A/N – Hello, 'tis I again. This is a companion piece to 'Like a Fairy Tale' – could probably be read alone but there are some minor spoilers. Like some of my other one-offs, it's an exploration of characters more than anything else (like 'Touched', 'The Sorting Hat Speaks' and to some extent, 'Coffee Ice Cream'). It's set near the end of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Sorcerer's Stone). Hope you like it.
A Little Chat with Nicolas
The last of the Common Welsh Green Dragons were used for transport where there were no conventional methods – where Apparition Wards were up, where Floo could not reach, where Portkeys were unsafe and where there was no such thing as the Hogwarts Express. Albus Dumbledore felt oddly nostalgic as he rode one, even more so than he had when he had flown aboard one to the Ministry. In his pocket he carried the Philosopher's Stone. He had first seen it many, many years ago now, and his destination was the house of its owner, Nicolas Flamel.
Nicolas was nearing six hundred and sixty-six, a number that some fanatic occultists had cited as some sort of ill omen. He was getting rather fed up of hearing Sybill declare that great misery was about to befall mankind because of Nicolas's refusal to follow the laws of nature. Albus Dumbledore was not superstitious in the slightest – but he could read the events that had happened recently without the aid of any diviner. Voldemort wished to return. More than wished. He craved fanatically. He lusted after immortality. He had almost got it. And even more than Voldemort desired immortality, Albus desired that he did not receive it.
At Nicolas's door, Albus told the House Elf what he was there to see the master of the house, and Nicolas almost bounded down the stairs to greet him. Albus, most people conceded, was doing well for his age, but Nicolas was, by comparison, the embodiment of eternal youth. He wasn't quite youthful in appearance – he still appeared the gracefully aged man of around fifty – however he was astonishingly supple.
"Albus – my good friend," Nicolas said, shaking his hand. "It has been far too long – why I've barely heard from you since last year, and we met so briefly then."
Albus's enthusiasm was similar. He smiled at the countenance of his old friend of so many years – they had known each other almost the entirety of his own lifetime. "Nicolas – I hope you are well?" His question was accented with mild irony, and even as Nicolas appeared to wonder if Albus meant it, he saw the twinkle in those blue eyes and laughed with him. "Why Albus, my young friend, you look older than I do."
"Sometimes I wonder if I have always been older than you," Albus commented, half-amused, half-serious. Nicolas did not reply, but motioned for him to sit in an armchair in the sitting room. They both went to sit down, and sipped tea.
"Have a sweet?" Nicolas asked, motioning to the bowl on the table. At Albus's barely contained glee, he added, "I remembered how much you used to like sherbet lemons."
He seems so old, Nicolas mused. He watched Albus's stiff fingers fiddle with the sweet wrapper; the skin around his hands had become loose and lined.
Where has my old friend gone? But his question was answered as Albus popped the sweet into his mouth, looked up and gave him a look over his half-moons that was hauntingly reminiscent of the first time Nicolas had seen him eat a sherbet lemon.
"What brings you here?" Nicolas asked, as he took a sweet for himself. Albus reached into his pocket and removed the Stone.
"I have come to return this, Nicolas."
"I have enough elixir for another year," he said, bemused. Albus's face was now serious, now concerned.
"Lord Voldemort nearly stole it. From Hogwarts."
From Hogwarts? Albus Dumbledore was probably the most powerful wizard of the age. Nicolas was horrified. After the mysterious attacks on his home, and the attempted robbery at Gringotts, Nicolas had rested easy knowing that his friend was looking after the Stone.
"How?" he asked, hoarsely. "How could that happen?"
"My Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was taken over by Lord Voldemort. With Quirrell's skills, Voldemort's power, and my absence due to an urgent call from the Ministry, he fought his way through the various defences. The only reason he did not get it was due to three of my Gryffindor students – first years, no less."
Nicolas was boggle-eyed at this seemingly crazy statement. "First years? How is that possible?"
"They were three exceptionally brave and determined young wizards. They had picked up numerous rumours, and when I left for the Ministry, they assumed, correctly, that the summons was merely a distraction. Quirrell broke the various wards in place and fought his way through the defences. However, as I had hoped, the Mirror of Erised stumped him. My students followed him through – due to Mr. Weasley's chess skills, Miss Granger's logic, and Mr. Potter's bravery and distinct tactical advantage over Voldemort, they managed to keep the Stone from him until I was able to return."
"Potter, you say? Harry Potter?"
"No less, Nicolas. You remember I told you his mother died to save him? She left her protection on him – Voldemort could not stand to touch him."
They were both silent for a few moments as Nicolas soberly considered this. Where could he hide the Stone now? Was anywhere safe? Nicolas's stomach jostled inside him uncomfortably.
"Are – are your students all right?" he managed at last.
"Harry Potter is still in the Hospital Wing. Poppy Pomfrey is all but certain that he will recover, however he has not yet woken up." Albus's voice was soft, sad – almost frightened. Nicolas had not heard his friend sound frightened for a good many years, and it was not a pleasant sound. When he spoke at last, his voice was forlorn. "My Stone nearly killed Harry Potter?"
Albus nodded gravely. He took another sip of tea, and allowed Nicolas to reach the natural conclusion.
And deep down inside, Nicolas knew what the natural conclusion was – but he was too afraid to make it. Instead, hoping for a different answer, he asked, "What can I do?"
Their eyes met – he noted that Albus's eyes, despite the half-moon spectacles he now wore, still had that inexorable quality to them, that feeling that he was reading your mind. In some ways, it was less unsettling than it had been when, as a child, he had asked an awkward question or made a desperate request, yet it was still impossible to ignore them.
