Matou Shinji and the Broken Chains

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: It is a time of seeming peace, as the British Ministry prepares to host the Quidditch World Cup - the greatest sporting event in the Wizarding World. But unbeknownst to them, a grand army of Giants and Werewolves is gathering in Eastern Europe, under the leadership of the vicious Fenrir Greyback, their sole objective - revenge. In the East, Matou Shinji and his comrades have arrived at the hidden bastion of Mahoutokoro to hone their skills, given that they are likely to become Champions of the two Tournaments this year – the Tri-Wizard and the Potions. And if their struggle against the Acromantulae has shown them anything, it is that only through power can they gain victory - and only through victory can their chains be broken.


Chapter 29. Ebb and Flow

Night at Durmstrang, as measured by the clock, and not by non-existent hours of daylight in winter, was always a quiet time. It was a time when few were out and about, when most retired to their rooms to rest, given that the new day, with its labors and trials would come to pass in a handful of hours, and experience had taught them to be ready. The quiet had only deepened in the days after the attack on the Tri-Wizard Champions, with the imposed - and strictly enforced - curfew meaning that the only people roaming the halls were the students selected for patrol duty, with the rest in their dormitories where they would be safe from ambush or depredation.

Yet not all was silent during the long hours of darkness, with Rachelle Perrot Lestrange, Potions Champion of Beauxbatons, standing alone on the snow-covered grounds, clad in a dark blue training robe with her rapier in her hand. No, not standing, moving, as she fenced with an invisible opponent, her feet carrying her backwards and forwards to the rhythm of an imaginary beat, as she shifted her weight, parrying an unseen blow and striking back with a fierce riposte.

To some, it seemed strange that a witch would practice the art of the blade, given that a sword was usually an impractical weapon in a world of wands, as it could only be used in a melee and lacked the variety of options a wand offered. But then, none of them seemed the value of training one's body and mind, over simply one's magic, something her long departed parents had instilled in her from a young age, as their parents had for them.

To her, Deuillegivre was more than just a blade – it was the physical representation of the legacy she was heir to, and the oath she had sworn to become the greatest alchemist who had ever lived, surpassing even her great ancestor.

And so she practiced, honing her skill with the beautiful implement of war, her motions flowing one to the next as she fought her shadow, battled with the doubts and fears and insecurities of the world around her, sometimes invisible, sometimes given form in great armored forms of ice and snow, only to be cut down, one by one, binding action to will, and will to power.

A dance of steel and silver, of ebb and flow, of shadows.

Such was her daily ritual after all had gone to sleep, her daily meditation on existence and the world, serving to reaffirm her goals and bring her peace after the travails of yet another day, no matter where was in the world, whether at home, at Beauxbatons, or here, in this frozen isle at the end of the world.

'For all it lacks in culture, Durmstrang knows ze vorth of ze martial arts,' the petite blonde reflected as she moved, the tip of her rapier cleaving air with a whistling whirr. 'Perhaps one even practices l'escrime – ze art of blades?'

It would be…nice to have someone to practice against, a living opponent whose actions and reactions she didn't have to choreograph in one of the partitions of her mind, even as she planned out a counter-strategy in another and remained aware of both with yet a third. However, as pleasant as it would be, her options in that regard were limited.

After all, Durmstrang seemed to train its students in the use of staves, not blades, and as for Hogwarts, well, the less said about that school the better. In the days since the attack, she'd seen the way others from the British school had looked at her, especially after those of Beauxbatons had gleefully informed them that of the two French Champions, the Etoile Noire was by far the more dangerous.

'Zey meant well, I'm sure, but…'

It wasn't as if she took any great pleasure in their fear and grief, though she did appreciate the fact that her…reputation was weighty enough that most steered well away from her.

Which is more or less what she desired, because she did not enjoy the company of people overmuch, nor wished to play their games. There were very people who she would tolerate for extended periods of time, though fortunately, it seemed as if some of her fellow Champions could be counted among their number. Fleur was familiar to her from their time at Beauxbatons. Rachelle Sondrol, the statuesque redhead who was Durmstrang's Potions Champions seemed amiable enough. Even Matou Shinji, the Potions Champion of Hogwarts, seemed a decent fellow, given his actions towards Fleur, though shortly thereafter he had returned to his home school for some training, and had remained away for a week.

