Chapter 76: The Legendary Wizard’s Secret
“After that, I no longer obsessed over studying the Book of Abraham, but instead traveled through regions where the plague had not yet fully subsided, helping residents burn bodies, sending the diseased Muggles on their final journey, flipping through books in my spare time, and researching Alchemy.
“In the early 15th century, Paris still experienced intermittent small-scale plague outbreaks, and decades later, the Muggles finally emerged from the shadow of the Black Death, and I finally discovered that those magical powers I couldn’t capture, gifted to me by Muggles, had always been latent deep within my soul.
“By then, I had figured out the method to refine the Philosopher’s Stone, incorporating those faint strands of weak magical power into a ruby through a ritual, which became the Philosopher’s Stone later on.”
Nicolas Flamel slowly finished telling his story, moistening his throat with honey mead from the table.
Over the past half hour, the old wizard had shifted the topic from drama and movies to the Black Death six hundred years ago, and the firsthand account had an epic, shocking quality, but this allegorical riddle game was quite boring, as any interpretation seemed reasonable.
This magical power is the key element in refining the Philosopher’s Stone?
The magical power collected by Nicolas Flamel is different in nature from what he gathered?
“……”
Melvin pondered for a moment, unable to hold back: “Mister, if you have any advice for me, you can say it directly… What exactly is that magical power drawn from Muggles? Are there any hidden dangers? Could it be knowledge from that book, carrying a curse?”
“No, it’s knowledge I explored and summarized myself, unrelated to Abraham, with no curse. I’m telling you these things because I’m about to die, reminiscing about the past. Do you know Albus’s view of death as a new adventure? I’m different from him.” Nicolas Flamel’s answer was very frank.
Before he had even achieved immortality, he had witnessed too much death, realizing that the lives of both Muggles and wizards are very brief, just as fragile as those of humans and ants.
Over the past few centuries, he had enjoyed the pleasures brought by wealth and a long life, but as his body gradually aged, his flesh withered, his bones became brittle, and even minor collisions could injure him; this fragility always reminded him of those plague victims abandoned on the streets, filling him with fear.
Around three or four hundred years old, he had gone to great lengths to avoid placing himself in danger, hiding his identity and living in seclusion.
Until fifty years ago, when a dropout wizard and a reckless Muggle broke into his residence and dragged him to extinguish a fire that nearly burned down all of Paris.
After that, he became more open-minded, but not to the extent of Albus.
After all, he was just an ordinary wizard with modest talent.
Sunlight slanted in through the window, the old wizard sitting in the bright light took a sip of honey mead, picked up a French fry and put it down, and as he took a deep breath, air whistled through his loose teeth, easing the soreness and swelling of his gums.
Seeing the legendary wizard who had just been recounting history make this gesture, Melvin suddenly felt he seemed much more lively; previously a symbol perched there, now a living ordinary wizard.
This feeling involuntarily stirred some melancholy in him; he knew the reason clearly—this ordinary old wizard was about to die.
“Spending too much time with Albus has indeed rubbed off some bad habits on me.” Nicolas Flamel chuckled softly, “Regarding that strand of magical power, I’ve spent centuries poring over literature and materials, and I did find something: throughout the long history, not only did we capture that magical power, but also Hogwarts’s four Founders, the wizard Merlin, and the dark wizard Herpo.”
“All legendary wizards.” Melvin’s heart stirred, pondering as he asked, “They spread their fame in the wizarding community, exerting influence to collect magical power?”
“Emotions are the soul’s dissipation, and the soul is the source of magical power.” Nicolas Flamel spoke slowly, “The four Founders taught students to uphold courage, wisdom, kindness, and glory; as more and more wizard students spread their names, they grew faster and faster, far surpassing their contemporaries in a very short time.”
“You mean… Merlin and Herpo did the same?” Melvin realized.
“Just my one-sided speculation.” Nicolas Flamel chose his words carefully, “Perhaps they themselves didn’t realize that their growth speed far exceeding their peers wasn’t due to talent, or not solely due to talent.”
“They absorbed this magical power…” Melvin repeated softly.
