"Don't cry. If you cry, I'll cry. And if I cry, there will be lightning. Real lightning. You wouldn't want to traumatize the French economy, would you?"
Gabrielle sniffled and shook her head, but she didn't laugh like she normally did. Instead, she reached out and hugged me tightly around the middle, like she was trying to glue me to France with pure willpower.
We were standing just inside the polished atrium of Gringotts France, its marble floors glowing gold in the early evening light. The massive silver doors at the front were enchanted to shimmer like starlight. Perenelle was already fussing over Emma's hair, and Dan was nodding awkwardly at Jean-Paul Delacour like he wasn't entirely sure how to say goodbye without saluting. Fleur looked elegant as ever, smiling warmly while holding a soft-eyed Hermione by the hand.
"You have been very good guests," Fleur said with sincere grace. "France is better with you in it."
"I'm stealing that line," I said. "Putting it on a chocolate wrapper. Maybe a wand box."
Emma was dabbing her eyes with a linen cloth Perenelle had given her. "I just… I didn't think we'd get this attached."
"I absolutely knew I would," Dan said. "But I thought it'd be to the plumbing. I'm going to miss that hot water pressure."
Hermione hugged Gabrielle tightly next, and the little girl whispered something into her ear that made Hermione bite her lip and nod.
Nicholas was hanging back near one of the private vault corridors. When he caught my eye, he motioned with a single finger. I nodded and handed Gabrielle the white cotton candy she'd asked for three days ago and I'd forgotten to give her.
"A little late," I said, "but magically preserved."
She blinked at it and hugged me again.
And then I followed Flamel into the shadows.
The corridor Flamel led me into didn't look like a vault hallway—it looked like a secret library had swallowed a bank. Dark wooden walls with silver veins shimmered faintly under the crystal lanterns, and everything smelled faintly of dust, ink, and old power.
"I wanted to speak with you alone," Nicholas said, his tone calm, but with the weight of finality. "You've been… remarkable, Sky."
I raised a brow. "Most people follow that up with 'alarmingly so.'"
He smiled faintly and pulled out a box the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in dragonhide and sealed with a complicated rune knot. "This is for you. Just don't open it in public."
Naturally, I opened it in less than five seconds. Inside was a shard of crimson-red crystal, about the size of a baby tooth, suspended in silver thread like it was a gem waiting for a crown.
My eyes widened. "Is this what I think it is?"
"It is not the Stone," he said. "But it was born of it."
He explained in that calm, professorial tone of his:
"It's a byproduct of the original Philosopher's Stone," Nicholas said softly. "A fragment I was able to remove and stabilize before we sealed the rest away. It carries only a sliver of the Stone's power—just enough to transmute base metals into pure gold. Nothing more exotic, and certainly no Elixir of Life. And it's keyed to you alone, Sky. Should anyone else try to use it, it will drain their magic instead of granting them anything at all."
"...So," I said slowly, "this is the magical version of a gold-generating thumb drive?"
"I prefer to think of it as trust, crystallized."
That actually shut me up for a second.
"I expect you'll use it wisely," Nicholas added. "Which for you, I assume, means creatively, irresponsibly, and with just enough genius to make it impossible to discipline."
"Guilty," I said, and offered my hand.
He shook it, firm and warm. "Come visit next summer. I'm sure by then the rumors will have cooled."
I grinned. "You say that like I won't make entirely new ones by next week."
Back in the hall.
"Are we sure this is safe?" Dan asked, eyeing the Portkey like it might try to bite him. In its defense, it did look suspiciously like a burnt folding chair with a faint magical hum that suggested it had opinions.
"As safe as French Portkeys ever are," Nicholas said serenely, which was not the reassurance Dan hoped for.
Hermione crossed her arms. "Last time, you said the Portkey was 'standard issue.' It dumped us in a fountain."
"And we made quite the splash," I offered helpfully.
Emma clutched her handbag. "Please tell me this one doesn't involve livestock."
One time Perenelle took them on an outing, Emma ended up with a random goose in her arms. Apparently, she picked it up mid portkey.
"Only metaphorically," I said. "This one's just unstable, not haunted."
We all stood in a circle around the gloriously dented chair. Gabrielle lingered beside me, clearly trying not to pout.
