Incendio

Attica presumed that for most, nostalgia summoned a pleasurable sensation. Maybe it was like a mindless, balmy escape into more welcoming times. But Attica did not feel that consuming warmth when she remembered her family. Rather, her nostalgia transported her back to the moments surrounding her loss. It was with bitterness that she used the singular, because she could not remember the first loss that had shaken her once-happy life. Her parents, Armand and Isolde Flamel, had died in the wake of the first Wizarding War when Attica had been only a baby. They, too, had fallen victims of Voldemort, who had plans for the Stone. They had shown bravery that none should have expected of them. When the Death Eaters threatened to take them to the lair of the Dark Lord if they did not hand over the Stone, they didn't balk. And when they were in the presence of Voldemort himself, her parents still had not wavered. They had gone bravely to their deaths and had not betrayed the rest of the Wizarding World in their selfish desires to live. Merlin forbid they disappoint Dumbledore, who would later repay their sacrifice by abandoning their only daughter for a scrap of parchment.

They died young and without the privilege of getting to raise their own daughter, but because of their valor, Voldemort had not been able to take a firm hold on life through the Stone that he had no right to anyway. This was a blessing in more ways than one, because there was more to the Stone's power than just keeping a person alive or healing mortal injuries. Obviously, Nicolas and Perenelle had lived centuries beyond even a magical life span, but so few people had met the Flamels that it was not common knowledge that the consistent use of the Elixir derived from the Stone also prevented its users from aging. Nicolas's hair remained a dark chestnut in color and her grandmother's dark eyes had never lost their spark, nor had her hair grayed from its originally lustrous black.

Attica possessed a rare bit of knowledge about the Stone: it gave strength to the person who consumed it. Not physically, of course. Nothing visible would change about the person. But the Elixir of Life shaped already impressive magic into something even more resilient. As a child, her grandfather had impressed upon her the terrifying nature of the Elixir.

And so, Attica assumed that people thought she should have been happy. They probably expected her to be thrilled, even, that the Potter boy had recovered the Stone in their first year. But he had meddled in affairs that he needn't have. What, other than a youthful show of arrogance, had made Potter interfere in her life? Because of him and Dumbledore's impressively blind protection of one child, she was orphaned a second time. "He nearly killed Harry Potter, again, to get it," Dumbledore had said. Why did Potter get a protector so loyal that he was willing to sacrifice the happiness of so many for him while she lost the people she loved most? Where was the justice in that?

Where an all-consuming grief used to occupy a large hole in her chest, she now only felt a defiant urge to watch Harry Potter crumble in front of her. The dam of her grief had burst in her fourth year and morphed into something she considered to be more constructive. She had donned the emerald-stoppered vial containing the Elixir around her neck and less than a week later, the fiery and all consuming desire to witness Potter's destruction had overwhelmed her. She now had the protection of her grandfather's Elixir always near at hand, and it was this assurance that allowed something sinister to surface. She wanted him to feel as hopeless as she had the night when Dumbledore had hesitated aiding in her protection before his exasperated spell had set fire to the only home she had ever known. And she would be the one who made Harry feel the way she had that night if she had to kill Voldemort himself to see the debt paid.

~~~

Attica squeezed the emerald tighter in her fist in a fruitless attempt to drown out the grown-up voices coming from the hall. She stared resolutely at the shadows on the wall cast by the candles and wondered despairingly why the Headmaster wouldn't just go away and let McGonagall handle the Flamels' affairs.

"How sure are you, Severus?" Attica heard Headmaster Dumbledore say in a serious tone.

Professor Snape responded in a tight voice. "When I left, they had already decided that the best course would be to attack tonight. They don't want to waste any time."

"Ah," the Headmaster sighed. "Then we must find the instructions to the Stone quickly."

"We do not have that luxury, Albus. They could arrive at any moment. Get the girl and go," said the Potions Master. He didn't raise his voice, but Attica recognized the impatience. He had often taken a similar tone with her first year Potions class.

"The instructions are too valuable to leave behind. They cannot fall into the wrong hands."

"They are invaluable, yes. But that will be of little consequence to you if the Death Eaters arrive before all of you can escape."

"What is this?" A new voice joined in. "Death Eaters, here? Albus, the girl..." McGonagall's panicked voice trailed off, followed by the unmistakable sound of china shattering on the floor. She had been in the kitchen preparing tea and must have returned in time to hear the tail end of the hushed conversation.

"Yes, Death Eaters," Snape hissed. "Minerva, please fetch a few of the girl's belongings." Brisk steps on the oak stairway told Attica that the Transfiguration professor had wordlessly heeded his request. "You are leaving with the girl, Albus."

"I just need a little more time. It can only be in so many places in this house..." Dumbledore was beginning to sound frantic.

"Dumbledore!" Snape cut in and Attica jumped. It was the first time she had heard the head of Slytherin House raise his voice. Then, his speech resumed its deadly soft quality: "If you will not get that child out of this house, then I will." Attica had been holding her breath during the whole conversation, not daring to imagine how everything would turn out. Suddenly, Professor Snape called to her. "Miss Flamel? Please come into the hall."

The Headmaster and the professor were both exuding a palpable tension that pervaded the grand foyer. Snape's shoulders were set in a straight line, while Dumbledore stood by the stairs, clutching the wooden orb at the end of the bannister. His knuckles were white, and Attica paused in the doorway. She eyed the pale face of the Potions Master where he stood, imperious, before the older man.

"Albus, I'm taking her to the rendezvous point we discussed. Tell Minerva to meet us there with the girl's things."

"Severus..."

"No. You and Minerva could stand an attack. The Death Eaters wouldn't touch me without the Dark Lord's explicit orders to do so. But this child would not come out of the struggle unscathed. I will not stand for it. You would not hesitate if this were Harry." Irritation colored Snape's features, and his lip curled with disgust as he placed emphasis on the name. Dumbledore looked stricken by the Potions Master's words.

Snape grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the house, tugging Attica to the field on the other side of the road. When Attica finally looked back, Dumbledore and McGonagall both stood in the front yard.

"Incendio," she heard Dumbledore roar into the quiet night.

Attica looked up at Snape uncomprehendingly and no tears fell then. She was too shocked to cry. And a part of her was still afraid of the emotionless professor, but as he regarded the child in front of him, Attica swore that something in his face softened briefly. Then, he wordlessly picked her up and began to fly. As they rose above the small village, Attica could not rip her gaze from the flames and continued to stare at the destruction over the black shoulder of her protector.

"Do not look back," she heard him murmur softly. It was the softness in his voice that consoled her only slightly, and she was able to tear her eyes from her burning home in the distance. Attica buried her face in the black wool of her unshakable Potions Master's cloak. She vaguely noted that he smelled of cardamom.