We, In Faith
By King
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter Ten: Thrash
Fresco smiled cheerfully down at the black figure beneath his hand. It jumped up and was several trees away before he could react. It moved more quickly than he could, anyway. Beside him, Minh tensed. Fresco shook his head. Anyone else wouldn't have known whether he was gesturing to the man beside him, the slight person watching them suspiciously, or even the forest itself. But Minh understood and relaxed, flicking his eye over Fresco. He could just imagine his annoyed look.
The dark cloak had its mask turned in their direction, the lifeless eyes and expressionless mouth making it inhuman. A black gloved hand poised with a clutched wand gave the only indication of a living soul beneath the shrouds.
"Hey, hey," Fresco said and raised his hands to show his defenselessness. "Look, we just want to talk to you."
"I've got nothing to say to you," returned the kid emotionlessly.
Fresco stuck his hands inside his robe pockets. "Then how come you're sticking around? Why don't you just run off if you're so uninterested?"
The figure didn't answer.
"Okay, then," declared Fresco, running a hand through his thick hair. "Here's what we want to say. We want to know where those two quacks went since we left. I know we –"
"Fresco." Minh was staring up through the trees in the direction of the school.
In an instant, the black cloak whipped through the trees and disappeared.
"Damn it, Minh –" He cursed but his hand was grabbed and his body jerked off before he could finish.
The leaves flurried in the green half-light splashed all over the forest floor. Minh dragged him stumbling further into the forest, the heady pine and leaf rot scent tangling in their legs like a teasing cat, but they were quickly frozen in place with a silent spell.
Fresco again cursed their bad luck. Minh was going to kill him.
-
Albus peered over his spectacles at the two young men seated on the other side of his desk. One, of sharply elegant and Asiatic features, lounged casually in his chair, a high, defined cheekbone resting on a fist. He stared back at Albus with one curt eye; the other socket was covered by an eye-patch. He was dressed like a muggle.
The other young man sat up attentively, a foot draped over his knee. He wore robes, neatly kept, but his sun-dashed hair forming a mane around his open and honest face flipped and flew everywhere. His face was tanned and good-looking. Neither one of them could be more than twenty-two or twenty-three.
James Potter and Sirius Black stood behind them and darted wary glances at the young men. Minerva was off to the side, looking stern and apprehensive.
"So," Albus said, smiling, "might I ask your names and what you were doing in the Forbidden Forest around our school? Forgive me, but you look a little old to be students."
The blond smiled back winningly. "Yes to the former, no to the latter. I'm Fresco and this is my associate Minh. You can ask us anything you want, but that doesn't mean we'll answer."
The other one, Minh, glared at his companion and spoke to him angrily. It wasn't a language Albus knew. Korean? Vietnamese, he thought. Fresco ignored him.
"That is true, of course," Albus conceded. "You're entitled to your silence, but at the moment the school grounds are off-limits to unauthorized individuals, which is clearly marked by signs. It would be unfortunate if we had to hand you over to Ministry officials if you had an understandable reason." He donned a mild expression.
Minh shot another angry remark at Fresco. This time he replied reassuringly in the same language. But he didn't seem placated and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit a smoke expertly with a match, letting quick ropes of acrid, pungent vapors coil around the relatively cozy office. Fawkes, nearing one of his death days, flittered feebly and looked up. Taking a drag, Minh returned Minerva's dirty look.
"Would you tell him to put that out?" she said to Fresco. "The smell is unbearable."
He hesitated but said something to the other. Minh replied in a rude tone.
"What did he say?" Minerva demanded.
"Nothing," Fresco answered offhandedly. Minh gave him a look to kill.
He looked Minerva directly in the eye and snapped out in a throaty voice, "I said you can go f –" Fresco instantly clamped a hand over his mouth. The blond seemed to scold him in the foreign language again. He dropped his hand and Minh did nothing but take another inhale from the cigarette.
Minerva drew up severely. "If he spoke English, then why –"
"No harm done, Minerva," Albus said, feeling his eyes shine amusedly.
Fresco turned to Albus and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. I know we seem pretty shady, but, honestly, we're not here to cause trouble or hurt anyone. We hadn't even meant to leave the forest."
