Cub's first mistake was taking the job. His second was finally accepting the title of a Royal. His third was agreeing to attend Beauxbatons.

While he knew the job would come with several problems, he knew there was a lead to finding a certain man through the Tournament. And by becoming a Royal, he knew he wouldn't have to worry about any other mercenaries crouching in on his territory throughout the duration of the job. At the time, it seemed to be perfect- and Beauxbatons just threw everything together.

Trained to be cautious and clever from a young age, Cub took in all the risks and found them all to be worth it- at the time.

Hindsight could be a bitch.

Harry Elder, better known as Cub, walked into the high class office with a swish of a grey cloak and an air of power. His eyes, a deep, surprising green shone from within the shadowed cowl. Little, besides a strong, aquiline nose could be seen of his face. A flick of his hand and the door closed behind him with a near-silent click.

Claude Bonhomme, the French Minister of Magic, looked up.

"Cub?" he asked cautiously, blue eyes narrowing. The figure inclined his head. Blue eyes widened for a moment, then the minister seemed to remember himself. "Sit down, please."

"I prefer to stand," Cub said softly.

"Of course, of course," said Bonhomme quickly. "Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Firewhiskey?"

"No," said Cub. His hand disappeared into his robes and he withdrew a flask, ignoring Bonhomme's flinch. "I've learned that an unattended glass leaves too many opportunities for poisoning."

Bonhomme swallowed, chills running down his spine. "Ah," he managed.

"What do you want?" Cub asked, leaning against the wall. "I doubt you have called me here early simply to exchange pleasantries. We have already arranged our agreement, no?"

"Yes," said Bonhomme. "I simply wish to clear up a few details before you arrive."

"Understandable," Cub said, voice flat. Bonhomme swallowed.

"Well, as you know, I have contracted you to protect my daughters through the Tri-Wizard Tournament," he said, watching Cub for any reaction. When the mercenary did not move, he continued. "I have been pro-Muggle in my political stance for a while now and I am gaining many enemies. My eldest, Olaf, was nearly killed already. I fear for my children's lives."

"Why do you not step down?" Cub asked.

"It would not remove the enemies," said Bonhomme. "And I could do no good." His eyes hardened. "My wife has already been killed," he added darkly. "I will not allow anymore of my family to die."

"Continue."

Bonhomme blinked, confused.

"What details do you want cleared up?" Cub said, crossing his arms. Bonhomme nodded quickly.

"How do you wish to be introduced to the girls?"

"Alphonse Alain Travert," said Cub promptly. "Al for short. I am the son of your English cousin whose parents recently died in a tragic train accident. I have no family in England, so I have come to live with my godfather. Mother never told you nor I of our relation and I only learned through her will."

"Acceptable. How old will you be?"

'Al' pondered this for a moment. "Hmm...the girls are seventh and fifth years, correct?"

"Yes."

'Al' nodded. "I'll be a seventh year- sixteen years old."

"Can you pass for sixteen?"

Cub nodded. "I'm certainly short enough," he said. He raised an eyebrow. "But you knew that already, or why would you have contacted me in particular? For what position you want me to be in?"

Bonhomme had no response, so he simply sipped his coffee.

Cub sighed, taking a sip from his hip flask. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Au revoir," said Bonhomme, returning to his native language.

The door drifted shut once more.

Cub threw his bag at the nearest chair, leapt onto his bed, and yanked off the heavy cloak the moment he knew his hotel room was secure. He was hot, irritable, and exhausted. While the meeting with Bonhomme was…tolerable, the goddamn cloak was not.

He could hear Father in his head now. "Harry, stop whining." Or, "Harry, you should be used to the cloak." Didn't mean Harry gave a damn.

Father always did say that Harry had a streak of independence a mile wide…

Harry took a swig of water and threw back his head. He absently waved a wand over his body, sighing as the glamours slicked off his body.

Black crept into blond before finally overtaking it and shortened to be cropped close to his head. His skin darkened several shades, from fair to a dark olive tan. Freckles faded.

"That's better," he muttered to himself. Thanks to Father, the glamours didn't risk taking too much magic anymore, but it was always nice to shrug off the sucking, slurping feeling they gave-

And now Harry made himself feel sick. Who the hell ever came up with the word 'slurping'? Nasty.

For a moment, Harry just laid spread-eagle across the thick covers, eyes on the soft beige ceiling. He was so tired.

Harry snorted to himself, rolling onto his side to grab the muggle remote. He was always tired these days- not in a physical sense (unless a job required it)- but something more insidious. Maybe this mission to Beauxbatons would be a like a little vacation.

Flicking on the tellie, Harry rolled his eyes. As if. Trouble always came knocking on Harry Elder's door. He doubted the mission wouldn't be more of the same.

Harry flipped through the channels until he reached his quarry: Wheel of Fortune. As the episode played, he pulled out his mission briefing and read through.

Besides the TV, there was little other sound beside the dull roar of a busy city in the evening and the soft noises the papers made as Harry shuffled through them. While he already had the entire briefing memorized, he wanted one more read through before he burned them.

The twins, Alix and Amelie were seventh years at Beauxbatons. Both were wary of strangers and adored their older brother. Alix was the more athletic and popular of the two but Amelie was more cautious and powerful than her sister. Both knew of the Triwizard Tournament (how could they not with their father being the minister of magic?) but only Alix planned to enter, to Amelie's anger.

Catalina, the youngest, was a fifth year and very curious and friendly, apparently. Harry would have to take care to keep that friendly curiosity towards his benefit.

Finally, the Triwizard Tournament- apparently, Bonhomme pulled some strings to have it hosted in Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts. He pointed out that it was technically Beauxbatons turn to host even though Hogwarts traditionally started a new cycle. Harry wasn't sure if it was Olaf's near-assassination or his hiring that got the man to make the Tournament closer to home, but it made his job easier.

Would Harry be entering the contest?

Hell no. Not only would that possibly alienate Alix (let alone if he was actually picked), it would draw highly unwanted interest towards his person- something he was hoping to avoid at all costs. Plus, he heard rumors that there would be an age limit, and while Alphonse might be old enough, Harry certainly was not.

He was only fifteen, after all.

Closing the folder, Harry pulled out his wand and walked to the small bathroom. Holding the paper over the sink, he casted a quiet fire spell and watched the paper burn to ashes. Washing it down the sink, he clapped his hands and proceeded to his nightly ritual- various spells and pre-made temporary runes- he'd have to get Bloodjaw to owe him another favor, he was running low on those- as well as setting the hotel clock to wake him up every few hours, and proceeded to conk out.

He had a busy day tomorrow, after all.

Harry closed his eyes and hoped for sweet dreams.

Empty rooms and blood soaked hands as Father whispered to run, run, run- where's Father? Find him, it's YOUR fault-

He woke for the last time seconds before the alarm clock went off. Sweaty and shaken, he slapped the snooze button and flopped back onto the sheets. He stared up at the ceiling once more, an uneasy, uncomfortable tightness (guilt? fear? anger?) twisting deep within his gut. His father's dark eyes flashed in his mind's eye and Harry's own intense green eyes sharpened.

I will find you, Father, he vowed silently to himself for perhaps the five hundredth time as morning light crept through the curtains. I promise.