Chapter 56: The Portkey
The two days at Star-Swirl Manor passed quickly. Bangbang and Kreacher packed Polaris's Undetectable Extension Charm trunk to the brim—clothes were folded neatly, school supplies were categorized by subject, and magical ingredients were stored in small labeled boxes, each marked with its name and purpose.
Bangbang even stuffed a large bag of Salted Plum Candyinto a corner of the trunk, wrapped in three layers of oil paper to prevent moisture. Kreacher didn't say anything, but when Polaris opened the trunk, he saw an extra pair of new wool socks—grey ones, knitted even more densely than the last pair.
His aunt waved her hand and added exactly one thousand Galleons, contained in a small leather pouch tucked into the innermost layer of the trunk. "Don't be stingy while you're out," she said.
"Polaris, Headmaster Dumbledore will arrive before noon," Aunt Lyra said, sitting on the sofa in the drawing room with a cup of black tea in her hand. "I'll wait here with you." She paused. "Mother has gone to check on the lunch; we'll leave after eating."
Polaris nodded and sat down on the sofa beside her. The sunlight in the drawing room was wonderful, streaming through the French windows and spreading a warm golden glow across the carpet. The fireplace wasn't lit, but the room was warm enough. Polaris leaned back against the sofa and chatted with his aunt about the family business.
Orders for Star-Swirl Brooms were already backed up until next year. Aunt Lyra mentioned that several international buyers had been negotiating for distribution rights recently, but they hadn't agreed on a price yet. The Potioningredients business was stable; the channels on the Selwyn family's side were still there, and the supply had never been interrupted. As for magical fabrics, Madam Malkin had just placed a large order for the new season, using the Welsh Mountain cashmere blended magical fiber supplied exclusively by the House of Black.
"By the way, that chat board you made." Aunt Lyra set down her teacup and sat up straighter. "If the progress is good, I think it could be promoted. The wizarding world can't use telephones, and everyone still uses the most primitive method of sending letters by owl. The chat boardcan send simple messages, and if upgraded well, it could become an excellent way to transmit information over long distances. Owls could then be freed from the letter-delivery mode and become partners specifically for transporting goods."
Polaris thought for a moment. "Once I finish studying Alchemy, I should be able to make a more stable version. Right now, it only lasts for two hours, which is too short. If it could be extended to a day, or be made reusable—"
"No rush," his aunt interrupted him with a smile on her lips. "You're only eleven. Take it slow."
The doorbell rang. A crisp ring echoed twice through the manor's foyer. Polaris stood up and walked toward the door with his aunt.
Dumbledore stood outside the door, wearing a set of deep purple robes, his silver-white beard sparkling in the pre-noon sunlight. A gentle, reassuring smile was on his face, and his half-moon spectacles glinted with fine light in the sun.
"Long time no see, Professor Dumbledore," Aunt Lyra gave a slight curtsy. "It's a pleasure to have you at Star-Swirl Manor."
"Oh, long time no see, Lyra," Dumbledore nodded. "The last time I saw you was at the International Confederation of Wizards at the Ministry of Magic. That report you gave on behalf of the House of Black regarding the Potioningredient supply chain was quite brilliant."
Aunt Lyra smiled and stepped aside to let Dumbledoreinside.
Grandmother walked over from the direction of the dining room, holding a tray of freshly baked honey muffins. She placed the muffins on the coffee table in the living room before turning to Dumbledore.
"Albus, long time no see."
"Long time no see, Cassiopeia," Dumbledore's voice was slightly softer than usual. "As for the specifics, I believe Polaris has already told you. I've come to take him to Nicolas's home."
Grandmother nodded. "If you're not in a hurry, why not have lunch with us?"
Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "Of course! I've missed your honey muffins; I haven't had them in a long time!"
Lunch was sumptuous. Bangbang and Kreacher had filled the long dining table to capacity; besides Grandmother's honey muffins, there was roast chicken, vegetable salad, cream of mushroom soup, and a large platter of freshly baked bread. Dumbledore sat across from Grandmother, Aunt Lyra sat next to Polaris, and Polaris sat between Dumbledore and his aunt.
"Polaris is doing excellently at school." Dumbledore cut a piece of roast chicken, put it in his mouth, chewed twice, and then set down his fork and knife as if remembering something. "Oh, I don't know if you've seen the report card? Straight Os, first in his year. He has a great personality too, and has made some very good friends."
Grandmother nodded, took a sip from her soup bowl, and set it down. "He is indeed outstanding. Just like his parents."
Dumbledore's hand paused for a moment. It was so brief that perhaps no one noticed. He picked up his knife and fork again, cut another piece of roast chicken, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a long time. Grandmother didn't speak again. Aunt Lyra lowered her head to drink her soup, her spoon clinking against the rim of the bowl with a faint sound. Polaris sat there, sensing a change in the atmosphere—it wasn't cold, but heavy. Like a stone thrown into deep water; the surface rippled a few times and then returned to calm, but the stone remained at the bottom, never to resurface.
Dumbledore swallowed the chicken and took a sip of pumpkin juice.
"Cepheus and Long Meixiu were also first in their year back then. Cepheus was highly gifted in Charms and Alchemy; Professor Flitwick still mentions him often. As for Long Meixiu's Potions and Ancient Runes research, ProfessorSlughorn said she was one of the best students he ever taught." His voice was level, but every word seemed to be pulled up from a very deep place.
Aunt Lyra looked up and smiled. "Cepheus was quite mischievous when he was little. Once, he stole Mother's broomstick to go riding and fell into the pond behind the manor. He came back soaking wet and tried to lie to Mother, saying he'd been caught in the rain." She glanced at Cassiopeia. "Mother made him polish every single broomstick in the house."
The corners of Grandmother's mouth curved slightly. "That broomstick is still in the storage room; his name is still carved on the handle."
Dumbledore laughed, a light but genuine sound. "I remember once, Cepheus and Long Meixiu were researching an alchemical array in the corridor and drew runes along the entire length of the floor. Filch was so angry he nearly resigned. Professor McGonagall gave them a month's detention cleaning the corridors, but Long Meixiu came up with a cleaning rune spell in three days that wiped the runes perfectly clean. Cepheus said she had modified the spell using alchemical principles."
Aunt Lyra laughed. "Yes, Meixiu was like that; she could always find a cleverer way to do things."
The atmosphere warmed up again. Those stones at the bottom of the lake hadn't been fished out, but there was sunlight on the surface now. Polaris listened to them talk, answering occasionally when asked, but mostly just eating quietly. The honey muffins were very sweet, the mushroom soup was fragrant, and the bread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Bangbang poked his head in from the kitchen door, checked Polaris's plate to confirm he had finished, and ducked back in to bring the next dish.
