ccxcviii. from platform seven and one-quarter

The lonesome wail of a distant train whistle stirred Harriet from restless dreams.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked them open, confused for a moment as to where she was. Quiet voices murmured in conversation. Loose paper crinkled as it moved under a careless hand. Something heavy weighed on Harriet's lap.

Then, she remembered.

The others glanced around when she leaned her head off the wall by the window, reaching beneath her glasses to rub the sleep from her eyes. Hermione lowered the French paper she'd grabbed from the station and smiled, the expression tight, and Elara raised her gaze from her novel to arch a brow. On the opposite bench, Professor Dumbledore and Sirius paused in their chat.

"Did you have a nice rest, my dear?" the Headmaster asked, his eyes bright but tired in their own right. "We've another hour or so before we arrive."

"Mmph," Harriet replied, and she shifted the book on her lap. She was doomed to show poorly in her History of Magic O.W.L, as it seemed every time she opened the book, her eyes fell shut on their own accord. She'd been exhausted since what happened at the Ministry. No matter how much she slept, she couldn't get enough rest.

Slytherin will be mad if I do poorly, but what can I do? It's just History of Magic.

He'll be furious. He's only giving me this time because I promised high marks.

Bugger him.

The last time she'd ridden the emerald train from Platform Seven and One-Quarter, Harriet had been on the run from a supposed madman. Funny that said madman now sat in the carriage with her, though a part of Harriet—shunned and refused as it was—wished instead for the person she'd traveled with before. But, no amount of wishing would bring Nicolas Flamel back.

Hermione leaned closer and noted how little of the book Harriet had made a dent in. "Are you sure we can't give her a bit of a hint, Professor?" she asked the Headmaster, fidgeting with her paper. "Just a point in the right direction about which area the exam covers?"

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "No, Miss Granger," he replied. "I have it on good authority from Madam Marchbanks that they will be adjusting Harriet's exam to prohibit any chances of unfair help."

Harriet thought it was more unfair she was in the bloody hospital because of the stupid Ministry while the exam was being administered, but she didn't say anything. She shut the book and shoved it off her lap with a small sigh. She dragged a hand through her fringe as she looked out the window.

The summer-bound landscape swept by, magic flickering in the air where the foreign Ministry's wards protected the rails from the French countryside. It looked brighter than it did in Harriet's memory—shaded in bright, emerald green and buttery yellows. The hills rolled in sleepy, gentle curves.

"Will we have a chance to see the school?" Hermione asked the Headmaster. "I know it's a solemn occasion, but I can't help but wonder if we'll be allowed a brief visit."

Dumbledore nodded, silver hair glittering in the light coming through the glass. "Naturally. Beauxbatons Academy will be hosting the reception after the funeral, and I'm certain one of the professors could be persuaded to give a proper tour."

In her mind's eye, Harriet saw a glimpse of a grandiose castle, soaring turrets embraced by gilded lines, ice statues and chandeliers dripping with gold. She heard warm laughter, and the soft, rhythmic cadence of a French voice.

"We'll be in the Wizarding quarter of Toulouse soon. Perenelle will be waiting at the station."

There would be no Perenelle waiting. No Perenelle, no Flamel.

The others resumed chatting or reading. Harriet stared at her closed History of Magic text so she could avert her burning eyes.

It's your fault. You don't get to bloody cry when it's your own ruddy fault.

Harriet took a deep breath to settle herself. The train kept rumbling, and the quiet, companionable atmosphere in the carriage chafed. She felt Professor Dumbledore's eyes on her, watching with an air of sadness.

Clearing her throat, Harriet stood. "I'm going to grab some air," she said. Sirius glanced up at her.

"Dining car's at the end there," he said. "You could find yourself a spot of lunch or a drink."

"Okay, sure."

Harriet didn't want to eat anything, but she'd say anything to get out of there for a minute. The door rattled as it slid open, and she stepped into the corridor, letting it clatter shut behind her. She glanced along the way, and a witch in the next carriage lifted her head. She caught Harriet's gaze through the window and nodded.

Members of the Order of the Phoenix dotted the train. Professor Dumbledore had told Harriet there'd be others traveling with them for safety, but the reminder pricked at her nerves. She controlled the urge to grimace and continued on her way.

The dining car had the same sumptuousness reflected in the carriages, the brass rails shined to gleaming polish, the wood of the bar richly oiled, the smell of cloves thick in the air. Some people glanced at Harriet when she entered—and did double-takes, leading her to wonder if they read the English news. Swallowing, she approached the bartender, asked for water, then scuttled for a booth in the back.

This isn't much better than the carriage, she sighed to herself as she sunk into the bench's leather cushion, turning her gaze out the window. At least I don't have to pretend to study.

The landscape rushed by, cypress trees grown in carefully terraced rings above the track. It formed a sparse, leafy green tunnel through which they traveled, and Harriet watched the sunlight flicker for a time, splotches of jade and chartreuse spilling over the table.

