Pride

“Remember,” Ron’s mum said. “It’s The Pavilion.”

“I know,” Ron said a little impatiently, taking some floo powder from the flowerpot his mum held. He tossed it into the fire and shouted, “The Pavilion!”

He spun out of the floo and into his dad’s arms. Ron turned just as Harry stumbled out, catching him before he fell. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, grinning up at Ron. 

Ron released him, letting Harry brush himself off. His brothers came next, then Ginny and his mum. 

Instead of a fireplace, the Flamels had a small bonfire that reminded Ron of the witch burning essay he had to write for History of Magic over the summer. There was even a stake sticking out of it. The flames were barely visible, a cool shade of lilac that sparked silently. Frowning at the odd choice, he found himself being pulled away as someone said, “Weasley Party, 10:04 AM. If you and your children could please step this way, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”

The fire had been built on the outskirts of a shady meadow of wildflowers, bowing under a gentle summer breeze which carried a sweet scent. It made Ron feel a peculiar emotion he couldn’t quite name, something yearning and nostalgic. 

Fat bees settled on tall flowers with delicate petals. Small butterflies with soft orange wings lifted into the air. Jewel-bright hummingbirds flashed in the sunlight. Ron had never seen a real hummingbird before, and it was almost more enchanting than the fairies flying across the field on gossamer wings. It was cool under the trees, and he could hear a stream running over rocks somewhere close by. If he could just look for it...

“Famille Broussard arrive à dix heures cinq.”

Ron was swept along with the tide of his family as they were ushered away from the bonfire and under the trees, tearing his eyes away from the meadow. They walked along a powdery dirt path. Ron had the urge to take off his shoes to see how it felt, but ignored it. Percy would walk right through him if he stopped. The path was lined by tall ferns with curling new shoots. Butterflies with dark, spotted wings landed on them, then flew off again. A twig snapped in the woods, and Ron looked up to see a doe and her speckled fawn watching them pass with dark liquid eyes. He tugged Harry’s arm to show him. 

“I’ve never seen a real deer before,” Harry whispered, smiling.

The doe twitched her ears, and walked behind a tree with her fawn. Ron didn’t see them again. 

“It’s so pretty here,” Ginny said, also speaking in a whisper.

The woods themselves were quiet, suffused with dim light filtering through the leaves. Ron had a sense of being surrounded by life, a presence in the woods. The silent watchers, the doe and fawn, a sneaking fox, birds melodically chirping to each other, the scrape of a red squirrel spiraling up a tree, startling a finch that had been pecking at small red berries. There was an odd sort of pressure, a hush that encompassed them. 

Time passed unnoticed, but gradually the light grew, the canopy thinned, the ferns shrank back, the trees stood further apart, and they reached the edge of the woods. 

They all came to an abrupt stop. 

“I had a different image in mind when I heard pavilion,” his dad said faintly. 

Before them, past a short jade-green lawn, was a palace. 

Ron couldn’t quite define it, but it was the best word for it. It was an immense structure of cream marble. At a distance he couldn’t make out the details, but from the way it glimmered under the sunlight he suspected it was veined with gold. Immediately in front of them stood a tall rotunda. Covered colonnades draped with vines in bloom branched out from it, to a series of small islands with smaller buildings. The entire structure was surrounded by a deep blue lagoon. Swans swam across it, between broad pads of rosy water lilies and smaller white flowers that drifted in their wake.

A larger building rose behind it all, but it was too overwhelming to take everything in at once. There were people everywhere. Ron recognized none of them; he imagined the Flamels must have known thousands of people. Tens of thousands, all over the world. He didn’t know how many they would have invited to such an event, as many as they wanted certainly. And even with so many people roaming the grounds, it didn’t feel crowded. There were benches to sit on, small boats to paddle across the lake, pergolas thick with hanging, fragrant flowers…

“Let’s check in, everyone,” his mum said, shaking him from his thoughts. An arched bridge led from the lawn to the rotunda, and they walked across it. Harry looked over the rail into the water and gasped. 

“It’s a horse,” Harry said, leaning so far over his glasses started to slip off. He pushed them back up. “And a fish? A horse mermaid?”

“A hippocampus,” Percy said, pushing up his own glasses. 

