Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Alchemical Reactions
Seeing is Not Always Believing
3 reviewsHarry isn't adjusting well to his time at the Flamels and decides that desperate times call for desperate measures.
0Original
Disclaimer: I do not own the lovely, brilliant, amazing, brilliant, genius, brilliant work of literature that JK Rowling has written. I also don’t own Tylenol, Advil, or Aspirin. Nicholas Flamel too—not even JKR owns him: he was a real-live alchemist. The name Fanchon, while not taken from anyone I know in real life, was taken from a book called A Spell for Chameleon by Piers Anthony (a good read, by the way!), so I don’t own that either.
Alchemical Reactions
Chapter Two
Seeing is Not Always Believing
“Bloody Flamels,” Harry said kicking his dresser. He had been sent to ‘his’ room for pulling down some paintings in the Flamel home. “Bloody manor,” he kicked again. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, for he had kicked again and stubbed his toe.
It had been a month since Harry had arrived at the Flamel Manor in Manchester, and he hated ever minute of it. His goal of returning to the orphanage by New Years had not been met, and Harry found himself resenting the Flamels even more for causing him to fail where he hadn’t failed before. Maybe I’m out of practice? /Harry thought to himself. It/ has been a year, after all. He knew this probably wasn’t the case, however. He had tried every trick he knew, and then some. Minus, of course, what had caused the reports of ‘abnormalities’ and ‘odd occurrences.’ I shouldn’t… I daren’t…or do I? he debated with himself. He knew it was a bad idea as it tended to get a bit out of hand…but the Flamels were possibly the most resistant out of all his foster ‘parents.’ If I’m not out of here by the beginning of March, he told himself, I’ll do it. He hoped that he would be.
Unfortunately for Harry, he seemed to be fated to release what he considered to be his ‘abnormality.’ He tried everything he could: he kicked and screamed, once getting Nicholas Flamel in the family jewels, to little effect; he stayed silent for a whole week, refusing to say a word; he trashed his room; he stole Perenelle Flamel’s unmentionables—all to no avail. The Flamels, aging as they were, seemed to want to keep him quite badly.
Why the hell do they want to keep a bratty kid like me? Harry thought to himself, one night in late February. He knew what he was going to have to do to get himself out of the Flamels’ and he didn’t like it one bit. The next time he was allowed out of his isolation…
The Flamels allowed him out of his room the very next day, as Harry hadn’t done anything too bad recently to cause a long stay in his room. He was lead down to breakfast by the Flamel’s odd-looking butler, who rarely spoke and did not react to the nasty glares that Harry so often threw at him. The butler left him in the kitchen, where a bowl of porridge and a glass of juice awaited him. Harry glared at both, taking all of the frustration that had piled up in the last few months and pushing it into both.
The bowl and glass shattered, spraying shards of glass, ceramic pieces, orange juice and globs of porridge everywhere. The glass table he had been sitting at began to shake, before fracturing and fragmenting into pieces. Harry screamed as the glass cut him, spinning around him in a deadly whirlwind. Other objects from the kitchen joined the fray, the clatter and bang of pots accompanying the shattering sounds of glass and Harry’s screams in a horrifying symphony of destruction.
**
Several Hours Earlier…
“I hate keeping him locked up like that, Nick,” said Perenelle Flamel to her husband in a brief fit of sympathy for the child they had adopted.
“I know you hate it, but you also agree that he needs to learn discipline,” replied Nicholas, sighing. His aging eyes studied the pensieve they had set up to monitor Harry and his reactions. “Besides, he’s only doing this because he thinks he isn’t wanted. I’m waiting for him to use his magic—I bet he only acts up so that he gets returned to the orphanage for the usual reasons instead of odd ones.”
“Dear,” sighed Perenelle, “I know that you’re hoping that he does something of the sort…but, well, what if he doesn’t? He really could be just the average misbehaving child.”
“I don’t think so,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I’m almost certain he’s used his magic before. Besides, he was rather quiet when I saw him at the orphanage through that peephole that the owner keeps. He just sat there, reading.”
