ccxcix. little wolf
The funeral was less solemn than Elara feared it would be.
She attributed the rather relaxed atmosphere to the fact that the Flamels had, for a few years now, been warning their friends and associates of their approaching demise. As far as anyone knew, the old alchemist had reached the end of the Stone's longevity, and that was what had claimed his—and his wife's—lives.
Very, very few people knew of the Demon's eye.
A few tears were shed among the massive crowd gathered on the long, sweeping field Beauxbatons normally set aside for their Quidditch pitch. The graves themselves were farther up the mountain, near the large fountain in the main courtyard where Mr. Flamel had reputedly first seen Perenelle. Elara wasn't entirely convinced of the story—more than a little skeptical over the fountain's age and the amount of gold added to it over the years. However, it made for a romantic tale, and if that was where the Flamels had chosen to rest, she guessed there had to be some truth to it.
Two dozen rows of chairs held more than a hundred backsides, and Elara noted the presence of many famous figures from across the globe. She'd seen them in books, or the papers. A fair number kept shooting glances toward Harriet, but Dumbledore's presence and disproving gaze were enough to keep the attention minimal.
The eulogies were nice—those in English that she could understand—though most were a tad vapid, and Elara found her attention wandering as her gaze slid over the peaks of the distant Pyrenees. She thought too many of the speakers attributed a closer relationship to the Flamels than they actually had, and perhaps therein lay the danger of attaining legendary fame. Everyone imagined themselves as friends with the Flamels in some capacity. It led to far too many people wanting to stand at the podium and reminisce about memories that were, more than likely, fake.
Harriet spent the entire ceremony next to her, staring at the grass. The only time she looked up was when Professor Dumbledore took the stage.
"Nicolas was never afraid to endeavor on the next great adventure that awaits us all at the end of our lives," the old wizard said. "I have never met a man more fearless in the face of the unknown, but I do not believe he desired to leave our estimable company just yet. Love is a dangerous creature we let into our hearts, and it is dangerous not only because we fear how it may hurt us. It's worse to wonder at the pain our love leaves behind when we must move on. In this regard, I do not think Nicolas was any different than a normal man." His attention turned in their direction, and Harriet shifted in her seat. "So, let us rejoice in the memories of our dearly departed friends so that it is our happiness and well-wishes that reach them, and not our shared mourning. Let us remember Nicolas and Perenelle for their brilliance, their generosity, and their kindness. The world is a better place for having known them."
The reception itself took place in the school, which was much the same as it'd been in Elara's memory, though without the addition of Yule decorations or wayward students. There was food and music performed by a lively orchestra, which was reportedly playing some of Perenelle's favorite songs. Dumbledore took it upon himself to introduce them to the acquaintances he shared in common with Flamels, a wide range of witches and wizards in funny garb with foreign accents. Elara begged off after the third round, socially drained after meeting so many strangers. She retreated to the refreshment table for a cup of tea.
As she sipped an earthy green tea, Elara wandered from the main hall with its heavy black drapery festooned over the walls and walked the outer corridor that bordered the northern part of the palace. It was quieter there, cooler, and the gilded torches didn't burn quite so strongly in her eyes. The evening settled in against the rocky foothills and bled into the sky into shades of violet and indigo. Elara stared into the distance.
She felt somewhat numb to the passing of the Flamels. She'd been closer to Perenelle than Mr. Flamel himself, and their relationship had not been as close as the one they shared with Harriet. Elara was more aggrieved by Harriet's loss than she was by her own. To her, the Flamels had been more like grandparents—familial, but marked by distance. To Harriet, they'd been her parents. They'd loved her like a daughter.
Elara tipped her head back, exhaling.
I've been numb to most everything lately, she thought to herself, gaze on the window. Is this what it's like? Is this what the Dark Lord feels when he takes a life? If it is, it's little wonder such a thing has become so…easy for him.
Someone approached, and Elara stiffened.
She smelled her before she heard her footsteps. The air thickened with the redolent scents of freesia, cherries, and apricots—the kind simmered on a hob, the richness of caramelized sugar, the tart, buttery heat. Elara's fingers tightened around the handle of her cup, and she forced them to relax before she snapped it in two.
"You've been ignoring my letters," Fleur Delacour said as she came to stand next to her. The words suggested the older witch should be peeved, but her tone came out as playful as a cat stretching its paws. "You know, I do not usually 'ave to work so hard for someone's attention."
