Sitra Ahra

Sixth Movement: Immortality Passion

January 10, 1991

At last.

He let out a deep breath of relief, the exhaled vapor becoming visible in the frigid night air. Against his chest, bundled under the thick, bulky, fur-lined robes he wore, the silver amulet vibrated. It was one of the tools his master had bestowed upon him, the only way he could ever have found the object of his master’s desire.

With hands swathed in heavy leather gloves, he reached within his robes, while decreasing the velocity of the Nimbus 1500. After a few frustrating moments, he pulled the wand from his left inner pocket, stopping the broom as he did. With the whitecaps below throwing flecks of sea-water onto his boots, he cast a spell upon his eyes.

The endless expanse of dark, violent ocean fell away as the spell took hold, quickly to be replaced by black ether. The only visible object in his altered perception was straight ahead of him. About a mile ahead of him was a huge, blinding white dome, the very protection that hid the entire island from sight. However, the powerful cloaking wards were like the scent of blood to a wolf to someone such as him, equipped with his Master’s amulet, which detected large-scale magical output.

His destination uncovered, he took off towards the expanse of pulsating white light. As expected, the closer he got to the dome, the clearer its true form was. It was not a single dome, but a close grid of occasionally interconnected white lines that crisscrossed in every direction, creating the large barrier around the property, perhaps two miles wide through the center.

Being careful not to pass through the edges of the massive ward, he tracked the white lines with his well-trained eyes, searching for one that dove downwards. A minute into his examination yielded success, and he began to follow the ley-line on its twisting path downward.

Roughly one hundred feet from the original point, the ley-line terminated in a glowing elder Futhark rune, part of an array of five. He shook his head, a frown upon his features. A five-point array would not serve his master’s purposes at all.  With a judicious eye upon the ward boundary, he began to trace out another ley-line, the thin strand of white magical energy leading him westward. Mild concern entered his thoughts as the roaring waves beneath him increased in volume, his altered visual perceptions preventing him from gauging how close he was to the icy water.

The ley-line terminated into another glowing white rune, part of an array of eight, the exact design specification he had been searching for. He cancelled his magical sight, hoping that the ward architects had not placed the array below the ocean’s surface.

As luck would have it, the keystone onto which the runes were carved was set into a small section of jet-black stone that rose several feet out of the water, giving him ample room to work. The easy part completed, he prepared himself for the difficult work he had ahead of him.

He reached into his robe and withdrew a hollow circle, a foot in diameter, carved from a light brown stone. A flick of his wand later the circle was transfigured into the same black stone which comprised the keystone. Reapplying his magical perceptions, he pointed his wand at the nearest rune and concentrated upon it, tracing it fully. The trace completed, he cancelled the sight spell, and pointed his wand at the hollow circle, causing the outline of the rune to materialize upon the black stone of his circle. He repeated the process seven more times, until the glowing yellow outlines of all of the runes were transplanted onto his circle.

Taking another deep breath, he stowed his wand and withdrew a stone-carving knife. Concentrating with every available brain cell, he began to carve into the circle, fully cognizant that a false move could potentially destroy him in blast of fire. The scribing of runes was for good reason considered a delicate art, with runes not taking kindly to a careless hand.

Following a solid hour of carving, and heavy perspiration, he finished the circular runic array. He took a minute to check over the work, but soon confirmed it as flawless. He would have liked to admire it for a minute, but time was growing short. He stowed the circle and knife within his robes, then proceeded to withdraw both his wand and a single stone so opaque it was almost like glass, a “reader”.

He brandished his wand before him, and concentrating deeply, a small sliver of magic began to creep from the tip. He connected it to one of the live runes on the array, taking great care to not touch the intersect between the rune and ley-line. The other end of the sliver, or “jumper,” he attached to the stone, which immediately began to glow with a vibrant light-blue hue, indicating a magical concentration of ten Wenlocks being supplied by the rune.

The correct magical concentration gathered, he pulled out his own circle and conjured another jumper, connecting it to both the corresponding rune on the hollow circle and the reader. Quickly, he transferred the magic from the reader into the rune, the painstaking process the only reliable method for perfect duplication of magical concentration. With the process complete, the rune began to pulse slowly, threateningly. Charged runes with no outlet were dangerous creatures, very volatile, but quite beautiful in their detonations.

Not wishing to incinerate himself, he worked quickly to repeat the process for the other seven runes. Near the end the first rune began to emit heat, which spurned him to increase his pace. The heat of his newly created runic array increasing by the second, he attached jumpers from each rune on the circle to their counterpart on the original array, settling the two mere inches away.

With the real test of his mettle awaiting him, he took a deep breath, attempting to exorcise all the fear that tried to derail his plans. He released it slowly, before raising his wand above his head and waving it in a quick, wide, circular motion. The ley-lines tore free of the runic array, but immediately settled themselves upon the appropriate jumpers. The magic of the ward began to vibrate menacingly, before the ley-lines clove through the jumpers and connected with the new runic array, restoring the ward to its former slow, gentle pulse.

As the white dome continued undisturbed by the newly introduced array, he let out a shaky laugh, grateful that the hardest part of the break-in was complete. With a wave of his wand, he enlarged the hollow circle. It expanded widely but didn’t disturb the runes, which continued to quietly go about their business of charging the ward. After a few moments, the interior ring was wide enough to fly his broom through.

A cold chill ran down his shoulders as he disillusioned himself. Camouflaged, he swung his broom around and flew towards the wide lane that led to the large manor that occupied the well-hidden island. As he beheld the white walls of the manse, he couldn’t help but think that his master could not have picked a better thief to break into the fabled Flamel estate.

 

-

2:00

Exactly as Harry had every morning since his arrival at the Flamel ancestral home, he found himself awake four hours after going to sleep. Both the Flamels and he were at a loss to explain the odd situation, but immediately before the four hour mark, he would find himself wide awake. Accompanying his departure from slumber was a great sense of restlessness, a driving urge to do something.

At first he fought it, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, as if he could ward off the alert feeling four hours of sleep always brought. However, he would have had comparable success holding back the tide. The Flamels had offered him sleeping potions, but he had always declined, as the meager amount of sleep he got was always enough to recharge him, to make him feel refreshed the next day. Aside from that, he did like the benefit of having time to accomplish more.

With a yawn based more on keeping with routine than anything else, he rolled out of bed, a cup of juice at the forefront of his mind. He considered calling the house-elf, Limey, but quickly discarded the idea. From his short time at the Flamel estate, it had become clear that he did not like house-elves at all. From their high-pitched voice to their slightly embarrassing exclamations upon even a little bit of thanks, Harry swore to never own one himself. Why did wizards find it so difficult to cook or clean for themselves?

