Chapter 17: The Philosopher

For Harry, if he ran into any problem, asking a professor was certainly easier than clumsily researching it himself. But Harry hoped to ask a truly learned professor—one who wouldn’t go telling everyone afterward, “Harry Potter asked about Nicolas Flamel.”

There was such a professor, one who very likely knew Nicolas Flamel, and who rarely initiated conversation with students or faculty—even Professor Snape, who seemed to know a great deal, had recommended Harry seek him out for answers.

That was right—the Hypnotist Master, Professor Binns.

When Harry knocked on Professor Binns’s office door, a chilling chill seeped into his bones. The room still bore the furnishings from his lifetime: dried, clotted black tea on the desk, spiderwebs clinging to the chair legs, dust thick on the record player, while the professor himself remained utterly unaware.

“Harry, what’s your question?” Professor Binns’s voice sounded like a vacuum cleaner.

“I’m trying to ask about something I read in a book—the name ‘Nicolas Flamel,’” Harry said. “Could you tell me more about Nicolas Flamel?”

“Nicolas Flamel, also known as Nicholas Flamel,” Binns said slowly. “Nicolas Flamel was born in 1330. He received a fine education, was fluent in Latin and Greek, and excelled in calligraphy and transcription. He made his living in Paris by selling books and copying manuscripts...”

Binns seemed to have memorized entire passages from the book; he began reciting them verbatim. Though only two people were in the room, Harry grew drowsy listening.

Amid the long biographical details, the only word Harry truly cared about was: the Philosopher’s Stone.

“...The Philosopher’s Stone is the pinnacle of alchemy. Superficial people call it the Stone of the Philosopher because they care only for gold and delight in turning base metals into it. Others call it the Magic Stone because it can be used to brew the Elixir of Life. But no matter how they think of it, the Philosopher’s Stone embodies an unshakable truth: all alchemy is, at its core, equivalent exchange...”

Harry committed these details to memory, for when Hagrid had slipped up in the hut, he’d uttered the first half of the name “Philosopher’s Stone.” Now Harry was nearly certain: the magical artifact Dumbledore was secretly hiding was this very Philosopher’s Stone—or, given its likely function, perhaps it was more accurately called the Magic Stone.

Knowing this, Harry lost all interest in the trapdoor. What use did he have for the Stone? Immortality sounded tempting, but he was far too young to need it; as for money, he didn’t think gold held much value in the wizarding world, and in the Muggle world, he wasn’t short of it.

“Finally, in 1417, Nicolas Flamel died of illness in his hometown. Yet when later generations opened his and his wife’s graves, no bodies were found. Rumor claims they used the Stone’s power to become immortal.”

When Binns finally finished his long-winded lecture, Harry merely nodded politely. He had no intention of asking about Flamel’s later life—his eyelids felt as heavy as lead weights.

“Thank you, Professor. This is exactly the knowledge I needed,” Harry said politely, then yawned his way back to the dormitory.

Back in the dorm, he nearly blurted out the news about the Stone to Neville. But Harry suddenly realized: Neville hadn’t asked him about Flamel in the first place—Hermione had. He’d better tell only Hermione.

Somehow, Harry noticed that Neville had started studying with Hermione in the library again, which he found amusing. Of course, from his perspective, nothing strange about it—people naturally grew closer to one friend sometimes, another at other times.

Before long, Christmas was approaching, meaning Harry could return to Tang Dun during the break. But Ron said he had to stay at school, because the Weasleys were traveling to Romania to visit their eldest son, Charlie, who supposedly raised dragons there.

Zhang Qiu said she’d stay too—Tianchao didn’t observe Christmas as a holiday, and there was nothing to do back home anyway—everyone was either at school or at work.

Under these circumstances, and given that Hogwarts was a place so wondrous one hated to leave, Harry wrote a letter to Sir Crowley—perhaps one of the few times Hedwig had actually been useful since term began.

Soon, Sir Crowley replied, saying he strongly encouraged Harry to make many friends in the wizarding world, and that not returning for Christmas was perfectly fine—he himself was entangled in a workers’ movement in East Germany and couldn’t possibly break away.

