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𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖊

Act IV - Skin In The Game

Chapter 13: Perenelle Flamel

"My congratulations, my boy," said Dumbledore, as he and Harry appeared with a pop of displaced air, with the latter somehow managing to remain standing on his feet and not tumble forward and smashing his face against the wrought iron gate that stood there exactly for that purpose. "It is not often one manages to maintain poise after an international portkey, much less an apparition."

"I had a strong incentive," said Harry, thinking back to Snape's training regimen. Having a mad bludger locked on you within a bounded field wasn't exactly the safest or the sanest way to teach someone to constantly apparate and disapparate, much less maintain poise and balance, but hey, it worked.

Also, it was a Wednesday. He could never quite get the hang of Wednesday. Hated it, actually. Aside from it having Double potions for half the time at Hogwarts, and with his current workload reaching its peak on the day, it just meant that the week was only half-over and the next half was probably gonna be just as bad.

"I shall pass on your gratitude to Severus," said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling madly. "Who knew that Severus would find such a promising student in his most-despised student."

"The affection was mutual, Professor," said Harry cheekily. Truth be told, he was almost missing his sessions with the Potions professor, something he was sure he couldn't even have imagined admitting before this term. Unfortunately, with everything else going on, his training with Severus Snape had taken a backseat. It probably helped that he had grown capable enough to take on adult wizards, if his performance inside the Prison of Possibilities was any clue.

A single lane, dirt path welcomed them past the gate, with trees lining it on both sides providing a very picturesque scene. The two of them felt a layer of magic kissing them, and instantly, the world around them shimmered, revealing lush grounds and a worn, cobblestone road that led to a roundabout nestled in front of an elegant home. In the centre of the roundabout was a fountain with water shooting out of a siren's mouth. Harry stopped walking and stood in place, feeling odd, but not in a confused manner, but more of apprehension, as if this place wasn't right.

Like it was in turmoil.

A warzone. A village suffering from famine. A city succumbing to a fatal —

"This way, Harry."

He blinked, and the sensation vanished. Like it was never there.

The house seemed to be a collection of various pieces added on to each other over time. The dominant feature of the manor was a stone tower that stood at least five levels above the ground. The battlements atop the tower had a worn but well-kept look about them. Closer to the ground and on the left side of the structure was a slightly aged, two-storey addition composed of stone and timber. While the tower looked to be at least nine hundred years old, the addition couldn't be more than four. On the right side of the tower, a much newer addition that was a century old at best, but it matched the other pieces very well, giving the entire thing an overall updated look.

"Harry, a word to the wise before we go in," said Dumbledore. "There is a reason why Abstract magic is not taught at Hogwarts. They did not go out of practice due to the unavailability of tomes of knowledge, or the lack of practitioners, but because these magics can consume the wielder entirely. I'm sure you know this, Dark Magic, the really potent kind, has its roots in the Abstract. The psychic arts may be an important tool to those who are prudent enough to stay within the boundaries, but even they can lead to mental instability if you exploit them carelessly. The Abstract devours the sanity of an individual who is weak enough to fall into its temptations of unfathomable power."

"All modesty aside," Dumbledore continued, "I have seen, experienced and accomplished much of what is there in this world, but even I have strictly maintained my position on this side of the fence. Granted, my own fears about mishandling power have largely been the source behind my iron-clad restraint, but not everyone has that advantage. The Abstract entices the individual through promises of unimaginable power, the power to play God, and more than a few people have lost their lives by delving too deep into its secrets."

"Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely," said Harry.

"Precisely," said the Headmaster. "I wish to remind you of this, because unlike myself, your very origin and life resonate with the Abstract too much for my liking. And while your mind might be protected from magical influence thanks to your Peverell heritage, it does leave you vulnerable to Death itself. That… demonic entity you had morphed into, back in the Chamber — it is capable of wreaking destruction and havoc unlike anything I have ever seen, Harry. I say this, because Nicholas, unlike me, is heavily motivated to harness the Abstract. It's all he has done all his life, and it is what gained him his prized creation."

"The Stone," said Harry. "But is that a bad thing? From what I've heard, the Flamels supply a fixed amount of the Elixir of Life to a variety of medical institutions across the world."

"Yes, and not out of humanitarian reasons," said Dumbledore. "He never intended his greatest achievement to become a panacea for all that ails this world. Living that long has left him rather… disinterested in the petty squabbles of mankind."

"Really, you're saying that?" asked Harry. "He's your mentor, and… you worked with him on dragon blood."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Someone knows their chocolate frog cards. No Harry, History wrongly characterises my relationship with Nicholas," said Dumbledore. "Yes, he was my mentor, and we worked for many years together, and discovered twelve uses of dragon blood. Yes, one might argue that he fought in the war against Grindelwald, but that was only after Grindelwald's Acolytes went after one of Nicholas's… projects."

