13 chapters to cover all of Harry's first year. That's not terrible, but it's a lot slower than I was hoping to go. Sorry for the wait, especially since very little actually happened!

Special thanks to TheSinful for this chapter's disclaimer. For everyone else, I'm serious about this: if you have an idea for one, shout it out. After 184 of them over the last three and a half years, my stockpile is running low.

Disclaimer: Did Neville's family intentionally put his life in danger during their attempts to force him to prove he was a wizard? If so, I own neither the Harry Potter nor Dresden Files franchises; they belong to J.K. Rowling and Jim Butcher, respectively, among others.

Chapter 21
Nicolas Flamel

His elbows braced on his desk and his fingertips kneading his temples, Albus flicked his eyes at the blood-red gemstone shining innocently on his desk and let out a huff of self-deprecating amusement. In much the same way as his previous plans had done on the night of the Sorting, his ideas for what to do about the thief searching for the Philosopher's Stone had decided the night before was the perfect time to fall apart completely on him. A professor, one who had been proven not to be the culprit, lying dead on the ground; the Stone itself still safe inside the Mirror of Erised; and Harry Potter unconscious and showing signs of being tortured with an Unforgivable. He had no idea what had happened down in the secret corridor between the second and third floors, and until he did, he had no clue what he should do to keep the Stone safe or punish the perpetrator of all this or protect the students.

He was thoroughly at a loss.

A gout of fire burst into life in the air before him, and he allowed himself a smile when the flames resolved into the form of his phoenix familiar. One of his problems could now be solved: what he was to do with the Philosopher's Stone. He assumed Nicolas and Perenelle would want it back, but where exactly they wanted it hidden was the mystery. He would have sent it back to them with Fawkes the night before when he sent them the letter asking about their wishes except for the simple fact that they had previously kept it in England while they stayed in France. With that in mind, it was a possibility they would want him to find a secret place for it and to send them the location where they could retrieve it later at their convenience. The Flamels could be strange like that when it suited them.

Taking the roll of parchment from Fawkes's talons, he smiled at the bird. "Good flight?" To his surprise, the phoenix lowered its head and chirped mournfully. Albus looked at the letter in his hands with newfound trepidation and slowly unrolled it.

My dearest student,

This is the hardest letter I have ever had cause write, and I hope when it is finished that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for causing you the pain I must. To answer the question you asked, I do not wish for you to hide the Stone, nor to return it to us. I do not wish for you to spend any more time or resources protecting it.

I want you to destroy it, completely and utterly.

I can already see your face of confusion, young Albus. Why would I tell you to destroy my greatest achievement, the pinnacle of my life's work in alchemy? What you do not understand – what no one but Perenelle understands – is that the Philosopher's Stone is not my great success. No, in truth it is my greatest failure and my greatest sin. Eternal life was never my goal, nor does the glint of gold hold any allure for me. My aim was only ever to find a way for my knowledge to help all people, a way to cure and heal the sick and broken that did not come with the price that creating and maintaining the Stone imposed.

When I first created it, I vowed that I would only drink the Elixir until I could create a better, less tainted Stone. I do not know when extending my own life became an end in itself, but I admit now that at some point it did. I continued research I already knew was fruitless, retrod paths walked before that went nowhere. Anything to delay the inevitable, the realization that no matter how much I studied, there is always a price for power.

We have talked before about destroying the Stone, Perenelle and I, but never could we gather the resolve necessary to do so. At some time in the near seven centuries of walking this earth, we began to fear death and what lay after it, and we convinced ourselves that we were not spitting in the face of our earlier promises. There was always some discovery that lay just beyond our reach, an epiphany waiting in the wings. With the Stone out of our possession for the last few months, we have discussed this decision on numerous occasions, and we know this is the right thing to do. We have lived longer than we had any right or need, and it is time now for us to let go of our fear and face what comes after this life.

Before that hour comes upon me, there are some pieces of wisdom I have garnered over my long, long life that I now bequeath to you. Consider them your final lesson, student, and listen well.

The choice between selfishness and generosity is a hard one, and too often it is easy to slip down the road that rewards only the self. Seek not the easy path, but the one that promises untold troubles. It is in giving of yourself for others that you will discover your true worth and true happiness.

Never assume that you are correct in all things. The curse of humanity is to fail and fall, pick yourself up, and fall again. Find counselors you trust implicitly and task them to search for the flaws in your ideas. Listen to those who claim you are wrong. And most of all, when you know your thoughts are correct without a single doubt, look them over once again, for that is when you will make the worst of mistakes. When you were a young man, you had a need to prove yourself wiser and better read than all those around you; if you have yet to master that flaw, set yourself diligently to do so.

