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To Nicolas Flamel, living is little more than a bad habit. He has been trying to break it for several years now, with little success.
He does not fear death. He approaches it much like a Muggle would a check-up at the dentist's: a vague, baseless apprehension has caused him to reschedule time and again, but the passing of the years has taught him that, sooner or later, he has to go through with it.
And of course, there—as an old friend once put it—is the rub: he cannot decide how he wishes to go. Being a wizard severely limits one's choice on the matter; also, Nicolas' survival instincts have been honed by seven hundred years' worth of doing so.
His supply of Elixir of Life has almost run out. The Stone used to create it was destroyed five years ago, and Perenelle—efficient as always—chose die a few months later. She poisoned an apple and hid it among other fruits, hoping to die unexpectedly. Her heart gave out while she had a snack halfway through her umpteenth viewing of Doctor Zhivago.
Nicolas can think of no similarly appropriate way to die. He has indulged many obsessions in his life, but few remain with him—notably chess, opera, stargazing and an enormous collection of wine corks. None of these, with the obvious exception of tragic operas, are particularly useful in inspiring suitable dying methods. (Wine corks can, of course, be terribly hazardous, especially when controlled by the wand of a furious Perenelle; but a good memory is unpardonable when remembering a deceased loved one.)
For a time, the Flamels considered having their deaths echo those of Radames and Aida, but then concluded that asphyxia was hardly romantic. Having known most of his favourite composers and playwrights also puts a damper on Nicolas' wishes to pay homage to their works: no one who shared drinks with William Shakespeare is likely to consider him worthy of much reverence.
Nicolas sighs. He is no closer to finding an answer to his quandary than he was four centuries ago, when he first realised he would one day have to make this choice. He puts it from his mind and sits on the couch, facing a far easier dilemma: what to eat for dinner?
The doorbell rings; he smiles. Unannounced visitors are one of his greatest joys, but the only friend of Nicolas' whose disregard for etiquette allows him to call with no previous notice is Albus Dumbledore, whose manners don't often reflect his nineteenth-century upbringing.
Nicolas opens the door, and is surprised to survey the visitor: an old, clearly exhausted and weakened Dumbledore. His eyes retain most of their usual vivacity, but one of his hands is blackened and shrivelled, as if burnt.
"Albus." He bows his head politely and welcomes him with a gesture towards the living room. Nicolas' face does not betray his surprise at the Headmaster's appearance.
"Nicolas."
Dumbledore offers him a slight grin, and follows. His pace has lost speed and agility. Nicolas grows more bewildered as he reasons with himself that this is no ordinary wizard—what curse or enchantment could harm Albus Dumbledore so severely?
They sit across the dinner table from each other. Albus inspects his surroundings—he's probably noticed that the house has been redecorated since his last visit. Neither man speaks for well over a minute.
Perhaps Dumbledore is waiting for him to ask about the hand.
"Can I offer you something to drink, Albus? Tea, or perhaps some wine?"
(The idea of the two of them having a conversation that is in any way straightforward is ridiculous.)
"Just tea, thank you."
Nicolas takes his time moseying to the kitchen, boiling water and fetching two cups.
Albus tastes the first sip. "Ah. Peppermint."
"Always."
"Yes." He grins. "You have grown far too predictable in your old age."
"This is true." Nicolas chuckles at the term. "I doubt you'll suffer from a similar handicap; you enjoy outraging the world far too much. You seem to grow more eccentric and surprising as the years pass."
Both gazes focus on Albus' limp hand for a moment. "I thought I might lose a foot next," he says with a smile, "or perhaps shave off the beard."
Nicolas laughs. "Oh, not the beard! You'll just look silly without it—but this habit of yours of tucking it in your belt could certainly go. It didn't look good fifty years ago, Albus, and it certainly does not nowadays."
"Says the man who wore his beard exactly like this for two centuries."
"I have seen the error of my ways." Nicolas gestures towards his well-trimmed three-inch-long white beard. "Far more fashionable."
"Well, then, I must defer to your clearly superior understanding of fashion trends."
"Oh, you know I don't know linen from lycra, you old soot," Flamel retorts, rolling his eyes. "And I'm well aware that the beard and the belt will stay regardless of my opinion."
"At least you know."
