[Thank you for your patience, and this is a long-ass chapter for your troubles.

This should not only continue the story, but also give a glimpse into how the Hogwarts world is different without Harry (and you might also hear from the Bad Guys).]

Relevant Inspiration:

Deprived by the Crimson Lord

The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel by Michael Scott (Not from the Office)

Disclaimer: I'm not British, French, nor Irish.

[I'll talk more in the post-script for people who want to know more.]

(Unusual Warning: I don't believe in 'Trigger Warnings'. So this will be the first, last, and only warning you get. This fic is rated M, as in Mature. As in, there will be dark, violent, and sad things written in this story that are generally perceived to be inappropriate for children. If you are a kid and decide you still want to read this, go right ahead. I just want you to know what you're getting into. Maturity comes from experiencing both the bad and good aspects of our world. You can never hope to defeat something you never learned about. "An Evil or Injustice that is Unknown, is Immortal.")

Otherwise,

Enjoy.


-III-

Albus Dumbledore had known for quite some time that he was getting old. Though he still felt his magic coursing through his veins, and though (as an empath) he was still able to feel the emotions bubbling out of his excitable students, mornings were as rough for him as for most men in the many years after their prime. He woke to aching knees and a stiff back that he had to roll his shoulders to pop into motion. Albus even had to grunt his way into a sitting position from his bed in the morning, only to heave his way to his feet. However, he was not an Arch-warlock for nothing. By the time he had slid into his chosen robes, ruffled Fawkes' feathers, and let his eyes gleam into his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he could feel the magic he had mastered warming his old joints and bones, worrying away the strain and pain. For a wizard of his age, he was happy with his health.

And so it was that morning, as he wandered the halls of Hogwarts on his early rounds, he couldn't help but smile to himself and hum a toon as he strolled. It was as good a morning as any, and far better than he supposed it could be. Today he was expecting several letters to arrive. One from the Longbottoms and one from the Weasleys. One from Gringotts and one from Moody. One from the Ministry, and one…a rare frown began to form on his face. One from the International Confederation of Wizards. That, of all the letters, more so even than the report of his investments for the James and Lily Potter Foundation, was vital.

Albus Dumbledore decided, in that moment, that he would not worry… what was that Muggle saying? Ah, yes. He would not worry until the chicks had hatched. A smile once more grew on his face. It remained there through a meeting with Hagrid over special stables that needed to be built by midway through the first term, through scolding Peeves for harassing Mrs. Norris with Dungbombs in the shape of mice, and all the way through breakfast. Even as a slew of owls soared through the rafters and eaves, alighting in front of him, he still smiled. One by one, he read the letters.

Neville would be returning this year, despite the issues with the Dementors last year (they had been lucky that Pettigrew had been ferreted out of the castle before any harm had come to more students). Arthur Weasley had written him, informing him that young Ginevra was settling in well at her new school, and that she held no hard feelings for the professors of her former home. The patriarch of the Weasley clan had gone so far as to say that she would likely be visiting Hogwarts with her new school's delegation later that year, though how Arthur knew of the Tournament, Albus honestly didn't know.

Gringotts informed him, to his delight, that the various investments were turning a profit (albeit a small one) and that the proceeds would cycle back into the foundation for tuition assistance for Muggleborns. Moody's letter, too, brought good news. He was willing, though not happy, to be the Defense teacher. The letter from the Ministry was a simple reminder of the cut of funding to financial aid, a recurring theme, and also a notice that the classifications of various dangerous beasts had been amended. That one was interesting, and so Albus filed it away in his mind for further inspection. However, more pressing, was the single charcoal letter, emblazoned with the white-segmented eye of the ICW within its diamond-shaped outline. Albus contained his trepidation, and ignored the looks his fellow faculty were sending his way.

With a single tap of his wand on the intricate eye, the letter unfolded.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,

Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock, Heir to the House of Dumbledore, and Headmaster of Hogwarts,

In regards to your inquiry to the deployment of one of our Marshals to the British Isles, insofar as we understand the situation, the threat posed by one Lord Voldemort does not yet meet even the most minimal criteria sufficient to warrant the redeployment of any of the M Groups. Therefore, until such a day comes wherein the threat posed by the presumptive Dark Lord reaches a more critical level, we see not the need to interfere.