They had had this discussion numerous times already, yet Nicholas was not willing to give in to Perenelle’s wishes to return Harry to where he wished to be. Nicholas was sure that Harry was desperate enough to use magic now, as he had been there two months and hadn’t come up with anything destructive enough since he had stolen all of Perenelle’s personal belongings. The poor boy hadn’t realized that his desperation to escape from their care was only rooted in the fact that he was rejected so often—he needed to learn that no matter what he did he would not be sent back to the orphanage. A terrible habit to develop and Harry needed to learn otherwise.
After several more hours of watching, long after Perenelle had left, citing the need for fresh air, Nicholas called Teppy the house-elf into his room. “Teppy,” he said to the house-elf kindly. “I’d like you to escort Harry out of his room. I’m going to be putting a charm on you to make you look like a human, so you don’t speak to Harry unless necessary. Okay?”
“Yes master,” replied Teppy, nodding eagerly. Nicholas cast the charm on Teppy and told him he could go, before turning to the pensieve where he watched Teppy’s appearance in Harry’s room.
Nicholas loved his alterations to the pensieve. It worked much like a muggle video camera, recording what was happening wherever he placed a certain spell. It had taken him years to work out, until he had figured out that as long as he kept in a small time delay, it was quite possible to have as a fully functioning security system. Of course, one needed money and a large selection of pensieves…but the idea was sound.
Nicholas switched his view from the pensieve of Harry’s room to the corridor as Teppy lead Harry on his way the kitchen. He chuckled at Harry’s expression, amused at such a menacing glare in a nine year old. Teppy left Harry alone in the kitchen as he had been instructed to do and Nicholas watched with a growing certainty that Harry would use his magic purposefully in the moments to come. A smug grin appeared on his face as Harry’s glass began to crack, but it quickly faded as he saw the results of Harry’s frustration form into something that could kill Harry himself.
**
Harry awoke in a room that smelt strongly of antiseptic. He knew immediately where he was—he had been in a hospital before. Still, he kept his eyes closed, wary. The last time he had ended up in hospital, a police officer had been talking about pressing charges against him while he thought he was asleep, or getting him to go seek ‘help.’ It was this forewarning that had let him escape any time sitting with a child psychologist who would moan about his troubled childhood.
“…had to reattach his finger! Mr. Flamel, what on/ earth/ were you thinking when you left a magically violent child alone in a room full of knives and glass?” exclaimed a lady in a harsh tone.
Magically violent? Reattach a finger? Harry didn’t dare wiggle his fingers, but he was sure that they were all there…were they? And magic? Is that what I have, he thought to himself, astounded, magic? Magic doesn’t exist…/he thought derisively. Then his memories of what he had done in the Flamel’s kitchen flooded back to him, and he was stumped as to how else to explain it. /So maybe I /do /have magic…or whatever it is.
“I didn’t realize that he’d be that violent,” replied the voice that Harry recognized as Flamel’s. Stupid old geezer. “I suppose I should have expected something like that, though. He has been rather uncooperative with the adoption process. I am sorry, Healer Fanchon.”
“Next time, keep a better eye on him. Children should not have to have their fingers reattached and their eyeballs re-grown.” Eyeballs REGROWN? Harry nearly gave away that he was awake at that. My eyeballs had to be…re-grown? That is so...wicked! Like many young boys, Harry had a fascination with the strange, abnormal, and disgusting.
Harry could hear footsteps approaching his bed. He slowed his breathing as the two pairs of feet approached, calming it from the unexpected announcement of re-grown eyeballs.
“Stop pretending to be asleep, Mr. Potter,” a stern voice said from above his head. Harry heard the rustling of cloth, indicating that Healer Fanchon was moving around. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Be that way, then,” she huffed. “I’ll leave the explaining to Mr. Flamel then. Just don’t act so surprised when you actually open your eyes.” Despite her words, Harry stubbornly refused to open his eyes, challenging he reverse psychology techniques. “Fine, you stubborn boy,” she harrumphed, before stomping out of the room.
