The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 604, Section 613: That Deceptive Game 6

He walked back to the workbench and picked up a palm-sized, square device from a pile of parts. The device's outer shell was transparent, revealing its intricate internal structure—countless tiny gears, springs, and crystals, shimmering faintly in the light of the magic lamp.

"This is one of my proudest creations," he said, placing the device in Dumbledore's hands.

Dumbledore looked down at the device, carefully observing its internal structure. The gears were turning slowly, the springs were beating rhythmically, and the crystals were emitting a faint glow. The entire device looked like a beating heart, full of life and vitality.

"What is this?" he asked.

Lemaître's lips curled into a slight, mysterious, and somewhat smug smile. "Energy."

"energy?"

"Yes. Energy." Flamel took the device and held it up to Dumbledore. "It doesn't need any external energy; it generates its own. The turning of the gears, the beating of the springs, the gleam of the crystals—their interaction forms a never-ending cycle."

He paused, his voice growing even lower. "Muggles are still burning coal, oil, and natural gas. They use those limited, polluting energy sources to power their machines. My device, on the other hand, only needs air to generate an endless supply of energy."

Dumbledore's pupils contracted slightly. "Endless?"

Lemaître nodded. "Theoretically, yes. In reality, its lifespan depends on the durability of the materials. The gears I use are made of a magical alloy, capable of running for hundreds of years; the springs are specially treated, able to bounce tens of millions of times; the crystals are natural, able to glow until they shatter."

He put the device back on the worktable and sighed softly.

"If Muggles get their hands on this device, their energy problem will be solved. They won't need to mine coal, extract oil, or burn gas. All they need is air to power everything."

He turned around and looked at Dumbledore, his clear blue eyes swirling with complex emotions.

"But the world wasn't ready. The first thing they did after getting their hands on the device wasn't to use it to benefit humanity, but to use it to make weapons. Stronger weapons, faster weapons, more lethal weapons."

Dumbledore fell silent. He knew Flamel was right. He knew that human history was a history of war, and that every technological advancement was accompanied by more killing and destruction. He didn't blame Flamel for hiding these inventions, because he himself didn't know what the consequences would be if they were misused.

"Nico," he said softly.

"Um?"

Do you regret it? Regret living so long, watching the world gradually improve and gradually worsen?

Flamel remained silent for a long time. So long that Dumbledore thought he wouldn't answer. Then, he sighed softly, his voice hoarse.

Silent and calm.

"No regrets," he said. "I've lived this long and seen a lot of things. Good, bad, beautiful, ugly. Some made me happy, some made me sad, some made me angry, some made me helpless. But I have no regrets."

He paused, then a faint, somewhat relieved smile appeared on his lips.

"Because I'm still alive. Being alive means seeing more possibilities. Maybe one day, the world will be ready. Maybe one day, my inventions will truly benefit humanity. Maybe one day, everything will get better."

He turned around and looked at the starry sky outside the window, his clear blue eyes sparkling with a light beyond his years.

"I may not live to see that day. But I know it will come."

Dumbledore looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he smiled too.

"You're such an optimistic person, Nico."

Lemaître shrugged. "Having lived for over six hundred years, if I weren't optimistic, I would have gone mad long ago."

The two elderly people exchanged a glance and smiled simultaneously. The laughter echoed in the quiet studio, intertwining with the sounds of gears turning, springs pulsating, and crystals sparkling, creating an indescribable, warm, and harmonious melody.

Lemaître walked to the corner and took a box from a cabinet. The box was small, made of wood, and had some fine scratches on its surface, making it look quite old. He placed the box on the workbench and opened the lid.

The box was full of trinkets.

"These are all little things I've made over the years," Lemaître said, his voice tinged with childlike excitement. "Some are useful, some are useless, and some I don't even know what use they are."

He picked up a round, pocket-watch-like object and handed it to Dumbledore. "This is a weather forecaster."

Dumbledore took it and opened the lid. Instead of hands, the dial displayed several small, dynamic crystal balls. One crystal ball was blue, representing sunny days; another gray, representing cloudy days; one white, representing snow; and one transparent, representing rain. At that moment, the blue crystal ball was glowing, while the others were dark.

"Tomorrow will be sunny," Lemaître said. "Perfect for going out."

Dumbledore closed the lid and returned the object to Flamel. "Is that permitted?"

Lemaître glanced at him, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Guess?"

Dumbledore didn't guess. He simply watched as Flamel took more trinkets out of the box.

It was a palm-sized object, like a compass. Flamel said it indicated direction, not north or south, but the "correct" direction. Wherever you were, wherever you were going, it would point you in that most correct direction. Dumbledore asked what the most correct direction was. Flamel thought for a moment and said he didn't know. He had made it, but had never used it.

A slender, pen-like object. Flamel said it could write, not with ink, but with light. Every word you wrote with it would linger in the air for a few seconds before disappearing. Dumbledore asked what it was for. Flamel thought for a moment.

Thinking and speaking can be used to write love letters. Once written, the recipient sees it, and then it disappears. Leaving no trace, no evidence. Dumbledore laughed and said, "You must have used that when you were young." Flamel also laughed, but said nothing.

A square, matchbox-like object. Flamel said it could make a sound—not music, not language, but a kind of pure vibration that could soothe the soul. You open it, hold it to your ear, and you can hear that sound. It will calm you down, make you forget your troubles, and give you an indescribable, warm sense of security. Dumbledore asked, "Have you used it?" Flamel was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. "Many times."

A round, coin-like object. Flamel said it glows, not from magic, not from fire, not from any known light source. It only needs to absorb a little light to store it, and then release it in the darkness. If you put it in the sunlight, it will become very bright; if you take it into the darkness, it will slowly release that light, illuminating its surroundings. Dumbledore asked how long it would glow. Flamel said, "It depends on how much it absorbs. If it's exposed to the sun all day, it will glow all night."