Viktor Krum she'd only seen in passing, so she had no real opinion of the man, and as for the Tri-Wizard Champion of Hogwarts…he was perhaps the most mysterious of all, as he had not been seen outside Serpent's Refuge since the selection of the Three, with some wondering if he'd lost his nerve after being chosen as a Champion, or had come to regret the words he'd apparently said about his peers in the wake of the attack.

Rachelle thought otherwise, as she moved through a pattern of thrusts and parries, cuts and counters, slicing the tendon and sinew of a non-existent foe with spirit and technique flawless and firm.

'Nothing is so simple for one from ze Banner of Serpents…'

After all, she'd also heard that George Weasley was a hero of sorts to his peers, a wizard who was known for both playful pranks, and acts of valor, and so it seemed odd to her that he would simply hide himself away from the world.

But there was no time for further thought, as it was then that she detected a presence approaching the invisible boundary lines she had erected to warn her of intruders, and whirled to meet it, the blade in her hand thrumming with anticipation as she moved, leaping into the air, glowing runes blossoming into existence under her feet, allowing her to move freely even when there was no ground.

One, two, five meters at a time, she closed, a quick motion of her blade causing the snow to rise up before her invisible quarry and harden into ice, while the fingers of her free hand traced a quick set of runes – runes that bound themselves to the ice, with whatever – or whoever – had been creeping up on her slamming into their impromptu barrier with a dull gong.

"Reveal yourself, espion," the Potions Champion ordered imperiously, as heretofore unseen runes blazed into existence across the surface of her blade with an ominous silver light. "Maintenant!"

For a moment, there was no response, and Rachelle's free fingers prepared to trace a few further runes to force the spy into revealing him-or-herself, but then the air before her rippled, with the golden-eyed form of George Weasley, Tri-Wizard Champion of Hogwarts, appearing from nothingness, clad in the black and green robes of the banner of Serpents. For a moment, he seemed almost transparent – ghostly – but after a moment, his form took on a sense of solidity.

Not that it mattered to her, given that he was just a few meters from her blade – a distance she could easily close with a single lunge – and Deuillegivre could cleave spirit as well as flesh.

"That blade..." he murmured, feeling a shiver go down his spine that had nothing to do with the chill night air as he glanced from the petite young woman who had cornered him to the blade she carried effortlessly.

"Deuillegivre," Rachelle supplied, as much out of respect for the implement of war, as much as anything else.

To her surprise, the other Champion seemed to shake off his sense of unease, the corners of his lips curving upwards into a semblance of a smile as he straightened, giving the girl a mock salute. "And you must be Miss Lestrange. Fancy seeing you out here."

"I could say ze same, Monsieur Veasley," Rachelle replied, inclining her head fractionally in acknowledgement of the gesture, though the tip of her rapier never wavered from the level of the Weasley boy's heart. "Tell me, vat are your intentions?"

"...nothing untoward, I assure you," George replied, taking care to make no sudden movements as he kept his hands in plain sight. "Especially not towards someone who has me at such a disadvantage." He forced out a chuckle. "For the record, would you mind telling me how you knew I was there?"

"Non" came the instant reply.

"A pity," George sighed. "As to why I'm here, I was simply out for a walk, when I came upon a strange sight: a witch with a silver blade. Goblin steel, I take it?"

"Non. Alchemie."

"Ah," the lanky Weasley boy replied, filing the fact away. "Well, in any case, I thought it would be nice to speak with someone outside of the Banner of Serpents."

"A dangerous thing, approaching a stranger, like zat," the girl noted, watching the other's reaction carefully. "And vithout your required escort."

"…well, I didn't want to be a bother," George said easily, perhaps a little too easily. "And it isn't as if I'm in any danger from you, am I?"

For a long moment, Rachelle Perrot Lestrange just looked at the Champion standing before her, as if weighing her options, but as quickly as it came, the moment passed, with the petite blonde stepping back and lowering her blade, as the light of the runes faded.

"Not if you do not wish me ill," the girl said quietly, her silver eye curious. "Tell me, Veasley, the Banner of Serpents does not know you not in ze Refuge, does it?"

"They don't," the youth admitted, lowering his hands in relief as the blade's ominous aura disappeared. "It's easier that way, don't you think? They don't need to bother detailing someone to protect me, and without a keeper, I'm free to do as I wish."

"Is zat so?" Rachelle mused idly, wondering if there was any real reason for the boy's glib confidence. "Monsieur, do you lack a sense of danger? Champion or not, invisible or not, you are not invincible."

