Harry Potter 50 Shades of Gray

She remembered her child's frantic cries of "Mamma! Papa!" and she also remembered the hardening of Nicolas' eyes as he made his decision. In the next moment, he had gripped her arm and had apparated them out of the house. In the midst of apparating, she knew that neither she nor her husband would forget the enraged cry of "Avada Kedavra" as the consequence of their choice was made known.

She knew that he had chosen correctly—the Philosopher's Stone was far too dangerous in the hands of evil. But even with that knowledge, she had still been bitter towards her husband for the longest time, after all, what mother would sacrifice her son, even if it was to save the world?

However, as she had lived on, time softened the edges of her pain, and she made up with Nicolas a decade later. She began to love and care for other people again, but the same could not be said for her husband. Nicolas had never been quite the same after the incident.

First, he had lost the ability to see good in people, then he lost the ability to trust. Paranoia, which had been festering within him for years, soon made itself known in Nicolas' decision to separate from the rest of society. Unwilling to let Nicolas face an eternity alone, she had followed him to his self-imposed exile.

They had been living in solitude for around 400 years when one day, Nicolas had brought back a young Albus Dumbledore. He had muttered something about teaching alchemy to the young man as a favour for Albus' third great-grandfather before herding the boy downstairs into the potions room. She clearly recalled Nicolas' disappointment when he discovered Albus' involvement with Grindelwald, and she remembered how much Albus' return to the Light had meant for him—to Nicolas, the return had been the needed proof that not all men would fall when tempted by evil.

In the next eighty or so years after that revelation, Nicolas had mellowed out, his paranoia reduced to subdued suspicion.

"Nicolas, don't fear her for something that she may never become," Perenelle said.

"Going with your logic," he muttered miserably, "fearing her for something she may become would also be a perfectly valid conclusion."

Perenelle gave her husband a look. "She still has integrity."

It was strange enough that it had been one of the first few things Nicolas had noticed. But—"Would you run a race that seems to stretch on forever with neither the directions for how to get to the goal nor the knowledge of when the race will end? There's only so much one can endure before they tire of what they will perceive as running in vain. Even the most stubborn of humans would be worn down if their attempts were met with nothing but failure. One day, she will decide that she is tired of trying. She could change for the worse."

"But she might also change for the better," countered Perenelle. "Nicolas," she sighed.

Nicolas' eyes softened as he gazed upon his wife. His thoughts travelled back to their days at Beauxbatons, then to the time when he had successfully created the pinnacle of alchemy, then finally to that day when he had chosen to save the world instead of his son. The hundreds of years that passed after the incident had been blurred with despair, self-loathing, and irrational anger. But through it all, Perenelle had stayed by his side; she had always comforted him in his bouts of grief and had offered him wisdom in his bursts of anger.

He observed the lines that time had marked on Perenelle's face, and he thought of how different she looked now than when they had first met as children. And at this moment under the light of the dawn, to him, she had never looked more beautiful.

"Nicolas," Perenelle murmured, her gaze reflecting the flickering warmth of the fire, "you can only judge her present. Not her future."

A yelp followed by the distinct sound of shattering dishes jolted both the Flamels from their conversation. Standing at alert, they exchanged a glance before Nicolas' lips pulled down into a frown. "Your guest has arrived again," he grouched. "I told you to get rid of him."

"Oh dear, I forgot to warn Cyrna," Perenelle fretted.

Nicolas watched with amusement as his wife rushed off to the kitchens like a frantic mother hen. Perenelle always had a habit of picking up strays; perhaps it was her way to fill the void that their son's death had left in them. Nevertheless, for his wife at the very least, he would make a sincere effort to trust the newest addition to their family—because, let's face it, there was no way his wife would let the child go, not after her impassioned plea to him for her to remain.

With a sigh, Nicolas headed towards the kitchen at a calmer pace, all the while thinking of how he would introduce Cyrna to her new world. The child seemed intelligent—smart enough to piece together what had happened in the small amount of time she'd been conscious. He had no doubts that the emotional storm of magic that had ripped apart their cottage had been the moment she had made her realization. She had pieced together a seemingly impossible story in the span of minutes.

Yes, perhaps she would be brilliant enough to learn alchemy. Merlin knew that Albus had eventually given it up in exchange for the arts of Transfiguration, and it had been quite a while since he had taken on an apprentice…

Nicolas gave himself a firm shake. Dear Merlin, he was far too old for this.