Tonks took out a Portkey and had Lockhart grab hold of it. After a wave of dizziness, they arrived in front of an elegant house.
Several men were chatting and smoking outside. When they saw Tonks and Lockhart, they simply nodded without speaking.
"They're my colleagues," Tonks explained.
Inside the house, an elderly man with a white beard sat in a chair, smiling gently at Lockhart.
"Welcome, Mr. Lockhart."
Lockhart quickly returned the greeting. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Nicolas Flamel."
He was surprised.
A man who had lived over six hundred years—he had imagined either someone impossibly frail and grotesque, or someone rejuvenated and youthful.
But Flamel looked… ordinary. Just an old man.
"Come with me," Flamel said, leading him into a study. "Sit."
Lockhart glanced around.
The room was plain. No ancient tomes lining the shelves, no sense of accumulated centuries. It was hard to believe this belonged to someone who had lived for six hundred years.
Flamel sat opposite him.
"What did it feel like—approaching death?" he asked. "Forgive an old man's curiosity if it seems impolite."
Lockhart thought for a moment.
"…Strange. There was nothingness. Like… I was the creator of everything. And then I created light—and woke up."
Flamel nodded. "An unimaginable experience. Though I suppose I'll be experiencing it myself soon enough."
That sentence made Lockhart pause.
This old man—who had willingly given up the Philosopher's Stone to prevent chaos in the wizarding world—was now walking alone toward that endless wall:
Death.
Infinite above and below. Infinite left and right. Eternal.
For once, Lockhart dropped his habitual smile.
"Everyone will experience death eventually. All things fade. Only Death itself is eternal."
Flamel's eyes lit up slightly.
"Only Death is eternal… interesting."
He paused.
"Actually, I didn't give up the Philosopher's Stone willingly."
Lockhart froze.
There was more to this.
"The Stone has already failed," Flamel continued calmly.
"But… you know how to make it," Lockhart said, confused.
Instead of answering, Flamel took out a red gem and placed it on the table.
It shimmered with flowing colors, radiating a mysterious and powerful aura.
Even without ever seeing one before, Lockhart knew instantly—
This was the Philosopher's Stone.
If this wasn't it, then nothing could be.
He suppressed the sudden urge to cast Obliviate on the old man, grab the Stone, and run.
Flamel's power… was likely no less than Dumbledore's.
The body might weaken with age—but magic only grew stronger.
And this man had six hundred years behind him.
In theory—
He should be the strongest wizard alive.
"I gathered enough materials to create two Stones," Flamel said, as if reading Lockhart's thoughts. "Even Dumbledore doesn't know that."
"One could sustain me for seven hundred years. In theory, I would only need ten years to create another."
Lockhart stayed silent.
There was clearly more.
"But after using one, I realized I had taken the wrong path."
"This is not true immortality."
Flamel's gaze grew distant.
"The Philosopher's Stone consumes magic to forcibly repair the aging body. In theory, as long as your magical growth exceeds the cost of repair, you can live forever."
"But the body deteriorates faster and faster. To survive, more and more magic is consumed."
"It's like drinking poison to quench thirst."
"When I first created the Stone, I was one of the most powerful wizards in the world."
"Now… I am effectively a Squib."
"My body is also collapsing at an absurd rate—as if six hundred years are being compressed into mere months."
Lockhart nodded slowly.
"If becoming a Muggle meant living forever, many would accept it. So—you're saying once your magic is gone, you can no longer use the Stone? And you can't rely on someone else's magic either?"
Flamel nodded.
"Exactly. I didn't abandon immortality."
"I simply lost the ability to cling to it."
"But it still let you live six hundred years," Lockhart said. "That sounds like a success."
Flamel shook his head.
"If that were all, it would indeed be a miracle."
"But when I reached two hundred years old… I began to lose my emotions."
"At first, it was subtle. I found it harder to feel joy or sorrow."
"Over time, it worsened. By around two hundred and fifty, I could no longer feel anything at all."
"When friends died—I felt nothing."
"When my students achieved greatness—I felt nothing."
"That is why I stopped teaching. Stopped healing."
"I could no longer derive any satisfaction from helping others."
"Later, even my sense of taste disappeared."
"All my emotions became… simulations."
He looked at Lockhart calmly.
"Do you know what that feels like?"
"It is worse than death."
"And yet," he continued, "there remains a faint instinct—a pull away from death. Not quite fear… more like the echo of life itself."
"I spent the rest of my existence searching for a solution."
Lockhart didn't need to ask.
There wasn't one.
"What's the point of telling me all this?" he asked. "Does Dumbledore know?"
"He does," Flamel said. "Otherwise, with his personality, he would have forced me to make one for him long ago."
He chuckled faintly.
"Frankly, I almost wish Voldemort had obtained the Stone. I'd like to see his face when his magic starts fading."
"And this Stone?" Lockhart asked, glancing at it.
"Destroy it. Keep it. Play with it. It's yours now."
"But I need a favor."
"What about my injuries?" Lockhart asked cautiously.
Flamel smiled.
"I lied. Your body will recover on its own."
He took out three vials.
"Permanent Magic Enhancement Potions."
"I spent the last century treating them like water. The first dose is the most effective. After that, the effect diminishes sharply."
"For me—they're nothing more than water now."
Lockhart stood and accepted them with both hands.
Excitement surged in his chest—but also unease.
Is this one of those 'mysterious master passing on everything to the protagonist' moments?
"What do you need me to do?" he asked.
Flamel looked at him steadily.
"I've heard from Dumbledore that you are the greatest master of Memory Charms in the world."
"Erase my memory—and that of my students—regarding the creation and use of the Philosopher's Stone."
"My students are in the next room."
"I don't want future generations to walk this path."
"And it will keep Voldemort from coveting it."
Lockhart's heart skipped a beat.
Dumbledore knows?
But he also understood—
If Dumbledore meant him harm, he would have been ruined long ago.
"I understand," Lockhart said.
"Then begin," Flamel said quietly. "I would like to walk toward death in peace."
"When you're done, tell the Aurors outside to leave."
Lockhart raised his wand.
This felt… strange.
He had never cast this spell while the target calmly looked at him.
"Obliviate."
Erasing everything took several minutes.
But it worked perfectly.
Perhaps someone in the world could undo it—
But Voldemort certainly could not.
When Lockhart stepped out of Flamel's residence, the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, everything felt surreal.
He had derailed the plot.
Fallen unconscious for months.
And somehow—
Participated in one of the greatest turning points in wizarding history.
The collapse of the immortality myth.
He looked up at the sky.
"…Am I still unconscious from that Killing Curse?"