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Chapter 299 — Dumbledore's Worry and Sadness!!
For most people, the news that Darren had been taken in by Nicolas Flamel — and was now being trained as his potential heir — inspired a mix of envy and pity.
Envy was obvious: being chosen by Nicolas Flamel, being personally taught by him, learning the secrets of alchemy and even the Philosopher's Stone… almost no one in the wizarding world would turn that down.
The pity, however, was just as strong.
Because being taught by Flamel was… brutal.
Many said Flamel was a teacher everyone wished for but no one actually wanted.
He despised mediocrity. He had rejected countless apprentices — even Dumbledore himself had nearly been dismissed when he was young, and Dumbledore had been one of the most gifted wizards in history.
In the end, Flamel tolerated Dumbledore enough to work with him, but most others weren't so lucky.
Flamel had taken in numerous apprentices over the centuries. Not a single one lasted.
One by one, every apprentice had fled, driven away by Flamel's ruthless standards and impossible expectations.
And when they returned home, they were so traumatized they couldn't even look at alchemical texts.
Some trembled at the sight of a cauldron. Others gagged when someone mentioned the Philosopher's Stone.
Rumors grew over the years.
People's opinions about Flamel became completely polarized — intense admiration, and deep sympathy.
So when word spread that Darren was being groomed as Flamel's heir, everyone immediately started betting on how long he would last.
Ten days, some said.
Three days, others argued.
A few laughed and said one day — Darren would flee screaming before sunset.
But days passed.
Then weeks.
And Darren stayed at Flamel's estate.
People grew restless.
Had Darren been imprisoned?
Was he too scared to leave?
Was Flamel forcing him to study day and night?
Dumbledore was one of the people who worried.
He believed Darren had a gentle nature and could endure a summer of harsh training… but he would certainly be miserable.
But Darren never wrote to Harry with complaints.
Not a single letter sounded unhappy.
Even more suspicious: when Dumbledore wrote to Flamel for updates, Flamel only replied with a curt, All fine.
That was it.
No details.
No reassurances.
Nothing.
Dumbledore began to wonder if something was wrong.
Darren was incredibly talented, yes. But alchemy talent was unpredictable.
What if Darren lacked the one talent Flamel cared about most?
What if Flamel, after failing to find an heir for centuries, had finally snapped?
Darren was kind. If he were imprisoned or mistreated, he might not say so — he would simply endure it.
These thoughts spiraled until Dumbledore couldn't ignore them anymore.
Early one morning, he stood up abruptly.
He was going to Flamel's estate himself.
If Darren was suffering, he would take the boy away.
With Dumbledore's and Gellert's combined knowledge, Darren didn't need alchemy.
His skill in Potions alone could carve out his own path.
With that decision made, Dumbledore Apparated, and in the next moment he stepped onto a quiet intersection.
A few steps later, Flamel's vast garden appeared.
He knocked on the door.
A small house-elf opened it.
"Mr. Dumbledore? Why are you here?" the elf squeaked. "The old master isn't home. He took the young master to the Beauxbatons lake to go fishing!"
Dumbledore froze.
Fishing?
Flamel… goes fishing?
He could hardly process it, but he followed the elf inside.
Just in case the elf was lying.
But the moment Dumbledore stepped into the garden, his suspicion evaporated.
Because scattered across the lawn were enormous piles of toys — like sets of magical building blocks, all assembled into wild, impressive shapes.
"This is the young master's Lego," the elf said proudly. "The old master saw the young master liked them, so he bought many. The young master plays with them every day."
Dumbledore's mouth twitched.
This… did not match the terrifying tales of Flamel's harsh training.
They walked deeper into the garden.
A full Muggle-style playground appeared — slides, swings, climbing frames.
Dumbledore recognized every piece.
"This was built by the lady for the young master," the elf explained. "Because the young master never had a chance to visit a playground. The old master and the lady felt sad. They hope he can play more every day."
Dumbledore stared.
Flamel… building playgrounds?
For an heir?
He continued walking, dazed, until he saw several greenhouses — larger than the ones at Hogwarts.
Inside were rows and rows of precious magical plants.
"The young master loves herbology, but he had no money. So the old master and the lady hired people to build these. They filled them with simple plants, so the young master wouldn't feel pressured."
Dumbledore squinted.
The "simple plants" inside included mature mandrakes — and half the contents of Hogwarts' restricted greenhouse.
What kind of robbing spree had Flamel gone on?
"Ah," Dumbledore finally said, clearing his throat. "It seems young Darren has been… enjoying his summer."
His beard trembled with a reluctant laugh.
So Flamel did like the boy.
Of course he did. Darren had Gellert's bloodline — something Dumbledore tried not to think about too often.
That bloodline came with brilliance. Charm. Potential.
And memories Dumbledore would rather not revisit — the year he first met Gellert at eighteen, the same year he lost his sister.
His smile faded.
He suddenly felt tired.
Maybe he should leave. Darren was clearly safe — more than safe. Spoiled, even.
No need to trouble Flamel further.
He stood up.
But just before he could leave, the same elf rushed in, panicked.
"Mr. Dumbledore! I must go at once! The poor young master Darren is calling for me — the young master is returning, and I must fetch him!"