"It's a broad category, I suppose," Harry nodded as he spoke. "If you pile a heap of Galleons in a room and get lucky enough, you might find those Galleons coming together to form a kind of Spirit of Gold—or, well, a Galleon Spirit, if you will. And so on."
"Everything has a spirit," Nicolas Flamel said with understanding. "That's not so different from traditional shamanism, though traditional shamans could never control the kind of elemental power Albus demonstrated."
"Maybe one day they will," Harry replied with a slight nod. "Compared to wizards, shamans who revere the spirits in all things are often more easily accepted by the elements."
"That's quite fascinating," Nicolas said with a smile. "You know, I thought I understood everything about the Philosopher's Stone. After all, I created it and used it for centuries—until I found this little fellow in the place where discarded Stones were stored."
"If you gathered unused Philosopher's Stones together, you might see another kind of elemental spirit," Harry suggested.
"Oh, I'm afraid that's no longer possible," Nicolas shook his head slightly. "The Stone in your hand is the last one that hasn't been consumed. By the way, what will happen to it?"
Nicolas gestured toward the small Stone he was holding.
"If you're willing to feed it with the remaining blank Philosopher's Stones, its size would grow massive after absorbing them," Harry said after a moment's thought. "As for its abilities, well, the kind of elemental spirit determines its powers. Elements tend to have very singular natures."
"Can you tell me more?" Nicolas asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
"Of course. In fact, I have plenty of questions about alchemy I'd like to ask you," Harry said with a smile. "I've been researching how to use wizarding charms to communicate with the elements…"
The room was soon filled with an academic atmosphere. Albus Dumbledore joined the conversation, and setting aside his prowess in combat, he was undeniably a brilliant mind in academic research.
Their discussion was merely a starting point. What kind of inspiration could spark in just one day? It was more of an exchange of introductions. Harry demonstrated elemental and soul magic for Nicolas, even summoning a howling wind elemental from the Pyrenees Mountains. In return, Nicolas showcased his prized alchemy—not the kind Harry had studied in Azeroth, but the wizarding craft focused on creating magical artifacts and potions.
Nicolas Flamel, this man who had lived for over six hundred years, truly embodied the wisdom of such a long life. In a tauren tribe, an elder like him would be revered. His vast lifespan had made him nearly omniscient, with time to master anything he wished—not just alchemy, but charms, potions, and seemingly every branch of knowledge in existence.
"Voodoo Spirit Potion—what an odd name," Nicolas said eagerly, looking at the recipe Harry had written down. "Why 'voodoo'? I'll admit, many ingredients here are excessively toxic. Taken alone, I'd suspect you were planning to poison someone. But voodoo? That's a different concept altogether. Truth be told, I don't know much about the magical systems of Africa or South America."
"It has nothing to do with African or South American wizards," Harry shook his head. "It's called voodoo because this potion was crafted by witch doctors from a race called trolls. Its effects are as I described, but trolls and humans are vastly different. Their vitality is extraordinary, so what's tolerable for them is often deadly poison for humans."
"Ah, trolls…" Nicolas said with interest. "That must be the unique race from the world you visited, as Albus mentioned?"
"Yes," Harry explained. "To recreate the effects of the potions I learned there, I need to find equivalent materials in this world. But, as you can see, the toxins are far too potent."
"Hard not to be potent, given what you've used," Dumbledore interjected with a wry tone. "Look at this list: Thestral tail hair, Inferius nail clippings, Mandrake root, Abyssinian shrivelfig juice, threads of a ghost's memory, and—unicorn blood? Are you serious, Harry?"
"It's just a theory. I'd never dare let anyone drink it," Harry said, shaking his head quickly. "And don't worry about the materials, Professor. I have a unicorn herd living in my suitcase world, and they're quite cooperative."
Let's just say that every ingredient Dumbledore listed was deadly, some even capable of causing a fate worse than death.
"Sounds like you've already made it?" Nicolas asked.
Without a word, Harry pulled a tightly sealed vial of potion from his dragonhide pouch and placed it on the table.
"Wow," Nicolas exclaimed. "Such remarkable initiative… Does drinking it let you see the spirit world?"
"No idea. I haven't dared to try it," Harry replied bluntly. "I tested it on monkeys, but every one that drank it died on the spot. Before they did, they seemed dazed and panicked, as if they saw something terrifying. But it's hard to say if that was the toxins causing hallucinations."
Neither Dumbledore nor Nicolas seemed bothered by Harry's use of monkeys to test the potion.
"Is that all?" Nicolas asked.
"Based on my predictions, drinking this potion should logically produce one of three outcomes," Harry said confidently. "First, it could allow the drinker to communicate directly with the dead, whether their ancestors or souls lost in the Twisting Nether. Second, it could heighten spiritual perception, letting the drinker see and interact with all spiritual entities in their surroundings—that's my main goal. And third, it might act as a lure, possibly attracting dangerous spirits… like Dementors, perhaps? I'm not sure."
