Prologue
Three Hundred Meters
The orange glow of low hanging clouds over the city of Paris at night span in every direction as far as the eye could see. It had poured hours ago and the smell of summer rains still carried with the cool night breeze.
A jet black Peugeot 404 coupe slowed to a stop with its' wet brakes squeaking along the busy street of Avenue Gustave Eiffel. The sputtering engine fell silent as the yellow glow of the two round headlights died. The door swung open and a clean shaven man in a grey suit emerged. His straight hair was the color of night and as he walked his locks danced along the collar of his dress coat. His eyes were amber and they had a determined weariness about them as he craned his head back and gazed upon the Eiffel Tower before him. It was an impressive woven lattice of milk chocolate brown iron slats and solid iron beams that zigged and zagged, crissed and crossed, arched and buttressed all the way to the top.
"Magnifique," He whispered and continued on his way.
Pulling back the slate grey sleeve of his suit jacket, he exposed a scratched faced watch with a black leather band. Both large and small hands of his watch reached up towards a silver "XII" before he released his sleeve murmuring, "Minuit." Looking from his watch, he bumped shoulders with a young man with black hair and black robes.
The teen turned his head over his shoulder whispering, "pardon," and continued to walk down the street.
The man in the grey suit nodded, acknowledging the apologetic teen, and continued towards the tower. His brown leather shoes made a wet squishing sound with each stride as he crossed the Champ de Mars towards a small crowd that had gathered on the south edge of the tower.
There was a dark olive green pond in a small adjacent park that rippled and the leaves of a tall broad tree rustled under the sounds of traffic and low murmured voices.
Holding up his credentials in a black leather wallet, the man in the grey suit weaved his way through the crowd saying, "détective."
"Everyone reculés," A police officer ordered from the head of the crowd with his arms a stretch.
Finally making his way to the front of the crowd, the man in gray held up his credentials and said to the police officer, "Détective Francois Debussy."
The officer nodded and waved the detective through. He pointed towards a group of officers standing near a draped white blanket.
A detective wearing a baby blue button down with rolled up sleeves and black slacks saw Francois and waved him on.
Francois shook the detective's hand, "Olivier, a little late for you to be out here, no?"
The tired blue green eyes of Olivier met the gaze of his peer as he cracked a half smile. He scratched the blonde gruff on his chin before running his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, "I could say the same for you."
"What do we have here?" Francois asked.
Olivier knelt down and pulled back the white blanket just far enough for Francois to see, "Possible jumper, female, young, black hair, blue eyes, and no identification."
Francois gazed upon the lifeless form of the young woman in a black silk spaghetti strapped dress whose skin was the color of snow. Her hair was as dark as obsidian and her facial features were sharp and elegant. She looked so graceful even in her serene stillness, tranquil as her sapphire blue eyes seemed to gaze off into eternity.
Francois' transfixed fixation was broken by multiple camera flashes that snapped from the onlookers. Olivier looked at them and shouted, "Allez!"
Francois took a knee in the wet grass and examined the body, "Any witnesses?"
"A few down here and no one at the top," Olivier answered.
"Isn't it after hours?" Francois asked.
Olivier nodded.
Francois grazed the woman's cheek with his knuckle, "Elle a froid."
"Wi, very cold." Olivier added, "And no blood from the blunt trauma. Normally we see a little something from the nose, ears, mouth, eyes."
Francois looked to Olivier, "Wasn't this called in twenty minutes ago?"
"It was," Olivier confirmed.
Francois stood as Olivier released the white blanket which gracefully fell back over the deceased. Francois rubbed the back of his knuckle against his pants and looked towards the top of the Eiffel Tower which loomed over them, "Three hundred meters from up there to down here. What did the guard see?"
Olivier shook his head, "Rien. Said he was on normal patrol, didn't hear a thing."
"What about the witnesses?" Francois asked.
"Just the thud," Olivier said, "What are you thinking?"
Francois pointed his hands in a triangular shape, "The tower slopes outward like a pyramid so if you fall straight down you will hit the sides. The only way you land here on the grass is if you jump or if you are pushed. Since no one heard a scream, I would negate the possibility that the victim was pushed."
"So then I was right. She was a jumper," Olivier said.
