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Darcy had always sort of assumed, along with the rest of the world, that the Philosopher's Stone was myth, legend, and pretty much total bullshit. If it did exist, this holy grail of an object, however, she doubted that it was simply a matter of keeping a person alive. No. It was a Philosopher's stone, after all, not an immortality stone (which she had on good authority as vastly different).
But, still. It didn't exist.
Or, it didn't officially exist, anyway. Not until the day she was dragged into Fury's office.
“Is that..?”
“It is.”
She stared at the blood-red hunk of rock on his desk, winking benignly in the light.
“ Oh. My. Thor.”
Being Fury's assistant had always come with perks (eye-candy being the least of it) but being trusted to haul around a mythological wonder-stone was right up there among the best of them - sandwiched neatly between the high security clearance and the twenty-four-hour access to Captain Hot-Pants. Just carrying it in her pocket made her feel special. Warm. She named it Rocky, because creativity is overrated when one works a fourteen-hour day and already has snappy nicknames for the entirety of SHIELD’s staff.
Still, it showed no signs of being anything other than a hunk of rock for months after she'd first been assigned it, and the charm was just about wearing off. It was heavy, ugly, and far too important for a lowly assistant to protect. Really.
Then the attack happened.
Run of the mill, in the grand scheme of things. Some idiot kidnappers, breaking into her flat in the dead of night. Chloroform, rope - the works. By now, she could have written it better. They were walking cliches. Not that it stopped them from taking her.
Except, this time… This time, Rocky was there. And he woke her up, ordering her to roll off the bed, to grab her taser and fire, when to do it, when to hide. He guided her through the confrontation until an enraged Hawkeye blasted the door down, his redheaded British fiancee on his heels, only to find seven thugs flat out on the floor while Darcy tasered the last in her pyjamas.
It grew from there. Rocky now had an input in every facet of her life, from what to wear that day ( the black, it won't show the stain-) to when to ask for a promotion ( now! He’s smirking- ) . She didn't always listen to him, but when she did, she found herself rising through the ranks and avoiding disaster.
She didn't want to be reliant on a stone, however, and made sure to ignore it on occasion. Lots of occasion.
(The thing had ‘opinions’ on her love life.)
Charlie turned in a truncated circle, taking in the scene. It was his big brother's wedding, after all. He only got one of those.
(Or, he did, if Charlie had anything to say about it.)
The ceremony had been beautiful, in the gazebo in the backyard; the picture-perfect Christmas Eve wedding. Bill had looked ethereal in a sparkling winter white tuxedo, his groom leaking suspiciously from the eyes. They'd come back especially to have the wedding in England, despite their having relocated to America (and Charlie, despite the complete hypocrisy in it, will never forgive Birdboy for taking his brother so far away, never), in a blatant ploy to win Molly over to the match, and now his entire garden was populated by Yanks, mistletoe and holly.
He fidgeted in his seat. He'd been seated at a table with Hermione; her oddball husband; a scary looking redhead who'd spent the dinner checking her phone and scowling at Harry; Harry, who was obviously smitten with said redhead; and a tiny brunette in a knitted hat who kept making odd noises at her lap. The last one was cute, pretty funny, too; but what on earth was she talking to?
“Stop it!” She hissed, right on cue, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She blushed a fiery red, meeting his eye defiantly. There was a knocking noise beneath the table.
“Are you alright?” he asked, because he couldn't not. She looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Fine,” she squeaked, only to yelp off the end of the sentence when another loud knock sounded. She met his eyes defiantly, daring him to question it, as she reached over and jammed a candy cane from the centrepiece into her mouth.
“Are you sure?” he pushed back from the table, leaning over not-inconspicuously to try and get a look at whatever she was hiding, but the woman only inched away. “I'm not going to judge - it's not a crup, is it? Only, mum'll have a cow if she thinks someone brought an animal in. You should have seen her when I brought Maleficent down one summer. She didn't breathe for ten minutes, at least, she was so busy screaming at me.”
She shot him an odd look around her snack, and he tried to remember her name. Something flouncy. Dotty? Darlene? He felt bad about it now, but when she'd been introduced he'd been too distracted by her impressive bust to pay attention (there was a noticeable dearth of female companionship on the reserve, and none of the available options were so… impressive. He was a bloke, okay?).
“What's a crup?” she asked, curiously.
“Little dog, ‘bout this big,” he gestured with his hands. “Three tails. You've never seen a crup?”
“ Three tails ?!” Big, earnest blue eyes fixed on his, and he was lost for words for a second. The moment was broken by a loud, insistent knock!
“Oh, come on!” he groaned. “You can't hide it, not after that!”
Her pert nose wrinkled adorably at the bridge. Daria? She hooked the candy cane around a finger as she pulled it from her mouth, the end tapered into a spike by her ministrations, and, wow, wasn't that a distracting sight? “I can't tell you,” she said bluntly, her accent threading each word into something exotic. “Classified.” She obviously took inordinate pleasure in this, if the proud little grin on her face at the end of the statement was anything to go by.
He was not deterred, as he inched back enough to catch a glimpse of her hand firmly holding something in her lap. The fist twitched and bounced every second or so, as if she were restraining it.
“I can keep a secret,” he quipped cheekily, pulling his chair closer to her. Harry, Hermione and their companions had abandoned ship a while back to dance, leaving only the two of them tucked away in their little corner. “Come on. I'll show you mine-?”
She -Darcy? Yes, that was it!- nibbled on the corner of her lip for a moment, then sighed. “Swear not to tell anyone?”
“On my honour.” He put his hand over his heart, trying with all his might not to inject irony into the motion. She caught it anyway, if the wry look that crossed her face was any indication.
“Okay.” Then, her face flushing red, she tossed whatever it was onto the table. “It's this stupid stone! Look after the sto ne, he says, it'll be easy, he says! Except it has a life of it's own and now it won't stop telling me what to do even when I say no - especially when I say no - because it knows what's best for me or whatever and now I'm just trying to eat my damn dinner but I can't because the stupid thing won't stop telling me to make-out with the bridesman! I just want my chicken kiev in peace!”
“Err-” Charlie peered at the hunk of glittery, shiny rock askance. “Isn't that the Philosopher's Stone?”
Then he jumped back, wary, when the thing skittered across the tabletop towards him. “You see!” Darcy demanded triumphantly through a mouthful of candy came. She was setting to them in earnest now that she wasn't busy trying to hide - the philosopher's stone!!! “It doesn't know when to stop!”
Charlie reached out to run a finger over its surface, mouth dropping open in awe when he felt the pure, light magic emenating from it. “ Wow ,” he murmured, stroking it lightly. “It's so - wait, did you say ‘making out with the bridesman’?” Dropping the stone like a hot coal, he span on Darcy once more. “Which one?” Stone entirely forgotten, he turned on the charm. He was, after all, Charlie Weasley. “ I'm available. Charlie Weasley, pleasure to meet you - and did I mention I'm a dragon tamer? Because I am.”
Darcy snorted out a laugh, her candy-smeared face tinting pink, and Charlie grinned back. If they'd been paying attention, they would have noticed the Stone twinkling merrily, but they weren't, so they didn't.
That didn't stop it twinkling madly.
Didn’t I tell you? It demanded of Darcy, sometime later, when they were slow-dancing to Celestine Warbeck. Darcy ignored it, determinedly, in favour of relishing the feel of Charlie’s lips on hers.
Ungrateful , it sniffed, before rolling off the table towards Harry, where he stood chatting endlessly, nervously, to the beautiful assassin. Now there was someone who needed its help.