Philosopher’s Stone Dark Secret

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The moment Sargeras returned to the safehouse, the heated conversation inside came to an abrupt halt.

The members of Bronze Feather were seated around the table, their faces flickering with shifting shadows cast by the trembling candlelight.

"You're back?" Nightingale looked up from a pile of potion vials. Her eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of her large cloak, gleamed with a hint of doubt. "Did you find anything else?"

Sargeras gave a slow, meaningful smile. Without a word, he casually tossed a bundle of yellowed parchment onto the center of the table.

In an instant, everyone instinctively reached out to grab a copy. The only sound left in the stone house was the soft rustling of pages being turned.

As their eyes moved further down the pages, the expressions on their faces grew increasingly grim. One person's fingertips trembled slightly, another's brows twisted into a tight knot, and someone else began breathing just a little faster than before.

"The Book of Abraham?" Stork's voice was tight, almost strained. "Are you saying Nicolas Flamel actually referenced this forbidden tome when creating the Philosopher's Stone?"

Sargeras didn't answer right away.

Instead, he slowly reached into the inner pocket of his wizard's robe and carefully drew out a second item — a stone, crimson like fresh blood, gleaming under the candlelight with an unsettling, almost bewitching luster.

"What is that…?"

"The Philosopher's Stone," Sargeras replied, his voice calm but firm, each word weighed with gravity.

The stone house fell utterly silent, save for the occasional pop of sparks leaping from the fire. Every gaze locked onto the blood-red gem resting in his palm—the fabled relic of alchemy, long spoken of only in legends.

"So the ruin we found was actually…" Swift swallowed hard, his throat moving visibly. "An alchemical laboratory built for the creation of the Philosopher's Stone?"

"But those manuscripts are filled with twisted, dark magic!" Thunderbird slammed the parchment in his hands onto the table, his voice sharp with disbelief. The silver goblet beside him rattled from the impact. "They used bone dust from infants as a catalyst, virgin blood for—"

"You're absolutely certain that's the real Philosopher's Stone?" Snow Owl cut in sharply. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around her quill that the tip had already begun to crack beneath the pressure. "And what about its original owner? Where is he now?"

Sargeras kept his eyes on the crimson stone resting quietly in his palm, feeling the steady pulse of magic that radiated from within it. It was unmistakable — exactly the same as the one he had once seen at Hogwarts.

"The structure and magical signature match perfectly," he said, lifting his eyes at last. "As for its owner…"

A memory surfaced—of the pile of ashes in the corner of that laboratory, cloaked in what was left of a scorched black robe. "My guess is, he drank something he shouldn't have," Sargeras murmured, his voice low and distant. "He's already dead…"

"That doesn't make sense," Snow Owl said with a frown. "If this really is the Philosopher's Stone, how could its bearer possibly die? The Elixir of Life you gave me actually worked."

"Maybe…" Nightingale spoke softly, her fingertips brushing the charred edge of the parchment. "Maybe he misunderstood how to refine it?"

"But Raven said it was the real Philosopher's Stone…"

"Wait…" Stork suddenly reached out, hand halfway toward the red gem before pulling it back at the last second. "Are you sure it can actually turn metal into gold? What if it's just a fake?"

Sargeras gave no reply.

With a flick of his finger, a bronze Knut shot from his sleeve and landed against the surface of the red stone. The moment the two touched, the coin shimmered and transmuted into pure gold, falling onto the stone table with a crisp metallic clink that echoed through the stillness of the room.

He gently stroked the stone's smooth surface, his fingertips tracing the unnatural gleam of its red glow — light that flickered and danced within his pale grey eyes like a living flame.

A terrifying thought had begun to take shape in his mind; If this stone, created through dark magic, was genuine… then Nicolas Flamel's…?

"Thunderbird," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "How old are you this year?"

Thunderbird, who had been about to recheck the parchment again, paused in surprise. His silver eyebrows furrowed. "One hundred and three," he answered. "I'll be one hundred and four by the end of November."

