A/N: Hello, all. I'm updating tonight instead of tomorrow so I don't have an excuse to further procrastinate my homework. Ten points to Ravenclaw for anyone who spots the architectural reference I inserted in this chapter, solely because it amused me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the world around them grew solid again, it was in a small park surrounded entirely by trees.
Breathing heavily, Javert staggered backwards. "Close," he panted. "Too close."
"I'm sorry," said Valjean. "I had no idea when I touched her that it would -"
"It was my fault," Javert interjected. "I should have thought - I should have known -" His fingers curled into fists at his sides, frustration written in every line of his posture.
Valjean rested his hand awkwardly on the Auror's shoulder. "It's alright," he said. "We're alright."
"Yes," Javert said, exhaling slowly, "thanks to some quick thinking." He looked down at the hand on his shoulder, and then up at Valjean. Valjean pulled his hand away.
"Where are we?" he asked the Auror.
"The Square Jules Verne."
Valjean took in the sight appreciatively. A tall fence enclosed the park, and the trees cast a long shadow across the greenspace. It was a tiny oasis in the city, the spring buds crisp against the hard lines of the buildings beyond. In the corner, a wisteria plant was draped in delicate cascades of purple flowers.
"The Rue Morand is just across the street," Javert went on, "but it was safer to Apparate here than on the sidewalk."
Valjean nodded his comprehension. So early in the season, the park was abandoned. A paved path ran to the front gate, and it was to this which Javert directed his attention. Side by side, the pair walked through the dappled afternoon sunlight and out into the bustling neighborhood.
At the intersection, mid-rise apartment complexes grew out from all sides of the street, and cars trundled by one after another.
"That's the building, there," said Javert, indicating the apartments on the opposite corner. "We can enter, but will doubtless be stopped by the receptionist. Should it be necessary, I am prepared to use magic, despite this being a largely Muggle district. I would advise you not to follow suit."
"Is that a suggestion, or an order?" Valjean asked, only half-joking.
Javert considered this for a moment. "A suggestion," he settled on. "We do not know what we are getting ourselves into here."
The traffic light changed, and they crossed the street. In so doing, Valjean eyed the Auror's robes, the edging on which glittered gold in the sunlight.
"You know," he commented, "you might have dressed more inconspicuously."
Javert looked down and snorted. "It doesn't matter what the Muggles think. If we meet a wizard, I want them to know who they're dealing with."
Valjean shook his head, but refrained from comment. On the far side of the street, Javert motioned him along. Row after row of apartments stacked above the narrow lane, their balconies projecting over the sidewalk. A rider on a moped scootered past down the one-way.
The Auror came to a stop outside of a pair of sliding double doors. Potted plants sat on either side, softening the concrete cityscape.
Turning to Valjean, Javert said, "Stay close, and keep your wits about you."
He approached the doors, holding out his hand to pull the nearest open, but it slid out of the way automatically. Javert startled, regarding the doors with a certain degree of suspicion.
Leaning forward, Valjean muttered, "They're supposed to do that. Just walk in."
Though he appeared unconvinced, Javert stepped over the threshold, and Valjean followed behind. The doors shut automatically after them, a red sensor light blinking above.
The lobby of the apartment was a plain, unassuming sort of space, with white walls and some chairs near the door for visitors. An older man with wispy white hair sat behind the front desk, idly reading the newspaper. He glanced up as they entered, doing a double-take when he saw Javert. Inwardly, Valjean groaned. A little less melodrama on the Auror's part might have served them better.
"Afternoon, Messieurs," said the man at the desk, laying down his newspaper. "What can I do for you?"
"Afternoon," Javert returned smoothly. "We are here on account of a Monsieur..." He consulted the parchment claimed from his apartment as if to confirm a name. "...Archer Regnier, and would speak to him if possible."
At that, the receptionist's eyes widened. "Oh no, Monsieur, haven't you heard? That's not - well, it's - ah - I hate to speak of it, truth be told."
Cocking his head to one side, Javert assembled an expression of ignorance. "Please, if you would, Monsieur, ah, Hebert," he began, glancing surreptitiously at the man's name tag, "I have this document here -" he gesticulated with the parchment "- that I had been hoping to get some clarification on. Is something the matter with Monsieur Regnier?"
