Not Dead Yet

1992 April

"One must never scratch, spit, hiccup or belch while at the table."

"Take care not to breathe too heavily, nor eat too loudly."

"Do not compliment the food. Such behaviour is deserving of a tavern and not a table of Lords."

"Food offered by one of higher rank is an honour. Food from the same or lesser is a humiliation."

"Never pass your nose over food or drink lest you seem rude."

"Litha colours are yellow, green and blue. Yule dons silver, blue and white. Observe light green, lemon yellow and pale pink in Spring, and orange, red, yellow, gold, and brown in Autumn."

"Tradition is the backbone of our society, and special attention should be paid to all customs and ceremonies."

Back straight with an even gaze, a representative to House Malfoy was expected to never lower their eyes in a conversation. A woman of any good-breeding must know their allies: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, House Nott, House Carrow, House Rosier, House Lestrange, and House Burke of the sacred twenty-eight. The mind was a vessel for our history and the body a tool to forge it. To be a noble representative of Britain was to be a symbol of strength and fortitude, a deterrent to would-be usurpers and foreign powers. They were the first and last line of defence against the parasites of the magical world.

Alana stiffened as a cane stung the knuckles of her hand. She had hesitated again. Her fingers flexed, continuing their path to what she hoped was the salad fork. Why people felt the need to have three types of spoons, four knives, five forks and five glasses, she could not fathom. The Malfoy family motto glared mockingly at her from where it hung in the dining room: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper - Purity will always conquer. A pair of black dragons hovered above it with a green, and black shield gripped between them, the Malfoy coat of arms.

The cane struck again, and Alana hissed silently. She was beginning to think Lady Malfoy was beginning to enjoy herself a bit too much. Sadly, the woman's stony expression did nothing to confirm her theory. She wrapped her fingers over the correct piece of cutlery, as evidenced by the lack of reprimand. Her lunch had already long gone cold but would likely still taste better than whatever she would have scr.a.p.ed together at her London residence.

The Malfoys had already dined before she arrived, so the Lady of the house was free to personally administer the tortuous sermon on etiquette and manners Alana had unknowingly signed up for. Even Capricorn, who was usually content to sort knowledge, was in a mood because of the disturbance. The last time Alana had stepped into her mindscape, the library system had stared at her for a good minute in silent protest before returning to his tasks. There wasn't much to be done about the situation. Between rearranging her relevant theoretical knowledge with her newly acquired physical experiences, and researching ways to destroy the Philosopher's stone, she was busy enough.

1992 April

The school term began as though break had never happened, which was an insult to her suffering as far as Alana was concerned. The departed Professor Quirrell had been replaced with some french teaching fellow who'd attended Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. She was a pretty woman which was enough indication that her presence would be temporary. That fact didn't seem to make a difference to the seventh years who fawned over her with love-struck eyes. It was amusing to the point where Alana and Charlotte had taken to spectating the Professor's rejections with bowls of popcorn in their hands.

Fencing Club resumed without any delays thanks to Professor Flitwick's quick thinking. The group hadn't been too ill-affected by the introduction of Potter, at least not enough to hinder the way it functioned. There was a reshuffling of sparring partners amongst the Gryffindor-Slytherin pairs, but things were otherwise calm. No one was inclined to break the truce Rowan Blackwood had called when he took his usual spot as the punching bag of Leoen's brother without complaint. It was a noble sacrifice on Rowan's part. He did his title of club president proud.

"Professor Flitwick asked me to switch partners for the day," Percy announced while handing Alana one of the illusioned rapiers in his grasp. His nose was scrunched up at the prospect, but he didn't comment further.

Leoen had missed the past two practices to complete assignments, so Percy had been filling in as usual. Apparently, her head of house wanted to mix things up. Not the brightest idea considering she was the Ravenclaw wild child and Percy had a tenuous grip on the Gryffindor crown. The whole Potter fiasco really limited the plausible partners they could take in Fencing Club.

"I think I saw one of the Hufflepuffs without a partner," She suggested halfheartedly. She really didn't fancy sparring with one of the less experienced members. That sadly eliminated most of her options. She was a complete novice in swordwork, but her reflexes were sharp enough that most struggled to keep up with her, nonetheless. Percy was exceptionally skilled, which made for an enjoyable experience for both of them. The only other person who could match him was possibly Rowan, but he was otherwise occupied.

"Need a partner?" As though summoned by her thoughts, Rowan manifested before her in his green-eyed glory. "Here," He practically beamed, tossing a limp body in front of his so he could shove it towards her. "You can have mine," He grinned. Before she could say a word, he had locked onto the older Weasley sibling and was dragging him away. In the ensuing silence, she could hear him hiss as the older Weasley, "Don't look back, he'll sense your weakness."

