AN: Hello all. Quick intersting thing: did you know this year is the first time that Ramadan, Easter and Passover are all in the same month? It's so cool. So:

Ramadan Mubarak,

Happy Easter

Happy Passover

In very contrasting spirits, this chapter has graphic diplays of violence.


Chapter 28: No good deed


1st June 1994

Tom woke to darkness, startled, panicked and full of anxiety.

For a delirious minute he thought he was back in the diary, and instantly he began thrashing. But a small squeak brought him back to the realisation that he wasn't in the diary. He couldn't have been. He could scream. He could hear his voice. He could feel.

"Please be still," the voice squealed. The high pitch was familiar, and finally, Tom realised that it was an Elf. "Master Lysander has said you is to remain still when you wake. Your injuries is severe."

Injuries?

An image of a dissolving grin came to mind. Tom leaned forwards in the bed, his arm covering his eyes and trying to process what had happened. Trying to get to grips with the fear he'd felt as he thought he was about to die. He moved the other hand - but nothing happened.

Tom froze.

He clenched his fists, but only one hand responded.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tom looked down at his right hand. Bandages covered it, but not in a way that should have stopped it from moving. And he couldn't feel anything of the material on his arm either.

But that couldn't be right. His wand arm couldn't have been affected like that - not - move! He willed it. Move!

But nothing happened. His arm was useless.


8th June 1994

In the week following his injury, Lysander had brought in a mediwitch that frequented Knockturn Alley more often than Tom was comfortable with. But he couldn't go to St Mungos for obvious reasons, so he took the regimen of potions and electrical stimulation to the nerves to see if he could get his arm to work again. After a week, barely anything had changed.

"It will take time," the surly mediwitch said. The man had an Eastern European accent, and the bedside manner to match. The mediwitch pointed his wand at Tom's arm and cast the spell.

There was a faint tingle – the ghost of feeling – at his fingertips, but they didn't move like everyone hoped they would. And Tom couldn't tell if it was all just a placebo effect because he never felt anything when he couldn't see what was happening to him.

The mediwitch hummed and cast the spell again. Still nothing.

The man's confidence in his own abilities failed to conjure up any hope in Tom. He refused to hope anyway. Hope was for the child that had clung to the idea that his mother or father would come and collect him from Wool's orphanage. Hope was for the child that had watched as 'kind, good-hearted' couples would brush him aside for some bouncy, blonde-haired little girl or boy who giggled incessantly. It wasn't for the man that had started on his journey to conquering death, or the man who would overthrow that idiot Voldemort.

He would, instead, favour practicality.

"This is not working."

"Nerves are tricky – yes? I told you it will take time."

But he didn't have time. Especially seeing as his meeting with Potter was coming up. He needed to be able to do Legilimency in order to find out what that dream had been about. The more he'd been thinking about it, the more Tom was sure that something was connecting the two of them.

Potter's wand core was the same as his. She had been the one to defeat Voldemort – or so they all said – and it hadn't been him that had reached out to her for the dream.

Little bits and pieces kept bringing the two back together and it was becoming clearer to him that he needed to have her on a tighter leash until this was all figured out. Especially if she could somehow access him in his sleep. That was truly dangerous, and Tom needed to know the extent to which she realised what had happened.

The mediwitch yanked Tom towards him with the potion in his other hand and practically forced it down his throat. Lysander looked on grimly, and it was only the fact that he wasn't able to use his right arm that kept Tom from strangling the mediwitch for handling him like that.

"Lysander. Get him off me," Tom hissed through his teeth.

Lysander's lip twitched but he came forwards.

The mediwitch released Tom immediately, placing his wand back in its holder and stepping away. "You have hired me to help but will not let me do my job. What do you want from me?"

Nothing. Tom didn't want anything from this man. He wanted Flamel. For a week now, Tom had made his way down to the dungeon, his arm bandaged across his chest, limp, lifeless and useless. And every day, Flamel wasted away and refused to answer his questions.

They kept him alive with barely enough food and water, but the man was stubborn. Tom supposed he had to be in order to make a Philosopher's Stone. But he was sick of waiting now. He was sick of needing House Elves to help him dress, of Daugher's calculating stares, and of Lysander looking at him with pity.

