The night air in the apartment felt heavy with a sense of timelessness. Albert collapsed onto the bed, the plush pillows pulling him into a state of semi-consciousness almost immediately. His body felt drained, but his mind was still racing, vibrating with the residual energy of the masterclass he'd just sat through.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before a sudden, sharp ping resonated in his mind—the familiar notification sound of his system. He sat up, shaking off the fog of sleep, and tapped his display open.
[New Quest: The Master's Heirloom.] [Objective: Nicolas Flamel values your potential and is subtly testing your understanding of legacy. Prove your worth.] [Reward: Unknown.]
Albert frowned, tapping the screen. A reward of "Unknown" from a man who had lived through six centuries of history wasn't just interesting—it was potentially world-altering. But Albert wasn't the type to be blinded by loot. He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the wall.
He had known exactly who the Flamels were from the moment he walked in, but he'd played the role of the curious, wide-eyed student because that was the safest path. Nicolas was too old to be played for a fool, and he'd lived through enough betrayals to spot a manipulator a mile away. Honesty—or at least, a very well-curated version of it—was the only way to build a real connection here.
If he was going to get anything out of this, it had to be genuine mentorship. The Wildsmith family vault was already a goldmine of arcane secrets, but knowledge wasn't just about possession; it was about perspective. The Wildsmiths had the what, but the Flamels had the why.
"Greed is a slow poison," Albert muttered to himself. He decided to let it play out. If a reward came, fine. If not, he was still spending his summer with the most interesting minds in Europe.
He drifted off, and his dreams were predictably weird. He saw himself sitting on a throne of Philosopher's Stones, living a life that stretched into the next millennium, only to find himself bored to tears, eventually tossing the stone into the sea just to see what would happen.
What a wasteful brat, he thought in his dream, chuckling at himself before snapping awake.
His internal compass was clear: he didn't want to live forever. He wanted to be a "salted fish"—carefree, comfortable, and untouchable. But he was smart enough to know that in a world where a dark wizard like Voldemort was slowly creeping back to life, being a carefree salted fish required a massive, intimidating amount of power. He was studying for survival, not for the glory. If he didn't reach a level where he could face the worst the world had to offer, he'd just be another casualty of someone else's war.
He shook off the lingering dream, dressed, and made his way toward the breakfast nook. The Flamels were already there, the room bathed in the soft morning light.
"Good morning," Nicolas said, his eyes bright. "I hope you slept well? Perenelle was worried you might find the apartment too quiet compared to a house full of young wizards."
"Quiet is a luxury in Scotland," Albert said, sitting down to a plate of buttery, flakey croissants that made his heart sing.
The conversation moved quickly, shedding the formalities of the previous day. They touched on amulets, and Nicolas, with a dismissive wave, suggested that Albert look into the structural resonance of garnets.
"Most amulets you see in shops are just... expensive trinkets," Nicolas said, his tone suggesting he found the entire industry a bit hilarious. "They provide a placebo effect more than anything. If you're going to build one, build it to last, or don't bother at all."
"I assume you feel the same way about most magical artifacts?" Albert asked.
"Most, yes," Nicolas said, his eyes twinkling. "Let me show you something that has been testing my patience for a week."
He walked over to a nearby cupboard and returned with a heavy, polished wooden box. He set it on the table with a soft thud and gestured for Albert to open it. Albert lifted the lid, and his breath hitched.
Resting on a bed of faded velvet was a diadem—the Lost Ravenclaw Crown. It was beautiful, but there was a darkness clinging to it, a jagged, oily residue that seemed to pulse when the light hit it just right.
"Ravenclaw's crown," Albert whispered. "Dumbledore entrusted you with this?"
"He did," Nicolas said, sighing. "Someone turned this into a receptacle for something... quite malicious. Dark, twisted work. I've been trying to reverse the corruption, but it's anchored to the very intent of the creator's magic."
"Can you fix it?" Albert asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I failed," Nicolas admitted, looking neither ashamed nor surprised. "The magic that Ravenclaw woven into it—the intelligence-enhancing enchantments—shattered when the object was corrupted. It's not just broken; it's fundamentally rewritten. Even if I purged the darkness, the original magic would remain dead."
Albert looked at the crown, thinking of the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's possession. If the most powerful wand in existence couldn't restore it, then it truly was a lost cause. "It's a shame. I was hoping for a bit of extra brainpower for my O.W.L.s."
Nicolas laughed, a light, melodic sound. "Ravenclaw's wisdom wasn't in the metal, Albert. The crown was just a catalyst. If you need a crown to be wise, you were never wise to begin with."
"Fair point," Albert conceded, closing the box.
He leaned back, watching the old man. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking—I've heard it said that Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of the age. As someone who has actually lived through the ages... is there anyone in history who could truly match him?"
Nicolas went quiet. He looked toward the window, watching the birds flutter across the glass. The silence stretched, long and thoughtful.
"To compare Albus to the wizards of the past is a difficult task," Nicolas said finally. "The founders of Hogwarts... they were forces of nature, certainly. But they lived in a time where magic was raw and untamed. They built the foundation, yes, but Albus? He refined the entire structure."
Nicolas tapped his chin. "Wizards usually begin to decline in their twilight years. Their magical core, their focus... it all dims. But Albus? He has somehow found a way to sustain, if not grow, his power. When you combine his raw talent, his centuries of observation, and that terrifyingly sharp mind of his... no. I do not believe there has ever been a wizard who could stand against him in his prime. Not even Merlin."
"That's high praise," Albert said, feeling a chill run down his spine.
"It's not praise," Nicolas said, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly note. "It's an observation. The title of Headmaster is small for a man like that. He is the anchor of the current age. If he were to disappear, the entire world would tilt on its axis."
Albert nodded slowly. He understood now. Dumbledore wasn't just a teacher or a headmaster; he was the primary reason the status quo remained intact. The dark forces in the world didn't win because they were afraid of him, and that fear was the only thing holding the peace together.