Alana glanced at her supposed partner for the day. The elder Volkov was someone most people avoided, and with good reason. He was the heir to his family estate, a tall, willowy wizard with porcelain skin and a pair of large, black, soulless eyes. His hair was as pin-straight as his posture, and the only part of him that looked remotely safe to touch. Rumour said he could hypnotise a person into committing suicide, but all she could think about was that he looked like a human doll. Illumi Volkov was nothing like his younger brother.

He stared at her for a few seconds, doing nothing to ease the tension in the air. It grew heavier. Alana felt sweat bead on her forehead, and numbly realised that she had stopped breathing. It seemed gravity had decided to pull her under the Earth's crust and her legs strained to keep her upright. The wizard blinked, and she was released. Inhaling sharply, she almost gasped for breath as he turned away from her. He crossed the room with long strides, waist-length locks of black hair swaying behind him. Alana wasn't quite sure what had just happened but knew better than to question it. Her limbs were stiff, but she managed to follow after the fifth year.

He still hadn't said anything when he stopped by his and Rowan's usual sparring area and picked up the sword she hadn't even realised he was missing. He stared at her pointedly and Alana, for the first time in a while, felt like the child between the two. It was not pleasant. She raised her sword into the starting position to mirror his own. There was no warning before he lunged towards her.

If she was lightning in her reflexes, then he was bloody Thor. She barely moved the foil in time to block a vicious strike to her left. Her arms burned under the unexpected force of the blow, but he was already moving to remise. The second short attack was followed by a third and fourth, which she narrowly managed to parry. There was no time to counter-attack, no time to observe his form under the constant barrage, and certainly, no time to think. A beat caught her off guard, the quick strike of her opponent's blade to hers creating an opening for a clear hit. The moment after he made contact, he withdrew. In the second it took for her to realise she'd been hit, he was already back in the starting position.

Had she not been terrified out of her wits, she might have taken the time to feel pity for Rowan who endured the Volkov's treatment every week. As it was, she could on take a shaky breath and stumble back into place. She managed to recollect herself, feeling both the weight of the older boy's gaze and the bruise he'd left on the arm as she did so.

She knew the Volkov's were trained, but the gap between Illumi and Leoen's skill level was ridiculous. There was a one year difference! Surely him being able to completely overpower her without breaking a sweat was a bit much. Leoen was skilled enough to keep up, but Illumi was purely demonic. His attacks were brutal and precise to the point where for a moment, she'd forgotten she was sparring and not fighting for her life. Her small slip where her free hand moved to summon a hidden blade from its sheath had left her in a cold sweat. She had been so sure that he would kill her.

She steadied herself and smoothed out her occlumency shields. Inside her mind, Capricorn prepared himself for the new stimuli he would be tasked to analyse. Illumi was still waiting. "Again," She tightened her grip and raised the foil.

She was beaten severely that day - over and over and over again.

1992 May

"Norbert is a Norwegian Ridgeback. Doesn't Hagrid know that they're venomous, not to mention illegal to hand-raise?! I don't know what Hagrid is thinking, bringing one of them into the school! Surely he knows what a risk that is. I mean really, hatching a fire-breathing dragon in a wooden hut just screams irresponsible. I don't know why the headmaster hasn't done anything yet. Surely, he knows about it," Hermione continued to rant. Her face was turning a fashionable shade of red as the Gryffindor trio headed back to the castle.

"Hermione, keep your voice down. Do you want the whole castle to know?" Ron grouched. He gave the witch a look that questioned her supposed intelligence. Seeing her ready herself to make a retort, he quickly interrupted, "Besides, everyone knows Dumbledore has a soft spot for Hagrid. The worst-case scenario is that he gets told off. The headmaster always looks after his favourites."

Harry's eyes dived towards the ground in preparation for the argument he knew was about to start. If only, he had his invisibility cloak, he thought regretfully. Hermione gasped, scandalised. "Ron! Favouritism isn't okay, and it shouldn't be encouraged," she scolded as though speaking to a misbehaving child.

Ron looked distinctly uncomfortable but held his ground. "I'm not saying it's alright, 'Mione, I'm just saying that you should choose your battles wiser."

"He's right, you know," a voice chimed from the nearby hallway. Charlotte Winters sent the three a cheeky smile when their heads shot up in alarm. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," She apologised, "but you were talking really loudly. Not exactly hallway conversation, is it?"

"Charlotte, what are you doing here?" Hermione's face flushed with embarrassment, but she still looked pleased to see the witch. The two were frequent study companions in the library along with the notably absent Lola.

"Can't a witch take a walk around the castle?" Winters inquired with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. She was still dressed in her day robes, her Ravenclaw tie hanging loosely around her neck.

