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Sudden drowsiness and fatigue washed over Ian, and he couldn't help but rub his eyes and stifle several yawns in a row. Nicolas Flamel turned to glance at him, evidently noting the young wizard's abruptly lethargic state.
"How many days have you gone without proper sleep?" Nicolas Flamel squinted, noticing the darker circles under Ian's eyes, though he wondered if it was merely his own aging vision playing tricks on him.
"I haven't! Honestly, I slept soundly last night. I always make sure to get at least a few hours in each day, and I only stay up late now and then. I know how much late nights can mess with your growth."
Ian's mind felt as though it were slogging through treacle, and his vision blurred at the edges. This wasn't just the usual fog from an all-nighter; it was something stranger, something heavier, almost like a sudden magical depletion.
The flow of his inner Magic had dulled, noticeably and inexplicably.
He had no idea what had caused the shift, but he was certain it was tied to the legendary shadow etched deep within his mind. That shadow had drawn off a great deal of his magic, but now it had gone eerily quiet. No matter how much energy Ian tried to feed into it, the shadow remained dormant, as still as a frozen Pensieve.
"You're right. At your age, you ought to be avoiding those late nights," Nicolas Flamel said, though his tone remained more amused than critical. He pulled open a drawer, intending to fetch Ian a restorative potion.
However,
"Hoot hoot, gurgle~"
The Bowtruckle that had been hiding in the drawer had just downed the last vial of Nicolas Flamel's invigorating draught. Tossing the empty bottle aside with evident satisfaction, it clambered up Flamel's sleeve, perched briefly on his shoulder, then sprang to the floor.
After a few gleeful hops, the creature dashed for the door and vanished with surprising speed.
Ian made a motion as if to catch it,
But whatever was in that potion had clearly been potent, because the little Bowtruckle left nothing behind but a blur of afterimages as it zipped around the corridor and disappeared from sight.
"Bowtruckles aren't dangerous, right?"
Ian hesitated at the door, unsure whether to give chase. According to the Ministry's classification, Bowtruckles were only rated XX, not considered threatening, so he wasn't particularly worried about any sort of "Bowtruckle attack."
In truth, Bowtruckles were rather shy and skittish. These gentle magical beings fed mostly on woodlice and other tree-dwelling insects, only ever lashing out when their trees were threatened.
The largest creature a Bowtruckle had ever managed to fend off was likely a woodpecker, and that was only thanks to their needle-like fingers aimed at pecking eyes.
"I think that little rascal just didn't fancy sticking around. Don't worry, Bowtruckles don't typically ambush wizards. It probably just wants to scamper back to its tree," Nicolas Flamel said casually, already turning his attention back to the imprinted magical texts spread out on the desk.
"Mm?"
Flamel paused. He wasn't entirely sure if he was imagining it, but the excitement of a new research subject seemed to have sharpened his vision.
His spectacles now felt oddly ill-fitted, he removed them, adjusting the lens wheel atop the frame with curiosity.
"Perhaps my passion for alchemy's rekindled something in me. I only hope it's not just a fleeting burst of energy." He looked down at his hands with faint wonder. They weren't trembling nearly as much as usual.
In the past, his hands only steadied themselves during the most focused alchemical work. Perplexed, Flamel slipped his glasses back on and resumed poring over the text, casting the occasional glance toward the young wizard beside him.
"I was hoping it might help me grow a few trees," Ian muttered, returning to the office with a sulky expression. "But instead, it just freeloaded off my snack stash for days."
"The ungrateful little thing! I've always had a decent rapport with magical creatures, haven't I?" He seemed genuinely upset that the Bowtruckle had scurried off after enjoying several days' worth of his offerings.
"You can't expect every magical beast to bond with you, just like you can't expect every witch or wizard to believe in you,"
"Even Merlin couldn't manage that," Nicolas Flamel said with a light laugh, reaching into the drawer once more and handing Ian a small, unspoiled box of revitalising pills.
"For a little pick-me-up?"
Ian looked at the small pill, surprised. He held it up to his nose and gave it a strong sniff. A few of the potion's ingredients were familiar to him, but most of the components were completely unknown. He couldn't make out the full formula, much less decipher what effects it might have.
He could only guess from the bits he did recognise.
Still, he didn't suspect Nicolas Flamel would ever give him anything harmful. That sort of thing was more in Ian's wheelhouse. With that thought, he popped the pill into his mouth and let it rest on his tongue, trying to get a sense of its taste.
However,
The small pill didn't give him any time to savour its flavour. The moment it touched his tongue, it slipped straight down his throat, leaving no trace behind. It was the very definition of an alchemical refinement, swift, seamless, and total upon entry.
"Smack, smack~"
Ian smacked his lips, trying to catch even a hint of taste, but to no avail. The pill had vanished without a trace. Still, its effects were immediate and unmistakable, his drowsiness lifted in an instant, as though a fog had cleared from his mind.
And that wasn't all.
The lingering fatigue in his magical core, brought on by the sudden strain from the awakening of the legendary shadow, was dispelled entirely. His magic surged once more, thrumming with unusual vitality and fluidity.
"Professor, what sort of potion was that? Could I learn to make it?" Ian's eyes shone with awe and curiosity. Compared to this, even his self-brewed endurance potion seemed woefully inadequate.
Nicolas Flamel chuckled quietly and took a delicate sip from his teacup.
"Well, first you'd need a Philosopher's Stone. Perhaps in a few years' time, if you're truly determined." The venerable alchemist gave a knowing smile, as if prophecy weren't entirely outside his domain either.
"Philosopher's Stone?" Ian echoed, blinking. He instinctively glanced at the scattered pile of Philosopher's Stones he'd produced earlier.
"I'm referring to a complete one, a genuine Philosopher's Stone still brimming with life essence," Flamel clarified, his tone gentle but firm.
Ian's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait, you're telling me what I just swallowed was Elixir of Life? I thought that came as a potion!"
His gaze shifted to the small wooden box still resting on Flamel's desk, etched with intricate alchemical runes used for preserving delicate brews. It was the magical equivalent of a stasis chest, an enchanted container designed to keep potions fresh and potent for extended periods.
"Haha, you must've felt it, the warmth, the surge of energy. That pill held the essence of life itself." Flamel's answer, though indirect, was all the confirmation Ian needed.
He gulped.
"I thought you said you were running low on Elixir! You just handed me one like it was a chocolate frog! That could've cost you months of your life!"
Regret washed over Ian. He hadn't even paused to ask what it was before downing it. Frankly, if it were a choice between feeling reinvigorated and ensuring Flamel lived longer, he'd have chosen the latter without hesitation.
The idea of losing such a brilliant alchemical mind to the Twilight Zone, a place so few returned from, was a loss the wizarding world could ill afford. And for Hogwarts, where Flamel occasionally taught alchemy? It would be devastating.
"The field of alchemy could fall behind an entire decade from this!" Ian's declaration was dramatic, but not unfounded. Anyone who'd had a truly irreplaceable teacher would understand.
"You're overstating it," Flamel said with a warm chuckle, shaking his head. "It was just one dose of Elixir. For me, in truth, it's a gain."
He cast Ian a meaningful glance before returning his attention to the stack of imprinted magical texts. There were dozens, dense with runes, sigils, and archaic scripts, the product of Ian's formidable memory.
A formidable collection indeed.
"To be honest, I've got a bit of a selfish reason, I'm hoping your knowledge might help decipher these texts," Flamel admitted, voice quiet with something bordering on reverence.
Ian suspected as much. Flamel had likely seen these writings as a final, unfinished chapter in his life's work, something he desperately wanted to resolve before his time ran out.
(To Be Continued…)