cxxxi. the garden
The gentle rocking motion of the train's movement lulled Harriet back into wakefulness.
The compartment was bigger than those of the Hogwarts Express and rather more delicate in appearance, the brass fixtures adorned with extra filigree or lavish Fleur-de-lis, the bench extra-wide and padded with creme colored leather. Elara had curled up on the other end, invisible under a conjured blanket, and Livius had laid himself down next to an iron receptacle holding a very fat yellow salamander. Mr. Flamel had used metal tongs to feed it burning coals until the magical creature refused any more treats and went to sleep, filling the compartment with a pleasant heat.
The alchemist sat across from Harriet, his chin balanced on the heel of his palm as he leaned an elbow against the window sill and watched the drab landscape pass them by. He'd seemed preoccupied for the entire trip.
Professor Dumbledore's Portkey had taken them to London, to the Leaky Cauldron, a distance far enough to nearly level Harriet and Elara, and even Mr. Flamel had appeared peaky after enduring so much magical travel that evening. After Transfiguring both witches a pair of temporary robes and shoes, they went to Kings Cross Station, where they crossed the barrier onto Platform Seven and One-Quarter and boarded an emerald train bound for the continent. Mr. Flamel hadn't been in country when he'd received the Headmaster's urgent missive, which meant he—and by extension, Elara and Harriet—had a considerable distance to cover before they returned to his second home.
Harriet shifted, untucking her legs from underneath herself, and Mr. Flamel stirred from wherever his thoughts had taken him. He smiled. "Good morning, Harriet."
"Morning," she replied, though a glance out the window showed it'd been daylight for some hours now, the flat, Muggle lands outside of Paris having given way to rolling hills made dark and dim by the season. "Are we almost there?"
"Oh, nearly. We'll be in the Wizarding quarter of Toulouse soon. Perenelle will be waiting at the station."
"Thank you for coming to get us all the way from Hogwarts."
"Pas de quoi, il n'y a pas de quoi."
Harriet turned to peer out the window, watching with curiosity as the landscape changed kilometer by kilometer, more structures becoming apparent the closer they got to the city. This was the farthest she'd ever been from home—though her first trip from London all the way to Hogsmeade had been much more nerve-wracking than this venture. Harriet had roused when they'd pull into different stations along the way, the conductor's French voice filtering through the train, and she'd watched witches and wizards disembarking, greeting family members or disappearing into Floos. Most of the stations had been decorated for Yule, cheerful tidings written in tinsel and golden baubles.
"Harriet?"
"Mmm?"
Mr. Flamel studied her for a moment. "Did you see ze man who was in your dormitory?"
Harriet frowned as she considered the question, pulling on the hazy images from the night before. Already it seemed as if it'd happened so long ago when it'd been less than ten hours. "I—kind of. I didn't imagine him; I know he was there, but I…well, I have a lot of bad dreams, so at first, I thought I was just dreaming again when I saw the shadow against the curtains. Then, Elara saw him, and saw him more solidly than I did, though neither of us could make out much in the dark." Harriet shrugged one shoulder. "So we can't say for sure it was Sirius Black, but it's not as if there're many blokes sneaking about the castle in the dead of night, are there?"
"No, I would not think there are."
The salamander made a plaintive noise and belched ash. Livi opened his eyes to glare at the lizard before quitting the floor in favor of Harriet's lap. They sat in amiable quiet until they neared their destination, at which point it proved pertinent to wake Elara, who was as irritable and surly as she ever was in the early morning. Mr. Flamel reapplied the Transfigurations to their clothes when the train stopped, and they exited onto the platform.
The station was on the River Garonne, hidden from the Muggles, nestled among the rose terracotta buildings, smelling faintly of something fishy wafting up from the water lapping at the brick foundation. It was cold and a bit humid, but the sun was out and the station blissfully free of snow. Perenelle was waiting just as Mr. Flamel said she would be, and the older witch was quick to leave the bench she'd been sitting on when she spotted the trio of travelers leaving the emerald train.