"True, though few enough can truly test my capacity," George commented, leaning back against the barrier of ice his fellow Champion had raised – only to lose his balance and fall flat on his back as it dissipated at his touch. "…ok, perhaps I was a bit overconfident," he added after a moment, as he found himself looking up at the starlit sky.

"Indeed."

"Still, I could ask the same of you," the boy continued, shaking his head and deciding to stay on the ground instead of attempting to get up. "It is late, after all, and most decent folk are in their beds resting in preparation for the day ahead. Yet here you are, alone, blade in hand, standing over an unarmed man who means you no harm. Do you do this often, Etoile Noire?"

For several seconds, only the sound of the wind could be heard, before Rachelle Lestrange sighed and sheathed her weapon.

"Non," the girl said by way of reply. "I am not ze monster of legend some believe. Even if zose who meant me harm are gone, and I remain." She paused, considering what to say next. "If you had been like zem, Monsieur Veasley, you vould not be here to regret it."

Most people would have been disconcerted by the fact that Rachelle's innocent, sweet tones were so incongruous with the content of her words, but George Weasley was not most people. And besides, he was quite familiar with one Fujou Kohaku, who was not…entire dissimilar.

"You're a dangerous girl, Miss Lestrange," George offered after a moment. "There are very few people who can sense me when I use my…gifts. Yet you not only noticed me, but stopped me from fleeing, using only a sword and runes. Not even a wand. Where did you learn all of that?"

"I cannot say," Rachelle answered, her fingers caressing the hilt of her rapier, as if they itched to draw it forth to finish what she had started.

"Cannot or will not?"

"Does it matter, Monsieur Veasley?" she questioned sweetly, to which George shook his head.

"...no, I suppose it doesn't," George conceded. "In the end, the outcome is the same." He looked up at her speculatively, his golden eyes seeming to glow as he studied her form. "So why are you alone, and not say in the company of Miss Delacour – or perhaps Matou, given…?"

The boy trailed off, realizing belatedly that Rachelle was one of Matou's direct competitors.

"Monsieur Matou is at 'ogwarts for training, but if you mean his attraction to me, I am aware of it," Rachelle noted, her expression slightly distant and uncaring.

For her, such a thing had not been particularly hard to deduce from the way he looked at her, from how he had sought her out, volunteering to come with her to see Fleur when he didn't know the part-Veela at all, and more so, from how he had shrugged off the part-Veela's allure by looking at her. Perhaps the Japanese boy didn't realize it himself, and truly thought he was simply doing the right thing, but there was more to it than that, she was certain.

Few – especially of his age – were so selfless as to sacrifice their reputation for the sake of another without some other motive.

"Oh. That…you're aware of it, are you?" George echoed, startled by the girl's admission. Frankly, he didn't think Matou was really that transparent, given his reputation at Hogwarts as something of a playboy and a flirt, and if anything, the rumors said he might have fallen under the sway of the French Tri-Wizard Champion. Still, given Lestrange's resemblance to Lovegood, he could see that perhaps the rumors had - not for the first time - been wrong. "I hope..."

"Fear not, Monsieur. Champion Matou has not embarrassed himself overmuch," the girl noted, her voice clear, almost amused in a detached sort of way. "Even if his interest is plain for zose vith eyes to see..."

"You…haven't taken advantage of him, I hope?" the Stone Cutter asked, raising an eyebrow as he sat up, uneasily. "He may be a Champion, and someone from a strange land, who most of Hogwarts finds confusing from time to time, but before all of that, he is my friend, and I would not wish to see him hurt in that way."

Rachelle only snorted, an unladylike sound that was charming in its incongruity.

"Monsieur Veasley, such a thing is beneath me, both as a Champion and an Alchemist," she replied, with George's eyes widening at the word she used to describe herself.

"...an Alchemist," the red-haired teen echoed, his expression going slack as a piece of the puzzle clicked.

Only one other person he knew of had ever described herself as an Alchemist, not a potioneer or witch, or so forth: Sialim Sokaris - the late potions genius who had been closer to Matou Shinji than anyone else in the world, for who the Japanese boy's heart apparently yearned even now.