“It’s got claws instead of hooves!” Harry said as the hippocampus rose out of the water. The horse half had silvery fur that shifted colors with the light. The fish part was shimmery under the blue water. 

The hippocampus spat a stream of water into Harry’s face. Laughing, he leaned back and wrung his robes out, and Ron’s mum finished drying him off with a wave of her wand.

“Come along, we’re almost there,” she said, picking up the pace. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore before the luncheon. The letter said this was a…an adventure experience.”

“Choose your own adventure,” Ron said, smiling at the idea. Harry had explained to him that there were muggle books where one chose which page to read next. Depending on what was chosen, the story ended differently. He didn’t quite know how that would work at a party, but the sheer size of it made him giddy at the thought.

Under the rotunda, waitstaff handed them chilled glasses of water pearled with condensation. Ron drank his greedily, surprised at the herbal effervescence. He slowed down, smiling over the rim at Harry.

“Welcome,” a lightly accented voice called out. Ron looked up to see a tall, Rubenesque woman with waves of deep chestnut hair, wearing a voluminous, belted dress in dark rose pinned at the shoulders. She appeared to be the same age as his parents. Next to her, wearing a crisp muggle suit in viridian, was a dark haired man smiling kindly at them.

“You must be the Weasleys,” the woman said, stepping forward to shake hands with his parents. She smiled prettily, her bright blue eyes looking over the collection of redheads until she found Harry.

“And you must be Harry Potter,” she said warmly, taking Harry’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you Mrs…Dr. Flamel?”

“Perenelle is fine, darling,” she said. Ron didn’t think he could call someone nearly seven centuries old by her first name.

“And you’re Ronald Weasley?” Perenelle asked, turning to him. Ron shook her hand, a little starstruck. The Flamels were legends. They had seen so much, lived through so much, done so much.

“This is my husband, Nicolas,” she said, introducing the man as he stepped forward.

“Nico,” he said, his accent slightly more pronounced. He shook both of their hands, and turned to greet the rest of the family.

Ron saw Harry reaching into his robes, but he jerked his hand away. It would be a terrible idea to give the Stone back in front of so many people.

“We have quite a lot going on at the Pavilion this year,” Nico said, pulling out a pocket watch. “Elevenses starts in about half an hour, but that isn’t a sit down meal. We’ll have servers circling the grounds.”

Perenelle handed them glossy leaflets that probably each cost more than all of Ron’s school books put together. It hadn’t been lost on him that, while his family had all worn their best clothes, they stood out as…shabby next to most of the other guests. 

Many of the guests looked like they were going to an actual wedding, dressing in whatever clothes were traditional in their own cultures. Rich silks, rainbow batiks with abstract patterns, pastel chiffon skirts and separate tops that revealed intricate designs in henna. A pair of young women walked past with their arms linked, balanced on geta, wearing light yukata with designs of waves and koi fish that splashed and swam across them. Elaborate gilt headdress, delicate tinkling bangles, necklaces heavy with lampwork beads, all magicked, all wondrous, and so much more Ron didn’t know where to look. So he looked at Harry, who was just as enchanted as he was.

“There are a few hours before lunch for you to explore the grounds,” Perenelle said. Percy had opened his pamphlet immediately as if he were being tested on it. “We suggest you don’t travel alone, especially near the woods. There have been rumors of fair folk, though normally they dwell much deeper.”

If anyone was skeptical of this, no one spoke up. Ron reckoned if Perenelle Flamel thought something was real, even a myth like fair folk, then he was inclined to believe it. He could tell Harry had taken it at face value. He had no preconceptions of what magical things were real or fantasy. Anything was possible.

“We’ll make some time to speak with you boys later,” Perenelle said, startling him. He was surprised to find her so close.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “It’s kind of important.”

She smiled at him. “I gathered that. I’m curious if you’ve brought the gift you mentioned last year. Your hand keeps going to your robes. We have a table for guests to leave gifts…”

Harry jerked his hand away again, shaking his head and glancing around.

“It’s not really a gift,” Ron said, moving closer to Harry. He noticed his family had dispersed, Ginny dragging their mum to where boats waited on a small dock, the twins running through one of the colonnades, Percy and their dad taking an easy stroll.

“It’s more something we’d like to return,” Harry said quietly.

The Flamels glanced at each other.