If Flamel didn't give him what he wanted, then there was no reason to keep him alive. The world would never know, and Dumbledore could only suspect. But even that would end sooner or later. Dumbledore wouldn't live forever, and Flamel certainly wouldn't if Tom didn't get his way.

Today was going to be his last chance.

"Mr Nymous?" Lysander called over. Tom barely looked at the man.

From his place at the side of the room, Lysander could see the steely resolve make its way into Tom's eyes. His blue eyes iced over, focusing in on the door. Lysander knew then and there what thoughts were going through his young Lord's head, and he knew it would be a bad idea.

There was only so much time left before the check-up was over – probably even less time now that he'd dismissed the mediwitch.

"Sir, I have some urgent business I need to discuss. I will be back in time to assist you once you've been cleared for today." He waited for a couple of seconds to see if Tom would respond, but he waved him off, still looking at the door.

"This will be over soon enough Lysander. Be here."

Lysander nodded, and then quickly opened the door and left. He found Nariyah soon enough. "He needs a new arm."

"I know," she said. Nariyah was propped up on one of his sofas in the library scanning a textbook that, at a quick glance, seemed to be on the topic of life debts. But when he took the book from her, she finally looked at him.

Something he read from her face for those few milliseconds worried him, but all too quickly she went back to her normal neutral. It didn't ease the worry though.

"I think he's going to kill Flamel if he doesn't give him the stone soon."

Nariyah hummed, tracing her thumb over her lip. Then, she sighed long and hard. "The only solution I think you can offer him is to have a replacement arm created. Maybe from Goblin silver."

"The Goblins won't do that," Lysander stated factually. "They hate us."

"They hate you. Some of them like my family," she retorted snidely.

For a moment, anger rocked through Lysander and, for the first time since he'd met her, he couldn't stand Nariyah. Nor her blatant disregard for the situation they were in. Regardless of where her loyalties lay, if Tom killed Flamel, he may very well be killing the only person who knew enough about Alchemy and magic. If Flamel died, who would help them stabilise Riddle? You couldn't just make a Philosopher's Stone.

In that fit of anger, Lysander saw his pale old hands reach out and grab Nariyah by her lapels, and begin to shake furiously. The girl's curls flew around her head in reaction to the movement, and her eyes grew wide.

"Stop that," she ordered, placing her hands on his and ripping them off her. A tear sounded through the room, and when he looked down, his hands were clenching pieces of thin fabric.

"Don't you understand?" he asked. Intensity pushed the words out harshly, and spittle hit her cheek. "You might be able to walk away from this, but I can't!"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The only way Tom would trust me when he came to me was by making an Unbreakable Vow. My life is on the line here, and you piss about with it every time you waste time!"

Nariyah narrowed her eyes. "What did you Vow?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does," she said.

"It doesn't matter!" he shouted. "Just be serious for once in your life."

Nariyah looked at him for a moment, and then her face darkened with horrified realisation. Lysander felt the force of her hands push him backwards with all of her might and he fell, tripping over his robes. His back cushioned the fall, winding him.

"You son of a bitch! You bargained with Theo!"

Lysander struggled to force out the sentence. "He wouldn't take anything else –"

"Then you should have walked away! How could you give Theo's life up to Voldemort?!"

She knew – she'd figured it out. He shouldn't have been surprised – not with Nariyah. She was good at her job. But the look on her face unleashed the guilt he'd been feeling since a wandless Tom Riddle had knocked on his door. He'd gotten carried away with himself and his obsession with knowledge. He'd let himself imagine that he was one of the few Tom trusted. That he could help mould Tom into something amazing.

Lysander shook his head and struggled to get up, but the weight of his guilt was stronger than gravity. "Theo won't die –"

"Yes, he will. You've offered his service in your place."

"Only if I die! And it becomes void then."

She shook her head, lips tight, and fists clenched in anger. "Do you think Riddle will care? Theo is going to get drafted into this, and you've handed him to a mad child on a silver platter."

"He won't go mad! Tom won't go mad." He had too much clarity. And he had another soul in him to balance out some of the loss. He wouldn't go mad unless he made more horcruxes again, and Tom wasn't so stupid. "He'll be fine so long as we get him the Stone – and we can't do that if he kills Flamel."

"So what? We buy some time by offering him a fake arm?" she spat. "It might not even work – and he won't want to wait the weeks it'll take to forge it, or the time it takes to get used to it!"

