The Wizarding World, April 1, 1978.
St.
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Although Arthur Weasley was hardly a novice father, Molly’s pregnancy this time had been unusually strange.
Her magic went wild every few days, sending cookware and dinnerware flying all over the house.
This had allowed Bill to practice his Mending Charm until it was fairly impressive—though for a proper fix, Molly still had to do it herself.
Then something even stranger began to happen: every day, a phoenix would fly to The Burrow and offer Molly a single tear.
Good heavens, their family line had no record of intermarriage with any Dumbledores for hundreds of years!
Taking everything into consideration, Molly was admitted to St.
Mungo’s a month before her due date.
As for St.
Mungo’s, while it primarily treated Dark Magic injuries, the few remaining drops of diluted phoenix tears left in Molly’s water glass each day were more than enough to win over the Healer-in-Charge.
So what if she ate a bit more than usual?
So what if the house-elves accidentally smuggled a troll into the hospital?
Minor details!
Leaving little Percy Weasley in the care of their Ministry colleague and neighbor, Amos Diggory, Arthur Weasley took eight-year-old Bill and six-year-old Charlie to the hospital, quietly waiting for the newest addition to the family.
A midwife stepped quickly out of the delivery room.
“Are Molly Weasley’s relatives here?”
Arthur Weasley set down the two boys resting on his lap and hurried forward.
“I am! My wife, is she…?”
Before Arthur Weasley could finish, the midwife cut in: “Your wife is fine, and congratulations—you’ve got triplet boys! However, one of the babies is in a rather unusual condition. Please come in as soon as possible.”
Hearing that Molly was safe eased Arthur Weasley’s mind, but the second half of her words sent his heart right back into his throat.
Following the midwife into the delivery room, he first saw his utterly exhausted wife.
Seeing her husband enter, Molly relaxed, gave Arthur Weasley a tired wink, and drifted off to sleep.
Arthur Weasley looked at his wife with tender affection; the past few weeks had truly worn her out.
He gently squeezed Molly’s hand before turning his attention to the crib beside her, where two wrinkled infants met his eyes.
He cast a puzzled look toward the Healer.
Hadn’t the midwife said there were three?
The Healer pointed toward a cluster of orange light in the crib.
The light brightened and dimmed in rhythm with the breathing of the two babies.
Only then did Arthur Weasley realize—that wasn’t a light…?
That glowing mass was a baby too?!
Blood rushed to Arthur Weasley’s head, and his mind came to a screeching halt.
Looking closely, the semi-transparent orange orb did indeed have facial features.
It was only because his body radiated a bright orange glow whenever he breathed that one failed to notice them at first glance.
Arthur Weasley cursed himself for not studying harder during his time at Hogwarts; he had no idea what kind of lifeform this could possibly be.
Had the Healer known Arthur Weasley’s thoughts, he would have sneered—*Ha!
I graduated with twelve NEWTs and I don’t have a clue what this is either!*
Driven by professional duty, the Healer spoke up: “This is your child as well. I have never seen such a peculiar form of life. He resembles a ghost, yet shows clear signs of being alive. Without protection, he will soon dissipate. Fortunately, the phoenix tears have preserved his spiritual form, but even that has a limit.”
Arthur Weasley snapped out of his daze, overwhelmed by paternal love.
As a father, his sole desire now was to save this child who had nearly been pronounced dead by the finest hospital in the world.
Arthur Weasley frantically asked the Healer, “Where can we get a body for him? Does Molly need to carry him for another ten months?”
The Healer sighed softly and shook his head.
“With current magical medicine, this problem is nearly impossible to solve. But since the child relies on phoenix tears to exist, I believe you ought to contact Professor Dumbledore, no matter what.”
Arthur Weasley’s eyes lit up.
Yes—a phoenix!
Both he and Molly worked at the Ministry of Magic and were naturally acquainted with Albus Dumbledore.
When the phoenix tears had started appearing, they had specifically written to Albus Dumbledore about it.
Although Albus Dumbledore’s reply indicated that the phoenix was not his Fawkes, with Albus Dumbledore’s vast connections, perhaps he could find a way to save the child after all.
***
In the blink of an eye, ten years passed.
Devon, July 7, 1991.
Seven was a powerful, magic-infused number to wizards—a belief held firm by many famous witches and wizards—making today a fine day for travel.
Noon sunlight spilled across the desk.
The old sorcerer living in seclusion in Devon feebly waved his wand, directing the faceless alchemical automaton in his home to tidy up the room.
It wasn’t that there weren’t more convenient spells; rather, for an alchemist, doing it this way was just…
cool.
“Dark steel ingots go into Storage C3, rose crystal powder into E5, clotted mist complex… put it in… in K67…” the old sorcerer muttered to himself.
For an aging researcher, tidying the house was more trouble than it was worth—yes, entirely counterproductive.
After spending time organizing everything, he would only have to drag out those cauldrons, beakers, fallen-star ores, and charged quartz crystals all over again to continue his experiments.
Still, an old friend he hadn’t seen in years was coming to visit, and proper etiquette had to be observed.
In short, he couldn’t lose face as an old Frenchman in front of an Englishman.
“Mm, that should be good enough.”
Having cleaned up the sitting room, the old man walked over to the desk by the bay window and pulled out a message his friend had sent yesterday from beneath the fax machine.
[To Nicolas Flamel] [It has been many years, my old friend.
I shall pay you a visit tomorrow afternoon.
— July 6, 1991] [Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore]
He folded the letter and carefully placed it with trembling hands into an Yttrium iron box alongside his other correspondence.
[Freezing Charm]
The iron box was instantly encased in ice by the Freezing Charm, after which the alchemical automaton stored it inside a safe.
Leaning back on his velvet sofa, a teapot poured a black, bubbling beverage into a cup.
