Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling. I only write to improve my writing.
Tomorrow you die, Perenelle Flamel. You will be six hundred sixty one years old to the day. It will be your birthday.
You have cheated death for years, centuries even. But it all ends tomorrow.
Somehow, you don't regret it. You don't mind the idea of death as much as others might expect. Maybe that's why you agreed so readily to give the stone to Albus.
Oh, you trust him, that's certain. But unlike Nicholas you had qualms. You know that Albus has enemies, more enemies than you even, and you've lived over six hundred years.
And you were right. Voldemort, as they call him, made an attempt for the stone. Quite fortunately the little Potter boy and his friends Weasley and Granger stopped him. First years only, but they stopped the so-called Dark Lord. You were impressed, you had to admit. But the stone had to go.
It was a weight off your mind; seeing the rock explode into a million fragments as Nicholas struck it. A relief. Oh, you were terrified, for one moment, but then it was gone, and relief took its place.
Death is not so bad, after all. You remember when you were a girl, a young woman, when Nicholas made it. And then you were absolutely petrified of the idea of dying. Just the thought of escaping into that unknown; that your life hung on such a fragile string, made you dizzy with fear. And so it was a relief, back then.
But Death grows kinder with age, and it was when you turned about a hundred, still looking healthy and serene, about Minerva's age perhaps, when the fear began leaving. One day it pressed against your mind, held back like a dam by the thought of the stone. And then the fear began to lessen, though you did not know it then.
You didn't realize it until you were around four hundred, an unhuman age, still looking like Minerva does now. But the thought of Death was the thought of an old friend, barely lingering in your memory.
Then you passed the half-thousand mark, five hundred whole years. Then the thought of Death beckoned at you, like your bed does at 11 pm, the pillows plumped and soft, the blankets warm and comforting. But you didn't recognize it then.
By the time you did the war with Grindlewald had begun and it was too late. After all, you, six hundred years old, had a duty to wizardkind.
It was not the time for you to star then; your time had already long passed. It was Albus who saved the day, though you paved the path. And it was then that you met Albus.
You thought you could relax, but you were wrong. The years flew by, you putting off death for some reason or other. But then the next war came, Voldemort rising.
They didn't need you so much now. Times had progressed and you were no longer the best, like France by the second muggle world war. Time slowed for you but magic went on, and it went on without you. So this war was fought, tactics utterly different, with little involvement on your part. Once a formidable witch whose name made opponents shake in fear, now you were just another of Albus's allies; you and Nicholas merely an eccentric pair.
The realization would have hurt a few years ago, a few decades ago. But no longer. Now you were just glad. This was a war that could be fought without you. Your responsibility to mankind had been fulfilled. It was time to rest.
But you kept putting it off. It was one thing after another and somehow you never got your affairs in order, never found the time to make preparations.
One day you began storing Elixir of Life. You weren't sure why then, but you would always take some and keep it. Now you believe there was something telling you it was your time. So when Nicholas approached you, grave and a bit afraid, you were ready. You told him to destroy it.
The Elixir of Life bought you three more years. Three years of happiness and relaxation. You were perfectly content. Oh, there would be people you'll miss, the little boy who can't believe you're actually six hundred and sixty, the woman in the potions store who's always giving you fruit, but for the most part you prepare to leave without regret. You leave the little boy six hundred and sixty galleons, the potions woman a few jars of rare potions ingredients with a note saying Use it well, the lady who's always trying to persuade you to get her presents since "you have the money" a couple of your favorite books, just to piss her off, wrap up publication and patent issues with a few lingering books and inventions, and settle all financial issues. Your affairs are in order.
You are Perenelle Flamel. Tomorrow you die. You have cheated Death for six hundred and sixty one years.
But Death got you in the end.
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