"Polaris was also mischievous as a child," Aunt Lyrasuddenly spoke, looking at Dumbledore. "When he was five, he was chasing Bangbang and ran from one end of the garden to the other in the blink of an eye. We were all terrified, thinking he'd been hit by some curse. It turned out he was terrified too, standing there crying." She shook her head with a smile. "We only found out later that it was a talent his mother left him."
Dumbledore's gaze turned to Polaris, lingering on his face for a moment. "The power of bloodlines can sometimes be much more profound than we imagine," he said, then picked up a honey muffin and took a bite. "Cassiopeia, your cooking is as good as ever."
Polaris felt that oppressive heaviness and faint sorrow—the moment Grandmother mentioned his parents, that emotion hid among them like a shadow, voiceless and shapeless, but Polaris felt it. He didn't point it out, simply finished the honey muffin on his plate and took another sip of pumpkin juice.
After lunch, Dumbledore stood up and pulled an old pocket watch from his robe. "Well, child. Nicolas has been waiting for some time. Let's head out."
Polaris stood up. Bangbang had already placed the trunk at the door, and Kreacher was standing beside it, reaching out to wipe the handle once more.
Polaris walked over to Grandmother. She reached out and pressed her hand lightly on his shoulder; she didn't hug him, but the pressure was firm. "Come back as soon as you've finished your studies."
Polaris nodded. He walked over to Aunt Lyra, who gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, "Write to me if you need more money."
He walked over to Bangbang, whose eyes were already red, though he didn't cry, instead stuffing the large bag of Salted Plum Candy further into Polaris's pocket. "Little Master, Bangbang will wait for you to come back." Polaris patted Bangbang's head and then looked at Kreacher. Kreacher stood there with his back ramrod straight and gave a slight bow. "Little Master, safe travels." Polaris nodded.
He walked back to Dumbledore's side and reached out. Dumbledore took his hand; it was warm, with long fingers and prominent knuckles. Dumbledore looked down at him with something in his gaze that Polaris couldn't quite name—gratification? Relief? Or something else? The look was gentle, like the sun on a winter afternoon.
Apparition. The world spun as if he were being sucked into a giant whirlpool. Polaris closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his feet were on solid ground. Star-Swirl Manor was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar landscape—rolling hills, green meadows, and a forest in the distance, behind which the roofs of a few houses were faintly visible. The air smelled of grass and earth, much warmer than the cold wind at Star-Swirl Manor.
"Oh, I thought you might find it uncomfortable," Dumbledore said, letting go of his hand and looking around. "But you seem fine."
"I've used it a few times with my aunt; it's alright." Polaris fished a Salted Plum Candy from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. The sweet and sour taste suppressed the dizziness from the Apparition. He thought for a moment, then pulled out another one and offered it to Dumbledore. "Would you like to try one, Professor?"
Dumbledore took the candy, looked at it, and put it in his mouth. His eyebrows rose, and then he nodded. "Oh, a very novel flavor. Sweet and sour, with a hint of salt. Quite good."
"My friend Bangbang made them," Polaris pulled out a small packet wrapped in oil paper and handed it to Dumbledore. "Bangbang made a lot for me. You can have this pack."
Dumbledore took the packet of candy and tucked it into his robe pocket. "Thank you, my child. Bangbang—is he your House-elf?"
"Yes," Polaris said. "My family, and also my friend. Before I started school, I didn't see anyone my own age. He was the one who accompanied me during those days."
Dumbledore looked at him for several seconds. "You have a kind heart. Many Wizards do not view House-elves as family."
Polaris didn't respond. He looked at the cliff in the distance—no, it wasn't a cliff, but the edge of a hill overlooking a valley where a thin river sparkled in the sun. He turned to Dumbledore. "Professor, what are we waiting for?"
"Oh, a Portkey." Dumbledore checked his old pocket watch again. "Nicolas is in France. If one doesn't use conventional Muggle transportation, crossing borders requires an entry permit and applying for a Portkey to travel quickly between two places—much like Apparition, but across countries."
Just as he finished speaking, a figure emerged from thin air. He didn't walk over from a distance; he appeared from nothing, like a painting being drawn stroke by stroke—first the outline, then the color, then the details. A man, wearing ragged clothes and leaning on a wooden staff, with messy hair and a few streaks of dirt on his face. He stood there, tilting his head to look at Dumbledore, then at Polaris.
Polaris studied him curiously. The man noticed Polaris's gaze, looked down at his own ragged clothes, and grinned. "This is a disguise; can't let the Muggles notice." He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket. "Oh, let me see the permit."
Dumbledore took the permit from an inner pocket of his robes and handed it over. The man took it and checked it carefully, his eyes moving back and forth between the paper and the two of them. Polaris stood by, watching the man—ragged clothes, staff, messy hair, appearing on the edge of a hill. He thought about it and wondered if this was really a good disguise. A man dressed like a beggar appearing on a hillside next to an old man in purple robes and a boy in a dark blue coat—Muggles would find such a combination quite odd, wouldn't they?
The man finished his inspection and returned the permit to Dumbledore. Then he reached into the inner lining of his clothes, fumbled around for a while, and pulled something out—a bowl. A broken bowl, with a chip in the rim and a crack in the bottom.
Polaris looked at it and sighed inwardly. He really had disguised himself as a beggar.
The man noticed Polaris's look, weighed the bowl in his hand, and spoke with a hint of grievance. "Don't be too judgmental. Portkeys come in all shapes and sizes; my bowl is already quite decent. Others use slop buckets, old hats, ragged socks, or broken belts. Trust me, you wouldn't want to touch those."
"Oh, and the instructions." The man held the bowl up so they could see it clearly. "All users must touch the Portkeysimultaneously with a hand or another part of the body at the designated time. When the Portkey activates, it will emit a faint blue light and vibrate gently. The user will feel a powerful jerk behind their navel, then be spun at high speed through a whirlwind of color and sound, eventually landing at the destination."
He pulled out another pocket watch—very similar to Dumbledore's, but older, with the patterns on the casing worn smooth—and checked the time. "Thirty seconds left. Put your hands on it."
Polaris reached out, his fingertips touching the rim of the bowl. The bowl was cold, rough, and the chip was a bit sharp. Dumbledore's hand covered the back of his, and the man's hand covered the bottom of the bowl. Three hands, one bowl, on the edge of a hill in the afternoon sun, waiting quietly.
A blue light flared. It was faint, like the glow of a firefly, dancing around the edge of the bowl. The bowl began to vibrate—not a shake, but an internal pulse like a heartbeat. Polaris felt something jerk behind his navel—not painful, but the sensation of a place deep inside his body being touched that had never been touched before. Then he was swept away.
Colors and sounds blurred together. The world spun, wind rushed in from all directions, and Polaris closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his feet were on solid ground. Grass, green, even greener than the previous patch. In the distance was a small hill, and on the hill was a stone house, with thin white smoke rising from its chimney. The air smelled of baking bread and flowers.
Dumbledore stood beside him, his robes rustling in the wind, but his beard was perfectly in place. The man was gone, likely back to continuing his disguise as a beggar.
