The Gift of Time
"I would like you to come to Beauxbatons," said Perenelle seriously, looking at them all with attention. Then a gentle smile appeared on her face. "In fact, it is the school where Nico and I are part of the board, as well as being among its oldest students. I would be delighted if little geniuses like you joined. I'm not asking you to stay forever, but… if you like it, you could consider it."
"Well, actually our first choice was always Beauxbatons. Technically, it's closer compared to the others… and well, Durmstrang isn't an option," Wanda replied calmly, offering a light smile.
"Really?" said Perenelle, delighted. "That is wonderful. Nico will be very happy. In fact, it was his idea, since he wanted to take advantage of your visit to teach you alchemy."
"Mr. Flamel wants to teach us?" asked Harry, surprised and at the same time excited. The others exchanged looks filled with shared joy.
"Of course. After all, it's not the same to offer help through letters as it is to have you nearby. He always wanted to see you in person, especially after noticing how your little golems kept improving even after the advice he gave you," explained Perenelle. Then she stood up with elegance. "Since there's no need to convince you too much, why don't you come with me? We'll give him the news together."
"Sure," they all replied, rising to follow her.
They walked slowly, while the furniture of the house seemed to move aside on its own to clear the way. Some even shifted to shorten the path, as if the home itself was careful not to interrupt them.
"Here it is," Perenelle announced as she opened a door. The others peered inside with curiosity: the room was lined with a dozen doors. She walked up to one of them and opened it. A burst of brilliant light spilled out immediately, making the young ones squint.
They followed Perenelle and, upon crossing the threshold, found themselves in an immense greenhouse made of glass, flooded with sunlight from every direction. The place was so large it could rival the Great Hall at Hogwarts. It was filled with splendid plants, many of them swaying gently as if alive. Some bent toward Perenelle in a gesture that seemed almost affectionate, while others, stranger still, displayed eyes that observed the newcomers closely.
Watering cans floated through the air, carefully sprinkling each plant, and the soil itself shifted to refill pots that needed more earth.
"It's beautiful…" murmured Hermione, her gaze lost in the sea of shining flowers and multicolored leaves.
"This is actually my private greenhouse," Perenelle said with a mischievous touch. "The plants you see here come from Nico's main greenhouse, where practically all the magical plants of the world are grown, used for potions. I simply… stole the ones I liked the most."
Then she raised her voice while glancing around: "Nico, we have visitors!"
From behind some tall bushes appeared an old man with a large gardener's hat. He walked slowly, holding a huge pair of shears that seemed far too heavy for him.
"You can leave that for today," Perenelle told him gently.
"Visitors? That's nice," Nicolas replied with a smile, though his eyes betrayed the relief of being able to put his work aside. When he noticed the children, he froze for a moment, surprised. "Oh, but if it isn't the little geniuses."
He set the shears down, which floated away by themselves and began trimming weeds from a nearby pot, as though they had a will of their own.
"A pleasant surprise, indeed," said Nicolas, smiling as he observed them.
"They agreed to come to Beauxbatons even before I asked," added Perenelle cheerfully.
"That's fantastic," Nicolas replied, glancing at his wife with complicity. "Then there will be no need for everything you had prepared."
Harry and the others looked at each other, not quite understanding what he meant.
"Well… it was only a possibility, but it's always good to have an ace up one's sleeve," said Perenelle with another mischievous smile. Clearly she had planned some strategy to convince them, and now the four were dying of curiosity to know what it was.
"So you are the mother of little Harry… It's a pleasure to meet you," said Nicolas, turning toward Wanda with kindness.
"The pleasure is mine," she replied softly.
"Now I understand why Dumbledore speaks with such seriousness when he talks about you. Your magical power and aura… I truly believe not even the four founders of Hogwarts could compare to you," Nicolas remarked, observing her with genuine interest.
Wanda only smiled simply. She could feel that the power of both elders was vast, the product of six hundred years of magical accumulation. Among current wizards, they were like a roaring bonfire, while the rest were nothing more than single burning matches.
"Mr. Flamel, is it true that you want to teach us?" asked Daphne, unable to hold back her enthusiasm.
"Of course. It's been a very long time since I've seen young people with such eagerness to learn alchemy… and to have fun while doing it. You remind me of my beginnings: when you do what you love, it's never a job," Nicolas said with a wide smile. "Besides, it's also my way of apologizing for what happened with the Stone." His eyes lingered on Harry with nostalgia. "To see a Potter after so long is like stepping back into the past."
"Did you know someone from my family?" asked Harry curiously.
"Certainly. I studied the recipes left by Linfred of Stinchcombe, so I had to contact some of his descendants. Back then it wasn't so easy to share information, but while I worked on the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, I received help from some Potters, renowned as the greatest healers in the world. I even attended the wedding of Hardwin Potter and Iolanthe. It was a marvelous ceremony, the union of two ancient families filled with knowledge. And yet, even in their own country, they weren't respected as they should have been, simply because Hardwin, as a member of the Wizengamot, sought to extend a hand to the Non-Magique." Nicolas shook his head with regret.
"I see… that explains why the Potters weren't part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, even though they were pure-bloods. But it doesn't make sense… then the Weasleys shouldn't be included either," Draco said thoughtfully. After all, the book of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had been written before James Potter married Lily Evans, and yet the Potters were absent from it, despite being an old family of pure blood.
