cccii. mind and will
The trip back across the channel was quieter than the morning's journey.
The silence settled thickly in the nearly empty carriage, Professor Dumbledore's pensive gaze turned to the window and the darkness of the empty, night-clad water. Harriet didn't bother pretending to study or preoccupy her mind. She stared at nothing in particular, grateful the Headmaster didn't feel the need to entertain her with chatter.
The day hadn't been particularly taxing, but Harriet felt exhausted. Thinking about the Flamels made her sad, her mood heavy and almost sticky with grief, but it was thinking of everything that was to follow that truly wore her out. She didn't get to go home and ameliorate her sadness among family and friends, taking the time to let the feeling heal over like a wound forming a scab. No, rather, she had to prepare for her exams, the results of which could reap their own brand of misery if she didn't do well. Then, she'd be delivered straight into Slytherin's hands, and she could feel herself aging just thinking about the summer ahead.
Then, she had to worry about Voldemort. She had to think constantly about the wizard who wanted to slaughter her and everyone she loved.
Harriet took a long, stilling breath, then let it out.
"Professor?" she said.
"Yes, Harriet?" Dumbledore answered as if he'd been waiting for her to speak.
"What'll happen if I don't do well on my O. ?"
Whatever he'd been expecting her to say, it hadn't been that, and it took a moment for the Headmaster to answer. "I have full confidence you'll perform well on your exams."
"But what if I don't?" she pressed. "Please, Professor. I need to know."
He exhaled, a slow, careful thing, his eyes resting on Harriet. "If you did truly poorly, though you will not, the school would require you to repeat your fifth year and offer another attempt at the exams. Should you fail again after a second attempt, you would face expulsion." He raised a brow. "I have only seen that happen to a few remarkably stubborn individuals, one of whom regretted her choices later in life and retook the exams privately for a third time—for a fee, of course."
Harriet waited, her gaze still resting on the Headmaster. He knew what she'd truly been asking, and she didn't let him prevaricate out of the question.
He sighed again. "Professor Slytherin would be immensely unhappy should your performance be judged lacking, but it wouldn't have any bearing upon your apprenticeship. The contract between master and apprentice exists outside of Hogwarts. The C-triple-M may form an inquiry and if the inquiry discovered the apprenticeship was the cause of your failing marks, it could potentially be dissolved or otherwise amended." He studied Harriet over the top of his spectacles. "You can only do your best, Harriet, and weather what will come. It is all any of us can do."
His answer did little to satisfy either of them, and all Harriet could think about was what new torture Slytherin would devise if she didn't meet his expectations. Some nebulous, irrational part of her brain feared failing entirely—but even the more logical bits of herself that knew it'd be unlikely for her to fail still worried about achieving less than a solid streak of O's.
He'd probably punish me anyway, she thought, grim. He would say I was trying too hard on shite that doesn't matter. Harriet shut her eyes. I can't win. I can never win.
Platform Seven and One-Quarter was quiet when she and Professor Dumbledore arrived and disembarked from the emerald train. Knowing they wouldn't be going back to Grimmauld, Harriet didn't head toward King's Cross and instead waited for what Dumbledore would do.
He extended his hand without a word, and Harriet took it. She braced herself for the uncomfortable squeeze of Apparition, scrunching her eyes shut, and they disappeared with a snap!
When her feet touched solid ground again, and her eyes opened, she expected to see the outskirts of Hogwarts or the northern valley in which the castle rested. Instead, she glimpsed the familiar trees of Devonshire and heard the distant sea roll against the rocks.
Her stomach rolled.
"Why are we here?" she demanded, though her voice came out tired, weak.
"I believe it's important for you to see your inheritance," Dumbledore told her, releasing Harriet to instead place his hand upon her shoulder, urging her to walk beside him. "And, you should speak with Bigsby. He has been with the Flamels for a very long time, and could use a visit from a friendly face."
Harriet had completely forgotten about Bigsby, and felt like an utter knobhead when Professor Dumbledore reminded her of the poor house-elf. "Oh," she said, her shoulders slumping. How could she have already forgotten about Bigsby? The Flamels trusted her to take care of him, and it'd barely registered in her mind.
Fuck, I'm terrible.
She and Professor Dumbledore continued up the path, the moon and stars bright enough to illuminate the way despite the summer storm looming off the coast. Aurum Hearth waited ahead, almost entirely cast in darkness aside from a lone candle burning in the kitchen window. Even at a distance, it exuded a sense of emptiness, the gardens unmoving, no faeries or gnomes scuttling about the thick, well-loved foliage.
Harriet hesitated outside the wards, the dirt crunching under her trainers. She stared at the air as if it might bite her—and truly, she wouldn't blame it if it did. What if the wards recognized her as the one responsible for their caster's death? What if they knew she was unworthy and pushed her away?
Professor Dumbledore didn't rush Harriet, choosing to wait until she started to feel silly with herself, warmth dusting her cheeks. She finally pressed forward through the gate, and magic briefly fluttered against her skin like hovering bird wings—then disappeared. Harriet let out a shuddering breath.
They entered the house without difficulty, and Harriet saw that a noticeable amount of the furniture and clutter had been removed, more than likely taken by the barristers and given away as part of the estate. The bones of the house remained, the familiar markers of tables and sideboards and Perenelle's favorite scenic landscape. She'd loved a Muggle piece hung in the foyer of a distant cow grazing in a sweeping green field. Mr. Flamel swore up and down it was magical and he'd seen the cow move, but Perenelle had only rolled her eyes.
Harriet paused past the threshold to gaze at the landscape and its lone bovine. She almost smiled.
