Early in the morning, when the first rays of the sun barely touched the roofs of the estate, Nicolas entered the workshop with a heavy heart. He froze on the threshold: Victor was already there. The boy was standing with his back to the door, humming the melody of Vivaldi's Winter from the day before, quietly and almost tenderly.
The workshop was ready for surgery: in the center stood a surgical table, and next to it, on a tray, sterile instruments glimmered. Flamel swallowed hard, looking at the teenager's narrow back.
— Victor, I have made a decision, — he said firmly. — I will not do this. It is madness. You are still a child, and I will not let you make such a mistake.
— I knew you would lose your nerve at the last moment, — came a calm, even mocking voice. — That is why I decided to spare you the agony of choice.
Victor turned slowly. The legendary alchemist's breath hitched, and his heart skipped a beat. The boy's face was covered in fresh blood, which had trickled down his cheeks onto the collar of his snow-white shirt. And where lively blue eyes had shone just yesterday, there now gaped a frightening, unnatural emptiness.
— Hello everyone, to those I haven't seen, — Victor smiled dazzlingly. Because of the bloody trails cutting across his face, the smile looked like the grimace of a reanimated nightmare.
— What... what have you done?! — Flamel shrieked, rushing toward him, his trembling hands trying to inspect the wounds. — Victor! Where are your eyes?! They can still be returned if we hurry, magic is capable of reattaching them!
Victor tilted his head to the side indifferently:
— Eyes? Oh, I accidentally burned them. They were too... weak for me.
— You... you are insane! — Nicolas exhaled, recoiling.
Victor laughed, and the sound echoed off the stone walls of the workshop, ringing in the empty room like the tolling of a bell.
— Hahaha! I know. I think I even have a certificate somewhere to prove it. So, Nicolas? Will you leave me a cripple, or shall we... — he picked up the black box from the tray. — Shall we take the risk?
Looking at him, Flamel felt a genuine, icy terror for the first time in his life. He cursed the day he had begun creating those spheres. He knew he shouldn't have, but the alchemist's side of him, craving great achievements, had proven stronger than common sense.
— Ha-ah... Lie down, — Nicolas exhaled heavily, feeling his legs go weak. — There is no changing your mind now. And it is better that I do this, using all my knowledge, than for you to ruin yourself completely on your own.
Nicolas slowly, step by step, implanted the crimson spheres while Victor lay on the operating table. The boy continued to hum the melody of the previous day's sonata under his breath, and this serene sound in the sterile silence of the workshop frightened the alchemist more than any scream.
— Does it not hurt you at all? — Under Flamel's trembling fingers, Victor's flesh began to close, accepting the foreign bodies.
Victor interrupted his humming for a moment:
— Painful? Perhaps. I don't know; I stopped perceiving physical pain like others do a long time ago. For me, it is just... background noise.
Nicolas wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
— Do you realize that Perenelle will bury me alive because of you?
— Don't worry, — Victor's lips stretched into a faint, almost innocent smile. — After killing you, she will come for me. And dying together is much more fun, don't you think?
Flamel just shook his head tiredly, finishing the final touches.
— It is done. Now, only to activate them and connect them to the neural channels.
— Then why are we stalling? — impatience flickered in Victor's voice.
— Victor, listen, — Nicolas's hand hovered over his face. — Once I send the impulse, there will be no turning back. Let's stop. I swear, I will find a way to restore your original vision...
— Ha-ah, Nicolas, we are already on the home stretch, — Victor interrupted him. — There is no retreat. Finish it. One pull—and that's it. Like ripping off a bandage.
Flamel hesitated for another second, squeezed his eyes shut, and covered the boy's face with his palm. He began to whisper the words of the spell. When he pulled his hand away, the workshop was flooded with blinding light: Victor's eyes flashed with a bright crimson flame, which faded a moment later, replaced by an unnatural luster.
— Well? How is it? — Victor asked.