Signed,

Patroclus Machiavelli

International Confederation of Wizards' Precept of War, Liaison to the Circle of Magi

Albus' worry faded, and a wider grin broke out across his face. They were not going to deploy a Marshal. This was, without a doubt, the best news he had heard this summer. If the ICW chose to step in, any hope of redeeming the lost would be gone. He knew each one of the three Marshals, and most of their respective subordinates. They were killers, plain and simple. The old Headmaster had personally seen what the Marshalls were capable of. During The First World War, the ancient Wizards of Constantinople had desperately joined the ICW and begged for protection. The ICW answered their pleas, and sent Romulus Crowe to Turkey. Dumbledore remembered those bloody beaches, and he certainly remembered what had happened when the Lovecraftian Horror had arrived. Romulus Crowe, more than any other reason, was why Gallipoli had been such a massacre. Alone, without even his retinue of magicians, the Marshal had brought about the end of seventeen squads of hitwizards that had tried to aid the muggle forces in taking the beach. Had the Confederation sent that man to Britain…Albus forced himself away from the thought and his smile widened. But no, that had not happened. He still had the chance to save those caught by Voldemort's webs.

"Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked, speaking up for the rest of the curious teachers. "Did you receive good news?"

The gleam in his eyes was blinding when he turned to answer.

"The best news, Minerva, the best."


Fleur awoke gently, as if from a long slumber. She saw light streaming through open windows, and heard the birds chirping outside. It was morning, and she realized she was in her own bed. Strange, she thought, Wasn't I just starting a duel? With a soft yawn, she slid out of bed and into a pair of slippers, pulling her night gown tighter around her. Voices reached her through her door, and she set off in search of answers. She found her Father and John sitting in a reading room just down the hall from her own.

"—And of course we have Aramis Motierre…Ah, bon matin, Fleur. John and I were just talking politics." He gestured to a glass of orange juice and a few slices of buttered bread on a tray beside an empty chair. "You slept almost until lunch, please eat. You must be hungry." He then turned back to John. "You can see the problem with having one of Cherveaux's compatriots as Minister of Intelligence."

"I was under the impression that he was the Second Minister, and Sophie Thomas was still the First."

"Non, you would have been right, but just last month la Rouge was recalled to the ICW and her position as acting director is no more. The word is that she was promoted."

"Excuzez-moi, Papa, but where is my wand? I last had it when I was about to duel…" Fleur stopped herself when her brain caught up with her mouth. Her eyes widened. Her father smiled.

"Oui, ma chérie. You lost, rather handily I might add." He stuck his hand out to her, and she saw her wand in his grasp. "What mistakes did you make last night?" Fleur flushed as she took her wand back, and recalled the events of the prior evening.

"I mistook fighting for dueling. One is a sport, the other is survival."

"Good, what else." Her father prodded.

"I…I let pride take a hold of me?"

"Pride slays even dragons." He quoted, a simile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And what else?" Fleur thought, but nothing came to mind. When she didn't answer, it was John who provided.

"You underestimated me. The Americans have a saying, assuming makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me', and while childish, it is accurate. Do not assume that you are better than someone just because of your age." Fleur looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. However, uncharacteristically, she only nodded her head. She then looked at her father.

"May I join your conversation?" Her father beamed.

"Of course, we were just talking about Cherveaux and his allies. I was noting the new threat that Lord Motierre provides to the present administration." Fleur nodded, and took a bite of the bread, then washed it down with a sip of juice.

"Oui, but I would think that Jacque Thibault is more sinister." Her father scratched one ear, thinking.

"I suppose you could be right." His voice was contemplative. John looked from the girl to Sebastien. He spoke, affirming what he believed to be true.

"You said in passing he is the most likely person to run on behalf the Oldbloods in the next election?"

"C'est vrai, he will most likely be backed by the likes of Chervaux and Motierre. With Louis-Gerrard Laurent finishing his second term, his Vice-Minister is likely to run for their party." Fleur scrunched her nose.

"Lord Martin? But, he is so quiet, does he have the charisma to win?" Sebastien Delacour chuckled.

"You should see him when he gets worked up. I think he could do it. Most of the party would follow him, and many of the other parties would join him later in the elections."

John listened as the two continued their conversation, struck by how eager Fleur seemed to impress her father with her knowledge and political acumen. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed. The slight shift in her eyes from her father to a point slightly past him, the way her fingertips whitened when she squeezed the glass in her hand as she waited for her father to respond to a point she had made, and way she leaned ever so slightly forward, as if hanging onto her father's words. John took note of these, and made a conclusion. Beneath his emotionless mask, he smiled. He knew someone else who did those same things.

He was brought back into the moment, as so often was starting to happen, by the silence of the others. He looked up, and saw the two looking back at him.

"Apologies, sir, miss. I grew distant." Sebastien waved it off.

"Fleur was just telling me that a couple of her friends were planning on going shopping to Saint-Germain-des-Prés this afternoon. I thought it would be a good chance for you to get the feel for the place. Beauxbatons will often organize trips for many students to go shopping there." John regarded the two. He nodded once.

"When do we leave?"