With a pained look, the receptionist explained. "I am sorry to have to be the one to inform you, but Regnier is dead, Monsieur, and his family as well."
Apparently shocked, Javert repeated, "Dead? When?"
"About... a week and a half ago? Maybe two?" Hebert shook his head. "Awful, Monsieur, just awful. The scene haunts me at night, I can tell you. Archer and Ellie, and their two little ones, all sitting around the dinner table, stone-cold." He shuddered.
"What happened?" asked Javert, drawing closer to the desk.
"Now, now," said Valjean, adopting a demeanor of concern which was only acting in part. "Can't you see the man is distraught?"
Hebert, in point of fact, seemed to experience a certain thrill at the sordidness of the affair. He nevertheless took Valjean at his word, nodding vigorously and drawing a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.
"I will tell you, Monsieur, I will tell you," he said. "Well, there I was one evening - I was working the night shift then, but ever since I've refused to do it, gives me the heebie-jeebies. Anyhow, there I was, sitting at my desk, when I heard knocking on a door upstairs. It went on and on and on, and then -" He broke off, as if lost in thought.
"And then?" Valjean prompted.
"And then one of the tenants, Thérèse, came down to say she was wanting to talk to Ellie - the two were friends, and I daresay Thérèse has few enough of those, poor dear - only Ellie wasn't opening the door. She knew they were home, and she was starting to get worried. 'Well, alright,' I said, 'I'll put a call up.' I did so, and got no response. Now I was getting worried, too, Messieurs. It wasn't all that late yet - Archer had walked past me, home from work, not but an hour before! - and there was no reason they shouldn't pick up the phone."
"I see," Javert murmured. "Go on."
"Yes, well," Hebert obliged, leaning forward, "I told the girl I'd go upstairs and see what was what."
The Auror frowned. "Do you not have building security?"
"We do, Monsieur," the receptionist replied emphatically. "But LeMessurier wasn't answering on his walkie-talkie - we discovered after the fact that he was knocked out cold in the basement! No sign of injury, either, very strange. If he were the drinking type, I might think... but he isn't, and anyway, there was no smell of alcohol on him."
"Strange indeed," Valjean said mildly, glancing to the side. The Auror met his eyes and nodded.
"What happened when you went upstairs?" Javert inquired. His tone was earnest, affecting that of one caught up in the spectacle of the tale, but the glint in his eyes was one Valjean recognized. At last, they were getting to what they had come for.
In a hushed voice, Hebert explained, "I got out the master key - we have to have one in case of emergencies - and headed up the stairs to the second floor. I stopped when I got to the landing - it was dead quiet up there, really eerie, Messieurs, let me tell you. Two apartments on that floor with kids, and absolute silence. There's nothing like it."
"Regnier had children," Javert recalled. "Which was the other apartment?"
"Thérèse's," Hebert told him. "Three boys, and a bundle of trouble most days. She calls them her little cubs. Must've put them to bed early that night."
"I suppose so," agreed the Auror.
"Thérèse had followed me up the stairs. I unlocked Archer's door, pushed it open, and -" He broke off for a moment, eyes wide. "- there they were. All four of them, sitting at the dinner table, lights on, turkey half-eaten, dead as a doornail." He leaned further across the desk, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "I'll never forget the looks on their faces, Messieurs, not 'til the day I die. They were frozen in the most hideous screams imaginable. It was terrible."
Valjean reached out a hand sympathetically, which Hebert accepted. "The police were called, I imagine?"
"Oh yes," Hebert nodded. "Thérèse was so upset, poor woman. The police came, and useless as they are, they couldn't find anything wrong with the bodies, as if they had up and died like magic. Well, they eventually ruled it a gas leak, and the whole building had to be evacuated and tested. Took several weeks, and they never did find anything conclusive. Bastards. If it was a gas leak what killed the Regniers, I'll eat my hat."
"Thank you," Javert said. "The information is very helpful."