He got up and stretched slightly before crossing the room. His new quarters were about three times larger than the room he had awoken in, and had its own private bathroom. The view was still great, but the cold January night was less than ideal to behold the sight. He strode over to the bookcase, running his fingers over the spines of the many tomes that littered it.

Under the instruction of Nicolas and Perenelle, he had grown quite comfortable with Herbology, Potions and magical history. Sadly, they were hesitant to actually let him practice magic of any sort. They claimed that with the whirlwind of vicious rumors circulating the Wizarding media outlets, it would lend credence to their insane claim if he was adept at magic upon arriving at Hogwarts.

While certainly not happy about their decision, he never challenged them on the subject. After all they had done for him; it would have been petty to pester them on this one subject. Besides, they had provided him with all the books he could ever hope for, and it wasn’t like he was going to really need to use magic at his current home.

Speaking of which…

Settling upon a thick tome detailing the Dark Ages from the Wizarding point-of-view, he made his way through the darkened halls, towards the kitchen. At first the dark of the large, empty house had been intimidating, but the feeling faded after the first week. With all the white masonry and architecture, which looked pristine during the day, even the cloak of midnight failed to create a veneer of malevolence. In fact, his footfalls upon the marble floors were almost calming, almost like the heartbeat of night.

Walking slowly, he descended the main staircase, and made his way to the kitchen. His hand was reaching for the doorknob when he froze.

What the hell?

From the front door, he heard a light scratching of metal, as if someone was fiddling with the lock.

An animal would have just scratched at the door.

Hoping he was just being paranoid, Harry quickly slid over to the nearest alcove, trying to be as quiet as possible. Swathed by darkness, he slipped into the alcove and leaned against the cool stone. Settled against the wall, he found that he couldn’t hear a solitary noise, save for the furious beating of his heart. He clutched the book closer to his chest, ears straining, trying to figure out whether he had actually heard anything.

Am I imagining things?

CLICK.

The loud noise quickly robbed him of that notion. No, whatever was happening, it certainly wasn’t an illusion. Steeling himself, he peeked around the corner to the opening door, his eyes straining to decipher whatever sight awaited.

Nothing.

The door was indeed halfway open, but there only appeared to be night around it. Harry was at a complete loss. Was it possible for the wind to open doors?

Yes, Harry, the wind blew the heavy door open. It also fumbled with the lock and disabled it.

Before he could examine the phenomenon more closely, the door began to close itself. Not like a draft pulling it tightly shut, but lightly, the jam barely clicking as the door was closed safely.

Harry, this is impossible, and you know it. Stuff like this doesn’t just happen. Look closer.

With a judicious eye, he began studying the area in front of the door. Beneath closer scrutiny, he noticed a slight distortion moving away from the door, rippling as it passed through the white light of the moon. The image departed just as quickly as it arrived, but it seemed vaguely human-shaped.

A thief? Maybe he’s after some of Nicolas’ rare potions?

He shook his head slightly. It didn’t matter who they were, or what they were doing here, all that mattered was how he would react to it. He thought for a second, before the solution became clear. After all, the little bugger had practically begged him to ask for help whenever he needed it. He just couldn’t do so within earshot of the intruder.

Thus, a game of sorts began. Though the urge to call for the elf tempted him like an unreachable itch, he resisted. The elf’s loud voice would definitely be heard if he called now, even if he whispered his call, and the elf followed his lead. He believed he saw random patches of distortions walking towards the basement door, but half of them could have easily been his own frantic imaginings. Whoever they were, they didn’t make any sound as they walked the marble floor.

That is, if they had ever walked at all. What if they had never moved, and were just waiting for you to reveal yourself?

Not exactly comforted by his traitorous thoughts, he continued to wait, knowing it was his best option. He almost let out a heavy sign of relief when the basement door began to open. Though his first instinct was to call Limey, prudence won out.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Second by painstaking second he tracked the time, getting all the way to sixty seconds before he allowed himself to call for the elf.

“Limey,” Harry whispered.

Limey appeared beside him with a gigantic crack, which echoed throughout the house.

“Master Harry!” Limey screeched from the shadows next to him.

Fucking great.

“There’s an intruder in the house! Go find Nick!”

Not stopping to reply, Limey disappeared with another monstrous crack, leaving Harry once again by himself.

His momentary solitude was broken by the basement door creeping open, causing Harry to crouch down within the shadows, all while praying the intruder didn’t decide to light up the place. With a horrible sinking feeling, he observed as a large ball of light flew out from behind the door and shot out into the middle of the hall, throwing the massive room under a harsh light.

Harry’s dilated pupils reacted badly with the light, sending pain shooting through his head. With a curse, he rushed out of the alcove, and began backpedaling away from the basement door. The shimmering distortion, seemingly more solid than before, launched a blue, fast-moving spell at him.

No alternative in sight, Harry raised the heavy tome in defense. The spell crashed into it, detonating the book and throwing him backwards. He landed hard on his back, and rolled to the right, a red spell gouging into the marble he had laid upon seconds ago.

”You shall not harm Master Harry!” Limey screamed from a point above him. At the house-elf’s words, two statues flanking the central staircase came to life, and advanced upon the intruder. The nearest one, a six-foot Wizard, brought a fist down. The thief, black poking through his shimmering shield, jumped to his left and brought up his wand. As the white fist shattered through the stairs, the intruder blew up its upper body with a spell, showering marble dust and fragments everywhere.

His form now outlined in white, the intruder’s eyes found Limey, perched upon an upper alcove. He leveled his wand at the elf, and fired off an orange curse.

“Limey, get out of the way!” Harry screamed.

The elf did no such thing, choosing to continue using the other statue, a witch, as a marionette. The marble arm swung forward just as the orange spell struck the elf, detonating it in an explosion of blood and marble. As guts and appendages rained down, the intruder brought up his wand arm, conjuring a large, grey shield.

The shield shattered under the statue’s blow, sending the intruder flying backwards, striking the marble railing with a loud crack. Harry, who had watched the spectacle in awe, hoped that the blow from the now-stilled statue was enough to keep the intruder down.

You know it would be stupid to assume that at this point, right?

Harry slowly began backing away from the slow-breathing intruder. His invisibility had completely broken down, leaving an average sized form in a black cloak, with the hood pulled over. Even though the man was currently down, still being defenseless, Harry wanted as much space between them as he could. If he got lucky, he thought he could even make it out the front door.

As Harry Potter was slowly learning in his short life, rarely did luck go his way.

Rising unsteadily, the man rose to his feet, using the banister to pull himself up. His hood fell back, revealing a shaved head, and blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. With a shaky movement, lungs pulling in air raggedly, he brought up his wand and cast another orange curse at Harry. He dove to the side to avoid it, landing upon the floor. He rolled aside to avoid the incoming blue spell, which barely missed him. As he stopped, he saw a third orange curse streaking towards him.