There was silence for a few minutes before Harry heard Nicholas clear his throat and begin to speak. “You know that the monitor shows you’re awake. You’re really quite a stubborn child.” It was then that Harry gave up his pretext of sleeping, and instead opened his eyes to glare at Nicholas.
He wasn’t expecting the flood of colours that accompanied it though. Harry let out a loud expletive, as the pain from the darkness of his closed eyelids replaced too quickly by strong, vibrant, bright lights overwhelmed him and he had to close his eyes again. A pair of footsteps hurriedly entered the room, and Harry sat up to face where the door would presumably be.
“I told you so, Mr. Potter. You and Mr. Flamel,” the Healer from earlier sighed. “Never have I met two more stubborn, pig-headed people in my whole life.”
“What the hell did you do to my eyes?” Harry demanded, wincing as a headache began to develop.
“We re-grew them after your accidental magic mishap. Your glasses shattered with the rest of the breakable objects in the Flamel’s kitchen, completely destroying them. The good news is that you’ll never need glasses again. The bad news is that Mr. Flamel here insisted that we add he charms to see magic, the obstinate old man that he is. Unfortunately, there are some adverse affects until you get used to them.”
Harry nearly said the words ‘magic doesn’t exist’ in response to her explanation, but instead held his tongue, remembering that his eyeballs had indeed been re-grown. Unless…
“This is some elaborate trick you’re playing, Mr. Flamel,” Harry said. “If you think it’s going to make me feel better and want to/ live/ with you and your wife, you’re quite wrong. I was better off at the orphanage.”
Surprisingly, Nicholas laughed. “This isn’t a trick, Harry. Magic is real. You’re a wizard. Well, a wizard with no training, but still. It’s why most of your foster homes got rid of you; they were scared of the accidental magic you produced while scared or in great need of something.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harry sceptically.
“Open your eyes, Mr. Potter,” Healer Fanchon said.
“No,” Harry replied defiantly. “You’ll just turn on those crazy lights again and make my headache worse.” It was really getting bad now, building up behind his eyes and pulsing.
“I shall be creating a curtain of magic around your bed,” she replied. “It should be the only thing you’ll see, except for the magic within Mr. Flamel and me, perhaps a spot or too on your bed.”
Harry opened his eyes. Instead of the blinding lights of earlier, he could see a shimmering blue-grey glow surrounding the bed, looking almost like a holographic curtain. He looked to his right—the Healer beside him contained a fierce yellow glow, burning Harry’s retinas. He instead turned his head to his left, where Mr. Flamel sat, a vibrant purple emanating from inside him.
“What is that?” he asked in wonder, ignoring his earlier reluctance.
“That, Harry, is magic,” replied Mr. Flamel.
“Okay, so how do I turn it off?”
The people-shaped blurs of yellow and purple turned to each other, paused, the turned back to Harry. “You, well, don’t,” replied the Healer uncertainly.
“I can’t turn it off?” Harry asked disbelieving. “I have to be like this for the rest of my life?”
“It’s a trial procedure. We don’t usually do it—nor have we ever performed it on a child before,” she glared at Nicholas. “We rarely get anyone in here who’s lost an eye, or both. However, your guardian insisted upon the procedure…so now you’ve got magic eyes.”
“Gee, thanks.” Harry said, sarcastically, glaring at the purple glow to his left.
“It’s not all bad. You can dim the magic so it’s almost not there, but that takes a few days for your body to adjust to. The magic has to merge with your own, allowing you better control.”
“Brilliant,” Harry winced as his headache worsened. “Now, could someone please explain to me what the hell this magic stuff is about? / And /why Mr. Flamel didn’t tell me about it when I came to live with him?”
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I figured you’d need time to adjust. Perenelle and I didn’t realize you’d be so violent. So I figured we’d wait until you performed accidental magic—much more believable and a good way for you to work off stress.”
“So instead I have to have a finger re-grown, numerous injuries repaired, and my bleeding eyes re-grown?” Harry asked incredulously.
“Well…I didn’t expect such a violent outburst. You have incredibly strong magic, Harry.”