Hebert waved this away. "Of course, of course." As Valjean and Javert prepared to go, he asked, "Where did you gentlemen say you were from again?"
Before Javert could answer, Valjean replied, "The bank."
Hebert nodded sagely. "Only natural," he said. "Though I'm surprised you weren't notified when they died."
"Oh, I'm sure other departments were," Valjean hurriedly clarified. "We're with -"
"Obliviate," Javert interjected. Hebert's expression turned vacant and dreamy. He slouched down to lean on his elbows, staring off into space.
Valjean frowned at the Auror. "You didn't have to do that," he said. "A man of his age, you could hurt him."
"He will be fine," said Javert. "If anyone else shows up around here asking questions, he won't be able to answer them. That's safer for everyone, him included."
Shaking his head, Valjean said only, "If you say so."
"The Regniers were killed by Death Eaters," pronounced the Auror. "The Killing Curse is the only one by which Muggles might have been left in such a state. That in and of itself is not unusual as of late. What is unusual is this."
He stood next to Valjean, holding out the parchment that they both might look it over.
"This report is incomplete," Javert said. "There is a strange lack of detail - for instance, no mention of the expression found on the Muggles' faces, which indicates the possible use of the Cruciatus Curse - but most notably of all, the name of the Auror who wrote the report is omitted. Such an oversight would be unprofessional under good circumstances. Considering what we are dealing with, however..."
"A cover-up is looking likely," Valjean concluded.
Javert scowled. "I dislike to entertain the thought, but it does seem increasingly possible. No analysis of the scene, no theories on who the culprit might be based on the modus operandi, and no name to trace the report back to in order to seek elaboration. I do not care for the implications."
Behind them, the doors slid open with a gust of air. Turning to look, Valjean saw a short woman with mousy brown hair enter the lobby. She was dressed in no fewer than seven shawls pulled over a tunic and sweatpants. A tie-dyed headband scarcely kept her mess of curls in check. She stopped short when she saw the two men standing near the desk, her eyes fixed on Javert. She bore an expression Valjean recognized all too well: fear.
"Mademoiselle," Valjean said kindly, "whatever is the matter?"
She backed up towards the doors. "Please," she begged, "I haven't said nothin' to no-one, I swear it!"
Javert turned as well, more puzzled than anything. "Mademoiselle?"
"We aren't going to hurt you," Valjean said softly. "You don't need to be afraid."
"Then..." began the woman, her voice harsh, "why've you got one of them with you?" She inclined her head in Javert's direction.
There was a silence, and the two men regarded her in mutual bafflement. It was a hunch, obvious the moment it occurred to him, which led Valjean to say, "You are Thérèse, aren't you?"
The woman nodded, frozen in place.
Javert exhaled slowly. "I am not the first Auror you have met, am I?" he guessed.
Thérèse shook her head no, and the other shoe dropped.
"Of course," the Auror sighed. "Mademoiselle, I believe there has been a misunderstanding. You have, perhaps, been threatened to ensure your silence. Whomever it was to have distressed you in this way, I am unaffiliated with. I would - we would - like, however, to talk to you."
Thérèse composed herself somewhat, but wariness hung about her all the same. "We had better be goin' upstairs, then," she said. "Follow me."
She passed them both, and headed for the stairs. In so doing, Valjean noticed her eyes, which were a startling gold color. He drew breath sharply as he realized what that meant; Thérèse looked askance at him, no doubt aware of what he was thinking.
She bid a good morning to Hebert, who returned it, still obviously in a daze.
"Such a polite girl," he muttered, talking to the wall. "Shame about the jaundice, though..."
Thérèse climbed the stairs, Valjean following after her, the Auror bringing up the rear. As they walked, Javert leaned in close to the back of Valjean's head.
"Did you see...?" he said in undertones.
"Yes," Valjean replied.
Even in the wizarding world, to have golden eyes was to be unnatural, or more precisely, Valjean corrected himself, it was to be supernatural. Years of reading material had only ever come to one conclusion on the matter, and it was this: that those with the yellow eyes were possessed by the spirit of the wolf; that is to say, they belonged to the ranks of the loup-garou.