Do not treat death as an enemy the way we did for so long. Look at it instead as a grand journey, an adventure that comes as the reward of a life well-lived. Rather than worry about what is to happen tomorrow, focus on today; tomorrow will come in its own time.

Break not your promises, whether to yourself or to others. A man is only as whole and good as his honor, and an honorable man does not give his word lightly or with the intent to deceive.

I will not forbid you mourn us; to do so would be cruel in the worst way possible. All I will ask is that when you mourn, do so with the understanding that all things, even sorrow, eventually fade away. If it brings you any comfort, know that once you, too, pass from this life and set your foot on the world they lies beyond this one, Perenelle and I will be there waiting to greet you with open arms and joyous smiles, no matter how many years we hope it will be until that happy reunion.

Take care of yourself once we are gone, Albus. We love you like the son we could never have, and you have made us proud beyond all measure.

With all my regrets and love,
Nicolas

Slowly, ever so slowly, Albus rolled the parchment up again and set it to the side. Taking a deep breath, then another, he forced away his immediate urge to have Fawkes take him to Nicolas's house and argue with his old master. 'How could he do this?', one part of him demanded. 'He still has so much good he can do in the world. How could he ask this of me?!'

There was another part of him, though, that wept but did not fault Nicolas and Perenelle for their decision. They had seen so much in their lives; not just success and joy, but war and death and grief. Given enough time, wind would wear down the highest mountain and waves drown the greenest shore; what could almost seven hundred years of sorrow do to the human spirit? And, too, if they felt the time had come for them to leave this world and rejoin their friends and family, what right did he have to hold them back? If it were him who had grown tired and wished only to fade away in peace, would he thank one of his own friends for guilting him into staying?

No, he would not. He would want his decision to be respected, his right to choose his own destiny to remain unviolated.

Brushing the dampness from his cheeks, he conjured a small stand and placed the Philosopher's Stone upon it. He raised his wand, incantation on his lips, but then he stopped. His eyes fell on the clusters of berries carved onto the dark shaft, and after a moment's hesitation, he placed it on his desk. This was not a task for the Elder Wand.

He walked through the door that led into his quarters and went to the armoire that stood as a silent sentinel in the back of the room. The various boxes in this cabinet were old and dusty, the kinds of items that Albus had found little use for over the years, and it was from the top shelf that he pulled a slim, rectangular box. Opening it, he reached in and pulled out a thin wand.

"And hello again to you, old friend," he whispered when the wand greeted him with a burst of sunny sparks. Apple and dragon heartstring, just a hair over nine inches; the wand he had carried throughout his education at Hogwarts and his life beyond until he had fought and defeated Gellert for mastery of the Deathstick. The only wand Nicolas had ever seen him wield.

The Stone winked at him when he returned, and he blinked away the tears that swelled up to distract him from his purpose. He raised his wand and said mournfully, "Reducto."

A flash of light, and the Philosopher's Stone, the greatest triumph of alchemy in all of recorded history, vanished to be replaced by nothing more than a few embers that burned bright and burned out before they could land on the floor.

There. It was done. The only thing that could keep Nicolas and Perenelle alive was gone.

Albus squeezed his eyes shut and fell back into his chair, his emotions overwhelming him. He would talk with his friends again soon; not today, not tomorrow, not when their passions were all raised. A few days for him to calm himself, and then he would talk to them about this. If they changed their mind in that time, he would help them as best he could to create a new Stone.

And if they remained firm in their decision, he would have a chance to give them a proper goodbye.

The light streaming onto his face made him blink once, twice, and finally Harry opened his eyes. 'White' was his first impression: white ceiling, white-painted stones making up the walls, and once he put his glasses back on, white linens on the bed. A glance around showed his bed to be one of many, albeit the only one occupied, and next to each bed was a small table ready for use; his own table had held only his glasses and a small bottle filled with some unknown potion.

He recognized this place. He was in the hospital wing.

"I wondered when you would wake." He turned to stare questioningly at Lash. The angel sat on the edge of his bed and reached out to cover one of his hands with her own. "You have been asleep for two days now. The nurse has been growing worried about you, and frankly, so have I."

"Two days?" he repeated in surprise, to which she just nodded. "How? Why?"