Dumbledore glances at the grandfather clock next to him. Nicolas frowns—the movement was not idle, for few of Albus' are. Never before has he scheduled a visit to the Flamels' with time constraints of any kind. They enjoy making idle conversation, concerning matters both important and entirely trivial, for hours on end. This sudden change of pace alarms him.
"Must you go soon?"
Albus nods, and for a flickering moment allows sobriety and worry to show on his face. He smiles, still somewhat grimly, and says, "My time is not entirely my own these days. I have far too much to do."
"And yet you spared time to grant me a visit! I am flattered."
"Of course. How could I not?"
"You have spent years without calling on me. Come, Albus, this visit must have a specific purpose. You cannot have scheduled a one-hour stay in Plymouth to chat with me for no real reason, if indeed you are so busy."
Dumbledore pours himself some tea.
"I cannot think of a less dramatic way of saying this," he says with a slight chuckle. "I'm going to die soon; I wanted to say goodbye."
"Oh, I—" Flamel starts, stops; so many centuries have passed, and he still cannot deal with loss much better than he did as a young man.
To this day, he cannot get used to his life without Perenelle—it is easier to imagine that she is simply gone for a while, and that he will meet her again shortly. He tries to imagine a world without Albus Dumbledore—Britain without its best wizard, Hogwarts without its Headmaster—and fails.
"What happened?"
Dumbledore looks at his injured hand once more and grimaces. "A young man's mistake."
"Have you chosen the manner of your demise?"
"Yes." Albus smiles; he knows of Nicolas' long-standing conundrum. "I will be murdered."
Flamel did not expect this reply. He arches an intrigued eyebrow; it's interesting that Albus, of all people, should have chosen a violent ending. "By whom?"
"Severus Snape, if everything works according to plan."
"He will be caught and sent to Azkaban—the outrage, Albus! Wizarding society will not allow your murder to go unpunished! Not even Voldemort risked attacking so public a figure. How did Snape agree to this?"
Dumbledore seems supremely unconcerned by the fact that one of his main assets will be hunted and despised for the rest of his life. But then again, Nicolas has met Snape; the Potions master is in all likelihood used to being loathed.
"I asked him to, that's all. He understands I have my reasons for doing so."
"Even the Order will execrate him!"
"Oh, yes."
"Is there no other way?"
"Yes, of course; but this is the best option I have."
"But Albus, this is absurd," Nicolas exclaims, dumbfounded. "Snape has been faithful to you all these years, and this is how you choose to repay him? You are effectively asking him to die for you; he will not survive his crime for long, I'm sure."
Dumbledore bows slightly. "I disagree; I don't think the blame for murdering me will be an issue for long after my death. The Dark Lord grows stronger every day—this assassination will secure Severus' position as Voldemort's right hand."
"You're thinking of his career?"
"Well, yes." Albus laughs; for some reason, the phrasing diverts him. "I suppose I am. I should very much like to die exactly according to my plan, for a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, my plans are flexible; Severus may choose to murder me whenever he deems best."
"What of the Order, Albus? Have you thought of the blow this will be to them? They will think they've had a traitor in their midst all along—that Voldemort succeeded—they will lose all hope! Everyone will!"
Albus frowns, but his reply is calm and unperturbed. "They will not stop fighting; that's what matters. They will have Harry; he's the one everyone believes in—he's the symbol, not I. I'm but an old man whose sanity few trusted until recently."
Nicolas stands up abruptly and walks to the kitchen to make more tea. He will never understand why Dumbledore retains the ability to shock him so easily. Can this blatant disregard for everyone and everything be legitimate? Albus never seemed this detached before, and his sense of humour strikes Nicolas as a façade more than it ever has before.
Dumbledore has always faced the possibility of dying with neutrality, and shown contempt for those who—like Voldemort and, to some extent, even Flamel himself—seek to postpone death by all means possible. But does impending death not affect him in the least?
An idea strikes Nicolas suddenly, and he hurries back to the living room. "Albus, are you here to ask me for the Elixir? You know I have a very little left, enough to give you perhaps two or three years."
Albus stares at him; his expression betrays nothing of his intentions. "Would you give it to me, if I asked?"
"I—well." He thinks for a moment, and makes his decision with little hesitation. Giving Albus the Elixir will leave Nicolas with a month left to live, maybe two, before old age triumphs over him at last. "Yes. You deserve it far more than I; I've lived more than enough, while you still have much to do here."