He touched his nose absentmindedly with a deeply wrinkled hand. "Why do you suddenly ask something like that?"

Sargeras didn't answer directly. Instead, he followed up with another quiet but pointed question, "Given your current level of magical power, how long do you think you have left to live?"

The air inside the stone house suddenly turned thick, almost sticky. Everyone stopped what they were doing, their gazes drifting back and forth between the two men as tension slowly settled into the room.

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

He lifted his right hand, but the spark that leapt from his fingertip was much dimmer than it had been in his youth.

Without warning, Sargeras rose to his feet. His black robes loomed in the candlelight, casting a broad and heavy shadow behind him. "This doesn't make sense."

With a flick of his wand, he traced a glowing sequence of names in the air:

Nicolas Flamel – 665 years old

Barry Wee Willie Winkle – 422 years old

Armando Dippet – 355 years old

"You mean to say…" Snow Owl leaned forward abruptly, her silver hair trembling slightly with excitement, "are you implying… that all of these long-lived wizards are…"

"…extended their lives using this thing?" Sargeras finished the sentence for her, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. "Why not? Just look at how this stone was made… plague, blood, and Dark magic…"

Again a long silence settled over the stone house, so thick it pressed down like a heavy cloak. Only the occasional crackle of firewood broke through the stifling stillness.

Eight pairs of eyes were fixed on the stone resting on the table, its eerie red glow flickering like something alive, like a sleeping beast that might awake at any moment.

"Well then, everyone…" Sargeras suddenly clapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the heavy silence and making Kestrel flinch.

He casually tossed the Philosopher's Stone onto the table. The dull thud of stone hitting the wood surface echoed across the room. "Rather than getting tangled up in questions of morality," he said, "perhaps we should focus on what we can actually gain from it."

He gave his wand a smooth, almost theatrical sweep, and from the corner of the room, a jagged rock the size of a clenched fist floated toward him.

The moment it touched the surface of the Philosopher's Stone, a blinding flash of gold burst from the point of contact. In the blink of an eye, a lump of solid gold, large as a pumpkin, dropped heavily onto the table. The impact sent the candlestick rocking and rattling, nearly toppling over.

The expressions on all eight faces shifted in an instant, each more vivid than the last. Snow Owl sucked in a sharp breath; Swift's fingers unconsciously rubbed at her now-empty coin pouch; Even Thunderbird, usually so calm and reserved, swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing visibly.

"Of course, don't go getting any ideas about counterfeiting Galleons," Sargeras said with a chuckle, then casually tossed the gold lump toward the wall like a piece of worthless scrap."Goblin anti-counterfeit charms aren't just for show. That said…"

His gaze swept slowly around the room, eyes glinting with subtle meaning. "Becoming a billionaire in the Muggle world? That's easily within reach."

"Maybe…" Kestrel ventured hesitantly, "we should recruit an alchemist? Someone who can study this stone and figure out whether it has other uses?"

"That's exactly what I had in mind." Sargeras nodded in agreement.

"If any of you know someone suitable, all the better—though these days…" He shook his head with a sigh. "A legitimate alchemist is harder to find than a Demiguise."

As he spoke, he tucked the Philosopher's Stone back into his robes. "I'll hold onto it for now," he said. "Some of you might already know this, but I teach at Hogwarts. And not long ago, Voldemort was searching for this very object."

"Voldemort?" A few of them looked startled, clearly recognizing the name. "Didn't he… didn't he die? More than ten years ago?"

"I used to think he was dead too…" Sargeras murmured, slowly shaking his head. "But now I'm certain… he's still alive, though in a very twisted form."

"Can you explain?" Swift asked softly.

"I don't know the full details," Sargeras admitted. "But from what I've learned, he no longer has a body of his own. He can only survive by latching onto the bodies of others."

"So you're saying he's not a threat?" Nightingale asked, sounding uncertain.

"Don't underestimate him…" Thunderbird warned gravely. "That man… he was a very powerful wizard. I met him once, back when he was still very young — polite, elegant, frighteningly intelligent."

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