"Some of it is the curse Quirrell – or Voldemort, rather – used on you, I think, but some of it? Backlash from whatever magic it was that hurt him so greatly."

He frowned. "What was that, anyway? No one has ever been hurt from just touching me. I didn't do anything, and it can't be something that goes after anyone who wants to hurt me, or it would have happened to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and Dudley."

"I have only a few theories, each more outlandish than the next." At his curious expression, she sighed. "This is getting a little beyond my realm of knowledge, but if we were in my old reality, the most likely explanation would be that you are being protected by a Death Curse."

"A… Death Curse? That doesn't sound like something I want protecting me," he said.

She shrugged. "It is not as terrible a thing as it first sounds. The wizards and witches with whom I am familiar could, in their last moments, put all their will and emotion into a powerful curse. Generally it was directed at their killer, but I know of a few individuals who voluntarily used up all their energies to lay a more powerful curse onto another than they could otherwise."

"And you think I've been cursed like that?" Harry asked with a shiver. Who could have put a curse on him? The slavers? The vampire? But if that were the case, why had it protected him? None of this made any sense!

"No, I do not believe it is you who has been cursed," was Lash's vaguely ominous reply. "I think – and this is only an assumption – if the magic of this reality allows for Death Curses, it was Voldemort who suffers under this curse, and most likely, it was cast by one of your parents." He stared at her, which prompted her to elaborate. "According to what McGonagall told us, there was some unusual magic that was performed when Voldemort tried to kill you as a child. This was after both your parents had been murdered, and they knew his intentions. If their last thoughts were about protecting you from him…" She raised her hands helplessly. "It is possible one or both of them could have laid a Death Curse upon him to keep him from harming you, and this was how it manifested. These kinds of curses can remain for generations, tied to the bloodline to keep the magic alive. As long as you live, you should be able to enjoy that protection."

Okay, that sounded a little better. "And there's no way for someone to avoid or undo a Death Curse?"

"There are ways, just none of them are very pleasant or easy. Killing the descendants of the one to create it will undo it, obviously, and depending on the exact phrasing of the curse, it is possible for another person to cast a Death Curse that opposes the original and negate it that way. Red Court vampires could do some unusual things with blood that would essentially adopt a cursed individual into the lineage of the one who cursed him and allow him to evade the worst effects, but thankfully, you do not have the Red Court in this reality. Like I said," she repeated, "it is possible for Voldemort to undo this curse, if indeed it is a Death Curse that protected you, but beyond killing you outright, I find it unlikely—"

The door at the front of the room swung open to reveal the long, white beard and pale blue eyes of the headmaster, and Lash cut herself off. "Good afternoon, Harry," greeted Dumbledore, his eyes starting to twinkle faintly behind his half-moon glasses. "You had us all quite worried."

'Us all'? Harry smiled mockingly to himself. Who else was worried about him, and could he meet these people?

"That said, no one is entirely sure just what happened between you and Professor Quirrell and your mystery assailant. Whatever information you can provide would be very helpful."

Under Lash's watchful eye, he recounted the entire encounter from when Voldemort walked up to him in the hallway to the point he passed out, though he skipped over their journey into his mindscape. That was a trick he wanted to keep in reserve, and off all his skills, it was the one that would suffer most should anyone know about the details of his defenses before attacking him. When he was finished, Dumbledore leaned back in the chair he had conjured shortly into the recounting and and ran his hand over his beard. "Most extraordinary. I should not need to tell you this, but you are quite fortunate to be alive after that. Many wizards with more knowledge and experience than you have faced him only to be cut down. That you survived is remarkable."

Was that disbelief Harry heard in the older man's voice, or was it just something he expected to hear after the year he had had here? "It helped that he was more interested in this stone or whatever than he was in killing me. I was a secondary consideration until he thought I was keeping it away from him. For some reason," he added while recalling the odd statement Voldemort had made, "he thought you would set it up where I could get the stone out of the mirror."

"Voldemort has always been unable to ascribe wisdom to other people. There was a way to remove the Stone from its hiding place, true, but I would not have made the security so lax that just anyone could pull it out. He never had any chance of stealing it."

Lash pursed his lips at that, but she just shook her head when he glanced in her direction. He supposed she would tell him when she was ready.

"So what are you going to do with it now?" he asked.

With a faint, dismissive smile, Dumbledore reached over and patted his hand. "Nothing you need to trouble yourself over. It has been taken care of." And that, clearly, was all the information Harry was going to get about that.