“I think I understand,” Nicolas said slowly. “Let me see…” He flipped through a stack of papers attached to a clipboard, frowning at it. “This gets more absurd every year. Ah! We have a reprieve two hours after luncheon, during afternoon tea. We can meet here and explore the lagoon. That will keep us away from prying eyes! And we can answer some of the questions you have.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

Nicolas sighed. “Nico, please. When you’re my age you get tired of all the titles and stuffiness.”

“Cheers, Nico,” Ron said boldly, making Harry choke on a laugh.

“Later, mates,” Harry said, giggling through it. He grabbed Ron and legged it, choosing a path at random. Perenelle and Nicolas chuckled behind them.

“They’re really nice,” Harry said, having amazingly not died of embarrassment.

“They’re intimidating,” Ron said. “They don’t even look that old.”

“Can’t believe Dumbledore said they were going to die,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder. “He’s full of it.”

“Where are we going anyway?” Ron asked.

“No idea. There’s a bench here, let’s sit down and look at what Perenelle gave us.”

Ron hadn’t known what to expect from a wedding anniversary. He didn’t think it could be called a party, the word was too small to hold it all in. It was an occasion. A festival. 

There was just so much to do, neither boy knew where to start. The leaflet had a map of the extensive grounds, and had come with timetables for both all-day events and scheduled ones. There were competitions of magical prowess, in all areas of magic, for the adults to participate in, contests of transfiguration and charms. The boys saw people turning laughing fairies into fairy cakes and back, charming soft toys into lively animals, both mundane and fantastic. A small purple dragon with button eyes swooped by, breathing cottony flames at them. 

They found a marketplace, which hadn’t been on the map at all, where some guests—or perhaps vendors—sold charmed trinkets and exotic quills, clothing, books, owls, sweets, quidditch supplies, as if someone had taken a sampling of Diagon Alley and relocated it to the Pavilion’s lawn. Harry got a nicer pair of seeker’s goggles that he didn’t have to wear his glasses under, and would let him play in any weather. He got Ron a pair of dragonhide keeper gloves that were self-sizing. They knew Samantha would be graduating the next year, and had already made Ron the reserve keeper. 

Past the marketplace, or perhaps connected to it, people had put their own crafts on display. Quilts were hung in an open air gallery. Some were made out of the smallest pieces of fabric cut into triangles and pentagons. Others were squares of fabric arranged in smooth gradients, like rainbows of all one color, flowing like a waterfall. There were patchwork quilts, the fabric cleverly sewn together so the scenes on the individual pieces flowed seamlessly, tiny portraits and paintings that moved from square to square. 

“Bit chatty,” Ron said about it. 

“It would be a good throw blanket,” Harry said, to the quilt’s own protests. 

By the time a sweet-voiced bell called people to lunch, it felt like they’d barely seen anything at all. They joined the stream of people walking through a colonnade, then into the main building. The hall they entered was an enormous, airy room filled with bright light streaming in through tall windows. Some were simple, others were elaborate scenes in stained glass. There was plenty of seating, and it was easy for them to find the rest of the family given their distinctive shade of red hair. They made their way through the crowd and took a seat at the round table which, to Ron’s amusement, had a placecard with a small weasel capering on it. 

“How are you boys doing?” his mum asked, fanning herself. 

“We crashed into a swan,” Ginny said excitedly. 

“The swan crashed into us, Ginny,” their mum said. “I believe we got a little too close to its cygnets in the reeds.”

“Where have you two been?” Fred asked. “Me and George helped set up the fireworks display for later. Then they caught us helping…”

“We found a marketplace,” Harry said, and Ron helped share what they’d so far discovered. Percy had a quill out and was taking notes on his leaflet. 

“I want to do the broom race later,” Ginny said excitedly. 

“You should,” Ron said before their parents could object. “It says they’ve got prizes.”

Ginny grabbed on to their mum. “Mum, can I? Please? Think of the prizes!”

“Oh, I suppose…”

They hadn’t seen their hosts yet, but soon another bell rang out and the chattering crowd turned to see the two Flamels standing on a raised dais. 

“Thank you all for coming to our 625th anniversary,” Nicolas said

“Every moment together is a gift,” Perenelle said, “and we are honored to share this day with you.”

