ccxix. pieces of three
"What do you mean missing?!"
Elara had never heard Mr. Flamel yell as he did now, not in all the weeks she's spent with him in Trefhud with his wife, who had her hand firmly clasped around Elara's. They sat on one of the benches in the Headmaster's office, hip to hip, Hermione on her other side. The other witch had stopped crying, but her face looked gray about the edges, her eyes bloodshot as they stared into the distance.
Terry had been moved to the hospital wing, and Elara thought his parents had been summoned by Professor Flitwick, who stayed with him. She wasn't sure. Everything had happened in a daze—the moment she'd run up the hill behind Hermione, the moment she'd seen Snape stand, the moment Terry came into view. It had happened—so quickly—.
Elara's hand spasmed under Perenelle's, who gripped her fingers tighter. Elara reached her other hand out for Hermione and squeezed her wrist, though she didn't react.
Beyond the solemn bubble of the Headmaster's office, the world continued as if nothing had happened. The Third Task was underway. Faintly, so faintly a breath could cover it, Elara detected the happy warble of rising cheers.
"How could this be?" Mr. Flamel demanded. "Where is she?!"
"She has not been found on the grounds," Dumbledore told him. "We can assume with the attack on Mr. Boot, she has been forcibly removed from the premises."
"Do not speak to me in this way," Flamel fumed, and the Headmaster held up his hand in placation. "I am not one of your Ministry's fools who needs to be pandered to! How could this have 'appened? She is meant to be safe here—."
Safe, Elara thought. Safe like Terry was meant to be safe. The grounds had been swimming with Aurors and Ministry officials and professors all day—all month! And still something like this had happened. Where on earth was Harriet?
Elara could only thank God she hadn't been in the weeds with Terry. That gave her hope, however thin, that Harriet was alive—and if Harriet was alive, she would do everything in her power to return to them. Elara believed that.
"The laws of the Tournament dictate a loophole in the school's security be opened for the final task. This is how I believe Harriet was taken—and whoever took her was very much aware of that flaw being open for a finite time. This was planned."
Mr. Flamel cursed and ran an agitated hand through his hair. "And what of that—sale gosse? Is he involved? Where is he?"
"I don't believe Professor Slytherin is involved. Last I saw him, he was in the castle and had declined to attend the task." Professor Dumbledore gave his head a grave shake. "I would not involve him in this. It will only cause trouble."
The door came open without the person knocking, and Snape entered as Mr. Flamel said something cutting in French. The Potions Master had eyes only for Dumbledore, and as he crossed the room, Elara stared at his stiff gait, his white, haunted face. Snape leaned in closer to Dumbledore to speak into his ear. The Headmaster froze as he listened, and his jaw tightened under his beard with grim resolve.
"What is it?" Flamel demanded. "What is it?"
Dumbledore took a breath and paused mid-inhale, his eyes flicking toward Elara and Hermione. Elara's heart thumped in her chest.
It's bad, her mind whispered. It's bad, it's bad—.
"We're not leaving," Elara asserted, grasping Hermione tighter—and the other witch finally reacted, her cold fingers squeezing in return. She as if waking from a deep, uncomfortable sleep. "We're not children to be sent from the room just to spare us from something you don't want us to hear!"
"Don't be insolent," Snape hissed—but his voice sounded off, strained.
"Severus," Dumbledore cut across him, sounding wearier, more tired. He met Elara's insistent gaze as he said, "We've reason to believe she was taken by Lord Voldemort."
Perenelle sucked in a loud gasp. Elara tried to make sense of the Headmaster's words—because it simply couldn't be possible. How could the Dark Lord come onto the grounds? He didn't even have a body, for God's sake—.
Flamel rounded on Snape. "He's calling you, oui?" he asserted, dark eyes intent upon the Potions Master, who scowled at Flamel. When Flamel made as if to grab his left wrist, Snape recoiled as if struck. "You will take me with you."
"Nicolas—!" Perenelle cried.
"I am willing," the Frenchman said. "We will go."
"Nicolas, this is not the way," Dumbledore interceded. "Neither of you would be safe—."
"I am willing," Flamel repeated, raising his voice. "Ma fin est déjà écrite. The danger does not matter to me, and this one has made his choices. We will go."
Behind his dark curtain of hair, Snape turned his eyes to Dumbledore and stared with intensity. Elara thought he resembled a dog waiting for his master's command. He wanted to go, she realized. He wanted to go to Harriet.
"No," Dumbledore thundered, his voice startling the portraits and drowning out Flamel's increasingly more furious protestations. "No. This kind of Summons delivers you into his hold. You would not be helping Harriet. You would only get yourself and Severus killed. If he has Summoned his most faithful, he will be looking to make an example of someone, and that someone would be Severus." Dumbledore paced before his desk. "Nothing is to be had from acting rashly. Running in and getting killed would not spare Harriet."
Nicolas exploded in French exclamations, and Snape's hands curled into discreet fists against his robes. Elara could only numbly watch the proceedings, something like despair turning over in her chest. She couldn't breathe. Harriet, where was Harriet—.
