The Three Brothers

7th June 1992

White.

Harry's eyes pricked as bright light invaded his senses. He could sense that he was awake, but it felt too surreal. He would have wondered where he was, but it was too exhausting to even think. Nevertheless, a small voice prickled inside him, urging him to remember what had happened. Harry got the feeling it was important; extremely important.

Summoning all the energy inside him, Harry tried to remember what had happened. As his eyes fluttered open, he saw a glint of gold in the corner of his eye.

A Snitch? Was it a quidditch match? He tried to reach for it, but his arms were too heavy. He could barely lift a finger.

'No,' Harry thought, his mind growing more coherent. Whatever he was trying to remember, the stakes had been higher. Much more higher.

As he felt an eternity pass by, a weird smell assaulted Harry's senses. He couldn't place it immediately, but he knew he recognised it anywhere. It was—clean.

Hospital Wing. Harry felt himself stir awake as his mind made that connection. But why was he here?

"Good Afternoon, Harry."

Harry heard the familiar voice coming from the Snitch. As his eyes focused, he realised it was a pair of golden half-rimmed glasses, perched on the nose of Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore. Another golden object surfaced from Harry's memories—the Mirror of Erised. As he recalled the last thing he remembered, Harry felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him. He jerked in a motion to get up, but Dumbledore placed a solid hand on his shoulder.

"Calm down, my boy," said Dumbledore. Harry turned to see his twinkling blue eyes, and Dumbledore continued. "The danger has passed, Harry. You're in the Hospital Wing now, and it is important that you get your rest."

The words had an immediate effect on Harry, and he felt his heart slowing down. Suddenly, Harry remembered what had happened to the Philosopher's Stone.

"Sir, the Stone, I—I tried to protect it, but —"

"It was destroyed," Professor Dumbledore finished for him. "Yes, you did tell me that when I arrived. It was just before you passed out. Gave me quite a scare actually." Harry stayed silent as the Headmaster gingerly placed Harry's glasses on his eyes. "As it turns out, you had suffered from magical exhaustion. Thankfully, none of the other injuries that you had suffered had any permanent effect."

Now being able to see much clearly, Harry looked around the room. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets. The bed was cordoned off with starch white curtains, and the table beside him was piled high with sweets and treats. He turned back towards Professor Dumbledore, who he noticed, looked more tired than usual.

"How—How long have I been here, sir?" he asked. Dumbledore gave an audible sigh before replying.

"Three days. Three very long days. I daresay your friends will be most relieved to hear that you have come around."

"Are they—Ron, and Hermione and —" Dumbledore must've sensed his worry, and he gave Harry a reassuring smile.

"Yes, they are alright," he said. "Thanks to Mr Smith's quick thinking, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, and Ms Granger were able to escape. Mr Weasley volunteered to stay by the trap door and inform me of the situation when I arrived."

A feeling of dread welled inside Harry as he felt his stomach drop.

"What about Mark?" he asked hesitantly. Professor Dumbledore gave another long sigh before replying.

"He is fine now," said Dumbledore, "but he had been badly injured as well. His physical injuries were more extensive than your own, but thankfully, he didn't suffer from any magical exhaustion. I believe he is currently asleep, a few beds over."

Harry looked over in the direction that the Headmaster had pointed and was disappointed to see the starched curtain staring back at him.

"Do not worry Harry," Professor Dumbledore said reassuringly. "You and your friends are all safe and sound. That, I believe, is the most important thing."

"But sir, what about your friend—Nicolas Flamel …" Harry stammered out guiltily.

"Oh, you know about Nicolas, then?" Dumbledore sounded a bit amused. "It seems you did the thing properly, didn't you?" Chucking he continued. "Well, Nicolas, his wife, and I had a little chat —"

A small chime interrupted the Headmaster, and Harry saw him fish out a small gold pocket watch. Professor Dumbledore peered at it over his glasses before a small smile graced his face.