At the top of the stairs, Thérèse fumbled with her keys, struggling to open her apartment door. Within such close quarters, Valjean could see that she trembled. At last, the lock clicked open, and she pushed her way inside.
"Please, come in," she called to the pair behind her. "Can I get you somethin'?"
"Perhaps some mugs of tea all around would be wise," Valjean suggested, ducking under the doorway.
Thérèse nodded her acknowledgement and crossed what Valjean supposed functioned as the salon to the kitchen, where she put on a kettle of water. Javert, too stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
The apartment was the homiest place Valjean had seen in some time. Rugs covered the wooden floor, while bundles of dried herbs hung from pegs near the ceiling. An honest-to-goodness fireplace was built into the wall near the couch; somehow, Valjean doubted that feature came standard in the building without a bit of magical intervention. A black cat was sleeping curled up in front of the flickering flames.
The kettle whistled, and Thérèse poured the steaming water into mugs. Incrementally more at ease in her home than in the hall, she moved carefully but with a fluid grace, and she was nearly silent when she walked. Valjean marveled at it, for such creatures were rare.
Loup-garou were classified as a sub-species of werewolf; unlike their more prevalent cousins, loup-garou were born, not made, and the gene ran through families, sometimes skipping several generations before showing up again. Whereas the werewolf transformed under the full moon, loup-garou were capable of shifting their forms at will, keeping their human minds while in their animal state. Some magizoologists had proposed that loup-garou were, therefore, a natural form of Animagus, but these theories were largely unpopular with politicians. Among wizards, they were easily recognized by their gold, canine eyes.
A little boy came running down the hall, holding aloft a toy airplane and making the appropriate sound effects. He stopped short when he saw the visitors standing in the salon, and turned to his mother questioningly.
Thérèse knelt down and put a hand on her son's shoulder.
"Jacques," she said quietly, "this be one of those times where you need to do as I say. Please take your brothers and play quietly in the bedroom. I'll come tell you when you can come out, you understand?"
Jacques nodded seriously and treated the visitors to another uncertain look before disappearing back into the hallway.
Thérèse carried the mugs into the salon balanced on a tray, which she set on the coffee table.
"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to the couch. She waited until both Valjean and Javert were sitting before dropping herself into the armchair adjacent to Valjean. Then she reached for a mug, sipping from it nervously. Valjean took a mug as well, holding the warm cup in his hands. The Auror declined to take a drink, a fact which was lost on no-one.
Thérèse cleared her throat. "Maybe you gentlemen might start with introducin' yourselves."
"Of course," said Valjean. "Jean is my given name."
Thérèse gave him a shy smile at that. "My youngest's name be Jean." She looked hesitantly at the Auror.
"Javert," he said.
The woman's face paled considerably, and she clutched at the hem of her shawl.
"It's alright," Valjean said softly.
"But -" Thérèse licked her lips. "If you say so."
"Mademoiselle," Valjean began, "could you tell -"
"'Madame', please," Thérèse interrupted. "Or just Thérèse. I've not been 'Mademoiselle' in... not in a long time."
"Madame, then," Valjean tried a second time.
"Thérèse," Javert interjected, his voice turned cold. "Surname?"
"M-Marie."
"Thérèse Marie," the Auror repeated. "You are, I trust, listed on the Registry kept by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"
Valjean closed his eyes in dismay.
"Yes!" Thérèse's voice was defensive, but the panic had returned to her eyes. "I can give you my registration number if need be."
"And were I to look up that number," Javert said slyly, "would I find the address associated with it to be one in Paris?"
Caught, Thérèse did not speak, merely stared at her lap. Her lower lip quivered.
"You do know," Javert went on, aware already of the answer, "that to move without notifying the department of a change in address is grounds for arrest, do you not?"
"Javert!" Valjean exclaimed, turning to look incredulously at the Auror. "Is this really the time?"
Javert glared back obstinately. "The Death Eaters are recruiting from among the werewolves and the loup-garou alike. Their locations are on record for a reason."