In what could only be described as sheer serendipity, a thought occurred to Elara, and she jolted off of the sofa, tearing her hands from Perenelle and Hermione. The wizards in the room looked at her as she frantically scrambled to pull open her robes and find the pocket of her shirt. She used the chain linked to her button to yank her Atlas free.
Dumbledore realized what she was doing first and quickly gestured for Elara to set the Argonauts' Atlas on the surface of his desk.
"Non Ducor Duco," she incanted before giving the glass a sharp tap. "Search: Harriet Potter."
The Atlas enlarged from its standard size, and the blue light glowed. Every person in the room found a spot around the desk where they could crane their necks and see what was displayed. Hermione's hand found Elara's again, trembling.
The dot labeled Harriet Potter came into existence, and Elara's heart fluttered to see proof of her being alive, no matter where she was—.
"Who are zees people around her?" Perenelle asked.
Elara's eyes jumped from dot to dot. Lucius Malfoy. Corban Yaxley. Ackerly Wilkes. Adifeus Elks. Bartemius Crouch. Tom Riddle, and…Tom Riddle.
"Mon Dieu," Flamel muttered. "Bartemius Crouch. Is 'e not meant to be dead? Elara and 'arriet saw the body. Is 'e not one of your Ministry men?"
Dumbledore's brow furrowed, but it was Snape who came to the answer first. "It's his son," he hissed, bearing his teeth. "His son was a Death Eater—and went to Azkaban for it. He would answer the Dark Lord in a heartbeat, degenerative beast that he is."
"He's reported to have died in the prison," Dumbledore pointed out. "The guards buried him."
"If Black can figure a way out, then so can Crouch." Snape cursed and suddenly faced Hermione, reaching across the desk to grip her shoulder. Hermione startled, lifting her wide, frightened eyes to his. "He's been here the whole time. Granger, you saw him on your—map. You pointed it out to me. He's been stealing my fucking ingredients, and I thought it was his father!"
"Zis does not help us," Flamel snapped, bent close to that Atlas' surface. The blue luminance leached the warmer tones from his skin, leaving the alchemist wan and ghost-like. "Where is she? Why does it not say?"
"N-none of us know," Hermione stuttered, her voice hitching. "That is—neither myself, Elara, or Harriet know the location, so the Atlas doesn't know either, and if there's no ward for the baseline to meld with—."
"Then the Atlas relies solely on what we know through being told or what we can see," Elara finished. She used her fingers to stretch the image on the lens outward, displaying the thin, sketchy lines Harriet had passed through. Hazy question marks bloomed like water drops on parchment. "She's in a house. She doesn't know which room."
"But where?" Flamel stressed, Perenelle touching his arm to keep him calm. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Why…why are there two of them?" Hermione asked in a soft voice, almost as if she hadn't meant to speak aloud. "Two Tom Riddles. It's almost as if…."
There's another, Elara thought. Another one, just like Tom Slytherin and Marvolo Gaunt. Another Tom Riddle. How does he do it? And why did he take Harriet?
Elara stirred when she heard Snape whispering. "Send me alone, Headmaster," he urged. "I must go anyway. It is inevitable if we are to keep to our plans. Send me. If it is possible for anyone to assist the girl, it would have to be me."
Dumbledore listened to him, though his blue eyes remained fixed upon the Atlas. Elara couldn't read his expression. "Not yet."
"We are wasting time—!"
"What about a Portkey?" Hermione said over what would undoubtedly be a colorful rant. "If she was taken, it had to be through one, yes? So a Portkey could be used to bring her back."
"If Potter had a ruddy Portkey, don't you think she would use it?" Snape retorted. "Use your head, Granger!"
"I am!" Elara had never heard her be so rude to a professor before. "That's not what I'm saying. Of course, she'd use a Portkey if she were able, but what if we could give her one?"
Elara stared at her, and Hermione shook her hair back from her face, straightening her spine. Her eyes glittered, fierce and red with tears.
"Such a thing simply isn't possible, Miss Granger. Magic—as I'm sure you're aware—loses effectiveness over distance, and to attempt to create something so powerful in a location we're unaware of would not only be improbable, but also dangerous—."
Elara stopped listening to the Headmaster, frowning at the Atlas, then at Hermione—who stared at Elara as if expecting her to speak.
What is she on about? What am I not recognizing?
Snape stirred, also staring at Hermione, his eyes narrowed. "…what magic did you put into the creation of these devices, Granger?"
"A great deal of wards and Charms, Professor."
But that wasn't it, was it? No, Hermione had constructed much of the groundwork, Harriet creating the elements the map needed to show images and words, while Elara—.
"They're connected," she blurted, the realization creeping upon her, the pieces slotting into place. The words rushed out of her as quickly as possible. "The—all three pieces of the Atlas act as one, and I used Dark magic to link each lens to our persons. That's how it manages to record and display information we don't manually add to the addendum. It's—." Elara shook herself and looked to the Headmaster. Dumbledore watched her intently. "Technically, the Atlas is not in three pieces, but in one, stretched across time and space. They're a part of us. Whatever affects one—."