"Well actually, it's better that you hear about it directly from them. They've arrived in the castle. I'll be back shortly."

Harry widened his eyes in horror as Professor Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder and left. They were coming here? What would they think? Surely, they would be disappointed in him. As the thoughts swirled in his head, Harry felt his stomach churn; it turned to panic as he heard footsteps approaching his bed. It dissipated immediately when the new arrivals turned out to be his friends.

"Harry, you're awake!" Hermione cried out as she hugged him. Over her shoulder, Harry spotted Ron and Neville sporting identical grins. Once Hermione stepped back, Ron offered his hand.

"How are you feeling, mate?"

Although he was smiling, Harry noticed that Ron's voice was carrying a hint of worry quite unlike him. Realising the sentiment, Harry just nodded in reply.

"Oh, we were so worried, Harry," Hermione whispered, her eyes now wide in fear. ". I—I still can't believe that it was Quirrell and that he - he had - thing on his head. I—I thought he was going to kill us."

"He was," Neville added softly, his eyes cast down on the floor. Harry saw that the three of them were reliving the events of that night. A surge of guilt hit him, and he shook his head sadly.

"I shouldn't have asked you guys to come in with me. I'm sorry. It—It was too dangerous …"

Harry had been expecting an angry retort; however, he hadn't expected it to come from Neville, who replied in a calm and stern voice.

"In case you do not remember Harry, you didn't ask us. We offered. And I do not think that anyone here regrets coming with you down through that trapdoor."

Harry tried to think of a suitable reply, but Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

"And anyway, how were you planning on crossing the chessboard without Ron's help?" Hermione argued.

Ron suddenly found the stone ceiling of the Hospital wing interesting, while Neville began to cough softly. Still convinced of his own guilt, Harry stared at Hermione.

"But what good did any of it do? The Stone was destroyed, wasn't it? What will Mr Flamel say?"

"He would say that he is extremely impressed—and frankly surprised at the skills and courage of the young witches and wizards who have done him a great service." came a rather crisp voice from behind the curtains, which opened to reveal the newcomers.

Standing with Professor Dumbledore was a couple who looked like they were in their early sixties. The man was dressed in a prim grey robe, while the lady was dressed in deep scarlet ones.

It was Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel

------------------------------------------

Albus took a step back as Nicholas and Perenelle introduced themselves to the children. Over the years, he had gotten used to the look of awe that young—and sometimes old—wizards and witches got on them when interacting with him personally. But to see them meet the Flamels—well that was a treat in itself.

The four children were far more composed than others their age. Then again, a meeting with Voldemort was something that would force maturity on even the wisest of men. Albus felt deep sorrow well inside him as he looked over the faces of the children. He could only hope that their innocence wasn't completely lost yet.

Miss Granger was beaming nervously; Albus chuckled inwardly as he recalled his own self meeting Nicholas for the first time. Mr Weasley and Mr Longbottom were awkwardly silent, their hands clasped behind their back to prevent any accidental embarrassment. However, Albus observed that Harry still had guilt etched all over his face.

"Dear children," Nicholas said, the introductions now finished, "We wish to sincerely thank you." On seeing the looks on the children's faces, he added, "Yes, all of you. You have shown tremendous fibre in your efforts to ensure that our property didn't fall into the wrong hands —"

He turned towards Albus before giving him a pointed look.

"—although I do wish it hadn't come to it."

Albus winced inwardly. He remembered the sour conversation that had taken place when he had informed the Flamel of the events. Nicholas had been convinced that it was all Albus' convoluted plan to destroy the Stone; it was only when Albus revealed Voldemort's involvement that Nicholas had paled and stopped the accusations.

Albus' reverie was broken when he heard Harry stutter out an apology.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't wish for the stone to —"

"Oh, Mr Potter, didn't you listen?" Perenelle interrupted. "We're proud of you. You went above and beyond what was expected of an eleven-year-old wizard. It was more important that the Stone not fall into the hands of dark forces, and you did just that."

"But sir, won't—won't you die?"

