Hearing Harry's question, Loren wasn't surprised. It seemed Dumbledore had done quite a bit over the holiday, nudging Harry back onto the original track.
"Nicolas Flamel is a renowned master of alchemy. People who don't follow alchemy tend not to know him. Harry, why the sudden interest? I've got a little aptitude in alchemy—I could give you some guidance."
He didn't answer directly, but sidestepped the topic.
"No, Loren, I'm just curious about Nicolas Flamel himself. How much do you actually know?"
Harry pressed on, and Neville and Ron looked over, eager to hear what Loren would say.
"Nicolas Flamel—also rendered Nicolas le Flamel or Nicolas de Flamel—French, born in 1330, the most famous alchemist of the 14th century. He's credited with creating the Philosopher's Stone and with successfully turning base metal into gold. He is also said to have used the Stone to grant himself and his wife long life—people have claimed to see him across the centuries. I read those notes in a library in Paris."
Harry brightened at first, then visibly deflated at the last sentence.
"Talking about alchemy… that rings a bell. Let me think—alchemy, Nicolas Flamel…" Neville's words hit Harry like a shot of tonic. He watched Neville, afraid to interrupt and break his train of thought—Neville's memory had scarred Harry often enough.
Fortunately, Neville didn't disappoint. He fished around in his robe and finally produced a Dumbledore card, flipped it over, and read aloud: "Albus Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, recognized as the greatest wizard of the age. His well-known achievements include: defeating the Dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald in 1945; discovering twelve uses of dragon's blood; and distinguished work in alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel."
Harry perked right up—then shot Loren a wounded look.
Loren ignored the watery eyes and said to Neville, "Looks like you reviewed well."
Harry burst out, "Loren, why did you lie to me?"
Loren didn't argue. He pulled a magical notebook from his robe, opened the files he'd uploaded earlier, and set them in front of Harry. The text matched what he'd said. Harry stared between the page and Loren and was left with nothing to say.
Neville tugged Harry's sleeve and whispered, "Loren wasn't wrong—some famous people are recorded by Muggles."
Harry drew a long breath. "Alright, Loren, stop messing with me. Please tell me the details about Nicolas Flamel in the wizarding world."
"Harry, don't be biased just because a record-keeper happens to be a Muggle," Loren said—and left it at that. He headed off to wash up and sleep.
If he shoved the answer under Harry's nose right now, Dumbledore would definitely come by for tea. There was nothing in the Headmaster's office worth peeking at anymore—so no thanks on the tea.
Harry moved to grab him, but Ron stopped him.
Harry glanced at Ron, puzzled.
"Loren already gave the clue: alchemy," Ron said, eyeing Loren at the washbasin. "We can ask George and Fred. They know a lot about it."
Ron had felt something warm from Loren—closer than what he felt from his own family—and without noticing, he was leaning Loren's way.
Harry thought it over and decided to ask the twins at Quidditch practice tomorrow. The next match against Hufflepuff was close; Loren wouldn't be on the pitch, so practice ran almost every day. Harry had a headache just thinking about it.
The next evening, the team gathered to train—and, unusually, Loren came to the pitch as well, apparently to discuss something with Wood. While they talked, Harry went straight to George and Fred for news about Nicolas Flamel.
The twins were surprised by the question but still traded off answers.
"Nicolas Flamel's a great alchemist. He's a few hundred years old by now."
"Maybe our Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, could find him."
"Since they're good friends."
Harry seized the key point. "If he's a few hundred years old, how did he live so long?"
The twins exchanged a look. To them, Harry's interest clearly meant he knew about the Philosopher's Stone—long life attracts everyone, doubly so for a boy raised by Muggles. Still, these weren't deep secrets; you could find them in basic books. They explained, and Harry quickly got what he wanted. He realized what he'd brushed off in Loren's words earlier. More importantly, he now saw that the trapdoor guarded by the three-headed dog likely led to the Philosopher's Stone—entrusted to Dumbledore for safekeeping after someone went after it at Gringotts.
Wood and Loren finished talking and came back. Wood called the players over—he had announcements.
"Two items," Wood said gravely. "First, on Loren's suggestion, we're expanding the squad. Starting next year, we'll recruit reserve players. Reserves will train with the team and replace graduates. In principle, we'll take third-years and below, since the reserves are meant to fill future gaps and keep the team strong. Spread the word. If anyone wants in, test them yourselves; if they pass, bring them to practice. If we have enough numbers, we'll even run scrimmages."
The team erupted—especially George and Fred, both in third year with loads of Quidditch-mad friends to recruit. The idea of training with their mates had them so giddy they mounted their brooms and showed off in the air.
Wood had to cough loudly to pull focus. When the twins finally landed, he continued, "Second item: Professor Snape will referee the next match."
He barely finished before George and Fred slid off their brooms. Thankfully they'd been hovering low and weren't hurt. They scrambled up, grabbed Wood's shoulders, and demanded, "Wood, that's a joke, right?"
"Sorry. I wish it were—but Loren brought me this news."
The twins turned to Loren. He nodded. They pounced, each hugging one of Loren's legs, and wailed, "Great Lion King, won't you protect your poor subjects? The Serpent King is reaching his black hand toward your people—we beg your shelter!"
Wood pried them off with two swift kicks. "Loren isn't taking the field unless someone has an accident."
At that, the twins' eyes spun with wicked ideas. Wood saw it at once and slapped both the backs of their heads. "We're Gryffindor, not Slytherin. No dirty tricks. Even if Snape favors Hufflepuff, we'll win on strength. We've got the best Seeker—Harry."
The twins sidled up to Harry and whispered a scheme. Harry, mind in chaos—Snape going for the Stone, Snape refereeing—blurted, "Even if I jump off my broom and die, I am not turning into Harrie (non-canon temporary form of Harry) to play."
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810