But they had to try something! And this was the only thing that he could think of that might have some possibility of working. Hell, if muggles were able to have semi-working prosthetic limbs, then they could craft something out of magic.

"We can try."

A loud pop stopped Nariyah from unleashing another rage of fury at him – not that he didn't deserve it. It had been at the back of his mind that Theo would always be in danger, but he had thought – he had hoped – that if he could get on Tom's favourable side, he could keep Theo out of it.

But Tom was already using him. And it was his fault.

"Master is being asked for," a house elf said, his voice high pitched and squeaking in fear.

Nariyah gritted her teeth and looked at him. "You should go. Your master is summoning you."

Lysander licked his lips and looked between the House Elf and Nariyah. "I didn't think," he said finally.

"You can tell Theo that when he gets drafted into something he shouldn't have any part of," she spat.

He hung his head, and with his tail trailing behind him, Lysander left through the door and made his way back to Tom. He left Nariyah behind in the room with her own thoughts and plans forming.


How could Lysander have fucked up so royally? She needed to fix this, and to do it fast. The Goblins may have been favourable to the Daughers, but there was no way they would willingly part with Goblin silver in order to make Riddle a magical prosthetic arm. And even still, they would need someone who had enough of a working knowledge of the body and the nervous system to even be able to attach it and make it work.

She wasn't willing to risk Theo's life on a potential. No. She needed something more concrete – or she needed to be able to take Theo far, far away from all of the madness that Lysander was bringing into his home.

"Think, think, think!" What could she do? What could she offer Riddle that would give him some sort of chance at getting the Stone from Flamel?

From the corners of her mind, something small and golden sparked an idea.

Can something so simple even work? Maybe it could. Maybe – with a bit of luck.

That evening, she found him on his damned pilgrimage to the dungeons and stopped him in his tracks. "I have a better idea," she said. Riddle looked through her, a glassy glint in his eye that cut through her skin and sent shivers of instinct running through her. Danger!

She swallowed back the feeling and kept her stance. It didn't stop her hands shaking and her heart pounding. Something she cared about was now at stake.

"I don't want the arm."

So, Lysander had already talked to him about it. She held back a scoff and the anger she still felt at his stupid mistakes. How could he ever criticise her when he bargained with someone else's life.

"Of course you don't," she said. Nariyah kept her voice level, making sure to keep any offence out of her tone. He may not be able to send a spell her way powerful enough to kill her, but he could still push her down the stairs. "Because it's a stupid idea."

"Move."

She stayed firmly in his way. Nariyah wasn't going to touch him when he was in this state, but by keeping herself in front of him, she would at least be able to be in his line of vision. Eye contact was useful. So was mirroring his body language – if it ever became less hostile.

"I've figured out a way to get you the Stone – or at least, the best chance of it."

That interested him. Riddle stopped and looked at her, his eyes finally paying attention to the person in front of him. She took that as a sign to keep talking.

"Did you consider trying a little bit of liquid luck?" Nariyah asked, and from the way the whites in his eyes widened, she figured the idea had sent Riddle's mind blazing.

"There's no guarantee it'll work," he said.

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but what do you have to lose?"

The rest of the day passed without any interaction. That night, she waited in her room for something to happen. Just because she'd given Riddle another option, didn't mean that he was going to take it. She'd seen his desperation plainly in his eyes when he'd woken up and been told he couldn't use his arm.

Lysander may have sworn blind that Riddle wasn't mad – that he was mentally stable, if not physically so - but she knew what she saw. She'd caught him more than once trying to practise his wandless magic and it not working nearly as strongly as he wanted it to.

She knew what desperation did to men. It was its own kind of madness.

Knocking came from the other side of her door. Nariyah calmly stood up and went to it. Her hand paused on the door handle, bracing herself for the worst-case scenario.

"What did you do?" Lysander asked before she'd even opened the door fully.

He looked agitated, panicked and…scared. Nariyah kept the door between them just in case. "I gave him a feasible suggestion." She made no effort to keep the genuine disgust off her face. His wince didn't do much to soothe it.

"Do you know how rare properly brewed Felix Felicis is?"

She did. But that was not her problem. If Lysander didn't have his own batch then he could use all the great resources he'd promised her when she'd first started this job. "Better use that money to sort it out then." Then she slammed her door shut, and Lysander was left with his panic.

Hopefully he'd get it sooner rather than later. Riddle was a ticking time bomb.


