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The office door swung open.
"Ah, Henry." Dumbledore glanced up from his desk. "Come in, come in. Find a chair." He set his quill aside, rolled up the parchment he was working on, and tapped the desk lightly. The familiar silver kettle floated to a spot beside the table and began boiling water all on its own, a soft glug-glug filling the quiet.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you too much, sir."
"Disturb me? Of course not." Dumbledore smiled. "In fact, I've been hoping since this morning that someone might visit. Bring some healthy fresh air to me and this pile of paperwork. Fresh air is important, you see. Especially after a cold fried egg for breakfast." His eyes twinkled. "Though I suspect your visit has another purpose?"
"It does, sir." Anthony nodded and placed a crumpled ball of newspaper on the desk.
Dumbledore regarded it with polite curiosity, then looked back at Anthony. He scooped a few teaspoons of loose leaf from a small tin into a ceramic teapot.
"Nicolas and Perenelle have… concluded their adventures," Anthony explained. "Before settling back into their leisurely lives, they decided to offload a bit of trouble. I received this package."
He unfolded the newspaper, revealing the ring.
"This thing is… off, Professor." Anthony flipped the ring over to show Dumbledore the black stone. "It's not like any Necromancy I know, but it feels connected. And there's something else. Something soul-related. Very faint. Sir?"
Dumbledore was staring at the ring. He had gone utterly still, like a statue. The kettle boiled, trembling with the rolling water inside. Steam hissed from its spout.
"Professor Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore blinked slowly. He placed the lid on the teapot, took off his half-moon spectacles, and lowered his head to polish the lenses. The kettle shook insistently on its stand.
"So," Dumbledore said, his gaze not on Anthony, the kettle, or the ring. "What do you believe it to be, Henry?"
"I don't know," Anthony said. "Maybe it's exactly what Flamel said. Not great, but not terrible either. It just feels… strange."
"Strange?"
"Not the Necromancy part, sir. It's that trace of soul magic. It makes me feel…" Anthony hesitated. "Not good."
In truth, Anthony rather liked the stone itself. A familiar-yet-alien magic clung to it, seeping quietly from every crack. It filled him with a vague, warm, dizzying joy. But that wisp of soul-power hovered around the stone like the smell of rot carried on an evening breeze from a distant rubbish heap. It was faint, maddening, persistent. It ruined the walk along the shore.
"And the Necromancy part…" Dumbledore said softly.
"Oh, that part feels fine to me. Which is, incidentally, another reason I'm here," Anthony said with a trace of self-mockery. "Given that I'm a dark wizard, I figured that probably meant it's a dark artifact too."
A faint smile touched Dumbledore's lips, though he still stared at his spectacles. "No, Henry. It is not. It is not a dark artifact… Ah, how interesting. Treasures often favor those who ignore them and scorn those who crave them." Finally, he slid his glasses back onto his nose and studied the ring in Anthony's hand. "What happened there?"
Anthony knew he meant the cracks.
"Probably dropped," Anthony said. "You say it's not a dark artifact? But I was taught anything involving life, death, or the soul is dark magic."
Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the ring. "It should have been very difficult to shatter."
"What is it?"
The kettle finally gave up, its steam dying to a weak sigh.
Dumbledore hesitated, then reached out. "May I examine it?"
"Better not. Necromancy and its relatives aren't exactly good for the living," Anthony said. "But if you insist…"
He offered the ring. Dumbledore's fingers were an inch away when they suddenly curled back. Anthony watched as the man opposite him let out a long, weary sigh and sank back into his chair.
"No. No, let's not. Better not," Dumbledore murmured. Anthony was startled to notice how stark Dumbledore's silver-white hair and beard looked, how deep the lines on his face seemed. For the first time in a long while, he looked almost as old as he was.
"What is it, sir?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He just kept staring at the ring, as if listening to a fierce argument raging inside his own head.