They found Bigsby in the kitchens, and any happiness Harriet found in gentle reminders of the Flamels fled as soon as she saw his red, watery eyes and sagging posture.
He greeted them with a warble of French, looking at Harriet.
"I don't—I'm going to have to learn French, aren't I?" she muttered to herself, scratching her cheek. At that moment, Harriet promised she'd do so, if only because she'd regretted not learning before. "Erm, Professor can you—?"
Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Go ahead."
Harriet faced Bigsby, hesitating before she knelt. "I'm Harr—well, you know that already. Sorry, I'm out of sorts. Err, Mr. Flamel left—." She nearly said left you to me, but she didn't like how that sounded. Owning house-elves made her distinctly uncomfortable, and now she had two. "Well, I guess it's just us now—and Winky, my other house-elf. You'll be part of my family, if that's what you want."
She paused, Professor Dumbledore quietly translating, probably stringing together sentences with far more aplomb than she did. Harriet scratched at the back of her neck, right over the mark laid there by Slytherin.
"I don't want to own anybody, or have servants or—. But I'm not going to kick you out of your home. You're more than welcome to stay here, in your house. Do with it what you think is best. I don't—I stay with my godfather and god-sister for part of the summer, and for the other part I…I'm not anywhere where you can come with me. If you need anything, though, or just want to have a visit, you only have to pop by. You can go wherever you want, Bigsby."
Bigsby's mouth pulled into a frown as his gaze drifted between Harriet and Professor Dumbledore. She thought she heard the wizard mention Poudlard, and realized he'd probably added that she spent much of the year at the castle.
When the Headmaster finished, Bigsby sniffled, using a folded handkerchief to dab beneath his bulbous nose. With his free hand, he reached out to grasp two of Harriet's fingers, giving them a firm squeeze, speaking in thick French.
"He says he will proudly continue the maintenance of Aurum Hearth and the care of you in the stead of Master Nicolas." Dumbledore paused, listening. "Ah. Apparently, Nicolas left something for you in the study."
Harriet didn't want to go into the study. She would have very much preferred leaving the room undisturbed, perhaps indefinitely, but she forced herself to smile and thank Bigsby, rising to her feet.
She left Dumbledore and the house-elf to speak in the kitchens, heading deeper into the house. She found the study with ease, the door creaking in on old, stubborn hinges, revealing the unlit room beyond. She lit the candles with a stiff flick of her wand.
It was silent and still in a way Harriet had never seen it before, the tables and desks empty and uncluttered, absent of the man who once filled the space with so much life. None of his forgotten cups of tea dotted the shelves, no lingering smell of pipe smoke, no experiments or bits of enchanted gems or stacked research material.
Harriet's chest ached, hollow and brittle like a nest with no birds left to tend it. Like a stiff wind would come along at any moment and break it apart into so many pieces.
Her footsteps echoed when she crept through the room to the potions lab, standing at the doorway.
She knew at once what Bigsby had meant for her to find, what Mr. Flamel had left behind. Three years ago, she'd sat at the table in Mr. Flamel's sunlight lab, the room filled with the gentle sighs of songbirds and bubbling concoctions, and he'd flitted about while Harriet plodded her way through a book of runes.
There, in front of the seat she once occupied, rested the small skull of a raven, the weathered runes of raidho, jera, and laguz carved over the crest.
Muriel, Harriet thought, reaching out to run the edge of her thumb over the beak. The skull had more wear to it than Hugh's, but then again, there was no telling how long Mr. Flamel had kept it. Muriel could have been flying through the skies for centuries.
Wordless, Harriet retrieved the necklace from beneath her collar, twisting open the leather knot holding it closed. She picked up Muriel and, with practiced motions, threaded the leather string through the bird's old bones. It slid down to rest by Hugh and the dull, lusterless sheen of the Demon's Eye.
Dumbledore waited for her when Harriet exited the lab, the necklace tucked away beneath her shirt once more.
"I have something for you," the older wizard said, and he huffed when Harriet shot him a suspicious look. "Oh, my dear. It's nothing like what Nicolas gifted you before, I promise. I have no interest in crafting a Demon's Eye."
He extended his hand toward Harriet, his fingers curled in upon something small. They only unfurled when she stepped forward, and she frowned at the small black gem cradled in his palm.
"What is it?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
"It was part of Marvolo Gaunt's ring until you broke it free in the Ministry," he said, not really answering Harriet's question. "It's yours, and should be in your keeping. I want you to have it."
Harriet glanced into Professor Dumbledore's eyes, not quite sure of what to make of his expression. It felt heavy and intent, but earnest, and when she plucked the odd rock from him, he quickly dropped his hand away.
She held the stone between her thumb and index finger, frowning. How strange.
Dumbledore's shoulders dropped half an inch, and his beard twitched. "Keep it as a reminder of your own strength, my dear Harriet. Your victories may seem small at times, and your losses many, but every day you continue to live and to fight for the ones you love is a triumph against Lord Voldemort. That grief you feel is evidence of your goodness, and it is something he will never understand."
Harriet studied the stone for another moment, turning the smooth facets toward the light, finding nothing remarkable. She tucked it away in her pocket, and noticed how Dumbledore's eyes followed the motion.
I wonder what that's about.
"Are you ready to depart?"
"Yes, sir."
A/N: She is risennnn. She is riseeeeen.
That's an Easter joke. Get it, because it's Easter? Get it?
If you're curious to know, I named Hugh and Muriel after Huginn and Muninn, the ravens of Odin.
You can find me on BSKY ( rentachi) for updates on projects I'm working on or any questions you have.