Nicolas Flamel was a worried man as he rushed in and out of the portraits of Hogwarts looking for Albus Dumbledore, his good friend, philosopher, and guide. Never in his six hundred odd years alive and twenty or so dead, did he remember being so flustered. A reputed alchemist, he had lived and loved the quiet life. The only sparks were the ones which flew from his cauldron and his trusty wand (an original Ollivander production), culminating in the invention of the Philosopher’s stone. And what an invention it was! Unlimited gold to fill empty coffers and the elixir of youth, to keep one young forever when quaffed regularly. It had been the secret of his youth and longevity, ‘boosting’ them both indefinitely just like the ad for the popular energy drink said.
The only other time he remembered being this worried was when He-Who-Must -not-be -Named aka Lord Voldemort had tried to lay his hands? Fangs? Paws? on his invention. Dumbledore of the long beard and wise brain had helped him then and he hoped he would not let him down now. Because the threat was far greater this time round. When he had dealt with Voldemort and his minions, he knew that he was dealing with a fellow wizard, more powerful certainly, but a wizard none the less. This time, he was up against a ‘pure blood’ human! The choicest specimen of muggle to be seen not just for miles around, but the kind born once in several centuries who because of his brain cells (or profound lack thereof) had gained notoriety the world over.
Luckily, he caught sight of a shiny white beard whipping around a corner and hot legged it in pursuit. There was Dumbledore, staring out at the well- kept grounds of Hogwarts Castle. But what made Flamel’s weary old heart lurch unhappily was the forbidding expression on Dumbledore’s face. Flamel had never seen his friend look so unhappy even when Voldemort had been at the peak of his powers.
“Bad business this, Nicolas old friend,” not exactly the cheery opening line Flamel had hoped for. “He is Cambridge, I have heard and will be coming for you soon.” Flamel gulped. He had really let the grass grow under his feet. “Is there something we or rather you can do, Albus?” Flamel’s voice quavered more than normal. “I hate to break it to you, but no. If I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times, certain things are beyond the reach of magic. And this case is certainly the strangest that I have ever seen.” He sighed heavily before continuing, “I have created cures for many things, but the most difficult to lift is the curse of stupidity. And when compounded with cunning, it is impossible. The best thing would be to hand over the stone! Sacrifice the fountain for the safety of the mountain.”
Flamel’s heart dropped like the famous stone in question. How could he have allowed things to progress this far? His hackles should have risen with suspicion when the person who was the cause of such dread for both had been launched as the ‘young man to watch’ every five years, even if it was in a former colony. The ‘young man’ in question had also sprouted or rather sported a very bushy salt-n-pepper beard until recently. The kind which looked as if it might support its own ecosystem of flora and fauna. It was common (if bad) news that shaving it off had required an entire carton of Gillette Ultra Shave and three professional groomers (experts on canines, not humans). But looks were the least of it. It was the prodigious power of speech that this young man possessed that had the magical community keeling over before you could say ‘Avada Kevadra.’ Harry Potter himself was no match.
‘In the morning, I woke up at night,’ was a famous gem, second only to ‘He does not exist anymore, I have killed him,’ rhetoric, the ‘him’ in question being his own sweet self, leaving an entire press conference gawping in baffled bewilderment. This self- professed prophet had several other lofty deeds to his credit. He had stared down a gun-toting, fang baring terrorist until he (the terrorist) had rolled over much in the manner of a happy kitten being tickled and waved his paws in the air. He could turn potatoes into gold. He had learnt the secret of bottling universal love and brotherhood which he wanted to sell in every corner-store. He could walk the length of his considerably lengthy country and talk his knee into behaving itself instead of demanding a knee replacement. He could wink, wave, and dispense flying kisses without a thought to the place or time. He was a hugger par excellence. He could cook a mean mutton dish. But, the best exploit of his, was that he had created an army of Death Eaters far vaster and formidable than Lord Voldemort, managing to convert bitter enemies into bosom friends with the single point agenda of escaping the long arm of the law while filling the personal coffers.
