Chapter 268: Phoenix Rebirth
Watching Evans's serious expression, Nicolas Flamel's face—rarely given to displays of emotion—tightened with visible anxiety and the shadow of regret.
It looked as if he were searching for a convenient excuse, but before he could speak, Dumbledore cut in first, his tone uncharacteristically grave.
"Have you stumbled onto something we should know?"
Dumbledore knew Evans well enough to realise he would never ask such a question on a whim. To bring it up, and in front of Nicolas Flamel, meant Evans had already pieced together something vital about the Philosopher's Stone—and whatever it was, it mattered.
"I've found something, and I'd like to confirm it," Evans replied, nodding slowly as he gathered his thoughts. "While I was in Egypt, I came across a mural—"
As he described it, Evans glossed over the specifics concerning the Dark Wizard King. She had been quite clear when their pact was formed: unless Merlin was involved, he was not to bother her or reveal her existence to anyone. That was why he hadn't mentioned her when discussing his source for the ancient magic just before.
Otherwise, he'd have just shown Nicolas Flamel and Dumbledore the crimson sphere in his pocket—it would have been far simpler.
Still, his omission wasn't particularly subtle. Dumbledore most likely picked up on it, but he had the tact not to ask directly.
Throughout Evans's retelling, Nicolas Flamel's expression shifted by the moment—first surprise, then silence, and eventually a look of utter loss.
Only after Evans finished describing the scene in the mural did Flamel finally compose himself, letting out a long sigh.
He glanced first at Harry—who looked completely bewildered—then at Dumbledore. Dumbledore gave him a brief nod, and only then did Flamel look back at Evans.
At that, Dumbledore swept his hand. The portraits on the walls, which had been quietly eavesdropping all this time, were instantly veiled by a heavy black curtain. Harry, seated by the table, suddenly felt his mind cloud and slumped back, slipping into a dreamless sleep.
Though Dumbledore intended to steer Harry's destiny, secrets of this magnitude were still beyond the boy's reach.
Once Dumbledore had finished, Nicolas Flamel cleared his throat, paused for a long moment, and then spoke, voice low and laden.
"It's as you suspect. The Philosopher's Stone is not what people wish to believe."
"It's true, it can perform great miracles, but its price is far too steep—and its creation, almost impossible to replicate."
"The world imagines the Stone as a small, magical jewel capable of making gold and granting immortality. But the real Philosopher's Stone—the first one—wasn't a pebble, but a crystal sphere big enough to fill your palm."
"Most of its original power was spent ending the Great Plague. That's why only that tiny piece of it still exists."
"To create a Philosopher's Stone, you need at least a hundred witches and wizards to sacrifice themselves willingly in a war that cannot be won. And every soul lost in that creation will never know rest, even once the Stone is destroyed. They're not set free: they simply fade, bit by agonising bit, until they vanish from this world altogether."
He stopped and sighed again, softer than before. "I had planned to carry this secret to my grave. If it ever got out, there would be countless pointless wars."
"It isn't easy to gather a hundred wizards willing to die together—not to mention, they must all understand the true cost of defeating such an enemy."
"And really, only the desperate war to end the Black Death offered a chance for something like that to happen."
"To end the Black Death?" Evans asked after a moment's silence. "Come to think of it, I've never seen any records of how the plague actually ended in the wizarding world."
He had obtained a document relating to that grim era—one written by Flamel himself. Even there, the conclusion of the plague was elegantly, suspiciously vague.
Nicolas Flamel forced a wry smile. "Who would want to memorialise a war no one could win? Most of those who took part became the Stone's fuel; only a handful of us know the truth."
"At first, wizards believed the plague only spread among Muggles."
"But as more and more potion-masters and alchemists began to pity the Muggles and study the Black Death, the real use of the plague began to come into focus."
His voice shook under the weight of those memories. It wasn't just a tragic story to him—it was a time of unbearable loss. He lost nearly all his friends, almost lost his wife, and watched whole centuries vanish.
Yet, it wasn't only a tragedy. Their sacrifice meant something.
Time slipped by. By the time Nicolas Flamel finished, the sky outside was pitch black. And in the hush of night, a pulse of magic swept the room. On its perch, Fawkes—now nothing more than a bare, featherless bird—suddenly erupted into brilliant flames.
At that very moment, Harry—who had been dozing—blinked awake, just in time to see it.
Fire surged and quickly enveloped Fawkes, burning so fiercely it nearly licked the ceiling. Harry knew this was the phoenix's rebirth, but the sheer power of the blaze made his heart pound.
He glanced at Professor Kahn and the others, but their calm faces put him at ease. He let himself get swept up in watching a sight most witches and wizards would never see in a lifetime.
The flames danced wildly in the air, and to Evans and the other adults, images flashed in that fire—rolling seas, endless mountains, towering stone columns rising from the earth—the places where Fawkes had let go of his last tail feather in each of his lives. Most of that mighty bird's power, it seemed, was drawn from such grand, enduring landscapes.
At last, as the vast desert faded from view, the flames died down. Ash settled to the floor, blanketing every surface.
From that ash, a newborn phoenix rose on the perch. It was tiny, wrinkled, a bit peculiar to look at—but in time, it would become as gorgeous and majestic as the old bird, only stronger.
A phoenix's rebirth: the promise of renewal and a new beginning.