ccxciv. stories to share
Days at St. Mungo's proved just as interminable as they did in Madam Pomfrey's infirmary.
At first, Harriet had company, joined by Hermione and Elara in their shared room. Sirius and Remus were constantly there, and Snape was a shadow in the background, hidden behind a Daily Prophet. But then, after two days, Elara was discharged, and after four days, Hermione was too. Snape had to return to work, and so did Remus. Professor Dumbledore was busier than ever. Sirius still came every afternoon, but he had things to be doing for the Order.
That left Harriet alone more often than not. The healers kept chivying her back to her empty room, the stationed Aurors allowing no strangers to step inside. She tried to sleep—she truly did—but Harriet found no rest at St. Mungo's. Her nightmares stalked her the moment she closed her eyes.
Letters piled on her nightstand. She ignored them.
When she could, Harriet liked to go to the room Professor McGonagall was convalescing in and sit with her. She couldn't always go there—sometimes slipping past the healers proved impossible, and other times McGonagall's brother, Mr. Malcolm McGonagall, was there with her sister-in-law, or her nephews visited. Harriet wondered what it was like to have family to worry about you.
She thought of the Mirror of Erised and the images within that lurked in the darkness of her mind. Her first glimpse of her parents' faces, two younger siblings cloaked in their mum and dad's love. Her own hand, so small, eagerly pressing to the glass, unable to pass through to the other side.
You'll never know what it's like.
No, that wasn't true. She had a family. She did. She did.
That morning, she had a spot of luck, as McGonagall was alone in her room, propped up by pillows as she read the paper. She rolled her eyes when Harriet darted inside and climbed onto the visitor's chair, folding her legs beneath yourself.
"Och, I know for a certainty you are meant to be in your bed, Miss Potter," Professor McGonagall chided, though she didn't glance up from her reading. She turned the page—and when Harriet caught a glimpse of her own face, she averted her eyes. "You're going to give Healer Smethwyck a heart-attack."
"I'm bored," she complained, watching the door. Without a word, McGonagall picked up her wand from the side table and pointed it at the window, shuttering the blinds.
"Unfortunately, being in hospital is rarely fun, Harriet."
Grumbling, she wrapped her cloak more securely over her gown. She knew that. She didn't want to go back to that empty ward. She didn't want to sit there, alone, waiting for someone that would never come.
"Hello, petit oiseau—."
Shuddering, she shut her eyes and forced the memory away.
McGonagall continued to read, and Harriet stayed quiet, not wanting to be sent away. She glimpsed one particular article on one of the back pages that prompted her to quietly mention, "The O.W.L exams finished today."
The professor nodded. "That they did." Then, glancing toward Harriet through her square spectacles, she added, "The Headmaster has already informed you you'll be taking your exams in the summer at the Ministry. Special allowances are being made."
Harriet brought her knees up to her chest, not caring that it made the wound stretching from her left shoulder to the right side of her belly fiercely burn.
"I heard they want Professor Dumbledore to run for Minister," she mumbled—and McGonagall barked a laugh.
"Ha! Yes, I've seen the speculation, too. I assure you, Albus is no more likely to leave Hogwarts than he is to depart for Wales and open a haberdashery."
"I don't know about that. He's mad for fashion, Professor."
"Oh, pish. You know what I mean."
Harriet quietly hummed, cheek on her knees.
After a minute, Professor McGonagall folded her paper together and turned her head to properly study Harriet. "You look very tired, Miss Potter," she commented with a hint of disapproval in her tone. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Mhm," Harriet lied, because she hadn't gotten any sleep at all. She hadn't for several nights, but last evening, she'd made a very foolish decision. Despite Professor Dumbledore's warning, Harriet had called Winky to her side, and she'd asked her to go to Grimmauld and find Elara's thick, leatherbound encyclopedia of dangerous Wizarding objects. She'd thumbed through the gritty, yellowing pages until she found 'D,' for Demon's Eye.
"A shadowed relic, oft miscast as the gentler Druid's glass, the Demon's Eye is a treacherous artifact born of grim sacrifice and whispered curses," she'd read. "When the bearer meets mortal peril, the Eye enacts its purpose: life is shed from its creator and bestowed upon the imperiled holder. Yet take heed, for the Demon's Eye is thus named for the stolen élan vital upon which the bridge between bearer and creator is built, defining it thus as a Dark and disastrous object indeed."
Harriet had carefully turned the pages until she found 'élan vital.' "Élan Vital, that sacred and ineffable breath, is the force unseen, the essence of life itself. It courses through all living things, a spark divine, igniting the heart and quickening the soul. Neither body nor mind, but the very pulse of existence, it sustains and animates where flesh and bone alone cannot."
She'd dropped the book in the dead of night. The binding slipped right through her numb, bandaged fingers.
Mr. Flamel killed someone, she'd realized. Mr. Flamel killed someone to make the Demon's Eye. For me.
Sitting with McGonagall, Harriet could not help but wish she'd listened to Professor Dumbledore—but she was an idiot. She'd always been an idiot who lacked common bloody sense, and she'd looked up what it was. She'd been an idiot to accept a gift so blindly, without asking questions. She'd been a stupid, worthless wretch of a girl, so pathetic that she drove a man who cared about her to commit murder just to keep her safe.