And now, this answer to Winston Churchill’s prayers had wended his way across the ocean to ye olde country to surprisingly spout venom against his motherland at one of the foremost Muggle institutions. But this was the overt part of the operations. The real reason was something else. It was the search for the eternal elixir of youth, since it was only for so long that a fifty odd year old could be called a ‘youth’ and have a gullible public believing it. And it was the thoughts of this walking disaster of a surfeit of hugs, happiness and horror being unleashed on the unsuspectingly hapless world for all eternity that was making Flamel quail. And as Dumbledore had rightly pointed out, there was no spell powerful enough to penetrate the shell of stupidity. This Muggle could never be defeated. Only avoided.
Several sleepless nights followed. Flamel had taken to living in the headmaster’s office which housed the fountain of youth containing the Philosopher’s stone. Dumbledore had hidden the stone there for reasons best known to him, but what rattled Flamel was that the youth had taken to fitness recently and had driven loaded lorries, worked in smithies, planted rice paddies in knee deep water and driven motorbikes all the way to the Himalayas. In the latest exploit, he had carried a heavy suitcase on his head, which Flamel could see was the lovely new wheelie kind, which moved at the touch of a finger and executed perfect three- point turns, so carrying it seemed unnecessary. It seemed that Dumbledore’s reasoning that a cossetted youth would have nothing much to do with sports had come undone. The youth had in fact attended university because he was a running or shooting or rowing or some other ‘blue.’ Trekking up Hogwarts Mountain in search of the fountain would be child’s play for this young man.
But, before Flamel could do himself in with all the incessant worrying, Dumbledore swept in, followed by another stout figure who was dressed in a trendy sleeveless jacket over a rather a sharp kurta. He sported a neat white beard too. Flamel was beginning to hope that beards would soon go out of fashion. “Ah there you are Nicolas,” Dumbledore was at his heartiest. “Look who I managed to unearth after a quiet aside to my old friend, young Sunak.” Flamel looked at the new arrival with uncertain, rheumy eyes. By God! It was that fellow whom Sunak had been shaking hands with at the G20 summit just a few weeks ago. But the momentary hope flaring in his heart died down almost immediately. This was the fellow whom the youth had winked at and then hugged. He had been shocked into silence then and would be a fat lot of good now.
But the new arrival had an unseemly spring in his gait, a twinkle in his eye and what sounded suspiciously like a song on his lips. Considering that he stood to lose the most should the ‘youth’ lay his hands on the philosopher’s stone he seemed almost too upbeat to be true. “Kem cho Nicolas Bhai?” he began. What Flamel made of this greeting was anybody’s guess considering that he did not know the lingo. But Dumbledore did. A short voluble conversation later, he turned to Flamel with a beam, even as the other turned to leave with a polite namaste.
And thus, when the youth turned up at Hogwarts, all he saw was an angry looking Chinese Winnie-the-Pooh yelling at him for wasting his time instead of getting on with the toppling of the throne game as instructed. Turning a rather fetching green in the face, on catching sight of his boss, he did not tarry long at the castle and was soon a distant speck on the horizon. Watching him take to his heels downhill, Flamel looked at Dumbledore with a merry beam. “We were turning a molehill into the F(M)ountain of eternal Youth!” he said.
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(For those ignorant of Harry Potter’s magical world, Nicolas Flamel the famous inventor of the fabled Philosopher’s Stone is a character who appears in the first eponymous book, when the villain-in-chief of the series, Lord Voldemort is in search of it to regain a corporeal body because the stone produces the elixir of youth which can keep one young and healthy when drunk on a regular basis. Dumbledore, of course is the benevolent and beloved headmaster of Hogwarts, the school where Harry is a student. The Death Eaters are evil wizards who are followers of Lord Voldemort in search of personal gain and/or power. Excepting Rishi Sunak, all the other characters are fictitious and any resemblance to certain politicians is entirely coincidental and maybe a figment of YOUR imagination gentle reader, rather than mine!)
2 replies on “The F(m)ountain Of Eternal Youth”
Ha ha.. that’s a good tongue in cheek
Too good