Saint-Germain-des-Prés was, for muggles even, a district of Paris teeming with fancy shops and small but pricey restaurants. However, for magicals, the district named after the most famous French Magician beside the Flamels was a spot for both business, and pleasure. In this light, when John Constantine walked towards a statue easily missed beside the looming church for which the district was named (all the while ignoring the inane conversations between Fleur and her two friends, Salomé and Jezebel) he mentally smirked. Though muggles assume the statue is of Diderot, the famous philosopher, John knew otherwise. After all, why would any church have a statue erected outside their doors of a man famous to have said, "Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest"? No, the statue was not of Diderot, but of Saint Germain himself, former apprentice to Nicholas and Prenelle Flamel. The stone base had been changed to hide the entrance to the magical section of Paris, and when the correct pass phrase was spoken, a notice-me-not charm activated, and the side of the statue became ethereal to allow visitors to descend into the realm below.

John wasn't surprised when, after reaching the bottom of the stairs and passing through a magical field that had until then blockaded the sound from below, both Fleur and the girls attempted to cast subtle glances to gauge his reaction. While Fleur's two friends seemed surprised to see the non-reaction across his face, Fleur was not, and gave a small sigh. "Welcome to the—"

"To the true Catacombs of Paris." The new voice rang with authority, and boisterous joy. The girls whipped their heads to take in the speaker and, for the first time in recent memory, John found himself surprised. Fleur was smiling. She turned back to her bodyguard.

"John, this is Maurice. He is one of my classmates. Most days, he is also a friend." Maurice raised one hand to his heart, and the other to his open mouth. He wore an affronted look of shock, but his hazel eyes gleamed with mirth.

"Only most days?! How have I earned such revulsion, my dear flower of the court?" She shot him a half-hearted glare.

"For jokes like that." She gestured to John. "Maurice, this is John. He is a distant cousin of mine." Maurice, still grinning, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in thought. Any response was cut off by Salomé.

"He is from Ireland, Maurice. The College Cú Chulainn. Rumor has it that he is a champion duelist and that Madame Maxime wanted to snatch him up for an interschool competition this year." John reevaluated the strawberry-blonde. Salomé Bardot was tall for her age, very tall. An inch shy of six feet, and with hair done in a simple but tight braid over one shoulder, her athletic form would have made her a surefire pick on any sports team. With his new attention, John noticed the piercing intelligence behind her grey eyes, a hard thing to miss now that she was staring at him. A dangerous girl, physically and mentally if that off-the-cuff lie is anything to go by. Maurice piped up.

"A tournament between magical schools would be fantastic, non? So long as it is not the Tri-Wizard back again." A laugh sounded between the French kids, Fleur's the only one with any semblance of hesitation. After all, only she and John knew how true that joke had been. Jezebel, finally regaining her breath from the fit of laughter, stood to her comparatively modest height, and jostled Maurice.

"Mon Deu, I almost forgot. Fleur, Salomé, John and I are going shopping! If you just got here, or if you aren't too very busy, would you like to join us? We would absolutely love your input." She gave a crooked smirk at John. "I believe he may be happier with this trip if he will no longer be the only garcon, pas vrai?" Maurice didn't wait for John to reply.

"I would love to, but I'm afraid I was on my way out. Felix and I already made plans to visit Rome before classes begin, and you know how he gets if we do not stick to his….strict itinerary." The girls nodded sagely, a wordless agreement passing between the three and Maurice. The brown-haired boy sauntered over to John, and put one hand on the bodyguard's shoulder. John stiffened. "I'm so glad I got to meet you John. You must tell me more of Ireland once school begins again." His smile was dazzling, and then he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. John blinked. He turned from watching the flamboyant boy disappear up the stairs to street level, and saw all three girls grinning.

"He seemed nice." Fleur and Jezebel laughed, while Salomé snorted. She shook her head, then turned to her two friends.

"Where should we start? Marie's? Andre Montcelli's?" Jezebel frowned.

"Marie's? What is Marie's?"

"The little family boutique wedged between Cassano's and Apothacary 13." At Jezebel's blank look, Salomé continued, "The store front with the rows of colored chocolates?" Jezebel's eyes widened in realization, and some horror.

"Salomé! You buy chocolates from them?! Mon dieu, do you know what that does for one's health, much less the complexion?! C'est incroyable! Why, I was just flooing Lucretia last night, and she said that she had heard it from Thierry that his sister had gotten…" Fleur smiled and shook her head gently as her friend began a rant on the various gossip flooding the social circles. Her eyes met her bodyguards, and she shrugged.

"John, did you have anywhere you wanted to stop?" He nodded.

"I need to visit Gringotts," Fleur, blinked, then her eyes flicked up and left, thinking.

"Oui, c'est possible. I wanted to talk to them about future employment, so I can tag along." She guessed he would question that, so she added, "So you don't have to worry about leaving my side." Smirking, she scanned his expressionless face for any crack, but found none, frowning to herself. Then, turning on her heel, she strode past Jezebel, who was still talking. John followed.