"Professor?" Harriet whispered.
"Yes?"
"Do you think it's okay for people to do…terrible things to protect someone?" she asked, hugging her legs tighter.
"Well, I think that depends, Harriet."
She chewed on her bottom lip. "When does it stop being okay?"
"I couldn't tell you an answer. For some, there isn't a time when protecting someone they love becomes too much. What's the Muggle expression? They refrain from drawing lines in the sand to keep themselves from crossing them. You can't cross a line if you don't create it."
"But isn't that what Voldemort's doing?" Harriet asked with a note of panic, not missing how McGonagall's eye ticked at the name. "He's the person he cares most about on this earth. He's protecting himself. It's wrong what he's doing. When does it become wrong for other people, too?"
"I…don't know, Miss Potter. I simply don't know."
It wasn't much later that her healer finally found Harriet, the older wizard decidedly miffed he'd had to traverse the whole level before checking McGonagall's room. "You've someone waiting for you," he grumbled. "On the fifth floor, in the visitors' tearoom."
Harriet grimaced, already knowing it wouldn't be anybody she wanted to see. Sirius would have gone straight to her room, and she wagered Professor Dumbledore would've probably come to see Professor McGonagall first anyway. Hermione and Elara couldn't leave Hogwarts.
It was just as well, seeing as Mr. McGonagall chose then to visit his sister again, and Harriet quickly ducked out of the room. Healer Smethwyck gave her an exasperated look, and she stuck out her tongue before hurrying off to the lifts. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
Harriet sighed.
The last time she'd been called up there, it'd been to talk to that weird Unspeakable woman, Morwenna Lincroft. She'd come in regular clothes, and it'd been bizarre to see a slightly pudgy, graying witch sit and nibble biscuits over a cup of tea, knowing what she wrangled with every day beneath the streets of London. Lincroft wanted an accounting for what exactly happened in her Department. Harriet did a lot of hemming and hawing, refusing to admit she'd been the one to blast half the Hall of Prophecy to kingdom come, though she felt Lincroft already knew the truth.
Wonder if she came back, Harriet fretted as she stepped off the lift. Merlin, can I go to Azkaban for that? Stupid, ruddy Department. Ruddy Death Eaters.
She opened the door to the tearoom, sniffing at the pungent aroma of steeping leaves and someone's perfume. A couple sat on one side of the large space, deep in conversation, obviously not waiting for her. Harriet turned, searching, and then—.
She froze upon seeing Perenelle Flamel sitting in one of the visitor's chairs.
Harriet thought of the letters on her nightstand. She thought of her weakness, her tears, her inability to dare open a single one.
Coward. COWARD.
Perenelle wore Muggle-passing clothes, beige slacks and a light, cowl-necked sweater that sufficed in the early summer weather. She had her head tipped toward the windows, and the sunlight splashed in thick, hazy bands of gold across her pleasant face, shining in her hair. She spotted Harriet in the doorway, and she smiled as gently as she always did.
As if drawn by a pulled string, Harriet staggered forward, unable to help the look of terror on her face.
What if she blames me? All my fault, all my—. What if she blames me? What if—?
When she stood in front of her, Perenelle tutted under her breath and gave Harriet a knowing look. "You've been ignoring my letters," she said.
Harriet broke. She landed on her knees, startling the couple across the way, and started to sob. Perenelle didn't hesitate to gather her close, Harriet burying her tear-streaked face in her middle as Perenelle ran her fingers through Harriet's unwashed hair.
"Ah, ma petite chouette," she sighed. "Such a silly thing you are. It is all right."
"No, it's not," Harriet choked into her sweater. "It's not all right! It's—it's my fault! I'm sorry! It's my fault he's gone! He gave me—gave me that thing! And I took it! It's my fault!"
Perenelle shifted her hands to grip Harriet's shoulders and ease her back. "It is not." She stared into Harriet's sore, red-rimmed eyes and raised a brow. "Do you really think Nicolas would do such a thing without telling me? Without me agreeing?"
Harriet paused. Her lower lip trembled as she stared into Perenelle's sad eyes, searching for a lie, and finding none. She knew. She knew what he did—.
"Oui, I agreed," she whispered, hands rising to cup Harriet's face. Her thumbs brushed away her tears. "And maybe that means there is a place in the lake of fire for both myself and my Nicolas, but c'est la vie."
"Who was it?" Harriet asked, swallowing another sob.
"Oh, non, my girl. Think no more on it. That is our burden to carry, not yours."
But Harriet couldn't forget it. This burden wasn't like a school bag that could be slouched off her shoulders and left on the floor while she slept. She lived and breathed because Mr. Flamel gave his life—and the life of another—for her to survive. Who was he to judge her life more worthy than somebody else's? Who had he killed? A criminal? An innocent? Where did the line between what was okay and what wasn't get crossed? When had it become acceptable for anybody to die for her?
Perenelle bent to kiss the crown of Harriet's head. "Sois forte, Harriet," she whispered, and Harriet could feel an echo of her grief, the hollowness centuries of companionship could leave when it was snatched away. "Ma souffrance sera brève."