Francois shook his head, "No."
"But you just said it yourself. Landed over here on the grass, no sound when she plummeted, she jumped." Olivier contested.
"No," Francois repeated.
Olivier scratched the scruffy yellow shadow growing on his cheeks and sighed in exacerbation, "Then what?"
"She was dumped," Francois said, "Maybe from the first platform or the second. It would have taken a lot more effort if she was thrown from the top."
"Dumped? How do you know that?" Olivier asked.
"I don't know for sure," Francois said, "But you said it yourself. No signs of bleeding, and the fact that I have never seen a body this cold in only twenty minutes. She was dead before she fell."
Olivier looked up at the iron structure that hovered over them like a Colossus, "Why dump a body at the Eiffel Tower? I mean with so many witnesses, it's not exactly subtle."
"Maybe they wanted people to see. Murder turned into a suicide or an accident," Olivier surmised, "Either way, that's where our trail begins."
Chapter 1
The Partée Child
A wizard sat in a plush leather chair, across from a finely decorated desk. His hair was black and long but showed signs of balding near the temples. He had thick bushy eyebrows with deep brown eyes like the fine wood of the desk he was sitting in front of. He wore a black robe with a gold fleur-de-lis over his heart.
"Monsieur Warlock, he is the son of Édouard and Christiane Partée, and the sole grandson to Javier Lafont. He deserves more from us than locking him away in some cell in Azkaban to go mad. If only for the service his family has done for our ministry."
A round man with a finely manicured white beard, sat reclined in his chair with a pouty look. He held an eleven inch Ebony wand in his hands, "Jean-Louis, spare me the histories. I am the Chief Warlock. Of course I know who that boy is."
Jean-Louis Bastion opened his hands as if to beg, "Then you must see my reason to let the boy go Monsieur Reynald."
Chief Warlock Reynald Geroux dropped the wand he had been thumbing in his hands as a stern expression grew on his face. Sitting forward in his black leather chair, his dark brown eyes seemed to have an intensity about them without the need for words.
Jean-Louis pleaded, "How do we know that he wanted to harm her?"
"Arrêtes!" Reynald shouted, standing from his chair. His tall black hat of authority made him tower over Jean-Louis. He grabbed the black Ebony wand from his desk and held it up for Jean-Louis to see, "This! I have seen these do terrible things in the wrong hands! Things that keep me up at night. Things that tear families apart and leave wives without husbands, husbands without wives and kids without parents."
"Yes, but a wand can do such wonderful things. It can heal pain, save lives Reynald. Surely you have not become so cynical in all your years," Jean-Louis contested.
"Jean-Louis we are at war! Giants, werewolves, witches, wizards and every creature in between. Last week I had a sixth year use the killing curse, the killing curse Jean-Louis! We cannot be so naïve. We cannot afford it."
Jean-Louis shook his head, "He's just a child."
"He's fourteen years old," Reynald said coldly.
"He's Just a child!" Jean-Louis replied.
"I have it in my very rights to walk back into that courtroom and send him to Azkaban with the rest of the dark wizards that have corrupted our world."
"But for his parents Reynald!"
"The Partées…" Reynald, whispered. The haunted look of past memories came over the Chief Warlock as he walked towards a painting in his office. It was a painting of an old wooden battleship, fighting the waves of a storm. A bolt of lightning streaked across the painting and vanished as the boat bobbed up and down with the tumultuous seas.
The Chief Warlock turned to his house elf who penned their every word with his golden quill, "Peu, this will be off the record. I will call for you."
The old wizened house elf with one grey eye looked up from his parchment and gave a nod. His voice was old and sullen, "Peu lives to serve his master," and with a snap of his fingers, he vanished.
Reynald turned to Jean-Louis, "What I am about to tell you does not leave my office, is that clear?"
Jean-Louis nodded, "Bien sur."
Reynald walked back to his desk and took a seat, "The night the Partée family died was no normal night. We were in joint operations with the British Ministry of Magic, trying to capture some escapees from Azkaban."
The look of shock was unmistakable as Jean-Louis couldn't help but blurt out, "No one has ever escaped from Azkaban! An escape would be in every newspaper! Everyone would know about it!"
"Exactly," Reynald countered, "And that is why this conversation does not leave this room."
