The inside of my enchanted trunk was unusually quiet, even for a place layered with silencing charms and extra-dimensional space. I had made it especially so this time, wanting no interruptions. Not from the sounds of crackling fireplaces or shifting students outside, and certainly not from the twins attempting another one of their indoor fireworks experiments two floors up in Gryffindor Tower.
I was somewhat alone—or as alone as one could be inside a magically expanded trunk the size of a small flat. On my desk, beside a few unrolled blueprints for Magicopoly's deluxe edition and a very patient Eurasian pygmy owl preening its feathers with quiet dignity, sat a letter. It had arrived earlier that morning in an envelope bearing a wax seal so ancient it practically whispered history. I had recognized it immediately—the crest of the Flamel family.
The parchment was thick, soft, and smelled faintly of lavender and old ink. The script was impossibly neat, almost too elegant to be handwritten. And yet, I knew it was. Nicholas Flamel was nothing if not precise.
I read the letter again, slowly, letting every word settle in.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Dear Mr. Sky Kingston,
Let me begin by offering my sincerest thanks. Your letter was a surprise in every sense, and a revelation in more ways than I can count. To say that I was disheartened to learn of how my creation was being used would be an understatement of criminal proportions.
I am grateful you saw fit to inform me of Albus'... extracurricular intentions. I had suspected he was planning something more elaborate than simple research, but never would I have imagined the Philosopher's Stone being used as a lure within a school.
For your honesty, I owe you a debt. And I am not a man who leaves debts unpaid.
I understand you intend to borrow the Stone. Know that I do not resent this intention. In fact, I find your caution in requesting it both refreshing and reassuring. Even without it in your possession, you have treated the matter with more respect than some who should know better.
To that end, allow me to affirm several things.
First, I will aid you in your time of need, should you ever require it. My wife and I both agree that, regardless of your youth, you have demonstrated wisdom enough to warrant our trust. Please do not abuse this trust.
Second, I am prepared to host you this coming summer. I suspect there is much we could show one another—and perhaps a few things I can still teach. The Château de Flamel will have a room ready for you.
Third, regarding the Stone itself: you may use it, but only so long as it remains within the secure vaults of Gringotts. This is not a matter of mistrust, but of tradition and security. I have informed the goblins of your temporary custodianship and the specific terms of our arrangement. You will find no resistance from them.
In fact, by ensuring the Stone's safe return, you've all but guaranteed yourself favorable status with them. I am one of the primary suppliers of the gold refined into galleons—an arrangement that makes my name carry certain weight within Gringotts. Consider this both a courtesy and a quiet alliance. They will treat you with respect.
I intend to meet you in person this summer at Gringotts in London. We can discuss your goals further, and I will assist with whatever you may have in mind. However, I do reserve the right to decline involvement should your intentions prove dark or reckless. That said, based on the content of your past letters, I don't believe that will be a concern.
Perenelle, by the way, is quite looking forward to meeting you. She's already begun planning an absurdly over-decorated guest room in the tower wing.
Do not hesitate to write again. You may keep and use this owl for future correspondence—it knows its way.
Yours in earnest, Nicholas Flamel
_______________________________________________________________________________________
The signature was flourished but light, like a master alchemist's touch on a finished potion. I sat back in my chair, the corners of my mouth curling upward.
Things were changing.
And for once, they were changing in my favor.
The letter still resting in my hands, I looked over at the creature that had delivered it. It sat calmly on the back of my reading chair, no more than six inches tall, its feathers a mottled blend of browns and soft whites that blended so well with the wood it looked like an intricate carving.
A Eurasian pygmy owl—France's smallest native owl. It tilted its head as if aware I was thinking about it, and blinked slowly, calmly. The air around it seemed still, thoughtful, as though the bird itself were weighing the meaning of its delivery. Not showy, not proud—just present. Intelligent. Gentle.
There was a sense of quiet observation about it, like it had seen centuries of wizarding correspondence and judged none of it impressive enough to speak on.
A Eurasian pygmy owl—France's smallest native owl. It gave a soft, curious hoot when it noticed me staring, more inquisitive than annoyed.
"So you're the famous courier?" I said quietly, rising to approach it.
The owl blinked once, unbothered, and tilted its head. It didn't flinch as I reached out and gently stroked the soft feathers atop its round little head. Its golden eyes remained locked on mine, unblinking, as if evaluating my worth.
"You don't say much, do you?" I asked.
It ruffled its feathers and let out a tiny trill of acknowledgment, almost like a scoff.
I chuckled. "Figures Flamel would send a bird as old and mysterious as himself—just in a more compact form."
The owl shuffled its claws along the edge of the chair, looking every bit like it expected tea and a polite thank-you card. I reached into the air with practiced ease and pulled a small silver dish seemingly from nowhere. Then came fresh, clean water, pouring out of thin air into the bowl, followed by a couple strips of bacon on a plate I may or may not have acquired from the great hall. The bacon was still warm and glistening as though it had just left the breakfast table.
The owl blinked once, slowly, clearly registering what it had just witnessed. Its eyes sharpened with newfound interest, and it adjusted its posture as if reassessing me entirely.
The bird hopped down, gave me a look of reserved approval, and began eating with the precision of a proper lady at a formal tea. Each bite was taken with care—no hurried gulps or frantic pecking. She dabbed at the bacon like she was savoring a particularly delicate hors d'oeuvre, pausing between bites to sip daintily from the silver dish of water as though observing etiquette only she was privy to.
"Wow," I murmured, unable to stop a grin. "Dramatic much?"
I chuckled softly, watching her resume her meal with composed elegance.
""Alright, then. You've earned your keep."
I paused, tilting my head slightly. "Do you have a name yet?"
The owl blinked once, then gave a single, measured shake of her tiny head.
"No?" I murmured, thoughtfully tapping my chin. I stared at her for a long moment as she resumed her dignified dining.
Something elegant, simple... fitting.
"Lady," I said at last, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Yeah. That suits you."
The owl gave a soft, almost regal trill—as if she approved."
It trilled again—soft and content, almost like a lullaby spun into feathers.
"Great," I muttered. "Even the owl radiates wisdom like it's trying to mentor me."
Still, there was something oddly reassuring about its presence. Like a living reminder that the Flamels were now in my corner.
And I had a feeling I was going to need all the allies I could get.