AN: For QFL, the number 7 must be incorporated somewhere. 1,097 words.
Among the first of Emelie Flamel's lessons was of arithomancy, and the power of number. Thirteen was bad luck. Good things came and three, and so did the bad. Four was a cold, hard number. One was lonely, but powerful. The most important, however, was seven.
Seven was supposed to be the most magical, the most powerful— the most holy, some would say, although Grandpere Nicolas would disagree with that last part.
"It is a science, magic— not the stuff of religion and beyond what can be observed, ma belle," Nicolas told her as he read over her notes on the subject. "If it can be observed, it if it is reliable— it is a science, Emelie."
Emelie scratched out where she called the number 'holy' in her notes.
Nicolas nodded. "Much better, ma belle. Now, to continue, nine is—"
As Emelie scrambled to keep her quill moving, she couldn't help but disagree. Not wanting to anger the patriarch of the Flamel family, however, she kept her tongue still and did not use the special eraser that undid mistakes. Instead, she kept writing, ignorant of the fact that this was the first of seven times that she would disagree with the founder of the Flamel dynasty.
Because of this, she did not grasp the significance of her being seven years old when this lesson and this minor difference in beliefs occurred.
Naturally, the second occasion of disagreement was when she was eleven years old, the summer before she was to start her official education. While she was taking notes in Nicolas's laboratory and Perenelle's library, it was tradition that their family still attended Beauxbatons.
But Emelie, being the most recent of France's great alchemists and arithomancers, was offered a place in more schools than just Beauxbatons.
On the coffee table, Emelie's dark blue eyes found the letter from Durmstrang, with the seal with the ship on it, in an ink as dark and red as fresh blood. Red was significant, to alchemy, as well, she remembered. It represented a quick temper, action— it was chaos, violent almost, compared to the silver and white and blue of the Beauxbatons seal.
There were others, too. Smaller academies, new in comparison to the Great Twelve, from all over Europe sent letters begging for her attention. One of which, to Emelie's curiosity, was from America— the Salem Witches' Institute. With a School of the Craft, there was a special program for female alchemists that captured her attention— causing her to beg her parents to go.
Nicolas was begging them to change their mind, to let Emelie continue with tradition— for what did a child know?
In a second, the second instance was immediately followed by the third. Emelie's expression turned to stone, her dark blue eyes flashing bright as she stood and quietly announced that she would attend Salem— and no force on Heaven or Earth could start her.
She tried to ignore the sadness in the old man's eyes, resolute in her decision.
Children did know something, she declared. Especially an educated one, like a Flamel.
The fourth disagreement took place later, when it was Emelie's fifth year at the Salem Institute. She was looked at the brochures from the Schools of Magic, dark blue eyes darting from the registration forms, back to the moving photographs of laughing, smiling pretty young women who were learning various things.
She was to register for classes in the School of the Craft. But did she really want to be yet another Alchemist in the family? There was more to the Craft, the study of magic, than just the work of an alchemist. She could be an arithomancer, working with the spells themselves, or study ancient runes— or even be like Perenelle, and study Divination. Her teachers did say that she had a strong potential for the Sight.
Nicolas stood over her chair. "Ma belle, Emelie, you should take the Path of Alchemy. It is tradition, you know. And I remember when I taught you, in my very laboratory. You have a good eye for detail, and you have a heart for the subject— not something easily found."
"I know, Grandpere," Emelie sighed. "But everyone in this family is an alchemist. We have too many of them, I daresay. And my teachers believe I could be a gifted Seer like Grandmere."
"Perhaps, but you are taking a risk," Nicolas said. "Not one of our descendants yet has shown any aptitude for the Sight."
Emelie knitted her eyebrows and set her chin. "Well, I am willing to take a chance. Just do be different."
"Child, I just wish you would reconsider," Nicolas said with a sigh. "I hate to see you waste your potential."
Emelie ignored him, and the defeat in his feeble walk, as she scribbled down her choice and her destiny.
The fifth time occurred after graduation, when she decided to move to America. Naturally, everyone at home disagreed with that choice. Never mind the opportunities, working in the Department of Mysteries there. Emelie didn't think much of that, or the fact that she was seventeen when that happened.
Disagreement number six was perhaps the most devastating. Emelie had declared her wish to marry a politician, a member of MACUSA named Agilbert Fontaine. Considering that the French Fontaines were a frequent rival of the Flamels, Nicolas stamped his foot down, demanding that Emelie return to America and forget Agilbert.
Emelie did no such thing, instead deciding that not another message would be sent for nearly three decades. Pictures of laughing children and letters of carefully scribed updates were placed in envelopes, never to be sent. For so long, Emelie thought she would never speak to her Grandpere again.
Then, in 1992, Emelie disagreed with Nicolas Flamel for the seventh and final time.
She appeared in the Floo Fire, her cloak hanging lop-sidedly off of her shoulders, smeared with ash, her frizzy black hair in a loose bun, just to get out of the way.
"Grandpere!" She cried, racing to his bedside, past other relatives. She took his frail old hand into hers. "Please, do not give up the Stone! Live, I beg of you! I apologize, I should have still reached out to you—"
"I have no regrets," Nicolas said, patting her hand. "Except for telling you not to marry your beau. Ma belle, I must leave, as must Perenelle. Death is an old friend. Do not cry for me. Live."
"Grandpere, wait—"
Nicolas died, smiling that he had finally made things right with his many-greats granddaughter as said granddaughter wept.