Chapter 112. About Trust
At last, as the sky was about to darken, Adrian Wesson saw Harry to the Dursleys' front door.
Harry had changed into a jacket and a short-sleeved top. Wesson glanced down at his own out-of-place wizard's robes and, with a light flick of his wand, a well-cut light grey suit replaced his original attire.
He still preferred the roomy sweep of wizard's robes to Muggle clothing.
"Can I learn that spell?" Harry asked, eyes shining. "It would save the time of changing clothes."
"Of course," Wesson ruffled Harry's hair, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I'll add it to your summer plan."
"?"
Harry froze for a moment. Had he just made more trouble for himself?
"All right," Wesson gave Harry a gentle push between the shoulder blades, then said, "it's getting late. Off you go. One more thing—over the next few days I won't be at home. Have fun, Harry."
Harry dragged his feet, reluctant.
He really didn't want to go back to the Dursleys' house; he'd asked Wesson before if he could stay with him for a while.
However, Wesson had refused his request.
When he asked why, Wesson told him there was protective magic his mother had left on him, and that magic needed him to remain with a blood relative to be effective,
and of those related to Harry by blood, the only one left in the world was his aunt.
Which meant that, until he came of age, he had to live with the Dursley family.
Absolutely dreadful…
After watching Harry step through the Dursleys' front door, Wesson had just turned to leave when, all of a sudden, he noticed a familiar figure standing under the streetlamp.
Albus Dumbledore was standing beneath the dim streetlight, wearing Muggle clothes: a purple pinstripe suit paired with a hat in the same colour.
What drew the eye was that he had tied his beard up with a little cord.
It looked rather odd.
Wesson walked up to Dumbledore and couldn't help saying, "Muggles don't keep their beards that long, and they don't tie them up."
"Mm…" Dumbledore looked down at his clothes and said with a smile, "I thought I'd got it right. No wonder those Muggles who just passed were giving me strange looks."
After a silent jab at Dumbledore's fashion sense, Wesson got straight to the point: "How are we going to see Nicolas Flamel?"
"By Apparition," Dumbledore held out a hand, indicating Wesson should take it. "He's in Britain."
The moment Wesson took Dumbledore's hand, the world spun.
The surroundings twisted like a wrung-out cloth; when his feet touched solid ground again, he found himself standing in a room.
Dumbledore's Apparition was much easier to bear than his own—there must be some technique he didn't yet know.
Wesson looked around. It was a circular sitting room with a modern feel: a table, a few sofas, and even a television playing the news.
On the table before him sat a clear crystal ball, silver mist slowly swirling within the globe.
"Ah, I've been waiting for you. Good evening, Albus." A voice drifted out from the kitchen.
Nicolas Flamel came out at an unhurried pace, carrying a tray of freshly baked scones.
He wore a simple white shirt and casual trousers, looking for all the world like an ordinary retired gentleman rather than a wizard who had lived for over six hundred years.
"I've brought our guest, Nicolas," Dumbledore said. "We were delayed a little on the way."
"Still not too late. And here are the scones you asked for," Nicolas said cheerily. "Perenelle made them—very sweet."
Perenelle was Nicolas's wife, and like him she had lived for over six hundred years.
Nicolas set the scones on the table and turned his gaze to Wesson.
"Haven't we met somewhere before?" He cocked his head slightly, silver-white brows knitting. "When you're old your memory fails you… oh, don't tell me yet… let me think."
"The magic flute." Wesson offered a small hint.
"It's you!" Nicolas exclaimed in surprise.
Wesson smiled faintly and nodded. "I'm Adrian Wesson. Thank you for your help back in France."
"A delightful coincidence," Nicolas looked Wesson up and down, then asked kindly, "How is your sister these days?"
Dumbledore had been sitting quietly on the sofa, eating a scone; at Nicolas's words he raised his head at once, a flicker of surprise in his blue eyes.
"About the same," Wesson replied softly. "But I'm very grateful for your help then—we've finally made a bit of progress."
"I didn't do anything," Nicolas waved a hand.
At this, Dumbledore glanced at Nicolas, then turned to Wesson and said, somewhat taken aback, "You two know each other?"
Nicolas nodded, sat down on the sofa beside Dumbledore, and said to him, "Yes, Albus—this is the one you said destroyed the Philosopher's Stone, isn't it?"
Dumbledore nodded. Though curious as to how Wesson and Nicolas were connected, it was better to see to business first.
He looked at Wesson and explained gravely, "You understand the importance of the Philosopher's Stone, Wesson?"
Wesson nodded.
"So," Dumbledore went on, "Nicolas and I discussed it and hope you can take an oath to prove you didn't keep that Stone."
"That's right," Nicolas chimed in, taking an ancient roll of parchment from his breast and saying, "This is a simple piece of ritual magic. All you need do is declare to this parchment that you did not keep the Stone. If it burns, it proves your words are true."
So that was it.
Wesson nodded inwardly.
It was perfectly reasonable. As Dumbledore and Nicolas had said, the Philosopher's Stone was too important to the entire wizarding world.
If it fell into an outsider's hands, that would be a disaster.
In the original course of events, Dumbledore and Nicolas had likely destroyed the Stone with this very concern in mind.
However, now the Stone really had been destroyed; if it had been absorbed by the Tree of Wisdom… that shouldn't count as keeping it, should it?
Wesson took the parchment and unrolled it, finding nothing written on it.
"Please," Dumbledore said.
"I, Adrian Wesson," Wesson's voice was clear, "do solemnly swear that the Philosopher's Stone crafted by Nicolas Flamel has been utterly destroyed and that I have not kept so much as a scrap of it."
The parchment suddenly caught fire, then vanished.
Nicolas nodded with satisfaction. "The oath stands."
Yet Wesson felt nothing unusual—no magical fluctuation upon himself—as if nothing had happened at all.
"Eldra."
Wesson addressed the Tree of Wisdom in his mind: "Analyse the magical ritual I just performed."
[Analysing, please wait…]
[There is no trace of ritual magic upon you, sir.]
After receiving the Tree of Wisdom's reply, Wesson paused for a moment. Had the magic failed?
Meanwhile, Dumbledore was whispering to Nicolas.
"When did you prepare the ritual magic?" Dumbledore asked in puzzlement.
"No," Nicolas shook his head and blinked. "There wasn't any ritual magic at all—it was just an ordinary piece of parchment."
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