And now, as his time waned, he found comfort in knowing there was someone worthy to inherit the burden.
He had come to peace with the inevitable.
Because he had found Ian.
A young man whom Albus Dumbledore had quietly praised, a wizard of startling aptitude in the ancient art. If his successor could one day glimpse what he himself never had, then perhaps Nicolas Flamel's story wouldn't be unfinished after all.
"Why not just create another Philosopher's Stone?" Ian asked, puzzled. "Even if it takes lives, surely there are plenty of people who die in accidents and misfortune every year? Couldn't you collect that lingering life force over time?"
Nicolas Flamel chuckled softly at the suggestion.
"It's not quite so easy, I'm afraid. The Philosopher's Stone demands that hundreds of thousands of lives be gathered within a short span."
"I discovered the formula during the time of the Black Death, a plague so devastating it filled the air with sorrow. And it was through that unspeakable grief that the miracle was born."
"You wouldn't ask me to wish for such catastrophe again, would you?" He added gently. "I've lived more than long enough. The world's peace means more to me now than the continuation of my own days."
There was no denying it, Nicolas Flamel was a man of remarkable wisdom.
"By that logic," Ian mused slowly, "Muggle World War Two should've met the same conditions, shouldn't it?"
"That era was indeed an opportunity," Nicolas Flamel replied, his voice distant, thoughtful. "But it was not mine to claim."
His words sent a quiet shiver down Ian's spine. His pupils contracted, and a flicker of unease crept across his features.
"Ah? What do you mean by that?"
The conversation trailed off just as the latest edition of The Evening Prophet began to rustle through the enchanted post chute nearby.
But Ian's thoughts remained tangled around Flamel's words, and the longer he considered them, the colder he felt, like someone had walked over his grave.
"Some say there was a wizard who stood beside that infamous little moustache man, and that he was the one who stirred the war into motion, solely to forge a Philosopher's Stone."
"You'd best ask Grindelwald about that," Nicolas Flamel said, voice quiet but pointed. "He may be the only one alive who truly knows what happened."
Nicolas Flamel's cryptic interpretation of World War II sent a jolt through Ian's chest.
"Whoa~"
Ian exhaled, genuinely stunned.
"Are you saying it was Grindelwald who incited the war?" The idea was absurd, completely contradictory to what Dumbledore had told him, and to what Ian had come to understand about the man himself.
Just as suspicion began to cloud Ian's thoughts, Nicolas Flamel gave a slight shake of his head, offering a measure of clarity that restored Grindelwald's image in Ian's mind.
"I only said Grindelwald might know the truth. That doesn't mean he was the architect behind it all… Though, of course, Grindelwald is no saint, he is just not that kind of devil."
"No, it was another, an even more elusive wizard. If Grindelwald himself knows nothing, then no one does. The only thing I can say for certain is that a Philosopher's Stone was forged during that era."
Nicolas Flamel clearly had no interest in defaming Grindelwald unjustly. An alchemist of his calibre had to keep a balanced view of the world.
"This is… completely mind-bending."
Ian struggled to absorb the enormity of what he'd heard. History, Muggle and magical, had never mentioned such things.
"Let's return to my final wish," Nicolas Flamel said, gently steering the conversation away from war. "These magic texts, this particular script, has always been my greatest regret. I'll give you a solid foundation for interpreting them."
"But much of the rest… will be up to you and the time you can give it." He spoke with a soft finality that made Ian's chest tighten.
"Absolutely, I promise. And once I've completed your assignment, I'll share with you every answer you ever longed to know." Ian knew well, Nicolas Flamel likely had little more than a year left to live.
But Ian's words weren't just to comfort him. For him, death was not the end.
What the heart desired could guide a wizard's path. And should it come to that, Ian would seek Nicolas Flamel in the Twilight Zone. But of that, Flamel remained unaware, merely chuckling with visible relief.
Most students he'd mentored in his lifetime would've hesitated at the thought of inheriting an unfinished dream. Most would've nodded politely and never pursued it.
No wonder they hesitated, Nicolas Flamel was the greatest alchemist in over six centuries. The things he had left unresolved would seem insurmountable to others. No sane alchemist would confidently declare they could finish what Nicolas Flamel could not.
But Ian had.
Not out of arrogance, but with a quiet certainty. It was as though he truly believed he could do it. And that was precisely the kind of successor Nicolas Flamel had long wished for.
"Very well then. Burn the answers for me when you find them, maybe I'll still catch a glimpse."
The old alchemist's eyes were now warm with fondness as they lingered on the young wizard. In Ian, he saw a reflection of his own youth: a mind bursting with brilliance, confidence that bordered on reckless, and magical prowess far beyond his own. This young man would rise. Unstoppable.
A hexagonal wizard, well-rounded and dangerously gifted.
The last boy to spark such envy in the magical world had been Albus Dumbledore himself. But Dumbledore had chosen to abandon this branch of magical pursuit after discovering the limitations of alchemy.
"You'll see it," Ian said with a wink.
Nicolas Flamel's grin deepened.
"To unravel an entirely foreign magical script… that's years of work. And I doubt I've got that long left."
He turned his attention back to the annotated pages Ian had brought him, already losing track of time, and of the time-turner repair Dumbledore had left in his care.
"There's always room for miracles."
Ian leaned in beside him, eyes scanning the partially translated sections of the tower's magic texts.
"Hahaha! Then I'll take your good wishes and aim for another year at least," Flamel said, shifting slightly to make room for Ian.
"Why not be a bit more ambitious?" Ian smiled. "With a little effort, three years should be easy. Five's within reach. Maybe even ten."
He meant it. Deep down, Ian wanted Nicolas Flamel to live longer, not for sentiment's sake, but because otherwise, he'd have to traverse into the Twilight Zone to continue their collaboration.
Yes.
He would literally have to find Nicolas Flamel's spirit in the realm between life and death, just to carry on their deciphering work.
When it came to completing a task, no one was more relentless than Ian.
But even he feared that Flamel's spirit wouldn't hold the same fire it did now, in life.
"Why do I feel like there's something odd about the way you said that?" Nicolas Flamel narrowed his eyes, his prophetic instincts, dull though age had made them, still sharp enough to sense the undertone.
"What's strange about it? I'm just wishing you well! Wishing you could live another ten or eight years!" Ian hurriedly explained, trying to cover up his intention to pursue Nicolas Flamel into the Twilight Zone.
Just as the words left his lips,
Ian suddenly froze in place.
"What in Merlin's name...?"
The young wizard let out an involuntary yawn.
In the depths of his consciousness, he sensed a shadowy sigil stir faintly, an obscure magical imprint that shimmered briefly like a whisper in the dark.
In that instant, a substantial surge of his inner magical reserves was drawn into the hidden rune, drained without warning or explanation.
Yet, nothing seemed to manifest.
Only a crushing wave of weariness washed over him, undeniable in its suddenness and weight.
(End of this chapter)
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