Quiet chirrups of birds announced the new morn as soft rays of dawn filtered through the high arched windows into a room handsomely furnished with burgundy-toned couches and a plethora of vintage bookshelves, each of which were filled to the brim with priceless tomes. Stacks of parchment were strewn over the surface of intricately carved mahogany tables, which had accumulated an inch of dust from years of neglect.
In this ungodly hour of the morning, the fireplace was on, the logs crackling softly as fire slowly consumed it. Suddenly, the flames blazed, briefly lighting up its surroundings, revealing the figures of Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel.
"That child needs our help! I will not turn her away."
There was a quiet sigh. "I know, Perenelle. But there's something off about her. I can't get rid of the feeling that she's similar to…"
"No, not like him. She's not evil," said Perenelle with certainty.
"Not yet," Nicolas agreed. "But it's more than concerning that she's formed no connection with anyone in her past world; her tears were not for anyone but herself. I've long thought about this; ever since the rise of the two Dark Lords—tell me, what keeps us from going Dark?"
Perenelle smiled a bit. "It may be cheesy, but I do agree with Albus that love is the divide."
Nicolas gave a noncommittal hum. "Rather than love, I think it's the connection that allows humans to understand other humans on a level far greater than the intellectual. Sympathy. It's hard to inflict suffering on others when you understand the pain." He turned to stare at the flickering embers of the fire. "You don't know Albus as well as I do Perenelle; I was still his mentor when he met and became enraptured with Grindelwald and his ideals. There is a reason why Grindelwald only saw Albus as his equal—it was because they were similar. They were similar in their intellect and power, and at the peak of Albus' enthrallment, similar also in their ambition and in their belief that muggles were inferior. You have absolutely no idea of how close Albus was to falling… the only thing, I think, that prevented his fall was his ability to sympathize. He cared for Ariana, and when she died, his care for her allowed him to feel grief, and with grief came guilt. It was because of this that he tried to make things right; it wasn't his morals—by then, they were far too twisted to do any good."
There was a moment of silence as Perenelle digested his argument. "You are saying that nothing is holding Cyrna back from turning dark."
"Yes," Nicolas exhaled heavily. "That is precisely what I am saying." His lips twitched into a humourless smile. "She has the intelligence and power; her heritage would assist her in becoming great."
Perenelle smiled fondly at the thought of the little raven-haired child. It was impossible not to find her adorable with the painful honesty she had shown them yesterday. Her little hands had been fidgeting nervously with the hem of the robes she had lent her. And after she had gotten a shower, her soft tufts of hair had stuck out in a rather scruffy manner—much like the down feathers of a ruffled baby bird. Of course, they knew she was actually a decade older than she looked. But to them, a decade or two made no difference. She was a child when compared to Nicolas and herself.
"And this is before her magical maturity," Nicolas practically groaned as his wrinkled hand went up to rub his temple. "That child will be a handful to care for. I just know it."
Perenelle hid a smirk at her husband's distress. Complain as he might, she knew that he wouldn't throw her out of the house. The bluntness of the child had touched a spot in his heart. After so many people had lied and killed to steal the Stone, honesty was a breath of fresh air.
"All the more reason for her to stay. We can guide her," Perenelle said calmly. "And imagine the damage she'd do if her magic ran wild."
"It's hard to teach someone who barely trusts you," Nicolas grumped.
Perenelle arched a brow. "Trust is needed both ways for any relationship to grow."
Nicolas scowled. "You give yours too freely."
"And you are too stingy with yours," she said warmly, holding Nicolas' hands in hers. "We balance each other out well."
"That we do," Nicolas said quietly. That we do…
The Philosopher's Stone had marked the peak of Nicolas' genius as well as the start of his pessimism. When he had invented the Stone, they had been hounded and chased by people who wanted it, and as danger grew, Nicolas' paranoia did as well; still, he had never doubted the inherent goodness of mankind.
That had all changed when their child had died.
Even centuries later, Perenelle could still feel the tightening ache of her chest as she remembered.
One day, they had returned home to find their wards destroyed and their home upturned. A man had held their child at wand point while thirty other men had stood by. They demanded the Stone in return for their child.