trigger warnings: like, one mention of suicide, that tOO IN A JOKE

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chapter nine: flamel
word count: 3.5k
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THE REST OF DECEMBER WENT BY IN A BLUR. 

Azalea never told Castor that she'd visited that room again, merely for the fear of having disappointed him, while he did all he could to keep her occupied, day and night. 

Since his and Ron's dorm was empty (except for them, of course), they insisted that Azalea bunked over at theirs. And so, they spent the nights laughing and giggling over stupid stories, dumb dares, and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

It was time for the rest of the students to return back, with the promise of a new year, new opportunities, new homework, and exams, of course. 

Azalea had begged Hagrid to let him accompany her to the station, but he refused, seeing as she was a mere first year and Dumbledore wouldn't have liked it. It didn't really matter, however, since Hermione soon made her way to the Gryffindor Common Room, cheeks tinted a rosy pink because of the cold. 

"Oh, it was just so pretty, 'Mione! I wish you would've stayed. . ." 

Azalea, Hermione noticed, had been way too free. So much that she'd scribbled numerous quotes in her best handwriting (which wasn't really all that horrible) and put them up beside her bed. Some she recognized, some were completely new. 

"I see you're getting better at drawing," Hermione remarked, fingers grazing the paper inked with a rough sketch of a bouquet. "Practice?" 

"Practice." Azalea nodded, plopping down on her bed with a little bounce, heels of her hands digging on either side of her body in the mattress. "And we didn't exactly find much on Flamel." 

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing." 

Hermione pursed her lips and shook her head, bushy strands moving with her body. 

"I mean, we couldn't achieve much with loitering around at night—"

"And who asked you to go out at night?!" Hermione stood with her hands on her hips, frowning in disbelief, the perfect image of a disappointed mother. "What if you'd been caught?!" 

"I mean, Castor was with me, Ron too once—" 

"THE BOYS WERE WITH YOU TOO?!"

Azalea forced her saucer-wide eyes to shrink back to their normal size as she darted after an angry Hermione, well against her wishes. 

Hermione stood at the doorframe of Castor and Ron's dormitory, both boys understandably surprised at the encounter. 

Well, not surprised, per se. Horrified, really. 

"W—What'd you do this time, Ron?" Castor whispered, or attempted to anyway, huddling closer to Ron. The rest of the boys were out and about, meeting their friends and teachers, causing the dorm to be empty. 

"I don't think it was me alone, Cas." 

"YOU BOTH ROAMED OUT AT NIGHT, IN THE RESTRICTED SECTION NO LESS?!"

The boys winced, a grimace covering their mouths. They gave a timid nod, making Hermione sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezing shut as she shook her head.

"I mean, Lea was with us too—" 

"We've already covered that she's suicidal. Doesn't mean you can encourage her." Hermione's stern glare scanned all three of them, "I can't leave you three alone, together, ever." 

"You're right. Take her with you, next year," Castor spoke, receiving a pillow aimed square at his face, courtesy of Azalea. "She's bloody insane when you aren't around." 

"The way you speak, it sounds like they're in love with one another!" 

.  .  .

ONCE HERMIONE GOT THE HANG OF THE INVISIBILITY CLOAK — WHICH GOT THEM ANOTHER EARFUL — SHE WAS A LITTLE (ONLY A LITTLE) MORE CALM ABOUT THEIR LATE NIGHT RENDEVOUS. 

As if it were a rule, no one spoke about the Mirror. And it was tradition, the academic grind made its return soon enough. The planners that Hermione had gifted them were finally coming into use. 

That didn't mean that they neglected their manhunt for Flamel. Though Azalea had considerably lesser time than the other two, since Quidditch was back and Wood was making them work like a horse, be it flood, fire or rain, she made sure to try to get to the library on the weekends. 

"Will you both stop your messing around?!" Wood had bellowed that mellow Saturday morning, when the Weasleys threw around their third stink-bomb in a row. "That's exactly the sort of thing that'd make us lose the match, especially now that Snape's refereeing." 

"Snape's refereeing?" 

"C'mon, Ollie, when's Snape ever refereed a match?" Fred called out, getting a glare at the mention of the nickname. 

"Dunno. No one cares, really. All we've gotta do is play a clean game so he has no reason to pick on us." 

When Azalea delivered the news to her fellow Gryffindors, the reactions were. . . something. 

"Say you're ill!" was what Hermione had to say. 