With no way to avoid it, Harry saw watched his death approach him, on the wings of an orange spell.

A crimson, opaque shield sprang into existence mere feet from Harry, sending the orange curse off to the side, exploding harmlessly on the wall. Harry saw the intruder spin around, and followed his line of sight with his own.

Standing at the top of the stairs was Nicolas, eyes ablaze, wand aloft. With a complicated motion, he flung a silver spell at the man, twisting his wand slightly before casting. The silver spell increased with speed as it flew, slamming into the intruder’s hastily conjured shield with a loud gong. The shield exploded in a shower of sparks as the concussion knocked the intruder backwards.

Pressing his advantage, Nicolas banished a large piece of loose marble at the man, striking him in the stomach. The wind forcefully pushed from his body, the man doubled over. Nicolas kept his wand pointed at the man, and jerked it upwards. Violently, the man’s feet were cut out as he was flipped upside down, the force causing his wand to sail out of his hands. He hung suspended from an invisible point for a second before a red spell struck him. The intruder fell from orbit gracelessly, his head crashing against the cold marble.

The intruder felled, Perenelle ran from upstairs, hair amiss, and over to Harry.

That was too fucking close.

“Harry, are you okay!?” Perenelle yelled, kneeling next to him.

His arm hurt a lot, probably from landing wrong on it while avoiding the intruder’s spells. However, it could have been a lot worse.

“I’m okay, really.” Harry stated. Over Perenelle’s shoulder, he noticed Nicolas conjuring ropes and binding the intruder.

She smiled at him, and pulled him into a hug. Harry went into it willingly, and hugged her back, appreciative of the gesture.

“Harry, I am deeply sorry for allowing you to fall into harm’s way.” Nicolas stated.

Harry couldn’t help the anger and frustration that welled up at the statement.

“Yeah, thanks, but how am I supposed to feel safe anywhere now? I can’t even defend myself!”

Harry’s angry eyes met Nicolas’, who looked tired more than anything else. Nicolas looked like he was about to say something, but was cut off by Perenelle’s wail.

He looked to the side, and saw the lower part of the elf’s arm, with gristle hanging off the stump. At the sight, he forgot his anger, and thought of the servant creature that had so selflessly sacrificed itself.

“Limey’s the only reason I’m alive right now,” Harry stated, his voice full of sorrow. “He had the chance to save himself, but chose to attack the intruder again.”

Harry remembered hearing Perenelle saying that Limey had been in their employ for a very long time, and she was probably very attached to him. He went over to Perenelle’s crouched form and hugged her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Harry said, hoping to convey his gratitude for the small elf.

Perenelle smiled at him, wiping at her eyes.

“Harry, please do not worry, I do not blame you.”

“Shit.”

They both turned to Nicolas, who was going through the contents of the bag the thief had hidden under his robes.

“Pen, this was a professional thief.”

The sorrow dropped out of her eyes at her husband’s words.

“Was he after the Stone?”

With a heavy sigh, Nicolas nodded.

“This changes everything.”

-

“Harry, are you sure that you want to see this?”

“I really do. This guy almost killed me; I think I deserve to know who he works for.”

The worry upon Perenelle’s normally cheerful face bothered him, but he felt like he deserved to know what was really going on here.

“I do understand, Harry, but you can hardly fault me for wishing that fate had not dealt you so many hardships.”

Harry replied with an expression that was equal parts smile and grimace.  

Perenelle started to say something, but reconsidered, instead focusing on the sight before them.

Both Harry and Nicolas’ better half were located in a small, bare room with three grey walls. The fourth wall had a large one-way mirror that took up almost the entire surface, allowing for a clear look into the adjacent room.  On the other side of the glass was a bare room, completely devoid of decoration. In the center was a single wooden chair, to which the unconscious prisoner had been trussed tightly.

Without his cloak, the intruder was far less intimidating. The man was small and very scrawny, with pinched features and hollow cheeks. A good week’s worth of scruff dotted his face, and a rapidly receding hairline topped his head. Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of the winos he occasionally saw pass by the gates of the orphanage.

In front of the man stood Nicolas, his arms crossed, wand gripped tightly. He had a look of deep concentration upon his face. Harry thought it likely Nicolas was planning out the interrogation.

Harry turned his head to the side, just in time to see the door open. Dumbledore stepped through it, closing it quietly behind him.

“I wish the circumstances were more pleasant, but regardless, good morning to both of you.”

Perenelle glanced at him, worry lining her face.

“I would not refer to this morning as a good one, but it is good to see you here, Albus.”

“I set out as soon as I received the message from Nicolas. How are you doing, Harry?”

“Everything was great up until that guy tried to kill me, but at least I’m not really hurt.”

Before either adult could reply to Harry’s statement, Nicolas uncrossed his arms and approached the man. The action drew the attention of all three people in the observation room, the conversation immediately forgotten.

Nicolas pointed his wand at the incapacitated man, and whispered “Ennervate”.  

The bound man began to open his eyes slightly, just in time to see Nicolas cast another spell.

“Confundo.”

The spell struck him in the chest, causing him to sway back and forth slightly, but had no other visible effect.

What was that?

After a few seconds, the intruder seemed to register than there was another person in the room with him. He gazed at Nicolas with wide-eyes, as if he were slightly bewildered.

“Did I complete my mission?”

The man’s question was spoken with a light, carefree air, as if he were asking what was for dinner. At the man’s response, Nicolas’ eyebrows contracted, and his frown became more pronounced. With a sigh, he withdrew a vial from his robes. The liquid within the vial was clear, but Harry was reasonably certain it wasn’t water.

”No, not quite. You still need to drink this potion to complete the mission. Stick out your tongue.”

Like an obedient dog looking to please its master, the man stuck out his tongue as far as he could and willingly swallowed the three drops of liquid Nicolas placed upon it.

Once the man had swallowed, Nicolas casually waved his wand over the glassy-eyed man. With a nod in the direction of the one-way mirror, Nicolas took a deep, steadying breath.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know,” the man replied in a monotone voice.

Weary resignation found its way quickly onto Nicolas’ face. Whatever was going on, Harry had a feeling that the situation wasn’t entirely foreign to the alchemist.

“Who do you work for?”

The man looked almost insulted by Nicolas’ question.

“I serve my Master.”

Looking slightly frustrated, Nicolas tried again.

“Who is your Master?”

“My Master has always kept his identity secret. He’s always covered beneath a dark cloak.”

Nicolas threw a pointed glance at the mirror, causing Dumbledore to sigh deeply. He turned his head and looked at Harry.

