"My name," he said, "is Nicolas Flamel."
Harry sighed in frustration.
"So you can't let me out either?" he said, poking the bed with his wand. He'd found the Repair Charm in one of Flamel's books, but without the time to study it properly it was pretty useless. "I thought you were meant to be Dumbledore's friend?"
Flamel yawned, as if Harry were boring him. Harry was sure it was deliberate. Did portraits even get tired?
"I was commissioned in 1829, boy. If my living self befriended this 'Dumbledore', that was his business, not mine."
That made things a bit more difficult. Harry had hoped that Nicolas Flamel would be eager to help him.
"Reparo!" he repeated. A few shards of wood wobbled. He sighed, wondering what Jean-Francois would do when he saw the state of the room. If he didn't get out first, that was. He turned back to the portrait. It was his only hope. "Okay, so you didn't know Dumbledore," he said, conceding the point. "But you could still help me get out of here, couldn't you?"
"Even if I wanted to, I could not," Flamel replied, somewhat disdainfully. "I am, of course, bound to serve the Flamel line."
That was no real surprise. The portraits at Hogwarts all obeyed the teachers. But maybe he could be tricked into giving out vital information - like the location of the house. Time for a bit of acting.
"But you saved my life!" he said, deliberately whiney. "So you can help me, a bit. Maybe not directly, but you could give me a hint, or something..."
"Ha! It was in the spirit of self-preservation that I came to your aid, not charity, I assure you. And indeed, watching a little boy burn to death would be a most unpleasant way to spend a Saturday afternoon. But help you escape? I think not! I've seen little to justify trusting you with a wand, never mind freedom!"
What a dick, Harry thought. Though it hadn't worked as he had hoped, Harry was rather proud of his blasting curse. There was a plus side, though: someone as stuck up as Nicolas Flamel would be easy to provoke.
"You know what?" Harry said, not entirely needing to fake anger, "I should've let Voldemort take the stone from you! I'd like to see Jean-Francois stand up to him! That'd wipe the smug look off his face."
Flamel had gone very still, and was now looking at Harry intently.
"What's that, boy? What do you know about the stone?"
That was more like it. Harry laughed a bitter laugh.
"You didn't think to ask Jean-Francois why I'm here?" he asked.
"Of course not," said Nicolas. "I'm a portrait."
That caused Harry to pause, and remember for a moment that he was talking to a picture, not a person. What did a portrait care about the affairs of the living? How much of Nicolas Flamel really remained? The portrait had some knowledge - he couldn't have saved Harry otherwise - but it suddenly occurred to Harry that it couldn't be a perfect copy. Otherwise everyone at Hogwarts would be taught by the portraits of great wizards - there'd be no need for living teachers.
"Well, your however-many greats grandson is a Dark wizard, and he's taken me prisoner," said Harry plainly. He was still angry, but the red-hot fury of the day before had passed. It had been replaced with a cool, desperate need to see justice. "All because I saved the Philosopher's Stone. It's not my fault you decided to destroy it. But he's on some kind of crazy mission of revenge."
"Jean-Francois may be many things, boy, but he is not a Dark wizard," said the portrait, "nor is he crazy. No, there's something else going on here. Just what is that boy up to?"
"He's-" Harry began, but he stopped. Flamel had stood up, and walked out of his frame. "Great!" he said, kicking the bed.
"Oi! What's up with you?" Black said, poking her in the face. He was looming over her, his face inches away from her own. "Are you dead?"
"What a stupid question," Harry said irritably, pushing Black back as she sat up. She'd been so focused on Flamel that she forgot to relax her body. It must have looked like she was in a coma or something.
"Finally awake, then?" Black said, looking at her suspiciously. "That was pretty creepy, you know. You want to tell me what's going on?"
For a moment, Harry felt like coming clean. She was so tired. But no. She couldn't trust Black.
"It's none of your business." She slipped off the bunk bed and went over to the window, wanting to stretch her legs.
The sight that met her took her breath away. She'd heard about it of course - it was famous the world over. The Great Aqueduct. It stretched for miles and miles, crossing the Channel between Britain and France, its old stones placed there by ancient Roman warlocks. But seeing it was something else. It was tall - a hundred metres above the roiling sea, and deadly straight. She couldn't see them, but she knew that great stone arches lay beneath them.
"Impressive, isn't it?" said Black, looking over her shoulder.
"Yeah," she replied, looking down. It would be a great place to fly. We should've taken brooms after all, she thought. "But why did they build it?" she asked, curious. It seemed singularly unnecessary.
"For the conquest of Britain," Black said. "Large bodies of sitting water like the Channel disrupt magic, especially stuff like apparition. So they connected the waterways. Of course, it hasn't been active for a thousand years."