"Projects…."

"Perhaps you can ask him about it," said Dumbledore. "I have often found that he is quite candid with people he considers worth his attention."

"Something tells me it's a small number," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore smiled. "You must understand that immortality tends to change people. Even for wizards, the average lifespan is about a century at best. For Nicholas, it's a fleetingly small amount of time. I believe knowing people and seeing them die again and again has left him jaded towards life. He would look at you and I like… the way we would look at a dog or a cat. Interesting, perhaps even worth affection, but eventually, it would perish and we'd have to look for a new one."

The mental image left Harry with a bad taste in his mouth. If Albus Dumbledore wanted to spoil his image of Nicholas Flamel, he was certainly succeeding to a degree. Still, Nicholas was a warden of the Sunken Vault, and had spent a considerable number of decades learning and experimenting with a realm of magic hitherto unknown and uncharted by most. A man that truly believed that Good and Evil were two sides of the same coin, and what was Good now, could become Evil in later times, and vice versa.

Or at least, that was the impression he had gotten of him from his limited exposure.

"But enough of my less than stellar relationship with Nicholas," said Dumbledore. "The man is a famed Master of the Alchemist's Guild, and an international presence. His association served me well, and I believe the same shall happen with you, should you manage to command his attention for an extended period of —"

Harry flinched, and drew away from the conversation, as the scent of something intense flared against his senses. Like most magical existences, this too had its unique sensation added to it. He looked to his right, and that was where he found IT.

IT was a female, standing at the edge of a doorframe, staring at him from afar. Even her stare was unusual, like a knife, piercing the object of her attention. She straightened, and with a few magic-aided steps, quickly crossed the distance and approached them. Now up close, he noticed that she was tall, taller than him or even Ron, had dark brown hair that hung free behind her shoulders, jet black eyes, and could be pegged for a thirty-five-year old. Her heavy clothing was suited for the wintry weather, but still hugged her mature body in a way that would definitely draw the attention of any male that paid attention.

With an amused smile, she regarded Dumbledore, before giving Harry a cautious look.

"Perenelle," acknowledged Dumbledore. "It's been… what… seven years now?"

"Eight," said the woman. Turning to Harry, she said. "Most people would find that stare impolite, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't refute, for he was indeed staring. Staring at that thing before him that called herself Perenelle Flamel. He didn't know what it was, or if it was indeed a she, or a woman in the first place. HIs eyes turned a putrid yellow but even that left him irritated that she was still, somehow, human.

Or at least, a fake human.

He had gotten more and more in tune to the various attributes his animagus form gave him. Most specifically, his Death-vision, that allowed him to see Magic itself in its rawness. It helped him to identify them as they truly were, revealing their mysteries faster than Ron finishing his breakfast. But this entity in front of him was different, more complex than any other he had come across. There was definitely something feminine, yet somehow tampered or played with in some way he couldn't really fathom. There was a bitter taint, something that was pungent, unnerving, something that evoked a feeling in the small of his guts.

"My, my," said Perenelle Flamel, grinning. "I must admit you have some quality eyes there, Mr. Potter. Insight so intrusive that it can be considered a crime and the highest of insults to use them upon others… though I wonder if you have truly deciphered… No, I can see the strain they put upon you. Clearly, to be an insider and an outsider at the same time could be such a chore."

Harry didn't blink as he maintained eye contact with the woman for a few more seconds, before shifting his vision back to normal. All he could say for sure was that she was ancient, and the closest he could peg her for, was that she was an existence similar to the Gringotts Overlord, a creature so steeped in antiquity and power that it would be a mistake to even trying to classify it as anything but itself.

The Gringotts Overlord had felt like a thundercloud. Perenelle Flamel felt like… a poisoned fruit.

Yeah, he didn't know what to think about it either.

Morty the Snitch zoomed in his pocket. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should've just left it in the Sunken Vault.

She held her arm up daintily, and offered her knuckles to Harry to kiss, who followed protocol. "A pleasure to meet you, Lord Potter," said Perenelle. "My husband has been most excited about this meeting. A novelty, as Brian here will know for sure."

Harry didn't see Dumbledore's reaction. He was too busy meeting her intense gaze.

"Then again, you yourself are a curious phenomenon," said Perenelle. "Death flows through your veins, and yet, here you are. A wizard. Rational. Functional. Alive."

Wonderful, thought Harry. He had stepped on a landmine. And judging from her stare, it would be impossible to avoid this one.

He glanced at Dumbledore, who very intently did not look at him. No doubt the man was trying to warn him about this. Harry didn't know what this was, but he assumed it had something to do with his familiarity with Abstract magic and his status as the Peverell Vessel.