“During the Wizarding war, this situation tragically cropped up occasionally. Using the Dark Arts, Voldemort and his followers would cleanse a mind of all thought, essentially destroying their identity. Making use of a modified pensieve, which is an object normally used to view memories, the unfortunate victim would have memories implanted into their mind. The memories were manufactured, typically containing information vital to completing a particular task. Typically this method was used when Voldemort wanted a high-risk task completed, and didn’t want to deplete his own ranks.”

Despite how obviously horrible the method sounded, Harry couldn’t help but think there was a fatal flaw in the design.

“Sir, how can a person do anything if all they had were memories given to them?”

“In explaining the method, for the sake of brevity, I left out several steps. Deeds these horrible are a long, complicated process, which only a master of the mental arts can utilize. The mind isn’t cleansed of all memories, but of all memories that pertain to any emotional responses within the victim. Family, friends, events, personal milestones…all gone, as if they never existed. All that remains is a bare shell, waiting to be programmed for a particular task, and to do it well.”

Harry found himself shocked. How could someone be so evil, as to justify destroying not just a person’s life, but his mind and personality as well.

After a moment, Nicolas continued his questioning.

“What mission did your Master send you on?”

“My Master wished for me to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.”

So it’s not just a stone, but a stone of philosophy.

Harry had been curious about the ‘Stone’, which Perenelle had mentioned earlier, but both Flamels had said they would explain later. While he did want to know quite badly, he conceded that the current task was a bit more important.

“What did you do before the mission?”

“I did not exist before the mission. My Master created me for this one purpose.”

Nicolas looked saddened by the man’s statement, but in no way surprised. He thanked the man for his time before quickly exiting the interrogation room.

Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man tied to the chair. Even if the intruder had tried to kill him, it wasn’t by choice. Turning his head, he regarded Dumbledore.

“Will he ever recover?”

Dumbledore shook his head slightly, his expression sorrowful.

“Sadly, this unfortunate soul will never have any sense of his past. The mental reprogramming process destroys all shreds of the victim’s former life. Whoever this man was before his unfortunate encounter, he is now gone.”

Harry didn’t ever think that anyone could understand the torment of having one’s past ripped away. However, what had happened to this man was far worse. Harry at least had some hope that one day his memory could be restored. This man had nothing, no hope.

The door to the observation room opened again, admitting Nicolas. He had a grave expression upon his face, and let out a long, shuddering breath before addressing the group.

“It is just as we feared, Albus.”

“The Stone is indeed no longer safe,” Dumbledore gravely stated.

Hearing mention of the Stone again refocused Harry’s attention upon his previously unanswered question.

“What is the ‘Stone’?”

The two Flamels both turned to him and regarded him quietly. It was not distrust he saw in their gaze, but an emotion he couldn’t place. After several seconds, Perenelle broke the silence.

“The Philosopher’s Stone is the creation that made my husband famous, a true form of alchemy. It produces the Elixir of Life, a liquid which has many amazing properties. It has the ability to turn ordinary metals into gold. However, that was of no interest to whoever destroyed the mind of that poor man.”

Perenelle prompted her husband with a sharp look, and he picked up where she left off.

“The Elixir also has the ability to preserve the life of those who drink of it, providing that it is ingested on a regular basis, allowing the drinker to live an extraordinarily long life. Throughout the years, its legend has grown through exaggeration and has become myth. Most of Wizarding society now erroneously believes that the Elixir grants immortality.”

Nicolas paused for a moment, glancing at his wife. She gave him an encouraging, if slightly sad, smile. Reassured, he turned to Harry.

“Perenelle and I are over six hundred years old.”

What the hell?

He certainly hadn’t been expecting that bombshell. Even the concept itself was elusive. The very idea that these people were still around when Columbus had yet to discover America, were still young when wizards working for the Vatican warded Galileo inside his own house was just…

Completely fucking crazy?

Yes, that. However, upon thinking about it, he always had the impression that there was something the Flamels weren’t telling him, but he never imagined it would be something like this. He couldn’t really blame them for keeping their age to themselves, as it really wasn’t any of his business.

Harry looked at them with wide eyes.

“I…I don’t know what to say. That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard. I think the important question, though, is how you could study potions for six-hundred years without getting bored.”

Harry’s attempt to lighten the mood was met with chuckles from the three adults in the room. When the laughter died down, Dumbledore turned to Nicolas.

“Would you mind if I examine your prisoner?”

“No, of course not,” Nicolas replied.

Dumbledore thanked Nicolas and exited the room.

If they have the ability to do so much good, why haven’t they shared this knowledge with the world?

At worst, Harry figured they would just label the question as too personal.

“I don’t want to be rude, but….”

“…you cannot help but wonder why we decided to selfishly keep such a revolutionary discovery to ourselves?” Nicolas finished for him.

Harry groaned slightly, expecting the Flamels to be unhappy with his questioning. He was unprepared for both of the Flamels to be wearing almost identical smiles.

“Oh Harry,” Perenelle began, “while we are fairly certain you would have asked in a slightly more polite manner, it is a valid question.”

In the background, Harry noticed Dumbledore begin to wave his wand around the prisoner in complicated movements. Nicolas, oblivious to the scene behind him, hung his head slightly as he began the explanation.

“The steps that led to the creation of the Stone were wrought with long, sleepless nights. In my haste, my excitement over this potentially new discovery, I did not document the steps properly. With my perceptions blurred by weeks of sleep deprivation, even when I view the memories in my pensieve, I cannot get a clear picture of the steps I took.”

Nicolas stopped for a second, his eyes far away. Perenelle went up to him took his hand, squeezing it slightly. He favored her with a grateful smile, before continuing.

“Once the Stone was complete, I was never able to duplicate the result again, no matter how hard I tried. Regretfully, I then decided that I had worked too hard to let my hard work go to waste. I didn’t even test it out properly.”

The pain on Nicolas’ face was evident, his regret ever more so.

“The Elixir of Life made both of us sterile. One foolish mistake, and a Light family that extended all the way back to Merlin himself had no more blood left to carry it on. Every day I consider myself lucky to have found a woman capable of such great acts of forgiveness.”

Perenelle’s eyes began to moisten slightly at her husband’s declaration. Nicolas wiped at her eyes with his thumb, earning a smile of gratitude. Turning back to Harry, he continued.

“However, that is not the entire truth.”

He took a deep breath before finishing the thought.

“Harry, I never aspired to be anything more than a competent wizard. Who lives, who dies…that is for fate to decree. The Stone had the potential to grant the power of the gods. That was not a power that I wanted to be involved with, but more than that, it was far too dangerous a tool to give.”

“However,” Nicolas continued, looking more anguished, “both Perenelle and I have loved life too much to truly let go. We still hold out hope that one day my efforts in the Bunker will end in success, so that I may restore the damage I have done, and we can share all that we’ve learned with our children.”