That made a lot of sense. She had wondered why they couldn't just apparate to France.
"So if someone ran some water across here...?" she began.
"Then Britain and France would be magically connected, and you could apparate to Paris as easily as Scotland."
The idea unsettled Harry. She liked that there was a barrier between Britain and Flamel's conspiracy.
"Hey!" said Black, and he was pointing at the sky. "What's that?"
Harry squinted, but couldn't see what Black was pointing to. Her eyesight was good, but apparently Black's was better. But then she saw it. She knew immediately what it was.
"Hedwig!" she said, her heart soaring, before she could help herself. She smiled. She'd missed her owl, since she'd lent her to Hermione for the summer. "Open the window!"
Black hesitated, but after seeing Hedwig come closer, he reached up and pulled the window open. The moment it cracked open the roar of freezing wind slammed into the compartment. Harry's hair whipped around her face, but she didn't move, keeping her eyes fixed on the approaching owl.
She barrelled into the train at top speed, barely able to control her landing - the train was moving quite fast. It must have been hard for Hedwig to get in. Harry gave her a moment to right herself, before letting her flap her way onto her lap.
"Hey Hedwig," she said, stroking her head with one finger. Frankly, she was amazed Hedwig knew who she was. Black closed the window.
"She has a letter," he said pointedly. Harry unwound the string carefully. It wasn't a full letter - just a folded square of loose parchment. "Harry Potter" was written on the front, and Harry recognised the writing instantly - Hermione.
Harry
I hope this letter finds you. I know you're alive - Hedwig. I'm coming to Paris immediately. Meet me by the pyramid at the Louvre on Sunday, at noon. Be careful,
Hermione
Harry smiled, a warm feeling feeling her. She could always rely on her friends.
"That," said Black, "is addressed to Harry Potter."
Harry looked up. Black was standing before her. At some point he'd managed get hold of her wand.
"She - she must have known we were going to rescue him," she offered. It was one of the worst lies she'd ever told.
"There's only reason why the owl would bring that letter to you," he said, and he cocked his head.
He lunged towards her. Harry's eyes widened; there was nothing she could do. And then he was hugging her. Harry stiffened - she was being hugged by a Death Eater. A smelly one.
"How?" Black said, pulling back.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her mind panicking. He knew! It was insane, but somehow, he'd figured it out.
"Harry," he said, and Harry's heart stopped at her name. He kneeled down in front of her, and offered her the wand. "I was never a Death Eater. I never killed those Muggles. Please, believe me!"
Ah. So there it was. The denial she'd been waiting for. He'd been acting oddly, for sure. But completely innocent?
"Do you have any proof?" she said, somewhat coldly. Black looked crushed.
"The rat," he said, visibly frustrated. "All the crimes I was accused of - I was framed. Peter Pettigrew - he did it all. I thought he was my friend, but I was wrong! Oh, Harry, we were so wrong! He betrayed James, then faked his death by killing all those Muggles. Framing me. The Weasleys rat - that's him. But he knew, somehow, and ran before I could get him."
It was absurd. A ridiculous story. Convenient, wasn't it, that the proof had disappeared just when he needed it? Harry didn't believe him.
And yet... a faint hope stirred in her heart. The hope that she wasn't alone. What if it was true? She'd have a godfather. She could leave the Dursleys. She wouldn't be alone anymore.
"You have no proof," she said plainly, her voice completely neutral. "Save me from Flamel: that will be your proof."
Sirius nodded.
"You'll see," he promised, before he looked her over. "Now tell me: what the hell is going on with this?" He waved in her general direction.
"It's a complicated story," she said, not sure if she wanted to tell. She was so used to hiding things now. The only person she'd ever considered telling was Dumbledore, and he was -
"We have a lot of time," Sirius pointed out.
"I have two bodies," Harry said simply.
Sirius laughed. It was a deep sound, a rumbling that built up into guffaws. "Apparently not so complicated," he grinned. "Your... other body, you're being held by Nicolas Flamel? That makes no sense. Flamel and Dumbledore were always allies."
"Not Nicolas Flamel," Harry explained. She supposed she was going to tell him everything. It was a liberating feeling. "Nicolas is dead," - she ignored Sirius' look of shock - "no, I'm being held by his... well, one of his descendants. Jean-Francois Flamel."
"And do you know where?" he said. "Where in Paris?"
"His own home, but I don't know where," she said. "I'm working on it. Hang on - the portrait's coming back."
"Where'd you go?" Harry asked Nicolas as he wandered back into his frame. As he spoke, she explained to Sirius about the portrait.