“So? I’ve lived without magic my whole life—I don’t/ need/ magic, if all it does is give you violent headaches,” Harry said bitterly, saying the words just to get a reaction. He was disappointed, however, as Healer Fanchon immediately began fussing over him.
“You have a headache, Mr. Potter? Why did you not inform me?” Healer Fanchon said, thrusting a goblet from which a sickly green glow was radiating into his hands. “Drink this.”
“What the hell is this? No Tylenol, Aspirin, Advil?” Harry asked, looking doubtfully at the churning liquid.
“What on earth are those?” this was the first time Harry had found the Healer less than knowledgeable.
“Muggle medicine,” replied Nicholas. “Has a similar affect to pain-killing potions.”
“Muggle?” Harry asked, sniffing the goblet distrustfully.
“Non-magic. Drink up,” replied the Healer.
Harry sighed, doing as he was told and grimacing at the taste. His headache vanished immediately. He looked at the goblet in wonder. “That’s…that’s amazing!” he exclaimed. “Can anyone learn to make this?”
“Yes, Harry,” replied Nicholas. “With enough training, magic can do anything.”
“Anything at all?” An idea was forming at the back of Harry’s mind, barely acknowledged for now and left to brew.
“Anything.”
“When can I start learning?” he asked, eagerly. The Healer and Nicholas exchanged glances, dubious of Harry’s motives after such a quick change of attitude. “What?” he said, sounding insulted. “I’m not allowed to want to learn about a talent I have?”
“No, I suppose you are,” replied Nicholas, looking hesitantly at his charge.
There were a few seconds of silence, before Harry asked again, “When do I begin?”
“At age eleven, of course,” replied the Healer promptly. “At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
“Two years?” Harry exclaimed, chagrined. “I have to wait two whole years?”
“Well…” the Healer said hesitantly.
“You’ll begin right away, Harry. You’re not going to Hogwarts,” Mr. Flamel said, looking intently at the young boy before him. He saw a thirst for knowledge in Harry’s newly fashioned eyes, one that he had similarly held when he was a boy. He knew he couldn’t allow Harry to attend Hogwarts. Dumbledore would take advantage of him far too easily.
Nicholas and Dumbledore had a long history, not all of it good. Nicholas had worked with Dumbledore briefly on discovering the twelve uses of dragon blood, but Dumbledore had liked to interfere a tad too much in Nicholas’s private life that he had liked. They had argued about it, and were now on ‘polite’ terms with each other, though neither really got along. Perenelle had hypothesized that perhaps it had something to do with there only being so much room for powerful wizards in the world that they clashed a tad too much to get along well…but that was just a theory. Recently, Dumbledore had been insisting that Nicholas hide the Philosopher’s Stone in Hogwarts—some gibberish about Voldemort’s eminent return and other such nonsense.
Privately, Nicholas thought that Dumbledore was a tad too power hungry. Usually very well meaning, but the Philosopher’s Stone was quite safe where it currently was, and there was no need to put the responsibility of looking after it on someone else’s shoulders. Dumbledore just wanted to be in control of the situation, as usual. Nicholas would not allow that to happen with Harry. Not if he could avoid it.
Nicholas was broken from his musings by the shocked voice of the Healer. “He’s not going to Hogwarts?” she asked, astounded.
“No, he shall not. I’m a more than adequate teacher and Perenelle is no slouch when it comes to knowledge either.”
“I’ll be learning from you? After all I did?” Harry asked, suddenly suspicious.
“It’s expected, considering what you’ve gone through,” Nicholas replied gently. “Besides, it’s a lot easier to learn in an environment suited exactly to your needs. A lot easier to teach, too.”
“So… I’ll be learning magic then?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“And other things? Will I learn about my parents?”
“Of course. In fact, I shouldn’t be so surprised that you haven’t heard the story of your parents’ deaths before. You did grow up without magic, after all.”
