Growing up Pureblooded

Rams Love Lily's

At the very end of a narrow lane in the tiny Muggle village of Babbacombe, there stood a small white cottage with a thatched roof and an immaculately-kept English garden. For many years, the cottage had been the residence of Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, who had been quite the local celebrities, adored by their neighbors for their gracious hospitality, and much admired for their remarkable longevity. This last was the topic most often brought up in connection with their names, as it was widely rumored that they had both been over one hundred years old at the time of their tragic murder the year before, an estimated age that had been ascertained from the fact that they had lived in the cottage for as long as old Mrs Willoughby could remember, and she had turned eighty-seven the previous September.

After the Flamels' violent deaths - a subject which would doubtless occupy the village gossip groups until long after the Second Coming - the cottage had remained vacant for only a few months before it was taken over by a strange man with a stupendously-long beard who, if appearances were any indication, had attained an even greater age than the Flamels. The old man was courteous enough, but the villagers thought him quite stand-offish. In the course of his time in the village, Albus Dumbledore had never once invited any of them into his home.

As if that were not enough to earn the newcomer the unanimous criticism from his neighbors, the odd man seemed utterly unable to stay in one place for too long, which, in a village inhabited mostly by the direct descendants of those who had founded it sometime during the Roman occupation, was a significant character flaw. He was always going off on random trips, and when he stayed at home, he was as likely to pace around the garden mumbling to himself as to engage old Mrs Willoughby in conversation. When he did deign to address his next-door neighbor, it was instantly apparent to the tough old woman that he considered himself her superior, and that was something that she could never forgive.

"Snobbish fellow, he is," she told her sister, Mrs Green. "Always using big words and showing off his fancy university education. Mr Flamel was never like that, and Mrs Flamel even asked for my shepherd's pie recipe once." She said once again lamenting the loss of her favorite neighbor's. "If you ask me, this Mr Dumbledore thinks he's something real special," Mrs Green said. "And don't get me started on that blooming bird of his!" She said with a roll of her eyes. Arrogant as the new resident might be, he could not hold a candle in that regard to the companion who had come to join him at the beginning of the summer, much to the distress of poor Mrs Willoughby.

"I think the young man's his son," she informed her sister. "He's an unhealthy-looking chap. I doubt he's ever seen a sunny day in his life. Could use a bath, too maybe with extra shampoo." For a woman who believed devoutly that cleanliness was not next to godliness, but rather the very same thing, this was as poor a recommendation as she could possibly give. "He's a bit of a nasty fellow," Mrs Green agreed with a nod. "I saw him at the chemist's shop the other day, and thought I'd welcome him to town. Would you believe what he did? He rolled his eyes at me, and then went on to ignore me completely, without even so much as a 'goodbye'." Mrs Willoughby clucked disapprovingly. "What is the world coming to, Mabel?" she exclaimed. "When a young man with poor hygiene thinks himself too good to talk to his elders, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are bound to be riding close behind." "Right you are, Jessie," Mrs Green said. "Right you are."

Fortunately for the two strange men who lived in the cottage, they continued blissfully unaware of the other villagers' generally low opinion of them, nor would they have cared much had they known the truth. The two wizards were much too concerned with their own weighty problems to fret over a few old Muggle gossips. "I must say, Severus," Dumbledore commented one day as they were both poring over some of Flamel's papers. "The more I have learnt from Nicolas's notes, the more I have come to believe that it is highly unlikely that Voldemort could have been the one to steal the Philosopher's Stone."

Snape snorted. "You, learning? That's a surprise. I had come to think that there was nothing you didn't already know." "Very little," Dumbledore admitted modestly. "But the Philosopher's Stone is surrounded by many mysteries, and Nicolas was reluctant to share his secrets with me. He said that the Stone could only be truly understood by one who had gone though the necessary process of purification." "And you never chose to undergo this process?" Snape asked.

"Alas, the burden of my many inordinately heavy responsibilities left me with very little time for such pleasant distractions," Dumbledore replied. Fawkes trilled in a minor key before flying out into the garden. "Fortunately for us, however," the Grand Sorcerer continued, "Nicolas has left copious records of his research. It seems very clear to me that Voldemort would never have been able to endure direct exposure to the Stone. Even if he had managed to break through my impenetrable defenses, Nicolas's research suggests that contact with the Stone would have caused extraordinary pain to one so immersed in Dark magic as he."

"Perhaps that's why he came to kill the Flamels," Snape suggested as he turned over a leaf of parchment. "To make them help him." "I think it more likely that Voldemort realized too late that the Stone had already been stolen, and came after the Flamels in the vain hope of finding it here," Dumbledore mused. "Unfortunately, they were no match for him." "I found it rather surprising that the Dark Lord managed to kill them so easily," Snape said. "Flamel had some six centuries to learn to defend himself."

Dumbledore nodded his head sadly. "Nicolas was a formidable duellist in his prime. But I believe he had grown very dependent on the Philosopher's Stone. Without its considerable powers to assist him, even his skills were no match for those of Lord Voldemort." "Why should that be? Flamel had plenty of Elixir of Life left over."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a small smile. "But it is clear from Nicolas's notes that the Stone's powers extend far beyond brewing the Elixir, giving the owner wisdom, strength, perhaps even a measure of clairvoyance. It is these other powers on which I believe Nicolas had become overly dependent, and without which he proved unable to vanquish Voldemort." "I see," Snape said curtly. "So who do you believe took the Stone, if not the Dark Lord?"

"Only a wizard of great power could have overcome my defenses," Dumbledore said. "I have yet to ascertain who that wizard might be." He sighed. "On an unrelated note, I was wondering whether you have had any success with your research into Aries Black." Snape snarled. "The Black brat? Not yet. Do you care to tell me why you're still so obsessed with him?" "I have told you, Severus," Dumbledore said patiently. "Aries Black is the key to all our future plans." "But why?" he pressed. "Alas, Severus, I cannot say." Dumbledore insisted. "You don't trust me," Snape accused his old Headmaster.

"I would trust you with my life, Severus, but there are nonetheless some secrets that I cannot reveal to you at this time." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "It is, however, quite a lovely day. Why don't you go outside? I have some more potted lilies for you to plant in the garden." "Again?" Snape complained. "I hate gardening." He frowned. "And I don't like lilies. They bring back unpleasant memories."

"But they're such lovely flowers, Severus," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I find that woolly rams are quite fond of them. Oh, how I love those hairy beasts." He rose from the table and poured himself a fresh cup of tea, softly singing "Baa Baa Black Sheep." Snape rolled his eyes yet again at the ridiculous connections the aged wizard's mind could draw, then carried the flowers out into the garden, mumbling under his breath all the way. "Senile old fool," he growled. Dumbledore only sighed in frustration as he sipped his tea, silently cursing Cassiopeia Black, all Blacks, youthful indiscretions and Unbreakable Vows.