"It's just -" Thérèse explained, growing increasingly hysterical, "- I hate it, Monsieur! I hate that I can't get a job, that the moment I don't wear contacts, somebody's gonna have me thrown out of any shop I walk into, and on top of it all, I live my life as a number! Do you know what that feels like, Messieurs, to be nothing to no-one but a number?"
"Yes," Valjean said simply.
There was a very pregnant pause, and the only sound was the gentle crackle of the fire. Seeing he was serious, Thérèse's face softened. Valjean could feel Javert's eyes on him, but he did not dare look, afraid to know what renewed condemnation his expression held.
It therefore came as a shock when the Auror said resignedly, "I suppose that, to my... companion's point, this is a discussion that could wait. Thérèse - Madame - perhaps we should begin again."
Thérèse swallowed. "Do you mean it, Monsieur?"
"We came here to investigate a certain matter," Javert said as Valjean sipped at his tea. "Anything you could tell us would be appreciated."
She nodded, touching the star-shaped pendant at her neckline.
Taking up the narrative, Valjean went on, "We spoke already to Monsieur Hebert downstairs, regarding an incident involving your neighbors, the Regniers."
A frown puckered Thérèse's lips. "I've talked to a couple Aurors already about it..." she said.
Valjean nodded. "So we had gathered. And I do not think it is your own account of matters which is in question."
"Indeed." Javert sat forward, laying the parchment out on the coffee table. "This is the only record the Auror Office has of the incident."
Thérèse looked over the paper, and her frown became more pronounced. "But that's impossible," she said. "The first man I spoke to, I told him e'rything I knew. 'Twas far more than what's written here."
Valjean and Javert glanced at one another. "We wondered about that," said Valjean. "Someone, it seems, is trying to obscure the truth, and we mean to find out who. If you could, would you be willing to say one more time both what you know about the Regniers and about the Aurors who spoke to you before?"
Thérèse took a deep breath. "I will," she said. "Even if they k-kill me for it, I'll tell." She set down her empty mug and collected her thoughts.
"Archer, Ellie - the whole family, as far as I know - was Muggles. Ellie and I, we were friends. She'd come over sometimes, said she liked the energy of my place, wantin' for me to give her card readin's. I predicted the birth of their son that way, saw it in the cards before the doctor did." She beamed with pride for a moment, before noticing the look on Javert's face.
Hastily, she went on, "None of them really knew nothin' 'bout magic, it was just Ellie liked the mystery of it, I guess. I never minded, she was sweet, and her kiddos kept my boys company."
A beat passed, and when she spoke again, her voice was tinged with sadness. "I don't know how they made them mad, Messieurs, I don't. And maybe they didn't - maybe the servants to the Dark Lord only killed them for sport. All I know be that one afternoon, two weeks ago, e'ry oracle in the house turned dire. The horseshoe fell off the door, my Malachite cracked in half, and no matter how many times I shuffled my tarot deck, 'twas always the Death card I pulled off the top. Well, I was in a twist, Messieurs, as you can imagine. I Floo'ed the boys to stay with their aunt and then sat in the dark, waiting to see what came of it."
"And then?" Valjean whispered.
Thérèse met his gaze. "And then they came. You know who I mean," she added, looking at Javert. "You put their faces on posters, 'cause that's the closest you can get to capturing them. They wear hoods, and masks like skulls, only they went maskless that night. I s'pect they thought the whole building was nothing but Muggles, and that they wouldn't be recognized. I heard a window break."
The woman shuddered. "I creeped out in the hall, but didn't hear anything else. They must've cast Silencin' Charms. All at once, there was this great green flash from the crack around their door, and I knew they were -" Her shoulders shook, and Valjean poured her another cup of tea.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Truly."
She sniffled. "Well, Messieurs, I couldn't not do somethin' about it. I borrowed an owl and wrote that somethin' real bad had happened. Within an hour, I had a knock on the door from an Auror."
Keenly, Javert asked, "Who was it?"
"A man name of Marquet."
The Auror's brow furrowed. "Is that so?"
"Monsieur?"
Javert shook his head. "Marquet was found dead in his home on Tuesday. It may be unrelated, but somehow I doubt it."
Thérèse's eyes fell to the floor. "Sorry to hear it," she said. "He was nice. Didn't say nothin' 'bout me bein' what I am, neither."
