a glimpse into the after
iii. a glimpse into the after
“Why do we even need to know this?” Ron grumbled, scribbling out another line that dithered enough to make the paper length.
“Because Snape will fail you otherwise,” Hermione hissed from her chair across the table.
Ron groaned. “Who even cares about half this stuff? Who needs to know the twelve uses of dragon’s blood? If I ever need to know, I'd ask Charlie!" He slumped forward, his forehead hitting the parchment. Harry smirked, ready to suggest they pack it in for the night when something caught Ron’s attention out of the corner of his eye.
“Hang on,” Ron said suddenly, straightening up. His face lit up in a way Harry had rarely seen. “That’s Gwaine!”
Harry followed his gaze to the far end of the common room, where a long couch faced the dark windows. Someone was sprawled across it, lying half-curled on their side with an arm flung lazily over their face. Shoulder-length, faintly untidy red hair caught the firelight, a shade duller than Percy’s polished copper but unmistakably Weasley.
“Gwaine!” Ron whispered loudly, practically leaping from his chair. He bounded across the room, leaving Harry and Hermione to exchange puzzled looks. He sprinted over with the kind of energy that he usually reserved for chess or the Chudley Cannons, stopping just before the couch and dropping into a crouch beside it.
Harry had seen Gwaine around, of course. Ron talked about him like he was some sort of legend, brilliant, mysterious, and effortlessly cooler than all the other siblings. How much of that was simply because he was Ron's favorite sibling was unclear. But Harry had never gotten a proper sense of him. Gwaine Weasley seemed to float through Hogwarts like a shadow, always present but rarely noticeable.
“Oi, you’re awake, aren’t you?” Ron said softly, nudging Gwaine’s shoulder.
The figure stirred, the hand slipping off his face to reveal a pair of soft blue eyes blinking sleepily up at Ron. Gwaine smiled faintly, though it looked more like an expression of fond resignation than surprise.
“Ron,” Gwaine murmured, his voice soft and hoarse from sleep. “What are you doing up?”
“What am I doing up?” Ron retorted. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in days!”
Gwaine shrugged. “Around.”
“You’re so annoying,” Ron said, but his grin betrayed his fondness. “We’ve been looking for you! We’ve got a question—well, a project, really—and you’re the only one who’d know.”
Gwaine sat up slowly, brushing his hair back from his face. Harry and Hermione, curious now, abandoned their table to join the brothers. As they approached, Harry noticed the way Gwaine moved, slow and deliberate, like he was constantly conserving their energy for more important things. Up close, Harry saw the faint hollows beneath his eyes, the way his soft, fine features mirrored Percy’s but seemed far less severe.
“What’s this about?” Gwaine asked, ruffling Ron’s hair in a way that earned a huff and a swat. His voice was quiet but curious. He turned his gaze to Hermione and Harry as they hovered nearby, inclining his head slightly. “And who’ve you roped into it?”
"We’re trying to figure out more about alchemy. You’re brilliant with that stuff, alchemy and potions and all.” Ron said quickly.
“Alchemists?” Gwaine repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Ron nodded eagerly. “Nicholas Flamel.
At that, Gwaine blinked, his expression sharpening ever so slightly. He tilted his head, considering the question before a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Flamel?” Gwaine said, his tone half-teasing. “That’s a bit basic, isn’t it? I thought you were going to ask about George Ripley or Hermes Trismegistus. You know, someone obscure.”
Ron frowned. “Who?”
Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked like she was trying not to explode with indignation at being out-knowledged. Meanwhile, Gwaine stretched his arms over his head, his voice casual as he added, "Nicolas Flamel is the most famous alchemist known to modern wizardkind. And that is because of the Philosopher's Stone."
Gwaine leans back against the couch cushions, his steel-blue eyes half-lidded as he watches Ron eagerly await his answer.
“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Gwaine begins, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of someone who knows his subject, “isn’t just some magical artifact. It’s the peak of alchemical achievement, a theoretical object most alchemists only dream of making, but only one actually exists.”
Harry and Ron lean forward, rapt. Hermione sits straighter, her quill poised over her parchment, ready to record every word.
“The Stone can transform any metal into pure gold,” Gwaine continues, his tone smooth and deliberate. “And it produces the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to those who drink it.”
Hermione frowns slightly, her brows knitting together. “Immortality? On a permanent basis?”
