Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter 2:
The next day, Harry sat in the carriage, staring out the window at the passing countryside. He was still thinking about the headmaster, trying to work out how much of what he said was true. Neville, Dean and Seamus were also in the carriage, with himself, Hermione and Ron. He finally asked, abruptly, "Who knows about You-Know-Who? Did he really torture people?"
The others glanced at each other, and it was finally Ron who spoke. "He was a bad man, Harry. He killed your parents, remember?"
"I've been told that. I've also been told they died in a car accident."
Hermione said, "But it's in books, Harry."
"Books can lie, can't they?"
Hermione gaped at him. It had never occurred to her that books could lie.
Ron wrinkled his brow, "I always thought he was really, really bad! Mum said he was a terrible man and I was too young to know any more."
"Hermione?"
"I have heard that it's the victors that write the history books, and he was fairly soundly defeated. I don't think there's any dispute about that."
"I guess not."
After a short pause, Neville said, very quietly, "I don't know about You-Know-Who, but my parents never recovered from the torture of some of his Death Eaters. It's why I live with my grandmother."
Seamus said, "I didn't know that, but me mam told me once that he liked to hurt children."
There was a silence then, as each of them contemplated the one who was supposed to be gone, but then Dean said, "Well, he's not active, is he? And the Death Eaters are not active either, as far as I know. There's no point in being too frightened of them."
Harry asked, "What if he's not really gone? What if he can take over other people's bodies?"
Dean said sturdily, "You've been reading too much fantasy, Harry. No-one can do that."
Harry lapsed into silence. He was sleepy again already, though he'd taken what was supposed to be the final dose of potion that morning, Madam Pomfrey standing by while he took it. 'Magical Exhaustion,' they said. And yet he hadn't actually used much magic if Dumbledore's story was true, that Quirrell's skin had blistered because his mother's love was in him, and so he couldn't touch him. But Hermione had whispered to him that one symptom of Magical Exhaustion was confusion and maybe imagining things. He was sure he was not imagining things.
He sighed. Back to the Dursleys. His uncle had hardly ever really damaged him, but he felt a twinge of hunger when he thought about the rations he was normally allowed. He always cooked breakfast, and often other meals as well. This time, he decided, he'd just take what he needed. He would not put up with going hungry. If his uncle punished him more severely than usual for that, then surely Dumbledore would take notice. He had Hedwig to send messages, he had Hermione's Muggle address, just in case he had to resort to ordinary mail. He would not settle for being treated like dirt - not any more. No matter what the headmaster said, he remembered that it had been really Voldemort there. And he'd survived. For the second time, Voldemort had tried to kill him, and he'd survived. He was not a useless freak, and would not be treated like one!
Decision made, he arranged his cloak against the side of the carriage, used it as a pillow, and went to sleep. At least he didn't have to take potions any more.
xxx
In his office, Dumbledore was dealing with Nicholas Flamel. "You destroyed it? Why? You had no right to do that," Nicholas said, loudly and furiously.
Dumbledore used his best soothing voice. "Nicholas, my dear friend, it had to be done. The rebirth of Voldemort was just too real a possibility. Our world could not afford that. And that is why I had to destroy it and in front of witnesses so it is known. It was for the greater good. You must understand that."
"All I understand is that you removed it from my vault, without authorisation, hid it in a castle full of children, and then, again totally without authorisation, destroyed it!" Flamel glared at the old man, and snapped, "I'm complaining to the Ministry. Theft, and effectively, murder!"
Dumbledore slipped his wand from his sleeve into his hand. He'd fully expected to need magic to convince his 'old friend' that he was ready to go onto his 'next great adventure.' He grinned to himself. That was a nice line, that was. He'd use it on the wife, as well, straight after dealing with Nicholas. Maybe even Harry when it was time. Not himself. He was not expecting to die for a long, long time.
But Nicholas Flamel was far older than Dumbledore, and he had seen many attempts to steal the stone, both the real one - he never had succeeded in making a second true stone, and the several decoys. Dumbledore had never had the real stone, but Flamel would also defend the decoy. A decoy stone would not remain a decoy if he was not seen to value it.
Dumbledore was not ready for Flamel to hit him straight in the chest, even before he had his own wand aimed.
By the time that Flamel let himself out, he had his decoy stone back. As he had expected, Dumbledore had had it hidden away, but a bit of strong magic had him blurting out the secret. There had also been a half-completed potion, now vanished. And the old headmaster was set for a week of tummy troubles, a minor revenge for putting Flamel to the trouble of visiting.