Fawkes chose that moment to swoop down from his perch atop a cabinet. He landed silently on the arm of Dumbledore's chair and pressed his head gently against the old wizard's sleeve. Dumbledore broke his gaze from the ring and looked at the phoenix. He lifted his other hand and slowly stroked Fawkes's head.
"Would you call this wisdom, Fawkes?" he whispered. "Or cowardice? Still, after all this time?"
Fawkes let out a soft, melodic cry that was almost a song. Anthony sat in his chair, and together they listened.
When the last trembling note faded into the air, no one moved. The portraits on the walls were silent too. No snores, no sighs. Fawkes dipped his head and began preening a wing feather.
Dumbledore wiped his eyes quickly.
"Ah, music," he said, then, without warning, "Have you heard of the Resurrection Stone, Henry?"
"What?" Anthony said. "Er, no, sir. But I'd guess the name explains itself." He turned the ring, looking at the black stone again. "But this can't be… You don't mean…"
"I suspect it is precisely the thing we suspect," Dumbledore said softly. "Yes. I am almost certain."
Anthony's next question was automatic. "But… resurrection is impossible."
"The resurrected Necromancer asks," Dumbledore chuckled softly. "It seems Hogwarts did impart some basic magical knowledge after all, Henry."
Anthony smiled ruefully. "What I mean is, if the Resurrection Stone exists, why does everyone I've met tell me resurrection is impossible? And… it's not a dark artifact? Truly?"
"You must understand, this is an artifact of legend, Henry," Dumbledore said. "Many doubt its existence. Of course, some have always believed… But even in the legends, it never truly brought anyone back. The story, as I recall, goes like this: the first owner received it from Death, wishing to use it to bring his departed love back to the world. So, he turned the stone three times in his hand." His eyes flickered to the ring, then away. "The next moment, she stood before him. But he soon found she was not happy. She resented him for this half-life he had forced upon her. She had been torn from Death, yet did not belong to the living world, and so she suffered."
Dumbledore paused. Anthony waited. "That's the end?"
"No. In the end, the man realized the Stone could not give him what he desired. They could only be reunited in death. He cast the Stone aside and took his own life."
"Ah," Anthony said. "Doesn't sound like a great advertisement for the product."
"Indeed it does not," Dumbledore admitted. "Yet the temptation remains. Especially when one considers it is a legend, passed down and altered through countless retellings. It becomes difficult to know what the Stone might truly be capable of. Regardless, even if it were only as the story says… to see a departed friend or loved one again, standing before you, to hear their voice, to say the words you never got to say… even to live with them for a time…" His voice grew quiet.
"I understand," Anthony said.
Dumbledore nodded. "So do I. I must confess, had I faced it alone, without so much time to think… it might very well be in my hand now. The temptation is… considerable. I doubt my ability to resist it."
"But you said it's a legend. How can you be so sure this is…"
"I recognize it, Henry. I recognize it. I suppose there are some advantages to age. At least, when one is a fool, one is a senior fool." Dumbledore leaned forward, peering closely at the ring. "Oh, Nick. You knew people wouldn't be pleased."
"Sir?"
"These cracks," Dumbledore said, tracing a long finger through the air above the stone. "Should not exist. It was, I believe, originally a sigil… Ah, yes… Nick broke it. Made it harder for anyone to recognize."
"Maybe he didn't recognize it either," Anthony offered.
"Unlikely," Dumbledore said with a small smile. "Nicolas is a legendary alchemist. I find it hard to believe he wouldn't know. Speaking of which, we discussed the topic once, he, Perenelle, and I. Perenelle believed it was just a story, a warning against seeking to return the dead. Nicolas didn't believe the Stone was any gift from Death. He insisted it must be an alchemical creation. He was confident they could have made one, had they not sworn off further alchemical experiments after creating the Philosopher's Stone. I… cared less for its origin and more for its effect."
"Maybe it was already cracked when they found it."
"That, only they would know." Dumbledore didn't seem convinced. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "In any case, it appears functional. So. Be careful, Henry."
Anthony knew what he meant. If people knew it was real, they would chase it just as they had chased the Philosopher's Stone.
