Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or Harry Potter.
The Alchemist's Child
A DC Comics/Harry Potter crossover
He was over 650 years old now.
He'd lived an interesting life, or rather a series of lives, but he was most famous for creating the only known Philosopher's Stone in existence. Of course, this was only because no one knew about the other stones that he'd created, like the one destroyed in that debacle at Hogwarts. He was a meticulous note taker and a convert of the scientific method long before the rest of the world, but if others knew that he could create a stone whenever he pleased out of semi-common components, he'd be hounded to the ends of the Earth for the secret. He wasn't willing to play God by giving anyone the power over life and death, so he was more than happy to let the world believe that the stone had been a fortunate accident.
Now the wizarding world believed that he was dead. It was just as well. He had far too many other things to deal with anyway.
He'd created another stone for Perenelle 75 years ago when she'd left to pursue her own life. He still loved her dearly and she remained one of his best friends. But after six centuries, people needed space. It was inevitable really. They still saw each other every decade or so and kept up regular correspondence. The last he heard she was in Africa, healing the sick and doing her best to help the ailing land. Her most recent letter had come with a photograph of Perenelle surrounded by slim, dark skinned children, all holding school books and standing in front of their new schoolhouse. The building didn't look like anything special—small and dirty, made of sun-baked mudbrick—but judging by the smiles of the two dozen children in the picture, it was something very special indeed.
Thinking of the photo brought a soft smile to the man's face as he arranged a pot of tea and several sandwiches on a silver platter.
Over the centuries, he'd been known by many names and had lived many lives. A court wizard. A Venetian noble. A London governor. An explorer of the New World. Sheriff of a small, Wild West town. An agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service. He'd even given acting a try, on the London stage in the mid 1900s. Though he was rather good, it had never really made him happy.
He was growing rather weary of life, and even thought about destroying the stone and ending it, when a realization occurred to him. In all of his years there was one thing he'd never done—lived the life of a non-magical commoner. An opportunity presented itself in the form of a wealthy American family in need of a skilled valet to run their household. After much consideration, he returned to the United States.
He'd only been with the family for a decade when tragedy struck, leaving him the sole guardian of a damaged eight year old boy. Despite having lived for centuries, he'd never been responsible for a child. He'd seriously considered fleeing and leaving the child with a state-appointed guardian, but the young boy had captured his heart long ago.
Raising the child would prove to be one of the best decisions he'd ever make.
Now, the patter of ancient but nimble feet echoes throughout a massive cavern, hurrying towards the growl of the powerful engine that, night after night, heralded his master's arrival. A sleek black canopy retracts, exposing the man inside the car. A creaky, weak voice calls his name, and his old heart skips a beat as he realizes that his master—his employer, his child—is injured.
As the ancient alchemist rushes to his surrogate son's side, his hand reaches reflexively to the stone around his neck, dangling from a nondescript gold chain. Its weight provides a small comfort in this current crisis.
He helps the injured man to a hospital bed, trusting a barrage of machines and a few hidden spells to pinpoint what has happened and how he can fix it. Though the sight of so much blood chills him, the injury is a mere gunshot wound. No vital organs are damaged.
His boy has survived worse. Much worse.
The elder man relaxes as he begins cleaning his charge's wound. With the help of modern medicine, and perhaps a bit of discreet magic, the young man will soon be healthy and out on the streets once again, terrorizing the city's criminal population into submission.
However, the ancient alchemist knows that one day his boy's injuries will be so great that even his vast skills and knowledge will not be enough. When that time comes, he will be faced with a choice. Does he let the child go, to be reunited in the afterlife with his family and friends? Or will he share his most coveted secret—that of eternal life? Though he will never admit it aloud, deep down, the man already knows the answer. In all of his six centuries, his greatest achievement has been watching and helping that scared orphan from so long ago grow into the great man that he'd become. He can never let the boy—the man—who has come to mean so much to him—and to the world—go.
With a weary sigh, the man once known as Nicholas Flamel—now and forever known as Alfred Pennyworth—fondly brushes his charge's hair away from his damp forehead and whispers:
"Sleep now, Master Bruce. You'll feel better in the morning."
Author's Note: Not that Alfred needs anything to make him more awesome than he already is, but I liked this idea anyway and decided to run with it.