Chapter 57: Preliminary Understanding
"Alright, child, we've arrived in France," Albus Dumbledoresaid.
The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and grass; a few seagulls circled in the distance, their cries sounding exceptionally long in the empty sky.
Rhys looked at the house in the distance—gray-white stone walls, dark gray roof, with thin white smoke rising from the chimney. The house wasn't large but looked sturdy, appearing like an old house built centuries ago, every stone's edges worn smooth by the wind. "Is this Nicolas Flamel's home?"
"Oh, of course not." Albus Dumbledore shook his head with a hint of a smile. "It needs to be a bit more confidential. After all, the residence of an Alchemy master who can refine the Philosopher's Stone cannot be public. That would bring a lot of trouble."
Albus Dumbledore drew his wand and tapped it lightly on his other arm. A light glowed—not blinding, but gentle, like moonlight. Rhys's vision blurred; all the sights—the sky, the seagulls, the house in the distance, the grass beneath his feet—swirled together like a knocked-over watercolor painting. When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer in the same place.
Surrounded by the sea. Not the sea seen from the shore, but sea on all sides. They stood in the center of a meadow. The meadow wasn't large, its edges consisting of reefs and crashing waves. The island was small, its borders visible at a glance, but it was densely covered in trees, like a green wall.
Rhys looked at Albus Dumbledore. "Is this the Fidelius Charm?"
Albus Dumbledore smiled. "It seems your Charms knowledge could pass the O.W.L.s."
Rhys looked around again. "Where are we?"
"Mona Island." Albus Dumbledore put his wand away and stepped toward the center of the island. "The largest island in the Gulf of Morbihan, the 'Pearl of the Gulf.' Its terrain is like a maze, far from the hustle and bustle. Nicolas's home is here."
The paths on the island were narrow, flanked by tall oaks and hazels. Their canopies intertwined, obscuring most of the sky and letting through only scattered fragments of light. Beneath their feet were thick fallen leaves, soft and silent to step on. Albus Dumbledore walked slowly, as if intentionally letting Rhys remember the path. After walking for about ten minutes, the thicket suddenly opened up, and a clearing appeared. There was nothing in the clearing but grass and a large stone half-buried in the soil.
Albus Dumbledore stopped, drew his wand, and gave it a light tap. The air in front of him rippled like a stone thrown into water. Once the ripples subsided, a small cottage emerged from the air—stone walls, a wooden door, and an open window on the second floor with white curtains fluttering in the breeze. Thin white smoke rose from the chimney, looking like an illustration from a fairy tale book—the kind from Grimm's Fairy Tales, where a kind old man lived deep in the forest.
Albus Dumbledore stepped forward and knocked. The door opened to an old woman. She was so old that Rhys had never seen anyone like her—the wrinkles on her face were like a dried-up riverbed, and her hair was completely white, shining like winter snow. But her eyes were bright and blue—different from Albus Dumbledore's blue; hers was deeper, like the color of the deep sea.
"Oh, Perenelle, long time no see." Albus Dumbledore's voice was gentler than usual.
"Long time no see, Albus." Perenelle's gaze fell on Rhys. "This must be Rhys? Flamel is preparing the workshop. Come in quickly, I'll take you there."
Rhys followed Albus Dumbledore inside. The entrance hall was small but cozy. Several paintings hung on the walls—not of people, but landscapes: a golden wheat field, a small hill surrounded by vineyards, a meadow blooming with wildflowers. The frames were wooden and unpainted, retaining the natural grain of the wood. Clanging sounds came from upstairs, like things being moved around, with the occasional dull thud of something dropping.
Rhys looked up.
"Oh, it seems Nicolas is having some trouble." Perenelleshook her head with a smile. "Let's go up."
Upstairs was a small room. A desk sat by the window, piled with books and parchment. Opposite the desk was an empty workstation, with several unopened wooden crates scattered on the floor nearby. An old man stood in the center of the room, wand raised, directing a heavy iron rack to move from the doorway toward the workstation. The rack hung in mid-air, wobbling as if it might fall at any moment.
The old man turned and saw Albus Dumbledore, his eyes lighting up. "Oh, you're here! Quick, Albus, just in time. Help me put this equipment in the right place. A good workstation is essential for good habits; you can't expect an old man who has lived for over six centuries to still use a wand perfectly. The last time I used magic was in Paris at the Père Lachaise Cemetery—I used Finite Incantatem."
Albus Dumbledore smiled and drew his wand. With a light tap, the wobbling iron rack stabilized and flew smoothly to settle beside the workstation. Rhys also drew his wand and, under Nicolas Flamel's direction, placed the remaining equipment one by one—cauldrons, scales, and various Alchemy tools. Albus Dumbledore handled the large items while Rhys took care of the smaller ones. The two worked in perfect sync, and in less than fifteen minutes, the once-empty workstation was fully stocked, with every piece of equipment in its proper place, neat and tidy.
Nicolas Flamel stood with his hands on his hips, looked at the workstation, and nodded with satisfaction. "Excellent, child. Oh, I mean Rhys, your grades at school must be outstanding."
Rhys nodded modestly. "Thank you, sir."
"Alright, this will be your study area for the next two weeks." Nicolas walked to the window and pulled the curtains open a bit more. Sunlight flooded in, hitting the workstation and making the brass vessels shine. "Perenellehas already prepared your and Albus's rooms. If you're willing, let's go to the living room to discuss the schedule for the coming days."
Rhys glanced at Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore blinked. "Indeed, it's been a long time since I've seen Flamel. Spending a two-week holiday here is a fine choice."
The living room was on the first floor, small but comfortable. There was a dark wooden table with four chairs, and a fire burned in the fireplace—not large, but enough to keep the room warm. A pot of black tea, four cups, and a plate of biscuits sat on the table. Perenellepoured the tea slowly but steadily. By the time the cups were pushed in front of everyone, the steam from the tea was rising just right—neither too hot nor too cold.
Nicolas Flamel sat across from Rhys, took a sip of tea, and set it down. "So, child, how much do you know about Alchemy?"
Rhys thought for a moment. He organized everything in his mind—the dozen or so Alchemy books he'd read, the twins' notes, the ancient texts from the House of Blacklibrary, and his own experiments carving runes on wood—then spoke.
"Alchemy isn't based on mere imagination; its philosophy is built upon Hermeticism, and thus it's known alongside Astrology and Theurgy as the 'Three Wisdoms of the Whole Universe.' It posits that 'all things have spirit.' Through correct procedures, one can extract the inner'soul' or 'essence' from imperfect matter. All its operations, such as distillation and purification, symbolize the alchemist's own soul's process of perfection from 'death' to 'resurrection,' ultimately reaching spiritual fulfillment and communication with the Creator."
Nicolas Flamel neither nodded nor shook his head, simply listening quietly.