He studied the two again. Fresco looked sincere, Minh rather sullen and almost embarrassed. "Would you object if we checked your wands? Circumstances have arisen today where we must be especially careful."
"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide." The blond leaned back in his seat, an unreadable look passing between him and the pale-toned Minh.
"If you have nothing to hide," Minerva cut in sharply, "then you ought to be telling us why you were on our school grounds."
Fresco smiled again. "Well, a few things to hide, I guess."
"The wands, James, Sirius?" Albus looked up at the two, a bit of twinkle in his eye.
James pulled a thin blade of wood out of his pocket. He stepped around the two and handed it to Albus. "I only found one on them, Professor."
He took the wand and gave it a small flick. "Prior Incantato." A few ghostly remnants of charms and spells manifested from the tip of the wand, but none of them had the ability to alter a person's memory. He flicked the wand again, cleaning up the wisps.
"Only one?" he asked James, but looking at the young men.
Fresco shifted. "Minh doesn't need one."
"What?" Sirius asked, surprised. "He doesn't do wandless magic, surely?"
"If you've gone and hidden it, you might as well tell us now. Eventually it'll be found," added James.
"I don't need one," Minh said simply in his curiously ragged voice. "I'm a squib." He continued smoking.
Sirius's jaw practically hit the floor. "A squib?"
"That's what I said." Minh gave him a look as if he were speaking to an imbecile.
Albus could understand Sirius's astonishment. The young man hardly fit the bill of what society stereotyped squibs as. He was self-assured, verging on rudeness, and young and healthy and tall. Most thought of squibs as small, pathetic middle-aged men beginning to bald.
"Here," Fresco intervened, "are you done with us? We need to be going."
"I think –" Albus paused. Several voices swelled up to them from the door leading out to the spiral staircase.
" – fine. I just want to know what in Merlin's name is going on."
The door pivoted open, emitting a vexed Poppy, an irked Jean Pole and Madame Maxime, and a reserved Severus. Albus thought it very surprising indeed that one: Jean had managed to pull himself from Poppy's clutches long enough to get to his office, and two: that Madame Maxime was fitting into the small room without absolutely crowding them all into little nooks and crannies. Even after all these years, Hogwarts continued to amaze him with its little tricks.
"Now look, he's busy at the moment," Poppy admonished Jean. "Get back to the infirmary and rest like I told you to."
"But I feel fine," he insisted. And he looked it, too. His face held the touches of neither paleness nor fatigue and he seemed to have quite enough energy to spare. "I just want to know why –" Jean spotted the two men seated in front of Albus's desk. Astonishment jumped into his face.
"Fresco? Minh? What are you doing here?"
They gave each other a look. As they stood up, Albus noticed how very tall they were. Fresco was maybe a centimeter or two shorter than Minh, who was much thinner, leaner. Minh put out his cigarette on the arm of his chair.
Fresco grinned at Jean. "Hey, kid. Just passing through. You're still going to win that money for François, yeah?"
"Yeah, of course I am, but," he answered, still looking confused, "I thought you were still in Spain?"
"Made an unexpected detour." The blond passed a hand through his hair. "Need to head out, though. All right, professor?" Fresco looked expectantly at Albus.
He paused but nodded. He handed the wand back to Fresco. "You may go. Take care not to wander onto the grounds again. You'll get my staff all in a fluster again." Sirius, James, and Minerva looked as if they sorely wanted to object. He shook his head at them.
"Sure thing," replied Fresco easily. He headed to the door, Minh behind him. As he passed Jean, he patted his shoulder.
"Good seeing you again," he smiled. "Take care of yourself. We'll get around to Paris soon."
Jean lifted and dropped his head in acquiescence. "Sure. Don't get yourselves in too much trouble."
Fresco laughed and stepped lightly out the door. Minh glanced at Jean.
"Hey, you'll have to give me another ride soon," he told the tall, older man.
He flicked his thin, glossy hair out of his eyes. "Sure." Minh walked out after Fresco. The door clicked softly.
"How do you know those two gentlemen, Jean?" Albus inquired politely.
The boy looked around at him, at the other occupants of the room, and settled his eyes back on Albus. "They're old friends. Why were they here?"
"That is what we would like to know," he answered with a smile in his eyes. "We found them just on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Unfortunately, unauthorized individuals are not allowed on the grounds because of the tournament... Do you trust them, Jean?"