Both Nicholas and Perenelle shared a soft smile—one that Albus had seen on many occasions—before replying.

"Mr Potter, the elixir acts in essence to stop the ageing of the body. Even without the elixir, we will live for year or two, and we have enough elixir stored for a few more."

Albus saw the children's faces mixed with awe and sadness. Harry's face, in particular, was still racked with guilt.

"To one as young as you," Perenelle continued, her eyes scanning over the four children, "death may seem incredible. But for Nicolas and I—well, we've been alive for a long time." After a pause, she added, "A very, very, long time."

There was a long silence, in which the four Gryffindor students digested this wisdom. It was broken by a distant bell signalling lunch.

"Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, Ms Granger," Albus said, "I believe it is time for you to have your lunch in the great hall. I'm sure Mr Potter would like you to visit later." The three students nodded silently and left. Once they had exited the Hospital wing, Nicholas turned to Albus.

"Albus, I think we should now convey our thanks to the fifth member of Mr Potters party."

"Of course, Nicholas." Albus began to escort them towards the bed where young Mark Smith was currently resting. Perenelle must've sensed his hesitation to leave Harry, and she addressed him in a low voice.

"We can find our way, dear Albus, if you wish to stay here."

Albus smiled at her thankfully.

"That is most grateful of you," he said, before giving an audible sigh. "I believe Mr Potter still has a few private questions on his mind, and I think I should make myself available to answer them."

"Of course, Albus. We understand," she replied, and Albus turned back towards Harry. He took a few steps before she interrupted him again.

"Albus."

He turned around to see Perenelle giving him a searching look.

"Do remember that he is only a child."

Albus gave her a small nod in reply before heading continuing onwards. Of course he knew Harry was still a child. But that hadn't stopped fate from setting him on a path that even the strongest wizards would hesitate to walk on. No, fate had not been kind to Harry at all.

As he sat down beside Harry, Albus observed the young wizard in front of him. He seemed conflicted about something, and Albus decided to ease his mind.

"What is it, my boy?"

Harry took a moment before answering. It was clear that there was a lot on his mind.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?" he asked. "I mean another question," he added quickly.

Albus chuckled inwardly as he remembered their meeting during the Christmas break.

"Of course," he replied. "I'm here for precisely that reason. I shall endeavour to answer all your questions—unless I have a very good reason not to. I hope you forgive me for it." Seeing the pensive look on Harry's face, Albus decided to offer a reprieve. "But I promise I will not lie."

Harry gave him a serious nod and stared at the starch white blanket on his feet.

"I've been thinking … even though the Stone is gone, Vol-, sorry, You-Know-Who —"

"You should call him Voldemort, Harry," Albus interrupted. "Fearing a name only increases the fear of the thing itself."

"Voldemort. He—he'll try to come back, won't he? I mean—I mean he's still out there —"

"Yes, he is." Albus laced his fingers as he considered his answer carefully.

"He will try to come back. Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. In time, he might find another body to share. But as you saw, he doesn't care for his followers any more than his enemies; he left Quirinus to die."

Albus observed as Harry dealt with the obvious fear swirling inside of him. He decided to offer the boy—and himself—some hope.

"Do not worry, Harry. As long as there is someone prepared to fight what seems to be a losing battle—they may delay him as you did. And if he is delayed again and again, he may not ever return to power." Harry nodded silently as Albus saw him give the words some consideration.

"Sir," he spoke after a moment. "Quirrell. He—he burnt himself when he tried to touch me." Albus saw the pain and guilt rise behind the young face before Harry continued, now speaking very softly. "I—I burned him when I touched his face."

"You are not responsible for his death Harry," Albus replied at once, trying to stub the thought before it took hold in Harry's mind. "Quirinus Quirrell, in his greed for power, shared his soul with Voldemort. In doing that, he sealed his own fate."

He saw that the young man in front of him was still unconvinced.

"I repeat Harry—you are not responsible for his death," Albus said before turning back to Harry's query.

