Most Ancient

Harry Potter

Summary : Dealing with an alternate end to Book 1, Harry activates the Philosopher's Stone, and in the ensuing confusion, ends up at Nicholas Flamel's place - who is rather different from the popular conception of him. Horcruxes and the heart of magic and dark magic in particular are relevant.

Chapter 1 - Spillover

The world shone with unearthly light as it turned below Harry's feet, so very slowly. Its churning insides made him slightly queasy as he stared down at the ground, unable to look away from the spectacle. How bizarre it was to realize that the world was spinning, that he was on its surface, stuck to it only faintly, separated from fire by a mere few miles of rock, below which the inferno spread out in all directions.

It was terrifying to take a step, since it seemed like he could fall in at any moment. The ground was solid, but if felt as if it did not have to be, as if a single thought could liquify the earth beneath his feet and sent him screaming into the abyss. He looked back to his hand, to the brightly shining stone. He was not sure when he had grabbed it from Quirrel's dying hands, when he had taken it up into his hands. It felt like hours ago, like an eternity. He had intended to keep it safe, but all had made way for this alien sensation.

Quirrell was dead, Harry knew. Voldemort had left, his spirit fleeing the castle as quickly as it could. The same could not be said for his tortured host. Quirrell had stared at Harry for a long time after his death, hovering over his body with disbelief etched across his face and some trace of fear plainly evident. A ghost, perhaps - a spirit - though it seemed as if it should not have been visible at all.

Whatever had kept him around, though, had not lasted for very long. When Harry had reached out to him, curious to see if he could touch the translucent echo, the man had simply vanished into thin air. He wondered if he was supposed to see the unearthtly glow that stole him away, the strange glimmer of differentness that had no colour he could describe.

"I'm getting tired," Harry muttered with a certainty that he could not quite place. His feet were firmly on solid ground again, the stone of the castle between him and the flames of the deep. His uncanny awareness went with it, the constant feeling that everything was less than real. The world shrank, and his head felt very full, as if all the strange thoughts he had were stuffed away in there, out of sight. Still, an edge remained, some iota of understanding.

"Harry!"

He looked up, surprised to see Professor Dumbledore gazing at him with a dumbfouded expression. No, that was not quite right – the man's eyes were fixed on his hand, the hand that held the Philosopher's Stone. It still emitted bright light, though not as much as before, and with a pale yellow instead of - the other colour. Its glow making his skin look awfully pallid, and he understood Dumbledore's concern. He glanced to Quirrell. "Ah... I can explain."

The headmaster looked at the crumpled form of the former professor, partially charred as it was, and shook his head in dismay. Then, his eyes returned to the stone. "Voldemort was here - and now he is not. He departed, then?"

"He was possessing Professor Quirrell," Harry answered easily, and a chill ran down his back when he realized he did not feel anything about that fact – and he definitely should. Thankfully, his being in shock was probably expected, and he ignored the queasy worry that ignited in his gut, muted as it was. "He fled when he burned up." Harry added as he raised the stone. "He couldn't touch me, and then I grabbed this..."

Dumbledore frowned as he held out his hand. "Could you give me that?"

Harry handed over the rock without a second thought, glad to be rid of it. The instant he let go, its light flickered out, and a strange warmth went with it, though Harry was sure it was something beyond the temperature that he was feeling betreft of. It was more like a calmness in the air, a certain tranquility in his mind that departed. Dumbledore looked at the lumpy object in puzzlement.

"We can't leave him here, can we?" Harry wondered as he looked down on his victim. He had killed someone – unknowingly, perhaps, but still – and honestly he still felt nothing at all. He could not even work up anger against him for luring him into a trap, for attempting murder. Nervously, he turned his eyes away from the body, and refused to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"I will take the Professor along," Dumbledore said in a subdued voice. "I think it is time I bring you to the Hospital Wing. You look like you could collapse at any moment, my boy."

"I haven't been so awake in years," Harry answered honestly, and he turned to the door. "Let's go."

Dumbledore did not say much as he followed Harry out. His hand was clasped around the dull Philosopher's Stone. Not quit as tightly as his hold on the Elder Wand, though; his grip on that was tight enough that his knuckles turned white.