The four giants grew rapidly after founding the school;
Merlin became a legend after aiding King Arthur’s ascension;
Herpo’s life details are unclear, but his fame is indeed renowned.
He recalled his own growth: favored by all four Houses during Sorting, showing talent in the following years but within normal limits, just like his senior Seraphina Picquery, just like Hermione now.
After receiving the Horned Serpent’s gift, he completed a transformation in just two short years.
With the Projection Mirror’s emergence, Melvin Levent’s name would undoubtedly spread through the Wizarding World.
Melvin looked at the old wizard sitting in the sunlight, his expression somewhat odd.
Compared to those legendary wizards earlier, this Mr. Flamel had resounding fame but seemed to lack intimidation, with no known duelling records.
“It’s precisely because I’m weaker than them that I’ve lived this long.” Nicolas Flamel seemed to notice his impolite thoughts but didn’t mind, “There’s a Muggle saying: there’s no such thing as a free lunch; even Transfiguration can’t conjure food from thin air, and magic is the same—every gain comes at a price.”
A breeze passed outside the window, carrying the faint sound of pedestrians’ footsteps; Melvin frowned slightly, but the old wizard’s voice was soft yet clearly reached his ears.
“Magical power gained from others contains their wills; thousands upon thousands of faint wills gathered together are like streams forming an ocean that brings massive waves. This collective will constantly assaults the wizard’s own will, distorting the wizard’s own thoughts.” The old wizard’s voice was calm, “At that point, is the wizard carried away by others’ wills still their original self?”
Melvin followed his words in thought, a faint chill rising on his back, like the spring chill from melting February snow.
In a few seconds, Melvin suddenly understood many things: the reason for Herpo’s bizarre suicide, Merlin’s late years trapped by the lake nymph Viviane, the four Founders falling apart…
No wonder these wizards who were famous in their youth always met ill fates in old age.
“Legendary wizards are legendary after all; they represent the brightest stars in magical history. The four Founders were very perceptive and quickly crafted containers to purge the external wills from their bodies after noticing abnormalities: Gryffindor’s Sword, Ravenclaw’s Diadem, Hufflepuff’s Goblet. Slytherin’s is the most mysterious; he even abandoned his reputation and left the school. Unfortunately, I don’t know how far he got on this path or if he ultimately succeeded.” Nicolas Flamel said softly.
“Herpo tore his soul to create a Horcrux to purge this will…” Melvin recalled records about that dark wizard, linking it to another dark wizard who made Horcruxes, Tom Riddle.
The young Voldemort was meticulous: opening the Chamber of Secrets and releasing the Basilisk to frame Hagrid, which Dumbledore still hasn’t uncovered; investigating bloodline history, killing the Riddle family and framing Morfin Gaunt, with thorough planning and almost no oversights; two years before graduation, forming the Death Eater core with pure-blood ideals, killing the Smiths to seize treasure and framing the house-elf, which was somewhat sloppy.
Later, as the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord’s fame grew louder, Voldemort showed signs of losing control.
The former Riddle was a refined and ambitious man; the later Dark Lord was a volatile and cruel dark wizard, insidious and cunning but no longer possessing his former wisdom.
Could he himself end up like Voldemort, distorted by others’ wills?
“You mean… I should stop absorbing more magical power?” Melvin probed, his brows tightly furrowed.
“No, I don’t think that.” Nicolas Flamel spread his hands, “The future is something even a Seer can’t fully predict? I’m just passing on my experiences and the information I’ve gathered to you. It might be a bit long-winded, but I sincerely hope you can figure out the essence of magical power and forge a path no one has walked before.”
“Speaking of which, I’m somewhat sorry,《 the Book of Abraham》 can’t be left to you; I myself only half-understand the method of refining the Philosopher’s Stone…” Nicolas Flamel said softly, handing over a notebook, “It records some of my research, which should help you.”
This was a very plain handbook, bound in parchment, with no title on the cover; Melvin flipped through two pages briefly, finding records of Nicolas Flamel’s conversations with many famous wizards, all handwritten; the scribe-trained wizard had neat handwriting, accompanied by exquisite illustrations—even the conversation partners’ clothing and accessories were depicted, with vibrant colors, the ink mixed with gold powder, sparkling crystal-clear.