Dumbledore smiles and shakes his head. "Thank you, but no."
"Do you think fate has determined that you should die?"
"It certainly seems that way."
"Perhaps fate would have you survive a bit longer. It may do the world some good if you were to delay your death for a while."
"No." He shakes his head once more; the gesture is brisker this time. He is impatient—a rare sight. "I must, Nicolas. Death is inevitable to us all—even you—and I cannot escape it. I will not shirk from that which is, in the end, my one true obligation to this world. My time has come, perhaps a bit sooner than I intended; but it has, and that is good. I have lived for too long."
Flamel eyes him, and sees darkness in Dumbledore—a darkness that has never been this evident before. The approach of one's death provokes soul-searching in all but the most extraordinary of men, and in this Albus seems to be no different from his fellows.
"Too long," he scoffs, as he knows Albus expects him to. "You're barely over a hundred."
"I have done much in my years."
The underlying message could not be plainer: Flamel has been idle for centuries, watching everything from afar and committing himself to nothing. His life has been devoid of accomplishments but for the creation of the Stone; the prospect of immortality caused him to become complacent.
Albus looks pained, however, not accusatory; Nicolas wonders if perhaps he misunderstood.
"Too much."
The words are barely above a whisper, and Nicolas is certain that they were said for Albus' ears alone.
"You cannot be the judge of your own actions, Albus," he says, trying to be reassuring. "You have no objectivity. You are a good man—one of the best I've ever known—regardless of your occasional misgivings."
"My misgivings," Dumbledore echoes. For the first time in the history of their friendship, he refuses to meet Flamel's eyes. He stares at the charred hand instead. "I'm foolish, Nicolas, and the years seem to have taught me nothing. I never outgrew the volatility and the arrogance of youth—the temptations that held sway over me then still continue to do so. I," he hesitates, and it takes him visible effort to finish the sentence, murmuring, "am weak."
This has something to do with the hand—Nicolas is certain of it. He is also certain that Albus will never explain what happened.
"You are a good man, Albus," he repeats.
"Am I?" Dumbledore offers him a hard, unnaturally cold stare now. The tone of Albus' voice is so harsh and judgmental that Nicolas has the strange feeling that he is the one under scrutiny, not Albus himself.
"You have witnessed and survived many tyrants and evildoers. In what way, pray tell, am I that different from the worst among them? I am guilty of countless deaths, Nicolas, countless, many of which grieved me deeply! I failed to stop Grindelwald and Voldemort when they were young—"
"—you couldn't have known—"
"And though I spent my entire life battling against them, the blood of their every victim stains my hands as well. Tell me, Nicolas, how can anyone bear such guilt?"
"I wouldn't know, Albus. I have never faced the kind of decisions you had to make; I have never waged war. Facing that guilt is the price you have to pay for being the powerful man you are."
"I never chose to do so—I didn't see it coming until the point where the sheer number was too much to even contemplate; I had to put it out of my mind, or I would have done nothing but wallow in self-pity."
Flamel longs to point out that wallowing in self-pity seems to be all Dumbledore has been doing lately, but he refrains. Instead, he says, "But you have done great things."
"The cost, Nicolas—"
"Yes, but great things nonetheless. Good things. You can take comfort in this."
"If you were me, would you have let all this happen?" Albus asks, desperation on his face. "What would you have done?"
"Nothing," Flamel replies at once; is it not obvious? "When trouble arose, I would not have cared enough to get anyone murdered; but Grindelwald would still be in power. Or, in any case, Voldemort would not have disappeared. Harry Potter would not be the Chosen One. After all, there would be no Order, and his parents would have had no means or reason to be known to Lord Voldemort."
The prospect is sobering, but Albus clearly wishes it were as easy for him to forgive himself as it is for others.
He says nothing, however, and Flamel continues, "Others can be blamed for those deaths as well, but the credit for your victory is yours alone. Of course you used others; you toyed with their lives, and the few who realise it—even now, in these dark times—cannot blame you for it."