If this last was somewhat pointed, then Javert did not acknowledge it. He merely asked, "What did you tell him?"
"Same thing I just told you. He took a bunch of notes, and then had a look at their apartment. Oh, it was awful. The mess, Monsieur, you can't imagine, and there they were -" Her voice cracked, and Valjean rested a hand on her arm.
"We've already heard from Hebert," he said. "You don't need to describe it."
She nodded gratefully, and wiped her nose on a shawl.
"You say Marquet was 'nice'," Javert said musingly, "but my presence in your lobby frightened you. Who else came to you here?"
Thérèse took a deep breath. "Two days after," she began, "another Auror showed up. He said his name was Vidocq."
"Vidocq!" Javert exclaimed. "That snake - it is a mystery to me why he was ever hired."
"Who is he?" Valjean asked, turning where he sat to look at Javert.
The Auror crossed his arms. "A wizard charged with multiple accounts of larceny. He only got off after he claimed he wanted to turn informant - he gave the Aurors who apprehended him a few names, and they made more arrests. He was kept on after that, and eventually they promoted him to Auror, Third Class. I've never trusted him." Looking back at Thérèse, Javert asked, "What did Vidocq do when he arrived at your apartment?"
"Asked a lot of questions," Thérèse replied. "He seemed to know what I'd told Marquet, but he thought there was more to the story, kept askin' if I'd recognized any of the folks what done it. I told him, I didn't have a clue, didn't see no-one's face, but he didn't seem to believe me. I was sweatin' bullets, Monsieur. At first I thought he was just really determined to track those people down, but now I'm not so sure. I don't know if I ever convinced him I was tellin' the truth, but finally he said that I was to keep my mouth shut and not discuss the matter with anyone else, even other Aurors, and that if I did, then he w-would have me arrested for how I was registered."
Her voice broke on the last word, and Valjean reflected that it was no wonder she had panicked upon seeing them. Not, he thought to himself, that Javert helped matters any.
Javert shifted in his seat. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
"Thank you," Valjean said. "I'm sure that was hard to tell."
Thérèse shrugged this off. "What will you do now, Monsieur?" she asked. It was unclear to which of them she was directing her question.
The Auror was the one who elected to answer. "Our purpose here was to learn what we could of the Regniers and the events surrounding their deaths. We have accomplished that much, and I am willing to call that sufficient for the afternoon," he said.
Thérèse's shoulders slumped in relief as she perceived what Javert was getting at. "You mean... you won't report me, Monsieur?" she asked tentatively.
Javert regarded her unreadably. "Not today, Madame Marie," he responded. "Though I would strongly advise you to update the Registry with your current address. I can only speak for my patience, not Vidocq's."
She nodded her understanding. "Would you care for anything to eat?" she asked. "I know it is early yet for supper, but..."
Javert dipped his head. "We have not eaten, Madame, so I think we may accept your invitation."
Thérèse smiled timidly at that. "There is stew," she said. "Beef and vegetable. I will tell the boys as well."
Standing, Thérèse waved her wand, and a chorus of pots, plates, and utensils began to organize themselves in the kitchen. She disappeared down the hallway, only to be rejoined minutes later by a small gaggle of children. The youngest was barely toddling on his little legs, and clutched a blanket to his chest. His eyes, Valjean noticed, were gold like his mother's.
Immediately charmed, Valjean went to kneel among the little ones and talk to them. Javert, slower to get to his feet, made his way into the kitchen. He surprised Thérèse, picking up a plate and handing it to her. They spoke quietly, and where he was seated on the floor, Valjean could not hear what was said.
The middle boy, who Valjean learned was called Garrett, handed Valjean a building block. A quiet swish and flick of his wand made it hover, much to the boys' collective delight. This lasted until baby Jean swung his hand and knocked it out of the air.
A clatter of plates and spoons on the table indicated that dinner was ready. It took a fair minute to wrest the boys into their seats, but then Thérèse served the stew, which was delicious. Valjean ate gratefully, and tried his best to keep up with the boys' running commentary, which spanned such expansive topics as "The Merits of Kicking Your Brother Under the Table" and "Do Slugs Study Philosophy?". Javert alone was quiet, almost introspective, and from time to time Valjean would glance his direction wondering what he was thinking.