"Pretend to break your leg." Castor mused, flipping through his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook for a chapter on vampires. 

"Actually break your leg." Ron was wide-eyed, ready to list ways as to how Azalea could break her leg, receiving horrified looks from Castor and Hermione. 

"All very creative suggestions, thank you, but I can't." Azalea was laid back on the couch, ankles crossed over one another as she threw a ball up and caught it, again and again. "There's no reserve Seeker for Gryffindor, so if I back out, Gryffindor can't play all together." 

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Castor snorted. 

Azalea sat with a jolt, eyes narrowed, "Pardon?" 

"Gryffindor has no chance of winning with Snape refereeing, Princess." Castor's eyes widened just the slightest before his lips stretched in a relaxed smirk. "Why play anyway? We're gonna embarrass ourselves." 

"Snape can't do anything if we play a fair game, Castor." Azalea rolled her eyes and shook her head, ego wounded at the thought of losing a match. "We're gonna be just fine." 

"Whatever you say, Lea. You aren't going to win next week." 

"That's very optimistic of you, considering you have never played Quidditch." Hermione slammed her book shut, siding with Azalea. "Anyway—" 

Neville chose that moment to walk — hop — into the Common Room,  legs clamped together in what they all recognized to be the Leg-Locker Curse. 

The Common Room doubled into laughter, except for Hermione, who sprang up at once to perform the counter-curse, immediately helping him to the couch with the boys' assistance. 

"What happened?" 

Neville hesitated, but a little persuasion, and he opened up, "It was Malfoy. . .he was outside the library, said he needed someone to practice it on." 

"Report him to McGonagall!" 

Azalea didn't listen any further, stepping out with the excuse of having to practice flying. 

She hovered over the ground for a while, then soared above, wind blowing through her chestnut waves, ruffling the untamed locks. Eyes squeezed shut, she enjoyed the feel of wind whipping against her cheeks, biting them and turning them a rosy red, nose tinting pink. 

She must've been up there for quite a while, the warm late afternoon sun getting ready to say goodbye when she decided that maybe she should head back, and soon enough, the soil beneath her feet reminded her of all her responsibilities — Flamel, homework, Neville. 

"PRINCESS!"

Castor had been sitting in the stands ever since Azalea soared above, keeping an eye on her in case she decided to do something irrational. His notebook clutched in his hand, the leaking ink from his ball pen staining his hands, he jumped over to the ground, ignoring the looks he got from the few students lingering around, using the grass as their study space. 

"How long have you been there?" Azalea chuckled, wiping the sheen of sweat on her upper lip with the sleeve of her sweater. Castor walked with her, blue fingers clinging onto his diary and staining the pale brown cover. 

"A while." 

"Well, now the whole world and their mother knows that you call me Princess, so thanks." 

"You're welcome, Princess." 

Azzie bowed her head in thought, a pregnant pause setting over them as they made their way to the shed to store Azalea's broom. Finally, she let out a breath, both of them speaking in tandem, "Have you talked to Malfoy?" 

Azalea giggled and Castor let a small grin linger on his lips, before they both answered, in unison, "No."

The Potter breathed out through her mouth, shaking her head, the remnants of a smile on her face. Then, it faded away as she remembered that though Draco was nice around her and her friends, he was still a bully. 

"Here." Castor went to hand her half a chocolate frog, but then noticed her hands were dirty — though his weren't washed with Holy Water either. So he took a bite, popping the rest in her mouth. They settled down against the wood of the shed, the grass underneath soft and moist with the morning's drizzle. As the bittersweet taste of cocoa lingered on their tongues long after the chocolate was over and the sky faded into a beautiful violet, Azalea turned over the card. 

"Dumbledore, again—" 

"What?" Castor was confused whether to fear the mischievous grin spreading across her cheeks, or treasure it. "What is it, Lea?" 

"Flamel!" Azalea snapped out of her daze, jumping up to her feet as if she wasn't just complaining about how sore her muscles were. "I've found him, I've found him! — I knew I saw him somewhere." 

Her childish excitement caused adrenaline to surge through her as she sped through the school, gaining incredulous looks from everyone who passed her — and Castor, who ran after her — all the way to the Gryffindor Common Room. 

She stood before Hermione, hands braced on her knees as she heaved for breath, the Granger standing beside her, rubbing her back, concerned. 

"What, did he challenge you to a marathon, Azzie?" 

