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As Dumbledore hurried through the eerie ruins, his sharp eyes quickly scanned the desolate surroundings. The moonlight cascaded over the broken stones like liquid silver, outlining the lone figure standing in the midst of the destruction.
Wes stood there, unmoving, his silhouette stark against the ghostly glow. His robes fluttered slightly in the cold night breeze, yet he seemed unbothered by the chill. The ruins around him whispered of a battle not long past—crumbling walls, scorch marks, and an eerie silence that hung heavily in the air.
"You're late, Headmaster."
Wes's voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge of reproach in his tone. His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto Dumbledore as if searching for answers before they were spoken.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. Instead, he allowed his piercing blue eyes to sweep over the chaotic scene. Every broken stone, every lingering trace of magic told him a story.
Finally, he turned back to Wes, his expression unreadable, and said with genuine admiration, "Your strength never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Irwin."
Wes did not waver. His silver eyes glowed faintly under the moonlight, filled with cold determination.
"I need an explanation, Professor Dumbledore," he said, his voice firm. "This situation is far different from what you described before."
Dumbledore sighed, sensing the frustration in Wes's tone. "Yes," he admitted gently. "You will have your answers, and I will ensure they satisfy you. But for now, we must leave this place. The Centaurs have surely noticed the battle, and I do not wish to provoke unnecessary conflict with them at this hour."
Wes hesitated for a brief moment before inclining his head slightly in agreement.
Without another word, the two wizards vanished into the night.
The Headmaster's Office
Inside Dumbledore's office, the warm glow of candlelight flickered against the ancient stone walls. The room was filled with the soft ticking of delicate silver instruments, the quiet rustling of books, and the occasional crackling of the fire.
Wes sat opposite the Headmaster, his posture stiff, his hands clasped together as he stared at Dumbledore intently. The battle might have ended, but the tension remained.
"Now then," Wes said, his voice measured, "can we talk?"
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his deep-set eyes gleaming with contemplation. "Where should I begin?" he mused aloud. His fingers absently twisted a lock of his long silver beard.
"How about the guy who died eleven years ago?" Wes asked, his gaze unrelenting.
At that, Dumbledore's hands stilled. The motion of his fingers against his beard halted as his expression darkened. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, making his sharp features seem even more somber.
His voice, though calm, carried a note of warning. "What do you know?"
For the first time that evening, there was something dangerous in Dumbledore's posture. He no longer looked like the benevolent old wizard known for his wisdom and patience. At this moment, he resembled a lion—one who, despite his years, still possessed formidable strength, his instincts razor-sharp and ready to defend his territory.
Wes, however, remained unfazed.
"It's frightening, Headmaster," he said, his tone neutral.
"Are you threatening me?" Dumbledore asked, though there was an amused glint in his eyes.
Wes chuckled softly. "How could I? I'm simply… uneasy."
Dumbledore relaxed slightly, but he was far from convinced. He knew Wes was not someone easily shaken, and his words were never empty.
Wes leaned forward, his voice lowering. "The guy you speak of… he was searching for something, wasn't he?"
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Wes continued, observing Dumbledore. "That's what he was after, wasn't it?"
A deep, quiet chuckle escaped Dumbledore's lips. "Of course," he said, shaking his head. "What else would it be?" He turned his gaze toward the flickering fire. "But Wes, your abilities are truly astonishing. To have faced him and walked away unscathed… That is no small feat."
"He's weak now," Wes said flatly, as if the matter were hardly worth discussing.
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but there was a trace of something unreadable in his eyes. "Even so," he said softly, "there are many who wouldn't have dared to stand before him."
Wes waved a hand dismissively. "Spare me the flattery, Headmaster. It won't erase the fact that you withheld important details from me."
"Yes, yes," Dumbledore said lightly, stroking his beard. "Let's see… how shall I make it up to you?"
Wes narrowed his eyes. "I want the Philosopher's Stone."
Dumbledore's expression darkened immediately. "Not possible."
His voice left no room for discussion.
"You are far too young to understand the dangers that come with it," Dumbledore said, his voice firm. "The power it grants is extraordinary, yes, but the consequences—"
Wes held up a hand, cutting him off. "Fine. Then how about Nicolas Flamel's alchemy notes?"
Dumbledore's brows shot up. "You are quite ambitious, aren't you?"
"I just saved two students and a unicorn from Voldemort himself." Wes's voice was calm but forceful.
Dumbledore shook his head, but Wes pressed on.
"One of those students happens to be the savior of the wizarding world, Headmaster." His tone carried an unmistakable warning.
Dumbledore's eyes flashed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely angered. But Wes knew better. He had seen this look before—it was an act, a calculated display.
Wes folded his arms. "Let's not pretend, Professor. You knew all along that Voldemort was possessing Quirrell and trying to use the Philosopher's Stone to return to power."
Dumbledore met Wes's gaze, his piercing blue eyes studying him closely. "You knew as well."
Wes gave a nonchalant shrug. "Quirrell's disguise was pathetic. Anyone with a shred of common sense could see through it."
Dumbledore let out a deep sigh. "You've convinced me, Wes."
With that, he stood and walked over to an intricately locked chest. He whispered an incantation, and the complex mechanism clicked open. Carefully, he lifted a massive tome, its cover adorned with golden alchemical symbols.
Wes's breath caught as he recognized what it was.
"This," Dumbledore said, running his fingers gently over the cover, "is Nicolas Flamel's personal research. He entrusted it to me before he and his wife prepared for their final rest."
Wes reached out eagerly, but before he could touch it, Dumbledore placed it back into the chest and sealed it once more.
Instead, he walked over to a nearby bookshelf and retrieved a thick stack of books. He placed them in front of Wes with a knowing smile.
"These are the alchemy notes that Nicolas and I compiled together over the years," Dumbledore explained.
Wes frowned. "So you were prepared for this all along?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Not exactly. Nicolas always intended to pass on his knowledge to those worthy of it. Several brilliant alchemists in France have already received copies of his work."
Wes stared at him, then at the books.
"Well?" Dumbledore said, settling back into his chair. "They're yours now."
Wes let out a long sigh. "You truly are a cunning man, Professor."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled mischievously. "As are you, Mr. Irwin."