Flamel didn't reply immediately. He settled himself back into his seat, taking his time about it. Finally, he looked up at Harry as if he'd just noticed him.
"Ah. Young Potter. I have seen disturbing things. My own line - no. Even now, I cannot speak of it. Understand, boy, I am still bound."
Yes! Harry thought, inwardly celebrating. Now he was getting somewhere.
"So you want to help me?" he asked.
Flamel opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, wincing.
"Tell me, Potter: what do you know about security spells?"
"Keep him talking," suggested Sirius. "Clearly he can't offer you direct help. He's trying to give you a hint."
Harry thought.
"Not much," he said, honestly, trying to remember everything he knew. "They're mostly Charms. They keep people out of somewhere - or in somewhere. Like all Charms, they break if you destroy the object. And you can cast them on the idea of entry as well as on actual physical things."
"Perhaps you're not so hopeless," said Flamel. "Yes, you're quite right. Security spells are Charms like any other."
Harry frowned. He was trying to draw Harry's attention to something. Something he'd said about Charms: that they break if you destroy their object.
"But I already tried destroying the window," he said, thinking out loud. "You're saying I should try the door?"
Flamel pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You may find this hard to believe, boy, but magic isn't just about bangs and smoke."
"Okay, then, so not the door." Harry looked around the room for ideas.
"I find Muggle culture fascinating," said Flamel, his tone carefully carefree. "Have you heard of the Muggle myth of Father Christmas?"
Harry's eyes settled on the fireplace. The chimney. That was an entrance too. The spells weren't on the window, or the door. They were on the chimney.
She explained the situation to Sirius.
"So... I blow up the chimney?" she asked. Sirius laughed.
"If you blow a hole in a door, does it stop being an entrance?" he said.
And Harry understood. It was an Ideal ward, cast on the idea of entrance and exit. To destroy the object of the spell, he couldn't destroy the fireplace. He had to block it up.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry said, and began levitating the remains of the bed into the fireplace.
"That's more like it," said Flamel. He sounded oddly proud. "But be careful, boy. Remember what my descendent told you, when he gave you your wand."
The room would give the most talented wizards trouble - that's what he'd said. Proper understanding of ideal wards was advanced magic, sure. But was it enough to hold "the most talented wizards"?
"There must be other protections," Sirius said. "I say go for it. It doesn't sound like they want to kill you - worst case, you end up back where you already are."
Harry nodded at the portrait and prepared himself.
"Thank you," he said, and flicked his wand. The bed flew into the fireplace. The door swung open.
And then the bells began - like the fire alarm at Harry's old school, only much, much louder. Harry fled. The door led him out onto a long corridor - just one bedroom among many. Harry chose a direction and started running.
A man in formal wear rounded the corner.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried as the man reached into his robes. He was blasted back into the wall, wand flying. Breathing heavily, Harry didn't spare him a glance as he ran past.
The corridor became a stairwell. The choice was obvious. Down. Harry could hear shouting behind him, back down the corridor. He didn't look back. His feet pounded stair after stair, his heart hammering. The stairs led to a door. Harry burst through, and found himself in a large kitchen, filled with House Elves.
The screamed as they saw him barrel through the door, and disapparated in a series of pops. Good. Harry paused for a moment, clutching his chest. Why was he so tired?
There was another door on the other side of the kitchen. He took it, passing into a long dining room, dominated by a table like a Muggle boardroom.
Jean-Francois Flamel was the room's sole occupant, sitting at the head. Harry wanted to scream in frustration.
"I must admit, I'm moderately impressed," he said, sipping a cup of coffee. He looked unworried.
"Hit him with all you've got," said Sirius.
Three. Five. One.
"Confringo!" Harry shouted, slamming his wand to point at Flamel. It flashed orange, but a shimmering shield, almost solid, appeared in front of Flamel, absorbing the spell with ease. Harry staggered, breathing heavily. What was happening to him? Suddenly, he yawned.
"Feeling tired?" said Flamel, standing up. He walked a bit closer. "You didn't think I'd rely entirely on a single spell to keep you here?"
Harry fell to his knees. His eyelids began to droop. He was so sleepy.
"Harry, the location! We need the location!" Sirius shouted.
Three. A yawn. Five. Flamel raised his wand to block. One.
"Confringo!"
The spell shot from his wand, and Flamel shielded again.
But he wasn't aiming for Flamel.
The spell smashed into the dining room wall with a crash, blasting a hole two metres across. Flames licked at its edges, and beyond lay a cobbled street.
Red light shot from Flamel's wand, sending Harry into blissful sleep.
But not before he got what he wanted.
She turned to Sirius, victorious.
"Allée Deschanel," she said. "Right next to the Eiffel Tower!"