle-aged n sat at the board, deep in their ga.
They were dressed simply, blending into the village scene with an air of quiet anonymity.
"What does this move an?" One of them asked, placing a piece carefully, though his question seed to hold a weight beyond the ga itself.
"You know as well as I do— I'm doing what I must," The other responded evenly, his gaze unwavering from the board.
"You ought to be doing more than that," The blond-haired man murmured, his voice light, yet piercing. "I can see it clearly."
"I do what I must, but that does not an I am without choices," The dark-haired man replied, his thick hair stirring slightly in the wind.
"Look at . Do you think this will end well?" The blond-haired man shook his head, idly adjusting a bronze ring on his finger as he moved a piece.
"I am new to this, but I am better than you." The thick-haired man's voice carried unshaken confidence as he captured his opponent's knight.
"Then I wish you luck," The blond-haired man said, utterly unruffled, as he deftly maneuvered his piece to deliver checkmate in a single move.
The ga was over.
The blond-haired man spread his hands and grinned. "I win! Ti to pay up."
His smile was dazzling.
"You cheated."
The thick-haired man did not move. His reluctance to hand over the wager was not due to the loss itself but rather to his belief that the ga had been subtly manipulated.
"Cheating? ?" The blond-haired man chuckled, making a casual motion with his hand. A single gold Galleon seed to flicker from his opponent's pouch into his own palm as if drawn by an unseen force. The other man showed no reaction, as though resigned to the trickery.
"It's just as well you're leaving soon." The thick-haired man sighed.
"Alas, the term isn't over yet," the blond-haired man mused, flipping the coin in his fingers. "Still, I got what I ca for so it's hardly a loss."
He rose, stepping away from the board.
The thick-haired man watched him go in silence.
He lted into the crowd.
"Next year, I'll return. Of course, under a new na."
A youthful voice drifted through the throng.
Amidst the bustling streets of Hogsade.
The blond-haired boy turned back, casting a long glance at the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. His eyes glead as though they could pierce through stone, witnessing the young witches and wizards inside as they wrestled with their holiday gifts.
"I can't open it!!" Ian had been toiling in the Room of Requirent for hours.
"Eight-Pointed Nimbus!"
"Shadow Tempest!"
"rlin's Beard— Avada Kedavra!"
He hurled every spell he knew at the pile of presents from Father Christmas.
And when that failed, he resorted to Fiendfyre, lashing at them with roaring flas.
Yet.
The presents remained unscathed.
(End of Chapter)
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