The late afternoon sun bled gold across the high windows of the Headmaster's office. Professor Dumbledore stood near the arched window, gazing thoughtfully at the sky as streaks of crimson bled into violet clouds. Behind him, Professor McGonagall sat stiffly in one of the armchairs near the hearth, her fingers clasped tightly in her lap.
"So, what should we do, Albus?" she asked quietly. "What about Potter?"
Dumbledore didn't turn. "Be vigilant, Minerva. Let Remus introduce himself to Harry formally. Keep him close. I want them to build trust. And… ensure Harry is not left alone. We cannot allow Sirius to get near him."
McGonagall's mouth tightened. "I still can't believe Sirius Black is capable of betraying Potters like that."
Dumbledore finally turned, the lines around his eyes heavier than usual. "Nor can I," he said quietly. "But belief alone is not proof. And in this case, Minerva… I fear we know far less than we assume."
Just then, a small parchment appeared on his desk in a puff of golden light. It unfolded itself with a quiet rustle. Dumbledore picked it up, his eyes scanning the lines—and then, unexpectedly, a smile touched his lips.
"Something wrong?" McGonagall asked, watching him carefully.
"Nothing at all," he said lightly. "Nicolas has invited me. It seems he wishes to discuss something rather… curious."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Do try to return before midnight. You know how quickly Hogwarts notices when you're gone."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed. I shall do my best." Then he turned to his phoenix. "Come, Fawkes. An old friend awaits."
The phoenix gave a trill of agreement and swooped down from his perch, landing gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder. A second later, flames engulfed them both, and they vanished in a burst of fire and light.
⸻
The flames reappeared just outside a quiet manor nestled by the sea. The evening breeze carried the scent of saltwater and wild lavender. Dumbledore stepped forward, brushing soot from his cloak as Fawkes soared into the sky with a screech of joy.
The small stone manor, elegant and understated, had ivy crawling up its façade and a single wooden door with runic carvings. Dumbledore knocked gently.
Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Nicolas Flamel—his long silver hair tied neatly, his eyes still as sharp as any young scholar's.
"Dumbledore!" he exclaimed warmly. "Earlier than expected, as always."
Dumbledore smiled and embraced him. "It's good to see you, Nicolas."
"Come in, come in." Flamel led him through a cozy corridor lined with old books, celestial charts, and alchemical instruments that glowed faintly. "Perenelle is out—she's discovered a new Muggle shopping district. Her fascination with their fashion never ceases."
"I can't say I blame her," Dumbledore said with amusement. "Their socks are rather remarkable."
Flamel snorted. "Still with your sweets and socks, I see. Sit down, Albus. I'll make you some green tea—your teeth must be half sugar by now."
Minutes later, they were seated in a modest sunroom overlooking the waves, steaming tea in hand.
"Nicolas," Dumbledore said softly, "you mentioned something urgent in your letter."
"Yes." Flamel's smile faded. "I'm thinking of making a new Philosopher's Stone."
Dumbledore's eyes flicked upward. "A new one?"
"Yes. There's more to my work in alchemy than just immortality, Albus. Much more. I never completed everything I set out to do. And…" He gazed out at the setting sun. "I wish to witness what the Muggles will build next. A new civilization is dawning—something brilliant, something far beyond what any wizarding mind has yet grasped."
Dumbledore tilted his head. "I thought you planned to… retire. Let the ages pass quietly."
Flamel chuckled. "I did. But someone—someone quite persistent—changed my mind. I want to see the century's turn. The age of silicon and satellites. It will be the Muggles' most glorious chapter."
The two men sat in reflective silence for a time, until Dumbledore spoke again, more carefully this time.
"Nicolas… just hours ago, a man entered my office. He came with Minister Fudge, posing as a senior Auror. But I recognized him—not his face, but the way he moved, the feeling of his magic. He's a Valoryn."
Flamel froze.
"You're certain?" he asked quietly.
"As certain as I've ever been," Dumbledore replied. "He couldn't hide from me—not from a master of Transfiguration. His disguise was perfect… but there were cracks. And when he met my gaze, there was a weight to him, an ancient weight."
Flamel slowly set down his cup.
"The House of Valoryn," he said, as if invoking a storm, "has not interfered directly in decades. Perhaps a century. They exist in the shadow of world affairs. Always watching. Never acting—unless something truly significant is at stake."
"That's what concerns me," Dumbledore said. "There have been movements. Not just in Britain. France. Egypt. Even the Americas. Hidden hands stirring the search for lost artifacts and ancient castles. It's as if the past is being pulled forward."
"And if the Valoryns are at the center," Flamel murmured, "then whatever they're seeking… is not ordinary. It may be something they buried themselves."
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Their influence is vast. Quiet, but vast. Even the International Confederation has members aligned with them, knowingly or not."
"I've known their line for centuries," Flamel admitted. "They do not expose themselves. Most of their descendants live among Muggles, completely hidden. Their magic is… old. Different. Something elemental, almost primordial."
He looked directly at Dumbledore. "Albus, listen to me carefully. If they're moving now, it means they're close to finding what they've long feared—or long desired. But you must never let them know you're watching them. The moment they sense you're probing… they'll act. And when they do, it won't be subtle."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "I found it strange they came in disguise. Into my office. It was bold."
Flamel's voice dropped. "They were testing you or something else ."
The two men stared at each other in the waning light, the waves crashing distantly against the shore.
After a moment, Flamel stood. "You should go. Watch your step, Albus. There are powers rising that no prophecy has prepared us for."
Dumbledore stood as well. "And you, my friend. Good luck with the stone."
Flamel gave a faint smile. "It may be my last."
A soft trill echoed as Fawkes swooped down, landing gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder once more.
And then, with a whisper of fire, he was gone.