civ. as the crow flies
At first, Harriet could do nothing but gawk at the ancient wizard she'd been exchanging letters with for over a year. Then, she finally sputtered, "You—you're Nicolas Flamel!"
He laughed—a bright, pleased sound. "I am! It is nice to finally meet face to face, Harriet." Mr. Flamel took her hand between both of his, giving it a friendly squeeze. "And your amie, Miss Black. Comment allez-vous?"
"Um," Elara replied, just as surprised—and articulate—as Harriet. "Er, well—nice to meet you, Mr. Flamel."
"Ah, where are my manners? Come in, come in!"
Mr. Flamel stepped back. Harriet hesitated, but a small nudge from Professor Dumbledore propelled her forward over the threshold and into the house proper. Dark wood paneling appointed the foyer's walls, the tiles underfoot weathered and chipped but nonetheless charming. Far too many cloaks hung from a convenient chifforobe, boots cluttered on a bench, a woven basket on a stool stained green from old garden trimmings. More of those curious baubles hung from the iron chandelier and gleamed in the morning sunlight.
"Perenelle and I just sat down for tea. Will you be joining us, Albus?"
The Headmaster shook his head. "No, no. I'd best be off. My schedule doesn't appear to be getting any lighter these days, I fear."
"You work too hard, mon ami. One should make the most of their holidays."
"I'll be sure to take that under advisement, Nicolas." Professor Dumbledore turned to the two witches. "Try not to get into too much mischief during your stay."
Mr. Flamel grinned. "Mischief is what makes life worth living, Albus."
"Well, in acceptable doses, I suppose." Professor Dumbledore winked, or at least Harriet thought he did. "I'll see you both when school resumes. Feel free to write if you need anything."
Elara stopped the Headmaster before he could leave with a softly uttered, "Professor? Will you tell me…?"
Harriet didn't know what she meant, though she did realize Dumbledore seemed in a hurry despite his best attempts at subtlety. "I will send updates as they come, Miss Black. I promise."
"Thank you, sir."
Professor Dumbledore nodded to her, and then to Mr. Flamel. "Give my best to Perenelle, will you?"
"Bien sûr. Feel free to Apparate if you wish, Albus."
The Headmaster did just that, giving a few final words in salutation before turning on the spot and disappearing into thin air. An awkward moment followed in which Harriet glanced at Mr. Flamel, unsure of what to say, a bit flummoxed by this rather sudden turn of events. Yesterday afternoon they'd been at Grimmauld, Harriet bored out of her skull, and this morning they were standing in the home of a wizard who'd created a Philosopher's Stone—a wizard utterly unaffected by the awkward pause who now ushered them along the hall toward the smell of cooking food.
"Come, come. Have you eaten? We expected you both later, but Perenelle and I have always been early-risers. She makes the best tea, my lovely wife, better than the English! Or so I believe."
Mr. Flamel kept up his easy, affable chatter as he walked through his sprawling house and Harriet peeked into the open rooms they passed. It was cluttered—way more cluttered than Hogwarts or Grimmauld, strange and mystical items left sitting out for casual use like a kettle or a stray book. The rug in the hall looked older than her great-grandparents—and shimmied when Harriet stepped on it. Mr. Flamel told the rug off in a language other than English or French before moving on.
They came into a kitchen and Harriet inhaled the smell of toasted bread, tea, and the more bitter scent of coffee. A witch sat at a small table tucked in the room's corner under an oval window, a newspaper unfolded before her, and she looked up when they tromped into the room. Her blue eyes brightened and a smile quite like the one her husband wore quirked her lips. She stood to greet them.
"'Arriet! It is so nice to see you at last! And Miss Black. May I call you Elara? Pleased to meet you."
Mrs. Flamel had no compunction in pulling Harriet and Elara into an embrace, bussing their cheeks, her affection easy and profuse enough to leave both witches rather embarrassed and pink in the face. Mr. Flamel conjured two extra chairs and Harriet sat in one, fidgeting as Mrs. Flamel poured tea and placed fresh cups before them.
"Erm," Harriet began, searching for the right words. The tea smelled heavenly, though she couldn't say what it blend was. "Thank you for letting us stay with you."
"Oh, it iz not a problem," Mrs. Flamel said, patting Harriet's hand. "I am looking forward to having the company. I have been terribly lonely this summer."
Across the table, Mr. Flamel put down his tea and frowned. "Am I not enough company now?"
