The facts proved that even the greatest White Wizard could not prevent human nature from yearning after money.
When Iain was forcibly dragged away from his beloved St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, he still had several forged medical certificates in hand, handed over by healers reluctant to part with his Galleons.
"The next time my head feels unwell... I'll come back."
Iain was still unsatisfied, though not especially regretful. After all, when the time came, his head would certainly have the good sense to feel unwell a few times on cue.
Beside him, Dumbledore shook his head helplessly, hoping the young wizard would face reality.
"Iain, Madam Poppy Pomfrey will not be deceived by tricks like these."
Madam Pomfrey was the matron of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. She held immense authority among students and staff alike, and was both highly skilled and famously brisk.
"Ah, ah, I understand."
Hearing this, Iain nodded thoughtfully.
In his mind, the ever-dependable Professor Dumbledore was clearly reminding him that if he meant to fake illness, the performance had to be convincing.
The proper symptoms needed to appear at the proper moment if he ever wanted to skip class successfully.
As expected of Professor Dumbledore: even in the noble art of cutting lessons and getting leave slips, he was truly a guiding master.
"It is time to go back and rest. I have a number of matters to arrange in the coming days, and I may not be able to come see you. Fawkes will look after your safety in my place."
Dumbledore led Iain away from St. Mungo's. When they Apparated, they returned to the front of the little stone house in Godric's Hollow.
By now, the day was growing late. Twilight had already climbed the hillside, and the ivy leaves shone dark green in the last scraps of fading light.
"There is food in the kitchen. Try to get some rest early."
Dumbledore always seemed to be busy. He turned to leave, but after taking two steps, he stopped again, unable to quite trust the situation.
"And please do not casually disturb the rest of the dead."
Only after receiving the young wizard's promise did Dumbledore vanish into the falling dark, moving carefully, step by step.
He Apparated at the edge of the village.
When he appeared again, he was in a remote country district on the outskirts of somewhere far away.
There stood a warm-looking manor, and it had no shortage of guards.
Only, these guards looked rather unlike ordinary guards.
"Halt! No unauthorized entry!"
The moment Dumbledore crossed into the manor's grounds, a crowd of patterned alchemical constructs sprang out from the bushes, the trees, and even the lake.
Most of them resembled toy figures the size of building bricks. Others looked like the sort of strange blocky little people from a game that would not even be invented for years.
Their appearance was comical.
The weapons in their hands were not.
And from the rather substantial caliber of those extremely righteous barrels, one could tell that the master of this place possessed both an enlightened mind and abundant martial spirit.
"So my clearance has been revoked, has it?"
Dumbledore did not draw his wand. He simply raised both hands.
"Of course not. Ha! Ha! Albus, I merely wanted you to admire my latest alchemical creations."
The man laughing as he emerged looked dried and shrunken, like a mummy.
With a wave of his hand, all the guards retreated back into their hidden positions.
"Very interesting puppets."
Albus Dumbledore looked at the withered old man standing before him.
Naturally, this was his old friend, the great alchemist Nicolas Flamel.
Flamel had studied at Beauxbatons in France in his youth, and there met his future wife, Perenelle. In 1382 he succeeded in creating the Philosopher's Stone, and through the Elixir of Life it produced, he and his wife had together achieved a kind of immortality.
Not a perfect immortality.
But one that had lasted a very, very long time.
"They are more than puppets. They are bodyguards. You know how restless the Death Eaters have been lately... and in the last few days the old followers of Grindelwald seem to be stirring again as well."
The truly ancient man spoke with weary resignation, insisting that he himself had not the strength to wring a chicken's neck and so could only rely on magical figures crafted by his own hands.
"That situation will not continue for very long."
Dumbledore knew exactly why both factions were becoming active again.
He was simply in no position to explain it.
"Do you mean the Death Eaters, or Grindelwald's old people? Either way, I hope the Philosopher's Stone can be of some use to you."
Nick Flamel only knew portions of Dumbledore's plans.
He sincerely hoped his friend could bring Voldemort's disasters to an end.
As for Grindelwald... very few people would say he was not a Dark Lord, yet Nicolas Flamel happened to be one of them. He merely disagreed with Grindelwald's ideals.
In terms of sheer danger, Voldemort was the genuine article.
"Yes. I am sincerely grateful for your trust and your help."
Dumbledore bowed his head slightly, while Nicolas Flamel only waved a hand, unconcerned.
"When one grows old, one ought to die. We've clung to life long enough... Albus, I assume you haven't come all this way only because of the Dark Lord."
Nick Flamel led Dumbledore indoors.
He looked at him with complete certainty. There was no cloudiness in his eyes at all.
"Even in urgent times, you rarely come to see me at this hour," he added as he opened the door and brought Dumbledore into a small room.
Dumbledore sat down beside the fireplace.
"Do you remember the child I once mentioned to you? The one who displayed a miracle beyond the reach of magic on the day his parents died..."
He spoke softly, without preamble.
Nick Flamel sat opposite him. The fire in the grate was low, casting orange light across both their faces and deepening every line and wrinkle.
"The descendant of the Ambrosius family? The boy you stubbornly insisted on naming Iain Kent?"
Nick Flamel evidently knew a great many secrets.
"Yes."
As he answered, Dumbledore reached into his robes and drew out Iain's examination report. After hesitating for a moment, he finally handed it to the alchemist he respected more than any other.
"This is..."
Nick Flamel put on his spectacles. But the moment he saw the scanned image of the brain on the report, his whole body reacted as though he had been struck with a thousand needles.
"An extraordinary masterpiece of alchemy... no, incomparable... but it absolutely should not exist."
Nick Flamel's conclusion came instantly, chilling in its certainty.
"I cannot begin to explain why such a brain would have been created, but I do know this. It should not be a human brain. It trespasses on a taboo that belongs to the Creator alone..."
Nick Flamel's voice trembled. He looked up sharply at Dumbledore.
"Albus, what have you done?"
It was the same question the healer had asked.
Quite a few people knew a certain piece of Dumbledore's past: that there had once been a period in his youth when he was deeply obsessed with biological alchemy.
"I had only meant to have his mental state examined..."
Dumbledore sounded utterly miserable. There was an unmistakable air of wrongful accusation in his sigh.
"Of course, perhaps I did have one private thought as well. I wanted to see whether the ancient magic he had awakened might have caused irreversible harm to his body or soul. But even so... I never could have foreseen a result as shocking as this."
Dumbledore was being entirely candid.
Nick Flamel's gaze shifted again and again for a long while after hearing this.
"What ancient magic?"
He asked the question with a frown.
Dumbledore fell silent, as if weighing whether he should say it aloud. Only when Nick Flamel began to look impatient did he lower his voice and answer quietly.
"A terrifying magic that forcibly binds the souls of the dead, allowing the dead to return to this world and move again within their own ruined bodies..."
The old headmaster spoke the truth in a tone almost too calm for what he was saying.
A dreadful truth.
A truth capable of shattering everything the wizarding world believed about the order of things.
And there, in a nameless little country manor, before an ordinary fireplace, Albus Dumbledore let it slip into the world.
His voice trembled slightly. In his eyes there was yearning.
And struggle.
"What did you just say!?"
The facts proved that, under very special circumstances, even a trembling man more than six hundred years old could erupt with a vitality more shocking than that of the young.
Just look at Nicolas Flamel.
He shot up from his stool as if the seat had exploded beneath him, as though he might leap straight to the ceiling.