Certain Dark Things || Book Three

ix. as the crow flies

At first, Harriet could do nothing but gawk at the ancient wizard she'd been exchanging letters with for over a year. Then, she finally sputtered, "You—you're Nicolas Flamel!"

He laughed—a bright, pleased sound. "I am! It is nice to finally meet face to face, Harriet." Mr. Flamel took her hand between both of his, giving it a friendly squeeze. "And your amie, Miss Black. Comment allez-vous?"

"Um," Elara replied, just as surprised—and articulate—as Harriet. "Er, well—nice to meet you, Mr. Flamel."

"Ah, where are my manners? Come in, come in!"

Mr. Flamel stepped back. Harriet hesitated, but a small nudge from Professor Dumbledore propelled her forward over the threshold and into the house proper. Dark wood paneling appointed the foyer's walls, the tiles underfoot weathered and chipped but nonetheless charming. Far too many cloaks hung from a convenient chifforobe, boots cluttered on a bench, a woven basket on a stool stained green from old garden trimmings. More of those curious baubles hung from the iron chandelier and gleamed in the morning sunlight.

"Perenelle and I just sat down for tea. Will you be joining us, Albus?"

The Headmaster shook his head. "No, no. I'd best be off. My schedule doesn't appear to be getting any lighter these days, I fear."

"You work too hard, mon ami. One should make the most of their holidays."

"I'll be sure to take that under advisement, Nicolas." Professor Dumbledore turned to the two witches. "Try not to get into too much mischief during your stay."

Mr. Flamel grinned. "Mischief is what makes life worth living, Albus."

"Well, in acceptable doses, I suppose." Professor Dumbledore winked, or at least Harriet thought he did. "I'll see you both when school resumes. Feel free to write if you need anything."

Elara stopped the Headmaster before he could leave with a softly uttered, "Professor? Will you tell me...?"

Harriet didn't know what she meant, though she did realize Dumbledore seemed in a hurry despite his best attempts at subtlety. "I will send updates as they come, Miss Black. I promise."

"Thank you, sir."

Professor Dumbledore nodded to her, and then to Mr. Flamel. "Give my best to Perenelle, will you?"

"Bien sûr. Feel free to Apparate if you wish, Albus."

The Headmaster did just that, giving a few final words in salutation before turning on the spot and disappearing into thin air. An awkward moment followed in which Harriet glanced at Mr. Flamel, unsure of what to say, a bit flummoxed by this rather sudden turn of events. Yesterday afternoon they'd been at Grimmauld, Harriet bored out of her skull, and this morning they were standing in the home of a wizard who'd created a Philosopher's Stone—a wizard utterly unaffected by the awkward pause who now ushered them along the hall toward the smell of cooking food.

"Come, come. Have you eaten? We expected you both later, but Perenelle and I have always been early-risers. She makes the best tea, my lovely wife, better than the English! Or so I believe."

Mr. Flamel kept up his easy, affable chatter as he walked through his sprawling house and Harriet peeked into the open rooms they passed. It was cluttered—way more cluttered than Hogwarts or Grimmauld, strange and mystical items left sitting out for casual use like a kettle or a stray book. The rug in the hall looked older than her great-grandparents—and shimmied when Harriet stepped on it. Mr. Flamel told the rug off in a language other than English or French before moving on.