"Ow! Watch it, Malfoy. Merlin, you're heavy," Potter groaned from beneath Draco. He'd been pushed to the ground when Draco came tumbling out of the sky, providing a soft landing.

Draco stood up without an apology, looking around them.

Where were they?

Great green hills rose above to the left, slowly receding into the horizon. Behind them, acres of forest stretched out in a canopy of leaves and branch-laden undergrowth, full of winding paths and little dirt trails that criss-crossed all over the place. To the right, plains of tall golden wheat; and, situated in the middle of one such field, lay a cottage.

The cottage was small, cosy, sweet; a plume of smoke rose from its chimney. It was only two stories high, and seemed to be square. Its windows were alight, the curtains parted. The walls were a soft beige, the roof slatted rows of weathered stone. The door, too, looked weathered. It was wooden, with little lines and knobbles from whatever tree it was grown; softened over the years.

"Potter, look," Draco said. He set off in the direction of the cottage, not waiting for Potter.

As he neared the small building, he noticed that there was a strong magic around the place; it flowed through the air, laced the wind and was imbued in the ground; it kept the forest wild, kept the fields golden, kept the sky clear. There were layers of it; veils, almost. Draco supposed those were wards. In a memory such as he was in, he could feel them, but they wouldn't affect him. Hopefully.

When Draco reached the front door, he hesitated before knocking. He turned, pursing his lips slightly; he hated asking for help, or admitting he didn't know something. That implied he had weaknesses, and Malfoys don't have weaknesses. "Potter, as we are in a memory, are we projections? Are we physical?"

Potter blinked owlishly. "What?"

Draco sighed. "Are we physically here, or are we like- like ghosts? Can we pass through walls and such? Can we be seen?"

"Er," Potter said, "Can't be seen, but I don't know if we're physical."

"Fat lot of help you are," Draco muttered under his breath. "Potter knows about memories and pensieves, Draco you should take Potter along, he can help you now- meddling old codger, Potter's bloody useless," he continued as he made his way around the house, looking for open windows or other ways to enter. He returned to Potter without another way of entering. "Well, Potter, don't just stand there. Do something. How do we get in?"

Then he had an idea. He loved having fun, and this was a prime opportunity. "Oh, maybe we aren't physical. Potter, try walking through the walls, like you do at Platform 9 3/4. Maybe you'll get in." This relied on Potter's utter lack of intelligence, and also his never-ending supply of trust for others.

"Er- okay, Malfoy," he said, walking towards the wall at a normal speed. Draco was certain he'd walk face-first into the wall, and fall over-

Potter walked straight through the wall.

Because, of course, everything works for Harry Potter.

Draco followed, internally cursing Potter's unbelievable luck.

Inside, an old man sat on a wooden rocking chair, the same wood as the door was. A fire roared in the fireplace before him, emitting the plume of smoke Draco had spied from outside.

He reminded Draco of Slughorn; the same wispy hair lingered on the side of his head, the same pudginess surrounded his figure.

His most distinctive feature, however, was his beard.

It was easily as long as he was tall; a wiry grey and thin, but so very long. He was stroking it as he watched the flames flicker.

Potter stood a little to Draco's left, watching the old man. Draco stepped further into the room. As he did, the old man turned around. "Ah, so Albus finally sent someone through. Hello. Who are you?"

Draco was going to politely introduce himself, apologise for intruding, and explain his circumstances and ask for Nicholas Flamel when Potter (very rudely) burst out with, "You can see us?"

Draco turned to him, raised an eyebrow, turned pointedly to the wall behind him, and said, "No, Potter, I think he's talking to the wall. Yes, I think we are visible."

The old man smiled. "Yes, I can see you. Potter, eh? By any chance, would that be James Potter? You match his description quite well... Oh, wait, no, there was another one, wasn't there? Found my stone and so I had to give up the Elixir. What was his name? Hagrid? No, he was the one that got expelled... H something... H... Harry?"

"Er, yes, that's me. Sorry, it's just- Malfoy and I are in a memory right now, and you shouldn't be able to see us..."

The old man nodded. "Yes. Well, when the Potter boy- you, I suppose- found my Stone in your first year at Hogwarts, I had to give up my Elixir lest it get into the wrong sort of hands, especially with that Tom Riddle back again. I wasn't quite ready to go yet, however; so I stored all of my memories in this one vial, which I gave to Albus for safekeeping. He comes, sometimes, to see how I am, although he hasn't come in a while...

"Oh, if you're here, does that mean that Tom is gone? I don't suppose you'd be here if he was still around." Potter nodded his affirmation. "Right. Well done. I suppose you're the one who got rid of him, as Harry Potter. Well, in any case. I told Albus to send someone through if they needed my help in any way, but only if they truly needed my help. So, how can I help you two?"

"Well-"

"No, Potter, you don't understand most of it, and what you do understand confuses you. Let me.

"Firstly- may I assume you are Nicholas Flamel?" The man nodded. "Okay, thank you. So, the war is over, as you guessed. We both played rather big roles in the war; so did many of our friends.