Nicholas began to explain Harry’s history to him, as the Healer quietly made her exit and left to the two to bond. A shiver ran up her spine as she watched the two talk intently—one boy of nine, one ancient man in the middle of his sixth century of life. Fanchon knew that she had partaken in something monumental, something that would probably affect the world for decades to come. In what way, however, she was not sure.
For good or for ill, /she thought to herself, that boy’s going to be the catalyst for much change in the lives of everyday witches and wizards. /
Alchemical Reactions
Chapter Two
Seeing is Not Always Believing
“Bloody Flamels,” Harry said kicking his dresser. He had been sent to ‘his’ room for pulling down some paintings in the Flamel home. “Bloody manor,” he kicked again. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, for he had kicked again and stubbed his toe.
It had been a month since Harry had arrived at the Flamel Manor in Manchester, and he hated ever minute of it. His goal of returning to the orphanage by New Years had not been met, and Harry found himself resenting the Flamels even more for causing him to fail where he hadn’t failed before. Maybe I’m out of practice? /Harry thought to himself. It/ has been a year, after all. He knew this probably wasn’t the case, however. He had tried every trick he knew, and then some. Minus, of course, what had caused the reports of ‘abnormalities’ and ‘odd occurrences.’ I shouldn’t… I daren’t…or do I? he debated with himself. He knew it was a bad idea as it tended to get a bit out of hand…but the Flamels were possibly the most resistant out of all his foster ‘parents.’ If I’m not out of here by the beginning of March, he told himself, I’ll do it. He hoped that he would be.
Unfortunately for Harry, he seemed to be fated to release what he considered to be his ‘abnormality.’ He tried everything he could: he kicked and screamed, once getting Nicholas Flamel in the family jewels, to little effect; he stayed silent for a whole week, refusing to say a word; he trashed his room; he stole Perenelle Flamel’s unmentionables—all to no avail. The Flamels, aging as they were, seemed to want to keep him quite badly.
Why the hell do they want to keep a bratty kid like me? Harry thought to himself, one night in late February. He knew what he was going to have to do to get himself out of the Flamels’ and he didn’t like it one bit. The next time he was allowed out of his isolation…
The Flamels allowed him out of his room the very next day, as Harry hadn’t done anything too bad recently to cause a long stay in his room. He was lead down to breakfast by the Flamel’s odd-looking butler, who rarely spoke and did not react to the nasty glares that Harry so often threw at him. The butler left him in the kitchen, where a bowl of porridge and a glass of juice awaited him. Harry glared at both, taking all of the frustration that had piled up in the last few months and pushing it into both.
The bowl and glass shattered, spraying shards of glass, ceramic pieces, orange juice and globs of porridge everywhere. The glass table he had been sitting at began to shake, before fracturing and fragmenting into pieces. Harry screamed as the glass cut him, spinning around him in a deadly whirlwind. Other objects from the kitchen joined the fray, the clatter and bang of pots accompanying the shattering sounds of glass and Harry’s screams in a horrifying symphony of destruction.
**
Several Hours Earlier…
“I hate keeping him locked up like that, Nick,” said Perenelle Flamel to her husband in a brief fit of sympathy for the child they had adopted.
“I know you hate it, but you also agree that he needs to learn discipline,” replied Nicholas, sighing. His aging eyes studied the pensieve they had set up to monitor Harry and his reactions. “Besides, he’s only doing this because he thinks he isn’t wanted. I’m waiting for him to use his magic—I bet he only acts up so that he gets returned to the orphanage for the usual reasons instead of odd ones.”
“Dear,” sighed Perenelle, “I know that you’re hoping that he does something of the sort…but, well, what if he doesn’t? He really could be just the average misbehaving child.”
“I don’t think so,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I’m almost certain he’s used his magic before. Besides, he was rather quiet when I saw him at the orphanage through that peephole that the owner keeps. He just sat there, reading.”
They had had this discussion numerous times already, yet Nicholas was not willing to give in to Perenelle’s wishes to return Harry to where he wished to be. Nicholas was sure that Harry was desperate enough to use magic now, as he had been there two months and hadn’t come up with anything destructive enough since he had stolen all of Perenelle’s personal belongings. The poor boy hadn’t realized that his desperation to escape from their care was only rooted in the fact that he was rejected so often—he needed to learn that no matter what he did he would not be sent back to the orphanage. A terrible habit to develop and Harry needed to learn otherwise.