A flexible straw extended, reaching up to the old man’s lips.
Though he had lost his sense of taste long ago, the sensation of bubbles popping in his mouth wasn’t bad at all.
“The taste nerve contacts are almost complete too. Young Raven will soon be able to truly taste this ‘happy water.'”
In a rare moment of leisure, the old sorcerer drifted into thought, and his mind wandered back to his current research projects.
*Sizzle…*
The black carbonated water sprayed onto his face, bounced off, and danced in midair to form a line of words:
[Albus Dumbledore has arrived]
Only then did Nicolas Flamel snap out of his reverie.
He pulled a twenty-sided die from his pocket and pressed it a few times.
The alchemical array protecting the manor flashed once before fading back into thin air.
The front door swung open.
A pick attached to the door strummed across a guitar mounted on the ceiling, playing a brief melody.
Led by the alchemical automaton, Albus Dumbledore stepped inside.
In this era, surely no one could fail to recognize him.
Tall and thin, with silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and, most distinctively, a crooked nose.
The visitor was well aware that standing up to greet a friend was rather demanding for his six-hundred-year-old companion, so he unceremoniously took a seat across from his host.
Taking a sip of the cola, he let out a cherry-flavored burp, glanced at the antique guitar on the ceiling, and became the first to speak: “It seems that child has changed you quite a bit, Nicolas—both in your daily life and in your alchemical creations.”
Nicolas Flamel gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Perhaps if you were to have a child in your old age, you would change just as much. Though I merely provided him with a body… it still means I am something of a father to him, and this place is his home. And what about you? You haven’t visited in person since you brought Raven here last time, have you? After all, ever since that little fellow modified the fax machine, we haven’t had to worry about owls losing their way due to the Fidelius Charm, allowing us to correspond directly.”
A faint gasp followed; for an alchemist who rarely spoke, such a long speech took a toll.
Albus Dumbledore smiled before speaking: “First off, I am here to deliver his acceptance letter. I recall you telling me early this year that Raven’s physical form was nearing completion, and that he would no longer need to absorb magic from the Philosopher’s Stone every day just to move about. Since owls cannot find this place, as his future headmaster, I had no choice but to come in person.”
Nicolas Flamel huffed.
“My child, my student—naturally he ought to study at the finest magical school in France. In fact, starting last year, I already arranged for him to take first-year courses at Beauxbatons.”
Albus Dumbledore blinked.
“Which is why I brought a second-year acceptance letter, my old friend. His name was recorded in the Book of Admittance long ago. Hogwarts has his older brother Percy Weasley, who is about to become a Gryffindor prefect, as well as his brothers born alongside him… though those two can be a bit mischievous. His youngest brother, Ron, enters this year, and his youngest sister, Ginny, next year. Going through school alongside one’s siblings is a truly precious experience, wouldn’t you agree?”
Nicolas Flamel fell silent.
As his friend for many years, Albus Dumbledore understood the immortal alchemist’s mind all too well.
Having been stripped of ordinary earthly pleasures by the Philosopher’s Stone, *truth* and *emotion* were the two things Nicolas Flamel held dearest in the second four centuries of his life.
After a brief silence, Nicolas Flamel succumbed.
“You silver-tongued devil. Fine, I agree. He will enroll like a normal little British wizard when the time comes.”
Nicolas Flamel had relented.
“The second matter,” Albus Dumbledore continued, “I need to borrow the Philosopher’s Stone from you.”
Nicolas Flamel managed a strained expression of perplexity.
“You know the Philosopher’s Stone isn’t…”
In the end, rumors still spread across the wizarding world that Albus Dumbledore had obtained the Philosopher’s Stone to create the Elixir of Life.
Naturally, these rumors were by no means leaked by Severus Snape, the Potions Master—his lips were notoriously tight.
…
Flamel Manor
A young alchemical automaton—looking like the same model as the faceless worker, but dressed in a lake-blue Beauxbatons uniform, sporting short red hair, and most importantly, possessing facial features (customizable face-sculpting, a feature Raven considered crucial)—was currently sipping cola mixed with Philosopher’s Stone dust while chatting with the old sorcerer.
“So I’ll have to go study at Hogwarts in two months after all, huh?”
Nicolas Flamel, tinkering with experimental products on his alchemy workbench, spoke without turning around: “Yes. And you should use the word *return*. That is your real home.”
Raven replied nonchalantly, “Yeah, force of habit. You know I’ve rarely gone outside since I was born. Dad, Mum, Bill, Charlie, Percy Weasley, George and Fred, little Ron, and little Ginny—every time they visit, they say this manor is huge. That must mean home is pretty cramped. I think I ought to take some magical materials with me and cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on our house over there.”
Raven held out his left hand and stuffed three extra metallic fingers—which had accidentally popped out when he was counting off names—back into his palm.
Nicolas Flamel seemed to finish his project, picked up a piece of candy, and walked over to Raven.
“Here, put this on your tongue. It will auto-install, and you’ll be able to taste things in a moment. Also, I hope you remember that casting an Undetectable Extension Charm requires submitting a written application to the local Improper Use of Magic Office.”
Raven did as instructed.
Although he had to close his mouth during installation, his vocal mechanism was located in his throat, so it didn’t hinder his speech at all.
“Ha, I bet Grandpa Newt had a lot to do with that rule. Teacher, do you think I’ll get used to a flesh-and-blood body once the Curse of Flesh is complete? I have to say, an alchemical body is pretty convenient. I can talk while drinking water.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the old alchemist answered honestly, his face expressionless.
As the taste nerve function came online, a long-lost signal of sweetness traveled along the alchemical conduits into Raven’s alchemical processor.
*So this cherry-flavored cola hasn’t been discontinued?
Not bad at all,* Raven thought to himself.