Changing the subject, he raised the question that had been eating away at him since early on in his retelling. "Sir, about Quirrell. When I hurt Voldemort, I also hurt him. Is he…?"

Dumbledore turned his eyes away, which was all the answer Harry needed. The elderly wizard answered unnecessarily, "I'm afraid he had already passed away from his injuries when we found you. Being possessed by so long, even if Voldemort could only be active for short periods of time if he wanted to keep his presence hidden, took a toll on his mind, body, and magic, and even without the damage you dealt him when you were defending yourself, Voldemort's abrupt departure probably would have been too much for him to withstand. By the time you faced him, there was nothing that could have changed his fate."

That did little to comfort him. It would be one thing if Quirrell had a hand in the matter, if his possession was voluntary or even something he was aware of. It wasn't, though. The only blame Quirrell had in this whole situation was that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; he was as much a victim as Harry, perhaps even more so. And Harry had killed him.

"You said Voldemort was gone?" he asked, desperate to change the subject. "Not dead, but that he left Quirrell's… body?"

"Yes, Harry, I regret to say it, but that is the case. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to take as his own. Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed." Dumbledore gave him a weak smile. "Nevertheless, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time. And if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

"I'd feel better about that if he hadn't come so close this time," Harry muttered. "And even then, if he goes about it like he did this time, he'll still leave a trail of bodies behind him. Innocent people who don't deserve what he does to them."

"Sadly, that is equally true."

They sat in silence for a moment before Dumbledore commented lightly, "I have to say, I am surprised that you are not more curious about just how it was that the touch of your skin burned Voldemort. I rather expected that to be one of your first questions."

An embarrassed blush lit Harry's cheeks. With Lash's explanation, he had not thought to investigate a puzzle he had already thought solved. She had, however, said she was not sure about whether or not she was right, and from the way Dumbledore had phrased his statement, it sounded like he knew a little more on the subject. "You know what that was?"

"Know? Not at all." Harry stared incredulously at his easy smile. "I have my suspicions and my guesses, and I have been told they are generally good ones, but that is all they are. If you are still interested in hearing them…"

After a moment's thought, Harry nodded. Why not?

"It is all to do with the circumstances of that Halloween night. Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign, but to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Voldemort, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, could not touch you for this reason. It would be agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Dumbledore's expression had turned soft and gentle throughout that explanation, and that was the only reason Harry was able to hide his shock at hearing such utter a bizarre belief.

"That… could be possible, but it is extremely unlikely," Lash said dubiously. "Love is powerful, but it is at its core a force of creation and transformation, not protection. The only instance I can think of when it is said to protect anyone is that people who are in love cannot be fed upon or even touched by vampires of the White Court – coincidentally, the effects of that are rather similar to what Voldemort experienced – but that is specifically romantic love, and considering the manner in which the White Court can bypass that protection, it really is less true love and more flesh memory."

Harry just shrugged. Even if love was as powerful in this world as it was in Lash's old one, the idea that the love of his long-dead mother, someone he still knew practically nothing about and honestly had not spared much thought, somehow lingered in his skin like acid that would ward off a single, specific person was hard for him to swallow. If his mother had given him protection like that, wouldn't it make more sense for her spell to protect him from anyone who tried to kill him, from the slavers and the vampire? And as Dumbledore said, no one actually knew what happened. Between the two choices, right now Harry was still leaning toward Lash's Death Curse theory; it might not have the sheen of a fairy tale like Dumbledore's did, but he had learned over his admittedly short life that the most important things rarely did.

Unsure of how he was expected to respond to the old man's declaration, he instead changed the subject once again. "Headmaster, I don't know what the rules are about students coming back to Hogwarts over the summer, but—"

"That is not allowed, I'm sorry to say," Dumbledore answered, though Harry found himself doubting the sincerity of that statement. If the headmaster of the school did not like a particular policy, he of all people was the one with the authority to change it. "Besides, surely you would like to spend the time with your family after all the time you have spent here. Don't worry," he said with a playful wink, "I won't take offense."

The family Harry had been forced to use magic on to make them treat him like a person? No, not really. "But just to visit? There is still so much I don't know, and if I could check some books out from the library…"

…then Lash would have no cause to gripe over the summer when she was denied her reading materials.

"The answer is still no, Harry." A second door, this one smaller than the main one, opened up to reveal Madam Pomfrey standing there, and Dumbledore took one look at her before returning his gaze to Harry. "I fear I might have overstayed my welcome. If there is anything else you ever wish to discuss, you need but seek me out."