As they spoke, Ron looked around at the other guests, wondering if there was anyone he knew. He half expected to see Dumbledore, who his numerous Chocolate Frog cards told him was a good friend of Nicolas, but the headmaster was nowhere in sight. Ron reckoned they couldn’t invite everyone they knew, or all the descendents of people they had known over the centuries. Whatever method they had used to select people, there were still hundreds, maybe even a few thousand. The space stretched oddly, light bending around its edges. 

When the Flamels finished speaking, menus appeared before them. Ron and Harry wanted to get one of everything, especially things they hadn’t heard of, but Ron’s mum and dad shot that idea down. 

They still ended up with a bizarre assortment of foods. A creamy summer squash risotto, tart and chewy dolmas, bright red borscht drizzled with sour cream and sprinkled with dill, cactus pads stuffed with cheese then fried in batter, cream cheese and watercress sandwiches in tiny triangles, fried cubes of something which a nearby guest explained was tofu, with a sweet and savory sauce…

Ron noticed a few people had brought tins to store leftovers in, but he was too busy with his own lunch to care much.

“This is incredible,” his dad said, picking up a triangle of rice wrapped in seaweed. “I’m not entirely sure why we were invited, but I can’t complain…”

“What did you two even write to them last year?” his mum asked. 

“We just had a few questions about alchemy,” Harry said. “They don’t have a class on it at school.”

“It’s a mixed discipline,” Percy said knowingly. “Something like potions. It’s all well and good to be able to brew, but if one truly wishes to master potions one must have a solid foundation in herbology, creatures, geology, astronomy…”

“Fred, be a dear and pass the tzatziki to your father. Ginny, use a knife, don’t tear it with your hands! Harry, love, are you eating enough? Tea’s at 3, but dinner isn’t until 9. Then there’s a late night snack…no, Arthur, we are not staying for breakfast, nor second breakfast! The children need to sleep…”

A small paper butterfly flew down and landed on Harry’s hand. At a touch, the butterfly unfolded into a note.

“What’s that?” George asked.

“They’d like me and Ron to join them on the lagoon for tea,” Harry said, tucking the note into a pocket. Ron looked around, but he couldn’t see the Flamels anywhere. They had quite a lot of people to entertain, after all.

Harry passed him a glass with sparkling liquid tinged with a red cordial, garnished with a maraschino cherry.

“What’s this?” Ron asked, taking a sip, surprised to find it was ginger ale.

“It says it’s a Shirley Temple,” Harry said. “It’s got pomegranate syrup in it.”

“I want one!” Ginny said, moving plates to find her menu again. “Who’s Arnold Palmer?”

“He was a famous golfer, honey,” an older woman with a drawling American accent told them, leaning over from another table. Her hair was in long braids coiled elegantly on top of her head. “It’s sweet tea and lemonade. My grandbaby calls it an Arny Palmy.”

Fred and George snickered at the name, but Ginny boldly decided she wanted to try it.

“How can they afford all of this?” their mum whispered to their dad. 

Ron and Harry looked at each other, because they’d had the same question for over a year. 

After lunch they split up again. Ron’s parents went off together, Percy took Ginny to the broom arena—an entire arena of broom sports—Fred and George ran off to get into more trouble, and Ron and Harry sought out the maze.

Sadly, when they arrived, the maze was closed off to them.

“Grown witches and wizards only,” the attendant said. “There are a lot of things in there that Hogwarts students aren’t a match for. Bring your parents if you want to explore.”

The boys looked up at the emerald-leafed hedges. Sparks, shouts, and explosions shook the ground. Whatever was going on in the maze was intense. 

“It’s fine,” Harry said, pulling Ron away. “I had a bad feeling about it anyway.”

The maze was forgotten when they discovered a game of live wizard’s chess, where actual witches and wizards played the pieces. Outrageous costumes and props had been conjured for people to wear. They signed up right away, and while Ron felt a little silly in his rear admiral’s hat and saber, the armor Harry was placed in was far more ridiculous. There was a small pony Harry needed help climbing onto, but soon the game was in play. The weapons looked very real, and sounded very real when Harry clobbered a bent old witch dressed as a foot soldier with a mace, but it bounced back as if made of rubber. No one was actually hurt. 

