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Ian finally realised what Nicolas Flamel was forging, tomb-raiding tools!
As enchanted glyphs continued to etch themselves across the surfaces, one automated artefact after another gradually took form. Each gleamed with a faintly eerie metallic sheen under the dim workshop glow, and, most unnervingly, they moved on their own, twitching into readiness like magical constructs preparing for a mission.
"Wait, wait, wait! You're far too old for this sort of thing! Tomb raiding isn't something for someone of your... venerable status! It's perilous! There are noxious vapours! Hex-laced traps! Quicksand! And curses that could rot the soul!"
"There are mummies, lingering spirits, guardian wraiths, animated gargoyles, hellhounds, illusion mazes, elemental rifts, shrivel-headed revenants, fox-spirits with blue-glowing eyes, and cursed kelpies that shriek like banshees!"
Ian's attempt to scare Nicolas Flamel off was genuine.
He was truly panicking.
If Nicolas Flamel really tried to dig up King Arthur's resting place, how would Ian explain it to the souls in the Twilight Realm? Professor Morgan might hang him from a floating cairn and lecture him for eternity.
"If you can do it, why shouldn't I?"
Nicolas Flamel had no intention of stopping.
One enchanted tool after another came to life in his hands, animated with finesse and engraved with intricate magical inscriptions.
The craftsmanship was breathtaking.
And the speed? Comparable only to an alchemical automaton set to overdrive.
"I'm different! My family's been doing this sort of thing for generations! We've got skills! I'm versed in ancient rites, geomantic channeling, ley-line mapping, tomb ward disruption!"
"Plus vault-echo sensing, astral-kick alignment, twin-finger divining, and the art of summoning the hill-sign! You don't need to understand the names, just feel the ancient magic pulsing in them!"
Ian hadn't expected Nicolas Flamel to react so... enthusiastically.
"Mm? I thought your family specialised in potioneering?" Nicolas Flamel arched a sceptical eyebrow; clearly, he wasn't buying any of it.
"From my generation onward, my descendants will learn all my skills, so technically, that counts as generations, doesn't it?" Ian replied with an awkward smile.
He darted forward and seized Nicolas Flamel, who was already halfway toward the forge again. With great effort, he confiscated the enchanted tools and pushed the elderly alchemist away from his workbench.
It really was just coincidence.
It wasn't that Ian had intentionally waited for Nicolas Flamel to complete inscribing the final rune before making his move…
"Hmph, hoarding all the excitement and keeping the shinies for yourself!"
Nicolas Flamel gave a grumbling sigh and flung the last tool to Ian, clearly sulking. The young wizard could only smile nervously, unsure how to deal with the old man's childlike obstinacy.
"Look, I've risked my life to fetch these treasures for you to examine, you don't need to go and get yourself cursed! Let the younger generation deal with the tomb-crawling. That seems fair, doesn't it?"
Ian was genuinely afraid Nicolas Flamel might resign as Hogwarts' Alchemy Master and run off to become a full-time grave-looter.
"Hardship? What hardship? Is this what you call suffering?"
"Fate's a peculiar thing; if it makes you suffer in youth, then it definitely won't spare you in old age either. Just look at Albus."
"When I first met him, he was barely out of school, just a bright-eyed lad of twenty, while I'd already had a century or two under my belt. I watched him rise, step by step."
"Truth be told, I've very few close friends from his generation. Albus is one of the rare ones. We captured a steel-bellied basilisk together once, and he was with me when we discovered the twelve alchemical applications of dragon's blood."
"He had such brilliance, it startled even me, but fate, for all its irony, struck him with blow after cruel blow."
"He's the one who truly suffers."
Thankfully, Nicolas Flamel didn't insist on returning to his workbench. Ian wisely stayed silent at the old alchemist's melancholic assessment of Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore has indeed endured more than most..."
He changed the subject, steering the conversation elsewhere with a calculated shrug.
"Ah..."
Nicolas Flamel sighed deeply, his eyes falling upon the initial sand Ian had conjured earlier, the raw component of true time sand, as well as the alchemical formulas Ian had produced.