"As a system of thought spanning at least two thousand five hundred years, Alchemy merges the wisdom of multiple civilizations. It originated in Graeco-Roman Egypt, blending the Greek theory of the four elements with the ancient Egyptian pursuit of immortality, and absorbing Mesopotamian astrological ideas. In the eighth and ninth centuries, Arabic scholars systematized it. After entering Europe in the twelfth century, it spurred the birth of modern chemistry and reached its peak between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. In those two hundred years alone, approximately four thousand related works were published."
Rhys picked up his teacup and took a sip to moisten his throat.
"Before the nineteenth century, Alchemy had not yet been disproven by science. Many Muggle scientists, including Newton, conducted related experiments. I believe the reason Muggles failed lies in the method of activation—for example, Ancient Runes are engraved on Alchemy tools and then activated with magic power, or magical energy. As my classmates, the Weasley brothers, told me, silver powder can also activate Alchemy tools and is more stable than magic power."
Nicolas Flamel set down his teacup and looked at Rhys, a light in his eyes.
Perenelle spoke first. "Wow, child, perhaps you'd be interested in Beauxbatons Academy of magic? They have a very mature Alchemy system there. Oh, and the finest ladies in France; a handsome boy like you would surely be very popular there."
Albus Dumbledore coughed.
Perenelle smiled apologetically and took a sip of tea, her eyes crinkling into crescents behind the cup.
Rhys also smiled and took a sip of tea. "Thank you, ma'am. Beauxbatons is indeed wonderful, but I already have great friends and teachers at Hogwarts. If there's an opportunity in the future, I'll go visit."
Nicolas Flamel watched Rhys for several seconds, then nodded. "What you said is largely correct. Your friends also have good talent." He set down his cup and rested his crossed hands on the table. "The power supply for Alchemy comes from seven stages."
Rhys frowned in confusion. "Seven?"
"Yes, seven." Nicolas's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. "For instance, the Philosopher's Stone lies within the Citrinitas array. What your friend mentioned, the silver powder, lies within the Albedo array."
He stood up, walked to the fireplace, picked up a poker, and poked the embers, making the fire burn a bit brighter.
"Your understanding of Alchemy is still somewhat stuck in the Academic school." Nicolas turned and looked at Rhys. "What I am going to teach you over the next two weeks is to break away from the Academic school. We will proceed in the most traditional way an alchemist teaches an apprentice."
Rhys set down his teacup and sat up straighter.
Outside, the sun was just right, and the cries of seagulls came from afar, thin as wind passing through the eye of a needle. The fire burned in the fireplace, the steam from the tea rose, Perenelle was knitting something, and AlbusDumbledore leaned back in his chair with his eyes half-closed, looking as if he were listening or perhaps asleep.
Rhys looked at Nicolas Flamel—this man who had lived for more than six centuries. His face held no 'I'm going to test you' sternness, nor the 'what do you know' arrogance. He just looked at Rhys calmly and seriously, as if discussing a problem with an equal peer.
"Okay," Rhys said.
Chapter 58: The Apprentice's Ritual
Early the next morning, Mona Island was shrouded in a layer of mist. Nicolas Flamel was already standing at the workshop door, wearing a deep gray robe with sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thin but strong wrists. He leaned on a silver staff—not a wand, but a true silver staff, slender and topped with a transparent stone that shimmered faintly in the morning light.
"Come in." Nicolas pushed open the door.
The workshop looked different from yesterday. Four pillars had been erected in the four corners, not tall, only reaching Rhys's waist. On the eastern pillar sat a block of salt, rough and white, its surface sparkling with tiny crystals in the candlelight. On the southern pillar was a copper pitcher, a thin stream of water flowing from its spout into a stone basin below, making a soft, continuous dripping sound. A ball of fire burned on the western pillar, not large but very bright, a smokeless golden-red. Hanging from the northern pillar were a feather and a bell; the feather swayed gently in the breeze, while the bell remained silent.
In the center of the room, an eight-pointed star was drawn on the open floor. It wasn't painted but inlaid into the ground—composed of stones of different colors: dark, light, red, and white. Each stone was polished smooth, fitted together to form a symmetrical and precise octagonal shape.
"Before we begin teaching, we must first complete a simple ritual," Nicolas's voice was softer than usual but clear. "An ancient apprenticeship ritual. To become an alchemist's apprentice, one must undergo seven stages—Nigredo, Albedo, Citrinitas, Rubedo, Conjunctio, Fermentatio, and Sublimatio, corresponding to the seven processes of ancient Alchemy. However, we don't need to do all that. Completing the full process would take a year or two."
Rhys stood at the edge of the eight-pointed star, looking at the precisely inlaid stones beneath his feet, and turned to Nicolas in shock. "When you were young, did you go through all those processes?"
Nicolas smiled. It wasn't an answer, but a 'guess for yourself' kind of look. He winked his right eye at Rhys. "Things from over six centuries ago? I can't remember that clearly."
Rhys nodded. He knew. He had.
"Alright, child. Now do as I say."
Nicolas pointed the silver staff at the center of the eight-pointed star. Rhys took off his shoes and stepped onto the platform barefoot. The stone was cool, but not icy; it was that deep, subterranean, sunless, eternal coolness. He stood in the exact center of the eight-pointed star, toes pointing at the center, heels apart, hands hanging naturally at his sides.
Nicolas moved in front of him and raised the silver staff. The transparent stone at the tip flashed in the candlelight.
"Forehead." The silver staff lightly touched the space between Rhys's eyebrows. A coolness spread from the point of contact, like a drop of ice water falling into warm water. "Nigredo. Only by acknowledging your ignorance can you see the first ray of light in the darkness."
"Throat." The silver staff touched just below his Adam's apple. Rhys swallowed. "Albedo. You speak, and words become the bridge between you and the world."
"Heart." The silver staff touched the center of his sternum. Rhys felt his heartbeat transmit through his skin to the silver staff. "Citrinitas. Your emotions are not a weakness; they are the fire in the alchemical furnace."
"Below the navel." The silver staff touched his abdomen. Rhys tightened his abdominal muscles slightly. "Rubedo. The primal force of life gathers here; you learn to use it, rather than be used by it."
"Hands." The silver staff touched the backs of both his hands simultaneously. Rhys's fingers twitched slightly. "Conjunctio. You give, and you receive. Creation and destruction are two sides of the same hand."
"Feet." The silver staff tapped the top of his left foot and then his right. Rhys looked down at his feet, his toes curling slightly from nervousness. "Fermentatio. You stand upon the earth; the earth supports you, and you support your path."
"Crown." The silver staff lightly touched the very center of the top of his head. Rhys felt the coolness seep through his scalp, traveling down his spine all the way to his tailbone. "Sublimatio. You are no longer yourself; you are everything. You do not possess knowledge; you are knowledge itself."
Nicolas withdrew the silver staff. Rhys stood there, feeling the spots that had been touched still tingling with coolness, as if seven tiny stars were embedded in his body.