Dumbledore stands up and walks to the fireplace. Nicolas does the same, and sees that Albus is examining the photographs on the mantelpiece. The pictures there are souvenirs from the Flamels' many travels; the house is Nicolas' Pensieve, and it stores mostly happy memories. He needs no reminders of sad, painful times—and yet everything here makes him think of Perenelle, her voice, her temper, her witty comebacks, her love for exotic travel destinations.
He misses her.
"I don't understand why you feel this need to atone for your wrongdoings, Albus," Flamel says softly, staring at a photograph of Perenelle dancing in Kathmandu. "You did what you had to do, what you knew was best for everyone, regardless of how it would affect you. You were selfless. I admire you for it, I do."
"But you said it yourself—you would not have done any of it."
Albus holds a photograph of the Flamels' visit to Paris in August 1944. In the picture, something explodes not far behind them, and the couple laughs nervously as the initial shock fades. Dumbledore certainly remembers when it was taken—he, too, was in Paris at the time, leading a small corps of British and French Aurors.
"No, but one does not need to possess suicidal courage to recognise it in others."
"Oh, Nicolas, I am no Gryffindor!" Dumbledore smiles fondly, no doubt thinking of his favourite puppet—Harry Potter. He seems to admire the boy's foolish bravery, a young man's recklessness; yet this is the very thing he claims to regret most of all.
"Well, the Sorting Hat would have us all believe otherwise. You tend to avoid the trenches most of the time nowadays, Albus, but that is simply common sense; age has taught you prudence."
Albus says nothing.
"Were you a coward, you would have studied Transfiguration and become the world's leading expert in Transmutation; were you temerarious, you would have become a power-hungry Minister for Magic, or a great Dark wizard. You are neither; you have done well."
They spend some more minutes in complete silence.
"I suppose I could have fared worse, and done far more damage," Albus concedes, and Flamel doesn't know whether the man is truly convinced of this. Dumbledore has always been a believer in fate, and certainly thinks that his life could not have happened any other way. "Thank you, Nicolas."
He stands up, and Flamel does the same.
"I have little wish to see the chaos that will follow your demise, Albus," says Nicolas, and pain flashes briefly in Dumbledore's eyes—perhaps he will blame himself for this death as well. "I bid you good luck in settling your final affairs, old friend; may your plans be more efficient and successful than mine."
"Do survive another year," Albus requests with a grin. "I should very much like to see what Rita Skeeter will ask you when she writes her biography of me."
"That settles it—I'll do my best to die before you do." They laugh, both remembering all too well Skeeter's obsessive search for information on Armando Dippet's misdemeanours after his untimely death.
"I should very much like to have you speak at my funeral, Albus."
"Of course." Dumbledore bows his head. "I will be honoured to oblige, if I am still—in a position to do so. Would you do me the same honour, if you happen to outlive me?"
"Naturally."
Albus offers Nicolas his good hand, and he takes it. Their eyes moisten; neither man doubts that they will not meet again.
Dumbledore leaves, closing the door behind him. Flamel allows himself to shed some tears now—the feeling of loss and abandonment is once more overwhelming. It passes, perhaps sooner than it should; he will only feel the loss of his last good friend when it happens.
Nicolas reflects wryly that it didn't occur to Albus to ask whether he regretted having watched history from a distance all his life. In truth, he would not have known how to reply to such a question.
Nicolas tries to imagine the eulogy Dumbledore has just been requested to deliver; what's there to be said?
He considers Albus' many worries and regrets—inevitable consequences of a meddlesome, important life—and concludes that maybe having great deeds connected to one's name is not worth the self-reproach. This was, of course, Dumbledore's choice; but Nicolas could not have lived with the guilt Albus has had to bear for so long.
He thinks of the eulogy. He should very much like it to be something to the effect of, "Nicolas Flamel was a good man, and he lived a quiet, happy life to the end of his days."
One more great deed, perhaps, is in order—one small attempt to change history, to tempt fate—a small gesture that can help many, to the detriment of Nicolas' own health and survival. He walks to the kitchen, and seals his last vials of Elixir in an envelope.
His owl takes the envelope to Albus; no note accompanies the potion, for there is nothing else that needs to be said between them. Perhaps he will take it; perhaps this will delay his death for some time. He deserves to have a choice. Dumbledore's twisted life, full of controversial decisions, is worthier of prolonging than Flamel's uneventful, almost senseless existence.
A quiet, happy life—he thinks of the eulogy once more.
He has no regrets.