Prologue

12:17am 23rdJune 2000

Musty. That's how he would describe Balzac's Bibliotheque. Some of the books they held were centuries old - and smelt it. He did not find the smell unpleasant - far from it. It was one of the things that first attracted him to working there over a year and a half ago. Well, that, and the Balzacs themselves. Bertrom and Blanche were a kind, Muggle-born couple in their sixties. They had never had children, so when he had shown up on their doorstep eager for the job as assistant, they took him in willingly, providing him with accommodation above the library.

One of the things he liked best about them was that they didn't ask too many questions. They left him to his own devices for the most part. But it was clear too that they cared for him. Occasionally, in the evenings, he would go to the local tavern with Bertrom, and Blanche would cook them his favourite Boeuf Bourguignon for when they returned. They did not have much - the library did not provide an enormous sum in the way of income - but they would not allow him to pay rent on his flat. His pay, while not substantial, was more than they could afford.

A wave of guilt washed over him every time he suspected that they were going without, so he tried to pay them back in any way he could think of. He brewed a potion for Bertrom every fortnight to treat his high-blood pressure - he was rather adept at Potion-making; he would work unpaid overtime cataloguing books at the end of the day and helped walk their dog César when they were too tired to do so. He still didn't think it was enough. They believed him capable of so much more than what the library had to offer. Perhaps they were right - but at that time, he had no ambitions beyond the four walls of Balzac's. Blanche kept slipping him the brochures from the potion testing institute in Paris, despite his protests that he was happy in the magical community of Argenterre in Angouleme.

He was - happy, that is. As happy as he could ever remember being, anyway. Not that that was saying…he was happy. He had a good job, a cosy flat, great food, more literature than he could read in a lifetime and the kindest employers and friends a young wizard could ask for. Granted, he wasn't wealthy by any means, nor did he have any sort of relationship to speak of - aside from a minor flirtation with the waitress Ophélie from the café opposite -but still: he was grateful; content. Or, at least, he would be once he finished the inventory for the night.

2:34am 23rdJune 2000

He got that feeling sometimes - a sort of nagging in the back of his mind that he had not quite remembered everything. He had finished with the inventory nearly an hour ago but still he lay there - thinking. He sorted through the checklist in his mind: inventory; debt collection register; wards on the safe; César in his kennel; wards on the front and side doors…he definitely had. He wouldn't forget - not again. He frowned. He couldn't remember the last time he had forgotten. He was probably just tired - even so, he ran through the list again.

Inventory; debt collection register; wards on the safe; César in his kennel; wards on the front and side doors. Inventory; debt collection register; wards on the safe; César in his kennel; wards on the front and side doors. Inventory, debt collection…kennel, wards on…César…side…safe…doors…

3:12am 23rdJune 2000

He had been in a cell. Well, it felt like it. There were no bars but it was cold, hard and unforgiving. The walls were marble - too grand for a prison but just as ugly. There had been glass scattered everywhere - glittering bright against the stone coloured floor. The light bounced off them and refracted into blues, reds, greens and pinks. He didn't understand where the light had come from - all around was darkness; all around silence. Well, until the scream. A scream that pierced through it all. It told of unadulterated pain, anguish and fear. He didn't understand it; he didn't want to. It scared him - not because of what it meant or who it had come from. It scared him because it was familiar.

It was this terrifying familiarity that he had been dragged from when a scrape had sounded on the staircase joining the library and his flat. He had always been a light sleeper; it didn't take much to rouse him even from the deepest sleep. If César was having a restless night he would just lie awake, driving himself to the brink of exhaustion. At times like this, however, he did not mind how sensitive he was to disturbance.

He whipped the covers off of him as he launched himself out of bed with agility not required from an assistant librarian. He grabbed the wand on his bedside table and made his way over to the door. It only took three strides - it was not a very big room. His hand stilled on the door knob for a moment. He listened; reached into the dense silence for another sound besides that of his controlled breathing.

There -faint whispers, hushed and secret. He knew they did not belong to Bertrom and Blanche. It was their anniversary and they had taken off to Grasse for the weekend , leaving him in charge of the library. César was in his kennel and, even so, he didn't whisper. He was alone - at least, he was supposed to be. The voices stopped now and he held his breath for one, two, three -he turned the door handle as noiselessly as possible and cast a quick Silencing Charm as he anticipated it creaking open.

