Chapter 68: A Letter to Nicolas
"Does Voldemort truly not exist anymore?"
"From my perspective, his current state is more like a reflection between life and death," Dumbledore said. "Even if all his life-saving measures were destroyed, I cannot say for certain that he would cease to be. Furthermore, certain enchantments, such as the protective mechanisms of Hogwarts itself, or the magic of love… these are not easily bypassed. Ordinary spells would have little effect on such a being."
Invincible, then? Ryan thought. He said Voldemort was clinging to life, but surely not to this extent? He felt a strange envy for Voldemort's current state. He couldn't resist the temptation to ask. "Headmaster," he said, though he doubted the question would yield any real information, "when it comes to immortality, you surely have strong opinions."
Dumbledore, seeing the question in Ryan's eyes, responded, "I assure you, this state of being must be exceptionally agonizing. Otherwise, Voldemort would never have set his sights on the Philosopher's Stone, nor would he have forced Quirrell to drink unicorn blood. For even Voldemort, I suspect, does not wish to be covered in curses."
Unless he has some extraordinary kink for weakness and restriction, who would want to be burdened with debuffs? Ryan found it amusing that even Voldemort might have some peculiar preferences. "Well," he said, "the next step rests with Mr. Ron Weasley. I hope he proves himself a true Weasley."
"I have always believed him to be a Weasley," Dumbledore said. "And a Gryffindor."
The conversation about Ron was mercifully brief. Dumbledore turned back to the matter at hand, bringing out a fresh sheet of parchment. He began to write, his long fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as he drafted a letter to Nicolas Flamel.
"My dearest Nicolas," he began, "I hope this letter finds you well. It has been some time since we last corresponded, and I am glad that we are both still exploring the truths of alchemy. You mentioned in your last reply that you wished to observe Ryan further. I agree with your assessment, but a problem has arisen.
You have, perhaps, never encountered anything like this in your centuries of life. On this day alone, from dawn until I began writing this letter, three Seers have made prophecies concerning the future. All three foretold a dark future. Ryan Welles, the most talented Seer of the century, saw a dark, lifeless cave. Sybill Trelawney, the very Seer whose prophecy foretold Voldemort's demise, spoke of life, reason, and a pervasive sense of unease. And Gellert Grindelwald, who saw the future with his own eyes, told me of a coming deluge of blood and fire, of hardship and catastrophe.
I dare not disbelieve what I have heard, but I am forced to accept the grim reality. All three predictions, in their own way, spoke of a future that is dire indeed. But my deepest fear is that all three prophecies align perfectly with the key word: 'darkness.' And none of them specify when or what this darkness is. I do not have the luxury of time. We must strengthen the wizarding world, and we must do it secretly. I cannot reveal these prophecies to the public. Firstly, it would incite widespread panic. Secondly, I cannot bear to imagine what some wizards might do if they knew the truth of the approaching crisis. I must consider their safety.
This leads me to believe that Ryan's ingenious ideas may be the catalyst for a necessary revolution in the wizarding world. He requires a profound understanding of alchemy to achieve his grand vision. Thus, I implore you to send me your reply as soon as possible." He paused, then added, "Your friend, Dumbledore."
After finishing the letter, Dumbledore rubbed his temples, then handed it to Fawkes. "Send this to Nicolas. You know where he lives." Fawkes let out a bright, clear cry and vanished.
Dumbledore then walked to the window and gazed at the shifting clouds. He remembered standing in this very spot with Grindelwald, discussing the nature of their future. It was ironic that two young men, once so close, driven apart by ideological differences, should now find their fates intertwined for centuries. He stood there, a man who had lived through the rise and fall of two Dark Lords, and now, as a new twilight approached, he found himself facing a new, perhaps even greater, threat. He felt a sense of renewed purpose. Though old, he was not yet useless.
In a quiet clearing in Paris, a magnificent, bird-like creature suddenly appeared, rippling through space like water before vanishing. A passerby, on his way to buy groceries, blinked. Perhaps I need to take a vacation, he thought. I've been working too hard. But then he remembered his triple overtime pay. No! I can keep going! The company pays me well, and this company is my home! I don't need rest!
He hurried on his way, firmly resolved that if the company demanded more work, he would stay until the job was done.
In a safe house, shielded by a powerful Fidelius Charm and a slew of protective spells, Nicolas Flamel, pale and nearly translucent, accepted the letter Fawkes had delivered. His fingers, resembling brittle, ancient wood, moved with surprising dexterity and steadiness, capable of performing the most delicate alchemical experiments.
"Is this Dumbledore's third recommendation for Ryan?" Nicolas mused, opening the letter without realizing its gravity. "Albus is not getting any younger, is he? Why is he getting so sentimental?"
His wife, Perenelle, who was also several hundred years old, smiled. "Albus is over a hundred, Nicolas. When one finds someone worthy of inheriting their legacy, it is natural to feel a sense of loss. Especially for a wizard like Albus, who has found so few true successors in all his years."
Nicolas's smile faded. He had to admit, she had a point. He, himself, had never found a disciple worthy of carrying on his alchemical work. Dumbledore had been a possibility, but his path lay elsewhere. Dumbledore, after all, was the greatest wizard of his time, having twice defended the world from the clutches of a Dark Lord.
"I wonder what's in the letter?" Nicolas said, trying to guess. "You first, Perenelle. What do you think Albus has written?"
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