Now, the boy was suspicious. He nodded slowly, his brow lowered. "Yes. They're good guys. They've both helped me a lot."
"You don't think they'd try to hurt you?" interjected James suddenly.
Jean snapped, "No, I don't. Why is everyone telling me I lost an hour of my memory? Why is he – " He gestured to Severus. " – asking me all these questions?"
Albus looked at Severus. The Potions Master gave a gave a bit of a sour look to all the eyes abruptly on him. Or maybe that was how he always looked. Albus couldn't tell much anymore.
"I've been asking you questions, Mister Pole," Severus said slowly, "because something went odd with the hereditary potion; it wasn't supposed to react violently like it did. The fact you fainted not long afterwards, the way you had to be revived, and the gap in your memory – it leads one to believe you were not really there in the dungeons with myself and the Potters."
James stared at Severus, for once not making foolish, derogatory comments. "Snape, are you saying –"
Jean interrupted. "I'm sorry, but I still don't think it's possible. I am not H– "
"Let's suspend disbelief for a moment," Severus said coolly. "Perhaps this mess wasn't because you are Harry Potter, but might have been. If the Jean Pole that gave a sample to the hereditary potion this morning was an imposter, I suspect he or she over-powered you when you were about to walk up to the castle. This person disguised themselves as Jean Pole, and took your place during the appointment you made with the Potters and myself."
Severus held all of the room's occupants' attentions, each individual with their own mixed feelings evident in his or her expressions.
"For some reason, the potion reacted strangely to the imposter," continued the Potions Master, "and he or she went back to where I suppose they had hidden the real, unconscious Jean Pole. Now, here is where I'm positive about the facts. The imposter forcibly removed your memories concerning being seized and again force fed your mind his or her memories of the hereditary potion. Any mind, of course, reacts badly to that sort of treatment, and Mister Pole passed out. When he awoke, he had forgotten everything that had happened after the time I'm supposing the attacker replaced his memories."
A blend of uneasiness and fear came over Jean's face. "You mean by the same method used for Pensives?"
With a Pensive, you remove a burdensome memory and store it away for contemplation on another day. But if instead of a shallow bowl, you give a memory to another person, their minds will 'adopt' it as its own. It was a very crude way to make a person forget something and 'remember' something else that had never occurred to them. A mind is a complex thing, and so defends itself by completely shutting down when it finds alien memories shoved into itself. Jean's mind needed the time to restore itself, and the mental stabilizer Severus had recommended had helped. But in the mean time, his mind had to let go of that one hour of recently acquired memories in order to recover.
"But why wouldn't he just use a spell?" Sirius asked, looking just as anxious as his best friend did.
Severus glanced at him. "This method leaves no magical trace. I suspect, also, that if you go over the grounds again, especially near the Beauxbatons carriages, you'll find there's not a trace of a spell that could have knocked Mister Pole out."
Most spells left a residue in the area they were used. It was a fact manipulated by Aurors many times to track down criminals.
"But we could look for the trace of what he used to disguise himself," James said, his face saying his mind was going over the possibilities and details of the situation like any other case he handled at the Ministry. "It must have been Polyjuice, right? Nothing else could have been so good at making a replica like the one we saw." He looked angry at the idea. Albus suspected he was getting his hopes up again.
Severus pressed his lips into a thin line. "That is where I'm finding it hard to rationalize. My potion wouldn't have reacted the way it did if it were just Polyjuice. It would simply turn black, and that would be that. But it responded violently. And besides, I've put a charm on my rooms to keep out strange magics. I would have known if someone who had drank Polyjuice were in the room."
"But it did alert you, right?" James demanded.
"Yes," Severus looked at him sourly, "but that was the clue-potion in his pocket. I used a very specific charm. Also, Polyjuice wasn't the only thing it would have told me about. Any other disguise glamours would set it off, too."
"So what was it? How did this person manage to disguise himself so well?" Madame Maxime asked. She had one of her large hands clamped onto Jean's shoulder, who rather than seeming to buckle under the weight, stared intensely at Severus.
The Potions Master paused. "I don't know. All I can say is, this was a very crafty individual."
"Can't we just fix Jean's mind?" Sirius asked. The boy stiffened at the turn of phrase. "I mean, they do that all the time right? Get back people's memories?"