Did Matou see an echo of Sokaris in Miss Lestrange, the Stone Cutter wondered? If so, it was possible that as worldly and cultured as Matou believed himself to be, he might have found himself projecting what he had felt for Sokaris onto the Etoile Noire of Beauxbatons, without even consciously realizing it himself. Coupled with Rachelle Lestrange's physical resemblance to Luna Lovegood, George could see how the boy might be drawn in… "I see."

"Indeed, following in the footsteps of those who came before," Rachelle acknowledged. "It was my ancestor who founded the Centre for Alchemical Studies, after all."

"In Egypt?" George inquired sharply. He didn't know of any others, but it never hurt to be sure.

"Indeed."

"...you wouldn't happen to be familiar with a family by name of Sokaris, would you?" he hazarded, acting on a hunch. Perhaps this girl knew something about the enigmatic orphan who Matou had become close to – or at least her family.

"Non. Should I be?" the girl asked mildly, trading a question for a question.

"No, I suppose not," George allowed, the wheels in his head turning as he thought back to memories that he hadn't looked over a long time and frowned. During the incident with the Boggart in the chambers beneath Hogwarts, the apparition that had materialized as what Sialim Sokaris feared most had called her by a different name – one she seemed to know. "What of the Eltnam, then?"

The mood in the clearing shifted, with the air going very, very still in the wake of the Stone Cutter's question.

"The Eltnam?" the Alchemist echoed, her eyes widening fractionally at the mention of a name she knew well, but had not heard from another's lips in a very long time, not since her parents were still alive. It was a name she had been warned not to expect someone not of her bloodline – or at least, someone who was not a devoted Alchemist – to know. Yet before her sat a student of Hogwarts, a teenager who was no Alchemist and certainly not of her blood, speaking the name of the one who had been Master for a time to her ancestor – and to Nicholas Flamel, a name which had long since been forgotten by time. "My ancestor learned his arts from an Alchemist of ze name, long before he founded of ze Centre, but few have cause to know zis." She regarded the boy intently, her silver eyes boring into his gold. "How did you come by zis name, Veasley?"

"...I met someone who called herself an Alchemist once," George said slowly, looking away as his thoughts drifted to the past. "Someone I am proud to have called one of my comrades." He shook his head, trying to see where this new piece of information fit. "She was only a first year, but what she knew about potions, and the way she used them..." Now that some time had passed, and he had the advantage of distance, what Sialim Sokaris had been capable of had been incredible. No, for someone of Matou's age now, it would have been incredible. For a first year…

The boy shook his head. Even among those who had access to the Book of Potions, few had displayed the innate mastery of the art of potioneering or the sheer amount of knowledge that she had – and fewer still would be able to apply that knowledge to something practical.

Like fighting a troll.

"She…I think, was an Eltnam," George supplied, with Rachelle Lestrange seeming poleaxed by the revelation.

"Ze Eltnam…still live?" the petite blonde whispered after a time, almost disbelievingly. But the Stone Cutter did not answer. "Veasley, what happened to zis girl?" she all but demanded. "Why is she not here, as a Champion?"

"I think you can probably guess, Miss Lestrange," George said quietly, a sad smile on his lips as the gold in his eyes faded out. "If she was alive today, she would be Champion, I'm sure. Since she isn't, Matou has become so in her place, following in her footsteps to do what she cannot."

A fey silence hung heavy in the clearing in the wake of the Stone Cutter's admission, but even that could only last so long in the face of curiosity.

"This Eltnam," Rachelle asked, her figure quite still as she looked off into the distance. "Who was she to your Potions Champion? Simply a comrade, like you?" Somehow, by the way that Matou simply called himself an aspiring Alchemist, she rather thought there was more to it than that.

"No," George answered, as he rose at last to his feet. "If you want to know more, perhaps you should ask him when he returns. After all, she was his closest friend."

"Ah." The petite Potions Champion blinked, not having expected that. "My condolences."

"Eh well, I've said too much already," the Stone Cutter noted with a hint of chagrin. "And I'm afraid I should probably be going. So if you don't mind…"

Rachelle Lestrange waved him off, and taking that as a sign of dismissal, George's form vanished once more with, with the Alchemist's senses tracking him as he receded into the distance until at last he moved out of her range.

"So the Eltnam lived on," she murmured to herself. "And yet this new Eltnam is gone, leaving behind only a foreign potioneer. A pity. I would have like to meet one of that line, given what I know of my ancestor's master, Oberon."

For now, though, she simply drew her blade once more and began to spar with an opponent woven over imagination once more, as she had her daily meditations to complete.