"The Stone must be destroyed, Nicolas."
Inside, he was falling apart. It had been what he was most afraid of, his most repressed fear. Even more so it being Albus who said it. Nicolas Flamel had sometimes felt cheated out of life, often in the darkest hours of the night when he mused that after six hundred years he still felt that he knew barely anything. He wondered if he was still as foolish as he had been when he had first created the Stone. And yet Albus… His brow seemed to wrinkle under the weight of wisdom. Perhaps he had always been more wise. Nicolas forced a laugh.
"I'm not as old as Methuselah yet, Albus."
Albus didn't answer. The silence was worse than reasoning, it let Nicolas's own mind run rampant over the possibilities.
"I don't want to die." It came out sounded more honest than he'd meant it to, betraying some of his brokenness inside.
"I don't want you to die either," Albus said softly. "But none of us can afford to let Voldemort return. There is nowhere safe left to hide it."
"I'll have to discuss it with Perenelle," he said, defensively, but that was a weak excuse. He knew that Perenelle had been thinking the same thing as Albus for quite some time; he could see it in her expression whenever the Stone was mentioned. She liked her life – but she was also somehow afraid of the Stone. She regarded it with a sort of apprehension whenever she saw it.
"Of course."
Nicolas sat back, torn up by the decision. He tired of this. He tired of decision, and then he tired of tedium, he tired of everything and he tired of life. And he knew his decision was made, but like a small child who has eaten so much ice cream that he's feeling sick and yet still wants more, he didn't want to let go.
He looked up. Why did Albus have to look at him like that?
"You can't encourage suicide."
"Nicolas, you know that I am not asking you to kill yourself. I merely ask that you leave your life in the hands of nature rather than magic."
Albus was sincere – Nicolas felt exceptionally weak.
"I'll have to destroy it, won't I?"
His companion was silent, his case made. Nicolas sighed, suddenly rather regretful. He had lived a long and luxurious life, seen several generations of Dumbledores and read vast quantities of literature. He had observed shifts of culture in both the Muggle and the Wizarding world, written a book or two, and of course there was all that work on the mechanics of alchemy he had done with Albus. He'd travelled the world and tasted every culture in the comfort of his extreme wealth.
Yet… Yet… Yet. Yet it wasn't enough. Yet he somehow wondered if he had missed out on something all this time. Granted, he and Perenelle had never had children – it hadn't seemed right – but he had seen a few children in his time, although Albus had been the most recent one. And his greatest life's achievement was about to be destroyed.
"You know, Albus," he said to his friend. "Perenelle's always been lonely. I have too, I suppose. We've always enjoyed each other's company, but it always felt like there was something missing. I think it must be because we were different from everyone else. You know I offered Aurelius the elixir – I offered it to you, too. I've always wished that you had accepted it."
Albus's voice was gentle. "I don't believe I could give immortality its due. I don't know if, had I become immortal, I would have done all that I have done by now."
"Albus," Nicolas said seriously, "I once told you that you could not better the world. I was wrong, wasn't I?"
Albus nodded. "I didn't want to be rude to an elder."
Nicolas laughed – Albus had mastered the semi-serious tone. "Seriously, Albus, when Grindelwald came to power, it was you who were not too complacent to do something about it… The same goes for Voldemort – and yet I…" Was it Oscar Wilde who had said, "I regret only the things I haven't done"?
"There is still yet some time," Albus said. "And never forget, I may not have made it to Hogwarts if it had not been for you."
Nicolas smiled. "My greatest contribution to humanity."
Albus chuckled. "I'm not sure I would put it like that."
Nicolas took the Stone from the table, and went outside. For the sake of courtesy he knew he should really tell Perenelle before he did this, however he suddenly want to be rid of it, and he would destroy it now before the uncertainty returned. Albus watched from the window as Flamel took a large mallet and shattered the gem into a shower of pieces that were as magical as broken glass. After doing the deed, Flamel stood back with a breathless and almost shocked look on his face, seeing his greatest creation turned to dust. Then he sighed, dropped the mallet, and walked slowly back.
Albus surprised himself by noticing a tear in his eye – he was sad to do this to Nicolas. He had always found the carefree presence of his friend a comfort; he always remembered the mysterious smile on his face when he had first seen him… How long would Nicolas live now? It could be just another year. Or perhaps another hundred. His life was no longer kept safe with magic – he now had to rely on the benevolence of nature. It might have been the right thing to do, but Albus could not help but feel slightly regretful at its accomplishment.
"I must be getting back to Hogwarts," Albus said at last, when he had returned. "Minerva McGonagall is an adept deputy headmistress, but she does have an awful lot of her own work to do."
"Fair enough… Shall I see you later on this summer?"
Albus smiled. "Nothing would please me more, Nicolas."
They shook hands, and then Albus left. Nicolas watched him go – he walked more slowly than he had, and that hair cascading down his back was pure white, but as he went, Nicolas could not help but imagine that the child Albus was the one nonchalantly returning to Hogwarts, and as he imagined it, a grin crept onto his face.
He had watched Albus Dumbledore grow up. There were not many people left who could claim that for themselves. He popped another sherbet lemon in his mouth, and went to tell Perenelle of what he had done.
~*~*~*~*~
A/N – In light of Apparition, it seems silly for Albus to have taken a broomstick to London in 'The Philosopher's Stone', but for whatever reason, there appears to be only certain magical routes you can use to get to certain places. I couldn't resist using dragon flight again…
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