The two Flamels embraced one another as the last words echoed away, Nicolas clutching Perenelle tightly, as if for support. Harry, slightly embarrassed, wanted to turn away from the emotional scene, but was aware that it would have been the coward’s way out.

“Thanks for telling me about the Stone.”

“Of course, we had never anticipated that the Stone would put your life in danger the way it had tonight, Harry. We can only hope that you will not start feeling unsafe in our home because of these events.”

Harry smiled internally at Nicolas’ words. Even if someone else tried to kill him tomorrow, he couldn’t hope for a better home.

“There’s no place I’d rather be.”

At his words, Perenelle went over to him and enveloped him in a large hug.

“Harry, we feel the same way about you.”

He returned it at her kind, heartfelt words, the first time he had done so. She smiled fondly down at him, before wiping her eyes slightly and moving back to her husband’s side.

For the next few minutes the Flamels quietly talked to one another, while Harry found himself thinking about his two current guardians. In light of recent revelations, their seclusion now made far more sense, as did Nicolas’ slavish dedication to this Potions. One day, Harry really hoped that Nicolas found a way to reverse the damage done.

Before Harry realized it, Dumbledore came back into the room. The Flamels released their embrace, and joined Harry in waiting to see if Dumbledore had discovered anything.

“It is indeed as you said, Nicolas; the unfortunate man’s mind has sadly been destroyed.”

“However, that is not the troubling part.” Dumbledore sighed.

“How could the situation be worse for that poor man?” Perenelle asked, concern evident in her voice.

“There are no traces of Dark Magic on the man.”

Both of the Flamels adopted a fearful expression upon their faces, but Harry’s reaction was one of confusion.

“How is that even possible, if only Dark Magic could have damaged the man’s mind so much?”

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes dimmed at the question, and shadows took their place.

“Voldemort, the same man that possessed you and killed your parents, once attended Hogwarts. He was a talented, charming man, and many did not suspect that such a dark side hid beneath his friendly persona. In order to keep his public image untarnished, Voldemort became nearly flawless at hiding all traces of Dark Magic once it had been performed. He had turned it into an art form.”

Harry found himself weighed down at Dumbledore’s words. The bastard that had possessed him before was potentially back.  Dumbledore continued, breaking him from his thoughts again.

“Sadly, there is more to this, Harry. The ward-surpassing techniques used by the man were part of a warding memory set that Voldemort used on all the slaves that he bent to his will. We referred to these unfortunate souls as drones, which was a tactic all too common during the war.”

Harry had allowed a sliver of hope that Voldemort was through heaping torment upon him.

Apparently not.

“So he’s back then,” Harry stated.

Just fucking great.

-

Breakfast the next day was a subdued affair, the events of the day before still hanging over the three people seated at the table. Dumbledore had summoned a house-elf from Hogwarts to temporarily replace the departed Limey. Perenelle had not said a great deal since the interrogation yesterday, Limey’s death still weighing heavily upon her.

Harry understood that she had been rather attached to the house-elf, who had held tenure for seventy years at the Flamel estate. He wanted to comfort the grieving woman, but couldn’t think of anything helpful to say.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Nicolas asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

Well, he was going to have to ask eventually…

“I’m fine, but something kept me up last night, kept me from sleeping.”

“What would that be, Harry?”

“Well, you said that the Stone doesn’t really make someone immortal, but stops people from getting old. If that’s all it does, why does Voldemort want it?”

Nicolas looked somewhat mystified by Harry’s line of questioning.

“Well, according to the investigation that Dumbledore performed in Godric’s Hollow, he deduced that Voldemort was completely destroyed. At least, his body had been obliterated. Dumbledore long believed that Voldemort had created a Horcrux, which would anchor his soul to this world, despite the destruction of his body. Furthermore, Dumbledore theorized that with no body to retreat into, Voldemort probably existed in a wraith-like form.”

That had been the precise thought that terrified Harry, and prevented sleep. The very idea that you could destroy someone’s body and not kill them was terrifying. It did prompt a question, however.

“But didn’t we destroy his Horcrux?” Harry asked.

Nicolas shook his head sadly.

“A few days ago, I thought he might be gone. However, the events of yesterday suggest Voldemort is still a threat. We believe that Voldemort, in his wraith form, may have possessed someone. If he were hiding in a body, we think he may have been able to survive the destruction of his Horcrux.”

Perenelle spoke up suddenly, picking up where her husband’s explanation left off.

“Voldemort is likely still weak, far too much so to retrieve the Stone himself. He may believe that he can use the healing powers of the Stone to begin to restore his own body.”

Harry was confused by the final part of her statement.

“How can he fix his body if it’s destroyed?”

Perenelle looked rather uneasy at Harry’s question, looking to her husband for help.

“As hideous as it may sound, Voldemort may be able to use the Stone to begin transforming the body of his host into his own.”

Silence greeted Nicolas’ theory.

Posssessing someone is horrible enough. Stealing their body though, piece by piece…

The thought was so repulsive to Harry that he shivered in his chair, goosebumps breaking out over his body.

Focus on something else, anything else. This is just too much.

“What can we do for the intruder?” Harry asked, desperate for a change of topic.

Nicolas looked rather stunned by the abrupt subject shift, but Perenelle gave him an encouraging smile.

“Sadly, there is not a great deal that can be done for his mind. We sent the wand to Ollivander, the finest wandmaker in England, hoping that the intruder was using his own wand. Ollivander keeps track of every wand he has ever sold, so there is a possibility we could find out the true identity of the intruder. Providing that works, his family could provide enough memories to restore his mind using a pensieve.”

Harry noticed that Perenelle didn’t seem particularly hopeful about the man’s chances.

“If Ollivander is unable to identify the wand, we will have to send him to St. Mungo’s, where the mental experts can try to help him.”

Harry really hoped that Ollivander would be able to identify the wand, as the second option didn’t seem like it would succeed, considering St. Mungo’s didn’t have much to work with.

With a heavy heart, he began to enact the plan he had forged last night. He didn’t like deceiving the Flamels, but he only survived last night due to blind luck.

“What’s going to happen if Voldemort sends another drone?”

The Flamels looked at one another following his question. He thought he saw something unsaid pass between the two, but couldn’t be sure. Turning back to him, Nicolas tackled his question.

“We have begun to strengthen the wards surrounding the island, but aside from that, the Stone will no longer be hidden here.”

Harry shook his head violently at the statement, and began to work himself up.

“But Voldemort might not know that! He’s going to send someone else, and I need to be able to protect myself!”

Perenelle grew slightly pale at his words, painfully aware of how close Harry had been to dying last night. Her reaction made Harry feel even worse, but he pushed on, shrinking his posture.