"'Arriet! Elara!" she called, embracing them both in turn—Harriet choking when she nearly got the life squeezed from her. "Oh, my sweet girls, 'ow are you?"
"We're okay, promise."
Perenelle looked them over, from their untidy hair to tired faces, blue eyes lingering on the smudge of blood staining Harriet's Transfigured nightgown. The wound underneath had scabbed over, though it stung when she twisted the wrong way. "Quelle horreur! Nicolas, have you Transfigured their clothes? Was there no time to change?"
"Non, ma moitié. Albus is to send their things on to ze house for Bigsby to handle."
Perenelle muttered something French and distinctly upset as she drew Harriet and Elara each under an arm. Elara was nearly taller than her by now, but Perenelle still managed. "Come along, then. We need to visit ze Jardin."
"Ah, Perenelle, do you think it is best—?"
"Oui!" she replied with unexpected heat. "It is past morning, and zey must be famished. We must visit the Jardin."
Sighing, Mr. Flamel relented—not that he'd tried very hard—and came closer. "Very well. You had best come with me, Monsieur Livius. I believe it best if you had your hands free, Harriet…."
At Perenelle's insistence, they left the station, stepping off as if to head toward the Muggle streets—but Mr. Flamel led them straight toward a gray stone arch waiting at the end of the sidewalk. It looked very old—much older than the more trendy shops lining the avenue, wider than an average doorway but not much taller. None of the Muggles seemed to take any of note of it, walking around it as if bouncing off an invisible ward, and as she got closer, Harriet could read the words, "L'allée Du Jardin" chiseled into the stone.
Passing under the arch, Harriet felt magic tingle on her skin—and before her eyes, the street swelled and parted like a pattern in a kaleidoscope, the Muggle outlets and lanes getting shoved apart from one another as tall, stately buildings crowded into place, cobbled stones rolling out like a carpet, a wide canal fringed in grass going right down the middle. Chestnut trees sprung from the earth, rising higher and higher until the whole of the new, revealed district fell under the shade of those bare, winter branches.
Harriet gawked like a shameless tourist at the narrow little borough that had just appeared, turning around to look at the arch behind her. It was as if they'd entered some kind of parallel realm only magical beings could see, and Harriet watched with amusement as the Muggles bounced off the invisible walls and walked around the buildings. Those witches and wizards exiting the settlement got frustrated by the oblivious people bumping into them.
"What is this place?" Harriet asked, glancing up at Perenelle. She smiled.
"Ze call it The Garden. It's the second-largest Wizarding commune in France, the bigger one being Paris—but I have always been fond of zis one. It is very charming."
Harriet could see that; it reminded her of Diagon Alley in some ways, except the buildings stood up a tad straighter, cleaner, their deportment and displays more subtle in their design. It was also more extensive and, from what she could tell, contained a greater mix of residential and commercial buildings, some witches or wizards sitting out on their balconies to enjoy a late morning meal, others out peddling their wares. Two-wheeled carts propelled themselves along the road, carrying passengers reading the paper or chatting with one another, and at the end of the row waited a tall, black building that looked something like a stable, the horses inside the stalls ranging from small to absolutely mammoth in size—all of them winged. Signs above the stalls listed different prices and cities; the largest, palomino-looking horses had places farther east posted; Harriet noticed the word Bantiaumyrddin written above one of the middling gray steeds. As she stared, a man got into a carriage connected to one of the horses—and it took off like a Muggle aeroplane.
"'Arriet, zis way."
