Rating: K
Characters: Nicholas Flamel, OC
Warnings: None
Summary: When Mr Flamel is accosted in his own stone in a plot to steal the Philosopher's Stone, he has safeguards in place, but will they be enough?
AN: So, this is entirely speculation. Henry Little is an OC, but with an item like the Philosopher's Stone in hand, it's not a far cry to imagine there where many plots to take the stone from the Flamels over the centuries, and maybe one of those plots was by a man like Henry. Anne Greene was a real woman, and her story is real, save for Mr Flamel's help. She really did survive a hanging. For anyone wondering where Mrs Flamel is, she's upstairs. I did plan for her to make a little appearance at the end, but the Stone and the Muses had other ideas, and we must all bow to higher powers. Enjoy :)
Fruit of Tomorrow
Nicholas held the red stone in his hands, turning it over. Such a little thing, and a rather imperfect one at that. Its jagged edges were still sharp against his skin, even after all this time. In its surface, he saw fragments of his face reflected back at him—a million eyes, a thousand chins—warped into shades of angry red and romantic pinks. He'd held this stone uncountable times, knew every line on its surface, every angle, every fault line. He knew it better, perhaps, than he knew his wife's face, although he'd known her for longer than he'd known the precious gem. Faces are ever-changing, scaring, aging, reflecting the soul within and the life it leads. But the stone—it remained as constant as the eternity it promised.
Using the stone, he finished the Elixir: the scant drops of heaven that had been granted to mere mortals down on earth: the promise of an afterlife here, within the natural world.
As he always did on completing the potion, he placed my wand down on the workbench and turned from the cauldron to the bookshelves behind him. The sight of them, haloed as they were in the evening light streaming in through the small window, dust dancing in the illuminations, slowed his breath. He smiled at their sight, a thin, tense line on loose, wizened skin. The books were of all shapes and sizes; browns, blacks and tans; with loose pages and well-worn edges. He ran his fingers over the spines, as if waiting for one of them to stop him, call out to him and beg to be read. He stopped on a smaller volume; a leather-bound, unassuming thing with a loose back cover and a broken spine. The words 'Summer 1650–Spring 1651' could just be made out on the front in cursive, faded with the years that had passed since.
The pages turned with a rustle as he browsed them, reading the dates written at the tops of the pages. He stopped on 21st December, 1650. The Flamels had spent winter in Oxford that year, and while Nicholas tried to avoid muggle matters, he had made an exception that day. The article spoke of an Anne Greene, a servant to Sir Thomas Reade. Her story still tugged at his heart, though he'd ensured an ending as happy as it could have been.
Anne had been a scullery maid, the lowest of those in servitude. She'd scrubbed floors, scoured ovens, peeled potatoes and scaled more fish than she could count. She'd had no dreams of being anything more than her station permitted, and the she was content enough with the demeaning, back-breaking work—she believed it to be her life's lot. In return for her service, at twenty-one years old, the grandson of the Lord of the House rolled up her skirts and had his way, leaving her impure, defiled, and with child. She carried the child to term, but when the child emerged from its safe home, its heart no longer beat. The physician, midwife, and Anne herself all agreed that the baby was born still and cold. The courts disagreed. Anne was convicted of infanticide, and sentenced to hang.
Reading up on the case left a foul taste in Nicholas' mouth, and he set out to intervene. He visited Anne while she waited for her sentence to be carried out, he spoke to the midwife and the physician. All solidified his judgement. On the day she would swing from the gallows, Nicholas visited the prison once more. He found her final meal—dry bread and water—before it reached her, slipping just a drop of the Elixir of Life into her drink. He gave her little, not enough to grant her immortality, or even extend her life. Enough to ensure she lived through the day.
Anne had asked her friends to pull on her limbs as she hung, beat her with brutal and violent blows. They kept their promise, ensuring her suffering did not last long. She was soon taken down and pronounced dead, for her heart had indeed stopped beating. The next morning, on the table at Oxford College before the dissection of her body began, they noticed the signs: a faint pulse and shallow breath. The university physicians revived her, and she soon regained full strength. It was considered by the prosecutors to be an interference of the hand of God that had saved her, as he did for the innocent, and she was granted a free pardon. With the help of a few recommendations from the Flamels, Anne found herself a position as a kitchen maid in a smaller, more caring household, and lived a long life.
Nicholas remembered the events with a smile, knowing that he'd made a difference. One had little to do when they had eternity on their side, besides make a difference. Change things. Leave their mark. All the worries of a usual lifetime paled when faced with as many of them as a heart could wish for.
He placed the book back in place on its dusty shelf and walked to the other end of the room, to the single oil lamp that burned. He took a taper to the flame, holding it until it caught. Walking around the walls of the room with a certain step, he lit all five lamps in the room, preparing to call his wife down.