“Not quite,” Gwaine replies, tilting his head thoughtfully. “The Elixir has to be consumed regularly to maintain its effects. Stop drinking it, and you’ll start aging again, and quickly.”
Harry shifts uneasily. “That sounds… unnatural.” He imagined someone withering to dust in the blink of an eye.
“It is,” Gwaine says simply, before smirking faintly. “Doesn’t stop people from wanting it, though. There’ve been plenty of reports about the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but as far as anyone knows, only one exists. It belongs to Monsieur Nicolas Flamel.”
At the name, Hermione gasps softly, but Gwaine doesn’t pause.
“Flamel is the most famous alchemist of our time, though I’d argue he’s more of a philosopher than a scientist.” His voice takes on a slightly teasing tone as he adds, “He’s also an opera lover, if you believe the books. Lives in Devon with his wife, Perenelle, who’s just as brilliant as he is. Flamel’s celebrated his six-hundred-and-sixty-fifth birthday, and Perenelle’s not far behind at six-hundred-and-fifty-eight.”
Ron’s mouth drops open. “Six hundred and sixty-five?! That’s mental!”
“It’s what happens when you drink the Elixir of Life,” Gwaine says dryly. “Flamel’s kept it quiet, but even wizards don't live that long without, ah, outside help. Demon deals and god promises, that sort of thing. So everyone knows, and everyone talks about him in libraries, alchemical circles... even some Potions Masters.”
“Why hasn’t anyone tried to steal it?” Harry asks, frowning. If it were that valuable, then-
Gwaine raises an eyebrow, an amused glint flickering in his eyes. “Who says they haven’t? Flamel’s clever, and he’s had centuries to learn how to protect himself. Who knows what that old man has cooked up?"
"Besides, in terms of making it,” he adds, leaning forward slightly, “the Philosopher’s Stone isn’t just about gold and immortality. It’s about transformation, changing the very essence of something. The Stone works on principles of perfect transmutation, something even advanced potions can’t fully replicate.”
Hermione’s quill scritches furiously as she writes. “Perfect transmutation?”
Gwaine nods. “Alchemy is about balance, precision. The Stone aligns magical and physical forces in ways most wizards can’t even comprehend. Potions brewed with fragments of the Stone enhance their potency, stabilize dangerous reactions, and allow otherwise impossible combinations of ingredients."
Ron stared at him. “Fragments of the Stone?”
Gwaine nodded. “If Flamel let you borrow a sliver—good luck convincing him—you could brew potions that would otherwise blow up in your face. The Stone’s magic balances forces in a way nothing else can. That’s why it’s not just valuable; it’s dangerous.”
Hermione’s eyes were wide, her quill hovering over her parchment. “How is it made?”
“How do you make it?” Ron asks, his voice hushed.
“You don’t,” Gwaine says flatly. “Not unless you’re prepared to pay a price. Flamel spent decades perfecting his methods, and even then, the materials he used might not exist anymore. He made it more than 500 years ago. Alchemy isn’t just about skill—it’s about luck, patience, and having enough money to burn in the pursuit of your ambition. It took decades of study and rare, possibly extinct, materials. Even if someone did try to replicate it, there’s no guarantee they’d survive the process.”
The trio falls silent, Hermione staring down at her notes with a mix of awe and apprehension.
“So it’s impossible?” Hermione pressed, one last time.
“Not impossible,” Gwaine said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But definitely not worth it.” Harry shivered, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Gwaine’s words carried an unsettling weight, like he knew more than he was saying. Like he had personal experience.
Gwaine leaned back into the couch cushions, staring into the fire as if the conversation had worn him out. Ron beamed at him anyway, turning back to Harry and Hermione with an expression that said told you he was brilliant.
“Come on,” Ron said, tugging at Harry’s sleeve. “We’ve got to figure out what this means before Hermione explodes."
Harry remembers how quiet Gwaine is most of the time, how he drifts through the castle like a ghost. But in moments like this, he seems to light up, his words sharp and deliberate, his steel-blue eyes brighter.
“Why do you know all this?” Harry asks suddenly, unable to stop himself.
Gwaine’s lips curve into a small, secretive smile. “Because I like to know things,” he says simply. “And because sometimes the things you learn end up being far more useful than you’d expect."
Sweet-faced, sweet-voiced...dangerous things to overlook, Harry thought suddenly, though he didn’t know why.