Jean-Louis nodded with his mouth still slightly agape.
"Twelve years ago on this very night there was an escape from Azkaban. It was one of the earliest emergences of the group we now know as the Death Eaters. All the escapees were either dead or captured except for two and so the ministry figured there was no need to cause a panic. Do you know who escaped that night?"
"No," Jean-Louis said.
"Lestat Partée," Reynald explained, "Twin brother to Édouard Partée the Auror. The very same Édouard Partée who was missing when the ministry came looking for these criminals."
"You're not saying…"
Reynald's cold expression never wavered, "I am. And from all accounts from that night, it sounds like it was true. An Auror in our very own ministry was responsible for the breakout of dark wizards. He was probably a member of the Death Eaters and who knows what else. All I know is that when the ashes were settled and it was all over, Édouard, Christiane, Lestat and Javier were all dead."
"I didn't know," Jean-Louis muttered.
"And you still don't," Reynald insisted, "So when I see a boy in my courtroom accused of such a vile thing I cannot just turn a blind eye to it, especially when there is history in his blood, a dark history."
Jean-Louis licked his lips as he searched for an idea, a thought, anything that would make sense of this situation but nothing came to him, "What are you going to do?"
Chief Warlock Reynald Geroux looked down at the black eleven inch ebony wand in his hands before turning his gaze back to Jean-Louis Bastion.
CRACK!
Chapter 2
A Life in Pieces
May 15, 1976
Timothee Partée sat at the dinner table looking down at the two long broken halves of his black ebony wand. The beautiful dark wood was now in two five and a half inch pieces, tied together by an orange phoenix feather that had remained whole. Part shock and part disbelief, he looked down at what he could only describe as a great disgrace.
"C'est naus abond," An elderly witch sighed as she paced back and forth in a nervous step. She shook her head continuously in utter frustration, causing her silver locks of hair to bounce from side to side. She turned to her grandson and said, "You're lucky you didn't end up in Azkaban! If you're mother, your father, your grandfather weren't Aurors, I guarantee that is where you would have ended up tonight!"
Timothee ran both hands through his long black hair that had once been a dirty blonde. His dyed hair color created such a contrast to his skin that he looked pale and sickly. His brown and green eyes never looked away from the broken shards of his life.
Rene Lafont stared at her grandson, looking for any kind of response but was given no such satisfaction, "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
Timothee looked up from the wand, his brown and green eyes locking with his grandmother's. He was still growing into his tall lanky teenage body and his shoulders drooped as he sat hunched over with poor posture. He was tall for a fourteen year old with lots of growing still ahead. Timothee searched for the words, "They… they didn't let me speak."
"What is there to say?" Rene asked, "You used an unforgivable curse on a muggle!"
"It's not what it looked like," Timothee protested.
"You're an underage wizard Timothee, they knew what you had done the moment you casted it. Your magic is tracked my child. How did you think you would get away with it?"
"I wasn't trying to get away with anything," Timothee muttered.
Rene pulled out a glass and wordlessly casted, "Aguamenti" before she took a long sip. She placed the half empty glass onto the table before shaking her head in disbelief, "Kicked out after his third year. Your parents would be ashamed to know what you've become."
Timothee fired up from his chair and with one great swipe sent the halves of his wand flying across the kitchen. The wand shards clattered against the wooden cabinets before falling onto the white tiled floor. The green in his eyes lit up as he shouted, "Well thank Merlin they are dead then," and stormed upstairs towards his room.
Rene leaned back against the kitchen counter as she wiped a tear away from the soft wrinkles on her face. Her gaze fell upon a moving family portrait of herself, Christiane, Édouard, Javert and a newborn Timothee. The photograph was taken on the day they had brought Timothee home from St Garicoits. They looked happy as they waved towards the camera. Christiane seemed to smile through her exhaustion while Édouard grinned from ear to ear. Even the stoic Javert managed to crack a grin for the photo.
Those were better times, back when Timothee was an infant and their family was still alive. She didn't know what had happened that fateful night twelve years ago but her heart paid the price every day since.