Azalea managed a weak shake of her head before sliding down the surprisingly smooth brick wall. Castor slid down beside her, not as worn out but definitely tired. 

"Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel." 

The way Hermione lit up, they could practically see a light bulb go off beside her head. She hurried out of the door, Ron following suit, Azalea shaking her head. 

"No more running." 

.  .  .

MEANWHILE, ZADE SAT IN THE LIBRARY, HUNCHED OVER 'A HISTORY OF NAMES'. 

It wasn't very enlightening, but it was interesting. Like, the name Morgan means "sea-born," "sea-song," or "sea-circle." It is traditionally a boy's name of Welsh origin, and more specifically, a variant of the Old Welsh name Morcant which is a combination of the Welsh elements mor, meaning "sea" and cant, meaning "circle." Or, Morselli is a surname of Italian decent, roughly translating to 'death'. There are approximately 1,200 people with the name Morselli residing in Italy, more than half of them in Emilia-Romagna. 

He was halfway through the list of names starting with M when Hermione hurtled in like a force to be reckoned with, Ron in tow. 

He watched in amusement as Hermione grabbed one of books from the higher shelves, large enough to be considered half her size, her lean frame momentarily swaying with the weight. 

"Nicolas Flamel," she stage-whispered "is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone."

"I took this out a couple of weeks ago for some light reading—" 

"This is light?" Zade questioned, earning a raised eyebrow from Hermione as if to say, yes, and? He gulped, "Yeah, this is light. . . it's impressive, I think?" 

"Good. D'you know what we're talking about?" 

"Flamel. For whatsoever reason." 

"That's great." Hermione dismissed him, back to the topic in the flash of a second, "The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal. There have been many reports of the Sorcerer's Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)."

"Quite a lot to register," Zade shrugged his shoulders, Ron snorting in agreement. Hermione shot them a glare, shutting them up in the matter of a few seconds. 

"We should note this down for Azzie and Cas—" 

"I'll do it!" Ron was all to eager to grab a parchment from the stack in front of Zade, as well as his quill and pot of ink. "Why don't you both talk about. . .whatever it is you're reading, mate." 

Ron scurried a little farther down to an empty corner to get space, setting the fat book in front of him as he copied the words as carefully as he could, because an earful from Hermione was worse than a night in hell. 

An exaggeration, maybe. 

"What are you reading?" 

Hermione's narrowed eyes and pout weren't meant to be anything but an indication of her curiosity. Luckily, Zade understood so, unlike most who usually found it threatening. 

He'd been victim of Maia's as well as his father's scrutinizing glares enough to not exactly find them scary. 

"Just a weird book about names. Maybe you haven't taken this for a light reading yet." 

Hermione let her lips turn up in a little smile, shaking her head. He hummed and flipped through the book, muttering, "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, — ah! Here you are." 

"In Greek, the meaning of the name Hermione is: Well born. Stone. Messenger. Earthly. Feminine name derived from Hermes. In Greek mythology, Hermione was the daughter of King Menelaus of Sparta and Helen of Troy." Zade paused, having read it all in one breath, leading out a puff of air. "Quite a lot of meanings, huh, 'Mione?" 

"Well, it was obvious, Hermes and all." Hermione rolled her eyes. "What's the meaning of yours?" 

Zade shrugged, causing Hermione's jaw to fall open. "You do not know the meaning of your own name?" 

"It isn't that serious, 'Mione. Castor knows his because a gardener at the palace put it in his head that he was named after some poisonous plant. In turned out, that Castor was in fact a medicinal plant. And he wasn't named after either, just after some bloody star." 

"Anyway, tell me about this Flamel bloke. Why's he so important?" 

.  .  . 

"—WHAT THE DOG'S GUARDING. FLAMEL'S STONE." 

Hermione had called for an emergency Gryffindor's meeting, something they did rarely, the four of them. She'd already told Zade about her theory and assumed that he'd pass it on to Calypso. So here she was, sitting cross-legged on the couch, Castor on the ground with his knees pulled in, Ron sprawled down beside him, and Azalea with her head in Hermione's lap. 

"I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, 'cause they're friends and he knew someone was after it. That's why they moved it out of Gringotts." 

"A liquid that turns anything to gold, never stops you from dying. . .no wonder Snape wanted it." Azalea shook her head. "Anyone would want it." 