By the time the game was over—Ron lost to a friendly young woman from India who someone told him was a grandmaster in the muggle world—they had to run across the grounds, their costumes puffing away in colorful clouds of smoke. They ran past tents, stands, fair games with coconuts, haggis, and wellies being hurled through the air, a clamorous dwarf orchestra, a troupe of tumblers, a very enthusiastic mime who ran alongside them for a while, and finally reached the small docks, panting and clutching their sides. 

Perenelle and Nicolas were already waiting. At some point they had changed outfits, and now Perenelle was wearing a crisp sky blue suit and Nicolas wore a toga picta in rich purple, with cryptic symbols embroidered in gold. 

“Sorry,” Harry wheezed, bent over. “Ron had to lose a game of chess.”

“It could have been a stalemate,” Ron said, taking heaving breaths.

“You like chess?” Perenelle asked, making a motion with her hand. One of the servers appeared with a tray bearing glasses of water, which Ron and Harry took gratefully.

“He’s brilliant at it,” Harry said. “We play with the ghosts at school.”

“Have you tried shogi, or go?” Perenelle asked. “You might find more of a challenge.”

Ron shook his head. “Are those muggle games?”

“They are,” she said, smiling. “Ah, here’s our boat. I can explain the basics of the games to you, if you’d like?”

A boat attendant helped them step into a wide, flat bottomed boat where a blanket had been laid out. There was a tea service already waiting for them, with a delicate bone china tea set enameled in moving pastoral scenes, limned with gold. 

They arranged themselves on the blanket, and Nicolas poured cups of tea for them. Ron nibbled on a curried chicken sandwich and listened to Perenelle explain shogi and go, how muggle mathematicians had determined that go was much more complex than chess, and how instead of training wizard’s chess pieces by playing lots of games with them, they had a technology called computers that did it for them. Though the muggles had to do something called coding to teach the computers how to play first. It was all very confusing, but interesting to learn how muggles used maths instead of magic for their games. 

“So,” she said once she had thoroughly confused the two boys, “to the question you two posed.”

Harry looked around nervously. 

“No one will hear or see us,” Perenelle said gently. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

Harry grimaced, then reached into his robes. “The thing is…we kind of stole it.”

Ron watched nervously as Harry pulled the Philosopher’s Stone out. It was a large, faceted stone that fit in Harry’s palm. The color was deep red, darker than a ruby, like fresh blood made crystal. It caught the light in a curious way, drawing the eye. It was unsettling to look at, yet captivating, intriguing in the way a gruesome accident was. 

Nicolas started laughing, and Perenelle also looked amused. She took the Stone from Harry, held it up to the light, and set it down on the blanket.

“Albus told us the Stone was trapped in a mirror,” she explained. “That only someone who didn’t want to use it could get it out. He gave us the mirror, as he was unable to retrieve the stone himself. We were rather surprised when the Mirror of Erised arrived, which has been long known as a cursed object.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other in alarm. “We’ve both looked in it,” Ron said. “Are we okay?”

She smiled kindly at them. “It captivates the viewer with visions of what the mirror believes is their deepest desire. It draws the weak-willed back, trapping them in its reflection for longer and longer, until gradually the victim wastes away.”

“We didn’t go back,” Harry said firmly. 

“Good,” Nicolas said. “That thing should never have been in a school with children.”

“What was Albus even thinking?” Perenelle said, closing her eyes and taking a sip of tea. 

“I heard him tell someone that the Stone had been destroyed,” Ron said. “That you were going on the next great adventure or something.”

Nicolas rolled his eyes, a strangely immature expression for someone so old, even if he appeared only to be in his forties. 

“Life is the greatest adventure,” Nicolas said. “Why would I want it to end? I suppose it’s true, in a sense, that we live in a world with two states. One is either alive or they are not. Unborn, or deceased. Death is by definition a cessation of life…”

Perenelle placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t get too philosophical, love.”

Nicolas sighed. “As you wish.” 

He looked back to Ron and Harry. “Essentially, you are alive or you are not. But there are those of us who straddle that barrier, exist between realms, so to speak.”

“Ghosts,” Harry said. “Phoenixes.”

“Immortality,” Ron guessed.

“Voldemort.”

The two alchemists looked at Harry. 

“Why do you mention him?” Perenelle asked.