"I wouldn't recommend it," Albus said. "The very crude way in which his mind was tampered with – trying to fix it would cause more harm than good, I believe."
"Well then," Poppy suddenly announced at her place beside Minerva. She looked a little anxious after hearing all of their talk. "Well then, if there's nothing you can do at the moment, Mister Pole ought to be doing as I told him and go have a good night's rest." She strode toward him and put a firm hand around his arm.
Madame Maxime nodded. "You should, Jean. Go on."
He looked almost as if he wanted to object but then consented.
James stopped them before they went out the door. "Look, Jean, would you consider retaking the hereditary potion? You know, since all of this stuff apparently happened?"
The boy studied him. He shook his head, his face pensive. "I don't think so, Mister Potter. It doesn't seem exactly beneficial to one's health to be connected to Harry Potter. I'm sorry."
"That's okay, kid." He tried to hide it, but James sounded disappointed. "You do what Poppy says. She can get pretty mean when she wants to."
Poppy left with Jean in tow, their steps on the stairs below rebounding up to the office.
James turned to Severus with a wry, melancholy grin. "So, Snape, how come you spent so much time racking your greasy noodle over this? Thought you hated my living guts."
Severus sneered. "Don't worry Potter, I do. This was a matter of pride. I can't just let someone dupe me and get away scot-free."
"Sirius, I'd like it if you and Severus go over the grounds, just in case," Albus told them. "Why don't you go get Remus, too?" Maybe he'd be able to keep the two from chopping each other up into bite-size pieces. "And, James, why don't you go talk to Lily? Congratulations again, by the way."
James smiled. "Sure. I guess there's not much else we can do."
-
"Another one? What the hell are they, rabbits!"
Bartemius Crouch, Jr. glared at the crouched figure, as if it was his fault the Potters were having another baby. The disfigured, weakened Dark Lord in the chair grumbled and puffed as if he were out of breath simply from the effort it took to yell.
"And due on that cursed date, no less."
"My Lord, would you like me to kill Lily Potter now?" Crouch asked eagerly.
"...No. Not yet. It's too risky. After I have my body back, when I can call my... loyal servants to me, it will be utterly simple to kill all of them." He paused a moment, more to catch his breath than anything else. "Is there something else you want to report, Führer?"
The kneeling figure stirred. "No, nothing, My Lord."
"... Are you lying to me?" The icy tone sent quivers down Crouch's spine.
"No, Lord."
"...Fine. I believe you. Don't be a fool and try to mess with that boy again. Go keep an eye on Lily Potter. Come back only if necessary. Or, better yet, if she has a miscarriage." The Dark Lord laughed shrilly.
-
Jean closed his eyes and drew his hands up under the pillow beneath the side of his face. Madam Pomfrey, which she had told Jean was her name, continued to bustle around the nearly empty ward for a few minutes in the dark cleaved by only the stillness of the moon and her paramours, the stars. He had spent the rest of the day staring up at the ceiling since Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him move an inch from the infirmary bed; it seemed to take forever for night to come. Finally, the nurse went through a door and silence settled throughout the long room.
He waited a few minutes before sitting up in bed. He swung his feet to the floor and put on his slippers and robe, his things having been brought up to the castle by someone. He made sure to grab his wand and a small pouch from his possessions. Cautiously, Jean stuck his head through the curtains, saw no one, and left the infirmary silently.
The castle was hollow and dim, a mere skeleton of the bustling, loud, bright body of students and teachers and ghosts it was during the day. Jean swiveled his eyes down the corridor and simply chose a direction and began walking.
For a little while, he could only wander around and peek through every door he came to, but eventually he found an empty room he supposed was a teacher's office. It had a fireplace. He slid in and closed the door, putting a charm on it to alert him if someone came near. Locking it would just make it obvious someone was intruding.
He shuffled toward the fireplace and knelt. Giving his wand a quick twist, he lit a fire, big enough for his purpose but small enough not to make someone suspicious. He took the pouch from his pocket and untied it. Taking a pinch-full of the Floo powder, he flung it into the fireplace. The flames leapt up eagerly, devouring the green dust. He whispered an address loudly and stuck his head into the emerald blaze.