There was something a little more significant. He had taken the Sorting Hat, and wondered how long it would be before the headmaster noticed. Flamel had thought for years that sorting children based on personality characteristics was just plain foolish. Maybe the school children would find a kinder environment when there was less ill feeling between houses. After all, three quarters of those children were his and Perenelle's descendants, though very far removed now. The potion on the stone had never worked on his children, though he'd never known why, just on himself and on his wife. He'd never tried it on anyone not family. He suspected that it would be the same as for their children, totally ineffective.
As for the stone that Dumbledore said had been destroyed, he assumed he'd made a semblance, and that, too, was routine. He and his wife had started a count of those who had tried to steal the stone. Dumbledore was number 61.
He and his wife talked a long time that night. Perenelle asserted that Nick should have killed the old man. "He is far too much respected, and he abuses his power," she said.
Nicholas nodded, but said, "We agreed long ago that we would not interfere and not kill anyone, even if they deserve it."
Perenelle said dryly, "You said, but I never actually agreed, if you remember."
"So have you killed anyone lately?"
"None since that vicious werewolf fifty or so years ago. There was Grindelwald, of course, but Dumbledore took credit for his capture. I did mean to take care of Voldemort as well, but we were having such a good time then. Oktoberfest, remember?"
Nicholas laughed, "That was a good month!"
"And then we heard that he'd been defeated by a toddler, or that was the story."
"That's what Dumbledore said, but we know he lies when he chooses."
"Yes."
Nicholas yawned and took a sip of his coffee before saying idly, "So where would you like to go next? What about that new resort in Capri?"
Perenelle looked at him for a time, thinking. So many years they'd had, and for most of that time, they had done little but enjoy themselves. Nick still played with potions, but the only useful thing he'd done in the last forty years was to invent Wolfsbane. And even that had sat there for years before he'd told her about it, and it had been left to herself to arrange testing and then marketing, though, as always, they'd organised that someone else was credited with the invention. The Flamels had enough fame without adding to it. The profits were handy, of course.
But now they needed a new project to become amuse them - in between lounging on beaches, shopping for new things they didn't need, and trying again to master skiing. They needed something new.
Nicholas suddenly chuckled, "He was going to try and tell me that we were ready to face 'the next great adventure,' and at the same time, he was dwelling on himself living forever."
"Had he already tried to make the potion from that stone?"
"I found one half done. I emptied it onto the floor. But he's had the stone all year, so he would have had time to complete two batches, maybe three."
"Do you know which version of the formula he had?"
"I found it. It was No. 4. He probably stole it when he was pestering us that time, he and another chap, lovers, we suspected, remember?"
"I remember it well. They were a nuisance. I think it's when we put up the better wards."
"That version incorporated your suggestion of the facial marker. Nothing much else, only the standard one I always put in that causes a conviction of superiority." Nicholas smiled, "I like that one. When the thieves think themselves invincible, it makes them silly, and that makes them easier to punish."
Perenelle observed, "It would have made no difference to Albus Dumbledore. He has always had a grossly inflated ego."
"That he has."
"Have you tried to make another stone yourself recently?"
"Not for a century or two. I guess I will never know just why that particular batch suddenly worked."
Perenelle had a fair idea, but also knew there was no way to duplicate the effect. She had never admitted it to her husband, but she'd been working on her own project and had suddenly sneezed over the cauldron. Her own potion had been ruined, but she had hoped that her husband's had not been touched. She had said nothing at all. Nicholas had been a lot worse-tempered in those days than he was now, so she had just crossed her fingers and hoped not to be blamed when the potion failed, the same as all the previous attempts had failed.
But to her amazement, when the prescribed process was complete, Nicholas had found the small stone sitting at the very bottom of the cauldron, not looking especially powerful or of any real significance.
Even then, she hadn't been convinced, but Nicholas had been. He had promptly turned to the second part of the ancient instructions they had come across, and commenced the process that used the stone to make the anti-ageing potion. It had still taken him several tries, and each potion took a good three months to complete, but it had worked in the end. It tasted nasty, of course, but almost all potions tasted nasty. They'd taken it now, once a week, for over six hundred years, usually followed by a swig of fire whisky to get rid of the taste.
The philosopher's stone. It didn't do anything like turning base metals into gold, but certainly, long life. They looked scarcely older than when it was made. She had been fifty then, and looked maybe sixty now. She took care to keep herself trim, and luckily, Nick was naturally lean, even when he ate twice as much as she did. It was important to stay fit and reasonably slim when there might probably be hundreds of years of life left to live.
But just sometimes, she was bored. No family. They had thousands of descendants, but their two daughters had long ago died of old age, and now none of their descendants even knew they were sort of family. And their names. People knew who they were, and too often, their long life was resented. They had each other, earlier quarrels between them long forgotten, but they had no-one else. Sometimes, she was bored.
xxx