Nicolas took a silver chain from around his neck. The chain was very thin, holding a pendant of two discs that could be flipped. One side was gold, engraved with the sun; the other was silver, engraved with the moon. Looking closely at the junction of the two discs under the candlelight, there was a micro-carved pattern—a dragon and a Phoenix, head to tail, intertwined. Nicolas hung the silver chain around Rhys's neck. The pendant fell against his chest, cool—cooler than the places touched by the silver staff.
"This is the Apprentice Badge," Nicolas's hand lingered on the pendant for a moment. "The sun and the moon, the dragon and the Phoenix. Remember this pattern."
Rhys looked down at the two discs and tucked the silver chain inside his collar, against his skin.
Nicolas walked to the center of the four pillars and picked up a cup. The cup was ceramic, unglazed and rough-surfaced; held in his aged hand, it looked as if it had grown out of the earth. He handed the cup to Rhys. The liquid inside was golden and transparent, with tiny flakes of gold leaf floating on the surface, shimmering in the candlelight. It smelled of the mellow aroma of wine, the spiciness of saffron, and the sweetness of honey.
"Wine of the Sages. Drink half."
Rhys took the cup and took a large gulp. The liquid slid down his throat, warm, spicy, sweet, and bitter all at once, like something exploding inside his body. He handed the cup back to Nicolas. Nicolas splashed the remaining wine in the four directions—East, South, West, and North. The liquid hit the ground, seeping into the cracks of the stones and leaving faint golden traces.
"Returning to the elements." Nicolas set down the cup, stepped back, and looked at Rhys. "One last question. Do you still want to become an alchemist?"
Rhys opened his mouth, wanting to say "Yes." But as the word reached his lips, he stopped. He looked into Nicolas's eyes—those deep brown, bloodshot, yet still sharp eyes that had lived for over six centuries. He remembered what Nicolas had just said: "You are no longer yourself; you are everything. You do not possess knowledge; you are knowledge itself."
He changed his answer. "I already am."
The corners of Nicolas's mouth slowly curled up. It wasn't a smile, but a confirmation. Like someone who had waited a long time and finally received what was meant to come. "The ritual is complete."
Rhys gave a deep bow. Not a polite, shallow nod, but a true bow, bending at the waist with his head low. He straightened up, looked at Nicolas, and said, "Mentor."
Nicolas nodded, his expression neutral. "Now, we can begin our studies."
He walked to the workbench and re-checked the equipment he had set up yesterday. Rhys followed behind him, the silver chain still hanging around his neck, the pendant cool against his chest.
"Alchemy has many branches and different directions," Nicolas said without turning around. "You need to choose a primary focus. For example, my ultimate goal was to create the Philosopher's Stone. What about you?"
"Talismans," Rhys said.
Nicolas's hand paused. He turned around, frowning. "Talismans? What are those?"
Rhys didn't explain. He demonstrated directly—his body became transparent and vanished into the air. A few seconds later, he reappeared.
"The Bloodline Magic in my body," Rhys said. "I feel that this Zodiac Ability can be replicated—using Alchemy to create Talismans that can be used by people other than myself. However, research into Ancient Runes alone has already slowed my progress. The runes for replication and storage in Ancient Runes cannot properly carry or preserve this kind of Bloodline Magic from my body."
Nicolas looked at him, silent for several seconds. Then he walked to a bookshelf, pulled out a thick notebook, flipped through it, and closed it again. He put the notebook back, turned around, leaned against the bookshelf, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Child, academic Alchemy courses are all based on Ancient Runes engraving. In reality, that's not enough. You need to use a combination of multiple scripts—it's more complex, but more effective than modern Alchemy." He held up a finger. "For instance, combining other scripts—Parseltongue, Gobbledegook, Mermish, Giant, Draconian, and Centaur astrology symbols. These can all be used in combination with Ancient Runes. There are even more ancient scripts and symbols—Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the Oracle Bone and Bronze scripts from the East. They are all excellent combinations."
Rhys listened quietly, engraving every word into his mind.
"I think your research topic can be defined as: The engraving applications of combining Ancient Runes with other languages and scripts. This way, perhaps the conditions you need to create Talismans can be resolved."
Rhys nodded.
"This invisibility ability of yours, which Zodiac does it represent?"
"Snake."
Nicolas walked to the workbench, picked up a piece of parchment, wrote a few lines on it, and handed it to Rhys. "For the first week, I want you to learn all of the Ancient Runes. Memorize them—I don't need you to understand them yet, just memorize them. Also, Parseltongue. Fortunately, Albus is here; he can understand Parseltongue. Although he can't speak it, having him teach you the written part of that study should be fine."
Rhys took the parchment and glanced at the handwriting. It was very old-fashioned, with fine decorative lines at the start and end of the letters, exactly like the ones on that letter.
"Additionally," Nicolas took a thin manual out of a drawer and handed it to him, "you must also create one small alchemical item for apprentices every day. This is the 'Apprentice's Manual,' which records the introductory alchemical props used for practice."
Rhys took the manual. It was very thin and looked ancient, as if it were a product from several centuries ago. The cover was dark brown and felt less like paper and more like leather—thin cowhide, very tough, worn at the edges but without any cracks. He flipped to the first page, which showed a simple magic rune array, with materials and steps noted beside it.
"Yes, Mentor." Rhys tucked the manual and parchment away and felt the two bottles of Potions in his pocket—Wit-Sharpening Potion and Invigoration Draught. Bangbang had stuffed them into his suitcase, bringing plenty of each. He had originally thought he wouldn't need them, but now it seemed that over these two weeks, every single bottle would be drunk dry.
Nicolas had already walked to the workbench and begun preparing research materials. Rhys stood at the door, looking at this man who had lived for over six centuries—his back was thin and his shoulders slightly hunched, but his hands were steady. As he picked up a cauldron to check the bottom for cracks, his fingers didn't tremble in the slightest.
Outside the window, the sun had risen, and the mist was dissipating. The cries of seagulls came from the distance, thin like wind passing through the eye of a needle. Rhys touched the cool pendant at his chest—the sun and the moon, the dragon and the Phoenix—pressed against his skin, beating in time with his heart, thud after thud.
Chapter 59: The Mark
The lighting in front of the workbench was excellent.
Sunlight slanted through the window, landing on the brass vessels and reflecting a soft, golden glow.
Rees put on his goggles; his thin dragon-hide gloves clung to his palms, allowing his fingers to move freely.
Four metal plates were laid out before him—iron, copper, silver, and gold, arranged from left to right.
The dullness of iron, the reddish-brown of copper, the snowy white of silver, the brightness of gold.
Four plates, four colors, corresponding to nigredo, rubedo, albedo, and citrinitas.
Nicolas Flamel placed a set of engraving knives by his side.
Twelve knives, ranging in size from as fine as a needle tip to as wide as a little finger, were neatly inserted into a dark brown leather case.