"And no wonder we couldn't find him in that Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry." Ron snorted. "He's not exactly recent if he's six hundred and sixty-five, is he?" 

.  .  .

"I'M GOING TO PLAY."  AZALEA DECIDED THE NEXT MORNING. "IF I DON'T, THE SLYTHERINS WILL THINK I'M JUST TOO SCARED TO FACE SNAPE."

"As long as we're not wiping the ground with your face." Castor shrugged, mouthful of beans, to which he got a nice smack on his arm. "Jus' kidding, Princess." 

As much as Azalea believed that she was going to be okay, and that the decision she made this morning was the right call, she couldn't help but feel more and more sick to her stomach as the match drew nearer. 

Potions lessons were torturous — as much as she hated how horrible Snape was towards her and her friends, she adored the subject. For some odd, inexplicable reason, she had a feeling that Snape was aware of her conquest of the stone, but that was absurd, wasn't it? He'd have to be able to read minds, to know that. 

The morning of the Quidditch match arrived soon, and as much as she hated to admit it, she had a feeling that the Hufflepuffs would win against them. Even as her friends wished her good luck, they had been doubting whether they'd ever see her again, — alive, anyway. Some motivation, that was. 

Unbeknownst to her, they'd been practicing the leg-locker curse in their free time, just as a measure for a worst-case scenario, in case Snape decides to show his colours again. 

Just before they left the changing room, Wood pulled her aside, face pale. He tried his best to mask the worry in his voice as he spoke, "Not to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early capture of the Snitch, it's now. End the game before Snape can favour the Hufflepuffs too much." 

Just as he finished speaking, George called for Azzie, "The whole school's here! Blimey, even Dumbledore's in the audience." 

Hearing about Dumbledore's presence in the audience gave her some sort of assurance. Surely he would notice if Snape were deliberately hurting her, correct?

With that thought in mind, she walked out onto the field, head high and heart beating way too fast for it to be healthy. 

Perhaps Dumbledore's presence was why Snape was in such a sour mood. He looked beyond irritated as the teams marched out onto the field, taking their positions while waiting for the match to begin.  

Ten minutes into the match, Hufflepuff had been awarded a penalty because he'd been hit by a Bludger. Azalea paid no mind — she was circling the ground from above, attentive as a hawk as she looked out for the Snitch. 

She'd already been distracted by a watch glinting in the sunlight. That had been quite a moment, her foolishly darting after a confused and kind of scared third year Ravenclaw. 

Another fifteen minutes of flying around and hovering and flying and hovering, when she saw it — the Snitch. 

She darted to the ground, a great roar of cheers rising from the Gryffindor stands (and from the selective Slytherins she'd befriended) as her fingers stretched out towards the grass, the Snitch barely in her grasp as adrenaline pumped through her veins —

The Snitch shot up towards the sky. 

A loud howl of disappointment resounded through the air as she groaned, face scrunching up in frustration. Inhaling a deep breath, she shot up to the sky, almost hitting Snape — who moved out of the way just as a blur of scarlet passed him — and ignoring the blood rushing to her head, clasped her little fingers around the mischievous ball. 

Loud silence dawned on the ground, and then. . .

"GRYFFINDOR WINS!"

It took an hour for the ground to clear up, the House of the Lions still on a high from their win. When she was finally alone however, changed into a house sweater and some sweatpants, Castor to keep her company, she decided to fly around a little more. And then, for some crazy reason, she decided to teach Castor how to fly. 

He was horrible at it. 

There were quite a lot of things Castor could never even dream of trying to do, because he knew he'd suck at them — drawing, pottery, poetry, singing, even playing football. Flying had been added to that list the day he watched his first Quidditch match. 

But Azalea Lily Reign Potter was nothing if not stubborn. So, she handed him her broom, deciding to choose one of the school's for herself, because if he got scared of flying now, she knew he'd never even try flying, ever again. 

She'd spent a good thirty minutes teaching him, or trying to, at the very least. He'd actually been listening to her, and now he could hover a few feet above the ground. A little more faith in Azalea's teaching skills, and he'd be able to glide through the air in no time. 

When the retreating sun started painting the sky in hues of orange and blue, they decided that it was enough for the day, and that they too should be heading back to the Common Room. 

This was good enough, for now. Not cracking against Snape, winning the match, figuring out who Flamel was. It wasn't like it could get any worse than their potions master yearing for an insanely powerful stone, which was under their headmasters' protection, now could it?