“I’m sorry, I’m just scared,” he said quietly.

“That is quite alright, Harry,” Perenelle reassured, grasping his hand over the table. “We are all afraid of Voldemort, and I realize that you need to be able to protect yourself.”

Still patting Harry’s hand, she turned to her husband.

“Harry has a point; we really should prepare him.”

Nicolas didn’t look pleased with the turn of events, and remained silent. Perenelle, undeterred, continued on.

“Nicolas, if Harry can’t be completely safe at our home, who are we to deny him the tool to defend himself?”

Nicolas looked moved by his wife’s words, and regarded Harry.

”I understand your concern, Harry. However, have you considered what the ramifications of training you early might be?”

Harry was honestly confused by the words, not seeing a downside to being able to protect himself.

“What do you mean?”

Nicolas sighed deeply.

“Due to the irresponsible journalism of the Daily Prophet, half of England believes you to be a budding Dark Lord.”

“That’s really stupid,” Harry instinctively replied.

“Unquestionably, Harry. Nonetheless, if you arrive at Hogwarts, vastly ahead of your classmates in terms of magical skill, then it will be even harder to disprove their accusations. Especially if you get sorted into…”

Nicolas trailed off, shaking his head slightly before continuing.

“Harry, I understand why you want to learn magic. In your position, I would as well. I just want you to understand that your magical knowledge could make your life very difficult socially at Hogwarts. Are you truly prepared for that?”

 

Harry honestly did think about it. He knew that he tended to feel slightly awkward around people, and isn’t exactly great socially. With that being said, however, he couldn’t get the memory of last night out of his head.

When the intruder’s third consecutive spell streaked towards him, he had been completely helpless. In that moment, he’d been convinced he wouldn’t survive.

I will never be that weak again!

“I am, sir,” Harry answered without regret, fully prepared to face any difficulties that time would bring.

-

Nicolas referred to it as ‘The Shrine’. It lay behind one of the locked doors on the first floor of the west wing. A locked door was a security distinction not common to many of the rooms within the Flamel estate. Almost a living history lesson, it was a monument to the exploits, struggles and sacrifices made by the Flamel family throughout the centuries.

To Harry, it was the ‘trophy room’. Paintings of long departed members of the Flamel family adorned the side walls, slumbering in their ornate frames. Placed between the paintings were glass display cases, showcasing various artifacts, heirlooms and treasures.

“Throughout Wizarding history, it has been tradition that the winners of battle claim the wands of their fallen foes. The Flamels, being one of the traditional paragons of the Light, have fought their share of battles, and won the vast majority of them.”

With an outstretched arm, Nicolas motioned to the large shelf on the wall, comprised of hundreds of small wooden faceplates. Set in the middle of each faceplate was a handle, a half-circle made of gold.

He reached towards a ring set in the middle of the shelf, and pulled it out. The box was about two feet long, with purple velvet lining the interior. A single wand was placed within a slight hollow in the plush bottom lining, fit exactly to wand’s dimensions. He plucked the wand from the box and held it lightly between his fingers, looking it over.

“While ideally one would get their own wand at Ollivander’s, Perenelle and I do not think it would be a good idea for you to venture out into Diagon Alley. With the Ministry aggressively seeking to claim custody of you, it is not very safe right now.”

Harry saw no need to argue. Lately the Prophet, unable to find any new information about him, had alternated between derogatory editorials about his supposed Dark Arts immersion, and calling for Dumbledore’s head for hiding the Potter heir. The Flamels had told him life had been very difficult for Dumbledore as of late, but having not actually broken any laws, he could not be prosecuted.

“Eleven inches, oak, with a dragon heartstring core, if I’m not mistaken. I won it in a duel with Blake Malfoy, when I was but a young lad. Incompetent cad believed his novice forays into the Dark Arts would make a difference. My victory was swift and decisive, but I only took his wand, not his life. And here, I present to you, five hundred years later, the fruit of my efforts.”

With an exaggerated flourish, Nicolas handed Harry the wand. He took it with a grin, enjoying the feel of the smooth, polished wood beneath his palm. A feeling of familiarity swept over him as he held the magical focus, prompting him to wonder just how much his previous self had used one.

“Go ahead; give it a wave,” Nicolas kindly urged.

Harry did as bidden, bringing the wand about in a wide arc. His wonder turned to confusion as he observed that there was no effect.

“Was something supposed to happen?” Harry asked, eyeing the eleven inches of oak apprehensively.

“There should have been thunder and lighting,” Nicolas replied in a grave tone of voice. “I am deeply sorry Harry, but it appears that you are a squib.”

Snickering, Harry handed the wand back to Nicolas, who returned it to its proper spot on the wall.

“Wands are made of many different varieties of wood, with an even more diverse selection of cores. Often it is a long process to find even a compatible wand, let alone a primary one.”

Nicolas withdrew another wand from the wall, examining it slightly.

“Birch and unicorn tail hair, eleven-and-a-half inches. I took it from Marlowe Gaunt, the head of the Gaunt family, one of the most respected families during the sixteenth century. He was one of the most fearsome opponents I ever faced, and I feel fortunate to have been the one who walked away.”

“How do you know what each wand is?” Harry asked as he took the wand from Nicolas.

Nicolas smiled slightly.

“I once had one of Ollivander’s descendents catalogue every wand in my possession.”

Harry gave the birch wand a quick wave, causing a single spark to flutter out, almost reluctantly.

“This isn’t the one, is it?” he asked, not exactly floored by the wand’s response.

“If your ultimate goal is to best a flobberworn in a duel, then yes, this wand would do nicely.”

Shaking his head slightly, trying to hide a grin, Harry handed back the wand.

“I do not expect to find a wand perfectly compatible with you, but there should be at least one wand here that will be close enough for you to begin to learn wandwork.”

Nicolas replaced Marlowe Gaunt’s former wand, and went over to one of the display cases on the side of the room, withdrawing a wand from it.

“This belonged to my nephew, Alphonse Flamel. His late fifteenth century defeat of the Dark Lord Torquemada brought an end to the alliance between the Vatican and most western European magical nations. While a turning point in magical relations in Europe, it sadly cost Alphonse his life.”

Nicolas, whose voice had gotten more distant with each passing word, shook his head slightly before handing Harry the wand. He waved it around, but without any visible effect.

“This is going to take a long time, isn’t it?” he asked rhetorically as he handed the wand back.

“It most certainly is,” Nicolas agreed. “Perhaps you should cancel all of the dates that you had lined up for tonight.”

“I heard somewhere that girls are into bad boys, but being the next Dark Lord might be a little too much,” Harry replied, smiling.

