The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 603, Section 612: That Deceptive Game 5

Dumbledore's behavior showed great emotional intelligence.

The old man liked this feeling.

So Lemaître smiled, a smile that looked particularly smug on his aged face.

"I bought this from an alchemist in the fifteenth century. He said it was a fragment of the 'Mirror of Eternity,' capable of reflecting the past and future. Of course, I didn't believe it, but I bought it anyway. For over six hundred years, I've been studying these fragments, trying to uncover their secrets."

He paused, then took a shard of glass the size of a fingernail from the box and held it up to his eyes.

The fragment shimmered with an eerie light in the firelight, sometimes golden, sometimes silver, and sometimes completely transparent, as if it didn't exist.

"Guess what I found?"

Dumbledore looked at him and waited.

Lemaître put the fragment back in the box, closed the lid, and placed it back in the corner.

There's nothing there.

His voice was calm and composed. "They're just ordinary shards of glass, simply enchanted with a color-changing spell to make them look magical. That alchemist tricked me."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, then laughed. "You've been tricked?"

Lemaître shrugged, a gesture that looked somewhat comical on his hunched back. "Who hasn't been fooled? In over six hundred years, I've been fooled far more times than you can imagine."

He walked to the fireplace, picked up the fire tongs, and poked at the firewood inside. The flames flickered, illuminating his old, wrinkled face.

"But every time I was fooled, I learned something." His voice was calm and composed. "I studied that alchemist's color-changing spell for a hundred years, then improved it, and then used it elsewhere. Now, the best color-changing spells in all of Europe were taught by me."

Dumbledore looked at him, his deep blue eyes swirling with complex emotions. He didn't speak, but listened quietly.

Lemaître continued, as if talking to himself. "Having lived this long, I've learned one thing: nothing is truly useless. Every failure, every deception, every disappointment teaches you something. If you live long enough, you'll eventually learn that."

He turned around, looked at Dumbledore, and smiled slightly.

"Just like you. What do you think you're waiting for? For Voldemort to come to you? For that kid to solve everything for you?"

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly. "Perhaps."

Lemaître shook his head. "You're too hasty, Albus. You're always too hasty. Some things take time. You can't rush them, you can't be impatient, you can only wait."

He walked back to the rocking chair, sat down again, and covered his lap with the blanket. His clear blue eyes gazed at the flames in the fireplace, at the flickering, warm, and inextinguishable light.

"Wait," he said softly. "Waiting is the best way."

Dumbledore didn't speak. He simply sat on the sofa, holding the now-cold tea, watching the flames in the fireplace, watching the flickering, warm light.

Time flowed by quietly.

After an unknown amount of time, the sky outside the window began to darken. Lemaître stood up, went to the kitchen, and began preparing dinner. His movements were slow and practiced, each step carrying the unique composure of an old man. He chopped vegetables, cooked soup, and baked bread, performing each step meticulously, as if performing some ancient ritual.

Dumbledore sat on the sofa, watching his busy figure, a strange peace welling up inside him. It had been a long time since he had felt this way—not thinking about anything, not doing anything, just watching someone cook and waiting for an ordinary dinner.

Flamel came out carrying two plates and placed them on the table. The plates contained simple vegetable soup, toast, and some pickled olives. They looked ordinary, but they smelled delicious.

"Eat," Lemaître said, sitting down.

Dumbledore walked to the table, sat down, picked up a spoon, and scooped up a spoonful of soup. The soup was hot and fragrant, with the sweetness of vegetables and the aroma of herbs. He sipped it slowly, savoring each sip carefully.

Le Maire looked at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. "How was it?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Very good."

Lemaître smiled, a smile that radiated satisfaction on his aged face. "Of course. Six hundred years of craftsmanship."

The two ate their dinner in silence, without speaking. The only sounds were the clinking of spoons and bowls, the crackling of firewood in the fireplace, and the wind blowing through the lavender fields outside the window.