9th June 1994

Slughorn came through with the potion that day, but it came at a heavy cost. "It's my best batch, my boy. I was saving it, just in case I get myself in a sticky situation."

As well as the ridiculously overly inflated fee, Lysander had promised the odious man a tome from the Nott library. Something rare and fine to add to Slughorn's collection.

If Slughorn wasn't so well protected by the sheer number of connections he had, Lysander was sure someone would have tried to kill the man by now.

Still, he had the potion. It was sent to him mere hours after their floo call, packaged safely in protection charms and with Lysander's own trusted owl. They had it.

He held the bottle up to the light to examine it more closely. In the light of day, what had just seemed yellow now was clearly molten gold. It shimmered in the sun, somehow both viscous and fluid, moving in and about itself almost merrily within the tiny flask. He shook the vial slightly to see exactly what would happen, and just as he thought, when the potion settled, little droplets leapt from the body of the fluid and across the small space, landing back into the body leaving ripples.

This was what Zygmunt Budge staked his life on. This potion, that he considered his greatest accomplishment ever, so much so, that he offered cavalries to shoot their arrows at him from 25 paces in order to prove its effects.

He'd died a very rich man years after that stunt, and since then Felix Felicis had been studied and perfected, made only by Potion Masters or under their careful watch - because the results of an improperly brewed Felix was catastrophic.

And now it was in his hands.

Slughorn had told him he only needed four drops for an hour. There had to be at least 100 drops worth - and that was if he was being greedy with them.

Surely Lysander could take some - just enough for him and Theo in case things got out of hand. At the very least, he could offer his grandson that much for the mess he'd put him in.

Swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, Lysander took a pipette and sectioned a full dosage of that into another vial. There didn't seem to be much, and so with a drumming heart, he took another half dosage of it.

He placed the stolen portion into his robes and replaced the stopper of the original vial. It looked quite a bit emptier, but Tom would never know. And he didn't necessarily need to take it all either. All he needed was enough for an hour - maybe two. Surely, he would save the rest of it for something else.

With the vial from Slughorn safely in his hand, Lysander took it to Tom. He was in the training room, staring at the circle that he'd spent so much time in those first few weeks.

"What do you want?" Tom asked coldly.

"My Lord, the potion has arrived."

With unbalancing speed, Tom turned to face Lysander and almost toppled over his feet. "Where is it?"

Lysander held the potion out to him, opening the stopper so he would have an easier time with it. "Four drops are equivalent to an hour of good luck," he said. "Do you want some help measuring –"

Tom took enough to coat his tongue. By his estimate, Lysander would say that it was somewhere between six and ten drops, but whatever the amount, Tom would have an unknown period of time where everything would go his way.

And for some reason, that terrified Lysander.

Something sat uncomfortably in Lysander's stomach at the look on Tom's face and so when Tom turned and started walking towards the dungeon, he took the vial from his robes once more. He took what he estimated was two drops – half an hour. He probably wouldn't need more than that, and it was only as a precaution.

There wasn't anything to suggest that the potion was working, and for a moment Lysander panicked that Slughorn had brewed the potion wrong or had sold him a dud, but then slowly and surely, a warm feeling of infinite possibility and surety passed over him; nothing bad was going to happen and everything was going to work out.

The confidence assured him that he should follow after Tom. Really, he should probably take the lead, because if not then Tom was sure to hurt Flamel somehow – and Lysander was sure he could get the information they needed.

And that was what he did.

When they got to the dungeon, Lysander walked past Tom, who seemed to be staying back in the shadows. He walked forwards to the bars and opened them. Flamel looked up at the sound.

"Is he trying something new?" he asked, hoarsely.

Lysander conjured a cup and filled it with water that he handed to Flamel. The old man drank the cup gratefully. "Nothing untoward. I was hoping to talk to you about some of your alchemy work."

Flamel was looking worse off than he had the last time Lysander had seen him. His cheeks were sallow and grey, his eyes seemed dull in the wand-light, and the dungeon smelt stale, like an old man, and ammonia. He seemed exhausted.

"You won't give up, will you?" Flamel asked.

"I'm afraid we're both quite stubborn Mr Flamel." Lysander crouched down and waved his wand over Flamel. A change of clothes and a heating charm seemed to bring a tiny bit of colour to the man's cheeks.