When the door blew inwards, in splinters, from its hinges, he almost looked surprised. His eyebrows disappeared on his brow beneath his hair; his head and shoulders seemed to jump up. He turned to face the doorway with jaunty movements and watched a shadow approach. Turning away, he closed up the last oil lamp and blew out the taper, leaving its melted form on the small table in front of him.
He turned back to the door, now the intruder had entered with his wand raised and eyes wide with determination.
"Ah," Nicholas began, "Henry Little. I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced, though perhaps introductions are a little formal for our current predicament. How is your father's shop?"
"My father," Henry returned, spitting the word like an insult, "doesn't own a shop."
"No? Oh, what a shame. All the curtains in this house were bought at Little's Linens in Diagon Alley. Whatever happened?" Nicholas asked, his right eyebrow raising in curiosity as his eyes softened around the edges.
"With all due respect, Mr Flamel, I did not come here to engage in idle chatter, certainly not when it's based on lies. But you knew that, didn't you? You know it all. You while your time away through the centuries, watching, listening. Never doing a damn thing to help anybody."
"Oh, Mr Little, I'm afraid you are mistaken. I certainly do help the deserving when they are in need of help."
"So my mother didn't need help, did she? When she was cast out like a lame dog into the street? When the entire respectable wizarding society turned their backs on her? When she had nowhere to go? That wasn't someone in need of your help?"
Nicholas let out a hearty chuckle. "Is that how she's telling it these days? I did wonder how she'd recall the story when others had all but forgotten it. She always did have a way with words."
Henry held his wand up a little higher, threatening. Nicholas resisted the urge to glance to his own wand, where it lay on the table in the middle of the room.
"What are you saying?" Henry asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Mr Little, your mother didn't need my help. Mr Little took your mother in almost immediately, despite the child not, as you know, being his. Her own mother granted her a sizeable sum to ensure her survival and happiness. It's my belief that she invested around forty percent of that gift into her new husband's business. Your mother deserved help, yes, but she didn't need me."
"You're a liar as well as a hypocrite, Mr Flamel," Henry said.
"Mr Little, I hope you don't mind my directness. If you didn't come for idle chatter, then what did you come for? If you don't have good intentions, please just leave me alone. I'm tired."
Nicholas turned his back on Henry and set about arranging things on the table—things that were already arranged in perfect order.
"I am not a bad man, Mr Flamel. I never have been, and never intended to be. I only want what is rightfully mine. What was stolen from me."
"Ah. Your position at the Ministry. Of course. Although, it wasn't exactly stolen from you, was it? And I'm at a loss to understand what you think I can do about the situation."
"You can't do anything about the situation?" Henry said with a laugh. "I have a bone to pick with that statement, Mr Flamel. See, did you not create the Philosopher's Stone? The famed instrument that can extend life, turn base metals to gold, and no doubt many other things beside. The Ministry can be bought, Mr Flamel. Since its inception, it's sold its soul to the highest bidder. Money is power, and power makes them feel all important. So actually, Mr Flamel, I think you can help me a great deal."
"I may be a little old man fixed in my ways, but I have never, and never would, bribe a Ministry Official."
"And that's the problem with you, Mr Flamel. That's where you're going wrong. All that power at your fingertips, the fruit of tomorrow at your dinner table, and you won't use it! You're wasting so much potential! You're nothing more than a feeble man frozen in time. So it's time you passed the baton on. Your days are numbered, Mr Flamel. Perhaps not even that," he said, twirling his wand with dramatic flair.
"You think the Stone will solve all your woes, don't you? You think gold and a longer life are all you need to bend the world to your will. Well, you're wrong. You know what the issue is with this world, Mr Little? Everyone wants a magical solution for their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic."
"What in Salazar's name is that supposed to mean? We're wizards, old man. Of course we believe in magic!" Henry returned, eyes narrowed in confusion as he laughed through his words.
"Oh, I'm not talking about that sort of magic. We can all believe in things we do; we say some words, wave a stick around and things happen. Anyone can believe in that. I mean the sort of magic the muggles believe in; the sort that takes real belief. Belief in human kindness, in true love. Belief in the idea that one day, you'll get to where you're supposed to be, even if you don't know how, even if you've got no means of getting there. Belief in that kind of magic takes real guts, and you don't believe, do you?"
Mr Little through his left hand out in a questioning gesture.
"What's that got to do with anything? You talk in riddles, old man."