After dinner, Lemaître cleared the table and brewed a new pot of tea. The two of them sat back down in front of the fireplace, teacups in hand, watching the flames.

"Albus," Le Maire suddenly spoke.

"Um?"

"How long has it been since you did this?"

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. "A long time ago."

Lemaître nodded without speaking. He had known for a long time, of course. From Grindelwald's rise to his defeat by Dumbledore; from Voldemort's emergence to Dumbledore's repeated battles with him—for decades, Dumbledore had never truly rested.

He never rested. He always had something to do, people to save, and a world to protect.

Le Maire looked at him, his clear blue eyes swirling with complex emotions. "You should rest more, Albus. You're not made of iron."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I know."

Flamel sighed softly and said nothing more. He knew Dumbledore wouldn't listen. He never would. He always felt he had to do something, had to protect something, had to safeguard something. This was his strength, and also his weakness.

Time flowed by quietly.

The flames in the fireplace gradually died down, and the light in the room dimmed. Lemaître stood up, walked to the corner, took an oil lamp from a cabinet, lit it, and placed it on the table. The dim light filled the room, enveloping everything in a warm, hazy glow.

Dumbledore looked at the oil lamp, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"What era is this from?"

Lemaître glanced at it and thought for a moment. "Fourteenth century. Made by a Venetian glassmaker. He used a special technique to make the wick burn more slowly and the light softer. I bought two, gave one to a friend, and kept one for myself."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips.

66

That friend died later. The lamp broke. Only this one remains.

Dumbledore did not speak.

Lemaître walked to the window, drew back the curtains, and looked out at the night. The night in Provence was quiet, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the lavender fields and the occasional chirping of insects in the distance. The sky was filled with many bright stars, and the Milky Way stretched across the heavens like a silvery river.

"You know what, Albus?"

Lemaître began, his voice calm and composed, "I have lived for over six hundred years and have seen countless nights. Every night is different, but every night is beautiful."

Dumbledore stood up, walked over to him, and also looked out at the night.

"Yes," he said, "they're all beautiful."

The two stood side by side by the window, looking at the starry sky and listening to the silence.

The nights in Provence are quiet, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the lavender fields and the occasional chirping of insects in the distance. The sky is filled with many bright stars, and the Milky Way stretches across the heavens like a silvery river. Moonlight spills onto the roofs of the stone houses, casting the shadows of the vines onto the walls like ancient, mysterious patterns.

Nicolas Flamel stood by the window, his hands behind his back, his clear blue eyes gazing into the distance. His body was hunched and thin, looking as if he might collapse at any moment, but his back was straight, like an old tree that had weathered countless storms.

Dumbledore stood beside him, also gazing at the starry sky. His silver hair shimmered softly in the moonlight, and the twinkling stars were reflected in his deep blue eyes. His expression was calm, but deep within his eyes, complex emotions surged.

"Albus," Le Maire suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse yet calm.

"Um?"

Let's not talk about those heavy things.

Dumbledore turned to look at him. Flamel also turned to look at him. The two old men looked at each other for a few seconds, then smiled simultaneously. The smile was light and faint, yet it carried an indescribable, warm understanding.

"Come with me," Lemaître said, turning and walking deeper into the room. His steps were slow and steady, each one carrying the composure characteristic of an old man.

Dumbledore followed him through the living room, down a narrow corridor, and to a heavy wooden door. Flamel took an old brass key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and turned it gently. The lock clicked softly, and the door slowly opened.

Behind the door was a huge room, even more spacious than the outer living room. The walls were covered with all sorts of tools: hammers, pliers, saws, files, and other oddly shaped objects whose names I didn't know. Piles of materials—metal, wood, glass, crystal, and even things that looked like the remains of magical creatures—were scattered in the corners. In the center of the room stood a huge workbench, piled high with unfinished devices, scattered parts, and several magical lamps emitting a soft glow.