"To answer your question, my boy, the reason Quirrell couldn't touch you is that you have been protected by a form of magic stronger than any other." Albus took a pause as he looked at Harry searchingly. "Love. More precisely, your mother's love for you. She sacrificed herself for you, Harry. If there is one thing Voldemort can never fathom, it is love. He didn't realise that a love as powerful as your mother's leaves its own mark."

"No, not your scar. Not a visible sign, but a protection that thrives within you—one which helped you survive the killing curse and one which is still protecting you. For someone so full of hate, it is agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and Albus realised the poor boy had misted his eyes. Deciding against comforting him directly, Albus turned to look out the window and give Harry some privacy.

It was some time before the sniffs subsided, and Albus noticed Harry rubbing his eyes over his sleeve.

"Sir," Harry said, and Albus turned back to look at him.

"Voldemort—he said—he said that the only reason my mother—died was because she tried to stop him from killing me." Dread filled inside Albus as he closed his eyes in anticipation of the one question he did not wish to answer. "Why did he want to kill me in the first place?"

A memory surfaced—a cold, rainy evening spent in his brother's pub. The night which he wished had never happened. Albus still remembered the taste of the cold butterbeer in his mouth, and how it had tasted like ash afterwards. Opening his eyes, he remembered Perenelle's words once again, and the smallest doubt in his mind fizzled away.

"I fear, my boy, that this is a thing I cannot tell you," Albus finally answered. "Not today. Not for some time." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "You will know, one day. When you are older —"

"But —"

"Harry. I know that at your age you hate to hear that very statement. But trust me. When you are ready, you will know."

You will have to, Albus thought to himself as he hoped that moment would be many years away. If there was one thing Harry Potter deserved, it was some semblance of innocent youth.

"Okay, Professor," Harry finally replied, and Albus could make out that the grudging acceptance in his voice. Giving Harry a small smile, Albus turned to check on the Flamels.

"I wonder what is taking them so long," he remarked casually. This seemed to remind Harry of their presence, and his guilt resurfaced.

"I'm sorry, sir." Albus saw that Harry was picking on the loose threads on his sleeves. "I—I wish I could've saved the Stone."

Albus stared at Harry as he considered his thoughts before deciding to share them with Harry; the boy had earned it.

"Personally, Harry, I'm not that disturbed with the loss of the Stone, and I think the Flamels agree with me—at least in principle."

Seeing the incredible look on Harry's face, Albus gave him a small smile before continuing.

"Although it was an incredible artefact, it was too powerful—a needless temptation for those weak in spirit."

------------------------------------------

Mark stared at his boots—kept near the chair beside him—as he heard the footsteps approach his bed. He heard them speak with Headmaster Dumbledore, who seemed to walk back to Harry's bed.

Mark was glad that Harry was conscious now. He had not really understood what Madam Pomfrey had meant by magical exhaustion—other than the obvious. The events of that night kept repeating themselves in his mind, and Mark couldn't forget the look Voldemort had given him before Dumbledore had arrived.

Deciding to make himself presentable before the Flamels entered, Mark pushed himself up on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. He was just in time as the curtains opened to reveal the Flamels.

"Hello, sir. Ma'am." They both smiled in response; they looked much younger than he had anticipated.

"Good afternoon, Mr Smith," Mr Flamel said, "I'm glad that you are awake. How are you feeling, young man?"

"Much better, sir."

"You've had quite the adventure," he remarked.

"Nothing I wish to repeat, sir," Mark clarified.

"That is wise of you," Madam Flamel said, before taking a brief pause. "You showed great courage, Mr Smith. We thank you."

"The stone —"

"Albus told us what happened, Mr Smith," Mr Flamel interrupted. "You saved the life of your friend and prevented the Dark Lord from getting his hands on the Stone. Your actions, young man, were perfectly acceptable."

"What about you?"