"It's good for your ego to have some of the air let out of it," Elara quipped, mustering her courage to turn. "But I assure you, I wasn't being coy when I didn't return your post."
Fleur looked as beautiful as she ever did—if not more so, as if every year only added to her beauty, maturing like expensive elf wine. Her pale hair glittered in the candlelight, and the knowing cast of her narrowed eyes sent shivers down Elara's spine. She cleared her throat and took a sip of tea.
"I didn't know I would see you here," she said, grasping for something to say.
"And I'm sure you would have avoided me if you had," Fleur returned, her hand on her hip. "Madame Maxime asked f0r the help. The—security? Not that she or the board believe anything amiss will happen, but she does hope to keep nosy visitors honest."
"Hmm," Elara acknowledged. Now that she allowed herself to look properly, she saw that Fleur hadn't dressed for a funeral and wore robes better suited for patrolling the palace. She wasn't wrong. Elara would have avoided her if she'd known she was here. "So you've stayed in touch with Maxime since leaving school?"
"You would know if you opened your letters." Fleur reached out to touch Elara's cheek, turning her eyes to her own. "If you wish for me to move on, I will, but you will do me the courtesy of saying so to my face. You led me to believe my attentions were wanted."
Suddenly, Elara felt very old and very tired. Much older than she rightfully should, and far more tired than she deserved. The usual charm that would have her blushing and stuttering didn't shake her this evening. Like the Flamels' deaths, it didn't touch her. "It has nothing to do with being wanted or not," she said. "Fleur…Wizarding Britain is poised on the brink of complete destruction. A madman will stop at nothing to kill my god-sister. I—how could I think to entertain this now when it's entirely possible I won't survive the year? What I want doesn't matter, so I apologize if I've led you astray. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair."
Fleur's hand lowered, and she gripped Elara's, slender fingers brushing her wrist before entwining with hers. "I know what you are doing."
"What?"
"Do you think me silly and naive?" Fleur asked.
"No," Elara told her.
"Do you think I became the champion for the whole of Beauxbatons simply because I am gorgeous? That I am an empty head with a pretty face?"
Elara didn't snort, but it was a near thing. "Of course not."
Fleur squeezed her hand. "Then don't insult me, Elara. I understand what is happening in England. You cannot protect me from it."
They stood in silence, not looking toward the window or toward each other. Fleur's thumb brushed against the scarring left on Elara's knuckles and fingers by Fiendfyre. At length, Fleur said, "I've accepted a position at Gringotts. In England."
Elara focused on her. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I find what Monsieur Voldemort is doing unacceptable." Fleur put her pert nose in the air, tossing the shimmering curtain of her blonde hair over her shoulder. "And so I mean to help 'ow I can. It has nothing to do with you." Elara almost laughed at her pout, and her stomach fluttered with affection. She wanted to laugh. It felt as if she hadn't laughed in years. "Your Professor Dumbledore recommended work as a curse breaker at ze bank."
"I think Professor Dumbledore is good at dragging others into the mess," Elara replied with a touch of derision. Her amusement faded as quickly as it'd come. "You should stay in France. I…I don't think you're silly or naïve. I think you're brilliant, and you know this. I don't want to be selfish. I'm…terrified of what's going to happen."
"Wars don't stay conveniently in one place, ma louloute. I do not mean to wait until it arrives at my home before fighting it." Fleur brought her hand up and bussed a kiss on the back of it. "Be selfish with me. If only a little bit."
Elara didn't argue further. She'd voiced her concerns, and questioning Fleur further on the issue would be insulting to both her intelligence and her ability. Elara knew the older witch was quite capable, but no one was safe from the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. People were going to die. People had died.
Harriet nearly didn't come home from the Ministry. If Flamel hadn't created the Demon's eye….
Fleur bumped her hip against Elara's, stirring her from darkening thoughts. "So you will stay in touch now, oui? No excuses. I do not need to be protected, Elara."
"Yes. I—yes, I will." Sighing, Elara fidgeted—and she tucked Fleur's hand into her arm. "Would you like to see Harriet? And my father? Mongrel that he is."
"I would love to. Your father is charming, and you know it."
Elara groaned as Fleur smiled, her voice light and airy like chiming bells. "You wouldn't say the same if you had to live with him."
"I'm sure I would. But, do not be jealous. He is not my type."
They returned together to the main hall, back into the warmth of candlelight and laughter, leaving behind the stillness of the approaching night.