"Yeah, what you critics said would never happen.

We dedicate this album to anybody people said couldn't make it.

To the fans that held us down till everybody came around.

Welcome, it's here." - Jay-Z/Fall Out Boy

"Luck," Christopher Kennedy read aloud, brandishing a battered Agatha Christie novel, "goes in cycles. It is certainly useless to fight against it."

A few Cadets yawned pointedly.

"Which is why," he continued, throwing an irritated glance to a boy who was freely talking with his companion, "we have this beautiful establishment. The Combined Cadet Force was founded around ..."

A small commotion by the door thankfully stopped him from completing his tedious speech. In walked a peculiar man, round in figure and sporting a spectacular black moustache. His dark eyes glistened slyly.

"Bonsoir," the man began, bowing to the teenagers. "I am the great –"

"I know who you are!" An obnoxious blonde boy called Will Carter swung round on his chair to get a better view of the man. "You're Hercule Poirot! That French dude!"

"Belgian," Hercule Poirot muttered, glaring venomously. "Yes, I am. I am the famed Poirot, and after receiving –," he coughed, "Valuable information, I made it my duty to come down here."

"What 'valuable information'? And why did you come here?" Will raised his eyebrows, nudging his friend Richard, who was sniggering rudely.

The man named Poirot straightened up to his full height and thrust his nose into the air superiorly.

"We'll get to that later. Mon ami, have you met my – ah, companion? She's a rather charming girl, though a bit ... odd." It was clear that Hercule Poirot despised of anything out of the ordinary, which was a bit peculiar considering he was a top-class murder detective. "Mademoiselle!" he called, gesturing spectacularly to the door from which he had entered.

A girl no older than the Cadets walked in, gazing serenely at the ceiling. Her dirty-blond hair fell to her waist; her ears sported vivid radishes and around her neck hung a necklace out of bottle corks.

Yes, people. It's Luna Lovegood.

"Oh, hello." She waved slightly, now staring at the Cadets before her. Her gaze rested on Christopher. "You're Christopher Kennedy!"

Christopher blushed slightly as Luna smiled at him, her pale eyes widening excitedly.

"I've heard all about you!" She smiled, looking madder than ever, and from her pocket brought out the same Agatha Christie book Chris Kennedy was reading from. "'Peril At End House'! One of my favourites, but I must say it was quite obvious who the murderer was ..."

Poirot muttered something to himself, casting suspicious eyes around the room. His gaze finally rested on a group of girls who were smirking quite conspicuously at Luna Lovegood.

"Enfants." His quiet voice was edged with warning.

"You know, you still haven't told us what this 'valuable information´ is," Will Carter reminded Poirot, swinging back on his chair casually.

"Mademoiselle?" Poirot gestured for Luna Lovegood. She nodded, smiling calmly at Christopher Kennedy and began to speak.

"So it's all very simple, really," Luna finished, oblivious to the puzzled glances of the teenagers. Poirot coughed and murmured an apology to Christopher Kennedy.

"Mademoiselle." He raised his eyebrows at Luna, whose version of events had consisted of an onion, a mandrake and a suspicious looking cat. "That is not why we are here. No, to be perfectly frank, I have uncovered a plot." He paused for dramatic effect. Will Carter snorted in dire amusement. "Mes amis, it is a plot I say! A plot of ... murder. Yes, that is quite correct, I have discovered that most terrible things are going to be unleashed on Calday's Combined ... Cadet ... Force."

The girl nearest Luna thrust her hand into the air excitedly.

"When you say murder ..."

"I mean murder. Enfants, I want you to have your wits about you. Me and – er, Mademoiselle Lovegood will be working to protect you."

"That's all very well," a boy called Michael Szuplewski said pompously, "but who's killing people? You can't just waltz in here and expect us to believe – "

"Oh for crying out loud," the person nearest Michael, who was ironically called Mike Walsh, rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "The fact is that they haven't found who's killing people yet. Neither have there been any ... uh ... deaths. I suppose you have a good idea of who's gonna die and who's murdering people, right?"

Poirot twirled his moustache nervously.

"Well, like you said, mon ami, there haven't been any deaths. We just got ahold of a most terrible plot. So, mes amis, be on your guard."