"It's curfew soon, and we were just headed back. It's a strange time to be walking about," Harry finally piped up. His viridescent eyes examined her sharply. Charlotte just laughed good-naturedly. The little kid had certainly filled out, she noted with some satisfaction. He was no longer a waif of skin and bone waiting to be blown over by the wind. She had chosen not to say anything when she'd caught Alana dosing his food in various healing potions. Giving them to a minor without parental consent was definitely illegal, but for whatever reason, Alana thought it necessary, and she trusted the witch's judgement.

"I was going to find Lola, actually. She said she would come by after helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouse this afternoon, but I haven't seen her since. Those two tend to lose track of time, so I figured it couldn't hurt to check up on them." Charlotte smiled.

"Oh, well, we won't keep you any longer, then. Say hello to Lola and the Professor for me," Hermione blurted out, tugging two bewildered boys behind her as she marched down the halls. If she let them hang about any longer, they would no doubt say something stupid.

1992 June

"What do you mean Nicholas is dead?" Dumbledore gasped. His gnarled hands shook as they reached out to find support on a nearby table. His phoenix, Fawkes, trilled softly in the background but the usual calm that accompanied it did not reach him. Nicholas Flamel could not be dead. The mere thought was ridiculous.

"I mean that I found my husband's corpse rotting in our kitchen when I came home today," Perenelle bit out through gritted teeth. Her stern features twisted with despair and anger. The image flickered in the flames of the fireplace. Dumbledore wheezed painfully. "Nicholas has been murdered, Albus, all because of that blasted stone." Perenelle laughed through the floo call. It was a bitter and pained sound, not unlike that of a wounded animal. "Do you know what the funny thing is?" She bared her teeth mockingly, and Dumbledore shook his head.

"No," he mouthed. His throat constricted, his lungs burned, but his eyes remained free of tears.

"In the three hundred years I've lived, he has survived poisonings, abductions, bombings, thieves, and death threats, but the one time he didn't actually have the stone, he gets himself killed." Her voice shook, her face crumbling as words left her lips. There was some grief, not even he could soothe.

"I'm sorry, Perenelle, truly-" Albus tried anyway.

"I didn't floo call you for apologies, Albus," She interrupted. Her eyes were bloodshot, and for a brief moment, he envied her for her tears. "I wanted to let you know that you need not worry about the stone," She spoke, quieter now. Dumbledore fought down the swelling of desperate hope before it could reach on his features. She continued, "There was a Curse of Providence on the object."

His breath caught before his eyes bulged in surprise. There was gratitude there as well as he thanked whatever god had moved Flamel to use the ritual curse so long ago. The spell was considered extreme light magic and was one of the many magical bond-forming rituals that had been classified as highly dangerous by the International Confederation of Wizards after the Goblin Wars. The ritual would tie a neutral magical tool to its creator's magical core. Done correctly, the device would be made virtually indestructible and responsive only to the will of its bonded owner. Perenelle had been extended the ability to use the stone through the marriage bond she and Nicholas shared, but that privilege was now no more.

"The stone is destroyed. Without Nicholas' core to anchor the other end of the bond, it will destroy itself. I suppose his murderer did you a favour."

Albus was pulled from his thoughts by Perenelle's rough voice. His face twisted in discomfort. Perenelle had always been the more volatile of the two Flamels. She was passionate, and as devoted to her husband as she was to her craft. That knowledge caused a knot of unease to form in his stomach.

"Perenelle," He began. He stopped to collect his thoughts, knowing instinctively that this could very well be the last time he saw her. "Revenge will not lead to happiness," he finished. He didn't know what else to say. He had never thought himself to be good with words of comfort despite the claims of his students. Still, he had already lost one good friend that night and had no d.e.s.i.r.e to lose another to that madness of the soul.

"I don't want happiness, Albus," Perenelle seethed as if the word was an insult. "I will die without the stone, and I am at peace with that, but I will see his murderer dead before I take my rest. Sard! I will not let this go unpunished, Dumbledore! I'll tear the whole of Qatar apart if I have to to find that rantallion Jamal Amir!," Perenelle growled and jerked back from the flames. The call ended abruptly, the fire roaring up and over the grate. A shadow moved behind a shelf in the office.

Albus cursed, rocking backwards from the flames with a fistful of robes clenched in one hand. He cursed again as he dragged himself away. He should have tried harder, he thought before he could squash the tide of regrets that came from 'what ifs'. His old bones protested as he moved to unlock his pensieve. He selected a bottle and pulled a copy of the night's memory from his mind. The white vine of thought floated on the edge of his wands extraction spell before he carefully stored it away. He pulled out four similar crystal vials from the cabinet shelf and tipped one into the basin.