After several more hours of watching, long after Perenelle had left, citing the need for fresh air, Nicholas called Teppy the house-elf into his room. “Teppy,” he said to the house-elf kindly. “I’d like you to escort Harry out of his room. I’m going to be putting a charm on you to make you look like a human, so you don’t speak to Harry unless necessary. Okay?”
“Yes master,” replied Teppy, nodding eagerly. Nicholas cast the charm on Teppy and told him he could go, before turning to the pensieve where he watched Teppy’s appearance in Harry’s room.
Nicholas loved his alterations to the pensieve. It worked much like a muggle video camera, recording what was happening wherever he placed a certain spell. It had taken him years to work out, until he had figured out that as long as he kept in a small time delay, it was quite possible to have as a fully functioning security system. Of course, one needed money and a large selection of pensieves…but the idea was sound.
Nicholas switched his view from the pensieve of Harry’s room to the corridor as Teppy lead Harry on his way the kitchen. He chuckled at Harry’s expression, amused at such a menacing glare in a nine year old. Teppy left Harry alone in the kitchen as he had been instructed to do and Nicholas watched with a growing certainty that Harry would use his magic purposefully in the moments to come. A smug grin appeared on his face as Harry’s glass began to crack, but it quickly faded as he saw the results of Harry’s frustration form into something that could kill Harry himself.
**
Harry awoke in a room that smelt strongly of antiseptic. He knew immediately where he was—he had been in a hospital before. Still, he kept his eyes closed, wary. The last time he had ended up in hospital, a police officer had been talking about pressing charges against him while he thought he was asleep, or getting him to go seek ‘help.’ It was this forewarning that had let him escape any time sitting with a child psychologist who would moan about his troubled childhood.
“…had to reattach his finger! Mr. Flamel, what on/ earth/ were you thinking when you left a magically violent child alone in a room full of knives and glass?” exclaimed a lady in a harsh tone.
Magically violent? Reattach a finger? Harry didn’t dare wiggle his fingers, but he was sure that they were all there…were they? And magic? Is that what I have, he thought to himself, astounded, magic? Magic doesn’t exist…/he thought derisively. Then his memories of what he had done in the Flamel’s kitchen flooded back to him, and he was stumped as to how else to explain it. /So maybe I /do /have magic…or whatever it is.
“I didn’t realize that he’d be that violent,” replied the voice that Harry recognized as Flamel’s. Stupid old geezer. “I suppose I should have expected something like that, though. He has been rather uncooperative with the adoption process. I am sorry, Healer Fanchon.”
“Next time, keep a better eye on him. Children should not have to have their fingers reattached and their eyeballs re-grown.” Eyeballs REGROWN? Harry nearly gave away that he was awake at that. My eyeballs had to be…re-grown? That is so...wicked! Like many young boys, Harry had a fascination with the strange, abnormal, and disgusting.
Harry could hear footsteps approaching his bed. He slowed his breathing as the two pairs of feet approached, calming it from the unexpected announcement of re-grown eyeballs.
“Stop pretending to be asleep, Mr. Potter,” a stern voice said from above his head. Harry heard the rustling of cloth, indicating that Healer Fanchon was moving around. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Be that way, then,” she huffed. “I’ll leave the explaining to Mr. Flamel then. Just don’t act so surprised when you actually open your eyes.” Despite her words, Harry stubbornly refused to open his eyes, challenging he reverse psychology techniques. “Fine, you stubborn boy,” she harrumphed, before stomping out of the room.
There was silence for a few minutes before Harry heard Nicholas clear his throat and begin to speak. “You know that the monitor shows you’re awake. You’re really quite a stubborn child.” It was then that Harry gave up his pretext of sleeping, and instead opened his eyes to glare at Nicholas.
