a/n: I wasn't feeling well these past few days, but I'm mostly fine now. Sorry for not posting regularly!

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When Sagres returned to the safe house, the intense discussion inside abruptly ceased.

The members of Bronze Feather sat around a table, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows on their faces.

"You're back?" Nightingale looked up from her pile of Potions, a hint of confusion flashing in her eyes beneath her wide cloak. "Any other gains?"

Sagres gave a meaningful smile and casually tossed a stack of yellowed parchment onto the table.

Everyone immediately reached for it, and the only sound left in the stone room was the rustling of turning pages.

As they read further, everyone's expression grew solemn—some trembled slightly at the fingertips, some furrowed their brows, and some breathed a little faster.

"The Book of Abraham?" Stork's voice was tight. "The forbidden book Nicolas Flamel supposedly referenced when creating the Philosopher's Stone?"

[Image]

Sagres didn't answer immediately. He slowly took out another item from the inner pocket of his wizard's robes—a stone as red as blood, shimmering with an eerie glow in the candlelight.

"This is...?"

"The Philosopher's Stone," Sagres said, his voice calm and serious.

The stone room instantly fell silent, save for the crackling of sparks from the fire. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the legendary Alchemical artifact.

"So that ruin was..." Swift swallowed with difficulty. "An Alchemy laboratory for creating the Philosopher's Stone?"

"But the manuscript records nothing but evil Dark Arts!" Thunderbird slammed the parchment onto the table, causing the silver cup beside it to clatter. "Using infant bone dust as a catalyst, mixed with the fresh blood of virgin children..."

"Are you sure this is really the Philosopher's Stone?" Snowy Owl interrupted, her fingers tightly clutching her quill. "Where is its owner?"

Sagres gazed at the red stone in his palm, feeling the familiar magical pulse within it—identical to the one he had seen at Hogwarts.

"The structure and magical properties are perfectly consistent," he said, lifting his gaze. "As for the owner..."

He recalled the pile of black-robed ashes in the corner of the laboratory. "I suspect he drank something he shouldn't have—and died."

"That doesn't make sense," Snowy Owl frowned. "If it really is the Philosopher's Stone, how could its creator die? The longevity potion you gave me worked."

"Perhaps..." Nightingale gently brushed the scorched edge of the parchment. "He misunderstood the refining method?"

"But Raven said this was the Philosopher's Stone..."

"Wait," Stork suddenly reached out toward the red stone, then withdrew his hand halfway. "Can it really turn lead into gold? It's not a fake, is it?"

Sagres didn't respond.

He flicked his fingertip, and a copper Knut flew from his sleeve. The instant it touched the stone's surface, it transformed into pure gold, clinking sharply as it rolled across the stone table.

The crisp sound echoed in the silent room.

Sagres's fingertips gently caressed the smooth surface of the Philosopher's Stone, its eerie red glow reflecting in his gray eyes.

A terrible thought was beginning to take shape in his mind—if this stone, refined with Dark Arts, was real, then what about Nicolas Flamel's...?

"Thunderbird," he suddenly asked, "how old are you this year?"

Thunderbird, who had been about to re-examine the parchment, froze. His silver eyebrows furrowed. "One hundred and three. I'll be one hundred and four by the end of November."

His wrinkled hand subconsciously touched his nose. "Why the sudden question?"

Sagres didn't respond directly, instead pressing further: "Given your level of magical ability, how much longer do you estimate you can live?"

The air in the stone room thickened. Everyone stopped what they were doing, their gazes shifting between the two.

"Hmm.. Ten years… fifteen at most," Thunderbird said hoarsely. "I can feel it—my body and magic are already starting to decline."

He raised his right hand, and the sparks from his fingertips were noticeably dimmer than in years past.

Sagres abruptly stood, his black robes casting a vast shadow in the candlelight. "That's illogical."

With a flick of his wand, glowing names appeared in the air:

Nicolas Flamel – 665 years old

Barty Willy Winkle – 422 years old

Armando Dippet – 355 years old

"Are you saying…" Snowy Owl suddenly leaned forward, her silver hair trembling slightly with excitement. "Are you implying… that these long-lived individuals all…?"

"Used this to prolong their lives?" Sagres finished for her, his brow slightly furrowed. "Why not? Look at how this stone was made—plague, flesh, Dark Arts…"

A heavy silence settled over the stone room, broken only by the occasional crackle of the candle flames.

Eight pairs of eyes were fixed on the stone on the table, its eerie red glow pulsing faintly, as if it were some slumbering beast that could awaken at any moment.

"Alright, everyone—" Sagres suddenly clapped his hands, the sharp sound startling Kestrel.

He casually set the Philosopher's Stone back onto the table, the dull thud of its impact echoing against the wood. "Instead of debating ethics, let's think about practical uses."

With a flick of his wand, an irregular, fist-sized stone floated over from the corner of the room.

The moment it touched the Philosopher's Stone, a blinding golden light flared—in the blink of an eye, a solid block of pure gold, the size of a pumpkin, thudded heavily onto the table, nearly toppling the candle holders.

The expressions on the eight faces around the table shifted dramatically: Snowy Owl gasped; Swift's fingers reflexively rubbed her empty coin pouch; even the usually composed Thunderbird swallowed hard.

"Of course, don't bother thinking about counterfeiting Galleons," Sagres chuckled, carelessly tossing the gold block aside like rubbish. "The Goblins' anti-counterfeiting enchantments aren't for show. However…"

He gave them all a meaningful glance. "Becoming a billionaire in the Muggle world? That's easily within reach."

"Perhaps…" Kestrel ventured, "we should recruit an Alchemist? To research if this stone has other uses?"

"That's exactly what I had in mind," Sagres agreed.

"It's best if you have recommendations. These days..." He shook his head. "Legitimate Alchemists are harder to find than a Demiguise."

With that, he put away the Philosopher's Stone. "I'll keep it for now. Some of you might know that I'm a Professor at Hogwarts, and not long ago, Lord Voldemort was still searching for this thing."

"Lord Voldemort?" Several of them visibly reacted. "Isn't he... dead? For over ten years now?"

"I thought so too..." Sagres shook his head. "But I can now confirm he's still alive—just in a rather twisted form."

"Can you elaborate?" Swift asked.

"I'm not entirely sure of the details," Sagres admitted. "But he no longer has a body and can only survive by possessing others."

"So, no real threat?" Nightingale asked.

"Don't underestimate him..." Thunderbird warned. "He was a very powerful Wizard. I met him when he was still young—polite, brilliant, and terrifyingly talented."

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