Dumbledore held the small, coin-like object in his palm. Under the magic lamp in the studio, it absorbed the light, growing brighter and brighter until it resembled a small, warm star.

"These little things," Dumbledore began, his voice low, "if they fall into the hands of Muggles—"

“I know,” Lemaître interrupted him, “so they’ve always been here. In this box, in this workshop, in this forgotten stone house.”

He paused, a faint, somewhat helpless smile appearing on his lips.

"Maybe one day they'll go out. Maybe they won't. But at least for now, they're here. Safe, quiet, waiting."

Dumbledore stared at the trinkets for a long time. Then he put the coin-like object back into the box and closed the lid.

"Thank you, Nico," he said softly.

Le Maire looked at him, a complex mix of emotions swirling in his clear blue eyes. "What are you thanking me for?"

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. "Let me see this."

Lemaître didn't say anything. He simply put the box back in the corner, then walked back to the window and looked at the starry sky outside.

"Albus," he suddenly said.

"Um?"

"Tell me, why did Voldemort do that?"

Dumbledore walked to his side, also gazing at the starry sky outside the window. "Because he's afraid," his voice was calm and composed. "He's afraid of death, afraid of failure, afraid of being looked down upon. He wants power, he wants eternity, he wants to control everything. But he doesn't know that true power isn't about controlling others, but about controlling yourself."

Lemaître nodded.

"Yes. He's lived for so many years, yet he doesn't even understand this." His tone carried a hint of self-deprecation, but more of a teasing tone.

Those familiar with this alchemist know that this is just his personality.

Always optimistic, cheerful, and lively.

This is perhaps something an excellent alchemist must possess. After all, imagination is crucial to alchemy, and preserving childlike innocence is the greatest enhancement to imagination.

Many people no longer have much imagination.

For example, the headmaster of Hogwarts. Upon hearing this, Dumbledore remained silent. He simply gazed at the starry sky, at those twinkling, eternal, silent stars.

Outside the window, the moonlight, like water, spilled over the lavender field, turning the purple flowers into a silvery-white sea. A breeze blew by, carrying the faint fragrance of flowers and the occasional chirping of insects from afar.

Lemaître yawned.

"I'm getting old and tired."

After he finished speaking, he turned and walked towards the door.

Dumbledore watched his retreating figure and remained silent for a few seconds.

Goodnight, Nico.

Lemaître waved without turning his head. "Goodnight, Albus."

He walked out of the studio, the wooden door slowly closing behind him. Dumbledore stood alone by the window, gazing at the starry sky and listening to the silence.

In his hand, he still held that small, coin-like object. It emitted a faint, warm, and gentle light in the darkness, like a tiny, beating heart.

Dumbledore looked down at it for a long time.

Then, he sighed softly and put it in his pocket.

He didn't know how much time had passed—maybe an hour, maybe two hours—when a golden ray of light flew in from outside the window, pierced the glass, and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder.

That was a phoenix.

Its feathers are golden-red, gleaming warmly in the moonlight; its eyes are black, deep and bright.

It was not large, not much bigger than an ordinary eagle. It perched on Dumbledore's shoulder, tilted its head, looked at Flamel, and let out a clear, bell-like cry.

Dumbledore raised his hand and gently stroked its feathers. The movement was light and gentle, with the patience and composure of an old man.

"Fox".

He spoke softly, a hint of barely perceptible expectation in his voice.

The phoenix cried out again, then opened its mouth and spat out a small ball of golden flame. The flame hovered in the air, slowly rotating, and finally transformed into a line of tiny, golden characters.

Dumbledore stared at the line of text, his azure eyes swirling with complex emotions.

"A message has been sent." His eyes became serious. Beside him, Le May, who had gone to sleep but had rushed over upon hearing the news, looked at him.

He didn't speak.

at this time.

The flames in the fireplace flickered, illuminating the two elderly faces.

Starlight streamed in through the window, mingling with the dim glow of the oil lamp, creating an indescribable, warm, and mysterious atmosphere in the room.

Fawkes perched on Dumbledore's shoulder, its golden feathers gleaming warmly in the moonlight. Its eyes were fixed on the line of golden text, as if it too were reading, as if it too were waiting.

Actually, there weren't many words in the letter, but it contained a lot of information. It was roughly about what had happened in the town before, which Fox had conveyed in this way.

Using a phoenix to deliver messages is definitely the safest option. Although owls are quite common, they might even be mistaken for Scottish round-faced fat chickens by Muggles.

Unlike the phoenix, which is incredibly reliable and never misses a message, the phoenix appears directly in a phantom form. Therefore, using the phoenix to transmit important information is the safest option.

The letter contained many unexpected things.

Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds, then raised his hand and waved it gently. The line of golden text instantly vanished, turning into countless tiny specks of light that merged into the air.

"It's time to go back," he said, his voice calm and composed.

Lemaître looked at him, his clear blue eyes swirling with complex emotions. He didn't speak, but simply nodded slightly.

Dumbledore turned and walked toward the door. Fawkes flew off his shoulder, circled once in the air, and landed on his outstretched arm.

"Nico." Dumbledore stopped in his tracks without turning around.

"Um?"

"Thank you."

Lemaître was silent for a few seconds. "Go, Albus. Go."

Dumbledore pushed open the wooden door and went out. Moonlight bathed him, casting a long shadow. Fawkes flew from his arm, tracing a golden arc across the night sky before disappearing into the horizon.

Lemaître stood by the window, watching the aged, upright figure disappear into the night, and sighed softly.

"Go," he whispered. "Go, save the world."

The old man seemed to have guessed a lot of things using his own brain.