"I have little idea why Mr. Flamel asked for this meeting, Madame Flamel," he said, bringing forth Andi's lessons on diplomacy. "I'm as surprised by this as you are."

It helped that Perenelle Flamel spoke perfect English and saw little need to demonstrate her being French. Silver lining and all that.

"Oh, I assure you, I'm not the least surprised, Mr. Potter," said the woman. "But oh, where are my manners? Please, be welcome in our little dwelling. It has been our haven for over five hundred years."

As she spoke those words, Harry felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere around them. Not a single ward, but an entire spectrum of enchantments twisted and allowed him with a subtlety he couldn't even sense properly, much less appreciate. He reminded himself of that privacy ward that Nicholas Flamel had demonstrated earlier, a ward that he had claimed was his wife's personal invention. If Perenelle Flamel was a wardmaster and had set the wards to this place, he wondered why Nicholas Flamel had even bothered with placing the stone in Dumbledore's custody in the first place.

Unless…. He hadn't?

They walked into the main mansion, and Perenelle called an elf to serve them some snacks and drinks. Despite the two of them not wanting to impose, the woman demanded that the niceties must be observed. That was how Harry found himself sitting down to a meal even though he knew that she was some kind of twisted entity that alone would've been enough to transform him into the demon and attack her. Instead…

"Ah! This tastes delicious!" Harry declared. The elves had gone all out, preparing a British meal keeping his favourites in mind. If Perenelle was trying to show how much information she had access to, she was succeeding.

"Thank you," said Perenelle. "The elves here work very hard to keep our guests fed with the best. Unfortunately, we don't have many of them."

And finally she came round to the main issue.

"Unfortunately, my husband got carried away with an untimely project," said Perenelle. "I apologise for the tardiness but he should be here soon. Until then, I can only hope to provide suitable company for you, Lord Potter."

"Harry, please."

"Oh, then you must call me Perenelle."

Harry inwardly wondered if she'd really mind if he called her Poison. Just what was it about this creature that made him react like that? The only kind of existences, sentient or otherwise, that garnered this kind of reaction were those that had a serious brush-up with Abstract magic, defouling them to a degree that he, as Death's Vessel, wanted to exterminate them on sheer principle.

Somehow, he doubted that his position as Lord Potter would save him if he tried to do the same to Perenelle Flamel.

Just what sort of creature was she, and why was Nicholas Flamel shacking up with her over half a millennia?

"I'd hate to impose on your time, Lady Flamel," said Harry curtly. "Professor Dumbledore and I—"

"I'm afraid it's my husband's desire that this meeting stays exclusive," said Perenelle without the slightest hitch to her tone. She matched gazes with Dumbledore. "Surely that had been intimated to you, Brian?"

Dumbledore blinked. "It… has. But I was hoping Nicholas wouldn't mind —"

"He will," said Perenelle, her lips thinned. "You know how easily aggravated my husband can become over little issues, Brian. Besides, I have heard a lot about Mr. Potter, I mean, Harry's developments. Hybridising a long-lost Family Magic to become a craftsman of an entirely new thaumaturgic discipline… To use the very force of Death as an attribute to alter the nature of objects… it's an adequately unique new field of study you have unearthed."

Harry shifted slightly. He was still a little uncomfortable accepting praise from others. "I… I am not sure how much use I will be to a wardmaster or an alchemist."

A brief flicker of the woman's mouth was all that anyone would have seen that indicated that she was somewhat amused by his comment.

"I see Brian has left you in the dark about this. Perhaps your Headmaster might wish to do the honours?"

Harry looked at Dumbledore.

"I told you, Harry. Once you cross the borders of standardised magic, the usual rules stop being applicable. You will find that while magical power and intent are usually enough to alter any substance temporarily into another, the same does not hold true as one progresses to Transmutation. Unlike Transfiguration, you must have a very clear idea about every aspect and attribute of an object if you truly want to transmute it from something to something else."

"Like lead to gold?" Harry asked.

"Why do people always go for that example?" asked Perenelle wistfully. "But essentially, yes. You see, Harry, most people think of Alchemy as an archaic combination of potion-making and material transmutation. What the fools forget is that transmutation is Change. Irreversible, unbendable, a transformation that alters the very existence and history of an object. And when you consider changing concepts themselves, things can turn really interesting."

Harry had a tiny idea of what she was talking about. He had done some background research on Alchemy from the Lair after his meeting with Nicholas Flamel. Oddly enough, Ananta-Shesha had been reticent to talk about the former Warden.

"Transmuting the very nature of objects, right down to their very concepts…." He murmured, as things began to fall into place. "Like… the concept of death?"