Startled, Harriet returned to her group, Perenelle taking her hand so she didn't wander off again as they crossed the canal on a stone bridge. Their first stop was a magical tailor, a skinny bloke with a thin mustache and too much product in his hair who all but bent over backward to serve the Flamels, though Harriet swore he looked at her and Elara like they were strange, grubby little English urchins someone had plucked off the streets. When they left the shop, Harriet had on a sage blouse and a charcoal pleated skirt, golden threads of ivy growing and shifting from the stitches of her collar. Elara had clothes similar to what she usually wore—a white shirt, black skirt, black robes with silver fastenings. Harriet had to admit she felt better, being out of her night things, now properly washed and dressed.
Mrs. Flamel led them to a patisserie after that, and Harriet ate far too many delicate, sweet pastries, her appetite returning with a vengeance after they were seated at a table outside in the sunshine and the last vestiges of the night's tension began to bleed away. Even Mr. Flamel appeared more himself after a few cups of coffee, relaxing into his chair, not seeming to mind the overlarge snake looped about his shoulders who kept stealing petit fours from his plate. Perenelle looked a bit more dubious about Livi, and Harriet quietly reminded her familiar to be on his best behavior.
After eating, Mr. Flamel pressed a purse of golden Bezants into Elara's hand and allowed them to explore on their own.
"Stay together, oui? Meet back here in a few hours."
"Yes, sir."
"'Arriet, take your cloak. It gets cold quickly zis close to the mountains."
"Okay."
Harriet grabbed said cloak from the back of her chair and ran off with Elara, slowing into a walk when they reached the grass by the canal, and both witches paused to glance into the clear water below.
"A strange turn of our holiday, isn't it?" Elara said as if commenting on the weather.
Harriet guffawed. "Definitely. Merlin, I can't believe we're all the way in bloody France now—speaking of which, we need to go to a stationery shop." At Elara's curious look, Harriet explained. "Hermione has the Marauder's Map and will see we're not there anymore. We need to write to her as soon as we can so she doesn't panic."
They didn't find a stationery shop, but they did find the post office, the old witch behind the counter looking on with interest as they paid for the parchment but then used Hugh instead of an owl to send the missive. That finished, they set out to explore The Garden proper. It seemed to go on forever—much farther than they'd be able to venture in few hours, side streets splintering away from the main boulevard, an actual forest and immaculate flower garden located smack in the middle of the district proper. At one point, the canal returned to the River Garonne, and both Harriet and Elara failed to make sense of how magic managed to redirect the Muggle boats. It was fascinating.
Despite the welcome distraction of being away from Hogwarts, their problems continued to lurk in the back of their minds; even here, the occasional poster of Sirius Black's mugshot glared from an alley wall, and the sight of him made Harriet's blood boil.
On one of the little side streets, Harriet stumbled upon a shop with curious glass spheres in the display, the name "Verre de Verid" neatly stenciled on the facia. Inside she found row upon row of cluttered shelves burdened with glass pieces—some decorative, some practical, some magical, and some not. Sunlight came through the front window and shone through a spinning mobile of clear lenses, the light revealing moving images of landscapes and scenery that reflected over the walls and floor. Harriet didn't think much of them at first, until she came back around to the stand, picking one of the loose lenses up from its box. It was smaller than her palm, slightly convex, and encircled in a slim brass ring.
"C'est interesting, non?" the proprietor asked, his English sparse and his accent thick as molasses. "It works wiz, ah, une copie? Zis vélin here."
He showed her a book of bound vellum—familiar vellum, the kind that came from a magical creature she didn't know, the kind she'd seen on Rowena Ravenclaw's desk—and copied onto the vellums were the various scenes she could see recreated in the glass. Harriet held the clear lens in her hand, thumb tracing the brass edge warmed by her skin, and she considered it for a moment longer before making a decision. She left with three of the lenses carefully folded into a soft cloth and bag, shrunken in her cloak pocket, joined by a roll of vellum.
"You have a look about you that says you're planning something neither me nor Hermione will very much like."
Harriet stuck out her tongue. "You'll just have to wait and see."