Now under the stern care of the nurse, Harry just spent a moment looking at the closed doors. He wasn't sure what kind of impression the headmaster had meant to make with his visit, but it was… Well, it was definitely an impression, at least.

"'All students are reminded that it is against Hogwarts policy and Ministerial law for underage wizards and witches to use magic outside of school. Doing so will see the violator facing academic discipline, fines, or even expulsion.' They aren't mincing words, are they?" Harry asked in a surprised voice. He had forgotten about the letter they had all been given that morning until now, but with the Hogwarts Express pulling into the station, he figured now was a good time to read it.

"What I would like to know is what they actually intend with that rule," Lash replied. "I doubt it is just a sternly worded warning not to reveal the existence of magic to the normal humans, or there would be no reason to hand the letters out to everyone, just those of you who are returning to the wider world. Even then, how would they plan to enforce it?"

"I don't know. It isn't something new, I don't think," he said, "or the older years would have been surprised. They weren't, so this is common. But if they actually can watch for that, how in the world did they miss all the magic I did before coming to Hogwarts?"

A laugh bubbled up out of the angel, and he looked over to find out what she found so funny. She just shook her head and took a deep breath before she explained, "Before you started Hogwarts, you used foci you created on your own. You did not use one crafted by a third party and with spells on it that you did not understand. I do not think the school and the government monitor you. I think they monitor the wand. It is just that for the other students, their wands are the only means they have for casting spells. That was why they never noticed you when you were younger; they were unable to." A sharp smile danced across her face as she let her eyes drift in thought. "And, perhaps, that might be the reason wand motions were first stressed so heavily. If wizards were tied to their wands and could do little or no magic without one, it would be child's play to keep track of what everyone does."

He shrugged as the train finally pulled to a stop. Since he did not need his wand for every little thing, not using it over the summer was no great imposition, but he might start off a little slower than normal to make sure Lash's suspicions were on the spot. He waited a few minutes for the crowds to clear out a little, and then he slipped out the archway labeled as the exit to King's Cross.

Harry had thought long and hard about what to do in terms of getting back to Privet Drive, particularly with the evidence that the Dursleys had forgotten him on Christmas, and as a result he had decided not to bother relying on them to pick him up. Instead, he made his way to the nearest men's restroom and waited for the businessman already inside to leave. The potential witness gone, he rubbed the wooden ring he had slipped over his left thumb and thought of the yard behind Number 4. "Darbas."

The world collapsed for a few seconds, and then he was at the back door of the Dursleys' home. Now it was all a matter of waiting to see if any warnings came for him. "I'm back!" he called out once he slipped inside. His eyes fell on the only member of the family in sight, and his greeting died in his throat.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

Dudley had never been the brightest person in the world, but the last time Harry saw him, he had been fairly normal otherwise. Now, though? Dudley sat in a chair at the kitchen table with an empty gaze aimed on the opposite wall, and he had not reacted at all despite Harry's yell coming from directly behind him. He also had lost what looked to be five stone or so, his clothes hanging off of him, which would have been fantastic news had it not made his new immobility all the more ominous.

He was distracted from his staring when the front door swung open to allow Uncle Vernon through. "Ah, Harry," the obese man said when his eyes fell on the young wizard. "I didn't realize you were home already."

"I got back a few minutes ago," was Harry's wary reply. He had expected to have to field at least a few questions about how he had managed to travel from London to Little Whinging on his own and without any money, but apparently Uncle Vernon did not care— No, he didn't. The obese man was walking into the kitchen for a snack, the front door left open and the car still running. "Are… Are you going to turn the car off?"

"Oh, right," Uncle Vernon said after a glance at the door. "Forgot to do that."

A minute later, Harry stared at the door that was still hanging open despite his uncle walking back in the house. He walked over to shut it, and as a result he was able to peek in to his uncle and aunt's bedroom to see Aunt Petunia lying in bed. She was not asleep – her open eyes told him that much, as did the fact that she looked up at him when she noticed him watching – but instead was just lying there listlessly. It brought to mind the lethargy she had fallen into when she had been fighting the commands he had placed in her mind, but Lash had fixed that problem. Hadn't she?

Barely pausing to grab his trunk, he rushed upstairs and demanded, "Lash! What happened?!"

"You are talking about what happened with to the Dursleys while you were away, I presume?" she asked unnecessarily, her voice heavy with what sounded like fatigue. How an angel could be tired, he had no clue, but it was yet another issue that he did not need added onto his already-full plate.