Harry sat before Professor Dumbledore's desk with a vacant expression, though he occasionally glanced to Fawkes in the corner, who stared back with old, weary eyes. He had been introduced to the fiery bird only a few moments before, but already he knew it would be its burning day, soon – the feathers on his crest were turning a vague brown, or were falling out entirely. He was not sure exactly how he knew what a burning day was, however.

Professor Dumbledore had moved to a small fireplace the moment they entered his office, and spent some time speaking to a person on the other end. Harry wondered why, but figured that he would find out soon enough. He looked curiously at his bandaged hand again, at the thin scarring that he had apparently received in that room wih the mirror of Erised, with Voldemort. Sighing, he stood up, rubbinng his neck tiredly as he tried to remember exactly what happened down there, with the man who killed his parents. And why he felt nothing about it. He tried for some anger, which he knew he should have had, or perhaps some fear. Nothing. He idly wondered if he was still in shock, but he doubted that, as well.

"What do you say, Fawkes?" Harry murmured as he stepped closer, reaching out and scratching the bird under his beak. The Phoenix warbled contentedly in return, reaching into the touch, and Harry involuntarily smiled. "Am I going to be alright, do you reckon?"

The Phoenix looked up at him with its old eyes, and Harry felt, for a moment, like something very eerie looked at him, something impossibly ancient. How old was Fawkes, anyway? Did Phoenixes really ever die, or were they just reborn, forever and ever? Was it as old as the earth itself, springing from the lava flows at the beginning, now remaining deep below?

For a moment, it felt like the ground could fall away again. "An old bird for an old man," Harry said lightly. "It fits, I suppose."

Harry looked up and was a little surprised to see Professor Dumbledore staring at him, with a mix of concern and amusement quite visible on his face; he wasn't usually this expressive, Harry noted. The old man glanced at Fawkes, who was enjoying the attention, and sighed. "Well, my boy, I have called for the best expert I know, to see if he can help me understand what happened." He reached into his robe, and retrieved the Philosopher's Stone, gleaming dully. "The man who created this little miracle."

"Nicholas Flamel," Harry observed. "His name was on your chocolate frog card."

"You did do the thing properly, didn't you?" Dumbledore replied, though his smile seemed a little forced. "He gave the stone to me to protect, to keep hidden, and I failed. Not only did someone attempt to retrieve it from within Gringotts, which has considerable defences of its own, but he came to take it from here, and very nearly succeeded. We have you to think for that." He sighed. "I believe that Nicholas will take the stone back, or have it destroyed."

"Why would you call him here, though?" Harry wondered. "Why not take the stone to him?"

Dumbledore frowned. "How much do you remember about what happened, Harry? When I first arrived, in that last room, you were..." He shook his head ruefully. "I do not really understand it, I admit. Nicholas should know – he made that stone, after all. Its workings are a mystery to me."

"Could you give it to me, for a moment?" Harry wondered, petting Fawkes' crest as he moved back to his seat. "I'm curious if it still reacts, now that I have recovered some of my strength. I grasped it at a moment of stress, before."

"I wonder if you hear yourself speak," Dumbledore said slowly, as he reluctantly held out his hand, with the stone upon it. "You don't sound eleven years old, Harry. In fact, by your tone, your inflection, you sound very much like... someone much older." He sighed. "Very well. Touch it, but only for a moment."

Hary reached out. The moment his finger brushed the surface, it lit up again with that odd, ethereal glow, and colours exploded. Fawkes squawked for a moment, staring at the light with sudden intensity. The world fell away, like the paint on a canvas, and all that remained of the Phoenix was a brilliant spark, a burst of elemental fire suspended in mid-air, given life and a voice by some magic that Harry could barely fathom. Lesser sparks were all around, magic made manifest, and in the vastness above him he could see he stars, even in the middle of the day, even from inside these walls, unforgiving specks of light from distant suns. The sun itself - Harry stared at it in awe.

"What do you see, Harry?" Dumbledore asked from somewhere far away, and Harry slowly turned towards him, feeling as though he moved a vast distance to get there, despiting staying put - he could feel himself wheeling through reality on the skin of the Earth. He almost cringed back when he noticed the scars on Dumbledore – his wand arm was covered with them, almost raw, and his eyes seemed troubled with terror.