She had tried her best to raise her grandson but it seemed like the more effort she put in, the farther away he would pull from her. His grades at Pursang were just barely passing and she was constantly receiving disciplinary letters from the headmaster. Her biggest fear was that he would get kicked out of Wizarding School but never in her darkest nightmares did she see her grandson performing an unforgivable curse on a muggle.
There was a war going on in the wizarding world. Wizards and witches were vanishing everyday as a Dark Lord fought to claim power. Had her grandson gotten caught up in this terrible conflict? She had hoped that staying in school would have sheltered Timothee from the horrors of the outside world.
"Did I fail you?" Rene asked as she looked at the family picture. A tear slowly fell down her tired cheek and ran down the line of her jaw before dripping down from her chin.
With his black dyed hair and completely black wardrobe, Rene was starting to fear that her grandson had turned to the "Dark Arts." He was disappearing each night and when she confronted him about it, he claimed that he was only going for long walks in the city.
"If only you were still here," She whispered, as she looked at the tall prominent figure of her deceased husband, Javert, "I need you more than ever."
Chapter 3
The Stranger
Timothee opened the door to his upstairs bedroom and slammed it shut as he walked in. With one giant leap he landed on his bed, causing the springs in his bed frame to creek. He let out a long exacerbated sigh and undid the tie to his dress robes. He looked out the window at the twinkling city of Paris. He felt the urge to leave and spend the night wandering the streets of the city like he had done plenty of times this summer.
One such night he was walking passed what he had been told was his old house, and saw a couple with an infant walking up the steps. They looked so happy together and he had wondered what it felt like to have parents.
"You really got into it this time Timothee," He whispered to himself. Timothee wished they would have let him speak at the Wizengamot trial, let him tell his side of the story, but everything was moving so fast. Everything felt so foggy, so unclear. He didn't hate muggles like some of his classmates, in fact he had stood up for them at school, even to the point of confrontation.
Timothee rolled away from the window and found himself staring into the happy smiles of his parents as they held him in his arms. Sitting up in bed, he took the moving picture from his nightstand and longingly held it in his hands. He had spent countless hours staring at the picture of his parents, memorizing every movement and every detail. The way they looked at him and the way they had looked at each other with such love.
Unbuttoning his collar, he pulled out a long silver chain that had two gold rings dangling from the end. One ring had a blue diamond accented with white stones while its twin had a red diamond accented with the same. Timothee read the engraved names inside, "Christiane Rene Partée. Édouard Serge Partée." He felt something large well up in his throat as he stroked his finger over the stones of the ring.
There was a slight tugging at the foot of his bed, and Timothee looked up to see a weathered old stuffed brown bear climbing up.
"Ursa," Timothee greeted as the stuffed bear walked towards him and gave him a hug with his soft plush arms. He had grown up with the bear and while the magical charms of other bears had faded, turning them into nothing more than stuffed toys, Ursa seemed to keep going on. It was almost as if he knew that he was still needed.
"I really messed up today," Timothee admitted.
The stuffed bear took a seat and looked up at the teen with his eyebrows raised. He had lost the ability to talk years ago but his eyes seemed to still convey his feelings.
Timothee heard a muffled knock at the downstairs front door and listened while his grandmother went to answer it.
"She doesn't listen to me," Timothee said, "She is just like all the others. All they want to do is talk, not one of them actually wants to listen. It's like they don't care what I have to say."
Ursa tilted his head to one side as he changed his expression and pointed to his large round stuffed ear. White bits of cotton seemed to protrude from the corner where the seam to the ear had ripped.
"I know you listen to me," Timothee replied, "But sometimes I wish… I don't know what I wish…" He realized as he looked back out the window, watching the yellow glowing lights of the city. There was a white streak in the sky of a falling star. It was bright, beautiful and brilliant, but very short lived.
Lying back down in bed, Timothee closed his brown and green eyes to the subtle twinkling of the city lights. He felt Ursa grab a sheet on his bed and pull it over his shoulder and it wasn't long before he fell into a deep sleep.
"Timothee!" A voice called through the darkness, "Timothee!"
Waking up from the haze of his slumber, Timothee rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It was still dark out and rolling away from his window, his clock read four in the morning.
"Timothee!" His grandmother's voice called through his shut door.
"What is it?" He called back.
"Could you come down here please?"
Timothee looked back at Ursa who had nestled up by his legs, "Let's go see what she wants."