"The kind of magic the muggles believe in, Mr Little, is real. I've seen it, many times. As a younger man, I may have dismissed the idea just as you do now. But I know better now. Good people are, more often than not, rewarded for their goodness, eventually. And bad people suffer. Yes, bad things happen to good people, just as good things happen to bad ones, but the world has seen you, Mr Little." Nicholas began to pace as he spoke, seeming at ease with the wand pointed at his chest. "The world has judged you, and deemed you unworthy. Your position at the Ministry wasn't stolen from you. You lost your position because you abused it. People's opinion of you won't change because of the stone. They'll never give you back the power you once commanded, now they have seen your heart, and the blackness that resides there."
Henry scoffed. "Is that so? I happen to believe the world works in favour of baser desires. Once I have the stone, I'll be able to prove that to you."
A smile graced Nicholas's features for a fleeting moment.
"Did you think it would be that easy? That you'd be able to just walk in here and take it? You must understand my life depends on that stone. It's a little more protected than the average rock, and I won't hand it over. Not to a man like you."
"A man like me? What sort of man is that, then?" Mr Little brandished the wand, jerking it forward as he asked his question.
"Don't ask me what I think of you, Mr Little. I might not give the answer that you want me to."
For a moment, Henry looked away, his lip curled in distaste. When he looked back, his eyes were narrowed. His jaw set hard.
"I didn't come here to take your life, old man, but I'm beginning to wonder how quickly I'd be able to find it if you weren't here to stall me."
At Henry's words, a rumbling began somewhere in the house above. The glassware in the potions cabinet began to shake, and the oil lamps flickered. With every passing second, the shaking grew more violent.
"What is this? What's happening?"
"I told you, Mr Little, that the Stone was protected. You have now expressed a desire to take it, and use it with ill intent. You have also, just now, made a threat on my life. The Stone is merely protecting itself."
As the rumbling escalated and the room shook with greater force, Nicholas watched on with sad eyes. Henry reached out to the nearest piece of furniture for balance as rubble from the ceiling began to fall onto his head.
"Enough of this nonsense. Make it stop!" Henry cried out, eyes darting around the room, fear quickening his breath. The furniture began to move as objects were flung around the room. A loud crack sounded from the walls, from the very structure of the building.
"Oh, it will stop all by itself, Mr Little. When the desires in your heart have melted away. Tell me, do you value your convictions above your own life? Would you die to achieve them?"
Mr Little thought for a moment, eyes wild as a caged wolf's, his head turning to every sound of destruction that rang forth around him. He no longer raised his wand, but held in a soft hand as he tried to defend himself against the onslaught.
"No! No, I wouldn't! Spare my life, please!"
The quaking didn't believe him. It continued for a few more moments as Mr Little fought off its effects, darting away from breaking glass, ducking from anything that fell. When a beam from the ceiling fell, missing him by a mere fraction of a second, Mr Little screamed out, a frightened yelp of a young pup. Only then did the spell believe him. The shaking and the rumbles stopped without a moment's notice, silence rising in their wake.
"I knew you'd see sense, Mr Little. Perhaps I could show you to the door?"
After a moments deliberation, Mr Little began to turn. "I'll see myself out."
Written for:
Writing Bingo: The Philosopher's Stone (Created by Nicholas Flamel, sought by Voldemort.)
200 Characters in 200 Days: Nicholas Flamel
May Event: Go, Pick Flowers—Sweet Pea - was a popular choice for bridal bouquets in the 1800s. Write about a wizard or witch living in that specific century. 25 Points
May Events Checklist—Buddha Day: Write about the theme of the inevitableness of death. / Notebook Day: Include a notebook in your story
Challenge Your Versatility—Eras: Pre-Greater Good, Post-Founders
Gringotts Wizarding Prompt Bank—Potions: Elixir of Life / Objects: Philosopher's Stone / OC Names: Henry Little / Figures of Speech: a bone to pick, fixed in my ways / 270 Title Prompts: Fruit of Tomorrow / Poem Pron Prompts: "If you don't have good intentions, please just leave me alone. I'm tired."
200 Prompts in 100 Stories: Nicholas Flamel and Philosopher's Stone
Ultimate Chocolate Frog Cards Challenge—Nicholas Flamel: Incorporate the Philosopher's Stone in your story
If You Dare Challenge: 691. Frozen in Time
Mega Song Lyrics Challenge: "Don't ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to." - Fleetwood Mac, Oh Well
Huge TV Show Quotes Bucket: "You know what the issue is with this world? Everyone wants a magical solution for their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic." - Jefferson, Once Upon a Time
Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge: Apollo – God of music, arts, knowledge, and healing. Apollo was depicted as a very handsome, beardless young man with long hair and an ideal physique. As the embodiment of perfectionism, he could be cruel and destructive, and his love affairs were rarely happy. Write about the Philosopher's Stone.
Words: 2,564