“Well,” Harry said, “everyone thinks he died, but he isn’t dead. We heard he’s some kind of wraith, but we don’t know what that is. Also, there was a diary last year and he was draining Longbottom’s life to become a…manifestation.”

The Flamels had no visible reaction to this, but Ron thought they were a little taken aback.

“In essence,” Nicolas said, “those who reject death. They cling to life by various means.”

“The Stone,” Harry said, looking at it. He hesitated then asked, “That’s all it does, isn’t it? Makes an immortality potion.”

“It doesn’t make gold or whatever,” Ron added.

“Why do you boys think that?” Perenelle asked.

“It’s too many things for it to do,” Harry said. “Transmuting metals and making you live longer are really different things. What does turning lead into gold have to do with the Elixir of Life?” 

Harry made a frustrated noise, running a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s like, you need leeks to make leek soup, yeah? But you can’t then take a leek to, I don’t know, fill a tyre with air. Soup and tyres are different things. The Stone makes too many promises,” he finished, annoyed. 

“We read about what the old alchemists thought in the muggle library,” Ron said, briefly forgetting the Flamels were the old alchemists. “They wanted one thing that could solve all of their problems. But it’s just too simple.”

“Perhaps,” Nicolas said, smiling slightly. 

“You’re not going to tell us?” Ron asked.

“Alchemists are intensely secretive,” Perenelle said. “It’s in our nature, to keep what we learn to ourselves.”

“Those are alchemical symbols, right?” Harry asked, pointing at Nicolas’ toga. 

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. “They are indeed. Many of us invented our own codes to memorialize our work. There are some in common use…”

“Are you interested in alchemy, Harry?” Perenelle asked.

Harry bit his lip, but nodded.

“May I ask why?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Ron asked defensively. “Can’t it just be interesting on its own?”

“Of course,” Perenelle said. “Many of our contemporaries were simply intrigued by the mysteries of the world. They made great strides in magic and the muggle sciences in their pursuit of artifacts such as the Stone. We may be the most famous modern alchemists, for a given definition of modern, but the art has existed in various forms for millenia. Each new discovery advanced our understanding of the universe. Great questions of philosophy, the development of modern psychology and chemistry a mere century ago. Advances in muggle medicine, in potions and spellcraft. All of these things, and many more, come from the primary goals of alchemy. The perfection of our bodies and souls—”

“The Übermensch,” Nicolas said, “the ultimate man. More than a god.” He shook his head at their blank expressions. “That’s Nietzsche, boys. Strange man…but the concept of man, of certain men, and often men and not women, being superior beings, is quite old. The domination of nature—”

“Thank you, Nico,” Perenelle said. “As I was saying, the search for perfection of the body and soul, if one holds the two are indeed separate. The transmutation of the base into the noble, of lead into gold. Though lead does have its own worth and uses. Whether it is right to change a thing so fundamentally wasn’t a concern until much later…” She sighed, shaking her head. “Next is, as you know, a pathway to immortality. The Elixir of Life. Eternal life, eternal youth. Every age, every culture, has sought this. And, finally, the Panacea.”

Harry took a sharp breath, but Perenelle kept speaking.

“A cure to all that ails us, that seeks to weaken and destroy us, the base world imposing itself on our noble bodies.”

“Is that what you seek?” Nicolas asked Harry, a keen look in his eyes.

Harry’s mouth twisted. “My mum’s in St. Mungo’s. I want to be a healer, but…the same thing as with the Stone. I don’t think one thing can heal everything.”

“But you hope alchemy may hold answers for you?” Nicolas pressed.

“I think,” Harry said slowly, “that I need to learn a lot.”

A swan passed by, arching her neck elegantly as she dipped her beak into the water. Seven cygnets swam behind her, with black bills and fine grey feathers. The two boys watched them. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” Perenelle asked, smiling at the swans. “Swans often mate for life,” she said, pointing at another adult swan swimming nearby. “However, that’s not the only reason we’ve chosen them to represent us on this day. These are mute swans, quieter than other species. Legends say upon their death, they sing a beautiful song. The swan song. In Irish lore, Aoife, the wife of Lir, cast a spell that turned her step children into swans for a thousand years. Swans swim the rivers of death. There are other, darker legends...”

“Leda—”

Nicolas shut his mouth at a look from Perenelle. 