Humming a soft note, Mrs. Flamel shook her head. "Non! No, you are plenty of company, Nicolas." She paused, and then as aside to Harriet and Elara, added, "But after six hundred years, his stories start to get…redundant."
Mr. Flamel pouted.
Elara snorted into her cup.
x X x
Much of the first day passed in a blur, Mr. Flamel giving them a tour of the house and the property, keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Harriet found it surprising how easy it was to get along with the wizard; they'd exchanged many letters, but she'd never thought Mr. Flamel would want to meet her, let alone have both her and another teenage witch invading his home for an indefinite amount of time. She wondered what exactly Professor Dumbledore told him in his letter.
They had lunch and supper in the kitchen just the same as they'd had breakfast, Mrs. Flamel insisting they call her Perenelle before introducing them both to a French house-elf named Bigsby—who went into joyful hysterics each time Elara or Harriet attempted to thank him with an uncertain, "Merci."
The house was big, but the Flamels only had one proper guest room. "We do not have visitors very often," Mr. Flamel had explained when he showed them the room on the second floor. Harriet and Elara had to share the bed, but it was roomy enough for both of them and Elara didn't complain about Harriet's kicking habit. Perenelle plied them with far too many quilts and hot cocoa before they turned in for the night.
In the morning, fog crept about outside the window and shuttered the early light. Given she stood in a wizard's home, Harriet tugged her wand free of its brace and whispered, "Lumos," and sat down at the empty desk. Elara still snored into her pillow, having tossed and turned well past midnight. She had kept at it until Harriet threatened to go sleep in her trunk with the snakes.
She must be scared, Harriet thought, frowning as she set up her parchment and pulled out her Occamy quill. Fear preyed on Harriet a lot in the past, so she didn't blame Elara for being restless. She had nightmares all the time and had grown used to them—for the most part—but that didn't mean others should be inured to them too.
Lost in thought, she made a few idle marks on the parchment's corner, then started her letter to Hermione. She couldn't tell her where she and Elara were, not when Hermione lived with the Malfoys, but she could let her friend know they were safe from Elara's father. Harriet paused and picked her quill up.
Actually, she wondered. Would Hermione know about Sirius Black? Would she know he's escaped? Has the Prophet reported on it?
Huffing, Harriet used her wand to erase the beginning of the letter and began a new one. She wrote to Professor Dumbledore instead, apologizing for writing so soon, and asked what she was allowed to tell Hermione. Really, she wanted to tell Hermione everything and would the second they saw one another, but letters sent to her always had the risk of being intercepted by Draco or his mum or dad. Mr. Malfoy made a lot of trouble for Elara whenever he could and Harriet didn't want to inadvertently make her problems worse.
The quill scratched a quiet noise against the parchment. Harriet finished her short letter and folded it, sealing the edge with a spell. Now, how to send it? Usually, she asked Elara if she could borrow Cygnus or Percival—the latter only capable of making short jaunts around London and the closer boroughs—but Snape hadn't taken Cygnus from Grimmauld. Kreacher would take care of him, but that did leave them without an owl.
Harriet hopped to her feet and got dressed, dragging on a pair of trousers and a jumper that she was fairly certain belonged to Hermione, giving the snakes some of the preserved food she had stored in her trunk. Then, she grabbed her letter off the desk and left the room.
She decided to look in the kitchen first, but it wasn't quite daylight yet and when she found the room dark, Harriet guessed the Flamels weren't awake yet. She passed an open arch on the way—and stopped, hearing the gentle rustle of turning pages. Harriet peeked into the cluttered room and spotted Mr. Flamel, his back turned to the entrance, standing at a lectern or some kind of raised desk, a smattering of pages spread across its tilted surface. He hummed off-key as he read. He wore a brace like Harriet's on his wrist, his wand stuck inside.
"…Mr. Flamel?"
"Oui?" he said without looking, finishing whatever it was that held his attention. He turned his head after a moment and smiled. "Good morning, petit oiseau."
"G'morning." Harriet shuffled closer, not sure if she was allowed in the room or not. He hadn't told them to stay out of anywhere specific on their tour the day before. "Err, do you have an owl I could borrow? To send a letter to Professor Dumbledore?"
"Tired of us already?"
Harriet blinked. "What? Oh! No—not at all! I—I just want to write to Hermione and I don't know what I'm allowed to say about what's going on."
"Ah." Mr. Flamel leaned away from the desk and turned his back to it. "Your friend will know about Monsieur Black's escape. It was in the papers yesterday. I believe it reached the Demoyennes as well."