He wasn’t expecting the flood of colours that accompanied it though. Harry let out a loud expletive, as the pain from the darkness of his closed eyelids replaced too quickly by strong, vibrant, bright lights overwhelmed him and he had to close his eyes again. A pair of footsteps hurriedly entered the room, and Harry sat up to face where the door would presumably be.
“I told you so, Mr. Potter. You and Mr. Flamel,” the Healer from earlier sighed. “Never have I met two more stubborn, pig-headed people in my whole life.”
“What the hell did you do to my eyes?” Harry demanded, wincing as a headache began to develop.
“We re-grew them after your accidental magic mishap. Your glasses shattered with the rest of the breakable objects in the Flamel’s kitchen, completely destroying them. The good news is that you’ll never need glasses again. The bad news is that Mr. Flamel here insisted that we add he charms to see magic, the obstinate old man that he is. Unfortunately, there are some adverse affects until you get used to them.”
Harry nearly said the words ‘magic doesn’t exist’ in response to her explanation, but instead held his tongue, remembering that his eyeballs had indeed been re-grown. Unless…
“This is some elaborate trick you’re playing, Mr. Flamel,” Harry said. “If you think it’s going to make me feel better and want to/ live/ with you and your wife, you’re quite wrong. I was better off at the orphanage.”
Surprisingly, Nicholas laughed. “This isn’t a trick, Harry. Magic is real. You’re a wizard. Well, a wizard with no training, but still. It’s why most of your foster homes got rid of you; they were scared of the accidental magic you produced while scared or in great need of something.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harry sceptically.
“Open your eyes, Mr. Potter,” Healer Fanchon said.
“No,” Harry replied defiantly. “You’ll just turn on those crazy lights again and make my headache worse.” It was really getting bad now, building up behind his eyes and pulsing.
“I shall be creating a curtain of magic around your bed,” she replied. “It should be the only thing you’ll see, except for the magic within Mr. Flamel and me, perhaps a spot or too on your bed.”
Harry opened his eyes. Instead of the blinding lights of earlier, he could see a shimmering blue-grey glow surrounding the bed, looking almost like a holographic curtain. He looked to his right—the Healer beside him contained a fierce yellow glow, burning Harry’s retinas. He instead turned his head to his left, where Mr. Flamel sat, a vibrant purple emanating from inside him.
“What is that?” he asked in wonder, ignoring his earlier reluctance.
“That, Harry, is magic,” replied Mr. Flamel.
“Okay, so how do I turn it off?”
The people-shaped blurs of yellow and purple turned to each other, paused, the turned back to Harry. “You, well, don’t,” replied the Healer uncertainly.
“I can’t turn it off?” Harry asked disbelieving. “I have to be like this for the rest of my life?”
“It’s a trial procedure. We don’t usually do it—nor have we ever performed it on a child before,” she glared at Nicholas. “We rarely get anyone in here who’s lost an eye, or both. However, your guardian insisted upon the procedure…so now you’ve got magic eyes.”
“Gee, thanks.” Harry said, sarcastically, glaring at the purple glow to his left.
“It’s not all bad. You can dim the magic so it’s almost not there, but that takes a few days for your body to adjust to. The magic has to merge with your own, allowing you better control.”
“Brilliant,” Harry winced as his headache worsened. “Now, could someone please explain to me what the hell this magic stuff is about? / And /why Mr. Flamel didn’t tell me about it when I came to live with him?”
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I figured you’d need time to adjust. Perenelle and I didn’t realize you’d be so violent. So I figured we’d wait until you performed accidental magic—much more believable and a good way for you to work off stress.”
“So instead I have to have a finger re-grown, numerous injuries repaired, and my bleeding eyes re-grown?” Harry asked incredulously.
“Well…I didn’t expect such a violent outburst. You have incredibly strong magic, Harry.”
“So? I’ve lived without magic my whole life—I don’t/ need/ magic, if all it does is give you violent headaches,” Harry said bitterly, saying the words just to get a reaction. He was disappointed, however, as Healer Fanchon immediately began fussing over him.
