The summer sun filtered in through pale curtains, painting golden lines across the wooden floorboards of my bedroom. Not a guest room. Not temporary. Mine. The Grangers had made it official months ago—papers signed, toothbrush labeled, awkward family hugs exchanged. I, Sky Kingston, was now fully domesticated.
And my room absolutely reflected it. If by "domesticated" you meant it looked like the headquarters of a caffeine-addicted chaos gremlin with a flair for criminal enterprise. Strings and notes webbed across one wall like the secret thoughts of a conspiracy theorist who ran out of string halfway through a breakdown. Parchments littered my desk like fallen soldiers in a stationary war. And in the corner? Cloaks draped over something that definitely wasn't legal: a pair of Vanishing Cabinets, one smuggled from Hogwarts' Room of Requirement and the other reluctantly handed over by Lucius Malfoy himself. He didn't do it out of kindness—he did it out of desperation. The man was terrified that his only son would somehow disgrace the Malfoy name with foul manners, questionable company, and what he ominously referred to as 'Gryffindorish tendencies.' So, in a moment of paternal panic disguised as icy calculation, he agreed that giving me a way to keep tabs on Draco was the lesser evil. Don't ask how I convinced him. Ask why. Then answer it yourself: because I could.
I wasn't the only one to benefit either. Blaise Zabini was having a field day with his snack discounts.
I sat cross-legged in my chair, quill poised dramatically in the air, parchment blank before me. I knew exactly what to write. The problem was tone. I didn't want to come off like a lunatic.
I leaned in.
"Dear Mr. Flamel—" I muttered, then recoiled. "Nope. Too stiff. Sounds like I'm applying for a scholarship."
I scratched it out.
"To Nicholas Flamel, noted Alchemist and alleged immort—"
"No, no, no, now I sound like I'm writing fanfiction."
Another violent line through.
I stared at the parchment. Then shrugged, dipped the quill in ink, and just let the madness flow:
Mr. Flamel,
I write to you regarding a recent... acquisition. A rather precious item has found its way into my care under circumstances that may or may not involve questionable ethics, a trapdoor, and a talking hat that knows too much. I am not asking for ransom—let's call it a "goodwill exchange." You get your rock back, I get a conversation, some answers, a couple of favors, and permission to use the item in question once or twice for entirely non-life-extending, and possibly non-world-ending purposes. Maybe some alchemical field testing, maybe a touch of transmutation—who's counting? No need for alarm. Yet. Let's ensure our meeting involves security, mutual curiosity, and a firm commitment to not blowing anything up.
As luck would have it, the Grangers are planning a trip to France this summer—July 18th, to be precise—and I will be tagging along under the guise of 'family bonding' and 'not committing crimes in a foreign country.' Might I suggest we arrange to meet while we're there? Somewhere nice. Neutral. Preferably somewhere with éclairs. And alchemy. I'll let you choose the ratio. Bring identification. And maybe a calming draught.
Sincerely, S.K.
I tapped the feather against my chin.
"Too short. Add more ominous foreshadowing."
I scribbled a postscript:
P.S. I believe we have more to discuss than you may expect. Especially regarding something that can store that which should not be stored.
That was either genius or grounds for arrest. Possibly both.
Satisfied, I rolled it up, dripped a fat glob of wax onto it, and pressed a Muggle coin into the seal. I had carved an ouroboros into it because, as always, I liked to be dramatic.
A polite hoot made me glance at the window. Perched like a feathered aristocrat was Lady—the same owl I'd fed bacon and spring water to back when I was being sneakier than usual.
"Right on time," I grinned. "Discreet delivery. No aerial backflips. And if anyone asks who sent it, tell them it was a bored teenager who may or may not be holding an immortal's prized alchemical treasure hostage."
She blinked once, took the letter delicately in her beak, and launched into the sky with the kind of class I could only dream of.
I turned toward the bed and snapped my fingers.
With a shimmer, a cherrywood box appeared in my lap, smooth and silver-trimmed. I opened it carefully.
There it was: the Philosopher's Stone.
It glowed with lazy menace, like it knew it didn't need to try hard to be the most dangerous thing in the room.
"Let's put you somewhere even more impossible to find," I whispered.
I held it aloft, and then:
"Inventory."
Gone. Just like that. Box and all. Into my private little void where time, decay, and curious eyes couldn't touch it.
Could be magic. Could be something else entirely. I still don't know. But whatever it is, it's mine—and that's more than enough for now.
I stood, stretching with a pop of joints, and moved to my masterwork of a wall.
"Grunnings – Metal Supply? Masonic Front?" read one web.
"Flamel – Immortal. Possibly unkillable. Ask about moral gray areas."
"Trunk Upgrades – Warehouse vs. Ecosystem. Must fit kayak."
And lastly: "Malfoy Surveillance Plan," with red string pointing directly to the Vanishing Cabinets.
I lifted the cloak off the pair, nodding thoughtfully.
"Still dormant. But not dead. Not yet. Currently useless, tragically uncooperative, and stubborn as a cursed kettle—but with Flamel's help, I'm planning a full revival. And if I can learn how to make my own in the process? Even better."
I tapped one lightly. "Once Flamel and I are past the hostage negotiations, we'll get you both repaired. Maybe even cloned."
"Cloned what?" came Hermione's voice.
Didn't flinch. Didn't even turn.
"Lovely timing," I said. "How do you feel about ethically questionable restoration projects?"
She walked in slowly, her eyes taking in the chaos.
"You've been up for how long?"
"Hard to say. Time moves differently in genius mode."
Her gaze darted to one string.
"Sky… this one says Acquire Drill Empire."
"Ah. Yes. Phase Seven."
She squinted at me. "Of what?"
"Global conquest. Obviously."
Hermione opened her mouth, then wisely shut it. Then she laughed.
"Sometimes I forget you're only a first-year."
"Technically," I corrected, "not for much longer."
She raised a brow. "You mean—?"
"Let's just say I expect Professor Flitwick's owl to start begging for mercy any day now."
We exchanged one of those looks—the ones that meant chaos was coming and we both planned to take notes.
I turned back to the window, imagining where Lady was now.
Somewhere out there, my letter was fluttering toward the hands of an immortal alchemist who didn't know it yet, but was about to have a very strange summer.
"Let the summer games begin," I whispered.
And just like that, the plans were in motion. Not a trap—Flamel already knew the Stone had been delivered. This letter was mostly theater. But oh, what lovely theater it was.