"I..." Harry removed his hand, and slowly the scars faded, and the world solidified. "I... don't know what I see." He looked worryingly down at the stone, once again dull. "What exactly is it?"

"You should know, it's the – "

"I know what it is called," Harry snapped irritably, and he rejoiced in the fact that he could feel annoyed again. "What is it? The stories tell of gold and immortality, but... that. That's not immortality, that's..." He could not put it into words.

"There is only one person who could answer that, I believe," Dumbledore said, just as the fireplace in the back of his office burst into green flames. "And here he is."

"Nicholas," Dumbledore said with a small smile as he straightened. Harry glanced past the tall headmaster to catch sight of a shorter person, though still taller than himself. Nicholas Flamel, the legendary creator of the Philosopher's Stone, over six-hundred years old. The man peered over his glasses with an intensity that was startling.

"Yes, yes, it is good to see you again, my boy," Flamel murmured, running a hand through his long hair, a light brown streaked with white. It was clear that even with the Stone, age was very slowly catching up with him. Though the man's face betrayed that he laughed often, lined as it was from centuries of living, his expression tolerated no disagreement. "If even half of what you told me is true..."

"Let us not be hasty..." Dumbledore said warningly, turning to Harry, looking a little spooked by the fact that his student was waiting patiently by the desk. "The stone is safe, I assure you." He reached forward, offering the seemingly innocent rock to its creator. "Here."

Flamel grabbed the rock quickly, slipping it into his pocket with the same gesture. His dark eyes sought out Harry's. "It reacted to you, did it? It sparked?"

"Um, I suppose so," Harry said hesitantly, and before he could react, he was grasped by the chin by the surprisingly spry multi-centenarian. A gleam of intrigue and a flash of mirth appeared on the old man's face for an instant, before he released Harry again.

"Albus – I'm taking this one home," Flamel announced, nodding confidently.

"Nicholas..."

The ancient man stuck up a finger. "Albus Dumbledore," he said sharply. "I was there when you were still dirtying your diapers and making pretty pictures with materials that were certainly not meant for them. I still know more about alchemy and the Stone that you do, even after your long studies. When I say I'm taking someone with me, I have very good reasons." He grasped Harry by the wrist and pulled him up. "Come, to the floo. Can't waste time, or it'll be too late to save what's left."

"...Too late?" Harry wondered, and he blinked at fuzziness that was creeping in. "What do you mean, too late?"

Flamel glanced pointedly at Dumbledore. "Look, Albus – you trusted me, once. Do the same, now, because I'm telling the truth. Either I'm taking him, or he's dying right here." He glowered. "Choose quickly."

Dumbledore sighed. "If you insist. I will escort Mr. Potter-"

Flamel scoffed. "I don't let just anyone into my new home, Albus, as you well know. You remember what happened to the last one, don't you? I remember that you had a lot to do with that, actually." He sniffed. "And now – this. I asked you to protect the stone, and what do you do? You let it get nearly stolen – twice. I thought once was a fluke, but now... No - I will make sure that Harry here forgets the location, but you shan't even enter."

"I could not have predicted what-"

"I could," Flamel answered coolly. He sighed, and his expression softened a little. "Perhaps we will discuss it soon. Having Perenelle away from the house always makes me antsy, and getting called in for something like this is - very irregular. I'll see if I can arrange for a get-together so we can discuss what went wrong. I wouldn't want to stay in a row with my whippersnapper student." He smirked. "First, though, I need to get this boy to my place, before his brain starts dribbling out of his ears."

"I suppose your house is among the best-protected there are," Dumbledore agreed. "But Nicholas, he needs to get back to his family for the summer. The protections I put in place rely on his continued stay, there. He needs that safety."

"I will not take any longer than necessary," Flamel replied easily. "You know me, Albus - I'm an honourable man. I'll see that your boy comes home."

Dumbledore sighed, and nodded resignedly. "Go then – but inform me of any developments, the moments they happen. By Patronus, if you will."