He sighed. "Flamel certainly sent me a headache. Can we just destroy it, sir? Since it can't bring true resurrection anyway?"
"I suspect that was precisely what Nicolas and Perenelle intended to do," Dumbledore said. "And of all the alchemists I know, they are the most skilled with stones. If they decided this was the extent of it, I would not recommend we try to do more."
"Alright," Anthony murmured. He touched the stone again, feeling that intoxicating joy. Then he felt it. That faint, annoying pulse of soul.
Dumbledore watched him.
"But, sir," Anthony said, puzzled. "Why the soul magic?"
"If one wishes to bring back the dead, I imagine one inevitably deals with souls," Dumbledore mused. "Though I must admit, I am no expert in that field. In the Department of Mysteries…"
Anthony shook his head. "No, sir. It doesn't feel right. It's… dissonant. Separate from the stone itself."
"Oh?" Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised.
He fell into thought for a moment, then stood abruptly. He walked to a tall cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and began rummaging inside. Fawkes, still on the arm of the chair, tilted his head to watch.
"Tell me you didn't burn them, Fawkes," Dumbledore said. Fawkes turned his head and began preening the feathers on his back.
"Ah! Here!" Dumbledore pulled a sheet of parchment from the cabinet. "Let me see… Hmm…"
"What is it, sir?" Anthony asked.
"Not long ago, Nicolas sent me a letter full of utter nonsense," Dumbledore said, handing the parchment to Anthony. "Though he does that often, just to make his life interesting, as he puts it. Once, he sent me what he claimed was the blood of a cave-dwelling dragon. It turned out to be tomato sauce, grape juice, ginger beer, and a dash of Elixir of Life."
Anthony took the letter.
Albus, Did you know we cannot see the Southern Cross? They are said to float in the brightest part of the Milky Way, but only those who live in the Southern Hemisphere can see them. Like penguins. Though, many years ago, you could still see them from places like Egypt. The Southern Cross, I mean, not penguins. Back then, Muggle astronomers observed the stars in a way that would surely earn them the ridicule of Centaurs, and they lumped the Southern Cross in with the Centaurus constellation. I wonder why Muggles use the word 'Centaur'. Personally, I think 'Horsepeople' is a much clearer name, though it might cause confusion with nomadic tribes. Perhaps 'Homose'? You know, take 'homo', add the horse, remove the head. The head could be used for something else. Hung on the Southern Cross as a decoration, perhaps. Far too offensive. Forget I said any of that. Just the ramblings of a broken mind. Sincerely laid out on the ground after being kicked by a horse, Nicolas
Anthony set the letter down.
"I have absolutely no idea what I just read," he said.
"Neither do I," Dumbledore said. "But it may be a hint."
"Why?" Anthony asked, then caught Dumbledore's thoughtful expression. "Do you have an idea, sir?"
Dumbledore smiled thinly. "Whether I do or not, I dare not say just yet. It feels more like a guess… a guess I dearly hope is wrong. For if it is right, it would imply an arrogance and a defilement beyond what I had imagined. And a rather troublesome problem to handle. Oh, Henry. You certainly did receive a headache."
"I suppose I did," Anthony said. "If you could keep it for me…"
Dumbledore cut him off.
"Nicolas and Perenelle had a reason for not sending it to me," Dumbledore said. "A very good reason. No, Henry. You must forgive me, but I cannot."
Anthony hesitated. "Alright, then." He wrapped the ring back in the newspaper, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Oh dear," Dumbledore said softly.
"What is it, sir?"
"The water has gone cold." Dumbledore tapped the kettle again, and it reluctantly began to glug-glug once more. "How dreadfully rude of me. Before you go, how about a cup of… let's call it midday tea?"
"That sounds perfect."
"And of course, if there is anything else I can help with, please ask."
"Well… one more question about the Stone, sir."
"Go on, Henry."
Anthony hesitated, but couldn't help himself. "How can it not be a dark artifact? It feels more sinister than I do!"
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