“You have a headache, Mr. Potter? Why did you not inform me?” Healer Fanchon said, thrusting a goblet from which a sickly green glow was radiating into his hands. “Drink this.”
“What the hell is this? No Tylenol, Aspirin, Advil?” Harry asked, looking doubtfully at the churning liquid.
“What on earth are those?” this was the first time Harry had found the Healer less than knowledgeable.
“Muggle medicine,” replied Nicholas. “Has a similar affect to pain-killing potions.”
“Muggle?” Harry asked, sniffing the goblet distrustfully.
“Non-magic. Drink up,” replied the Healer.
Harry sighed, doing as he was told and grimacing at the taste. His headache vanished immediately. He looked at the goblet in wonder. “That’s…that’s amazing!” he exclaimed. “Can anyone learn to make this?”
“Yes, Harry,” replied Nicholas. “With enough training, magic can do anything.”
“Anything at all?” An idea was forming at the back of Harry’s mind, barely acknowledged for now and left to brew.
“Anything.”
“When can I start learning?” he asked, eagerly. The Healer and Nicholas exchanged glances, dubious of Harry’s motives after such a quick change of attitude. “What?” he said, sounding insulted. “I’m not allowed to want to learn about a talent I have?”
“No, I suppose you are,” replied Nicholas, looking hesitantly at his charge.
There were a few seconds of silence, before Harry asked again, “When do I begin?”
“At age eleven, of course,” replied the Healer promptly. “At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
“Two years?” Harry exclaimed, chagrined. “I have to wait two whole years?”
“Well…” the Healer said hesitantly.
“You’ll begin right away, Harry. You’re not going to Hogwarts,” Mr. Flamel said, looking intently at the young boy before him. He saw a thirst for knowledge in Harry’s newly fashioned eyes, one that he had similarly held when he was a boy. He knew he couldn’t allow Harry to attend Hogwarts. Dumbledore would take advantage of him far too easily.
Nicholas and Dumbledore had a long history, not all of it good. Nicholas had worked with Dumbledore briefly on discovering the twelve uses of dragon blood, but Dumbledore had liked to interfere a tad too much in Nicholas’s private life that he had liked. They had argued about it, and were now on ‘polite’ terms with each other, though neither really got along. Perenelle had hypothesized that perhaps it had something to do with there only being so much room for powerful wizards in the world that they clashed a tad too much to get along well…but that was just a theory. Recently, Dumbledore had been insisting that Nicholas hide the Philosopher’s Stone in Hogwarts—some gibberish about Voldemort’s eminent return and other such nonsense.
Privately, Nicholas thought that Dumbledore was a tad too power hungry. Usually very well meaning, but the Philosopher’s Stone was quite safe where it currently was, and there was no need to put the responsibility of looking after it on someone else’s shoulders. Dumbledore just wanted to be in control of the situation, as usual. Nicholas would not allow that to happen with Harry. Not if he could avoid it.
Nicholas was broken from his musings by the shocked voice of the Healer. “He’s not going to Hogwarts?” she asked, astounded.
“No, he shall not. I’m a more than adequate teacher and Perenelle is no slouch when it comes to knowledge either.”
“I’ll be learning from you? After all I did?” Harry asked, suddenly suspicious.
“It’s expected, considering what you’ve gone through,” Nicholas replied gently. “Besides, it’s a lot easier to learn in an environment suited exactly to your needs. A lot easier to teach, too.”
“So… I’ll be learning magic then?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“And other things? Will I learn about my parents?”
“Of course. In fact, I shouldn’t be so surprised that you haven’t heard the story of your parents’ deaths before. You did grow up without magic, after all.”
Nicholas began to explain Harry’s history to him, as the Healer quietly made her exit and left to the two to bond. A shiver ran up her spine as she watched the two talk intently—one boy of nine, one ancient man in the middle of his sixth century of life. Fanchon knew that she had partaken in something monumental, something that would probably affect the world for decades to come. In what way, however, she was not sure.
For good or for ill, /she thought to herself, that boy’s going to be the catalyst for much change in the lives of everyday witches and wizards. /
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