It looked like it was drawn by Nicolas Flamel’s wife, like a children’s story picture book.
“Paracelsus, late 15th-century astrologer…”
Melvin looked up, about to ask a question, but seeing the old man’s expression, he quietly softened his voice and carefully put away the notebook on the table.
The six-hundred-year-old wizard sat quietly in the high-backed chair by the window, silver-white hair draped over his shoulders, sparse but neat, eyes half-open, sunlight illuminating the fine lines on his face, revealing faint weariness.
“That’s it, Melvin. I can only help you this far.” The old wizard said softly.
Melvin stood up, bowing slightly in respect: “Goodbye, Mr. Flamel.”
“We probably won’t meet again.”
“……”
“A joke.” Nicolas Flamel opened his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips: “Don’t rush to mourn me; Pernelle and I still have estate matters to handle. I hope to see your Projection Mirror in Paris.”
“I won’t keep you waiting long.” Melvin nodded and turned to leave.
Watching the young professor’s figure recede, Nicolas Flamel slowly sat up, spreading his hands again; a mysterious ancient book appeared in his palms, brass tightly embedded in the spine, its pages filled with archaic text nearly extinct, recording obscure Alchemy; every 7 pages formed a group, each group switching languages, with the seventh page of every group blank.
But on the seventh page of the first group was a drawing of an ouroboros snake coiled around a wand.
……
Leaving Hogsmeade and following the winding path forward, Melvin entered the school gate with the boar wings spread, strolling through the grounds where snow was melting, his breath surrounded by cool, damp mist.
Gazing at the school castle under the azure sky, he had heard of Hogwarts in the future, and seen this castle in the past; towers rose high, flanked by dense forest, distant undulating hills.
He walked through the soggy grounds, carrying memories from thirty years ahead emerging from history six hundred years ago, feeling light and mysterious, like a raven circling above the river of history: looking back to Nicolas Flamel copying letters six hundred years ago, looking forward to Voldemort turning to ash five years from now.
Several towers glowed with fireplace light, the blue skyline melting into the firelight; the gamekeeper’s hut window also glowed, distant was a vast lake surface, sunlight reflecting on the water, sparkling.
Those legendary wizards known only from books were like lights on ripples, pushed and trailing by waves and water, rippling along predetermined paths toward the distant future.
After Nicolas Flamel finished his story that morning, he sipped the Butterbeer slowly; The Three Broomsticks’ Butterbeer had lots of foamy head, salty-sweet, and Nicolas Flamel drank it for a long time, not leaving a single drop, sitting at the table talking with Melvin, his robes stained with yellowish foam.
Melvin watched him drink, watched his emaciated, shriveled form even worse than the Hand of Glory, foam spilling on his lapel like a yellowed history book eaten by worms.
Nicolas Flamel spoke of fearing death, yet when he said he had only two years left, there was no fear or sadness in his eyes, like when he spoke of his neighbors who died in the plague.
Receiving the Horned Serpent’s gift by chance and opening this path, not yet confirmed, already warned… Melvin pondered where his future lay, thinking of Nicolas Flamel, the Horned Serpent, secretly anticipating the notes in that handbook.
“Emotions and will, soul and magical power…”
Melvin murmured softly, “More like faith and divinity.”
At this moment, nearby shrubbery rustled.
“Professor Levent?” Hermione’s voice came from behind the bushes.
“It’s so cold outside; why not stay in the castle?” Melvin stopped and asked.
“…” The little witch kept a straight face, but her eyes couldn’t help darting around, secretly glancing at the professor’s expression.
It had to be admitted that Melvin left a good impression on students: as a foreign professor, he didn’t favor any House, didn’t care about Gryffindor point deductions, was tolerant and patient with students, and most importantly, had a liberal attitude toward school rules.
Hermione flashed a sweet smile, saying in a flattering tone: “Professor, you’re friends with Hagrid, right?”
Melvin couldn’t help laughing, glancing toward Hagrid’s hut; he already knew that in that hut’s fireplace, a Norwegian Ridgeback dragon egg was hidden.
