Chapter 296 - 298: Inheritance Space
At the very moment Sothia laid eyes on the Great Lake, the scene before Nicolas Flamel finally stopped shifting. The strange dizziness that had been churning in his mind ebbed away, leaving only a single rune hanging before his eyes, intricate beyond belief. It flickered for a few seconds, then slowly faded.
He stared at the spot where it had vanished, stunned for a few heartbeats, before murmuring in an uncertain tone, "That was… the Porphyrys conversion rune?"
As soon as he spoke, an ethereal voice sounded behind him.
"It seems I chose a learned wizard."
Flamel turned in surprise.
A woman in a pure white gown stood beside an old, weather-worn tower. Her face was cold and remote, almost mask-like. Her brows were drawn together, and there was open loathing in her eyes.
"But as I have always maintained," she said coolly, "erudition cannot change a person's nature."
Her gaze settled on Flamel's hand, thin and skeletal as a claw, then on the vast, ocean‑deep magic roiling inside him.
For a wizard to possess such enormous power, there was only one path to growth: the slow accumulation that came with time.
And to hold that much magic without the slightest scar from dark shortcuts… she could think of only one explanation.
"To prolong your life, you helped unleash a war on that scale. How do you justify that to your peers?"
"I…" Flamel opened his mouth, wanting to explain, but found no words.
He was not the cause of that war. Yet in the end, he had been its last and only beneficiary. He had sworn to guard the Philosopher's Stone to ensure such horror never happened again, but the simple fact remained: his long life was a gift from that very Stone.
Perhaps, back then, there had been no selfishness in his heart. But in the centuries that followed, how could there not have been a single moment of secret, guilty delight?
After a brief struggle, he bowed his head a fraction and chose not to answer at all.
The woman studied his posture and blinked, her expression easing slightly.
"I had not expected someone like that to feel any remorse," she said quietly.
"Will you tell me what happened?"
Underground, in a dim stone chamber, Albus Dumbledore slowly took in his surroundings, then turned his gaze to the old man in a silver‑green robe sitting opposite him, whose eyes were shadowed and grim.
"If I am not mistaken, this is a kind of inheritance realm, is it not?"
He lifted a hand, fingers flexing as he tested the air.
"It does not feel like an illusion. I can truly sense the air shifting. And yet… You do not seem to be a construct of illusion magic."
His blue eyes glinted with curiosity.
"Fascinating. I do wonder whether I might study this place later."
The old man looked momentarily taken aback, as though he had not expected such a personality. After a short pause, he answered in a low, even voice, "Do as you like. When I am finished with my task."
"But of course," Dumbledore said cheerfully.
He pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down, folding his hands on the table and regarding the dour old wizard with calm interest.
"I imagine that if I am here, my companions must have entered similar spaces of their own."
"Yes," the old man said shortly. He clearly did not care for Dumbledore's manner, but he did not dwell on it. He had only been left behind as a fragment of the past, after all, with nothing more to do than pass on a little knowledge and a few warnings.
Dumbledore, however, showed no sign of preparing to listen meekly. Instead, he carried on, half under his breath, as if thinking aloud in one of his own lessons.
"Let me guess. They have gone into realms crafted by the other founders?"
He tapped the tabletop with one finger, sounding for all the world like a student daydreaming during class.
"If I ended up here, this place cannot be looking at our original Houses, but at our character or something else entirely."
He sighed, though his eyes were laughing.
"A pity. I rather thought I would count as the bravest Gryffindor of the lot. Still, when it comes to sheer courage and iron‑willed resolve, there are a few among us who surpass me."
He tilted his head, thinking.
"But there are five of us. If there is one space for each, what about my new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?"
The old man's frown deepened. Realising the guest before him not only felt no sense of crisis, but was still chatting away with evident amusement, he cut across Dumbledore's musings with obvious impatience.
"I care nothing for the rest. I am here to tell you what I know. That is all."
"Naturally. You are in charge here," Dumbledore replied at once.
A slightly impish smile curved his mouth. He cocked his head, a strange light flickering in his blue eyes.
"Then please. Let me hear what you wish to teach me… or warn me about."
"Founder Salazar Slytherin."
There was a thunderous crash.
Severus Snape hit the ground hard, clutching his wand and forcing himself upright to face the figure ahead of him.
Unlike Flamel and Dumbledore, who were holding calm conversations, Snape was living through the second most painful experience of his life.
In front of him stood a burly man with a mane of fire‑red hair and beard. He held a sword in one hand, wore a battered wizard hat on his head, and his face was split by a constant, exuberant grin.
Right now, that grin was the most terrifying thing Snape had ever seen.
No one, after being chopped to pieces several times over by someone smiling that broadly, could possibly feel anything else.
The agony of a shattered body ebbed by degrees. Snape hauled himself to his feet once more and forced the same words out that he had already repeated several times.
"I am a potioneer, not a duellist."
As before, the red‑haired giant paid his protest no heed at all. With sword swinging, he charged again.
"That is quite all right, my boy. I can feel your courage. A courage even I must admire!"
Laughing loudly, the red‑haired, red‑bearded warrior closed the distance in a heartbeat, blade arcing down toward Snape's head.
"But courage alone is not enough. Come. Show me how you fight. Let me hone your battlecraft."
"Do not fear loss. Do not fear death. Here, none of it can truly touch you."
"Cast off every needless thought and fight me with everything you have."
"I swear to—"
A storm of curses roared through Snape's mind, but the greatsword was already descending. He had no time left for anything but survival.
He shoved everything else aside and poured his power into a shimmering shield.
The sword slammed into his Shield Charm.
The impact was transmitted straight down the stream of magic into his arm. His hands went numb. His fingers almost lost their grip on his wand.
What kind of insane close‑quarters spellcasting was this?
Forcing his trembling hands back under control, he stared at the red‑haired warrior charging him yet again, sword raised high.
Only one thought was left in his mind.
He had known it. Following Evans's lead never led anywhere good.