Chapitre 62: Chapter 58: Contact
His hair was disheveled, his unshaven face rough, and his cheeks hollow. He looked into a mirror and mocked himself: What a pitiful sight for the leader of Britain.
He knew well why he was in such a state.
...Wizards.
Until he assumed this role, he had dismissed them as mere fantasies—people wielding supernatural powers. But they were real. Only those who held the office of Prime Minister were privy to their existence.
And now, of all the troubling matters, a faction of these wizards—called Death Eaters, if he recalled correctly—was wreaking havoc even in the non-magical world.
A bridge, built less than a decade ago, had been split in two, plunging several cars into the river. Two gruesome murders had occurred. In the western regions, an unnatural hurricane had brought immense human and material destruction.
Even the weather seemed to reflect the nation's despair, with Britain now blanketed in an eerie, pervasive mist.
All these incidents, he had been told, were the work of these so-called wizards.
Ridiculous... utterly absurd.
They weren't even at war. Why were they being attacked like this? Simply because the Death Eaters looked down on them?
Because of this, criticism now rained down upon his administration. The phone lines in the reception area rang incessantly, each one a storm of complaints.
"Damn it…!"
Becoming Prime Minister had been a grueling climb.
He had failed his school entrance exams and endured years as a repeat candidate. His days at university were filled with relentless study, and even after graduation, there was no respite.
He had bowed to insufferable people, endured their scorn, and relied on stomach medicine just to make it through. Yet he never gave up, driven by the dream of becoming Prime Minister to change his country.
And now, because of these incomprehensible wizards, his position was on the verge of collapse. They were pulling him down.
Unacceptable… absolutely unacceptable.
If he could, he would drop missiles on their world right this instant.
But… he didn't know where they were or the extent of their powers. There was no way to fight them.
If only their existence could be proven, he could launch an all-out search and deploy the military. But as things stood, he would merely be branded as delusional.
Why? He pondered.
They hadn't even known wizards existed. They hadn't opposed them in any way.
So why were they being treated so unfairly?
What had they done to deserve this?
He wanted to crush them.
As the thought consumed him, a dark, heavy resentment filled his heart.
The Death Eaters, who killed his people for sport, and the Ministry of Magic, which seemed powerless to stop them—both were threats to the peace he cherished.
Someone, anyone, should destroy them.
...Even if it meant selling his soul to the devil.
"Shall I grant that wish for you?"
The soft voice slipped into the cracks of his heart.
Startled, the Prime Minister turned around.
What he saw—was it an angel or a devil?
Either way, it was someone, or something, inhumanly beautiful—a young girl perched casually on his desk.
Even the Prime Minister, who had seen stars and top models in his time, found them dull in comparison.
This girl's beauty was vivid and dazzling, eclipsing them all.
"W-who are you…?"
"A concerned observer of the wizarding world's future... and someone who wishes for harmony between your world and theirs."
The girl's youthful appearance was contrasted by a bewitching smile. She slid off the desk gracefully, every movement captivating.
For the first time, the Prime Minister believed in magic—not just intellectually, but in his very soul.
She didn't need to perform any spells. Her mere presence was proof enough.
No ordinary being could exist like this.
"Prime Minister… your anger is justified. You have every right to be enraged at the wizards."
The girl walked toward him, completely unguarded, speaking as though weaving a spell with her words.
"And if you so desire, I can offer my assistance."
The Prime Minister gulped, staring at the girl.
He didn't question what someone like her could possibly do.
Instead, he found himself wondering just how far she could go.
"What can you do?"
"What do you want me to do?"
A question answered with another question.
But the implication was clear—it meant anything you desire, I can make it happen.
The Prime Minister broke into a cold sweat and, after gathering his resolve, spoke.
"...If I were to say that I want those who unjustly threaten our lives eliminated, would you assist me?"
The girl smiled wickedly at his words, a smile that seemed to say, this is exactly what I wanted to hear.
"If that is your wish, I can present the heads of every Death Eater before you."
This was no bluff.
The Prime Minister felt certain that, if he truly wished for it, this girl would carry it out. There was an indescribable intensity in her presence.
Suppressing his fear with a wry smile, the Prime Minister replied, "No, I must decline. Cleaning up the mess would be bothersome. Handle the corpses on your end."
It seemed that when one god abandons you, another may choose to take you in.
The Prime Minister realized fortune had turned in his favor. Now, he would see how far his authority could carry him in this newfound situation.
On that day, Nicolas Flamel received a rare visitor after a long time.
Though his life was nearing its end and he could no longer rise from his bed, the arrival of a friend was a welcome occasion.
When he reached for his wand, hoping to offer a modicum of hospitality, the visitor gently stayed his hand.
"There's no need for that, Nicolas."
"Ah... I see. Very well."
The visitor was Albus Dumbledore.
A fellow alchemist from days long past, and one of the few wizards Nicolas respected deeply.
Though pleased by the visit, Nicolas felt a pang of regret that he was in no condition to properly receive him.
"So, Albus, might I ask what brings you here? As you can see, there's little to find in this place."
Nicolas was, after all, a dying old man.
His affairs were in order, and his surroundings had been stripped down to the bare essentials.