Dinner passed quickly, and when he had finished his bowl, the Auror muttered a terse, "Thank you," to their hostess before abruptly getting to his feet and going to stare out the salon window.
Valjean stared after his receding figure, but Thérèse shook her head.
"I do not think he liked what I had to tell him," she said privately as she began clearing the table. Valjean helped her, gathering the silverware.
"What did you say?" asked Valjean.
Thérèse laid a finger to her lips. "That be for him to know, to choose to share or not," she said. "He's not so bad, though, your friend."
Valjean's mouth twitched at the use of the word friend. "I'm not sure I would call him that," he said wryly.
The look Thérèse gave him in return was appraising. "I s'pose not. Now you," she went on, carrying a pile of dishes to the sink and turning back around. "You aren't like him. You have Wild Magic runnin' in your veins, as I do, haven't you?"
Valjean froze and looked up at her. "How did you -"
"I have the Gift," she replied. "Or so they say. And if you like, I will tell you your future."
Valjean gave a weak sort of chuckle. "I'm not sure I want to know my future," he said.
Thérèse nodded gravely. "Knowing can be terrible," she said, "but it can be a relief, too."
Toying with a dish towel, Valjean asked, "If I wanted you to tell me, what would I do?"
A secretive smile on her face, Thérèse pointed to the tray upon which the now-cool mugs of tea rested. "Choose yours," she said.
Valjean reached for his mug, and looked inside. All that remained was a pile of soggy tea leaves at the bottom and a cold bit of liquid. He looked up at her quizzically.
"Swirl the cup three times 'round sunways," she instructed. When Valjean had done so, she held out the saucer to him. "Now turn it upside down on this."
Valjean almost reconsidered. He was not even sure that he wholly believed in Divination. Still, whatever she had said had left Javert unsettled, and that was not an easy thing to do. Before he could think better of it, he turned the cup over on the dish.
Thérèse picked up the cup and beckoned him closer. Valjean looked inside of it; the same soggy tea leaves were now spread down the walls of the cup. It meant nothing to him, but Thérèse was looking at it with great concentration.
Quietly, she began to speak, her voice nearly trance-like. "You are bound by an oath you do not fully understand the repercussions of. There is... great pain written here, I am sorry for that, but there is... a light, too. It is... small, and vulnerable, but find a way to nurture it, and it may overcome even the deepest darkness."
She met his eyes then, and for one instant, Valjean felt what it was to stare down the twisted length of the threads of time. Thérèse nodded slowly and said, "If you remember nothing, remember this: there is no magic more powerful in this world than love."
Her face cleared, and Thérèse blinked rapidly. Valjean opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but she shushed him.
"I can't remember my predictions, and I can't explain them," she said. "You'll have to do your best at guessin' its meaning."
Valjean nodded mutely.
"You may be wantin' to join the Auror over there," Thérèse added, inclining her head towards the salon. "I think he be gettin' impatient."
With a snort, Valjean said, "Not that it takes much."
To his surprise, Thérèse leaned forward and wrapped him in a hug before stepping away. "Thank you, Jean," she said. "For what it be worth, I hope you stop the ones that did this."
"We'll do our best," said Valjean, humbled.
"If ever you be needin' anythin', don't hesitate to come by. May the Old Ones go with you."
Valjean nodded, before making his way out to the front of the salon where Javert stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat. His expression did indeed speak of impatience, but there was something pensive, also, in the way he looked down at the street.
When Valjean stopped at his side, the Auror glanced over and huffed a breath. "Did she have something clever and humiliating to say to you, too?" Before Valjean could reply, he continued, "I suggest returning to your apartment for the remainder of the evening. There is nothing more to be learned here, not without getting ahold of Vidocq. I have some loyal contacts - I can put out feelers tonight, and by morning, we should have some idea of where we can find him."
"And when we find him, then what?"
Javert's eyes narrowed. "Then we interrogate him."