His head spun and turned and whirled through the Floo system, the call taking longer because of the greater distance. Finally, the lurching stopped and Jean could see out into a small study. Rich, dark cherry wood lined the room and deep-set bookshelves filled to the brim covered every wall. In front of Jean's nose lay an oriental carpet and a plush leather recliner. Beyond sat a desk with papers and books ordered neatly across its green felt top. A door led out of the study into a living room where a man stood, his back turned to Jean.
"Doctor. Doctor Swann¹."
The man in the other room started and turned around. He stared at Jean's head in the fireplace, hurrying forward. The man was in his late fifties, early sixties and had a full head and neat beard of tawny hair splashed with white. His face was handsomely aged, his unusual muted violet eyes overshadowed with generous brows. He wore pajamas, slippers, and a robe like Jean.
"Jean, how are you?" His tone was casual, but his eyes concerned. He knelt in front of the fireplace easily. The Doctor was in very good shape for his age.
"I'm fine..." Jean trailed off, suddenly unsure of himself. They were both speaking English, Jean with his French accent and the Doctor with his British one.
Doctor Swann frowned. "What is wrong, Jean? As much as you delight in my humble company, you usually do not call at near midnight to have a chat."
Jean sighed. He told the doctor everything – the hereditary potion, the Potters, all of the suspicions of Professor Snape.
The older man listened silently and nodded every now and then. When Jean finished, he rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
"Would you mind terribly if I sat, Jean?" he asked.
"Go ahead."
The Doctor sank into the leather chair and looked down at him. "I wish you had called me earlier, Jean. I would have liked to have helped you decide what to do. Not that you made a wrong choice; you can never make a wrong choice, only ones particular to your person."
"I didn't want to trouble you. And it was sort of a spur of the moment, foolhardy thing I did."
"You are never a trouble to me, Jean. You know that. Do you regret it?"
"Not really."
"Yes or no, Jean," Doctor Swann said rotely, "'not really' is a –"
" – barely more articulate shrug of the shoulders," Jean smiled. "Yeah, I know." The Doctor was a stickler for things like that. "I don't regret it. Honest."
"Good." He smiled, too. But became more serious as he said, "I think you can trust Severus Snape's judgement. He is well known as an excellent Potions Master and scholar. His recent papers and treatises have been very impressive." He paused. "Also, I have an idea of what you might be thinking now. And I agree, it is a similar situation."
Jean said nothing, watching the man anxiously.
"But, if, if, mind you, this imposter is genuine and by some obscure possibility was there that day," continued the Doctor, "then, Jean, I must implore you to keep your head and not do anything foolish. I think all you can do now is keep your wits about you and focus on the tournament. You set a goal for yourself, and now you need to follow through. Do not become distracted by this."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Also," the man said with a touch of hesitation, "I think you need to put that day behind you. We have discussed this before, but I want to know your mind set about it now."
Jean thought a moment. "I don't think I'm ready yet. I had a dream again a while ago. And I got really worked up about it. And on Christmas, when I couldn't be in France, I couldn't stand it. I thought I would go off the wall. I felt like dying."
"But you are attempting it?"
"Yes. I really want to. I hate feeling like this, but I just seem to take one step forward and two steps back. I think the exhibition might help. So I'm trying to work hard for that and I'm not about to give it up."
Doctor Swann nodded. "Good. What about the Potters, Jean? I admit, you startled me there. Suddenly finding oneself to be Harry Potter, of all people – it seems fantastical. But also a burden. Did you mean it when you told James Potter you would not take another hereditary test?"
"I did," Jean answered. "The first one seems pointless to me now. I already have my life planned ahead and it doesn't exactly include reemerging to the world as the defeater of You-Know-Who."
"Plans often do not go as expected, Jean," commented the older man, "but if that is your decision, so be it." They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Well, the Doctor sat; Jean floated amid green flames. "How is Mariette?"
"Oh, she's fine," Jean said. "Her usual, lovely self."
Doctor Swann smiled. "I remember vividly. Take care of her, Jean. She is a wonderful friend to you. She might be getting a little upset over these recent events."
He blinked but nodded. "I should have thought of that." The charm on the door suddenly tugged at him. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I need to go."
"All right, Jean. Good night. Send me an owl soon."
