Brian was perfectly happy to imagine the home of a wealthy wizarding couple who had lived for hundreds of years as a luxurious manor,
but when he actually pushed open the Flamels' front door, the little cottage, steeped in the atmosphere of rural Scotland, really made him feel as though he had come to give a charity performance in the countryside.
Untended green plants had been left to fend for themselves, climbing outside the windows and growing wild; a long table was mottled with patches of dust; a sofa bore scratches of various sizes, with tufts of stuffing hanging from it-and, most importantly, there was a photograph of the Flamels smiling,
along with farewell messages from their friends placed nearby.
The Flamels' kindly, amiable faces reminded Brian of something. A little puzzled, he asked, "Albus, since the Flamels have already publicly faked their deaths and had a grand funeral, won't there be any problems with them still living here?"
Given how suspicious Voldemort was, Brian thought that even after hearing that "the Flamels are dead and the Philosopher's Stone has been destroyed," Voldemort would still send someone-or even come himself-to have a talk with them. Digging up the graves of respected elders was practically routine for dark wizards. Not long ago, Voldemort had even dug up his own father's grave. What a model of filial devotion.
Dumbledore nodded and watered a thirsty plant.
"Indeed. Safety must be our first consideration.
"In fact, that was exactly what I told Nicolas at the time. He was rather unhappy, because he loved this little cottage full of memories so much, but in the end, they moved out for safety's sake."
"The right choice, but I imagine we haven't come here today just to pay our respects to their portraits." Brian examined every corner