"Well, I don't like to speak ill of people, but it's because English wizards are fools," Perenelle remarked simply.
"Penny…" murmured Nicolas with a faint tone of reproach.
"It's true," she insisted. "They erased everything the Potters contributed to the world of healing, and the free recipes they shared. They wiped it away to maintain that image of superiority and contempt toward half-bloods and those they call Muggle-borns. They wanted to hide the truth: they are far more narrow-minded than they appear, even if they try to show themselves as liberal."
Realizing that everyone present was English, she corrected herself with a slightly awkward smile. "I'm sorry for that."
"It's alright. We've known it for a while," Harry said calmly.
Draco didn't reply, Daphne smiled with a hint of mockery, while Hermione lowered her gaze, inevitably reminded of her own Muggle-born origins.
"Look at the time!" Perenelle exclaimed, changing the subject with enthusiasm. "Why don't we invite you to lunch? That way we can talk a little more. We don't often have visitors. Besides, I'd like to introduce you to someone who could help you at Beauxbatons."
She clapped her hands cheerfully, but in the motion there was a crack. One of her bones slipped out of place, and her hand twisted painfully.
Everyone's eyes widened in surprise.
"Oh… sorry about that," Perenelle said with a slight grimace of pain, before carefully setting her hand back. "At our age it happens often. Bones aren't what they used to be. I have to be more careful with everything I do." Her voice was soothing, though her eyes betrayed that the situation wasn't so simple.
Nicolas's face revealed even more: a fleeting expression of sadness toward his wife.
Wanda observed them intently. She didn't need to actively use her magic to understand their thoughts. She knew their daily lives were far less lively than they pretended. Their routine was marked by monotony and emptiness, with the weight of age limiting every movement. They could barely walk without twisting an ankle; they could no longer enjoy the taste of food.
That was why Nicolas had accepted Dumbledore's request regarding the Philosopher's Stone.
He wasn't naïve. He understood the risk, but deep down what he desired was an excuse. If the stone was stolen or destroyed, at last they would have a reason to let go of everything and rest.
Perhaps Dumbledore knew it too, and that was why he took advantage of the situation.
Harry, with his keen mind and ever-watchful eyes, noticed the reactions of Nicolas and Perenelle. He reached a similar conclusion: that was the true reason why Nicolas had lent the Stone, which preserved their lives, without keeping it under greater protection, despite having so many alchemical objects capable of defending the house.
"Harry, greet your master," Wanda said suddenly, taking everyone by surprise, even Nicolas and Perenelle.
"Oh, that's not necessary," Nicolas replied with a kind smile.
But Wanda gave him a serious look. Harry understood the signal and obeyed.
"Maître Flamel," he said, placing a hand over his chest, above his heart, and lowering his head with solemnity. "It is an honor to present myself before you. My family has taught me to revere knowledge, and I know that in your presence I stand before centuries of wisdom. If you grant me the privilege, I wish to learn under your guidance, with the discipline and respect worthy of a master of your stature."
"Oh, there's no need for such protocol," Nicolas answered, stepping closer to raise him, but in that instant he felt an overwhelming force. He lifted his gaze and discovered where it came from: Wanda, pointing her hand at him, her eyes grave, rings of Chaos Magic swirling around her.
"Retour à ce que tu étais…" she whispered.
The old man's skin glowed scarlet, trembling as if thousands of years were being torn away in an instant. His hair turned blond again, his wrinkles vanished, and his eyes regained a youthful gleam. For a brief second, the young and the old images overlapped, blurred together, until the final form stabilized. No longer was there a weary old man, but a Nicolas Flamel in his forties, breathing with awe and fear.
Wanda turned her hand toward Perenelle, who was still frozen in place, and the same miracle occurred. Her hair became a radiant silver, her skin regained firmness, and her body took on the grace of maturity. To the eyes of all, she looked like a woman in the prime of her forties, radiant and beautiful.
Both remained motionless, staring at their rejuvenated hands, then their faces, and finally each other.
Nicolas looked at Perenelle before smiling with a mixture of emotion and memory. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she saw her husband young again after so many centuries.
"I tell you this every day, but I think I forgot today, so I have to say it again," Nicolas said, gazing at her tenderly. "You are as beautiful as the day we married."
"You already told me that this morning," Perenelle replied, tears still falling, this time accompanied by a smile.
Meanwhile, the four young ones stood with their mouths wide open, unable to utter a single word. Even Harry, who should have been accustomed to his mother's power by now, couldn't hide his astonishment at what he had just witnessed.
"That should be enough as a gift of gratitude from Harry's family," Wanda said with a serene smile, as if what she had just done were no more difficult than lighting a candle.
Harry glanced at his mother, then at the Flamels, who embraced with an affection that seemed to rejuvenate them even more than the magic itself. Finally, he turned to his friends, mischief sparkling in his eyes.
"I really want to see what your families will give as a present," he remarked with a mix of pride and teasing, making Daphne let out a soft giggle, Draco cross his arms with an offended expression, and Hermione fix him with that typical look of reproach she always used whenever Harry let himself get carried away by irony.