"Communicate with the dead?" Dumbledore rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "Are you sure it wouldn't just turn the drinker into one of the dead? I know you wouldn't do that, Harry, but as Headmaster, I must stress that Hogwarts' curriculum does not include brewing poisons or dangerous potions—not in Potions class, and not in Shamanism lessons either."
"Rest assured, this is just my personal research," Harry clarified. "As a shaman yourself now, Professor, you know that a shaman's power isn't limited to the elements. The power of souls is just as crucial."
"I've developed a potion that lets non-shamans perceive the elements," Harry continued, sounding puzzled. "But I still can't create one that lets them perceive spirits. Of all my apprentices, only Luna has shown any talent for spirit-related magic. Outside of them, only you, Professor Dumbledore, have begun to touch on soul magic."
"Souls, death—this world has its own unique rules, like a lid sealing it shut. Only a rare few can glimpse the other side," Harry said, frowning. "If I recall correctly, when I first summoned my parents' spirits in this world, you said it caused an anomaly in the Department of Mysteries' Hall of Death?"
The Hall of Death was a dimly lit, square chamber with a sunken stone pit about twenty feet deep at its center. Stone steps descended in tiers, like an amphitheater, leading to a raised stone platform at the bottom. On that platform stood an ancient, dilapidated archway, unsupported by any wall or rope, yet adorned with tattered black curtains that swayed despite the still, enclosed air.
"…Correct," Dumbledore said gravely, exchanging a glance with Nicolas. "The Veil was disturbed. According to the Unspeakables, when they arrived, they found the curtains pulled apart, as if something had passed through—either in or out."
"And then?" Harry pressed. "Something tells me it's not just the Veil being opened that's got you so serious."
"Indeed, it's more than that," Dumbledore said solemnly. "The Veil wasn't just opened—it can no longer be closed. It's as if the curtains were permanently pulled apart. Even at the cost of an Unspeakable's life, they couldn't restore it."
"Were there any negative consequences?" Nicolas asked. "In the Department of Mysteries or the British wizarding world at large?"
"None," Dumbledore said, his expression tinged with confusion. "It's as if nothing happened. Everything remained calm… If not for the Unspeakable who lost their life trying to close the Veil, the entire incident might have seemed harmless."
"That's hardly a good sign, Albus," Nicolas said wearily. "You never mentioned this before. I've been to the Hall of Death myself. That archway and Veil… it wasn't even called the Hall of Death back then, just a magical ruin. That was until 1692, when the Statute of Secrecy was passed, and the British Ministry of Magic was built around it."
"The Department of Mysteries predates the Ministry itself," Nicolas continued. "For centuries, that ruin's safety has been more important than any wizard's life. I suspect it holds secrets older than the oldest histories of our kind."
"I know, Nicolas," Dumbledore said calmly. "Even now, the Ministry has no real authority over the Department of Mysteries."
"You've done well, Albus, protecting its secrets," Nicolas said, coughing. "I recall the Muggle's Gospel of Matthew, which says that when Jesus died, the temple's curtain tore in two from top to bottom, the earth shook, rocks split, and tombs opened. In the New Testament, the curtain represents the divide between life and death. The place with the archway is called the Holy of Holies, the most sacred space."
"Muggles?" Harry asked. "I thought their myths were just metaphors or fragmented records of what wizards did."
"Only partly, Harry," Nicolas said with a smile. "It's said that spirits of the dead pass visions through the Veil to the minds of the living, speaking to them that way."
"I can assure you, no one in the Hall of Death experienced any strange or unfamiliar visions," Dumbledore said firmly.
"But the fact remains," Nicolas said, his voice heavy, "the Veil between life and death can no longer be closed. Albus, tell me honestly—is the Veil still swaying?"
After a moment of silence, Dumbledore said softly, "…No."
"As I thought," Nicolas said, realization dawning. "That's… far too coincidental."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"I organized this gathering specifically to meet you, Harry—forgive my caution," Nicolas said, standing shakily. He walked to a cabinet against the wall and retrieved a crystal ball the size of an ostrich egg.
"I don't want to sound dramatic, but the wizarding world—not just Britain, but everywhere—has seen too many changes these past two years. And the root of those changes is the elements you've introduced."
"So I performed a divination," Nicolas said, placing the crystal ball on a red velvet cushion and sliding it to the center of the table with a smile. "A glimpse into the future."
"Can you show us?" Harry asked softly, eyeing the crystal ball.
"That's exactly why I'm here today," Nicolas said, resting one hand beside the ball. His eyes fixed on the gleaming crystal.
Slowly, it grew opaque. Lead-gray clouds swirled with yellow smoke, then sank, plummeting as if into a bottomless abyss. The crystal darkened until Harry could only make out the faint hue of stone walls, fleeting and gone. In the end, all that remained was a desolate, broken archway.
"…The Hall of Death?" Harry whispered, staring at the black curtains hanging still on either side of the arch.
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