"How about this then," Lysander offered. "When Tom told you he was a horcrux, your reactions were quite violent. Why?"

Why he had gone down that line of questioning, Lysander didn't know. But Felix seemed to be happy with it – the flow of ease moving through his tongue and onto the words he spoke – so he let it be. And Flamel seemed to be responding to them, at the very least.

His eyes flickered over to where Tom was standing in the corner, still very quiet, and he made a displeased sound at the back of his throat. "Horcruxes are made on the desperate whims of men who are too scared to live their life," he said.

"And that makes you angry?" Lysander prompted.

"No," Flamel said. "What makes me angry is that those who create them are willing to go further than they should. A life for a life. A soul taken in exchange for a soul split."

Those words were spoken with anger, yes, but there was something else that was underneath them all. He could hear the words tinged with something else. It wouldn't make sense for the Flamels to have such horrified reactions to Tom if it were simply a life for a life. After all, was that not just equivalent exchange? Exchange to the highest degree, perhaps, but a fundamental tenet of what Flamel believed, nonetheless. So, it had to be something else.

Like…guilt, perhaps? his mind answered.

Lysander thought back to the encounter he'd had with Nariyah only the day before. His anger at her for her reckless behaviour, and his anger at himself for the very same thing.

Displacement and guilt were strong reactions towards others, but they were explosive when you were actually ashamed of yourself.

So had the Flamels created their own horcruxes? No – Pernelle had died, but nothing on her had been destroyed. Odd peeling skin flaking off into nothingness aside, the memories he'd seen had suggested her cause of death to be magical exhaustion.

He was missing something – something in front of his face. Something –

Flamel had never used magic in the duel. He'd only used Alchemy – but with no gloves and nothing surrounding him, he'd performed it without a transmutation circle. He'd performed alchemy without an aid!

And he'd only ever heard of a handful of Alchemists who had ever done that in the hundreds of years it had been practised. And they'd only gotten it through one very specific way.

"You performed it! You performed human transmutation!"

Flamel stiffened and Lysander had his answer. "How do you know about that?"

"I tend to be overly obsessed with research. It can be a weakness," Lysander said. He felt the giddiness bubble up inside him; the research had suggested it was possible, but the two brothers had lived so long ago that it could have all just been a myth. A folk tale. That particular branch of Alchemy had been thought to be long since dead.

But here Flamel was! Living proof that it still existed – that it was all real. That you could do human transmutation.

"No!" the man yelled, pulling Flamel out of his thoughts. "No. Do not attempt it. It cannot be done."

"But you –"

"If I could go back in time and stop myself, I would have. We thought we could do it – Pernelle begged me to try – and how could I not? He was our only son."

Flamel choked on air and clutched at Lysander with weak arms. His eyes were filled with tears, and Lysander was so close that he could see his reflection in Flamel's pupils. Hot, stagnant breath pushed itself onto his face, but Lysander stayed still.

"We sacrificed hundreds of lives in Guarda. I thought if we had more power – if I could use both magic and alchemy, I could bypass the Truth. That I could bring back Perciville. But we stole tens of lives that day and in return I lost my magic, Pernelle lost her womb – and we burned the mangled remains of something that pretended to be our son. We lost too much. We gave what wasn't ours to give – and then we were stuck for a millennium, living our guilt, being eaten at by the souls of the men I killed, and being kept alive by something I never wish I'd made!"

He was weeping now. Mucus and tears dripped down his face and onto the floor, making small dark circles, or onto his clothes. It was truly an ugly sight, and the moment Flamel broke eye contact with him, Lysander pulled himself away from the quivering man on the floor.

"The stone is inside you," Lysander whispered. The information was swirling around his head – too many thoughts and not nearly enough headspace or clarity to begin piecing them together. He would need to talk to Flamel again. To break it down, piece by piece.

Flamel was still on the floor, mumbling something under his breath.

After a few moments, Tom moved from his spot against the wall. He walked past Lysander and kneeled himself down using the bars to keep himself balanced.

Flamel was still mumbling.

When he had his balance, Tom leaned forwards and placed a hand on Flamels cheek, cradling it almost gently. "Thank you for that," he said.

Flamel mumbled something once more.

And then somehow, from somewhere, Tom pulled out a long glass – the glass that had been on the table.