It was an old memory, one of his earliest as a young man estranged from his family. He had left Britain after the fight with his brother - after Arianna. He had been an ambitious youth, despite his circ.u.mstances, too curious for the small world he was born into. The alchemy apprenticeship with Nicholas Flamel was an escape as much as it was an adventure. He had been exchanging letters with the researcher while in Hogwarts and was eager to join him in Paris for further study. He had thrived under his tutelage, spent years learning all the skills he had to teach. Things had been simple then. They were some of his most precious memories.

1992 June

"Here," Alana shifted the young Ravenclaw's stiff arm into a more relaxed position and directed his wrist into the spell's correct motion. "Use your wrist, not your arm."

The boy tried again but the disarming spell again but it only fizzled out a few metres away. "It's still not working," He complained to the witch who had moved on to help one of his second-year classmates with her history paper. The fourth-year Alana had taken to running open tutorials for the younger Ravenclaws on Thursdays, and he wasn't about to turn down free help.

"Are you focusing on the spell's purpose or just saying the incantation?" She asked and his face twisting in confusion was all the answer she needed. "Consider the incantation: Expeliarmus. It is Latin like most spells, a good language to ground our thoughts because it also grounds our English language. 'Ex' means 'out', 'pellere' means 'to drive', and 'arma' or 'armus' refers to a weapon attached to the arm. Put it together, and you have 'to drive out weapon' which is precisely what the spell does. Now suppose that is true, what must you consider when casting the spell?"

"The weapon?" He replied hesitantly.

Alana smiled encouragingly, a rather unfamiliar action. "Yes, and one other thing."

"Where you want to drive it out to," He answered, more sure this time.

"Excellent, now try again with those thoughts in mind. The wand is a weapon capable of harming someone, and it must be driven out from their hand and into your own." Alana's instructions were followed by a more successful attempt but an overpowered one. Thus, she began a short lesson on power volume control involving multiple lumos demonstrations.

The tutorial lasted another hour before Alana finally retired from the library. Farrel met her outside the doorway like clockwork, ready to accompany her to his claimed music room.

"Get anyone new today?" He asked, always curious about the girl's daytime activities. It was interesting to watch her so effortlessly pull students under her wing with just a smile and helping hand. He had even caught a snake hovering on the edges of her study group the week before.

"No one new. Cassie and Erik showed up again, though. I think they might become regulars." She made a thoughtful expression. "Also, a muggle-born came and asked me about the Olde ways and Wiccan tradition," She paused, "He seemed quite genuine in his interest despite being uninitiated in the mysteries. I was thinking of lending him some of my notes."

Alana had quickly learnt the difference between those who observed the Olde ways and those who were initiated in its mysteries. She had placed herself on the path into the latter group unintentionally with her first Samhain ritual. The first step to initiation was pledging oneself to one of the Olde deities and taking up a second name to devote to that being. She had once been Alexis Crevan, and that name belonged to Death. Studying the mysteries seemed to be inevitable with her tie to Death, so she'd chosen to just go with it (pushover).

There were milestones along the path from initiate to acolyte, a lot of them ritualistic in nature. A living sacrifice was one such marker along with the binding of a familiar. Very few completed all of the trials during their lifetime, so experience was the main determinant of the respect a person would receive from their fellow initiates. Some individuals were seen as naturally inclined to the mysteries of the Olde Ways: necromancers, element manipulators, illusionists, and seers. They received the utmost respect and admiration for both their skill and their knowledge. Much of the Olde Ways, however, had been made illegal in Britain. Those who practised the faith openly had been forced to move or learn to keep their tongues silent on the matter.

The Olde Ways were not quite Wiccan, not quite Hellenistic, and not quite Celtic though they held components of each and celebrated their festivals. The beliefs were centred around Mother Magic, the Earth mother who was some recognised as the Mother Goddess, Gaia, Danu, Dao, or Atum. From Danu came the Tuatha de Dannan or the Tuath Dé, the tribe of gods, who through many great battles, had branched across the world. The Tuath Dé were described as refined musicians, skilled craftspeople, and accomplished warriors in the myths that travelled the Earth. It was said that in ancient Ireland, the divine Tuath Dé had beseeched the Goddess Danu to create a test to select leaders among their worshipers. These tests became the foundation of the Olde Ways.

There were legends of those who had passed all of the steps, 'Lords of magic' they were called. The myths were different wherever you went. In some cultures, the 'Lords of magic' were gods in their own right, demi-gods, prophets, saints, and heroes. Some believed the Tuath Dé to be immortal wizards while Alana preferred the story of high ranking Fae who had left the mortal realm for the Otherworld, Tír na nÓg. With time, even the title 'Lord of magic' had changed in its meaning, and since its creation, many have falsely claimed it.

"Alana," Farrell's ghost spoke, breaking the witch from her thoughts. He moved to hover beside her as she closed the music room door behind them. "I heard an interesting conversation last night."