Harriet wished she knew French. She wished she'd taken the time to learn, to ask more questions, to spend more time with him. She wished she was stronger so Mr. Flamel hadn't needed to do something so awful to make up for her shortcomings.
She heard the crinkle of parchment, and she blinked her tired eyes to see Perenelle withdrawing a folded parchment from her pocket. Harriet's name had been written across the front in a familiar copperplate.
"He left this for you," Perenelle said with a slight sniffle, her smile watery when it came. "It is not part of le testament. That will come later. Here, take it."
And Harriet took it, even if it felt like her fingers were burning, like her chest was caving in. She cradled the last letter in her hand and her eyes blurred with tears.
"I'm so sorry," she said again, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I don't want you to go."
Perenelle rose, and her hand cupped Harriet's cheek. She tipped the younger witch's face up, and she traced a fond finger over her nose, above her brow. Harriet wondered if her mother had ever done the same, but she didn't know. She'd never know. "Ce n'est qu'un au revoir," she said, still smiling. "You needn't be sorry for a thing, dear Harriet. We will meet again. I believe that with everything in my heart."
She stayed for awhile longer, then it was time for her to go. The sunlight faded from the open windows, the night swiftly approaching. Harriet hugged her tight, and Perenelle embraced her with equal fervor. She looked back as she opened the door to the tearoom, and she grinned. Harriet waved until the door swung shut again, and she was gone.
x X x
A week later, Harriet received a letter in the post informing her Perenelle Flamel had passed away in her sleep.
x X x
À mon petit oiseau,
If you are reading this, then the time of my passing has come, though I cannot predict in what form my Maker had appeared. Should it happen peacefully, out of the blue, then so be it, and I will say no more. Should other events precipitate it, should your Druid's glass turn dark in your little hands, je te demande pardon. But I will not say I am sorry. One day, you will understand the decision I have made.
Your Severus once called me a "doddering old fence-sitter," and he was not wrong. He referred to you as something "worth more than the gold and the years," and again, he was not wrong. A remarkably cruel man, but then again, honesty is often cruelty to those who refuse to acknowledge it. I remember often your first letter. Since that day, you have not strayed far from my thoughts, the curious English girl who wanted nothing more than stories of magic and goodness in the world. You are the goodness in the world, Harriet. Worth more than the gold and the years indeed.
I have done a great many terrible things in my life, and I have had the luxury of living long enough to regret them. Time gives perspective to old men and gates wisdom from the young. Que c'est étrange, in the twilight of my life, to discover anew something worth living and dying for. The latter is not so difficult when you hold no fear of it, vous savez? But to live? To grasp so desperately for that which you cannot hold onto? That is a terrifying thing. It is humbling and horrible to know that, no matter your youth, no matter your wisdom, you will one day fail.
For a long, long time, Perenelle and I have lived without regrets, but in these last years, I found I have many. I regret not listening to ma mie when she said we needed to challenge Albus, that we needed to take you in as our own, Tom Riddle be damned. At the time, I thought it was better for you, safer, and I cannot fully disagree with my own assumption even now. But, old men are selfish. They cannot help but reflect on what could have been, and I regret such silly things. I regret that we did not inquire about the bébé who survived on that dreadful Halloween, that we did not take you in then and give you the life you deserve. It is a ridiculous thought, as we could not have known how precious you come to be to us, but it is a thought I have had nonetheless. I think often of the privilege it would have been to raise a child such as yourself in our home, and of the happiness I could have given my wife when I instead gave her many woes.
As you know, Perenelle and I have not had children. In the time we met and fell in love, the Plague had taken over Europe, and the Moyenne were not the only ones to feel its ravages. We decided then to not have d'enfants, and later, I believe it was the Stone that took all other choices from us. Which was, perhaps, a good thing. To outlive your child is the greatest nightmare a parent could have, and we have left behind enough friends to know it is not something we could survive.
You may think me selfish for being happier this way, to die before you as the coward I am, though I will always wish for one more day. One more day to see the witch you will become, one more day to see the Dark Lord dead, and you happy. One more day to see you fall in love, to have adventures, and change the world. For that is what you are destined to do, Harriet Potter, whether I am there to see it or not. Long after the Dark Lord is dust, après que son nom a été réclamé par la Mort, you will still be changing the world, and this will all be a distant memory.
If I must give you any advice, if you are willing to listen to a man such as me after all I have done, I will tell you to live. To protect those you love, and to live without regrets. You could live for a thousand years and still find life to be much too short for such things.
For now, I must bid you farewell, and I hope we meet again upon distant shores with stories to share once again.
Now and forever, all my love to you, little bird, fille de mon cœur,
Your father,
Nicolas Flamel
A/N: "Sois forte." Be strong.
"Ma souffrance sera brève." My suffering will be brief.
"Ce n'est qu'un au revoir." This is only a goodbye, suggesting it's not a final parting.
"Après que son nom a été réclamé par la Mort." After his name is taken by Death.
Harriet, reading the death announcement: "This is not very demure, not very mindful. Not at all."