Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Just a short scene set at Hogwarts in the late 1930s. It's not explicitly connected to any of my other fics, although I do think of it as taking place in the same universe as "June Week" and the rest.

"My goodness, you look frozen to death. Please do come in!"

Dumbledore put aside the scroll he had been reading and stood to welcome the two men at his office door. Snow had been falling all morning, whispering against the leaded windows and piling up on the ledge, and Headmaster Dippet and his companion had brought it in on their boots and the shoulders of their cloaks.

"Master Flamel insisted on walking across the inner courtyard," Dippet said. He shivered, and drawing his wand, sent a chair sliding over to Dumbledore's great stone fireplace.

"I have been shut up in my laboratory for a fortnight," said the other man with a rueful smile. "I wished to breathe the fresh air."

"I quite understand," said Dumbledore. "How do you do, Master Flamel? I must say I was very pleased when Armando told me he meant to consult you regarding our problem. I hadn't realized your expertise extended to magical books."

Flamel laughed and rubbed a hand over his grizzled beard. "I would hardly call myself an expert," he said, "but my first business was selling books, and I have learnt a few things about them over the years. I will certainly do what I can. Where is the book?"

"Show him, please, Albus," said Dippet, who was still warming himself at the hearth.

"Certainly. Master Flamel, if you'll follow me -"

Dumbledore led the way into a small, octagonal chamber that opened off the main office. In the center of the room stood a lectern, upon which rested a black quill and a thick bound book with parchment leaves.

"So this is the quill," breathed Flamel at his side, "and this the book. Is that a raven feather?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "It was Rowena's own. I thought at first that it had made an error - it seemed impossible that we should have a year with so few new pupils, and none Muggle-born. But neither Armando nor I can find any flaw in the quill, and that leaves only the book. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if it were playing games with us. In the years I have been working with it, I have noticed that it has a certain ... personality."

"Books do," agreed Flamel. "And magical books in particular. Let us have a look." He took off his cloak, so as to keep any trace of dampness away from the precious pages, and carefully dried his hands before approaching the lectern. Dumbledore watched, fascinated, while Flamel felt the book's leaves and spine with stubby fingers that should have been clumsy, but instead were as deft as those of the street conjurers he had seen as a boy in Diagon Alley.

"Aha," said Flamel triumphantly. "This binding - it is not original, of course. When was it put on?"

"Last year," said Dumbledore. "The book was deteriorating. When I imagined myself trying to explain an irreversible disintegration to the Regents, applying an enchanted binding suddenly seemed a very wise idea." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were about to smile.

"Well, there you have it," said Flamel. "The book is unhappy about being confined, and so it is malfunctioning. I am sure the quill has been writing in it all along, but the names are not visible. Perhaps if I make it more comfortable in its new skin, it will yield up the information you need."

He pulled a vial out of the belted purse at his waist, and removing the stopper, poured a thin stream of oil into one palm. A rich, spicy smell filled the room as he rubbed the oil into the book's leather binding and murmured to it softly. From the mixture of English, Latin and old French, Dumbledore gathered that Flamel was apologizing for the way the book had been inconvenienced - and, if he was not mistaken, telling it that Dumbledore was an oaf who did not know how to treat ancient tomes with the proper respect. Dumbledore grinned in earnest at that; it was impossible to be offended by a man's attempts to flatter a cranky book.

"There," Flamel said at last, "that will loosen things up - and now, Master Dumbledore, I think we will see the results."

Coming closer, Dumbledore peered over Flamel's rust-clad shoulder and smiled again as names began to appear on the nearly-empty page marked "1938-9."

"I knew it must be a mistake," he said. "A lucky thing we found out so long before the new term began. Just imagine - the boys and girls from wizard families would have been identified sooner or later, but these Muggle-born children might have missed their chance altogether."

"Is it so?" asked Flamel. "If I may - how can you tell which are Muggle-born?"

"Their names are slightly darker." Dumbledore pointed out what he meant. "Adams, Edward ... Morrow, Daisy ... Riddle, Thomas." The stone in his heavy ring caught the candlelight and glowed deep red for an instant.

"They will be much better off learning to use their abilities properly."

"They will indeed," said Dumbledore. Straightening up, he clasped Flamel's hand in both of his and shook it heartily. "Master Flamel - Nicolas - I cannot thank you enough. Please do let me know if I can ever assist you with anything."

"I was hoping you would ask," said Flamel. He collected his wet and crumpled cloak and brushed briskly at the wrinkles in the fabric. "I have been working on a project for some years - nothing connected to my main vocation, only a lifelong curiosity - and I believe I could benefit from a partner. Your Headmaster mentioned that you enjoy research - perhaps you would be interested in visiting me over your summer holidays?"

"Perhaps I would," said Dumbledore. "What sort of project is it?"

"Have you ever heard of the Philosopher's Stone?" asked Flamel.

Already deep in discussion, they returned to the outer office, leaving quill and book to their hard-earned rest.