Solomon looked at his father working over him.
He lay upon the alchemical bench in his father's workshop, chains of golden runes hovering over him, linked in concentric circles. His father's fingers left afterimages in the air, drawing one rune after one.
There was despair on his father's face, sweat dribbling down his chin. Solomon's little mind couldn't comprehend what had made his father fall into this state.
His father was the greatest alchemist in the world. Though he repudiated wherever Solomon proclaimed so aloud and reminded him that there was always greatness beyond greatness—to Solomon it was his father's humility.
Otherwise, why would the greatest of mages of this generation sought his father's help to fashion artifacts and various alchemical paraphernalia for them?
Even Dumbledore, who the world called the greatest and wisest mage, often sought help from his father. If Dumbledore was the greatest mage, and he beseeched help from his father, wasn't his father the greatest alchemist?
"Are you sure, Nicolas dear?" said a soft voice. His mother's. She sounded pained.
Why?
His father hummed. "Very sure. They are… here. For me. For my knowledge. I shouldn't have gotten involved. I'm sorry, dear."
His mother didn't reply, she concentrated on holding the magic before her. Her palms alight, she stabilized the rune chains while his father scrawled runes in thin air, now with fervoured intensity.
Not many knew, while his father was the grandmaster of alchemy, Perenelle Flamel was not less. She was a master in her own right. Many of his father's inventions were born under the assistance of his mother.
And he was the son of two great alchemists. Though Solomon's mother and father always reiterated they wanted him to live a simple, happy life, they had named him after King Solomon.
One of the greatest practitioners of magic in human history, the author of an array of magical grimoires. Master of shedims and jinns.
His parents did have hidden expectations, which Solomon was keen to accomplish.
His little heart filled to the brim with joy when he thought how exultant father and mother would be on the day he reached the level of famed King Solomon.
"What about Dumbledore," his mother said, a sheen of sweat on her slightly wizened face. "The Order of Phoenix, they—"
"No one can help us," his father said, sounding self-accusatory. "They have cast a dimensional barrier. Neither Dumbledore nor my other friends can help us. We can't reach them to call for help."
"Then…" his mother trailed off, looking at Solomon.
"This I'm sure of. It'll work. It'll definitely work. I won't let them find our son."
Silence settled in the small workshop located in the basement of the house Flamel family called home. Until Solomon broke it.
"Has father done something wrong, mother?" said Solomon in his childish voice. "Please forgive him for me, please? T-The chocolates I got for you when I broke your favorite fishbowl and Goldy died were actually from – from father. They were not from me. Will you forgive him now, please, mother?"
A slight smile broke on both of his parents' pensive faces.
Though his mother smiled, tears trickled down her cheeks. "Foolish child," she said, then, "My brave child."
Startled, Solomon wanted to ask why she was crying. Who had hurt her? Was it father? Then, they could act angry with him together for at least a week.
He didn't get the chance.
His father drew two items from thin air. Solomon knew it was from his space ring. Their sudden presence threw the ambient mana into disarray, the air itself simmered with magic.
Solomon knew them both.
One of them was shaped like a human brain. It throbbed like a living entity, even without a body attached to it or whatsoever.
A nascent Elder Brain.
His father had told him about it during one of their study sessions when he had procured it a few weeks ago. Solomon was allowed to even touch it. It was slimy and slithery and disgusting and he wished to never have anything to do with it ever again.
The small living brain was the final stage of an enlightened mind flayer's life cycle, the physical and spiritual center of a mind flayer community as well as a living library of the community's history, technology, and knowledge. This one was new, so it was pure and empty. His father had said he had ideas about it.
The second object was a fist-size, ruby-red stone. The cumulation of his father's alchemical achievements. Every alchemist's ultimate dream—Philosopher's Stone.
The two objects levitated over his chest an arm's length away. The circles of rune chains revolved, taking them as the center.
His father made a slicing motion and the Elder Brain split into two. A flick of his finger and the Philosopher's Stone appeared between the two perfect slices.
He waved and the two halves of Elder Brain glued back as if they had never been severed into two, the Philosopher's Stone disappearing inside.
At last, he made a fist, both hands combined together. The runes rioted, and then, coalesced.
His mother let go, sagging against the wall, exhausted from effort. The luminesce of her hands fading. The runed ball had contracted to the size of a basketball, shining like a small sun. There was no heat, only bright, blinding light.
His father's hands strained from counter-force, yet he held steady, tightening his fist further.
When the not-sun shrank to the size of a baseball, his father slammed his hands down. The not-sun rammed into Solomon's chest.
He yelped, his back buckling. For a moment, his heart lost its beat. Then it beat a single great beat, like a shot cannon, fired into the darkness. The greatest beat in all his life. The most magnificent.
Then it started to descend into deep slumber, Solomon's eyelids growing heavy.
He beakly felt he was plucked from the alchemical bench and placed inside some confined space. He could hear his father, but only intermittently.
"Time Stasis Pod…. sever destiny… divination… useless… spacial displacement… never, our child… he has… brave…"
Next moment, he felt a hand caress his face. His mother's hand. He would never forget that touch.
He tried reaching for her. But his body didn't respond. It was inert. Silent.
"My child… mother loves… sorry… my child… be brave…"
Some vicious liquid started filling his enclosed surroundings, and his heart gave a twitch. A feeling, that if he didn't open his eyes to look at his parents, he may never again.
Tugging on his will, he prised open his eyes. He saw two blurry silhouettes, the light too bright for his eyes before sleep took him away.
That was the last he saw of his parents.