Walking down the stairs and into the kitchen, with the bear in tow, Timothee's grandmother was sitting at the dining table with a stranger. The man had his back towards the entrance of the dining room and Timothee could not see his face.
"Have a seat," His grandmother offered before taking a sip from her tea. Her eyes were red and puffy as if she had been crying and the weak smile she gave her grandson quivered at its' ends.
Placed in the center of the table were the broken halves of his wand which still left a deep pain in his heart.
The stranger sitting in the seat was an older gentleman probably in his forties if not his early fifties. His hair was black with grey streaks and it was neatly styled as to create a part down one side. His face was lean with web like wrinkles that had formed at the corner of his brown eyes. On his face was a curious expression as he studied the teen. He wore black slacks with a grey stripped vest and a matching solid black satin tie over his button up shirt. His black shoes were kept in immaculate condition to the point where they almost seemed reflective.
Extending a long slender hand, the stranger said, "Samuel Redd. And you are Timothee I presume?"
Timothee extended his hand as the new comer grabbed it and gave it an aggressive shake. By his greeting in English and the way he pronounced his words, Timothee couldn't help but mutter, "American?"
"Why yes," The man said with a sly smile, "You are quite observant, just like your father."
The words hit Timothee like a ton of bricks, physically causing him to take a step back. He looked at his grandmother who just nodded her head encouragingly. Standing in silence, he let the words resonate through him as he echoed them in his mind, "just like your father."
Tilting his head to one side he looked back at Samuel before whispering, "You knew my…"
"Father," Samuel said, completing the stunned boys words, "I knew Édouard quite well and that is why I am here. You see Timothee, your father helped me in a time when no one else would. He helped in a way that no one else could. So I am here to help you in the same way your father helped me."
"But how?" Timothee asked.
Samuel licked his lips before turning to the broken wand on the table, "By taking you to America."
"What?" Timothee replied.
"It will be good for you," Timothee's grandmother interjected.
Timothee shook his head, "But why?"
"Well…" Samuel paused, "The events that have taken place tonight will very well affect you for the rest of your life. Timothee you were kicked out of wizarding school, the life you would once have had is gone. Your grandmother is a pure blood witch who has known nothing but magic her entire life. My father was a wizard and my mother was a muggle, not to mention my wife is a muggle."
"So?" Timothee said hesitantly as he tried to figure out where Samuel's train of thought was leading, "What does that have to do with me? I am not a muggle, I am a wizard from one of the most powerful wizarding families on the planet."
"You may be a wizard but you can't practice magic," Samuel said.
The words sent a cold chill up Timothee's spine. The cold reality of his situation had not seemed so palpable until now.
Samuel pointed towards the broken wand, "If you try to practice magic, you will end up in Azkaban and believe me that is the last place you want to go."
The teenagers face crumpled in disbelief, "Are you saying you are going to teach me to be a muggle?"
"Yes," Samuel answered.
"No!" Timothee fired back, "I am a Partée! Do you know what that means or did your mud blood parents not teach you?"
"Timothee!" His grandmother yelled.
Timothee didn't look at his grandmother as he stormed out of the kitchen, into the hallway and out the front door.
From the dining table, Samuel and Rene felt the front door slam so hard that the chandelier in the hallway began to sway.
"I'm sorry," Rene whispered as she wiped a tear from her face, "He has just been so angry lately, even before all this happened."
"It's ok," Samuel consoled, "He is just scared and confused. Trust me. I know exactly what he is going through."
"Do you really think sending him to America will help?"
"I do," Samuel answered. Reaching his hand across the table, he grabbed the elderly woman's soft warm hands and gave them a gentle squeeze, "He will be ok. I promise you."
Swallowing hard, Rene nodded her head.
Chapter 4
The Decision is Yours
Timothee stormed down the sidewalk with his jaw clenched so hard that he began to develop a headache. He felt the tension building on the sides of his temples as a vein in his forehead pulsed.
"Live as a muggle…" He muttered aloud as he shook his head, "The nerve. I am a wizard!"