They returned to the Flamels, who didn't look as if they'd left the patisserie at all in the intervening hours, though Mr. Flamel had swapped coffee for wine and his pipe, Perenelle reading the local paper. He looked up as they approached. "Ready to leave?"
"Yes, sir."
The four of them departed, Mr. Flamel Side-Along Apparating Harriet and Elara somewhere else—somewhere much colder and more drafty. Gone white as a ghost, Elara dropped his arm and sicked up in the nearest bush, Perenelle rushing over to tuck back her hair and rub her back. Even Harriet, who was much less prone to queasiness, felt lightheaded and wobbly.
"It is because of the altitude," Mr. Flamel explained as he patted her arm. "We are not terribly far from ze Jardin, but we are much higher in the mountains now."
The Flamels' French chateau proved much grander and more sprawling than their more humble home in Trefhud, and yet Harriet needed only a brief tour of the property to understand neither Nicolas nor Perenelle had made much use of the house in recent years. A veneer of neglect and age hung about the place, and under the crisp, winter snow, it just seemed…tired, drowsy. She sometimes wondered what happened to magical properties that got abandoned, and Harriet thought they became something like that chateau; preserved, but eerie, empty in a way that couldn't be quantified by the number of people or things inside its rooms. Overall, despite receiving her own room and enjoying the space to roam, Harriet much preferred the house in Devonshire.
As the sun dipped into the rocky white peaks of the Pyrenees, they enjoyed supper in the kitchen, the environment there more congenial than it would be in the formal dining room. Bigsby puttered about, muttering lovingly to the dishes he set out before he beat a quick retreat to goodness knows where. Harriet would never get used to the eccentricities of house-elves. Both she and Elara had tried to get Kreacher to eat at the table with them—and then he'd threatened to disembowel them in their sleep if they ever tried again.
"Is there a reason you're in France at this time of year?" Elara asked. She wasn't a numpty; like Harriet, she probably realized the locale seemed an odd choice to winter in, no matter its inherent grandeur and beauty.
"Business, I fear," Mr. Flamel responded, ladling English stew into a wooden bowl, passing it to Harriet. "Some things are best to not put off, oui? Procrastinating is a terrible habit."
Whatever business the Flamels had, he didn't specify, but Harriet assumed they'd either find out during their stay or it wasn't for them to know. They ate their meal, chattering on about school and projects and their interests—always avoiding any touchy topics, never once mentioning Sirius Black or the person who'd tried to attack them in the dormitory. It confused Harriet because Mr. Flamel had never been one to shy away from difficult conversations, always ready to lend his advice and wisdom to whatever problem she presented him. It was later, after Elara had gone on to bed and Harriet had lingered in the kitchen to help Bigsby clean up the dishes, when she discovered the reason behind his reticence.
Bigsby shooed her from the room once she'd rinsed the last plate, and Harriet went gladly enough, more tired than she wanted to admit and ready to fall into her pillow. The Flamels had retired to the lounge, the door left slightly ajar, and as Harriet crossed the thin stripe of yellow light piercing the hall's shadows, she heard raised voices coming from inside.
"—iz untenable, Nicolas! Idiotie. I do not know what Albus is thinking."
She paused and, against her better judgment, leaned closer to listen. Harriet couldn't see either Nicolas or Perenelle, but she could hear them well enough, their conversation joined by the slow, somber crackling of a lit fire.
"Ah, Perenelle," Mr. Flamel sighed, voice muffled as if he'd dragged his hand over his face. "You know it iz not Albus' fault—."
"Non? I do not care. I do not seek to place blame—il n'est pas utile!" Perenelle huffed, throwing herself into a chair. "Ze are children! And ze crimes committed against them! Abuse, Nicolas! Abuse! Poisoned, and harassed, and—and torturé." She said the word like it was a vile, wretched thing. It angered Harriet because she certainly hadn't told the Flamels about—that. "Pas de famille! What madness grips Poudlard!"
"I know, ma moitié."
"Do you?"
