"So, it's reasonable for someone to want to steal the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione said. "Who wouldn't want something that grants eternal life and creates unlimited gold?"
"But if it's so powerful, why not make more of them?" she asked, puzzled.
"I think it's not that they don't want to—it's that they can't," Ryan replied.
"Why? If they managed to create one, what makes it so difficult to make another once the method is mastered?"
"When I was in the Hogwarts library, I skimmed through a few books on alchemy. I didn't understand much, but one thing stood out clearly—the core principle of alchemy is equivalent exchange," Ryan explained.
He waited for Hermione to nod in acknowledgment before continuing. "Now, think about it. Based on the principle of equivalent exchange, what could possibly defy the laws of nature to extend life and transmute matter into gold?"
Hermione pondered for a moment, then suddenly covered her mouth as if realizing something terrifying.
"You've thought of it too," Ryan said. "The Philosopher's Stone likely requires life as a cost to achieve such powerful effects."
"But... but Nicholas Flamel is a friend of Professor Dumbledore! He can't be a bad person!" Hermione stammered.
Ryan shook his head. "I'm not saying he's a murderer. But when he created the Philosopher's Stone, outbreaks of the Black Death and smallpox occurred in Paris, where he lived. Given the scientific knowledge at the time, infectious diseases caused massive casualties. For example, when the Black Death struck in 1353, the death rate in Paris was 40 times higher than usual. The smallpox outbreak in 1418 killed at least 60,000 people in just six weeks. The loss of so many lives might have provided the necessary conditions for creating the Philosopher's Stone. But such opportunities are rare now."
"I remember learning about that in primary school history class," Hermione nodded. "Let's write to Harry immediately and let him know what we found. That way, he and Ron won't waste their Christmas break worrying about it."
"I doubt they're thinking about this at all," Ryan remarked.
Since Hermione had other things to do, Ryan went alone to Diagon Alley to send an owl to Harry with their discovery.
As Ryan expected, Harry hadn't spent his vacation researching Nicholas Flamel. Instead, he had been enjoying his time with Ron, completely putting the matter aside.
With most students gone for the holidays, the dormitories were entirely theirs, and the common room was far less crowded. They claimed a few of the most comfortable armchairs by the fire, chatting and eating everything they could grab with a fork—bread, pasta, mushrooms—while coming up with ridiculous plans to get Malfoy expelled. None of these plans were remotely feasible, but they were entertaining to discuss.
"Hey, Harry, there's a letter," Ron said, noticing an owl tapping at the window with a letter tied to its foot.
Harry opened the window, letting in a blast of cold air and swirling snowflakes. He took the letter, tore off a small piece of bread and butter, and fed it to the owl, which ate quickly before flapping its wings and flying away.
"Who's it from?" Ron asked.
"Ryan," Harry replied, scanning the letter. "He says he and Hermione found out about Nicholas Flamel. They'll explain everything after the holiday."
"See? I told you," Ron said, leaning back lazily in his chair. "Those two love reading. It made sense to leave this to them."
With that, they dismissed the matter entirely. Ron began teaching Harry wizard chess, which played much like Muggle chess but used live pieces, making it feel like commanding an army.
Unfortunately, Harry was no match for Ron, who used his grandfather's old wizard chess set. The pieces constantly criticized Harry's moves, leaving him exasperated.
After sending the letter, Ryan returned to his routine—finishing homework, helping his parents decorate the house, and fixing things in the storage closet. As he became more familiar with mechanical devices, his understanding of the Winter Home Industrial Handbook deepened.
The day before Christmas Eve, Ryan even repaired an old typewriter that had been gathering dust in the storage room. This delighted Mr. Lambert, as it had once belonged to his grandfather and was given to him as a graduation gift from primary school.
Mrs. Sally polished every key and component before placing it in a display case in the living room as a keepsake.
That afternoon, Ryan decided to go for a walk. He had been cooped up indoors for days doing homework and needed fresh air.
As he entered the park, a sudden notification from Tim Hortans Grocery Store alerted him—a new customer had arrived.
Ryan quickly found a public restroom, made sure no one was watching, stepped into a stall, locked the door, and transported himself to the store.
Upon arrival, he saw a customer already waiting.
The man was slightly overweight and middle-aged, with a nervous demeanor. He wore a thick cotton-padded jacket and had a shaved head with a small braid at the back—a traditional Sam hairstyle.
Seeing Ryan appear suddenly, the man immediately dropped to his knees, pleading for help.
Startled, Ryan rushed around the counter and pulled him up. Having a man his father's age kneeling before him felt incredibly awkward.
"Alright, I assume you came here because you need help. Just tell me what's wrong. Otherwise, how would I know what to do?" Ryan said.
The man hesitated, as if wanting to kneel again, but Ryan's stern expression stopped him.
"My name is Defu," he began. "My master was falsely accused by a traitor, and we were exiled to Edinburgh. Now, my mistress has just given birth to a child, but it's unbearably cold in our shelter. Everyone is falling ill. I have no choice but to wander the courtyard at night, searching for help. Then, I heard a mysterious voice calling me here. Please, you must save us!"
Ryan frowned. Something about this story felt oddly familiar. Then, memories from his previous life surfaced—stories he had read as a middle-aged man born in the 1990s.
"Wait a minute. Is your master the famous healer, Xilaile?" Ryan asked.
Defu's eyes widened in shock. "You know my master?"
Ryan waved his hand, feigning mystery. "Let's just say the spirits talk when they drink with the reapers. Your master has saved too many lives, leaving the reapers with empty hands more times than they can count."
"Then… my master is safe?" Defu asked hesitantly.
"He's fine. He's accumulated too much good karma for anything to happen to him. The worst the reapers can do is complain."
Hearing this, Defu looked relieved.
"That said, I need to think about how to help you," Ryan continued.
He leaned back behind the counter, resting his chin on one hand as he pondered the situation. Defu stood nervously, not daring to interrupt.
After a few minutes, Ryan clapped his hands. "I've got it."
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