— It is done, — the alchemist exhaled, feeling utterly hollow.
— Yes? Strange, I don't see anything, — Victor blinked a couple of times. Darkness was still all he saw.
— Give them time. Your body must accept them.
— Fine... But must they itch so much— Victor suddenly fell silent. His body went rigid in an instant.
In the next second, he arched his back on the table and let out a scream that cracked the stone walls of the workshop.
— A-A-A-A-A-A!
It was not just a scream of pain. A wave of raw, uncontrolled magic struck out from Victor in all directions. The workshop shuddered. Shelves crashed down, vials of rare ingredients burst, filling the air with acrid smoke. The Flamel castle shook to its very foundation, as if an invisible monster were trying to crush it.
— VICTOR! — Nicolas grabbed the boy's shoulders with a death grip, trying to keep him on the table, but the boy was being thrown about as if by powerful electric shocks. Victor's scream, turning into a wheeze, did not cease. Flamel gritted his teeth. Victor had torn his own eyes out without making a sound, but now, as the Sharingan integrated into his nervous system, he screamed as if his soul were being torn apart.
— Nick! Are we under attack?! — Perenelle burst into the workshop, tightly gripping the hand of a frightened Adele. But seeing that Victor was the epicenter of the catastrophe, she froze. — Nicolas, what is happening here?!
— VICTOR! — Adele shrieked and rushed toward her brother, but Perenelle shoved her back with a jerk, shielding her.
— Stay back! You won't withstand this pressure!
— NICOLAS FLAMEL! — Perenelle's voice cut through the crash of falling shelves. Her aura flared, coloring the air with alarming hues. — What have you done?!
— My dear, I... I will explain everything! — Nicolas looked at his wife in a panic.
Victor let out one last, agonizing scream—piercing and full of pure madness—and suddenly went limp, collapsing onto the table.
In the same instant, everything went quiet. A ringing silence followed. Adele, streaming tears, broke free from Perenelle's grasp and ran to Victor, convulsively grabbing his hand.
— Victor! Please, wake up! Don't leave me!
Nicolas touched his chest with a trembling hand. A second later, he exhaled with difficulty:
— He is alive. His heart is beating. He just passed out.
The alchemist wiped the sweat from his forehead, but suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. It was another wave of magic—cold, heavy, and aimed directly at him. He turned slowly and met his wife's gaze. Perenelle's face had turned into an icy mask, and a wand flared in her hand like lightning ready to strike.
— Perenelle... I will explain everything. He... he forced me, — whispered Nicolas, realizing that if he could not explain himself, this day would mark the end of his long life.
Victor opened his eyes slowly and let out a low moan. His head was splitting as if struck by an enchanted hammer, and a viscous, almost paralyzing weakness had settled into his body.
— It's been a long time since I felt pain... — he wheezed, struggling to move his tongue. — A vile feeling.
— It is only a small price for your idiocy, — came Perenelle's voice, cold as steel. She was sitting in an armchair by the window, and her gaze, fixed on Victor, promised nothing good.
Victor blinked a few times, getting used to the new, unfamiliar sensations in his eye sockets. A faint, barely noticeable smile touched his parched lips.
— Merry Christmas...
— Christmas has already passed, — Perenelle cut him off, not even attempting to soften her tone.
— Really? How long have I been asleep?
— Long enough to miss all the holidays. The vacation is over. I already wrote to Dumbledore that you would be delayed due to "family circumstances."
Victor tried to lift himself on his elbows but felt a strange, cozy weight on his chest. He lowered his hand, and his fingers sank into a mop of familiar, silky hair.
— Adelichka... — he whispered, and his voice softened noticeably.
— She barely left your side all these days. You scared her to death, Victor, — Perenelle stood up, and her robe rustled dryly against the floor. — And now, since you have deigned to wake up, let's go downstairs. We need to have a serious talk. Nicolas has already received his "counseling," now it is your turn.