Each knife handle was silver, engraved with different figures and text.
Rees picked up the smallest one and looked closely—the handle was carved with an old man holding a scroll, a thin halo above his head, and Latin text beside him; the handwriting was so small it was almost illegible, but every stroke was carved deeply.
"This set of engraving knives is called 'Holy Faith'," Nicolas's voice came from behind him.
"Knives from 1634, twelve different models, each handle engraved with the image of one of the twelve apostles and a biblical sentence. They were blessed by the bishop at the time and washed in holy water at Notre-Dame in Paris."
He paused. "As a welcome gift for you."
Rees's fingers gently traced the patterns on the handle; the silver felt warm and smooth, neither like something new nor something old—like something that had been used by many people, polished by many years, yet still retained its original appearance.
He put the smallest knife back into the leather case and looked up at Nicolas. "Mentor, thank you."
Nicolas waved his hand and pointed to a material box and several small round bottles on the left side of the workbench.
"Gold, silver, copper, and iron plates; you can practice engraving Runes on them. After engraving, fill them with tin, mercury, and lead."
He pointed again to the small round bottles next to the material box, which contained silvery-white liquid, grayish-black powder, and soft metal strips.
"Remember to wear your goggles and thin dragon-hide gloves. Some materials used in Alchemy experiments are toxic, so protect yourself."
He walked to the workbench and adjusted the positions of the four metal plates.
"Gold, silver, copper, and iron correspond to citrinitas, albedo, rubedo, and nigredo. Tin, mercury, and lead correspond to conjunction, fermentation, and sublimation."
He stretched out his finger and tapped above each material.
"Gold—the Sun, silver—the Moon, copper—Venus, iron—Mars, tin—Jupiter, mercury—Mercury, lead—Saturn. They correspond to the seven celestial bodies respectively."
Rees kept these words in his heart, picked up the smallest engraving knife, and opened the first page of the Runesbook.
The first Ancient Rune was "Fehu"—representing wealth and abundance.
It was shaped like a capital letter F, but the two horizontal lines were slanted, and there was a short diagonal line in the upper left corner.
He took a deep breath and set the knife down on the corner of the iron plate.
Learning Runes was not as simple as memorizing them in one's mind.
So-called "remembering" meant being able to engrave them correctly; too deep wouldn't work, too shallow wouldn't work—everything had to be just right.
The moment the knife tip touched the iron plate, Rees felt a resistance—the hardness, the coldness, the heartlessness of iron.
The knife tip slid down, and powder—tiny, grayish-black—flipped up from the cut.
The first stroke was too deep; the knife tip bit too deeply into the iron, and the stroke became thick and blunt.
Rees didn't stop; he finished the first stroke and then engraved the second.
The second stroke was a bit shallower, but it didn't harmonize with the first; the third stroke was deep again.
After finishing all three strokes, he looked at the Ancient Rune—it was crooked, the stroke thickness was uneven, and the depth at the bottom was inconsistent.
He rubbed it with his finger and could feel the unevenness.
Rees flipped the iron plate over, changed to a different spot, and engraved the second one.
This cut was lighter than the previous one, but the force was uneven; it was shallow at the beginning and deep at the end, the stroke like a slope sliding into a river from the bank.
The third, the fourth, the fifth—the iron plate was covered with crooked Runes, each with different flaws.
Rees stopped, shook his wrist, and picked up the knife again.
In the living room, Perenelle was knitting a sweater by the fireplace, the sound of the knitting needles clicking softly, like autumn insects chirping.
Nicolas and Dumbledore sat at the table, the black tea in front of them replaced by a new pot.
Nicolas picked up his teacup but didn't drink, watching the tea leaves slowly unfurl in the hot water, sinking to the bottom of the cup.
"Albus, that child's comprehension is very good. He is quick, and his hands are very steady," Nicolas put down the teacup and looked at Dumbledore.
"Thank you for finding such an excellent successor for me."
Dumbledore picked up a biscuit, put it in his mouth, and chewed twice.
"Actually, it wasn't me," he swallowed the biscuit and picked up another. "It was himself. A 'transaction' completed through the Philosopher's Stone."
"Oh?" Nicolas's eyebrows lifted slightly.
Dumbledore looked up towards the second floor, his gaze resting on the tightly closed door for a moment.
"You should already know about the Bloodline Magic he possesses. That power is very strong, the likes of which does not exist in any magic system known today."
"Do you doubt the way this power was obtained?" Nicolas's voice was very flat, as if asking "How is the weather today?"
"No," Dumbledore shook his head. "I am not omniscient. I do not fully understand the mysteries of the East, either."
Nicolas picked up his teacup and took a sip.
"Indeed. Just like that magical creature from back then—the Qilin."
Dumbledore's fingers moved slightly; he looked down at the teacup in his hand; the tea was deep in color, like amber, like the maple leaves of late autumn.
"This power should, as he said, indeed stem from his bloodline," Dumbledore's voice was lower than usual.
"His mother had used these abilities, though the effect did not seem as strong as his."
He was silent for a while. "I am just worried—mastering such powerful strength at such a young age, will it confuse his mind and lead him astray?"
Nicolas put down the teacup and looked at Dumbledore; in those eyes that had lived for over six centuries, there was a faint but very certain emotion.
"Albus, you are too confined by yourself," Nicolas's voice was not loud, but every word carried weight.
"One failure does not mean it will be like that every time. Everyone's path is different. Just like me; I cannot replicate a second Philosopher's Stone."
He spread out his left hand; on the right side of his palm, there was a scorched mark—not an ordinary burn, but a mark that seemed to seep from beneath the skin, like a brand—the shape of a flame, the symbol of Venus.
The basic symbol for the fire element is an upward-pointing triangle, and the representative of Venus is copper, with the symbol ♦.
The triangle and that symbol were superimposed, the edges blurred, as if worn down by time, but still clearly distinguishable.
Dumbledore's gaze fell on that mark and stayed for a few seconds.
"You used the inheritance ritual of the ancient alchemists?"
"A simplified version," Nicolas turned his palm over, back of the hand facing up.
"But it can still leave an apprentice mark on the mentor's palm. Rees's mark is fire and Venus, representing that the supporting belief of his Alchemy is—love."
He raised his eyes to look at Dumbledore. "Family, friendship, love, the condensation of all emotions. This is the path of Alchemy he chose. This inheritance does not lie; it must be engraved into the soul."
Dumbledore was slightly taken aback; he looked at Nicolas's palm and then at Nicolas's eyes.
"What about you? What was your mark back then?"
Nicolas spread his palm again, the mark of the flame and Venus shining slightly in the sunlight.
"The Ouroboros and the Sun. It means immortality. The representative of the Sun is gold, so, using gold as a base, I created the Philosopher's Stone of the citrinitas array."
He closed his palm and placed his hand back on the tabletop.