“They symbolize many things,” Perenelle said. “Love, death, rebirth.”

“Le cygne,” Nicolas said. “The most beautiful of all creatures.”

“There is a ballad of two sisters…” Perenelle began, but instead smiled and said, “I won’t bore you boys. We could talk about most subjects to exhaustion. Though we’ve forgotten more than we know…”

“Your mother,” Nicolas said, focusing on Harry again.

Harry looked down at his hands. Ron pressed their shoulders together. 

“She was tortured with the Cruciatus Curse,” Harry said. “The healers say there’s nothing they can do except keep her body alive. They’ve tried everything they know.”

“But not everything they could, you suspect?” Nicolas asked. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, exchanging glances with his wife. 

“There are some areas of magic we shall not speak of,” Perenelle said. “The secret of the Stone is not one we ever intend to share.”

“You don’t seem worried about it having been missing,” Ron pointed out. “Was there really only one Philosopher’s Stone? If you made one before, you could make another.”

Nicolas leaned back on his hands, sighing. “Such things do not appear out of thin air. Nor do conjured items, for that matter. The material must be pulled from somewhere.”

“What I think Nicolas is trying to say,” Perenelle cut in, “is that you must remember at the core of alchemy is the concept of transformation. Changing the nature of things. There are, as I have mentioned, ethical concerns. You may have thought of such things yourself in your Transfiguration class. Why change a hedgehog into a pincushion? Or buttons into beetles? Whence comes the beetle?”

“Conservation of mass, children,” Nicolas said, looking at Harry. “You might have heard of it in your muggle schooling?”

“Things don’t magically appear or disappear,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, changing something from one thing to another doesn’t change the amount of it.”

“What has that got to do with the Philosopher’s Stone?” Ron asked. 

Perenelle picked up the stone from the blanket. “There are things we shall not speak of,” she repeated. “I will say that the greatest secret of this stone is not what it is, but how it is used.” 

She opened her mouth as if to say more, but closed it again, smoothing out her expression.

“You two are very young,” Nicolas said. “As old as I am, I recall what it felt like to be so young. You have many years ahead of you, and many things to learn. It has been a very long time since either of us has taken an apprentice…”

“It’s not a common practice these days,” Perenelle said. “Molly did speak very highly of your marks in school, and your brave deeds these past two years.”

Ron could feel himself blushing, and Harry had a strained smile. 

“You are both very curious, very intelligent, and you, Harry, have a very clear goal in mind. We would be happy to keep up correspondence with you, though we have many obligations and interests that occupy our time.”

“I’m just glad we were able to give that back,” Harry said, nodding to the Stone. “Anyone could have taken it.”

“And you thought to use it as a bargaining chip to learn our secrets?” Nicolas asked wryly.

“No! I—”

“Don’t tease them,” Perenelle chastised. “Thank you for returning it, Harry, Ronald. We appreciate it. Not many can say they’ve received such a rare artifact on their wedding anniversary! There are few, I think, who would have returned it at all, at least not before they had time to experiment with it.”

The boat had by now completed nearly a full circle of the Pavilion. Ron hadn’t even looked around as they sailed across the lagoon, too invested in the conversation. Ron saw his parents waiting on the dock for them to return, smiling and waving. 

Nicolas pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s nearly time for the treasure hunt. Were you two interested in that?”

“Have you seen the history museum yet?” Perenelle asked. “There are several live dioramas.”

“And there’s the tea garden,” Nicolas said. “A few of our guests have sworn they’ve seen a unicorn in there…”

Ron and Harry held onto each other as they exited the fireplace in the kitchen. While they, along with Fred, George, and Ginny, had argued to stay past the late night snack, their mum had put her foot down. Ron could tell both of his parents were exhausted by the long event, even with all the fainting chairs to take a nap on. His mind still spun with everything they had seen and done. There hadn’t been many other children, but the ones in attendance had all joined in the madcap treasure hunt that sent them running all over the grounds, climbing trees, diving into the lagoon, solving riddles, exploring dark cellars…

What they had expected to be a nice dinner party was instead the event of the century. There was still so much he hadn’t seen, so much he would never forget.

The fireplace roared up again and his mum stepped out. “What are you all doing in the kitchen? Off to bed! Just because we’ve had a holiday doesn’t mean there isn’t work to do in the morning!”