Flamel nodded. "Come along then, Mr. Potter. Don't be tardy now, can't have you vomit on the Headmaster's nice carpet." He grasped Harry firmly by the upper arm, sending a last look to Dumbledore as he dragged the youth to the floo with a surprising amount of strength. "Hopefully, he'll be back within days – but you never know with alchemical mishaps."

Dumbledore grimaced. "Are you certain I cannot help? Hogwarts has a very good Hospital Wing."

The ancient figure scoffed. "Unless you know how the Philosopher's Stone works, no. Let's discuss things when your wonderboy isn't on the brink of insanity," he replied jovially, and with a wavy gesture he sprayed floo powder from somewhere inside his jacket, after which he dragged Harry into the green flames. Everything vanished into a swirling mess of fireplaces and a sickening dizziness.

"Come along, then," Flamel exclaimed as he stretched out, suddenly looking much taller than he had before – in fact, he now rivalled Dumbledore's height. Harry followed the eccentric figure without a protest, trying desperately to keep his stomach under control, and found himself in a long and gloomy corridor with green and black wall-hangings. Harry was not worried - even now his feelings seemed muted, far away. He looked at things with a coolly indifferent air, and it was only his knowledge of how unusual that was which kept him from hobbling along like an unthinking robot.

For a while it seemed like the two kept descending further into the earth, but the sloping hallway ended quite suddenly with a small square room, maybe four meters to a side, containing only a few large bookcases, a small desk, and a single old chair that had seen better days. Flamel seemed unconcerned as he gestured to the latter, which stood right in the middle of the room. "Well, have a seat – I'll get you something to drink. I think you'll need it."

"What's going on...?" Harry inquired, but Flamel vanished out the next door. Harry deliberated for a few moments, but he could not find any reason to suddenly stop protesting now, and sank onto the little rickety chair with a sigh. His mind whirled with confusion, where before there had only been blank observation, a clarity that he now lacked.

Flamel returned within moments, carrying a glass of water. "Right, I might have slightly exaggerated matters to Albus, so he wouldn't intrude, but you can probably sense something is off in that head of yours," He old man smiled slightly. "I'll need you to make an oath not to reveal any secrets though, before we do. The Philosopher's Stone is a bit of a work of art, you see – can't have anyone find out."

Harry nodded slowly, and his head ached. "Alright... that makes sense."

Flamel smiled. "What I need you do is hold out your arm, yes. This isn't quite the strongest vow around, but I think that insanity is bad enough a punishment, don't you? Death is so messy, not to mention unpleasant. Now..." Flamel produced his wand, a spindly black thing, and tapped their locked arms. "Repeat after me: I swear never to tell what secrets I learn from the one to whom I make this vow, lest I lose my mind and soul."

Harry had already recited the line back before he caught up with what it meant, but he couldn't muster a response beyond dull surprise, mild puzzlement. The spell, the vow, seared into his arm like a line of fire, like someone sliced through his arm and poured salt into the wound, and for a moment he felt like he would cry out. It stopped as quickly as it started, however, leaving only a sickly, oily feeling behind, and a thin line of irritated skin. Flamel backed away, and Harry shivered at the man's expression; it was not at all pleasant.

"I apologize that there is no friendly way to do that," the old man muttered then, looking suddenly apologetic, and he offered the glass he brought. "The aching should stop within minutes, and then we can get started. Here, drink something, it should help your stomach settle down."

Harry reached out hesitantly, then chugged down the water in one go. The instant he did, calm descended over him, and he slumped into his seat. His eyes lost focus as they stared straight ahead, and his mind went fuzzy and indistinct. For a moment he felt like he should feel betrayed, but that feeling faded as well.

"My, you really are suggestible right now, aren't you? I figured I'd need to compel you into that one. Free will's suppressed pretty far, then." Flamel chuckled softly. "Well, I can guess whose little dirty secret you are, hmm? Interesting concept, a living host, though I wonder if he thought of all the implications," he murmured, crouching before Harry and peering into his unfocused eyes. "So... now that the potion's had a few moments to do its work, what is your name?"