"Albus, soul marks do not lie."
Dumbledore did not speak.
Nicolas glanced at him and sighed. "Perhaps, would you like to find a Qilin to see that child?"
Dumbledore shook his head, stood up, and said, "I am going to prepare the Parseltongue materials to teach Rees."
He turned and walked towards the stairs, his pace neither fast nor slow, the hem of his robe sweeping gently across the floor.
Nicolas sat at the table, watching his back disappear at the top of the stairs; Perenelle's knitting needles were still clicking, the fire in the fireplace burned steadily, and the steam from the black tea rose slowly in the sunlight, dissipating into the air, vanishing.
Rees finished engraving the twentieth Ancient Rune on the iron plate; he stopped, held the iron plate up to his eyes, and looked against the light.
The strokes were still not quite even, but they were much better than the first one; the transition of depth was smoother, and the variation in thickness had a bit of a pattern.
He put the iron plate down, picked up the larger engraving knife, and made the first cut on the copper plate.
Copper was softer than iron; the knife tip didn't have that stiff resistance when it bit in, but was smoother, like cutting into a block of thick butter.
He engraved "Uruz" on the copper plate—strength and endurance; one stroke, two strokes, three strokes.
When he finished, he looked at it against the light—the depth of the strokes was consistent, the thickness was even, and although the filler hadn't been applied yet, a complete, clear Ancient Rune could already be seen.
He put the copper plate aside and didn't continue engraving; copper was easier to operate? No, it was more… compatible?
The sunlight outside the window shifted again, shining onto the workbench, stretching the shadows of those brass vessels very long.
Rees picked up the engraving knife and made the second cut on the copper plate.
Chapter 60: Parselmouth
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio window, casting a long, slanted golden patch on the workbench. Rhys was engraving the twentieth Ancient Rune onto a copper plate, the tip of the blade making a faint rustling sound against the metal, like autumn insects chirping low among the grass blades.
When Dumbledore pushed the door open and entered, Rhys had just finished the last stroke. He set down the engraving tool, looked up, and saw Dumbledore holding several thin sheets of parchment, which he placed on the desk.
"Rhys, this is the Parseltongue learning material." Dumbledore's voice was slightly softer than usual.
Rhys wiped his hands and walked to the desk to pick up the papers. The sheets were thin, and the handwriting was Dumbledore's—slender letters with even spacing, each stroke carrying a composed strength. Rhys flipped through them—there were only a few pages. He looked up at Dumbledore with a slight sense of doubt.
"That's right, there isn't much information." Dumbledoretook off his glasses, wiped the lenses with a corner of his robes, and put them back on. "Because this language cannot be learned. I can only understand it; I cannot speak it."
Rhys arranged the papers in order and looked down at the first page. Dumbledore's voice echoed slowly through the studio, unhurried, as if telling an ancient story.
"Parseltongue is almost like a talent in the wizarding world. It is usually inherited through the Slytherinbloodline. Salazar Slytherin—one of the founders of Hogwarts and the most famous Parselmouth. The Gauntfamily are the last pure-blood descendants of Slytherin. There is also the more exceptional case of Herpo the Foul—a Dark Wizard from Ancient Greece—who is the earliest known Parselmouth."
He paused.
"I can only teach you how to understand and distinguish it. As for the engraving Nicolas mentioned—that is something you must explore and research on your own."
Rhys nodded and turned his gaze back to the paper. Dumbledore sat down across from him, resting his folded hands on the table.
"Before you begin learning, there is one thing you need to understand." His voice grew even softer. "Humans do not possess the vomeronasal organ unique to snakes—the organ that senses pheromones. Nor do we have the forked tongue or flexible jaw structure of a snake. Therefore, a human's 'Parseltongue' is always merely a crude imitation."
Rhys looked up at Dumbledore.
"To learn Parseltongue, you must first break free from human linear thinking and learn'snake thinking'." Dumbledore held up a finger. "Parseltongue has no past or future tense, only the 'present'. Snakes cannot comprehend abstract concepts—such as 'freedom' or 'love'. They only understand four things."
He curled a finger for each item he mentioned.
"Hunger—the contraction of the stomach. Danger—the vibration of the earth. Territory—the boundary of scents. Sleep—the changing of seasons."
Rhys repeated those words silently in his mind. Hunger, danger, territory, sleep. Four words, the entire world of a snake.
Dumbledore stood up, drew his wand, and gave it a light flick. A glass tank appeared out of thin air on the desk—rectangular and transparent on all four sides, with a layer of fine sand on the bottom, a shallow water bowl in the corner, and a round stone. A snake was coiled beside the stone, its body slender with a white base color covered in alternating orange and dark red patterns, forming rings like a path covered in autumn leaves.
"A Corn snake," Dumbledore said. "It's non-venomous and won't attack people. You can try holding it in your hand and using your magic to sense its emotions."
Rhys opened the lid of the glass tank and reached inside. The Corn snake felt the vibration, its body tensing slightly as it raised its head. It had red eyes with vertical pupils like two tiny pomegranate seeds. Rhys didn't rush to grab it; he simply kept his hand still inside the tank. His hand was warm while the air in the tank was cool; the temperature difference caused the snake's tongue to flick out, quivering slightly in the air to collect scent molecules.
After about half a minute, the Corn snake's body relaxed. Rhys slowly extended his hand, his fingers gently supporting its body—it was cool and smooth, but not as damp as he had imagined; it was a dry, sleek coolness. The snake did not struggle, climbing up his wrist and coiling around his forearm, finally finding a comfortable angle near the crook of his elbow to rest its head on its own body, becoming still.
Rhys looked down at it, and the patterns reminded him of something—amber. Not the transparent kind with insects inside, but the polished, warm kind with red veins.
"I'll give you a name," Rhys said softly, as if speaking to someone who could understand. "How about Amber?"
The little snake looked up, its red eyes fixed on Rhys. Its head tilted slightly, then it reached forward and nuzzled Rhys's fingertip with its snout. It was cool to the touch, but the gesture was warm.
"Then I'll call you Amber." Rhys smiled. He gently tapped the little snake's head with his finger once, twice, three times. The little snake didn't dodge; instead, it nuzzled its head against his finger again.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt.
"Amber, Amber." Rhys repeated the name twice. Just as he said it for the second time, he felt something changing in his eyes—the color of his pupils faded from gray to a greenish-blue, like a spring lake or freshly sprouted willow leaves. In the very center of his pupils, a faint mark emerged—the mark of the Snake Talisman, a coiled snake biting its own tail. He couldn't see his own eyes, but he could feel that power surging from the position of the Talisman, flowing along the optic nerves into his brain, and connecting with the body temperature of the little snake in his palm.
He locked eyes with Amber. He could feel the little snake's emotions—not hearing them, not seeing them, but feeling them. Like a temperature, it transmitted from the snake's body through his skin, blood, and bones, all the way to the deepest part of his consciousness.