"The—the Muggles? Why would they know about it?"
Mr. Flamel opened his mouth and then shut it, his expression going a bit funny. Harriet had seen that look before; it was the look of someone who'd realized they'd probably said more than they should have and needed to stop lest they put their foot in it again. "We don't 'ave an owl, I fear."
"Oh?" Harriet puzzled how he managed to get anything done, then recalled the wizard used a raven. She'd gotten so used to the bird, she didn't even think about it anymore. Would he let her use it?
The wizard seemed to know what she was thinking. "I could lend 'im to you. Or—." He balanced a hand on his hip as he considered her. "We could go find your own."
"My own? My own raven?"
"Oui! My bird is not usual, you see?" Mr. Flamel stuck his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small skull. Harriet had seen wizards and witches drag weirder things out of their pockets before, so she didn't so much as flinch when he held it up and she came closer to inspect it. The skull belonged to a bird of some kind—probably a raven, given their conversation. It was a bit yellow with age and had runes etched into the bone, darkened with black powder. Mr. Flamel took out his wand and gave the skull a sound tap. The raven who delivered his mail appeared in his outstretched hand.
Harriet gaped. "I love magic!" she exclaimed, much to Mr. Flamel's amusement. "But is it—is it Dark magic? If the bird isn't actually alive?"
"Non, non—well, peut être? Maybe?" He let out an uncertain chuckle. "I do not think it is something Albus would like for me to teach you, but it is not harmful, non. There are other spells like it, older. They have menace to them, meant to 'urt people, but this one—how do you say?" He tapped his mouth in thought. "You have heard of Odin, yes? The Norse god?"
"I think so."
He mumbled something in French, then flicked his wand. A book wiggled free of its dusty shelf and came sauntering over, landing in his free hand. He gave the other a slight shake, closing his fingers over the skull, and the raven blinked out of existence. "Here we are. Look."
Harriet did as bid, Mr. Flamel pointing to an illustration of a bearded man—wizard—in armor, a blackbird on each shoulder, his wand in hand, two dogs at his heels.
"Like most figures in the Demoyenne myths, Óðinn, or Wōden, was a magical being. A wizard much like your Merlin. You see here? His wand was Gungnir. I once spent a week in the fjords arguing with a man convinced it was the Bâton de la Mort—but, ah, that is a different story."
Harriet wrinkled her nose. What's a Bâton de la Mort?
"He is said to 'ave had two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, and in the stories, he would send them flying all over the world. They would come back to him and say all that they had seen in their travels."
"That sounds like a fancy way of saying they brought him letters."
Mr. Flamel grinned. "Exactement! The spell, it is very old and uncommon, but it is not meant to 'urt anyone. It comes from before Odin. Even older than me!"
Giggling, Harriet asked, "But what would I have to do? I don't know runes, Mr. Flamel. Is it difficult magic? Would I—I wouldn't have to kill a raven, would I?"
He shook his head. "No, that would be exactly not what to do. Come, we will go search outside and I will show you."
"Can I bring Livi? He gets crabby being cooped up."
"Oui. Go on."
Harriet hurried back to the bedroom and unearthed Livius from her trunk. Elara sat up when Harriet opened the door—but she was still asleep, given her eyes barely opened and she flopped over the moment her exhausted mind recognized the other witch. Harriet snorted and left again, wrapping Livi's heavy coils over her shoulders.
"Ssss…."
"You have to behave."
"Why?"
"Because we're guests here. We don't want to make trouble for our hosts."
The Horned Serpent lamented the stupidity of manners and Harriet ignored him. Mr. Flamel waited by the front door and, since she didn't have any wellies, he had her put on Perenelle's and then shrunk them down to fit her feet. They set off, heading not toward the road but the back of the property, toward the forest proper, where the trees grew taller and the mist hung in wet clumps. The ground became more of a mire the farther they traveled and Harriet realized this was why he'd given her the boots. The grass squelched underfoot.
Mr. Flamel asked Livius questions along the way—or, well, he asked Harriet questions to ask Livi, and she answered for him. He wanted to know all about what life as a magical snake was like. Harriet couldn't help but drawl a bit when she told him it was a life full of bossing about silly humans, sleeping on the nearest warm surface, and generally being a lazy pain in the arse. His laughter boomed in the loose trees.
When Livi slithered off her shoulders in a huff, she made sure to also tell Mr. Flamel how brave the serpent was, how he'd saved her life on several occasions. They were quiet for a while after that.
"What exactly are we looking for?"