"It is dark times for everyone; it is felt here, too, not just in England. Not just in Poudlard."
"And I am to satisfy myself with that, am I?" Perenelle shifted and rattled off a string of agitated French. "They should go to Beauxbatons. It would take but a word, and Olympe would take zem gladly. Brilliant, beautiful girls they are."
Mr. Flamel snorted, sounding defeated. "Zey do not speak French, my love."
"Et c'est important? They could learn! They could learn much more if they were not constantly afraid for their lives!"
"We discussed this in the summer. It would do no good."
Glass clattered on wood like a cup being set down too hard. "'Ow can you say that?"
"I know you are upset, but—."
"Oui, I am upset! You are dragged out of bed before the dawn because a—a monster has crept into their chambre, and you expect me to not be upset? Mon Dieu, Nicolas—in zer room! 'Ow can you say that?"
"Because ze danger does not exist in Poudlard alone; it exists in 'Arriet, and so long as some piece of Tom Riddle keeps breathing, she will be in danger. No matter where she goes."
"We will take zem in."
"We cannot."
"Why?"
"Because it would not be fair." The first brush of anger entered Mr. Flamel's tone, and Harriet shifted in discomfort, shocked. "We cannot uproot their lives like zis, Perenelle! It would not be fair to them. Not…not when there is so little left. Le moissonneur réclame son dû."
Harriet could discern no further conversation after that, only a soft, hopeless muttering of French that had her heart clenching in sadness. She quietly departed from the hall, heading up the steps to her own room past Elara's, letting the door come closed behind her. Bigsby had made up the big bed in fresh linens, and the smell of lilac filled the air, the hearth dark but for the smoldering of low, burnt-out coals. The curtains remained wide, revealing the white, somnolent valley sprawled out beneath the cliffs the chateau perched upon, and as Harriet stood there taking in the view, she allowed herself to think on what had happened the night before.
Somebody—a man—had been in her bedroom, and she didn't know how she felt about that. Bad, of course, but beyond that, Harriet had a certain disquiet in her middle, an unease that stemmed from thinking about a person standing over her while she slept unawares and not knowing what they were doing. It was one of those subjects her mind shied away from—but even Aunt Petunia, as much as she despised Harriet—had drilled into her skull all the stories about nasty perverts and predators, and how Harriet needed to stay away from strangers who tried to lure her off. She hated that the thought of returning home to her dormitory now made her uncomfortable.
Listening to the Flamels argue had made her uncomfortable, too.
What had happened scared her, more so than the vague notion of a serial killer possibly wanting to murder her—whether that killer be Black or Voldemort. Because while that was a scary thing to consider, this person had been in her room, present and there, and she didn't know why.
Harriet didn't have Hermione's knack for visualizing and articulating problems, but she was far from an idiot. Something about the situation didn't make sense; Black was mad by all accounts, had taken a knife to the Fat Lady guarding Gryffindor Tower like a raving loony. It was all—bold, crazed, but the person who'd been in the dormitory? He'd snuck in—and Merlin be damned, Harriet had no bloody clue how he'd managed that—had somehow gotten into the room, had surprised Livius, had known about her Horned Serpent in the first place, and had moved as if to pull the curtains, ostensibly to attack Harriet while she slept. If she were to place herself in the shoes of a madman, Harriet wouldn't have bothered with any of that. She would have caught the linens on fire or something.
It was Sirius Black…wasn't it?
The moon rose higher and shed its light on the valley below. For a long while, Harriet remained at the window and stared out at the cold, barren wilderness. She could still hear Mr. Flamel's quiet, broken words in her ears, and Harriet thought she might hear them for years to come.
A/N: Y'know, my original intention was to have the Flamels be much more minor in their roles. Oops.
Flamel: "….what are you hiding under your cloak?"
Perenelle: "…"
Flamel: "…you can't kidnap the children."
Perenelle: "You are literally no fun."