Amber flicked its tongue and made an extremely faint sound. It wasn't a hiss, but something lighter and thinner, like wind passing through a tiny crack. "Hsssah——"
Rhys's mind automatically translated the meaning of that sound: Warmth. Comfort.
It wasn't language; it was a feeling. Warmth and comfort weren't two words, but a state—being enveloped by a cozy body temperature, with no vibrations, no danger, and the ability to close one's eyes in peace.
Rhys opened his mouth. His throat produced a sound, jerky and slow, like a long-unused instrument being played once more. "Sshar——"
Relax. Don't move.
His lips barely moved; the sound was squeezed directly from deep within his throat, carrying a raspy quality like snake scales rubbing against sand. Amber's body shivered slightly, then relaxed completely, coiling around his wrist with its head buried in its body as it slowly closed its eyes. It had fallen asleep.
The studio fell silent for a few seconds.
Dumbledore stood by the desk, looking at Rhys, his blue eyes behind his glasses full of surprise.
"You can speak Parseltongue?" Dumbledore's voice was lower than usual. "Do you have the bloodline of the Gauntfamily?"
Rhys looked at Dumbledore blankly and shook his head. "I don't know. I've never heard my grandmother mention it."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. He looked at the sleeping little snake on Rhys's wrist, then at Rhys's eyes, which had already changed from greenish-blue back to gray.
"Perhaps it's because the House of Black married into the Gaunt family in the past." His voice sounded uncertain. "It's alright; for now, this seems to be a good thing for you. Continue your studies."
He turned and walked out of the studio, the door closing gently behind him. The sound of footsteps in the corridor gradually faded away.
Rhys looked down at Amber. The little snake was still sleeping, its body rising and falling slightly with its breath, its scales shimmering with tiny glints of light in the sun. He reached out a finger and gently touched the tip of its tail. The tip curled once, then relaxed again.
"System," he called out in his mind.
[Present.]
"Can the Snake Talisman also resonate with snakes? Just like how Norbert submitted to me?"
[Yes. The Twelve Zodiac Signs are not randomly selected animals, but time symbols that correspond one-to-one with the 'Twelve Earthly Branches'. As a Talisman, it is naturally not difficult to influence the corresponding animals. The holder of the Snake Talisman has a natural affinity and deterrent power over snakes—snakes will sense this power and perceive the holder as a superior among their kind.]
Rhys watched Amber sleeping peacefully and remembered how Norbert had nuzzled his palm with his head the first time they met. The dragon's submission and the snake's closeness—both were because they felt the power of the Talisman, sensing something older and purer than themselves.
"In other words, I don't have the Gaunt bloodline and I'm not a descendant of Slytherin?"
[System Scan—Scan Result: Host does not possess the Slytherin bloodline.]
Rhys nodded. He gently unwound Amber from his wrist and placed it back into the glass tank. The little snake, caught between sleep and wakefulness, felt the departure of the body heat; its tail swept across the sand once before it curled up again and continued to sleep. Rhys closed the lid, sat back at the workbench, and picked up the engraving tool.
Runes. Parseltongue. Alchemy. There was still so much for him to learn. He picked up the engraving tool and made the first cut of the twenty-first Ancient Rune on the copper plate.
Dumbledore walked slowly across the small island. The path beneath his feet was paved with gravel, crunching as he stepped. The sea breeze blew from the east, carrying the scent of salt and causing the hem of his robes to flutter and curl. He walked very slowly, as if measuring something with every step.
He was thinking about Rhys.
The Gaunt bloodline—he wasn't sure. Rhys said he didn't know and that his grandmother had never mentioned it. Dumbledore believed him. The House of Black and the Gaunt family had indeed intermarried, but that was centuries ago; by now, the bloodline would be so thin it would be almost negligible. But Parseltongue wasn't something activated by a thin bloodline—it was a dominant, powerful talent that usually only appeared in direct descendants.
Unless, it wasn't bloodline.
Dumbledore stopped walking and stood at the highest point of the island, looking at the distant horizon. The sun had already begun to sink in the west, and the light on the sea had turned from gold to orange, like a mirror that had been set ablaze.
Rhys's Parseltongue had come too suddenly. It wasn't acquired through study, nor was it inherited through blood; it appeared suddenly when he named that snake—when he said the name "Amber." It was as if something had awakened inside him.
Dumbledore recalled the dark shadow Rhys had summoned in the Hospital Wing. A hand, reaching out from the shadows beneath the bed, silent and invisible. That was not a power an ordinary Wizard should have, nor was it a power an eleven-year-old child should possess.
He thought of Tom Riddle again. Similarly gifted, similarly unique, and similarly—inscrutable. When Tom was at Hogwarts, he was also top of his year, a star in the eyes of the teachers, and polite, humble, and gentle. No one expected him to become what he later became.
Dumbledore closed his eyes. The sea breeze continued to blow, the sun continued to set, and the light on the sea changed from orange to deep purple.
Rhys and Tom were different. Nicolas was right—Rhys had love. His tenderness toward Bangbang, his attachment to his grandmother and aunt, his care for his friends. Tom had none of these. Tom grew up in an orphanage; no one loved him, and he never learned to love anyone.
But what about talent? What about power? Those things themselves are neither good nor evil, but they amplify what is already inside a person's heart. Tom's heart was empty, so power turned him into an insatiable black hole. Rhys's heart was full—family, friends, protection—what would power turn him into?
Dumbledore opened his eyes.
July 31st. Rhys and Harry were born on the same day. Trelawney's prophecy said—"Born as the seventh month dies... the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal..."
The Dark Lord marked Harry. But what if the one he marked was Rhys? What if—just what if—the prophecy wasn't about "who the Dark Lord chooses," but about "who is qualified to be the Dark Lord's equal"?
Rhys's talent was stronger than Harry's. His abilities were more comprehensive, his temperament more mature, and his background more complex. If the prophecy truly had an element of "qualification," then could Rhys be the Child of Prophecy?
Dumbledore shook his head and turned to walk back. The gravel crunched under his feet, and the hem of his robes trailed on the ground, picking up dust. He walked slowly, but his steps were steady.
He pushed those thoughts down. Rhys was only eleven; he was still growing, still learning, still becoming himself. It was too early to draw any conclusions. Dumbledore simply placed that name in a very deep corner of his heart, alongside all those other unanswered questions.
He would wait and see. He would wait and speak of it later.
He pushed open the door of the cottage. Perenelle was in the kitchen preparing dinner, the sound of the spatula hitting the iron pot crisp and rhythmic. Nicolas was sitting by the fireplace in the living room, holding a very thick book and flipping through it. Dumbledore walked past him without disturbing him, heading straight to the second floor. The studio door was still closed, with light peeking through the crack. He heard the faint sound of a blade touching metal from inside, one stroke at a time, unhurried.
Dumbledore stood outside the door and listened for a moment, then turned and walked into his own room.