"A dead raven," Mr. Flamel replied, short and to the point. He renewed the Warming Charms he'd placed on them and, as an afterthought, flicked one over Livi. The snake hissed in appreciation. "One that has died a natural death. That is very important. It cannot be, ah…rotten, either. We have our work cut out for us."
They picked through the underbrush, not fussed with being quiet, Mr. Flamel telling Harriet all about the time he visited Norway with Perenelle many years ago and studied the magical implementation of the Elder Futhark under a seiðkonur.
"She was the granddaughter of Nerida Vulchanova, who founded Durmstrang, oui? They had a terrible blood feud against the Munters—terrible. Oda—that was her name, I remember now, Oda—knew Harfang Munter murdered Nerida when she was Headmistress."
Harriet peeked under a bush, then looked to Mr. Flamel. "Why would he do that?"
"Hmm?"
"Why would anyone murder the Headmistress?"
"Je ne sais pas." He shrugged. "Why does anyone murder anyone? It is a position of authority among magical kind, you know? We 'ave different Ministries, different governments, but it is not like ze Demoyennes—the Muggles. Wizarding kind consider educators…what is the expression? They hold them above others. It is a position of power, educating. Teaching magic to a people who define themselves by its usage."
Harriet mulled his statement over as they kept walking and Mr. Flamel kept talking.
"Oda and her family knew 'Arfang—Harfang—had killed Nerida. And Harfang had the entirety of the Vulchanova family banned from Durmstrang. All her descendants, even to this day! It was written in the Durmstrang's statuts, in the very laws themselves, that House Vulchanova could not return. It is very hard to change those bylaws! So Oda became a seiðkonur. Oh, and Harfang was quick to poison the Institutes's image. Nerida had a vision for it. She admired Hogwarts very much and wished for something like it closer to home…."
Time passed. Their search turned up one rook, a magpie, a jackdaw—and a Hinkypunk who had a go at Harriet and only scampered when Livi burst out of a nearby blackthorn bush. Mr. Flamel inspected the birds and pronounced that the rook and the magpie had been killed by cats and were thus unusable. The jackdaw had been shot.
"Ç'est malheureux. The Demoyennes are not so far away and it must have been clipped by buckshot and kept flying—non, do not look, silly girl. I will bury it."
Mr. Flamel needed only two flicks of his wand to inter the bird and Harriet sighed, her feet sore from tromping about in unfamiliar boots. She didn't know how long they'd been out there, but the mist hadn't relented and the light hadn't grown brighter. They'd scoured acres of forests. Mr. Flamel patted her head.
"Hmm. Perhaps your Livius could give us his expertise? Yes, Monsieur Livius?"
The Horned Serpent preened—if a snake could preen. He just looked insufferably pleased with himself in Harriet's opinion, especially after having eaten two squirrels, a rabbit, not to mention a good attempt at snatching that squealing Hinkypunk.
"Can you find us a raven?" Harriet asked him, a brow quirked.
"I can find anything," Livius retorted. "Humansss are ssslow. I am a better hunter. Sss…."
Livi took over their search—getting sidetracked once or twice by small, scared creatures skittering about, though he did far better at composing himself than Kevin or Rick ever did. He managed to find a bird, a great black thing settled in the hollow of a tree where predators couldn't find it, up high off the ground. Mr. Flamel Charmed the roots into a rudimentary step ladder so he could inspect the creature.
"Is it actually a raven?" Harriet asked, not able to see the bird very well.
"Mmm, non, not exactly. It is a carrion crow, much bigger than a raven, but it will suit." Mr. Flamel conjured a cloth sack and, with another spell, popped the deceased bird inside of it.
A flicker of silver light stealing through copse startled Harriet, and it must have startled Mr. Flamel too, though the wizard made a good show of pretending it hadn't. A fish flitted about his head—a wispy, ethereal shape, shining bright as a moon. It spoke, and Mrs. Flamel's voice came out.
"Nicolas, you and 'Arriet will miss lunch if you don't quit your playing about! You 'ave already missed breakfast!"
The fish vanished in a whorl of spangled smoke. Mr. Flamel grumbled something in French and gave his wand a small flick, summoning a silvery, see-through creature of his own. It really was a beautiful spell, and Harriet felt like she'd seen it before. Hadn't Snape done it just the other day Grimmauld? But his hadn't been an animal, just a four-legged blob, a shiny imprint hovering in the air.
Harriet frowned.