"Hey," I said gently, kneeling so we were eye level. "This is not goodbye. This is temporary kidnapping. I fully expect you to write me at least once a week, or I'll assume you've joined a goblin circus."
She cracked a teary smile, then reached into her pocket and shoved something small into my hand. I looked down—it was a tiny, lumpy keychain shaped like the Beauxbatons carriage, made entirely out of glitter glue and hope.
I didn't say anything. I just gave her the biggest, most annoying big-brother grin I could manage and tapped her gently on the forehead with it.
"Keep the crystal throne warm for me."
I slowly got up and joined the Grangers holding the burnt folding chair.
"Three… two… one…"
We vanished in a swirl of blue and gold light, with Dan screaming something about how he was "not ready to die like this" and Emma muttering, "I should've stayed home and married someone boring who didn't do magic and didn't fly through space on old chairs."
""I guess you hit the jackpot then!" I yelled out, still tumbling through magical nothingness.
After what seemed like an hour, we landed in what I could only assume was meant to be the backyard of the Granger house. Instead, we arrived half-in the flowerbed, half-on what used to be Emma's tomato garden. I was face-down in mulch. Hermione landed on my back. Dan hit the ground with a thud and immediately yelled, "I'm alive!"
Emma groaned. "I'm covered in dirt. Is that a potato?"
"You landed in your own vegetable patch," I muttered. "Technically that's recycling."
Hermione rolled off me and stood up, brushing herself off. "Next time, we're using Floo Powder."
"Floo doesn't work over this kind of distance," I said, spitting out a leaf. "Unless you want to splinch halfway across the Channel and show up as a sock in Paris."
"Besides, we wouldn't have stories like this," I said, pointing to Dan, who was proudly holding up Hermione's shoe like a trophy. "Behold, the ceremonial footwear of survival."
Emma picked a leaf out of her hair and shot me a look. "Do you have any magical solutions for laundry? Asking for a friend."
"Only if I were allowed to. I'm a minor—no magic allowed outside school." I gave her a grin. "Unless you want the Ministry breathing down our necks for the crime of tidy laundry."
"Noted."
We trudged back into the house, each of us vaguely limping. Hermione's dad kept mumbling something about life insurance policies while trying to keep what remained of his dignity. I figured now was as good a time as any to prepare for the next phase.
Time to change, reorganize, and prepare for the real circus.
The one at Malfoy Manor.
I shut the door to my room and exhaled like I'd just escaped an interview with Rita Skeeter. The chaos of the portkey, the dirt, the lingering dizziness—it all fell away as I opened my warehouse trunk with a tap and watched the lid swing open like a stage curtain.
Inside, my private corner of magical real estate waited: a neat dressing area, a full-length mirror, a collapsible wardrobe, and one very smug enchanted coat hanger. I tossed in my travel robes and pulled out the deep navy ensemble I'd set aside for tonight—pressed, polished, and just mysterious enough to imply I read obscure political journals for fun.
I flipped open my leather-bound catalogue and double-checked the presentation copy of the Neverending Guide prototype. Still pristine. Still spell-sealed. Still one very shiny promise of the future.
A knock came from the hallway.
"Come in," I called, already knowing who it was.
Hermione peeked through the door, brows drawn. "You're really going to that thing alone?"
I nodded. "Apparently, political clout is still tied to bloodlines and dinner invitations."
She crossed her arms. "It's ridiculous."
I met her eyes. "It is. But that's why I'm going. Someone needs to remind them that brilliance and blood aren't the same thing."
Her mouth twitched, like she couldn't decide whether to argue or smirk. "So you're going to smile and charm your way through a room full of elitist traditionalists?"
"I was born for it," I said, tucking the catalogue under my arm.
I stepped past her, then paused. "Oh, right—almost forgot."
From my pocket, I pulled out a thin, copper-edged bookmark with an engraved rune and handed it to her.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Page-turner," I said. "Magically flips to your last marked spot and turns the page on command. Thought it might help when you're speed-reading your way through the restricted section next year."
She smiled despite herself. "Thanks."
I gave her a nod, pushed open the door, and made my way to the front hall.
Time to play dress-up with the aristocracy.