"Well, as we told Mr Potter, we do have some elixir left—a couple of years to settle everything." Mr Flamel answered reassuringly. "After all, immortality had never been our primary concern. We knew we were delaying the inevitable, and after six centuries we were —" he paused, before correcting himself, "— are prepared for it."

Doubts swirled in Mark's mind as he weighed his thoughts. He decided he needed more information.

"How does it work?" he asked. "The Elixir, I mean."

Both the Flamels gave him a kind look before Madam Flamel decided to explain.

"It kept us from ageing," she said. "The Stone—it was a mysterious artefact, even for us. That was why we kept it, actually. To spend our time studying it more thoroughly."

"Does the Elixir have healing properties?" asked Mark. "Can it cure diseases?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mr Flamel replied, shuffling a bit on his feet. "We did manage to discover a cure for dragon pox, for example."

"Would it work—would it work with normal—non-magical humans?"

Mr Flamel gave him an odd look. Madam Flamel, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes in curiosity.

"As far as we can tell, the magic in the elixir doesn't react kindly to non-magical humans," she finally said. "Most potions with active components—as you'll learn when you're older—require the subject to have magic in their system. Otherwise, it burns through the digestive tract."

She took a pensive pause as she crossed her arms.

"Why did you ask that question, Mr Smith?"

Mark closed his eyes as he finally came to a decision. Opening them, he gleaned Madam Flamel as delicately as he could—it was important for him to know if he could trust them.

"My dad," Mark said once he was finished, "he's non-magical. He has leukaemia. I was wondering if there was a magical cure."

A look of understanding—and kindness—appeared in Madam Flamel's eyes.

"That is a terrible affliction," she said. "Unfortunately, there hasn't been a cure found for it yet, even in the magical world."

Mark found himself lost in his thoughts once more, and Mr Flamel looked at him worriedly.

"Mr Smith, is something the matter?" he finally asked.

Mark looked at them both as he clenched his jaw, trying to work up the courage to say what he wished to say.

"What if we can find out?" he said, before swallowing the lump in his throat. "What if the Stone can be used to find a cure?"

Both the Flamels had confused looks on their faces. Before they could ask him any questions, Mark slowly slid out of his bed and walked towards the chair. He bent down—slowly, so as to avoid the pain—and picked up his left boot before returning to the bed.

"He didn't …" Madam Flamel whispered; she seemed to have realised what Mark had done. Mr Flamel still looked confused—that was until Mark put his hand inside the boot and fished out a blood-red stone. Turning it once in his hand he handed it to Madam Flamel; Mr Flamel looked gobsmacked.

"How?" he managed to finally splutter out. Mark realised that he owed them an explanation, and he took a deep breath before proceeding.

"Once I found out that—that it was the Stone that was —" Mark began, unable to correctly convey his thoughts. He took another pause before continuing.

"I couldn't destroy it," he said. "But Harry—Voldemort was after the Stone and Harry was in danger, so I needed for Voldemort to think that I had destroyed the stone." Mark found his words flowing more smoothly now. "Once I saw the stone on the floor, I summoned it to myself. But I needed to distract Voldemort, so I transfigured a chocolate frog in my pocket into a red stone and aimed it at the flame door."

A long silence followed, and Mark grew uncomfortable. Mr Flamel finally broke the silence.

"I cannot believe it," he said. "Albus told us —"

"I didn't tell him," Mark interrupted. "I didn't tell anyone."

"You wanted to try and cure your father," Madam Flamel said softly. Mark nodded slowly.

"On seeing you—I couldn't decide whether to keep it or not. I—I couldn't knowingly —"

"I understand, Mr Smith," she said. "Trust me, I do understand. I think it's best if everyone believes the Stone to be destroyed," Madam Flamel finished with a brief glance at her husband. Mr Flamel nodded his assent; however, he still seemed to be in shock.

"The Dark Lord," he whispered, more to himself, "he's an accomplished Legilimens. How could a mere child —"

Madam Flamel interrupted him as her eyes sparkled with realisation. She looked Mark in the eyes.

"That's because you're a Natural Legilimens, aren't you?"