Nicolas laughed as he placed his nephew’s wand back in the display case, and withdrew another wand from the shelf.

“You don’t want to know where this one came from,” Nicolas smirked, handing the wand off.

Upon touching Harry’s hand, unseen strength poured through him. Feeling like he could do anything, he brought the wand down in a quick arc, letting out a large jet of flames. Feeling triumphant, he looked up at Nicolas’ wide smile.

“Ah-ha, Harry, it appears we have found you a practice wand! Feel free to pursue your scheduled dates after all.”

“Why thank you, sir.” Harry replied cheekily, still slightly elated from the feeling of power at his fingertips.

“Certainly, Harry.” Nicolas replied. “However, I would urge you to get your fill of the fairer sex tonight. Tomorrow night you will be a bit too tired to entertain any of your prospects.”

“Will you really start to teach me tomorrow?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Indeed I will. Best rest up, for tomorrow will be quite tiring for you.”

Harry couldn’t ever really recall looking forward to something potentially exhausting, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. He looked at the wand in his hand, reminded that its origin was still a mystery.

“Why don’t I want to know where this came from?”

Nicolas’ only answer was an innocent-sounding whistle.

“Nicolas, please tell me?”

Without answer, the alchemist began walking towards the door.

“Dammit,” Harry muttered to himself.

He held the wand in front of him, and regarded it with suspicion.

“Where did you come from?”

Unsurprisingly, the wand had no answer. Shaking his head, he made his way towards the exit, where Nicolas was still chuckling to himself.

-

Following breakfast the next morning, Nicolas had led Harry to another one of the locked rooms in the west wing of the house, a few doors down from the ‘The Shrine’. It was a large room, with cabinets and dueling implements nestled up against the white, stone walls. The entire center of the room was dominated by a sunken rectangular space, roughly three times as long as its width. Within the sunken space, with was lowered about two feet below the floor, were two circular platforms. Raised roughly six inches above grade, the platforms were about six feet wide through the center, and placed about twenty feet from one another.

“Welcome to the Flamel dueling room, Harry,” Nicolas welcomed. With spry movements, he leaped down into the rectangular area, beckoning for Harry to join him.

“In this very space, generations of Flamels have trained beneath the careful eye of their elders. From the basic concept of magic, all the way to advanced combat training, this is where it all started.”

Harry felt rather proud that Nicolas trusted him enough to allow him access to one of the Flamel family traditions.

“Thank you for showing me something so special to you,” Harry said solemnly.

Nicolas smiled proudly at the statement.

“You are more than deserving, Harry. All that I will ever ask of you is to give your best effort. Are we clear on that matter?”

“Crystal clear, sir,” Harry replied.  

“In that case, let us begin. What is magic?”

Harry was dumbfounded for a second. He’d never really questioned the existence of magic, at least that he could recall. Struggling, he just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Well, it’s a…force…that can do stuff.”

His face grew more crimson with each passing moment of silence after his statement, until it felt as if his face would ignite. Nicolas’ stern look was slowly betrayed by the corners of his mouth turning up.

“At the very least, you are not using the textbook definition,” Nicolas replied, laughing slightly.

Harry smiled, trying to think of a better way to define it, before it came to him.

“It’s a gift.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Nicolas nodded. “From the moment that a child with a magical core is born, their lives are forever entwined with magic. It is ingrained into every breath we take, every action we perform, every job we undertake, every choice we make.”

“I assume that choice is the important part,” Harry added.

Nicolas nodded in response.

“Indeed it is, Harry. The very point that I want, no, that I need you to understand, is that magic is about choice. As you said yourself, magic is a gift. This gift, we all have the freedom to choose how we use it. The greatest of good can be achieved with it, but conversely, so may the vilest of evils.”

Nicolas paused for a moment, confirming that Harry was listening. Whatever he saw on Harry’s face seemed to please him, as he continued immediately.

“How you to choose to use magic is your business, and none of mine. Whether you use Light or Dark magic, that is entirely up to you. What is important to me is the complete retention of choice. Those who fall to complete Darkness lose the ability to choose, a dire consequence of being fully consumed by the Dark.”

Harry nodded at Nicolas’s distinction.

“So it’s probably safe to say I won’t be learning any Dark magic from you,” Harry deduced.

“Correct you are, Harry, but most of the basic, beginner spells that I intend to teach are magically neutral.”

“I’m happy to learn anything you’ll teach me,” Harry added eagerly.

“Ah, a teacher could ask for nothing better than an eager pupil.”

Nicolas uncrossed his arms, withdrew his wand from the folds of his robe, and held it lightly in his left hand.

“How do you think magic works?”

Harry thought about all the books he’d read. Most of the texts he’d read dealt with magic in a more particular fashion, but he was fairly sure that he knew enough to answer the question.

“Words can make magic happen, but they don’t have to be spoken. If a wizard is powerful enough, they can think the words, and do the same thing.”

Nicolas listened to his explanation with a slight smile upon his face, leading Harry to believe this was the answer he had anticipated.

“How does transfiguration fit into your theory of how magic works?”

“Maybe a powerful wizard can just make magic do what they want.”

“If that indeed is the case, then how is it that Transfiguration can be taught to first years at Hogwarts?”

Harry found himself at a loss, and was sorely tempted to answer that it was all due to divine intervention. However, Nicolas was doing him a favor, so it wouldn’t do at all to be flippant.

“I’m not really sure.” Harry shrugged.

“Magic is completely without form, without structure. It is only the mind that is structured, which is the fundamental part of how one channels magic.”

Harry found himself confused even further, as the explanation flew in the face of everything he had ever read.

“If that’s the case, then why do people bother with spells?”

Nicolas spread his arms dramatically, indicating distance.

“There is a huge, wide, fundamental disconnect between humans and magic, despite the existence of wizards. The math supports this conclusion, as only an extremely small percentage of humanity are born with magical cores, as opposed to the unicorn, to which every foal is born with inherent magic. The first Wizarding researchers, around the time of Roman Empire, discovered that their magic worked best when the mind was properly formed. To ease and simplify magical use for the mind, names were given to the effects possible with magic. These first labels became standardized across the Wizarding world.”

When Nicolas stopped, Harry found himself full of questions. He seemed to realize this, and regarded Harry with a fond smile.

“You have a few questions, I take it?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

“Is this why most of the spells we learn are Latin?”

“It certainly is, but I believe you were fairly certain as to the answer. What is really confusing you?”

“Well…if the mind is the only important part of magic, what’s with the wand movements?”

Nicolas inclined his head slightly in approval.

“That is a much better question. The wand movements are important, as they govern the flow of magic through the wand. The more powerful the spell, the more vital the movements are. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Nicolas turned to his right, and held his wand more tightly.

“Activate target seven.”