— Deservedly, — Victor admitted, not trying to argue. — But... Grandmother, could you help me?
— Are you still that weak? — a shadow of genuine concern flickered in her voice for the first time.
— No, — Victor smiled, looking somewhere through her, into the void. — I think I've gone blind.
Perenelle froze. In the blink of an eye, she was by his side. She cradled his face in her icy palms, forcing him to look at her. But Victor's gaze did not focus. His new eyes—those very crimson spheres—now looked lifeless and dull, as if veiled by a whitish haze behind which darkness lurked.
— Victor... — whispered Perenelle, and her voice, usually confident and authoritative, wavered with pure, unadulterated horror. — God, what have you done to yourself?
A heavy silence reigned in the living room. Nicolas, armed with a magical magnifying glass, was carefully studying Victor's motionless eyes.
— Can you do something? Take them out before it's too late! — despair, bordering on rage, echoed in Perenelle's voice.
— It is too late, — Flamel replied gloomily. — I underestimated the nature of the crystals. They have begun to intertwine with his soul. This cannot be changed.
— YOU TWO CLINICAL IDIOTS! — Perenelle erupted, and the air in the room crackled with static electricity. — How did such an idea even enter your heads?! I will grind you both into dust!
Nicolas hunched his shoulders. His brain was working at its limit—he would not survive another outburst of his wife's anger.
— Wait! I think I understand! — he exclaimed.
— What do you understand?!
— His own mana and the energy of the stones have not yet entered into resonance. They must completely mix and accept one another. Only then will he be able to use them. He just needs time.
— Oh, so I will be able to see after all? Hurray, — Victor chimed in. He sat on the sofa and rejoiced as casually as if they were discussing the promise of rain.
— "Hurray"?! YOU LITTLE... — Perenelle had already raised her hand for a smack on the head, but at that moment, fast footsteps rumbled down the stairs.
— VICTOR! — Adele flew into the room and threw herself onto his neck, sobbing.
— There, there, hush, everything is alright, — he hugged her, stroking her back. — I am alive. Almost healthy.
Adele suddenly pulled back sharply and began pummeling his chest with her little fists.
— Fool! Idiot! How could you?! — she choked on her tears. — I was so scared!
Victor sighed and gently pulled her toward him, not letting her break away.
— Forgive me, dear. It was necessary.
Perenelle, seeing this scene, cooled down slightly, though her gaze remained steely. She sat down nearby and began stroking the girl's head.
— We are not finished with this conversation, young man, — she added coldly, looking at Victor.
— Naturally. But that will have to wait, — Victor smiled. — It is time for us to go to school.
— What school, Victor? You are blind! — Perenelle frowned.
— Blind? — Adele froze and looked into his face with fear.
— Just a little bit, — he replied, rising from the sofa. — Nicolas, what time is it?
— Fifteen twenty-four, — replied the alchemist after checking his pocket watch.
Victor nodded. At that moment, his hair began to rapidly lose its color, turning white as fresh snow. A thick blindfold wove itself in his hands out of red magical smoke, which he tied over his eyes with a confident gesture.
— Fifteen twenty-four. The Gojo Satoru cosplay begins.
— Whose? — the Flamels asked in unison.
— Doesn't matter. Missy! Where is my sword?
— The very one you swore you would never take into your hands in your entire life? — Nicolas asked slyly.
— I lied. Missy!
The house-elf appeared with a soft pop. In her hands, she held an elegant cane with a handle shaped like an intricately carved snake's head. Victor took it, felt it, and with a dry click extracted the hidden blade. He cautiously ran his finger along the sharp edge, nodded with satisfaction, and put the sword back, leaning on the hilt.
— I am ready.
He turned with a flourish, took a wide, confident step, trying to find his way with the cane... and crashed his knee into a low coffee table with a loud thud.
— Damn! How do these blind people even walk?!
Perenelle only sighed tiredly and resignedly, covering her eyes with her hand.