"Ouais, Perenelle. We are coming." The creature—a lizard of some sort, a salamander—disappeared, scuttling off through the trees in the direction the fish had come from. "We had best take our new friend home else Perenelle will leave us to starve."
She knew he was making a joke, but seeing as Harriet had actually been denied food and starved for being late before, her answering smile was strained. Mr. Flamel led the way through the woods again, never losing his footing, seeming perfectly at ease. He hummed, something quiet and foreign and pretty to Harriet's ears.
They came out of the woods on the other side of the village. The path flanked the sea—and it, too, was pretty, just like most of what Harriet had seen so far in Trefhud. The waves crested and crashed on the beach, gray and white and blue, a wizard out fishing on a floating dock, his pointed hat three times the size of his wizened head. In the village itself, the magical folk greeted Mr. Flamel warmly and gave curious hellos to Harriet, the alchemist quick to make their excuses and hurry them along. Harriet didn't think it actually mattered if she was seen as long as no one went back to the Ministry and told them Harriet Potter was puttering around a seaside town in Devon.
Well, maybe she should keep a low profile. Maybe. There was no telling where Lucius Malfoy might pop up.
At last, they made it back to the house and found Elara and Perenelle in the kitchen, deep in conversation, waiting by a wooden serving bowl filled with cheesy pasta. Bigsby was cutting a fresh loaf of bread into slices. It smelled wonderful to Harriet after tromping over what felt like half the countryside. She didn't need to be told twice to dig in.
"Nicolas! The poor dear is famished!" Perenelle reached out to smooth Harriet's hair from her face. "Where did you go off so early?"
"Searching for materials."
"Materials?"
He wiped his mouth after chomping of a piece of bread. "Oui. Harriet wants a bird."
"A bird? Oh." Perenelle shot her an inquisitive look, smiling, then set her gaze on her husband. "You will be cleaning it, yes? You cannot 'ave her do that! It will give her nightmares."
Harriet was a mite peeved Mrs. Flamel thought her squeamish enough to get nightmares over something as trivial as ingredient prep. True, she hadn't considered that they'd have to get the skull out of the bloody bird after they found it, but Harriet had handled other animals in detentions with Snape or in Potions class. It was a necessary part of magic sometimes.
She'd seen far worse, but Perenelle didn't know that. Mr. Flamel didn't tell her everything. Harriet didn't tell Mr. Flamel everything.
The wizard held his hands up. "Oui, oui! Do not worry so. I will do it."
Elara nudged her foot under the table and Harriet settled for drinking her pumpkin juice.
Once lunch had been eaten, Harriet munching on far too much and Elara still saying far too little, Mr. Flamel kissed his wife's cheek and he and Harriet returned to the study she'd seen earlier that morning, passing through it to the potions lab on the other side. It resembled the one at Hogwarts in many ways, the walls comprised of rough stone, ingredients all sorted in tidy jars and bottles on long wooden racks, each slat labeled in the same, slanted script.
The resemblance ended there; there was no surly Snape marching about, and bizarre glass beakers and contraptions cluttered most of the counters. Harriet peered at the nearest instrument and watched how the candlelight glittered like a rainbow over the thick, clouded glass, green sand swirling within the wide, flat belly.
Mr. Flamel lit a fire in the hearth with a snap of his fingers and settled Harriet at a little round table stationed at its side. She yawned as she watched him dart about—settling the white cloth sack on the bench, tossing a bit of wood into the flames, tugging a slender volume from his crowded bookcase. For a six-hundred-year-old wizard, he sure had a lot of energy.
"Here we are!" He set the volume in front of Harriet. It didn't have a title imprinted on the front, just a smattering of peeling, silver gilt, so Harriet carefully opened the cover to the first page.
"What's this for?"
"I need you to research trois—three—runes in there. It is important for the spell."
Harriet forced herself to sit up straighter and nudged her glasses higher up her nose. "I can do that."
"Perfect." Mr. Flamel went to the bench and gathered the crow, moving out of Harriet's line of sight. "You need to look for raidho, jera, and laguz."
Harriet flipped through the old, withered pages, squinting at the tiny writing and drawn symbols. The fire crackled and she slumped, yawning, balancing her weight on her arm. A muted thump came from the worktable, metals instruments clicking against one another in a ceramic dish.
"What does it say for raidho?"
Blinking, Harriet turned another page. "It represents direction. A journey. It teaches balance. In Merk—Merkstave, it means stasis or even death. What's Merkstave?"
"It means reversed. When it is cast opposing its usual orientation."
