Devonshire.
A secluded estate nestled deep within the countryside.
For centuries, this place had been out of reach to all but a select few, Muggle and wizard alike.
At the estate's heart stood a magnificent, perfectly square room.
Massive green granite pillars stretched up, supporting a ceiling ten meters above. Beethoven's Sixth Symphony echoed in the air, its resounding melodies coming from a square-framed mirror on the western wall.
A closer look at the mirror revealed an image of the Vienna Theater, where a grand orchestra played under the wild-haired command of a conductor whose movements channeled the music.
The room's atmosphere was surreal: walls covered in kaleidoscopic patterns of ancient symbols, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Hebrew letters, astronomical signs, alchemical runes, and other cryptic designs.
Higher up, six portraits adorned the wall, each figure holding a ruby-red stone that gleamed in their hands, like the eyes of a ghost.
But unlike the rotating headmasters in the portraits of Dumbledore's office, these six were all the same person. Each was simply one century older than the last.
In silence, the six portraits watched over the lone elder in the center of the room.
The man wore a finely tailored dragon-hide apron and gloves woven from unicorn hair. Bent over an experiment on the workbench before him, he examined a large, U-shaped vial.
With a slight push of his rhino-horn-framed glasses, he muttered to himself in soft tones, occasionally leaping in excitement, then lapsing back into deep concentration.
"Oh, this melody won't do—it's far too gentle. I need something with passion!" he snapped his fingers, and Beethoven disappeared from the mirror, replaced by Bach.
"Ugh, no—Bach is two centuries out of style. I need something with a modern beat."
The mirror flickered, shifting to the beat of rock music.
If William had been there, he'd have recognized the Thor: Ragnarok soundtrack immediately.
But the album had been released back in 1970, so it was clearly a more recent favorite of the old man's.
He nodded in satisfaction, bopping along to the beat.
As the track ended, he started it over again on loop.
Eventually, a sharp tone cut through the music.
In the corner of the room, a stone toad statue croaked loudly, "Albus Dumbledore will arrive at the front gate in fifteen minutes."
The man glanced up, looking toward a nearby window where an enormous crystal ball sat.
Within the orb was the faint image of Dumbledore, who would soon Apparate just outside the estate, precisely fifteen minutes into the future.
"Oh, right. I'd forgotten about that," the man murmured, tapping his forehead as he realized.
He'd only intended to spend a few minutes on his experiment, but somehow, the entire afternoon had vanished.
"There's never enough time!" he grumbled.
"Mark the one hundred thousand and eighty-third failure on the Universal Elixir experiment," he instructed. "Dispose of the half-finished mixture."
"Yes, sir!" A house-elf appeared, wearing a finely tailored silk shirt and a pair of round sunglasses that shielded his tennis-ball-sized green eyes. His long ears were wrapped in a stylish Arabian headscarf.
"Nice look, Hercules. You've truly inherited the family's sense of style." The man gave an approving grin.
"Thank you for the compliment, sir," Hercules said with a respectful bow.
"Relax!" the elder man cast a wary glance toward a distant room, then lowered his voice. "Do you have any plans this weekend? I happen to have two tickets to a fashion show…Victoria's Secret…"
Hercules broke into a cold sweat. "But, sir, if madam were to find out…"
"Hush! Who's going to tell her, eh?" the elder replied, removing his glasses to apply a drop of potion to his eyes.
"You probably don't know, but I have an eye for spotting hidden beauty before anyone else sees it.
"Take Van Gogh, for instance. Nobody wanted his paintings back in the day. I bought a whole stack, and now, just look at how much they're worth among Muggles!
"So, trust me when I say there's value to be discovered in fashion shows, too."
"Just think it over; you've still got time. Now, I need to change into something suitable to greet my old friend. And if you decide not to come, I'll have to invite Albus instead."
The elder hurried out of the room, switching the music to disco on his way.
A trail of candlelight illuminated the living room, casting a soft, mysterious glow as the elder settled into a chair, eyes fixed on the golden goblet in his hand, its liquid a deep crimson.
Moments later, Dumbledore's warm smile broke through the dim room.
"Good evening, Nicolas. Surprised to hear I'd be arriving this afternoon?" Dumbledore greeted him, his voice soft.
He took a seat in a dark, hand-carved dragonhide chair.
"Yes, I must admit I am surprised. What brings such a busy man to see me?" Nicolas Flamel chuckled, as Beethoven's Symphony of Destiny began playing softly in the background.
"To steal the secrets of your magic mirror, of course," Dumbledore joked, closing his eyes to savor the melody.
"I'd happily trade my Gringotts vault for your music mirror."
"Don't even think about it! This mirror contains six centuries' worth of my cherished musical recordings." Nicolas laughed, raising his eyebrow. "But still, I imagine you came with other business in mind?"
"Perhaps some chilled lemonade?"
Dumbledore nodded, and a glass appeared in his hand.
"Tell me, Albus," Nicolas finally asked, setting aside the banter, "what brings you here today?"
"I'm only here briefly." Dumbledore glanced around the ornate living room. "I've met our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. It seems he spent some time in Albania—there's a…familiar presence about him."
"Oh?" Nicolas didn't so much as blink. "Then it sounds like he's coming back?"
"Possibly, though he may need more time." Dumbledore folded his hands. "But Harry will be entering Hogwarts this year."
Nicolas glanced at him briefly, seemingly less concerned about Harry Potter.
"Forgive my sudden visit, Nicolas, but there is something I must…ask for your help with."
"A rare request," Nicolas smiled.
He couldn't imagine what help an old man who hadn't lifted his wand in over fifty years could offer someone at the pinnacle of the magical world.
"Whatever it is, go ahead." Nicolas leaned back.
Dumbledore's voice dropped. "I would like you to consider lending me…the Philosopher's Stone."
Nicolas's eyes flickered thoughtfully. "You know the stone is nearly out of magic."
"But Tom doesn't know that."
Nicolas studied Dumbledore carefully before breaking into a smile.
"Albus, do you remember the first time you wrote to me?"
Dumbledore's expression softened, a flash of pain crossing his face.
He'd been only thirteen then, a second-year student, yet he had written to the renowned Nicolas Flamel, pleading for the Philosopher's Stone to try and save his nine-year-old sister.
Children possessed by Obscurial rarely survived past the age of ten.
And Nicolas had agreed.
"To this day, I'm grateful for what you did," Dumbledore said sincerely, suppressing his memories. "And I'll make you an offer now—if you wish, I could help you create a new stone."
Nicolas shook his head. "Forget it, Albus. You're too old to sacrifice your life force for something like that."
Dumbledore chuckled but seemed distracted.
"Here," Nicolas said, casually pulling a small package from his pocket and tossing it to Dumbledore.
The bundle was only a few inches square, wrapped in faded brown paper and tied with twine.
"To be honest, Albus," Nicolas said, adjusting his fashionable black jacket, "I've lived for over six hundred years, and I know this world can do without anyone—you, me, anyone at all.
"Stop wearing yourself down like this, old friend. Make plans for yourself—I'd rather not attend your funeral."
Dumbledore looked down at the little parcel, then laughed. "Death is just another grand adventure."
"Perhaps," Nicolas replied, "but I still have things to see."
"Oh, by the way, I wrote to that student you mentioned. He's a fascinating one, with a talent as bright as yours once was."
"That's good to hear."
Nicolas gazed up at the night sky, listening to the strains of Beethoven's Symphony of Destiny filling the room. With a final sip from his goblet of ruby-red liquid, he whispered to himself,
"Ah, destiny…"
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