"My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an aspiring Potioneer. I attempted- am attempting- to make a derivative of the Dreamless Sleep potion that is non-addictive and- hopefully- also works permanently; so you take it once and you don't have nightmares ever again.

I believe I've found the solution to the addictive part of the potion- the unicorn's blood. I believe the blood, instead of cursing the drinker, makes them addicted to the potion. But the unicorn's blood also counters the fatal bits of the potion. I took the unicorn's blood out to remove the addictive attributes, but I can't find anything stronger to replace it... And so I went to the smartest girl in our year for help; she and Potter here helped me realise I needed your Philosopher's stone to produce the Elixir of Life. We neither want nor need to become immortal; just to combat the fatalness of the Powdered root of Asphodel, the Infusion of Wormwood, and the Valerian Sprigs together. So... could you help us?"

"Hmm... Yes, I could."

"Brilliant!" Potter exclaimed.

"But," Flamel continued, "Why should I? This won't benefit me in any way. I'm only a memory now. I am in the history books, I will be remembered for my achievements. I don't need money, I'm safe and I'm happy... Why should I help you?"

Ooh, Draco liked this Flamel character. He was a bargainer, huh? Well, Draco grew up a Slytherin, with Pansy Parkinson. He could bargain.

"So- you're famous. You're not hungry, or poor, or in need of anything physical; you're living in your own personal paradise, surrounded by magic, protected. You're not sad. But do you have everything you could ever want? Everything you could ever need?"

"Yes, I do believe so."

Potter, who had been watching the conversation with a frown, spoke up. "Say, Mr. Flamel, when was the last time Dumbledore visited?"

Flamel, seeming slightly thrown-off, turned to Potter. "Well, I'm not quite sure, actually. Time passes differently here than it does in the real world. It feels like it's been years, though. Say, when you leave, could you ask him to come through sometime?"

Potter's expression turned sad. Draco turned away as he said, quietly, darting a glance at Draco, "Albus Dumbledore died two years ago, Mr. Flamel."

Flamel's shock was palpable. He froze up, his eyes widened and his mouth parted; he made as though to stand up from his chair in outrage, but then sank down, looking visibly crushed. "Oh," he said, and his voice was quiet, too. "Oh."

But, Potter, with his utter lack of decorance or etiquette or manners or just general awareness of others' emotions, kept going. "I bet it gets a little lonely here, right?"

Still shocked, Flamel nodded jerkily. "Y- yes, a little."

Draco thought he knew where Potter was going with this, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Well, what if we brought him here for you?"

Flamel's head shot up. "What do you mean? Actually, how are you here if Albus is- is dead?"

Potter grinned; a sly grin, like he'd won already and he knew it. "Well, he's now a portrait; you could hang him up on your wall, keep him with you."

Flamel, obviously putting up a brave facade, looked up at Potter cockily. "And just how would you do that, Potter?"

Potter stalled. "Er- well- um-"

"Hopeless," Draco muttered under his breath, but Potter bringing up loneliness had sparked an idea for him. "Say, Mr. Flamel,"

"Yes?"

"You had a wife, right?"

He looked wistful. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. Perenelle. Sweet El. What of her?"

"Is she here with you?"

He turned sad. "No, she isn't. She died before she could add her memories to mine to join me here..."

"Well, what if she could join you?"

"And just how, young man, would you manage that? She isn't even a portrait."

And here, Draco hit the same problem Potter had.

. . .

But Harry had been given an idea by Malfoy's idea.

"Well, do you know of Beedle the Bard? And his stories?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, what self-respecting wizard doesn't?"

Harry thought about how he hadn't known until he was seventeen. But that wasn't his fault! In any case.

"Well, you know the story about the Deathly Hallows?"

"The Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak, and the Resurrection Stone. That was modelled after my Philosopher's stone, you know."

"Yes. Well- they're real."

Malfoy and Flamel reacted the same way.

Their jaws dropped open, their eyes widening comically. Then Malfoy shut his mouth with a snap, turned away, arms crossed, scoffing, while Flamel continued to look at Harry in amazement.

"Give me proof," he said.

Harry reached out and took his invisibility cloak from where he'd stuffed it in his pocket after being caught in McGonagall's office. He pulled it around himself, disappearing under the material as he did; he left his head out to prove he hadn't just cast some spell of sorts.

Flamel raised his chin, looking skeptical. "There were invisibility cloaks around when I was alive and young," he proclaimed. "Why should I believe that that is the cloak of the tale? And what does this have to do with bringing my El back?"

"The Resurrection stone. It does only bring back a spectral version of the person, but... Well, you're Nicholas Flamel. Surely you could come up with a way to make it permanent and full."

Flamel's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes, yes. I sent Beedle ideas on how to improve the Resurrection stone, but he ignored me. But, theoretically, they would work on the actual stone perfectly... Where is this stone, Potter? Bring it to me, prove it works, and leave me with it, and I will tell you how to make the Philosopher's stone."

Harry looked up confidently. "Deal."