Now it was Mark's turn to be dumbstruck. He hadn't expected the Flamels to find this out about him.

"How were you planning to do it?" she asked, finally pocketing the Stone. "Finding a cure—what made you think you could do it?"

"Why not?" Mark answered defensively. "There are bound to be some books on alchemy here—plus I could have the stone examined by non-magical means. Spectrography, chemical tests. Maybe I would have found something—something new."

Realising that he sounded too arrogant, Mark took a deep breath to calm himself.

"I didn't—I didn't plan to take the stone," he tried to explain. "I just didn't want to miss out on the opportunity." Looking around he tried to think of something else to say. "I mean, for my purpose, having the elixir would have been more important than the Stone. I imagine making the elixir isn't as simple as boiling the stone in water," Mark finished with a nervous smile. Both the Flamels gave him a small nod in reply, their eyes narrowed at him in curiosity.

"What would you have done if you had the Elixir?"

"Study it, I guess," he answered. "Try and understand its composition. Understand what makes it stop ageing. Isolate the active compounds." Taking a brief pause, he continued, "I think it promotes cellular regeneration, so its effects on the blood cells would be most important to know —"

"You wished to see how it would react with blood?" Mr Flamel interrupted in a stern voice. "Blood magic is a very Dark Magic, Mr Smith and not to be trifled with —"

"No, no—you misunderstand. I meant to try and understand the effects if taken intravenously," Mark said, "You know, injecting it into the bloodstream. That way, it isn't subjected to the digestive tract, and it might react differently."

It was a long while before anyone broke the silence; Mark looked at the two Flamels—their old faces had childlike smiles as they seemed to be lost in thought.

"Brilliant," Madam Flamel finally whispered, before turning to look at her husband. "Why didn't we ever consider it before?"

"I heard about Muggle healers trying it out a few decades ago," Mr Flamel recalled, "but the idea seemed preposterous back then," he finished sheepishly.

'More like a century ago,' thought Mark privately. The magical world seemed to be horribly out of date with regards to the non-magical one.

"They use it all the time now," he said aloud, "in non-magical medicine. All I've seen here are potions."

Another silence followed Mark's statement, and he saw the Flamels hold a silent conversation. Once they were done, Mr Flamel turned to look at Mark, an odd expression on his face.

"Mr Smith," he said. "It seems we have something more to ask of you."

Mark nodded slowly as he tried to figure out what more the Flamels wanted of him.

"Actually, it is an offer." Madam Flamel brushed a hand over her robe. "Since you so clearly have a plan to proceed along with your idea, we wish to offer a chance to actually do it."

"You're offering me a chance to work with you?" Mark asked disbelievingly. There was no way—after all, why would they?

"Indeed," Madam Flamel replied before Mark could say anything else. "I know what you're thinking. You might be young, but there is a certain—creativity in you that we haven't seen in a long time. You're clearly the inventive sort, and most importantly, you do not have a bias towards the magical world—something that we seem to have a problem with."

"Indeed. It is foolish to dismiss something without reason." Mr Flamel nodded in agreement. "So, young man—are you willing to work with us?"

"Yes!" Mark answered, his mind racing away with the implications of this offer. He saw Madam Flamel give him a soft smile as she wordlessly extended her arm towards her husband—he saw him fish a small crystal flask from his grey robes and hand it over to her.

"Here is your first sample then. Keep us informed with your progress," she said, offering the flask to Mark. "Keep in mind, however, that your studies should not be affected because of this."

Mark nodded silently as he stared at the crystal flask—it was filled with a pearly rose liquid. He took it before placing it gingerly on the table beside him. He was lost in his thoughts when Madam Flamel interrupted his reverie.

"You know," she said, "your father is a lucky man to have you as a son."

The dam broke as the emotions he'd been trying to keep in check were let loose. Mark found his eyes prickle with tears as he moved swiftly towards the kind old witch in front of him and gave her a tight hug.

"Thank you."

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