He took a cautious step out of the doorway, resisting the temptation to light his wand. As much as he would like to see what the disturbance was, he didn't think it wise to draw attention to himself. Instead, he listened; waited until they gave something away - a whisper or a heavy breath or -

Creak -a footstep. He whipped his wand in the direction of the noise and ventured forward one shaky step. He knew he would have to strike soon. The incantation for the Stunning Spell rested on the tip of his tongue - he would cast nothing more harmful than that without knowing the intruders' intentions. What he really wanted to know is how they had got in - he thought he had fully protected the place. It was the same routine every night; he couldn't understand what he was missing.

His heart was thrumming in his ears and as he listened out for any sounds, he could barely hear anything above his treacherous body's panic. It deafened him - the combination of the silence around him and the chaos inside of him kept pushing inwardly and he couldn't. Hear. Anything. He was panicking - he realised. But he was alone and there was no one to help him. It was both terrifyingly new and bizarrely familiar at the same time. He didn't understand how that could be - maybe he was going a little mad. Maybe there weren't even voices after all. Maybe-

Blinding pain, white with spots lingering behind his eyes and a dull, throbbing ache to the back of his head. He was on his hands and knees now - his wand still grasped in his hand but useless in his current position. Fuck,he thought. He needed to contact the Phulatéres - but in order to cast his Patronus he would need to be quick and uninhibited by any further assault. He inhaled a staggering breath and raised a hand as if to feel the back of his head. He gripped his wand firmly and prepared to cast the -

Thwack- he was kicked in the spine and forced to the ground with a stifled groan. The air vacated his lungs and the incantation momentarily died on his lips. He had no time to collect himself before he was flipped over. A dim light was shining out of one of their wands, preventing him from seeing their faces and only the bottom half of their bodies. They wore black cloaks - too thick for the current temperature. Their hands were old - perhaps the same age as Blanche and Bertrom, maybe younger. They appeared to belong to men - two, as far as he could see.

"Did you think you could hide here, under the roof of scum and we'd still not find you, Little Dragon?" It was the one with the lit wand who spoke. His tone was patronising and cold. He did not know who they were and why he called him that name. He nearly said as much, but he opted for action instead. As quickly as he could, he kicked the feet out from under the one who had spoken and sent a silent Stunner in the general direction of the other. He knew it hit its target when he collapsed onto his feet. Knowing he didn't have much time, he sent his Patronus to the Phulatéres - a lion erupting from the end of his wand and disappearing through the back wall.

He braced himself for what came next. A howl of indignation and a sharp kick to the ribs - it could have been worse. "You'll pay for that, you filthy blood traitor!" the conscious man growled. "Crucio!" Ah - here came worse. The pain ripped through him like countless tiny blades and he prayed he'd pass out from it but, on the contrary, he was more awake than ever. He could feel every bit of this and Merlin - it hurt. His fingernails dug into his palms, flaying flesh and drawing blood in an effort not to tear his own hair out or scrape at his skin. It didn't feel like it belonged to him anymore and he just wanted it off. He wasn't even aware he'd been biting his lips to stop himself from screaming until the pain relented and he tasted blood.

"Oh ho - we seem to have grown braver since you faced the Dark Lord. As I recall, you whimpered like an infant under his torture." He did not understand his words but the man's voice betrayed nothing. It was empty; absent. It was worse than the rage. "No matter," he said lazily, awakening his companion with a flick of his wand. As soon as the other man scrambled to his feet he aimed a sharp kick to his head. He hissed in pain but saved his moaning - the worst was yet to come.

"What is it the Muggles say? Ah, yes - if at first you don't succeed…" The man stamped on his wand arm as he saw he was about to raise it. He winced more with the anticipation of what was coming rather than the pain of that action. "Try again," the voice was low and murderous. It did not bode well. "Crucio!"

He was back in the stone room and it was still cold, still hard and just as unyielding. However, there was no glass on the floor, but a figure. He could not make it out but it was screaming and crying and he knew and could understand how much it hurt - he could feel it now. The screams pierced through him just like the pain did now and he wanted to help….so wanted to. But it was too late - he was helpless and both the figures looming over them so intractable. The last thing he remembered was a pair of dark brown eyes, rimmed in red and a loud shout from somewhere below him.

And then the grey stone faded to black.