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HP: Fantastic Beasts And The Right Way To Use Them - 267
🕑 Added 2025-11-13 20:13:04 +0000 UTCChapter 267: The Origin of the Philosopher’s Stone
At the foot of the headmaster’s office, Harry smoothed his trouser leg, nerves tight, and quietly spoke the password from the note that had appeared that afternoon.
"Lemon Sherbet."
At once, the stone gargoyle by the door seemed to come alive. It leapt aside, making Harry jump.
Thankfully, after moving, it did nothing else, merely revealing the spiral staircase beyond.
As Harry stepped onto it, the stairs began to rise like a Muggle escalator. Unlike an escalator, however, their ascent strictly followed the spiral’s curve.
Which meant standing on them was not particularly pleasant.
Just as Harry felt the spiraling steps begin to make him dizzy, a wash of light appeared ahead.
An oaken door gleamed, a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin set at its center.
Even before he reached it, Harry could hear familiar voices chatting inside.
The voice sounded young. It had to be Professor Kahn, who had missed the last two days.
"…you’ve studied the Dark Arts, surely. You are the greatest white wizard of the age. If you tell me you do not know any Dark Magic at all, I will not believe you."
Hearing Professor Kahn’s voice, Harry let out a slow breath.
He had met Dumbledore more than once, but being summoned to the headmaster’s office without warning still made him anxious.
With Professor Kahn here, perhaps the nerves would settle.
What were they talking about, though? Dark Magic?
That sounded a bit frightening again.
He shook his head and pushed stray thoughts aside, then worked up the courage and knocked.
"Come in."
Dumbledore’s voice came from beyond the door. The door swung open by itself, revealing a wide, beautiful circular room.
Soft whirs and puffs filled the office. Curious silver instruments on the tables spun and hissed little clouds of smoke.
The walls were hung with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. Some slept. Others watched the three people in discussion with keen interest.
Three, yes. Besides Professor Kahn and Professor Dumbledore, a third figure sat within, a wizened old man so thin as to look desiccated. He had been at the school for more than half a month, but appeared so rarely that Harry had learnt who he was only through whispers among the students.
The creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, the greatest alchemist in the world, Nicolas Flamel.
"Harry, there you are." Evans beckoned and motioned the boy to sit beside him.
Once Harry sat, Evans launched into a tour of the headmaster’s office the way one might introduce a home.
It could not be helped. As a student and even after becoming a professor, Evans came to this office at least twice a month. He would wager that when Dumbledore retired, no one alive at Hogwarts would know this room better than he did, not even Professor McGonagall.
Dumbledore was forever vanishing. Most of the school’s daily business fell to Professor McGonagall. She had precious little she actually needed to consult Dumbledore about.
If she ever wanted to seize the post, she would hardly need to do anything at all. In minutes, Dumbledore would be entirely sidelined.
"Those are portraits of Hogwarts’ former heads. They’re a touch sharper than the ones along the corridors."
"On that shelf we keep books that past headmasters considered dangerous, yet potentially useful. For the moment, most of what you see there are fairy tales and similar light reading."
"And over there is the Sorting Hat. Do not underestimate it. In the course of research, I once drew a sword from it."
After the circuit of introductions, Evans turned back to Dumbledore, ignoring the faintly aggrieved look on the headmaster’s face, and returned to the question he had been pressing before.
"So then. What do you make of the matter I raised?"
Fawkes would not burn until the middle of the night. With time to spare before Harry’s arrival, Evans had laid out what he knew about Dark Magic before the dark era. Partly to pass the time, partly in the hope that Nicolas Flamel and Dumbledore might supply useful leads.
One of them had lived more than six hundred years. The other was the most formidable and cunning wizard alive. If anyone knew where to look, surely these two did.
Judging by Dumbledore’s lowered head and thoughtful frown, he did not seem to know much. Inspiration, perhaps, but little more. After a long pause, Dumbledore finally spoke.
"In my youth, pursuing the depths of magic, I did sense that the principles behind the Dark Arts were not quite the same as those of ordinary magic." He lifted his eyes toward Nicolas Flamel. "And you? As alchemists, you often cross paths with Dark Magic, do you not?"
Nicolas Flamel blinked, then slowly shook his head.
"We do employ the Dark Arts, yes, but mostly in their ritual forms. As for research into Dark Magic itself, I have little to offer."
The Flamel family had been a renowned alchemical line in the Middle Ages, and they had dug into the mysteries of magic to some depth. By Nicolas’s generation, however, the line had thinned. The Black Death devoured their time and energy. Little remained for the study of Dark Magic.
Hearing Nicolas’s answer, Dumbledore fell silent again, then looked to Evans.
"Is the source of your information reliable?"
"It should be. It comes from a true ancient wizard," Evans said.
"An ancient wizard is alive today?" Dumbledore glanced at Evans, surprise flitting across his face. Then he looked thoughtful again. "If so, then perhaps we should attempt some experiments."
If Dark Magic could truly be traced back, as Evans claimed, if similar results could be achieved without a price, the entire magical world would tremble.
If power came without cost, who would choose to be a Dark wizard, mad and burdened by constant strain?
"Leave that to you. Dark Magic is not my specialty," Evans said, quite willing to delegate, then turned to Nicolas Flamel.
Beyond the Dark Arts, he had another question for the famed alchemist.
From the first time he saw the crimson sphere in the pyramid murals, it had looked familiar.
When he later held the thing itself, the familiarity grew stronger.
Meeting Nicolas Flamel’s clouded eyes, Evans spoke slowly.
"Mr. Flamel, there is something I would like to understand. What, exactly, is the Philosopher’s Stone?"