"I will," he promised and pulled himself out of the fireplace. Soot scattered from his hair and face. He brushed himself off quickly, glancing around the unknown teacher's office again and left silently.
-
"Oh, that's fantastic," Jean remarked sarcastically. He gazed down at the tabloid article Meri, amused, had placed in front of him. The headline 'Jean Pole – Caught Between Three Beauties' glared up at him coquettishly. The article, by Rita Skeeter herself, was filled with drivel, from column to column, about Jean pulled among the mysterious, the wild, the (gaspgasp) sexy Su Li, the incredibly gorgeous, long-time friend Mariette Clehedault, and the down-to-earth, average every-day-girl, Ginny Weasley. It was insipid and asinine.
Breakfast usually meant a relaxed affair compared to the evening when they were ordered to dine with Headmistress. But today, Jean's classmates jibed him playfully about the article as they passed. No doubt the students up in Hogwarts were having a fit. He sounded like some sort of gigolo according to the article.
"I wouldn't worry about it Jean," Izumi said, trying not grin as he buttered a slice of toast. "These things blow over pretty quickly."
Meri hunched over the table, helpless in silent laughter. "Poor – poor, poor, poor Jean!" She giggled.
Jean gave her a sour look. She seemed much more cheerful than earlier, when he had finally been released from the Hogwarts Infirmary and walked quickly down to Headmistress's carriage where the Beauxbatons students always had breakfast. Sitting about the round tables placed here and there, the others looked up when he entered. Some stood to ask him if he were all right while others hailed him from their seats. Meri hugged him with a look of relief. When she asked what had happened, he told her not to worry about it, that he would tell her more later. She then promptly shoved Rita Skeeter's article in front of his nose.
Jean gave the magazine to a passing house elf in disgust. "Go throw that away. And every other copy you can find."
"Aw, is poor Jeanie-Jean all upset?" Meri cooed. She turned intensely solemn and serious for a moment. "Jean, I can't believe you'd cheat on me with these – these – these hussies!" Everyone in hearing vicinity laughed loudly. They all knew better than to actually believe Jean and Meri, or either of the other two, were an item.
"Shut-up," he said irritably and left in a huff to get his books from his bedroom. He spent the rest of the day fending off teasing remarks both spoken and written on bits of parchment from everyone in his class. Not only that, but Headmistress gave him funny looks all throughout her lectures and apparently couldn't see the forest of quivering hands when she asked a question and honed in on Jean alone every time. When class ended, she called him up to stay after. He had to apologize profusely for letting his image be misrepresented to the public. He promised to be more careful from now on.
Needless to say, he was rather rankled by the end of the day. Still, he did not forget about what the Doctor told him. Jean dumped his books on his bed and kneeled in front of his battered chest. He rummaged around until he found his Firebolt, the broom he received as a Christmas gift three years ago from his friends and Lawrence.
He ran a polishing cloth over it quickly, admiring the sleek lines and the stiffness of the bristles. Looking through the chest again, Jean found the snitch Cordelia had sent him this Christmas. It was a tradition between them; she always gave him a snitch. Jean propped the broom against his shoulder, fingering the snitch, and walked out into the hallway. He stepped lightly down the stairs. The boys looked up.
"I'm going for a fly," Jean said simply.
They all grinned and closed their books with little papery 'oomph's and tossed down their quills with a clatter. Jean walked out the door and down the steps, his classmates following him jauntily. They marched up to the girls' carriage. Jean rapped at the door, swung it open, and leaned in the doorway casually.
"I've decided we all need a break and that I should try out Hogwarts's Quidditch field," he announced gravely.
The girls grinned and abandoned their homework. As she pulled her coat on, Meri laughed and slipped her hand around Jean's arm. They all filed out the door as a single body.
"You'll have to give us a real show today," Meri said mock-severely.
Jean began playing with his snitch, letting it go and quickly catching it. "I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."
Jacques jogged out of place and began walking backwards in front of Jean and Meri. "Behold, ye simple plebeians! The almighty, all magnificent Voltage!"
The others let out a loud cheer. The Hogwarts Quidditch stadium loomed above them. Jean headed out to the field while the others split off to climb up in the stands. He mounted his Firebolt, feet dug into the firm turf, staring up around the stadium. It was just like the Beauxbatons one, large, airy, and full of potential whirling blurs and crashing balls. He might as well be back home but for the four banners loudly proclaiming the four Hogwarts houses instead of the Beauxbatons three.