"Still, perhaps fate has its own balance... It did grant Albus certain breakthroughs at just the right moments."
"Maybe he really can..." Nick trailed off, halting his words as though he feared sharing too much too soon.
He understood now.
This boy, this Ian, was dangerous in the most unpredictable ways. If he exposed him to reckless ideas now, the lad might grow up with even wilder ambitions. And given his natural gifts, his seemingly endless luck, and the strange power he carried…
There might come a day when no one could stop him.
Especially not after what Nick sensed from that enchanted mark on Ian's arm. No wonder Grindelwald had lingered at the school.
"Leave everything with me, I'll fix your clock, translate these runes, and examine the contract glyphs. You've dumped quite the pile on me, haven't you?"
"But who am I to complain, a humble servant caught up in the legacies of you rising stars?" Nicolas Flamel let out a breath somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. Having reminisced about his past with Albus Dumbledore, he sank into his chair, cloaked in a quiet melancholy.
"Thank you for your help, Professor!"
Seeing that Nicholas Flamel wished to be alone for a while, Ian gave a small, respectful bow to express his gratitude, then turned and headed for the door.
"There's no need for thanks; after all, I'm quite fascinated by these artefacts myself. And... the reward you've offered is already more generous than most of the legendary gifts ever recorded," Flamel replied with a casual wave of the hand, already immersed in studying the strange items Ian had left behind.
And once the young wizard had gone,
As the door shut quietly behind him,
Flamel lifted his gaze, staring at the door through which Ian had just exited.
"I do wonder what other strange relics he might unearth..."
At that moment, Nicholas Flamel seemed like an entirely different person. The earlier sighs and air of melancholy had vanished without a trace.
Now, his voice carried a distinct undertone of eagerness, clearly, age had only sharpened his theatrical flair. Perhaps all that hurried tool-forging hadn't been the impulsive whim it appeared to be. Perhaps only he knew their true intended purpose. People like him, those who adored curiosity and discovery, seldom dove into things directly. They preferred to sit back and enjoy the unfolding spectacle.
"He couldn't have actually found Merlin's tomb... could he?"
Retracting his gaze, he turned his attention to the large heap of black sand spread across the desk. This time, the awe in his voice was genuine.
With great care, Flamel gathered the black sand into a crystal-stoppered bottle. But he did not immediately begin to analyse it. Instead, he reached for a piece of thick parchment and began to sketch a few rapid strokes.
Urgent! Come now, immediately!!!
He wrote only that single sentence, but punctuated it with so many exclamation marks it looked more like a warding spell than a message. Once done, he sealed the parchment with a flick of his wand and passed it to the house-elf that had just Apparated into the office with perfect timing.
"Prolo! Take this straight to the mistress. If she's still angry, just tie her up and bring her here, tell her I've discovered a secret not even Albus has uncovered!"
Nicholas Flamel spoke gleefully, clearly treating the matter with more delight than concern.
"Yes, Master," the house-elf said with a deep bow. "Prolo shall obey faithfully. But Prolo cannot bind the mistress, Prolo may only suggest appropriate punishments for you, which always works quite well. Mistress will certainly come to Hogwarts in a hurry."
It must be said, this house-elf might not yet match Dobby of the Malfoy family in eccentric flair,
But there was definitely a mischievous streak in him. Having delivered his cheeky comment, he vanished again before Flamel could respond.
"Ah!"
Nicholas Flamel slowly lowered his raised hand.
Yet the flicker of frustration faded quickly. With a few deep breaths, he steadied himself and turned his full attention back to the scattered magical texts covering the desk.
"Tsk, tsk... imagine that, me, actually working." Though he grumbled, his voice held a trace of amusement. His eyes, however, were sharp with uncharacteristic focus.
This was genuine drive.
Not merely from his lifelong love for alchemy,
But because he had glimpsed a possibility.
A thousand years from now.
He and Perenelle… perhaps they would still have a chance to witness this world again.
(End of this chapter)