"Of course I'm talking about them! Something happened with the psychomancy. It's the only explanation that makes sense." He shook his head and started pacing. "Do you think someone else did something to them? I don't know why anyone would target them, but maybe he tried to give them some commands and it interfered with the magic we did to them? Or could it be failing? You never said that this would—" His mouth continued to move, but he could not hear his own voice, and after a moment he looked over at the window where Lash was standing.

"No, I do not believe there has been any meddling with the spells," she explained slowly, even reluctantly. "Do you remember what I told you when I first introduced you to psychomancy? I said it was a delicate and dangerous art, one that could have unpredictable side effects if it went wrong."

"And… you think it went wrong somewhere?"

She opened her mouth, and then she shut it quickly. Another moment passed in silence. "Yes, I believe it did. It was your first attempt at mind magics, so mistakes were really only to be expected. Changing a human's personality is also fraught with difficulties, which only compounds the issue." Lash sighed. "Every alteration in a mortal's mind will induce some instability, and if the caster is unlucky, that instability can push the mind toward collapse quickly rather than slowly."

"So how do we fix…" He trailed off as he realized what she had said. "'Quickly rather than slowly'? You knew this was going to happen?"

"Not this specifically, and not this soon," she qualified, "but did I expect something to happen at some point in time? Yes. It is an inevitable consequence of this implementation of psychomancy."

"If you knew it was going to happen, why didn't you tell me?!" he demanded.

She raised one eyebrow. "If I had told you this was a consequence, would you have done it in the first place?"

"No!"

"And that is why I did not inform you." He stared at her in disbelief. "The Dursleys as they once were were abusers, their crimes wearing down your mind and self-worth. I could not allow that to happen. Unfortunately, our options were somewhat limited at the time, if you care to recall; I cannot interact with anyone except you, and simply leaving this place would have imposed its own myriad difficulties." Crossing her arms and looking down at him, she concluded, "Teaching you how to alter their minds was the most feasible method of protecting you from their abuses."

"The most feasible method," he repeated after a second's pause. He was trying to wrap his head around this, but that was proving more and more difficult to do so as she kept talking. How did this, any of it, sound like a good choice? "Mental collapse. What do you mean by that?"

"The eventual disconnect of the psyche from the world around it to some unpredictable degree. Paranoia, intractable depression, insanity in the most extreme cases." Her voice was calm, clinical, as if she was discussing the weather rather than the fact that he had just consigned the Dursleys to madness.

"How long does that take?"

"It depends. With the way Petunia has begun behaving again, two years, maybe three. Assuming Dudley's absence seizures were really the first signs of instability, perhaps a year after that before he becomes totally catatonic." Lash shrugged. "Unless we see something beyond his newfound absentmindedness, I would assume Vernon to be the most stable. There is no reason his own problems should progress much further than they already have provided no one else meddles with his mind."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he wrapped his arms around himself as his entire world threatened to collapse on top of him. Him a killer, his relatives going mad, his guardian angel manipulating him. What was going to hammer down next?! His reply was barely a whisper. "You were never going to tell me any of this, were you? You were just going to let me go on with my life without any clue of what you made me do."

"It was a choice that had to be made."

"It was the wrong choice!" he yelled. Hot anger flooded his veins, and he glared at her. "I don't understand how an angel could be this… this…"

Her pursed lips all but dared him to say it. "This what?"

"This evil!"

"Or perhaps my actions were simply a necessity you refuse to understand," she said in a cold voice.

"I don't want to understand!" he shouted back. "I don't want anything to do with it. And if you don't care about it," he added with a crushed scowl, "I don't want anything to do with you, either."

Lash narrowed her eyes at him, and when she finally spoke, her words were hard and clipped. "If that is your desire, my host, so be it."

And then she vanished.

Damn it, Lash!

I was never happy with Dumbledore's too-brief explanation for why the Flamels, after centuries of life, would choose then to let go of their ties to eternal life. It seemed too convenient, even with the understanding that Dumbledore was relaying only the bare bones of the situation. I could have gone with the idea I've seen before that Dumbledore destroyed the Stone without consulting them for whatever reason – which is a possibility, admittedly, considering we know only what Dumbledore told Harry in book 1 and the proof in canon that he's a shameless liar – but that wouldn't go along with my decision for this story to make Dumbledore's actions, if not necessarily good, at least somewhat justifiable. Besides, this is more interesting.

Silently Watches out.