At his words, a column of stone began to rise out of the floor. When the stone had risen to its full height of four feet, Nicolas held his wand in front of him. He slashed his wand to the right, then jabbed it forward, twisting the wand slightly. The same silver spell that he used against the intruder erupted from his wand, and slammed into the stone block, without doing damage to it. The spell completed, he turned back towards Harry.

“The ‘Clypeus Concussus’ is a Light spell that sends concussion waves through magical shields, proportional to the strength of the shield being used. It is a fairly complex, power intensive spell, so the wand movements are critical. Starting to the left, and then slashing to the right, or vice versa, is referred to as a ‘drawing motion’. The motion pulls magic forth from the magical core of the user, almost as if charging the spell. The forward jab is indicative of an offensive movement, channeling the magic in a direction away from the caster. The twist at the end…”

Nicolas trailed off, smirking slightly.

“That is a bit too complicated for a first lesson. Ultimately, only more powerful spells are really particular about wand movements. Weaker spells, not drawing as heavily upon the magical core, can still be cast with poor wand movements, but their power will be decreased, proportional to how sloppy the wandwork is. Of course, if I am to teach you, I will expect you to take pains to assure your wandwork is precise.”

“I won’t let you down,” Harry blurted out, “I’m really going to work hard at this.”

Nicolas looked at him with approval in his eyes.

“I am pleased to hear that. To answer the original question posed, however, transfiguration draws upon pure, unformed magic to perform tasks. More than any other magic, transfiguration is will-based, rather like an evolution of accidental magic. It is usually very hard for those new to magic to have success with, as it is one of the most formless of the magical disciplines, but it becomes easier with time and maturation of the magical core.”

“What exactly is the magical core?” Harry asked, never really finding an adequate explanation for the term.

“The magical core is an organ, but magical as opposed to physical, from which all of our magic…flows. The soul also contains a small amount of magic…but that is neither here nor there. Regardless, the magical core functions similar to a muscle. The more it is used, exercised, the larger its capacity for channeling magic. Younger children typically have trouble casting spells, because of their relatively weak and unused cores, but with repeated magical usage the core grows stronger. Does it make sense now?”

“Yeah, I understand now,” Harry replied.

“Splendid. Now would you prefer to keep stalling, or would you like to actually perform some magic?”

Harry chuckled gleefully, before answering in the affirmative.

“Excellent. The first spell I want you to try is the tickling hex, Rictumsempra, which is a rather weak spell, well-suited to beginners. The wand movements are simple, just a jab forward followed by the incantation. Try to hit the target, if you can.”

The last of Nicolas’ words held a small degree of challenge within them, which Harry fully intended to meet. Following Nicolas’ instructions, he jabbed his wand forward.

“Rictumsempra!”

A light blue jet of light sprung from his wand and struck the right edge of the target with a muffled thud. Even though the spell almost missed, he was elated to have actually met Nicolas’ challenge. Looking to his left, he saw that Nicolas was in awe, his mouth hanging open slightly.

“Well, it appears that I am going to have to jettison the next part of my script, where I encourage you by telling saying that no one succeeds on their first attempt, and that it usually takes several days of hard work to achieve any effect.”

Slightly taken aback by Nicolas’ words, he glanced at his wand, with slight suspicion.

“Is this rare?” Harry asked.

“Very much so,” Nicolas replied with a slight smile. “I was going to start you off with a few different spells, but I want to try something first.”

Nicolas reached into his robes, and withdrew a silver spoon. Harry gave it an inquisitive look, trying to figure out why he had a spoon.

“Stealing silverware again?”

“Guilty as charged. I did not think this would happen, but I wanted to be prepared in case you did prove…to be different. In order to transfigure something, you must have a clear picture of the end result, and how it goes through those changes.”

Nicolas held the sliver spoon aloft, giving him a clear view of it.

“How do you think that one might go about changing this into wood?”

“Well, I think I’d just picture the silver becoming less shiny, making it darker, morphing it into wood.”

Nicolas looked pleased by his hypothesis.

“That sounds like a fine starting point,” Nicolas said, placing the spoon on the floor. “Give it a try.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry leveled his wand at the spoon. In his mind, he pictured the spoon losing its bright sheen, pushing magic into his wand. He then darkened the color of the picture in his mind, picturing the smooth metal turning to rough wood.

With an exhale, he lowered his wand, and picked up the spoon he had been concentrating on. It felt rough upon his hands, completely unlike silver. Daring to hope, he raised it before his face for inspection.

It was perfect.

Harry was dumbfounded.

Was all magic this easy?

He looked to the side, to see Nicolas with his arms crossed, in deep contemplation.

“I guess this isn’t normal either.”

Nicolas shook his head slowly.

“No, it most certainly is not. You must have used magic before in your past.”

Harry became slightly agitated at the comment. Of course he had used magic while possessed, but he hadn’t exactly been in control.

Nicolas read the look on his face, and realized what he had implied.

“Let me apologize, Harry, I was not clear. The soul fragment in your body was most likely using your core as an amplifier, which limited the scope of the spells cast, but not the power. To accomplish a transfiguration such as this on your own, without training…it should not be possible.”

Harry’s momentary displeasure faded at Nicolas’ words.

“But I don’t remember anything about magic…from before.”

“That does not matter,” Nicolas said quickly, “the willpower and visualization required for transfiguration are reflexive once mastered.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, trying to digest what Nicolas was implying. He had always assumed that someone else had created the architecture of his mind, that he had merely been given the keys. Did he have a hand in creating it?

“What does this all mean?” Harry asked in a small voice.

“First, you are extremely advanced for your age, and should make every effort to not flaunt your magical skill at Hogwarts during your first year.”

“What else?”

A smile grew upon Nicolas’ face.

“Training you is going to be far more enjoyable than I originally anticipated.”

-

Author Notes:

It’s nice to finally post a chapter in a timely fashion. I certainly hope this trend continues.

There’s one more chapter left in this arc, which covers Harry’s time with the Flamels. After that, we shall be following our green-eyed hero to Hogwarts. I believe I’ll be able to get the next chapter out by mid-November, but as always, my update schedule is vulnerable to the vagaries of life. And video games.

Any comments, suggestions, or criticisms would be deeply appreciated, and inspire me to write as opposed to playing video games. I’ll make an effort to answer every review I get.

Thanks to my co-conspirators, darklordmike and Mira Mirth, for their valuable assistance with plotting, characterization, continuity and grammar. Their combined efforts probably save me at least a week of editing every chapter, and are deeply appreciated. Also, thanks to charmscharles for his plotting suggestions.

DLP Thanks:

The Lord of Chaos, Fuubar, Johnny Farrar, Ceebee, The DarIm, Catman, psihary

Thanks for reading.