"Ha-" Harry's mouth went to make sounds of its own, and Harry couldn't do anything to stop it – the compulsion to answer was suddenly overwhelming. "Harry – R- Ha –" He frowned. "Har-"

"I should have guessed this would happen, with that thing intruding," Flamel murmured to himself, and he stepped back,tapping the floor with his boot. A rush of sound and light suddenly erupted as the floor and ceiling glowed red with intricate symbols, carved into the very stone. A runic net, Harry thought, and he wondered where he recognized it from. Flamel nodded contentedly. "Let's try that again, with the ambiguities squashed. What is your name, boy?"

Harry answered neutrally: "Harry James Potter."

"There, that's better." Flamel smiled. "Now, let's get to the meat. What did you do with the Philosopher's Stone?" He raised his hand, holding the object before him. "This. Do you know why it shines for you?"

"No."

Flamel shrugged. "I suppose that makes sense. Do you know whether Albus had any idea as to the reasons?"

"No."

Flamel smiled dangerously. "That's good. Very good. If he did, he probably would not have contacted me, I imagine," he murmured as he paced the edge of the glowing red circle. It flared momentarily, but seemed to tolerate the new occupant. "Do you know what you are? What hides behind that scar of yours? What dark power nestled within the crevices of a wounded soul?"

Harry didn't answer that question. After a little while he drawled, "No."

"Guess that one was too vague, eh? Well, you are just eleven..." Flamel raised his hand. "Do you know what it is, in truth? This object, the Philosopher's Stone? Do you know why it is more than a rock, why it can do the impossible?"

"No."

"Good. Consider that a secret, as is all else you see within these walls." Flamel stepped forward, into the red ring that flared angrily with light. "Now – the Veritaserum solution courses through you, but you are not alone in there, are you? Come out, little remnant, little stowaway... I believe that you have hidden there for long enough, and I would see what this newfangled Dark Lord has fashioned for himself."

Flamel reached out with the Stone, and touched the scar with it. Harry's head felt like it exploded with pain, and blood gushed down his face as a scream echoed through the room – but it was not Harry's; Harry slumped, transfixed by what bubbled from his forehead, writhing in anguish, deformed and crumbling. Some thing emerged from his face, searing and frothing.

"You will not destroy me!" It screeched. "I will endure!"

Flamel did not look impressed in the slightest as he prodded the thing. "This is it? This is all the great and mighty Lord Voldemort was capable of producing? This desecrated sliver, no more? You cannot even fully manifest, can you, even if you wished to?" He shook his head in disgust.

The spectre of Voldemort only writhed and Harry twitched in revulsion as he could practically feel it threading through his skull, horrible tendrils reaching inward, intertwined with what should be there. Quite suddenly, Harry understood – the cool carelessness, the sudden politeness where he had never shown any before, his complete lack of concern. It was him.Voldemort was in his head.

"Get. It. Out." Harry hissed under his breath, the best he could do at the moment while the horrible potion still coursed through his veins and no question was asked, while that thing still hung from his forehead like a monstrous zit. "Kill it!"

"No! I will kill him if you try!" the thing replied, screeching.

Flamel looked a little amused, then. He dismissed the deformed Voldemort's ravings, his eyes finding Harry's, who was keeping himself as still as possible. Harry started at the look; where before there had been only darkness in Flamel's gaze, there were now bright yellow sclera, almost like a snake's, and their terrifying gaze pinned Harry down. "There is yet enough solution to work for a while longer. Do you fear death, boy?"

Harry stayed silent, considering the question, but he was not sure how to answer. Did he?

The old man smirked for a moment, and his eyes found the creature again. "What about you, perversion? Remnant?"

The shard of Voldemort hissed in agreement, almost jubilant at such an easy question. "Yes. YES. Yesyesyes."

"I thought as much. Good." Flamel looked at Harry with that intense gaze, and they spoke of certainty. "Do not resist. If you resist, you die," he ordered, as he reached out with his wand, touching the scar. Harry slackened his grip, and closed his eyes.

The screeching thing violently protested. "No! I will kill him!" Its feeble resistance was ignored.

"Avada Kedavra," Harry whispered at the same time as Flamel, as if in echo, unsure of what the words meant. The world fell away to darkness.