It was an interesting possibility. Death wasn't something that was limited to the living alone. Death was entropy. In the end, the sun and stars would burn out and the universe would return to eternal darkness. Every single substance, no matter how hard or brittle, could be disintegrated. The forces of attraction, of gravity, everything that gave the Universe shape could be undone. And if one began applying this alteration to souls….

He became painfully aware of the snitch in his trousers' pocket. And with that, came another memory, one that he had thought upon in the past but never shared with anyone.

Not even with Daphne.

"The world respects me," Nicholas had told him. "Calls me the Immortal Alchemist for being the Inventor of the Philosopher's Stone. My Elixir of Life has healed thousands of witches and wizards in this world, and is regarded as one of the most potent healing draughts to ever exist. But if the world ever came to know how the Stone was made, they'd lock me up in Erkstag and throw away the key."

He was beginning to realise that there was much more behind that casual statement.

She offered him her arm. "Shall we move to the library? I am very interested in this Death-powered ward your Workshop has been working on."

"That's not the workshop, it's…." he trailed off, narrowing his eyes. "Wait, how do you know of Fleur's private project?"

"Apolline's daughter?" asked Perenelle. "Her mother told me, of course. Isn't she supposed to meet you at our premises later today?"

Harry held back a curse. He really should've seen this coming. Apolline meeting him, testing him. She takes Fleur away, and requests a meet soon after, which fits right in with Nicholas Flamel's request. A man that according to Albus Dumbledore, was heavily biassed towards the Abstract to the point of obsession.

Perenelle Flamel knew Apolline Delacour closely enough to get an idea about Fleur's private project.

Perenelle Flamel was an inhuman, and ancient to boot. And she, or Nicholas, or both, were planning to use Death as a fabric to alter objects and existences on a conceptual level.

Apolline Delacour was also interested in him, or rather, his ability to undo the Veela Allure.

Harry, like a fool, had seen the unfolding plots as two independent, separate events, and tried to play them together, preferably one against another.

He had underestimated the situation. Daphne's words came to mind. About an organisation that had existed for centuries, its fingers steeped in historical societies, fringe occult groups, the hidden Guilds, and even the ICW. A group that, according to Joshua's information, was rather interested in the Peverell Vessel.

An organisation known as the Cabal.

His hands tightened to the point that he almost drew blood before he relaxed again.

"That look says that you've come to a very dangerous conclusion," said Perenelle, matching his frown with her own. "For your sake, you best be sure that you don't do something foolish with it."

Harry could sense a slight shift in Dumbledore's magical aura. For all his cordiality, even the Headmaster was not truly comfortable around the woman.

"Don't worry," said Harry. "I'm the reacting type. The only ones in danger are the ones that don't get the hint and back off."

"Fantastic," she said, this time with a smile. "I believe we shall get on well. Shall we proceed, Mr. Potter? Best not to keep my husband waiting."

Yeah, he knew what this was. He was going to be tested. If he underperformed, his value would potentially sink to 'an interesting tool', if it wasn't already. If he overperformed, he would be deemed a liability. Or worse, a 'potential threat'.

At this point, he was beginning to wonder if his luck worked for or against him.

Still, Perenelle Flamel was no Voldemort. Neither was Apolline Delacour, another Lucius Malfoy. That didn't mean that they weren't dangerous enough. From what little Fleur had told of her mother, she was all cloak and shadows and cat's paws behind closed doors. People like Apolline Delacour could fight, and would perhaps even do so savagely, but if he lured them into a position where they had to fight, then it already lost control in the eyes of the rest of the crowd.

They'd become prey.

And the world… This Cabal… had a lot of predators waiting for prey.

There was no doubt the Cabal wanted something from him. And it had to do with his ability to channel Death. Harry idly mused if the Cabal were some kind of fanatics that believed in the Deathly Hallows, and were wanting to use this power to make themselves utterly immune to death. Whatever it was, they were playing the long game, and it was difficult to know who or what he was against.

It was just like Fleur had told him. People were divided into three categories. The first were those that never realise they're being manipulated. They were just tools. The second were people that when manipulated could realise what was happening and disrupt the manipulator's goals. Those were enemies. And the third were people that realised they were being manipulated, and turned it around to gain the upper hand on whatever was manipulating them. Those were allies.

Question was, what was he going to be right now? Harry didn't know, but he was sure to find out before this little visit to France was over.

He glanced at Perenelle Flamel who was standing at the doorway, waiting for him to join her.

When in Rome… he thought, and glanced at Albus Dumbledore, who nodded back. Making up his mind, he walked into this new den of snakes, ready for whatever nastiness they were about to spring on him.

Yes, it definitely was a Wednesday.

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