Valjean wondered if he ought to feel badly about that. He thought of how he had frightened Thérèse, and of the innocent family murdered, and decided he would not.
"After you," said Valjean. "I will follow."
Javert nodded and Disapparated. Valjean turned to wave a final goodbye to Thérèse; she waved in return, and then he, too, Disapparated.
No. 4 was quiet when Valjean reappeared in the living room. Javert stood in the kitchen, laying sheets of parchment on the table. Chouette sat fluffed up on the back of the couch, a pile of droppings underneath her.
Wrinkling his nose, Valjean Vanished the mess, and then entered the kitchen.
"You are planning to sleep tonight, aren't you?" he asked, watching as the Auror began copying the same note out on each of the pages. "Potions are no substitute for sleep."
"I know that," Javert responded without looking up. "And I do not need you to remind me of it. I will sleep."
"Take the bedroom, then," Valjean insisted. "You will rest better."
He would have sworn Javert rolled his eyes at that. "Who do you think you are, my mother?" he asked. "Fine, I will take the bedroom. Where will you sleep?"
"The couch," Valjean replied.
Javert paused. "Very well," he said.
Valjean leaned over the table, reading the nearest parchment.
A favor: request last known location of Vidocq. Destroy this parchment, it read. There was no addressee, nor any signature.
"Are these the 'feelers' you spoke of?" Valjean asked.
The Auror hummed in response. "Chouette will deliver them to my contacts across the city. Fortunately, most of them are literate. They provide information, the Aurors provide sanctuary. It is a costly investment, but often a worthwhile one."
"They're criminals, then?" Valjean asked, quirking an eyebrow.
The look Javert gave him said, don't be silly. "Hardly. Just poor folk, usually ones likely to be targeted by gangs and the like. A few are Muggles who got on the wrong end of a badly-cast Memory Charm."
"I see," Valjean murmured. He took his coin purse from his pocket and withdrew a handful of Sickles, placing one on each letter.
"What are you doing?" asked Javert, exasperated.
"Time is of the essence, is it not?" Valjean returned. "And Vidocq is an Auror. They may be reluctant to speak of him."
"This is bribery," Javert complained.
"Yes," agreed Valjean, "it is. You're a little past getting to have qualms, Javert."
The Auror looked like he wanted to argue, but what could he say to that when he himself was being aided by one he thought better off in Azkaban?
Valjean folded the notes to contain the silver coins, and Chouette flew under the pass-through into the kitchen, landing on the table.
Javert tied the bundle of messages to her leg. "You know who to take these to?" he asked.
The owl chirruped in reply, which Valjean took to mean, "yes".
Apparently, Javert felt the same way, as he said, "Good," and then carried the bird to the front door. Letting her outside, he waited until she had flown out of sight before closing the door again.
Turning back to the room, Javert crossed to the couch, where he sat down to wait. He was soon joined by Valjean, who took the seat next to him. A quiet fell over the apartment, but it was not so uncomfortable a quiet as some of the others they had shared. The Auror eventually shrugged off his greatcoat, which he folded and laid on the arm of the couch next to him, and then he shut his eyes. Valjean supposed he was thinking.
Valjean was thinking as well. Thérèse's prediction, if it was true, was not a happy one, but nor was it as bleak as it might have been. Even so, her final bit of advice gave him pause; he had not loved anyone or anything in a long time. He was not sure he even remembered how to.
Looking up, Valjean realized that Javert's chin had dropped, his head lolling slightly to the side. He had fallen fast asleep where he sat.
A breath of laughter passed Valjean's lips, and he got to his feet, careful not to disturb the cushions. As an afterthought, he picked up the Auror's coat and draped it over the man's lap. Amused, he made his way to the window, where he stood waiting for Chouette's return. The news she brought them, for good or ill, would dictate their path forward.
What did the future hold, he wondered, and would they be ready for it when it came?
Chouette was a long time in coming. The sun fell behind the horizon, painting the sky pink and purple, and the stars were emerging when he decided he, too, ought to rest. Stretching out on the floor was not the most unpleasant place he had ever made his bed. Closing his eyes, Valjean allowed sleep to creep over him.