Glass tapped against the wood, and Harriet looked around.

"Are you well?" Elara asked as she settled her tea across from Harriet's water and sunk into the opposing bench. Her silver eyes flickered over her, coming to a rest on Harriet's face—or, more pointedly, on the dark circles forming beneath her eyes. "You didn't sleep for very long."

"Can't," Harriet replied, tucking her hands beneath her thighs as she let out a gusty exhale. "Today's just…going to be hard."

"Yes, but the Flamels wouldn't want you to lose sleep over them."

Harriet didn't respond to that. She feared she might snap if she did. She couldn't know what the Flamel would want because they were dead, and it was Harriet's fault. No matter that Mr. Flamel had been the one to create the Druid's glass, it was her actions that led to his death. Her fault.

Elara joined her in gazing out the window, sipping from her delicate tea cup. Once Harriet stopped brooding and forced herself to actually look at the world around her, she realized Elara didn't exactly look well herself. Her skin had an unusual pallor, and if not for the concealer blended into her skin, Harriet guessed she'd have her own dark circles beneath her eyes. She'd been distracted for the last week or so, and Harriet didn't think it strictly had to do with the Flamels.

"Elara?" she ventured, and the other witch blinked, looking around at her.

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?" Harriet asked. "I know everyone keeps asking me that and I say I'm fine, but I—you'd tell me if something was wrong, right? I'd try to help, if I could."

Elara gazed at her, and though she smiled, tension lingered behind her expression. "I—." She hesitated, then settled her cup in its saucer. Again, she opened her mouth as if to speak, but then she didn't. Elara looked at Harriet, and she thought her god-sister was on the verge of confessing something when she remembered the hum of voices around them and the curious, straying eyes. "Let's…discuss this later."

"All right."

Soon enough, they returned to their shared carriage, and the emerald train rolled into the station at Toulouse. Their group attracted a fair amount of attention when they disembarked, as Order members went on ahead to secure the way and others swept along the length of the train, inspecting the people waiting there.

Harriet stood between her friends, adjusting her robes so they lay flat. She happened to glance across the station, under a rolling plume of smoke from the stack, and saw a young wizard staring in their direction. His confused expression cleared, and he tugged on his father's sleeve, excitedly pointing.

Harriet glared at her shoes.

When the all clear came, Professor Dumbledore gestured for them to follow, and they departed the station. Harriet could tell the street had been layered in Notice-Me-Nots today, as the French Muggles going about their business eased away from the road leading toward L'allée Du Jardin.

"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."

Pressing her lips into a firm line, Harriet ignored her instinct to glance about the magical district and take in the sights, instead concentrating on the back of Sirius' robes as they headed to their destination. He drew to a sudden halt, and Harriet barely avoided colliding with him.

"Damn," Sirius remarked to Professor Dumbledore. "They set aside an entire line just for this?"

Harriet forced herself to look up, seeing what Sirius meant right away. They stood before the long, dark building where many stalls housed massive, winged palominos and smaller, spirited fillies. Each stall had a sign for a destination, and today, one of the signs read, "Les Funérailles des Flamel." The carriages were festooned in black drapery.

"Of course," the Headmaster told him. "Nicolas and Perenelle had quite a number of friends and acquaintances who will be traveling here for the day."

Looking at the line of waiting horses pinned with traditional funeral trappings, Harriet suddenly found her feet glued to the cobblestones, and she couldn't take a single step forward. She didn't want to get into one of those carriages. She couldn't go to the funeral. She wanted to be back on the train, back on her way to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and she didn't know where she'd go from there, so long as it was away from here.

A gentle hand settled on her shoulder, and Harriet glanced up into the Headmaster's bright blue eyes. "We're not going to get anywhere by standing in the middle of the road, my dear."

Harriet didn't reply immediately. When she did, her voice came out stilted, hushed. "There's going to be so many people there."

"Yes. The Flamels were blessed with many friends." His hand gave her shoulder the slightest of squeezes. "I believe it's the wish of many witches and wizards to be so beloved, they need an entire field to host those who want to say their goodbyes."

Harriet chewed on her lower lip. My fault, she thought again, the sentiment ringing in her head. My fault, my fault.

"The most difficult of journeys begins with one step," Professor Dumbledore told her. "We just need to have courage."

Harriet wanted to have courage—but she didn't know how. She had been nothing but terrified since she looked into the Dark Lord's eyes in the Ministry and understood how ineffectual she was. How could she be brave when she couldn't do anything right?

"Harriet!"

From the waiting carriage, a head ducked out of the open door, and Elara called out to her. "Harriet, if you don't come sit between Sirius and me, I will end up stabbing him."

She couldn't see him, but Harriet heard her godfather's outraged squawk. It startled a laugh from her, and taking that first step proved less daunting than she'd expected. Harriet headed toward the carriage with Professor Dumbledore at her side.