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"It's not that simple. Don't you realize that every seven pages form a single image?" said Nicolas Flamel—a mature man with piercing, alchemist's eyes. He could read Moriarty's thoughts like an open book and sighed gently. "Keep reading. You'll discover the book's true magic only after finishing it."
Moriarty turned to the eighth page, his expression growing solemn.
The painting on the eighth page remained incomplete. Having experienced this once already, Moriarty flipped directly to the fourteenth page and then read backward.
"Seven pages again!" he muttered, flipping through them. "This is the second picture: a cross in a graveyard? But it's not Jesus—there's a snake on the cross!"
"Very good. Keep going," Nicolas Flamel's voice sounded wistful.
"The cross symbolizes holiness and exorcism. The snake crucified on it—wait, it has horns, maybe even a crown? Could it be... a basilisk? So, its symbolic meaning mirrors that of the crucified Jesus."
Moriarty paused thoughtfully. "Most wizards wouldn't think of it that way. They revere Merlin, not the crucified Muggle deity."
"Exactly," Flamel chuckled. "Say that in front of the Holy See, and I'm sure they'll come knocking."
"You've had contact with the Holy See?"
"A long time ago," Flamel replied, avoiding the subject. He continued gravely, "The crucified serpent represents corruption, while its death on the cross stands for transcendence. That was the second revelation I gleaned. Now, let's turn to the third—and final—illustration."
Moriarty leaned in, and together, they examined pages fifteen through twenty-one.
"The painting shows several clear springs emerging in a barren desert... and snakes slithering out from the water?
With the blue sky above, sunlight filtering down—if not for the snakes, it would've looked hopeful.
Actually, I don't mind the snakes at all," Moriarty said nonchalantly.
He described the scene and added his interpretation. With a flick of his wand, Moriarty conjured a desert, whispered a water spell, and summoned snakes from the shimmering springs.
The image in the book manifested perfectly. The snakes hissed, wagged their tails like excited Chihuahuas, and didn't appear the least bit threatening.
Nicolas Flamel doubled over with laughter. Moriarty feared the frail man might split in half from laughing so hard.
"I admire your quick thinking," Flamel said once his laughter subsided. "That's exactly how I deciphered it. See—the desert symbolizes alchemy. I said as much in our very first lesson."
"That's right," Moriarty nodded.
"The spring is a new substance emerging from the desert. And where did it come from? From the snakes! I understood the snakes to be raw ingredients for new material. After years of experiments, I discovered that powerful acids could generate novel substances."
Flamel's eyes sparkled. Despite being over six centuries old, the fire of discovery still made him look like an excited student.
"I see," Moriarty said. "You interpreted the three paintings as the process for creating the Philosopher's Stone!"
"How clever!" Flamel exclaimed. "And the best part? I succeeded in making it!"
"Look, I wanted to create the Stone, and I discovered the process hidden in the illustrations! But," his voice turned serious, "what if someone uses this book for evil?
I believe everyone who's possessed this book has decoded the methods to success. Some built legacies, but many used it for wicked deeds—hidden in plain sight."
Moriarty didn't object. Flamel's words leaned toward the philosophical. He turned back to The Book of Abraham the Jew and noticed, adjacent to the twenty-first page, two final illustrations etched on the inside back cover—one above the other.
Running a finger over them, Moriarty felt a cold metallic texture. Now he understood why the book had so many handprints.
"Painting with metal? Some Jewish tradition?" Moriarty mused aloud.
Flamel snorted. "Maybe. Back then they weren't called Jews—they were Hebrews. Who knows what strange customs they followed?"
"These two illustrations are far more vivid than the earlier ones," Moriarty said, holding the book up. "The fourth painting shows two figures.
One wears a wide-brimmed hat and holds a staff entwined with twin snakes, striking a battle pose.
He's facing an old man with wings, flying midair, a sickle in hand and an hourglass above his head, aiming the blade at the feet of the man with the snake staff."
Flamel leaned in with interest. "Your thoughts?"
"The staff of twin snakes—it's clearly Hermes' caduceus. Hermes, the ancestor of alchemy. That matches what Professor Perenelle asked Tonks in her first class," Moriarty began.
"As for the old man—he holds a sickle and an hourglass floats above him. That screams 'Death' to me!
Death is measuring time and preparing to harvest Hermes' soul. They've entered battle."
Flamel disagreed gently. "I interpret the old man as the god of agriculture. The sickle isn't exclusive to Death—farmers use it too, right?
I agree that the twin snake staff stands for Hermes.
Now, what inspiration can be drawn from Hermes vs. Death?
Using the myth of Saturn battling Hermes, I began adding certain materials from the earth into my experiments. That's when I discovered lead could suppress mercury's volatility."
"How long did that take you?"
"Seven years and four months."
Moriarty looked at Flamel with open admiration. He hadn't lied—before mastering formulas and runes, every alchemist must experiment like an apprentice.
But Moriarty's thoughts strayed toward the Deathly Hallows.
Could they merely be potent alchemical tools?
Neither of them claimed superiority over the other's theory, and they continued.
"The fifth painting is in color," Moriarty noted.
Flamel replied softly, "The hues haven't faded in six hundred years."
"Impressive work," Moriarty said. "This one shows the peak of a mountain where a flower blooms. Its stem is blue, petals red and white, and the leaves shine gold. Beautiful, really.
Below it is a golden griffin—and a black dragon? They're building nests on opposite cliffs."
"So, if this painting is real, it's at least 1,200 years old?" Flamel scratched his head for the first time.
"Be bolder. I'd say 1,500—at least!"
Moriarty recalled Salazar's diary mentioning that the Golden Griffin had gone extinct.
As for the black dragon—it was too massive. He was certain no such creature existed in today's wizarding world.
"Only five paintings?" Moriarty closed the book. "It feels incomplete…"
Flamel smiled. "Think again—twenty-one pages, and every seven form a picture. This book clearly values the number seven. Who's to say there aren't two more hidden illustrations?"
"But where?" Moriarty handed the book to its rightful owner.
Flamel gently pushed it back. "I'm giving it to you! Your question is valid—but I have no answer.
In over six centuries, I've scarcely dared revisit this book. Not just because I found no further insight.
But because... I feared it. Not a magical curse—a spiritual one."
"Like Dumbledore's reluctance to become Minister for Magic?" Moriarty caught the conflict in Flamel's gaze.
"Ah, but even that pales compared to what I've seen. I truly believe—if I hadn't devoted myself solely to alchemy, the world might've belonged to me." Flamel grinned. "That's why we alchemists accept Death. To conquer the self."
Moriarty found himself unable to agree. He frowned, shaking his head slowly.
"You could've ushered in an age of alchemy. And yet, when it toddled toward you like a child learning to walk, you recoiled.
If that's all a soul curse is—then I'll take three more!
Let me ride like a train tearing through the ages! Only then can I reach the magical sky."
Rising from the reclining chair, Moriarty flipped the book again. "Now I get it—you believe this book is a prophecy. But unlike others, this prophecy is determined by the reader!
You chose the recliner—I choose the sky. I've accepted the book. When I find those last two illustrations, perhaps I'll interpret a tale that soars among the clouds."
He vanished his recliner and offered Flamel a respectful nod.
The old alchemist wasn't offended. He extended his right hand. "I'll be waiting for that day."
"I'll race against time," Moriarty replied, gripping his hand—their pact sealed.
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