The Flamels had made their decision. There was no point in thinking about it. All that was left for her was to follow the canon and plan for the future.
Cyrna repeated her mantra for the tenth time today as she read Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3.
But she couldn't focus, even when the path before her seemed so clear. In fact, her focus had been so bad that Perenelle had all but cancelled her lessons. Cyrna simply couldn't wrap her head around the fact that the Flamels had—quite happily—walked to their deaths. They weren't like Dumbledore who had chosen a quicker, more painless death; not like Snape who hadn't had much else to live for; and they couldn't be compared to Harry, and the other Order members, who had died to protect their lovers and friends. Not to be that person, but did the Flamels have friends that were still alive? Thus far, only Dumbledore had visited them—there had been no one else.
So why? What was the point of saving the world if you couldn't even reap the benefits because you were dead?
.....
Raven-coloured hair fluttered gently in the breeze. Cyrna was lying on the couch in the living room, the Victorian glass windows pulled open beside her. The drapes of the windows were a deep velvet, pulled back by a simple golden cord embellished tastefully with garnets.
It was sunset, and she was here to idle away her time after hours of studying.
Cyrna heard a noise, and looking up, she saw the kind face of Perenelle Flamel.
"Cyrna," Perenelle greeted.
"Perenelle. Has the Headmaster left with the package already?"
Reading Cyrna's expression, Perenelle found that she didn't truly want the answer. So, she tried to keep it brief. "The plan is in motion," she said, and the child turned frighteningly blank. Perenelle loved this child, but she was also aware that it was her husband who understood Cyrna best.
"I see," Cyrna mumbled. "Did you come just to tell me that?"
"Not at all," said Pernelle with a little smile on her face. "I came here to tell you that our lessons must resume."
Cyrna sat up attentively.
"As you've gotten healthier, so too has your magic been growing stronger." Perenelle barely had to concentrate any magic into her eyes to see the thick silver strands of magic that oozed around Cyrna like a warm blanket. To the trained eyes, the child would've been mistaken for a mature witch with that amount of magic. "Your magic far exceeds that for children, and that will attract attention. You need to hide a portion of it when you enter Hogwarts… unless you want the attention?"
"Of course not," said Cyrna with a furious shake of her head. "But how can you tell how much magic I have?"
Perenelle pointed at her eyes. "If you put just enough magic in them, then you'll be able to see. But put too much and you risk going blind—"
"Wait—do they look like silver strings?" Cyrna cut in, remembering the flash of silver she had seen when she'd used accidental magic to save Prince.
For some reason, Perenelle didn't look surprised that Cyrna had seen her magic. "For you, my dear, they are silver strings. The colour varies among people, and there are many theories on what colours someone's magic. The shape is less studied, though I personally believe it to be heavily influenced by the person's subconscious, or conscious, envisioning of magic—But I can tell you more about this later. The importance is that your Headmaster will certainly be able to see your magic; I imagine a few professors can do this too."
That, Cyrna thought with alarm, was a massive problem. She leaned forward anxiously. "We're starting our lessons again, right?"
Perenelle looked pleased with her quick uptake. "Yes, I've already asked Nicolas to hand his time over to me."
"I won't get distracted this time," Cyrna promised with relief, finally deciding to leave the Flamels to their decisions. She didn't even have her own stuff figured out apparently, so how could she focus on them? Cyrna sighed, leaning into Perenelle's hand when the older woman laid her hand gently on her head—honestly, what was with the Flamels and pats?
....
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