"What is the world's most impenetrable prison? Azkaban? Bastille? Or Auschwitz?"
A hoarse, indistinct voice echoed from the dimly lit room.
At the center of the room lay a row of stone benches, arranged at a steep downward angle. In the pit at the center stood a tall dining table.
The location and time were unknown.
Under the flickering candlelight, the voice meandered through the air, lingering like a restless ghost.
"Perhaps none of those. Just the thought of some people breathing the same air as me makes my stomach churn."
A creak broke the silence.
The door to the dim room opened.
A tall woman in a black suit entered slowly, carrying a delicate silver platter with a steak. She placed it on the stone table and withdrew into the shadows without hesitation.
The moment she disappeared, a blurry shadow emerged in the corner of the room. It seemed both seated on a chair and floating in midair.
Across from the dining table sat an elderly man, gaunt and frail, his bony joints protruding. Sparse hair was combed neatly back, and he stared at the silver platter before him, expressionless.
"Try it," the shadow said. "I hope your taste buds haven't aged too much."
The old man raised his trembling arm, picking up the knife and fork with unsteady hands. He began cutting into the steak, his movements resembling those of a man nearing his end.
The faint sound of chewing and swallowing spread through the still air.
The shadow spoke again: "Two years ago, I had my pride shattered at Hogwarts. A naive, half-witted kid brought me to my knees."
Pausing briefly, the shadow let out a soft laugh.
"But later, that kid left Hogwarts and reappeared as an arms dealer. People say time matures us, but for people like us, time feels more like a curse. Don't you think so, Flamel?"
The old man stopped eating and replied in a raspy voice, "Life has its ceiling. For those who've touched it, experience and age are mere numbers."
"Classic wisdom from an old man as ancient as I am," the shadow retorted.
"You're too kind," Flamel replied, resuming his meal.
The shadow watched silently as the old man ate. Flamel meticulously cut into his steak, his cloudy eyes drooping. Occasionally, however, a faint and nearly imperceptible glint flashed across them.
When the steak was finished, Flamel sipped some water and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
The woman in the black suit reappeared, stepping forward to clear the table. With a flick of her wand, the room brightened slightly.
"Nicolas Flamel," the shadow began, "I know you can't lift my curse. Not even the Philosopher's Stone can help me."
"Ha! I didn't come to you for such trivial matters."
"Trivial?" Flamel raised an eyebrow. "You've avoided contacting me for centuries. Now, out of nowhere, you summon me all the way from Britain. What do you want?"
"I want to create a cage—one no one can escape," the shadow replied without hesitation. "I want to trap the obstacle in my way."
"Hoffa Bach?"
"Exactly," the shadow said with a sly chuckle.
"Hoffa Bach... that enigmatic figure. Life feels so dull without him around."
Flamel gave a faint snort, barely perceptible. He rested his frail arm on the table.
"Forgive my bluntness," Flamel said dryly, "but I believe no grown wizard can be confined by any earthly prison."
"Oh? And why is that?" The shadow leaned forward, intrigued.
"Magic breaks the chains of reality, and maturity frees the mind from constraint. To cage a true wizard is an impossibility," Flamel said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "After all, you yourself are nothing but a shell now, clinging to a miserable existence."
The shadow interlaced its fingers, leaning further forward without responding. The candlelight dimmed, and silence engulfed the room.
Flamel stared deeply at the shadow.
"You've lost the ability to wield magic. The explosion two years ago drained all your reserves. I suggest you abandon this idea—building a cage isn't as easy as you think."
With that, the old man pushed his chair back, stood with effort, and hobbled toward the door.
At the doorway, the old man pulled the door open.
"Wait."
A voice called out from behind him, halting his steps.
"What have you been up to lately, Flamel?"
The shadow asked lazily, "Did the newly appointed Minister of Magic assign you to oversee a mysterious project?"
The old man's grip on the door handle tightened, his fingers momentarily pausing. A flicker of struggle crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"That has nothing to do with you," he said, repeating firmly, "Nothing."
"Oh, I'm just curious."
The indistinct shadow leaned back into the chair, retreating into the darkness.
"I've heard this project violates several of the wizarding world's highest taboos."
"The world is already in chaos; sometimes, extraordinary measures are necessary."
With those words, Flamel closed the door and hobbled away from the flickering candlelight.
"See him out," the shadow murmured.
The woman in the black suit stepped forward gracefully, following in Nicolas Flamel's footsteps.
"I'll escort you," she said.
The hunched old man extended his arm toward her.
The woman took his arm and supported him, guiding him down a flight of stairs and into the desolate outskirts that resembled an abandoned graveyard.
There, a carriage drawn by twelve skeletal Thestrals awaited. The thin, bony creatures exhaled white mist into the cold air.
At that moment, Nicolas Flamel spoke:
"You shouldn't follow him. Believe me, even the most dangerous and outcast wizard cannot compare to the darkness lurking in the corners of the world. He won't see you as a person."
"I am his family," the woman replied curtly.
"Do you think he values family?" Flamel asked.
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she countered with a question of her own:
"And you? After all these long years of life, do you still care about such mundane emotions?"
A sharp glint flickered in Flamel's clouded eyes. He shook off the woman's arm and climbed into the Thestral-drawn carriage.
"Safe travels," the woman said with a smile.
The Thestrals pawed the ground, spread their black wings, and pulled the carriage into the sky.
Inside the carriage, the frail old man exhaled deeply, slumping into his seat. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a faded gold pocket watch.
The watch featured a red-haired girl cradling a doll, her head tilted as she smiled sweetly at the old man.
"Chloe," he whispered softly.
Far away, in France, a pair of silver eyes snapped open.
(End of Chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09