"She's moving," Perenelle interrupted, new fear lancing through the group as they jerked their attention back to the Atlas. Indeed, the dot labeled with Harriet's name had broken away from the others, now scattered, and was running along the blossoming of walls being drawn as swiftly as she passed them.
"They're following," Snape pointed out. "Whatever you mean to do, Albus, it needs to happen now—."
With one sweep of his arm, Dumbledore knocked the tidy scrolls and books and inkwells from his desk, clearing room for him to lay a fresh piece down.
"It's not as simple as you make it sound, Miss Black," he said as he Summoned a Self-Inking Quill and began to write with a fury. "No matter their connection, the physical object requiring enchanting is still outside our grasp—."
Flamel seemed to understand the thread of Dumbledore's thought, as he lurched forward to grab a quill of his own and began to write as well. "Zis will require a great deal of power, Albus."
"Yes."
"We may be capable, and with two of ze thirds here—quickly, Snape! A circle!"
Snape withdrew his wand with his left hand. He shunted Elara and Hermione closer to the desk as he began to pace around it, the end of his wand glowing bright red. Whatever spell he used gouged a line straight through the Headmaster's carpet into the stone below.
"Albus," Perenelle alerted. "Albus, oh quickly, he iz closing in on her—."
Dumbledore continued to write without acknowledging her, crossing something out, scribbling something new. Snape closed the circle and stepped across the line to join the Headmaster with Flamel. Elara couldn't look at the Atlas. She couldn't watch.
"Miss Granger, if you would add your own Atlas to the desk…?"
Hermione searched her pockets to find her own device, laying it next to Elara's.
"Please clasp hands—oh, you already are. Good, hold on."
Elara realized she hadn't let go of Hermione yet. At Dumbledore's mention of it, she doubled her grip, and she felt Hermione do the same. Their skin melded together with nervous, frightened sweat.
"Albus—!"
"Perenelle, panicking will get us nowhere. Could you please join your husband and lend him your strength?"
The older witch reluctantly pulled away from her vigil to round the desk and set her hand on Flamel's arm again. Elara braved a glance at the Atlas, wishing she hadn't. To her horror, one of the dots labeled Tom Riddle was coming ever closer to the straggling speck of her god-sister.
Run, Harriet, she willed, thinking of poor Terry Boot and his empty eyes, the stillness of Cygnus Black lying in his death bed. She never wanted to see Harriet in such a state. She wouldn't accept it. She would never accept it. Run!
"She'll make it," Hermione whispered, glaring at the lens in a way Elara could not stomach. Hermione didn't turn away, didn't close her eyes. "She's coming home to us. Harriet."
Snape and Flamel each laid a hand on one of Dumbledore's shoulders. He retrieved his wand, holding the tip aloft over Elara's open Atlas. "Together. Girls, do not step from the circle."
Elara and Hermione nodded as the Headmaster began to read the incantation scrawled upon his parchment. Flamel and Snape matched his recitation, adding depth, and when Perenelle joined, it rose higher. They matched each word with focus, and Elara felt her fingertips tingle, then her nose. A subtle tremor rose from the floor beneath their feet, and static pulled the skin of Elara's face tight. It ached in her teeth, in her fingernails.
Trinkets upon the shelves jumped and clashed together. Something fell with a clang.
"Totum confer. Pontem tempus et spatium ad inveniendum tuum par." Every syllable that fell from the Headmaster's mouth hit Elara's chest like rolling thunder. The tension vibrated, Hermione shaking next to her. Fine hairline cracks crept along her Atlas' edges.
"Portus!"
The spell hit with a resounding bang! Elara gasped as she felt the whole of her body lean toward the desk as if yanked by an invisible tether, and Hermione did the same. The Atlas blazed with light, scorching the desk's surface—.
From one breath to the next, Harriet appeared in midair. She dropped, crashing into Elara and Hermione, who snapped their arms around the smaller witch as the trio crashed into the floor. Elara could hardly believe her eyes—but she trusted in the solidity of the weight slumped against her, the warmth. She could feel Harriet shaking.
Wetness seeped against her hand, and when she drew it back, Elara saw her palm was painted red.
Harriet jerked, her green eyes open and wild, her face painted in blood and ash. A lens of her spectacles had been smashed.
"He's back," she gasped. "He's back."
A/N: There's a lot to consider in this scenario for Dumbledore, I think. He's not as compassionless as canon!Dumbledore and not as quick to throw bodies at problems. He has to consider that if he sends Severus too early, he knows Severus will sacrifice himself to free Harriet, and Harriet still might not get away. While it's not his plan to kill her (Ch. 13: "Voldemort must be trapped, subdued, and held. There are ways to make a man—or a monster—sleep as if dead.") Harriet is still a Horcrux. So Dumbledore has to ask himself: is losing his spy responsible for giving him information on Slytherin, Voldemort, and sometimes Gaunt worth a target who may potentially have to die anyway?
I like the symbology of the Atlas. Voldemort made pieces of himself, and those pieces are always pulling away from one another, whereas the Atlas was made into three pieces, one for each witch, and yet it comes together as a whole.
