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In the depths of Hogwarts, the headmaster’s office was shrouded in an air of anticipation. Fawkes, the majestic phoenix, sat perched in his usual corner, observing the scene with a keen eye. Three wizards were gathered in conversation, their presence casting long shadows in the dimly lit room. Albus Dumbledore, with his characteristic twinkle, engaged in a deep discussion with the legendary alchemist, Nicolas Flamel. Their exchange was one of mutual respect and curiosity.
“Did the boy take it?” Dumbledore inquired, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and intrigue.
Nicolas Flamel’s response was measured, his eternal smile unwavering. “I am not certain,” he admitted, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Dumbledore, attempting to pierce through Flamel's inscrutable expression, leaned forward slightly. “It wasn’t the real thing, was it?”
Flamel chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate with centuries of wisdom. “Albus, since when have I ever risked something as significant as the Philosopher’s Stone in the hands of a few youngsters?” he replied, his words both a gentle rebuke and a testament to his caution.
Dumbledore couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation mixed with admiration. Flamel, with his vast experience, had every right to call him a youngster, despite Dumbledore's own experience of two human lives.
Dumbledore ignored the man's knowing smile, which reminded him of his younger days. When he was under Nicolas Flamel with his best friend at the time, and now his greatest rival, Nicolas would always eye them as now. It was as if his all-seeing eyes could detect everything, leaving nothing hidden. "Are you taking him in?" Albus asked.
Nicolas nodded, "The boy is a rare genius in Potion and Transfiguration. More than you," he said with a teasing smile, watching Albus's expressions. As he expected, the old boy still looked offended. Nicolas had always compared Albus with his other student at the time, and both were so competitive. Ah, the good old days, Flamel thought to himself.
"Also, he is from the Muggle world. Not only does he not have prejudices against Muggle science, but he is also quite versed in them."
Albus was shocked, "Have you visited his school on the Muggle side?" He was surprised, as he too had visited Harry's school a few times, but all his teachers said Harry was hopeless as all his exams were mediocre.
Nicolas chuckled, "His exam results were always 50. Not a point higher or lower. Just 50. What does this tell, Albus?"
Albus pondered, "It means he's deliberately scoring average. To stay unnoticed?"
"Precisely," Nicolas confirmed. "He has been hiding his true capabilities. It seems the boy understands the value of keeping a low profile."
Albus's expression turned thoughtful. "He must have had his reasons. The Dursleys...they are not kind to him."
"Indeed. A rough upbringing can forge remarkable resilience and cunning," Nicolas remarked. "Harry has the potential to be extraordinary, Albus. With proper guidance, he could achieve greatness beyond our expectations."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I hope so, Master. I hope so."
Fawkes observed with interest as the conversation between Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel unfolded. The Headmaster's office was dimly lit, adding a layer of mystique to their exchange. Nicolas Flamel, with his air of ageless wisdom, stood and approached Fawkes. The majestic phoenix shivered involuntarily, sensing the profound presence of the legendary alchemist.
Flamel extended a gentle hand, his voice warm and almost playful, "What a magnificent creature you are." As he petted the phoenix, Fawkes seemed to preen under his touch. Albus watched, not even entertaining the idea that Nicolas might get burned. He knew his old mentor too well; this was a man who had tamed far more dangerous things than a magical bird.
"Your kind is quite fortunate," Nicolas addressed Fawkes directly. "Your ancestors were rewarded with immortality for their service, and now every member of your race can escape death through rebirth by flame."
Albus paid close attention to this interaction. Flamel's words carried a weight of history and knowledge, a reminder of the ancient magics that even the greatest wizards of the present day were still learning from.
"Old man," Dumbledore began, his tone respectful, "are you sure about taking young Harry under your wing? He's talented, but also... unpredictable."
Flamel smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement and an unspoken challenge. "Grindelwald ... and Albus, I took you both on as students, didn't I? Harry is certainly no more unpredictable than the two of you were."
Dumbledore seemed like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he didn't. He watched as Nicolas petted Fawkes, who preened happily under his touch. When Nicolas turned to him with a smile, Dumbledore sighed.
"Well, it was nice to see you both. It is time for me to go back. I need to return and teach my new student after all," Nicolas said with a chuckle, and then he vanished. Dumbledore wasn't surprised; in the presence of Nicolas Flamel, the word "impossible" seemed to lose its meaning. Fawkes too seemed to relax, as if the air was fresher now.
"That wasn't so bad," Dumbledore muttered to himself, then repeated with more conviction, "It wasn't." Fawkes closed his eyes, used to his master's musings by now, and began to doze off.
"I hope the Boy Who Lived will not deviate from our plan," Dumbledore sighed. "If he does, we will just create another path for him."
In the depths of the Albanian forest, a wraith prowled, feeding on various animals to sustain itself. The once-feared Dark Lord Voldemort had fallen from grace, reduced to hunting rodents and drinking their blood to cling to existence. His form was barely more than a shadow, a pitiful remnant of his former power.
Voldemort's mind seethed with anger and hatred as he recalled the boy who had brought about his downfall. "How did that boy burn me like that?" he hissed, his voice filled with indignation. "Was that the magic in the prophecy?"
His encounter with Harry Potter had left him with more questions than answers. The boy's mere touch had inflicted pain upon him, something no other magic had achieved. Voldemort's crimson eyes glowed with malevolence as he pondered this mystery. "The prophecy mentioned a power the Dark Lord knows not. Could it be something even I am unaware of?"
He moved through the forest, his thoughts consumed by this enigma. Every creature he encountered fell victim to his wrath, their lifeblood drained to sustain his wretched existence. "I will discover this power," he vowed. "And I will destroy the boy who wields it."
As Voldemort continued his hunt, his thoughts turned to his faithful followers. He needed their help to regain his former strength. "Death Eaters," he thought with disgust. "Those spineless traitors will pay for their cowardice." But for now, even the lowest Wormtail's servitude could prove useful. He needed loyal servants to help him return to power, and he knew that many Death Eaters still lurked in the shadows, waiting for their master's call.
Voldemort's journey through the forest was not without its dangers. The magical creatures that inhabited these woods were fierce and unpredictable. But in his weakened state, he had little choice but to take the risk. "I must find a way to restore my body," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I need a host, a vessel to inhabit until I can regain my strength."
The thought of possessing another being repulsed him, but desperation drove him forward. He needed a plan, a way to bide his time until he could find a more permanent solution. "Perhaps there is a wizard in these parts," he mused. "Someone foolish enough to stray into these woods and fall into my trap."
His mind raced with possibilities, each more sinister than the last. He would regain his power, no matter the cost. And when he did, he would make the world tremble once more. "Harry Potter," he whispered, his voice filled with venom. "Your time will come. And when it does, you will wish you had never been born."
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