The streets of Paris were now empty as he walked at a brisk pace. He did not know where he was headed, he only knew that he had to get away, get away from everything. From his grandmother who didn't understand, who couldn't understand. From the stranger who called himself "Samuel" who assumed he knew how to help. But most of all it was the entire magical world that had turned their back on him. That betrayal hurt more than anything else. Timothee loved magic and couldn't imagine living without the power, the beauty, the grace, the elegance, the energy, the excitement. It would all be gone, stolen from him in a single spell, in a single word.
The cold night air gave Timothee goose bumps, causing his entire body to shiver. He had walked for a couple of blocks down the wet streets. It had rained earlier and he took no mind to the puddles that he walked through. His feet were freezing and his toes were numb but he was too preoccupied in thought to notice.
Turning onto a cobble stone path, Timothee approached a large white stonewall with two towering pillars. Decorative stone torches, wreathes and chalices were carved into the entrance. The latin phrase "SPES ILLORVM IMMORTALITATE PLENA EST" was carved on the left pillar and "QVICREDIT INME ETIAMSIMORTVVS FVERIT VIVET" carved on the right.
It was the Pere Lachaise Cemetery and this late at night it would be the type of isolation that Timothee craved in order to think.
He walked past the rows of eroded mausoleums and copper statues that had turned a shade of sea green after years of rainfall and oxidation. The statues looked so real and yet he knew they would never be nothing more than imprints of life. The old stone road was tight and winding as it undulated over small hills and slithered through fields of headstones. A light mist had settled and a full moon shown so bright that Timothee didn't need any light to see the road before him.
After wandering for fifteen minutes, Timothee realized that he was good and lost. Closing his eyes, he took in a few deep breathes and felt his shoulders begin to relax when something caught his attention. It was quiet, too quiet. Normally at night there would be the high pitched whine of insects or the repetitive staccato calls of frogs. But here, now, it was dead silent, the kind of silence that only happened when a predator was nearby.
Feeling his pulse begin to quicken, Timothee scanned the low hanging mist that surrounded him in every direction. Suddenly the peaceful stroll wasn't so calming anymore as he felt he hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. A twig snapped behind him, and he spun around reaching for a wand that wasn't there.
"Oh great," He remembered, "What will I do?"
Out of the hallowed silence came a loud "crack!" followed by a sudden "thud!" from behind. Jumping nearly out of his black shoes Timothee let out a frightened yelp but to his relief he saw a man standing there, the same man that had been in his grandmother's dining room.
"Did you follow me?" Timothee asked coldly.
"Yes," Samuel replied, brushing off his dress coat.
"Came here to persuade me again?"
"No, just to talk," Samuel answered.
Timothee turned to walk away, "Well I don't want to talk."
"Did you know your family has a mausoleum here?" Samuel said abruptly.
Timothee stopped in his tracks, "Yes, my grandmother and I go every year to visit my parents. We were going to visit them tomorrow on the anniversary of their…" Timothee paused.
Samuel took a few steps closer, "Would you like to go right now?"
Timothee turned his head towards the darkness where the twig had snapped and felt uneasy. Nodding his head, he confessed, "I am kind of lost."
"That's no problem," Samuel said. Pulling out his wand, he casted, "Inveniria familia."
There was a slight tugging under Timothee's white button down shirt as he felt the two rings on his silver chain trying to break free. Grabbing the chain, he freed the rings from the shirt only to have them shoot forward, pulling the chain tight.
"Lead the way," Samuel smiled as he gestured his hand.
They walked side by side through the rows of mausoleums that arose from the low hanging fog like a ghostly city in the clouds.
It wasn't long before Timothee stopped at a large black granite mausoleum with Greco-Roman architecture. Carved along the top was the name "Partée," And while the other mausoleums looked weathered by time, this one looked as new as the day it was set down.
Walking up to the large rod iron entrance, Timothee studied the two large stone blocks that lay on either side of the doorway. There was a bronze plaque on each granite block, one with "Pullox" engraved on it and the other displayed, "Castor."
"There were statues here once," Timothee said, breaking the silence, "Great big stone statues my grandmother told me. There was a legend that they were haunted and would move."
"What happened to them?" Samuel asked.
"They were destroyed the night my parents died," Timothee answered, "Some claim they came to life."