"Oh."
"Jera, now."
Harriet had to peruse the pages again, rubbing her eyes. "Hmm. It means year. Has a whole bit here about harvests and waiting. Life-cycles. In Merkstave is can mean conflict or…regression, repetition."
"And now, laguz!"
Whatever laguz meant, Harriet didn't find out. She nodded off reading an interesting bit about perthro and how it was a mysterious thing that had come to represent witch-kind and their perceived capriciousness. The heat in the room, coupled with her large lunch and excessive morning exercise, put the witch right to sleep—until suddenly, Mr. Flamel returned to the table and Harriet startled awake. He set a perfectly cleaned crow skull on top of the book she'd snoozed upon. The wizard had finished preparing it already.
Harriet flushed. "I would have done it, sir," she mumbled. "You didn't have to."
"I know, petit oiseau." He gave the top of her head a fond pat and sat in the chair next to hers. He picked up the skull "Raidho. Jera. Laguz." He pointed at the runes in turn, each carefully carved with a small, sharp blade along the bird's crest. "Laguz means lake. It represents water, and water represents life."
"I thought—I read something about sowilo representing life? Something about fire?"
"Life-giving. A small difference, but a difference nonetheless, yes?" Mr. Flamel shrugged. "Now, take out your wand."
Harriet pulled her wand free of its brace and waited for instruction. The wizard set the skull before her again and smiled, the firelight sparkling in his dark eyes in an uncanny imitation of Professor Dumbledore. "Now, you use the spell avolare. Avolare. Go ahead."
Nodding, Harriet pointed her wand at the skull—at the largest rune, raidho—and whispered, "Avolare!"
The skull remained on the book but a glossy, black-feathered bird appeared above it—a crow, not a raven like Mr. Flamel's. Its talons clicked on the table as it turned and eyed Harriet, its eye pale and milky but otherwise alert. The runes upon the skull under its feet had turned from coal black to red.
"Now what happens?"
"You send me a letter to test."
Curious to see what would happen, Harriet fished out the note she intended to send to Professor Dumbledore—still in her pocket, wrinkled by her running about—and gave it to the crow, its thick bill clamping shut over the parchment's edge. "Err, go to Mr. Flamel? Nicolas Flamel?"
Obviously, it didn't need to go far, and yet the bird blinked and hopped two steps to its right, dropping the letter into the wizard's outstretched hand. "Nicolas Flamel!" it cawed, startling Harriet with its volume.
"Merci."
The crow cawed again, pleased with itself, and vanished in a sooty puff. The runes upon its skull returned to their dark color.
"It is not actually alive, you see," Mr. Flamel explained as they both sat and gazed at the little white bone atop the book of runes. "It is a—how do you say? A fantôme? Or a…projection of ze bird. Like a memory. It is why it is important it had a full life, not one cut short."
Thoughtful, Harriet traced a fingertip along the beak, then reached a decision and tugged on the cord tucked under her jumper's collar. Puzzled, Mr. Flamel watched as she pulled out the long leather strip on which hung a single, small white spoon. "It was carved from Bavarian Erkling bone," she told the alchemist as she fidgeted with the knot, managing to get it undone. "It can detect poison. Elara got it for me after—."
Harriet didn't say anything else, but understanding flashed in Mr. Flamel's eyes. She hadn't told him about the poisoning, but she wagered Professor Dumbledore had.
"I understand. It is a good thing to have, and a good idea to have your new compagnon close as well."
He helped her feed one end of the leather strip through the skull's ocular sockets, then cinched the knot tight once more. Harriet looped the cord around her head once more and the bones jangled ever so slightly as they came to rest over her heart.
"No excuse not to write to me now, oui?" Mr. Flamel pointed at the macabre necklace. He adopted a stern, but teasing tone. "I will expect a letter every week, young lady!"
Embarrassed but pleased, Harriet beamed and nodded, hand closing over the crow's skull. Mr. Flamel smiled, the gesture close-lipped but warm, genuine. He touched her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
"Good. Now, let us go see what mischief we can find for you and Elara to get into. We wouldn't want to disappoint Albus, after all."
A/N: Okay, so, I don't understand why Durmstrang is coded so heavily as Russian / Slavic in canon. It's in Norway or Sweden. Koldovstoretz is in Russia. I mean, it's just a giant missed opportunity that I think I've touched upon a bit more in this au-canon.
Harriet got a new pet and it's not a snake! I'm so proud of her.
Is the magic theory boring you? Let me know.