Interestingly, Sir Crowley’s reply was typed. Ron marveled at his calligraphy, saying few could handwrite with the speed of a Quick-Quotes Quill. Harry had to explain to him what a typewriter was.

During the holiday, since Neville had gone home, Harry and Ron could finally enjoy a comfortable game of Wizard’s Chess in their dorm. Wizard’s Chess was no different from international chess, except the pieces talked—which led to some absurd moments.

For instance, in Harry’s set, the rooks constantly demanded to castle with the king; the bishops on white squares mocked those on black; every pawn boasted about the time they’d promoted to queen—even though Harry had never once promoted a pawn.

Ron, however, was exceptionally skilled at Wizard’s Chess. He used his family’s ancestral set, whose pieces were fiercely loyal, always willing to sacrifice themselves, and possessed excellent strategic vision—they could advise Ron on several moves ahead. What Harry envied most was their sense of humor; they often had Harry and Ron laughing uproariously.

Throughout the holiday, Harry visited the library infrequently, but each time, he and Zhang Qiu read interesting extracurricular books—sometimes biographies of the wizard Merlin, sometimes secrets of Hogwarts’ four founders. He even found a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, with the words “Dumbledore’s Commentary” added above the title on the cover—this piqued his curiosity.

In the book, Dumbledore had annotated nearly every tale in detail. Much of it Harry couldn’t understand at all, which made him think Dumbledore was extraordinarily brilliant. Dumbledore noted that Babette the Rabbit was an Animagus—meaning human transformation into animals was indeed possible, a highly advanced form of Transfiguration. He also pointed out that although everyone claimed the Elder Wand was invincible, none of its owners had died peacefully—how ironic.

Yet what puzzled Harry was: could the Elder Wand in the fairy tale truly exist? From the very first book he’d read, The Elder Wand: A Historical Study, to his History of Magic textbook, even the great wizard Dumbledore himself acknowledged that historical demons like Emerick and monsters like Egbert had once possessed the Elder Wand.

Harry began re-examining the fairy tale. If even one story was true—if Babette the Rabbit had been proven by Dumbledore to be likely real, or at least based on a clear prototype—then the truth of the Fountain of Good Fortune didn’t matter much. What stirred his imagination were the Deathly Hallows held by the three brothers, and the old wizard’s magical Hop-Pot.

Of course, if the Male Witch’s Heart of Hair were real, it would be terrifying. Harry tried not to dwell on that tale, just as Dumbledore had annotated: it was a very frightening story, and many parents waited until their children were older before reading it to them.

Zhang Qiu advised Harry not to take The Tales of Beedle the Bard too seriously, and to prove her point, she told him a Chinese fairy tale.

Legend says that in ancient Eastern times, there was a powerful wizard named Tongtian who owned four wise swords, against whose power few could stand. He founded a school called “Jie,” which flourished at first—but not for long. His former enemies conspired against him, nearly slaughtering all his students. Devastated, he vanished into obscurity, consumed by sorrow.

Harry immediately thought the Four Swords of Zhuxian resembled the Elder Wand, and the moral of the story was similar: possessing great power alone is meaningless. He soon thought Tongtian might resemble Headmaster Dumbledore—Voldemort couldn’t defeat him, so he plotted to kill his students. But Dumbledore seemed mentally stronger—he still smiled every day.

After telling the tale, Zhang Qiu said: “Even today, there are arrogant Tianchao wizards who boast they’ve found the legendary Four Swords of Zhuxian. But what happens? They’re murdered by greedy men, and those murderers think they’ve stolen powerful artifacts—only to find, upon holding them, that they’re nothing but ordinary magical swords.”

“So you mean the Elder Wand doesn’t exist—it’s just people pretending they’ve found it?”

“Or at least, its power isn’t unbeatable,” Zhang Qiu said. “The owners of the Elder Wand always end up defeated. So what use is the Elder Wand?”

“Alright,” Harry said. The excitement he’d just felt was suppressed—reason told him that even if the fairy tales were true, so many clever people had long since dug up all the treasures inside them.

But instinct told him he was right: Beedle the Bard wasn’t a fairy tale writer—everything he wrote was true.

These two thoughts troubled Harry, leaving him restless for several days afterward.