But the very fact that Dumbledore had come suggested there must be something here, something of importance.
Under normal circumstances, a visit might need no justification.
But now, with the wizarding world facing an unprecedented crisis, Nicolas doubted that Dumbledore would act without purpose.
"Well, Nicolas, to be frank, I need your memory."
"My memory? What is it you wish to know? I'll share anything."
At this stage, Nicolas had no reason to withhold anything from Dumbledore.
If it could aid the wizarding world, he would gladly share whatever he knew.
But Dumbledore shook his head slowly.
"No, Nicolas, I suspect you don't actually know this yourself."
"Don't know? But it's my memory, is it not?"
"Indeed. To be more precise, I believe you don't remember it."
Dumbledore spoke cheerfully, but his words caused Nicolas to frown.
It was true that he was a dying man, but he didn't think himself so senile as to have forgotten something important.
It was particularly irksome to hear such a comment from another old man like Dumbledore.
Sensing Nicolas's displeasure, Dumbledore maintained his gentle smile and offered an explanation.
"Oh, Nicolas, don't be offended. This isn't about your memory failing you. I believe someone has cast an Obliviate charm on you."
The casual mention of an Obliviate charm caused Nicolas's eyes to widen.
An Obliviate spell—it made perfect sense.
Of course he wouldn't remember anything if his memory had been tampered with.
He didn't think himself careless enough to allow such a spell to be cast on him, but in his current bedridden state, anyone could have easily done so.
"I see. Then we must first determine when that memory was erased."
Even an Obliviate charm isn't flawless.
With the use of a Pensieve, even altered memories can reveal the truth.
Dumbledore had previously succeeded in retrieving genuine memories from a house-elf named Hokey, whose recollections had been tampered with.
Retrieving the true memory from Nicolas would not be a difficult task.
"I would estimate... it was likely three or four Christmases ago," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.
Mirabel had demonstrated extraordinary immortality during the battle at the Department of Mysteries last year.
She had deflected the Killing Curse and regenerated a severed arm instantly.
Watching this, Dumbledore had become convinced she was using a Horcrux.
Given her unchanged appearance, he suspected she had only created one.
The terrible act of splitting one's soul twice or more inevitably affects one's physical form.
This was why Voldemort, once a handsome young man, had lost his former beauty and become what he was now.
And then there was her regenerative ability.
The way she restored a lost limb in an instant was beyond anything human.
Even Madam Pomfrey, a master of healing, required an entire night to regrow a single bone.
Yet Mirabel had regenerated an entire arm in a flash. It was, undeniably, unnatural.
This reminded Dumbledore of the Philosopher's Stone, which Mirabel had once sought.
The Stone had been destroyed. But if Mirabel had not given up, she might have attempted to create one herself.
However, the Philosopher's Stone was the pinnacle of alchemy—its ultimate achievement.
Even for someone as brilliant as Mirabel, creating it would not be easy.
But if she had access to the memories of the one who had made it, that would be a different story.
With this thought, Dumbledore had come to visit Nicolas.
"In that case, take what you need," Nicolas said.
He placed his wand to his forehead and drew out a wispy strand of memory, which he sealed in a nearby vial before handing it to Dumbledore.
"Thank you, Nicolas," Dumbledore said.
The process had been remarkably simple, but only because Nicolas had been willing.
Finding memories by other means would be far more challenging, requiring guesswork and painstaking effort.
The next step, Dumbledore suspected, would not be so straightforward.
To uncover Mirabel's past, he would need a crucial memory from someone far less cooperative.
The thought alone was exhausting.
Would Mavis Beresford—a woman who doted on her daughter—really hand over anything that could disadvantage her child?
"Good grief, this won't be easy," Dumbledore muttered.
Uncovering the secrets of Mirabel's and Voldemort's immortality was essential to gaining any chance of victory.
But neither path would be simple.
Voldemort's Horcruxes were scattered and difficult to locate.
As for Mirabel, she seemed to be using a combination of a Horcrux, the Philosopher's Stone, and perhaps another unknown method.
One dispersed his immortality; the other concentrated it.
Though their approaches differed, both were equally threatening.
Yet, no one is truly invincible.
Neither Voldemort nor Mirabel was exempt from making mistakes.
Voldemort's errors began with marking Harry as the chosen one from the prophecy, followed by a string of uncharacteristic blunders as if manipulated by fate.
Mirabel, too, seemed unnaturally rushed in her actions.
She should have waited.
Graduating from school, taking time to prepare—these steps wouldn't have delayed her plans significantly.
Had she moved more cautiously, stopping her would have been almost impossible.
…No, considering how Grindelwald's intervention had saved him, Dumbledore realized that without opposition like himself or Voldemort, Mirabel might have acted even more freely.
Yet she had revealed her true nature far too early.
Exploring her past might yield answers.
Perhaps the reason for her urgency—or the foundation of her ambitions—would come to light.
Leaving Nicolas's home, Dumbledore closed his eyes in contemplation, thinking about the reckless paths taken by two extraordinary talents.
Then, returning his expression to one of a wise strategist, he apparated to the Beresford estate.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone