What's the Number for 911 in France?

"You packed an anvil," Hermione deadpanned.

"It's a versatile tool," I replied, tapping the iron monstrosity as it hovered gently midair under the guidance of her wand.

"It's a seventy-pound hunk of metal!"

"Seventy-two. And it doubles as a chair."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but to her credit, she said nothing else as she floated the anvil into my warehouse trunk. She'd been inside it before—had seen the Quidditch pitch, the library, and the suspiciously well-stocked potion lab—but she still hadn't figured out how it worked. Not really. And I had no plans to explain it cause I have absolutely no idea either. Today, she was too busy micromanaging the Granger Family Departure Protocol to launch a proper interrogation.

"I'm just saying," she continued, "packing for an international magical trip should not include blacksmithing equipment."

"You're right. I should've packed the portable forge."

Dan poked his head into the room. "Are we taking brooms or trains or what?"

"Nope," I said. "Portkey. Arranged by the Flamels. We're going to the London branch of Gringotts first—then on to the Paris branch from there."

Dan blinked. "Wait, what's a Portkey?"

"It's like magical teleportation, but with more nausea and less consent," I replied.

Hermione added, "I read in a book that you touch an object—usually something mundane—and it transports you instantly to a predetermined location."

Dan squinted. "So... flaming garbage can lid?"

"We don't even know what it looks like yet," Hermione said quickly. "They'll give it to us once we reach Gringotts."

Emma entered next, dragging two suitcases. "Do I need to bring my own pillow? And should I have packed a gown? What's the dress code for ancient alchemists?"

"Whimsical."

"Sky, be serious."

"I am. Alchemists love whimsy. And probably robes with too many buttons. Dumbledore has been setting the trend for decades."

At the London branch of Gringotts, we were led through a narrow corridor, past a goblin with three monocles, and into a small room where the Portkey awaited us.

It was, to no one's delight, a burnt-looking garbage can lid.

Hermione turned to glare at her father. "I blame you, Dad."

Dan blinked. "Me? What did I do?"

"You named it," she said. "You jinxed us the moment you joked about traveling by flaming garbage can lid."

I squinted at the Portkey and muttered, "Dan, if your jinxing powers ever go professional, I'd like to invest early. This is brilliant."

Emma looked around for alternatives. "There's not... a better one?"

I grinned. "Portable. Charred. And steeped in charm—literally."

The goblin just gestured impatiently. "Touch it, or don't. It leaves with or without you."

So we touched it.

The trip itself was... dramatic.

Emma screamed.

Dan yelled, "Blooody Heeeell!!!"

Hermione looked like she was experiencing her soul in reverse.

And I? I laughed. Loudly.

"Can we do that again?" I asked as we stumbled into the marbled interior of the Parisian bank.

Hermione looked like she was going to be sick. "No," she muttered, clutching her side like she might lose lunch, language, or both.

The Gringotts branch in Paris was less hostile than its London cousin. The goblins here wore dark blue vests and greeted us with the kind of contempt that could pass for civility if you squinted. We were promptly escorted out a side door and into a cobbled street bathed in warm, golden sunlight.

La Place Cachée.

It was... beautiful. Not in the glittering, gaudy way Diagon Alley tried to be, but in the effortless elegance of something that had been magical for so long, it no longer felt the need to impress.

Shops curved around spiraling courtyards, their exteriors alive with murals that shifted as we passed. Glass orbs floated overhead, releasing tiny blossoms that shimmered in the air like falling starlight. Music—live, drifting, impossible to place—came from a quartet of enchanted instruments performing in front of a patisserie that baked croissants midair.

Dan gawked openly. "Is that... is that pastry juggling itself?"

Emma muttered, "That cello just winked at me."

Hermione walked forward slowly, head turning left and right. "This is incredible."

I tried to maintain composure, but it was hard. Everywhere I looked, I saw things I wanted.

A bookshop with sentient scrolls that re-shelved themselves based on your mood. A jeweler whose gems floated in protective spheres of water, humming softly. A potion vendor whose entire cart hovered three feet off the ground, bobbing lazily.

I drooled. Not literally. Probably.

"I want one of everything," I whispered.

Hermione side-eyed me. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

We strolled through the main market plaza, turning eventually down a quieter side street filled with lilac vines and wrought-iron signs shaped like phoenixes and moons. Waiting for us outside a handsome wrought-iron gate was the Delacour family.

Waiting for us outside a handsome wrought-iron gate stood a striking family that seemed to glow in the dappled morning sun. The man was short and heavyset, his frame more barrel than blade, with a neatly trimmed beard and rosy cheeks that lifted with a warm, jovial smile. He radiated cheer like a walking hearth. The woman beside him was radiant and elegant, her silver-blonde hair flowing like silk and eyes as luminous as starlight. Standing next to her, a young woman with perfect poise and knowing grace scanned us with polite curiosity, her beauty sharpened by confidence. Slightly behind her, a younger girl peeked out shyly from behind her mother's robes, her soft eyes flickering with curiosity but hesitant to meet anyone's gaze directly.

The squat man with the jolly smile stepped forward first. "Bonjour! I am Jean-Claude Delacour, and this is my wife, Apolline. You must be the Grangers."

Apolline smiled, her voice melodic. "These are our daughters—Fleur, and Gabrielle."

Fleur gave a polite nod. "We are honored to be your guides today. The Flamels asked us to escort you to their home."

Gabrielle offered a shy smile and gave a soft, "Bonjour." She tucked herself slightly behind her mother's arm at first, peeking out with quiet curiosity. 

Apolline offered a warm smile. "We are old friends of the Flamels. They asked us to greet you and escort you to the château."

Fleur gave a polite dip of her head. "It is our pleasure to guide you through La Place Cachée. We hope your journey was smooth."

Gabrielle offered a quick glance at her sister, then to the ground, and gave the faintest nod.

Madame Delacour stood tall and radiant, her silver-blonde hair woven into a braid crowned with faint sparks of light. Beside her was Fleur, resplendent and poised—and clearly accustomed to being stared at.

Dan was a drooling mess.

Emma caught his elbow like a trained assassin and jabbed it sharply.

"Ow—yes, sorry, blinking now."

"Enchanté," Madame Delacour said, smiling warmly. "You must be the Grangers."

Fleur turned to Hermione and offered her hand. "And you must be Sky's companion. You hold yourself with such focus. It is rare."

Hermione flushed violently.

"And you," Madame Delacour said, turning to me. "You are... quite composed."

I blinked. "Should I not be?"

She looked almost pleased. "No. But it is... unusual."

A smaller figure emerged from behind her mother. Gabrielle, a timid presence with soft eyes and a curious demeanor.

"You are Sky?" she asked.

"I've been accused of that, yes." I said kneeling to her height.

"You do not... look like someone who is called Sky."

"What does someone named Sky look like?"

"More clouds."

"Well, I'm storing them in the trunk. Oh wait, I think I got some here."

 From behind my back, I pulled out a stick of white cotton candy—cloudy, soft, and vaguely glowing like it might have absorbed too much moonlight—and held it out toward her. Gabrielle's eyes widened, and after a hesitant glance at her mother, she reached out and took it gently, her fingers barely brushing mine.

She gave a small smile, whispered, "Merci," and clutched the cotton candy like it was priceless.

She giggled softly, the sound barely louder than a breath, then stepped a little closer to me—close enough to suggest trust, but still shy about it. Her hand brushed the side of my coat for only a second before she quickly folded her hands behind her back, her cheeks pink. "I think... I like him," she whispered, mostly to herself.

Madame Delacour raised an eyebrow.

Fleur raised an eyebrow in slight amusement, her lips curling into a faint smile. Behind me, I heard Hermione snort—half amusement, half disbelief, probably questioning how I always got away with things like that.

I noticed Dan fumbling with something in his coat pocket and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

He pulled out his phone and whispered, "What's the number for 999 in France? Just in case you cross a line that shouldn't be crossed."

...

They led us down a back path from the street, through a serene orchard where the sounds of the market faded into a hush of rustling leaves and birdsong. The Delacour estate unfolded like a curated dream—immaculate stone walkways winding through rows of precisely trimmed hedges, enchanted flowers that turned their faces to follow you as you walked, and whispering willows that bent slightly in greeting. The manor itself loomed at the far end of the orchard, its ivy-covered facade woven with protective sigils that shimmered subtly in the sunlight. Elegant stained-glass windows shimmered in hues of violet and sapphire, while a fountain carved in the shape of a phoenix trickled gently in the center of a circular courtyard lined with marble benches. Everything about the estate was quiet wealth and timeless magic, the kind of place where even the air carried grace.

"This is our estate," Madame Delacour explained. "We are just on the edge of La Place Cachée. From here, we can Floo directly to the Flamels."

Dan let out a low whistle. "This place looks like a magical Versailles."

Emma nodded, eyes wide. "It's absolutely breathtaking."

Hermione was too busy examining the protective sigils woven into the manor walls to speak.

And me? I just exhaled and muttered, "I wonder if I could store the whole mansion...."

"What did you say Sky?"

"Nothing"

Inside, the sitting room fireplace roared to life. A polished stone jar held a small scoop of Floo Powder, which Gabrielle insisted I go first with.

I stepped into the fire, announced, "Flamel Château," and vanished.

When I stepped out, I was greeted by an outdoor campsite.

"huh, so instead of in the house, they linked it to a campfire instead. Smart."

The courtyard was vast, with silver fountains and ivy-covered statues of unnamed alchemists. The air itself shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. I turned just in time to see Hermione tumble out behind me, followed by her parents, then the Delacours.

Madame Delacour handed me a small slip of parchment.

"This," she said, "is the address."

I unfolded it, and suddenly the air parted like mist.

There it was.

The Château de Flamel, hidden in plain sight until you had the key. It rose like a fairytale palace, all golden stone and gleaming windows, protected under a Fidelius Charm.

At the gates stood Nicholas Flamel and Perenelle, waiting.

And smiling.