The warm sun cast golden light across the stones of the Flamel Château, its ivy-covered façade aglow under the Fidelius Charm's newly lifted veil. We had barely finished exchanging greetings when I stepped forward.
"I believe this belongs to you."
From my coat, I pulled a small, nondescript wooden box—simple, smooth, and utterly unassuming. Until opened.
As I held it out, I felt the shift in the air. A breathless silence. I opened the lid.
The Philosopher's Stone sat inside, crimson and glinting with a lazy pulse, like it was breathing.
Hermione gasped audibly.
Fleur's eyes widened. Gabrielle's did too.
Even Apolline drew in a quiet breath.
The only people who didn't react were Dan and Emma Granger, who simply blinked at the glowing rock as if wondering whether it was part of the decorative aesthetic.
"I—You—" Hermione stammered.
"You had it this whole time?"
I nodded once.
Nicholas Flamel, to his credit, didn't look surprised at all. In fact, he smiled.
"May I?" he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
I handed it over.
He cupped the box in both hands, looked down at it, then closed it with a soft snap.
"Thank you," he said. "Would you join me in my study?"
Perenelle, with timing so perfect it had to be rehearsed, stepped forward.
"Come," she said to the Grangers and Hermione. "Let me show you the greenhouse. It's older than Hogwarts and far more temperamental."
Hermione gave me one last look—part suspicion, part awe, part pending lecture—then followed.
Nicholas led me down a winding corridor lined with portraits. Most of them were asleep. One, an old wizard with violet spectacles, peeked at me and shook his head disapprovingly.
We entered the study.
It wasn't grand, exactly. Not in the "ministry-office-with-gilded-scrolls" sense. But it was old. Powerful. Worn in.
Books stacked like geological strata, scrolls balanced on brass scales. An entire wall of glass orbs, glowing faintly, labeled in languages I didn't recognize. The fireplace crackled with blue-green flame, and in the center of the room stood a low table with two armchairs on either side.
Atop the table: a steaming teapot, a French press, two delicate cups, and a saucer of sugar cubes.
"Tea or coffee?" he asked as he took his seat.
"Coffee," I said.
He poured. I accepted.
"Thank you again for bringing it back," he said. "You've kept it safe all this time. Tell me... have you used it?"
I shook my head. "No. Not once."
His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but study. He opened the box again and ran one thumb along the surface of the Stone. It pulsed gently under his touch.
"Good," he said. "No distortion. No usage imprint. You've done more than most would."
He looked up.
"Do you know how many people the Stone has destroyed?"
I didn't answer.
"Too many," he continued. "Because they took without preparation. Without understanding. The Stone magnifies. And when the wrong person uses it, it doesn't just transmute metal. It warps character."
I nodded slowly. Then I said what I'd come here to say.
"I want to use it."
A pause.
"But not alone," I added quickly. "I came here hoping to ask your permission... and your supervision."
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. He didn't respond immediately.
At last, he nodded once.
"That depends," he said. "Before I allow anything, I'd like to know you better. Not what you can do. Not what others say. I want your story. Start from the beginning."
I sat back. Thought.
"All right," I said.
And I told him.
I told him about waking up with no memories. About choosing the name Sky Kingston. About the foster system, the orphanage, the summer storms.
About the day the letter arrived. About Diagon Alley, and the disbelief. About Hogwarts.
I told him about Hermione.
About my sorting. Gryffindor. My first wand.
About my first alleged theft. About the first time someone looked at me like I was more than a mistake.
I told him about the Mirror. About Quirrell. About Snape's non-involvement, and the troll, and Fluffy, and Devil's Snare.
I told him how we passed every trial—myself, Hermione, Ron, Harry.
How I stayed behind. How I faced Voldemort, even if only through flame. I told him I had brought a great deal of pillows with me—for practical and emotional reasons—but I left out any mention of the unusual way I store them.
How Dumbledore, bound by contract, handed the Stone to me before summer break. Not out of trust. Out of obligation.
I told him I didn't use it.
I just held it. Hid it. Waited.
Flamel said nothing for a long while.
When he finally spoke, it was soft.
"That's quite a tale."
"It's the truth," I said.
"I know," he said. "I believe you."
He reached beneath the table and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box—one lined with copper filigree and faintly pulsing runes.
"This box," he said, setting it between us, "is something I created a very long time ago. A form of lie detector, of sorts. It doesn't speak. It doesn't judge. But it reacts—to intent, to honesty. If someone speaks a falsehood while in its presence, the runes dim. If they speak the truth... they burn brighter."
"I've seen what it does to liars."
"Thank goodness I am not much of a liar." I said this with confidence but felt a bit of sweat drip.
It was the truth though. I may omit things on most occasions but if it is unrelated to a pranks, I won't intentionally lie.
"alright, I'll go along with it. Although, you'll need to supply the base metal yourself."
"Deal," I said immediately.
He turned. Smiled.
"That wasn't the full story, was it?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe not," I said. "But it was honest."
He nodded.
"That's enough for now."