"This is my studio," Lemaître said, his voice tinged with undisguised pride, "the culmination of six hundred years of hard work."

Dumbledore entered the room, his gaze sweeping over the tools, materials, and unfinished devices. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.

"Have you been doing this all along?"

Lemaître nodded. "I've been doing it. I started when I was a young man. At first it was just to pass the time, but then—and then I couldn't stop."

He walked to the workbench and picked up a fist-sized device from a pile of parts. It was made up of countless gears and springs. The device looked complex and precise, with each gear turning slowly and making a subtle, rhythmic sound.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding the device up to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore took it, examined it carefully for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know."

Lemaître smiled, a smile that radiated pride on his aged face. "This is a timepiece. More accurate than any hourglass or clock currently on the market. Its error is no more than one second in a thousand years."

Dumbledore frowned slightly. "A thousand years is less than a second?"

Lemaître nodded. "I used a combination of magical gears and springs to simulate the laws governing celestial motion. The rotation of each gear corresponds to the orbital period of a particular planet. Their combination allows for precise calculation of time, unaffected by any..."

The influence of external factors.

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Muggles are still using quartz crystals for timekeeping, which is far less accurate."

Dumbledore gazed at the intricate device in his hand, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his deep blue eyes. He knew Flamel was a great alchemist, but he hadn't realized that Flamel also possessed such profound expertise in the field of mechanics.

"How many did you make?" he asked.

Lemaître thought for a moment. "A few hundred, I guess. Most of them were given away. This one is my favorite; I've kept it all this time."

He took the device back from Dumbledore and carefully placed it back on the worktable. Then he picked up a long, thin object, like a flashlight, from the corner and handed it to Dumbledore.

"What about this one?"

Dumbledore took it and examined it closely. The object had a metal casing with fine lines on its surface, and a small button at one end. He pressed the button, and a thin, silvery-white beam of light shot out from the other end, illuminating the parts on the workbench.

"This is—" A hint of surprise flashed in Dumbledore's eyes.

"Light," Lemaître said, "not magic, not fire, not any known light source. It is light I created using magical crystals and the principle of metal reflection. It does not generate heat, it does not go out, and it requires very little energy to last for a long time."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Muggles are still using electric lights. Electric lights need wires, power sources, and complex circuits. My light, however, only requires a button."

Dumbledore stared at the silvery light for a few seconds in silence. Then, he released the button, and the light went out. He returned the object to Flamel and sighed softly.

"Nico, your inventions—if they were put into practice, they would be enough to change the whole world."

Flamel took the item and placed it on the worktable. He looked at Dumbledore, his clear blue eyes swirling with complex emotions.

"I know," he said calmly and composedly, "but I won't take it out."

Why?

Lemaître was silent for a few seconds, then spoke, his voice very soft. "Because the world isn't ready yet."

He turned around, walked to the window, and looked at the night outside. The moonlight shone on his aged face, making the wrinkles appear even more pronounced.

"Muggles are very clever, Albus. They invented the light bulb, the telephone, the airplane, and the computer. They are changing the world, step by step, in their own way. They are so fast that even I am amazed."

He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, revealing a faint, somewhat proud expression.

"But their hearts haven't caught up. They haven't learned how to use those inventions properly. They use electric lights to illuminate the darkness, and also use the darkness to conceal their greed; they use telephones to connect with each other, and also use distance to sever true feelings; they use airplanes to cross mountains and seas, and also use war to fill in the ravines."

He turned to look at Dumbledore, his clear blue eyes sparkling with a wisdom beyond his years.

"If I were to present these inventions now, it would only make their world more chaotic. Not because my inventions are bad, but because they are not ready to accept them."

Dumbledore looked at him, silent for a few seconds. Then, he nodded slightly. "You're right."

Lemaître smiled, a smile that seemed particularly gentle on his aged face. "Of course. I've lived for over six hundred years; I can't have lived in vain."