A loud crash bounced off the walls, and only a few seconds after Lysander's ears had processed the sound and what it meant, Tom had lunged the glass towards Flamel.

"No!" Lysander screamed, and ran to their side, but it was too late.

The glass had embedded into Flamel's chest – on the left side – right where his heart was. Tom was slowly turning the embedded glass from side to side, cutting into the skin and whatever meat was left on Flamel's frame. And then he dug it out.

A sickening image of a child digging into sand flew into his mind, but this wasn't sand. And Tom wasn't a child.

Blood gushed from the hole Tom had dug out with force that had somehow shattered bones and ruptured arteries. His hand was covered in red – in blood – and then he scooped again methodically.

Another gush of blood game out along with a rubbery material that Lysander now knew to be muscle.

Then, Tom dropped the glass and reached into the cavity. He routed around until he'd found what he wanted, and when he pulled his hand out it was clenched around something tight.

"There you are," Tom said, and he smiled.

"What did you do?" Lysander gasped.

Tom startled, like he'd forgotten that Lysander was even in the room with him. He tilted his head and shook it a little, and then he looked away into the distance. As if he was being called for.

"I'm going to meet Potter now. She's quite scared, and in a lot of trouble. I think it would be best if we got a house elf to take me, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. Tom just stood up, walked out of the cell and up the stairs. His bloodied hand still clenched around whatever he'd found.

Lysander hadn't registered Flamel's cries of anguish, not really. They had been there, bouncing off the walls just like the breaking glass had, but he hadn't heard them. Not until they'd stopped, and it was silence that rang out and echoed in his ears.

Tentatively he looked down. Flamel's chest was unrecognisable. It looked ravaged.

He cradled the man in his arms and quietly began muttering sorries and pleas of forgiveness. He didn't want him to die. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't think Tom would go this far.

But in the dingy cell that smelt of blood and piss and fresh meat, he knew the last one wasn't really true.


The pop filled his ears, and the little house elf besides him squeaked but he ignored it. Tom's body felt strong, and he felt lucky. Nothing was going to go wrong right now. Not even the fact the house elf seemed to have apparated him into the Forbidden Forrest, a good few metres away from Potter and a blond boy who were being swarmed by tens upon tens of Dementors.

He kept back, because he had two souls in him, and if what he'd understood from Flamel was correct, he was holding the power of many souls in his hand. If he was caught, the Dementors would have a feast.

But he wouldn't get caught. Because they were focusing on the two in the open.

The Dementors were circling closer and closer to the two. The more there were, the colder the air felt until the chill hit him in all its force. But Tom didn't move. It wasn't time to do anything yet. The potion would tell him, wouldn't it. So far, it seemed to want Tom to be an observer, so observe he would.

The blond boy seemed competent enough, though, because he raised his wand and cast what seemed to be the beginnings of a Patronus charm. But then, his head whipped to the side, and whatever had distracted him was his downfall.

Dementors sensed it, and they used that distraction to descend on the boy. They came in twos and threes, attacking his soul until he couldn't stand. He fell to the floor, and more crowded him.

A piercing, high pitched, girlish scream came then. Potter was drawing the dementors to her.

No, no, no – she was important to him. They couldn't have her soul. Not till he found out what connected the two of them.

His hand was still clenched around the Philosopher's Stone. He could feel the power pulsing happily in the palm of his hand, and he knew that it was the odd power he'd felt radiating off Flamel the day they'd captured him.

He held it up. Ruby red glinted in the full moon and promised so much potential if he would just use it. And so he would.

Tom extended his hand, and in a clear voice, called out "accio Halley Potter."

Power surged through his muscles and tapped into something deep inside him. It pulsed and roared, alive and waiting to be used. That pulsing, living thing was pulled out and amplified through his ribs, down his arms, into his finger and through the stone – and then Halley Potter was flying through the air and into his outstretched hand.

And she had someone with her.

Tom turned to the house elf. He couldn't keep the grin from stretching across his mouth as he felt a rush of adrenaline and ecstasy. "Take us to the shack, little Elf."

And then they were gone.


AN: Hope you guys like it. The poor Flamels...they were just in his way I suppose...

The next chapter will be up in a couple of weeks. It's the start of the end of Third Year and it has me thinking. Would you guys prefer to have each year be a seperate book/story, or would you rather I continue on in this fic?

Let me know, and I hope you have a great rest if your weekend.