Timothee reached up on the tips of his toes and pricked his pointer finger on one of the sharp rod iron spears that decorated the fence. A small crimson dot welled up in the center of the cream colored pad of skin. Smearing the red drop on the black iron, he whispered, "Oculi Virides" and the gate doors began to open.
Although the mausoleum was no larger than a large shed, the inside was that of a cathedral adorned with stained glass windows, elaborate gold candle lit chandeliers and a flat stone altar that was lit by a single beam of light.
It was particularly cold inside the mausoleum of Partée and the damp smell of water filled the air as they walked down the grey stone steps into the nave. Samuel's hard shoes sent an echo through the large open space as they reached the base level. Along the walls were various moving paintings of each family member that was entombed. Their garb ranged from ancient to medieval and all the way to the modern styles.
Timothee pointed towards the ceiling where a large elaborate mural looked as if it had been scorched by flame, "they say that was also destroyed the day my parents died as well."
"How much do you know about that night?" Samuel asked.
"Not much," Timothee answered, he ran his hand along one of the tall stone pillars that towered over him, "My grandmother says that the Aurors who came to talk to her on that night claimed that my uncle had escaped from Azkaban with the help of dark wizards. But I've looked and there are no records of it ever happening."
Timothee strolled further into the mausoleum, his head turning this way and that, "My parents were Aurors you know, maybe they tried to arrest my uncle. I don't know, I don't think anyone does."
"Timothee I'll be honest with you. I was with your father the night he died. And I was there with him when we freed your uncle from Azkaban."
Timothee stopped and turned around, "But why? Why would an Auror free someone from Azkaban? Are you a dark wizard? Was my Father one?"
"No, neither of us was," Samuel said, "You know how I said your father helped me in a time when no one else would?"
Timothee nodded.
"He was there because he believed his brother, your uncle, Lestat was innocent. I was there to free my wife who had been wrongly imprisoned as a muggle."
"Then how did my parents die?"
"I don't know," Samuel confessed, "We parted ways just outside these very doors before they met their end. But I can tell you that the man your father thought he was freeing was not the same. Whether it was a curse or the screams of Azkaban, Lestat was a changed man Timothee, he seemed almost deranged."
Samuel saw the questions building up in Timothee's expression. A search for answers he had been looking for his entire life.
"I don't know everything Timothee," Samuel said, "but I can tell you that your father was a good man. That he loved you. That everything he did was for the love he bore for his family. When I found out what had happened I couldn't believe it. When we had left each other everything seemed fine. More than fine! And yet somehow I am here and he is not…"
Samuel looked up at the scorched mural on the ceiling, the anguish growing on his face, "I have told myself for years that if I could trade places with Édouard I would. I had robbed a child of a father and a mother for my own selfish gains. I was so blinded that I was willing to burn down the world to get Mara back and in the end it wasn't my world that burned, it was yours. I think that is why it has taken me until now to come to you. I don't blame you if you hate me and if you never want to see me again. Just say the words and I'll be gone, forever."
He sighed as he looked to Timothee, "I can't bring back your parents and I can never take away the pain I have caused you. For that I am truly sorry but if you come with me, I promise you that I will spend every last waking moment of my life making it up to you. Mara has agreed to do the same and maybe, just maybe, together all of us can make a life out of this."
There was a long pause as they stood in silence with Timothee trying to process the information and Samuel standing with his palms open.
"I…" Timothee stammered, unable to find the words, "Can I have a minute?"
Samuel walked over and placed an arm on the teen's shoulders, "I'll wait for you just outside of the mausoleum. If you have any more questions for me or you just want me to leave, I understand."
Samuel walked up the long stonecutter grey steps, just outside the black granite mausoleum.
The sun was beginning to rise over the horizon, melting away the cold fog. The orange and pink hues slowly transformed into a beautiful royal blue skyline. Samuel stood there quietly listening to the early morning sparrows who chirped as they darted in and out of a tall green oak tree.
"I'll go," A voice called from inside the mausoleum.
"Come again?" Samuel asked.
"With you," Timothee said as he climbed up the last stair towards the entrance, "I'll go with you to America."
Samuel smiled and it looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, "I think you are making the right decision and Mara will be absolutely delighted to meet you."
Staring at the sunrise, they listened to the birds' song, taking in the birth of a new day.