He loved Quidditch – the furious speed of the game, the freedom flying beyond gravity's reach meant – and his House loved winning every House Championship for the past six years. Even the other Houses had a sort of pride in Jean's flying. It was too bad he couldn't compete this year, but the Triwizard meant more to him right now.
The Firebolt jumped eagerly in his hands. He laughed. "All right, all right." He pushed up hard against the ground and his broom leapt up into the cold breeze fiercely. The rushing air caught in his hair and snagged his clothes as he made lazy circles around the field, slowly rising higher. He could hear a faint chanting from the direction of where his classmates sat.
"Volt-age! Volt-age! Volt-age!"
'Voltage' was the stupid nickname someone had given him in first year for his flying style. Well, if they wanted to see Voltage in action, so be it. He continued to gain altitude leisurely, his cheeks stinging with the icy air and his breath turning to fog when it left his prickling lips. Finally, he halted right over the middle of the field. He was so high his friends were mere specks below. The Firebolt shivered excitedly in his hands. He grinned and leaned forward until he was parallel with the broom, applying an expert pressure to the nose. He snapped downward like a whip, absolutely vertical.
The air roared in his ears, assaulting every square inch of his body. The ground rushed up at him quickly, as if it were the one flying and not Jean. He could hear some of the girls screaming just for the hell of it. He held the broom steady in his hands, the two melding into one and bolting downward to meet the unforgiving turf. Just before they crashed, Jean turned the Firebolt again at a ninety-degree angle, his knees whipping through the close-cut grass.
His audience yelled and cheered. Circling toward them lazily, he waved.
Jean bent down against his broom again and they shot forward. He navigated a frenetic arch around the stadium and zigzagged through the goal hoops, not letting himself touch an inch. He whipped toward the others, making as if to crash into them and quickly speeding away. They bellowed at him in half-hearted anger.
Someone let his snitch go and Jean caught it several times easily in a matter of seconds. Or he teased it by letting it fly free for a few minutes before striking down on it effortlessly. Jean performed a few more high-paced tricks, dives and flying upside down, before slowing his Firebolt to an easy butterfly speed. He hovered before Meri.
"Hand me your scarf," Jean told her, peeling off his cumbersome coat, putting his glasses into one of the pockets, and tossing it to waiting hands below.
She untied the silk scarf from around her neck, letting it flutter up to him. His Firebolt humming beneath him, Jean tied the delicate thing around his eyes and behind his head. Blindfolded, he saluted the others nonchalantly and shot up into the winds frustrated by not being able to thrust Jean down to the ground where he belonged.
Even without his eyes, he already knew every inch of the field. It was too similar to the Beauxbatons one for him not to. He dived again magnificently. His Firebolt held steady, unwilling to let Jean fall on his head. He knew that although he could maneuver through the flashy tricks easily when blindfolded, his broom would save him if he screwed up too badly.
He sensed the snitch nearby and caught it idly, the fragile wings wiggling in his hand. Jean released it again and darted after it. He held the tiny thing in his hand, hovering for a moment in midair. He tore off his blindfold and stared down at the small, gold ball, thrashing so furiously against its hopeless situation between his fingers. He let it go. The snitch arched away, becoming blurry in Jean's eyesight until he could no longer spot it against the dazzling blue sky.
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¹ – Dr. Swann is actually a wizard who was trained as a Healer and then later went to muggle college to get his Ph.D. Jean calls him 'Doctor' instead of 'Healer' simply because he thinks it sounds more respectful.
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A/N: This was a shorter chapter, but it has a lot of substance to it, so I hope that balances it out. Plus, it came out quickly and I'm planning (cross your fingers) to have the Second Task in the next chapter. Don't count on it being particularly spectacular, though, because I really want to get past the Triwizard.
Oh, and I know some people didn't like the idea of Führer's name, but don't over-think it too much. It's just supposed to be ironic, is all. Voldemort gave it to him and I'm sure he has a twisted sense of humor. This won't make sense until you know his identity and that won't be for a long, long time. Sorry.
And. Fresco and Minh! I love them. You will, too.