"—ma tante, aussi, said she saw a significant increase in outbreaks of…Fleur? John? Where are you going? No one tells me anything, I swear! Do people think me someone they can just ignore when decisions are being made? Fleur!" She scampered off to catch up to the two, hoping to reach them before they got lost in the crowds. Behind her, Salomé shook her head wryly.

"Incapable of shutting up perhaps…" Her voice was too quiet for her demonstrative friend to hear, and she too followed the others. She focused her gaze on John though. She thought back to what her older brother had taught her when he was able to gain leave from his job. Watch the way they move, where they bend, and where they don't. She considered this as the group walked to Gringotts. He kept his knees slightly bent at all times, but his back remained straight. He never rested on his heels. He was ready to spring, and alert to any need to.

Watch how they interact with others. Do they focus entirely on the person? Do they face the person they are speaking with? Or is one of their feet facing away? Salomé watched him as he spoke with a Goblin within the bank. Saw as his head inclined, and she was surprised to hear him speaking deferentially to the creature. She looked at his stance. Relaxed, but ready still. One foot, his left, was slightly angled away from the interaction. He was ready to move.

Most important, do they carry weapons? If so, where? He wasn't wearing a robe, yet she didn't see his wand either in a pocket, nor a holster on his leg or lower back. His turtleneck had long sleeves, so she guessed he had a forearm holster, but there was no bulge there, so the model was slim, and therefore expensive. She looked then to his boots, to see if he wore tall ones that could conceal a knife. She blinked. He was barefoot. Across flagstones, concrete, bricks, puddles, and filthy roads the four of them had walked, and not once had she seen him sidestep anything or divert from a direct course. Salomé was having trouble comprehending that simple series of facts, when John seemed to finish his business and turned around. As Fleur stepped forward and began speaking with the teller, his silver-sunglass covered eyes reached hers, making her blush and look away. Face burning, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear and berated herself for being caught. Faintly, she heard Jezebel's voice slip through her broken concentration.

"—and that goes without saying. I mean, with those dreamy green eyes, Yves could have… Salomé? Tu vas ? Are you getting hot? Your face is all red! I told you that you should not wear jeans on a day like today, but no one ever listens to my advice, I swear!"


The quartet returned to Chateau Delacour eleven bags heavier than when they had left, but due to quick shrinking charms on all but one of the shopping bags (Jezebel had insisted that shrinking anything by the robes designer Esmé would be a crime, so that particular bag was left unshrunk), they were not encumbered as they could have been. Predictably, Jezebel was still talking, but only to John, who gave no interrupting feedback, which suited the chatterbox just fine. Fleur, separate from the one-sided conversation about the perils of Quidditch, spoke to Salomé.

"I need your honest opinion. What do you think of John?" Salomé looked up to meet Fleur's eyes, then looked away. A small smirk formed on her face.

"Well, I'd say that you didn't pick a bad one to start crushing on…unless Filipe counts, then not bad for a second go." Fleur felt her face begin to burn, and she shoved her taller friend.

"Non, that is not what I meant and you know it!"

"Oui, oui. But you must admit, you set yourself up for that one."

"Just answer the question!" Fleur whispered in frustration, desperately fighting down the blush. Salomé smile grew wider, then she grew serious.

"He moves like a panther at the zoo, relaxed, but yet confident. How would you say it?" The grey-eyed girl wrinkled her nose. "He is…assured. That is the word." There was a brief silence, then Fleur broke it so quietly that her words were almost lost in the sea breeze.

"He beat me in a duel." Salomé blinked.

"He beat you? Perhaps I was not far off in my lie…it must have been a great match, non?" Fleur shook her head, a minute gesture of sadness.

"I was being cocky. He had warned me that he would fight, not duel. I broke eye-contact to bow, and never had the chance to look back up." Salomé's eyes widened, but her surprise was not so much that she didn't catch the subtle point. He had said he would fight, not duel. An obvious obliterating point of her fib to Maurice. She filed away the piece to the puzzle that was the mysterious youth.

"He must be fast then."

"Very."

"So it is likely his assuredness is backed with ability?"

"Without a doubt." The girls walked several more steps. They were approaching the front door of the chateau. Salomé unconsciously stepped a half pace closer to her friend.

"He is not your cousin, is he?" Fleur opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the doors opening in front of them, and her father striding out. The girls blinked. Dressed in his spotless robes and suit, and with a dark intensity in his eyes, Sebastien Delacour looked ready for war. Behind the duo, Jezebel miraculously stopped mid-sentence. Sebastien spoke, with soft intensity, and unmistakable command.

"Fleur, my meeting has been moved up. I need to go now, and while I don't know if you had plans to stay the night with one of your friends, I am asking you to stay here tonight. I could be gone a while." Jezebel piped up.

"I was going to invite them, but we could stay here instead…um, if that is alright with you Mr. Delacour." Sebastien cocked his head at that, and almost seemed ready to apologize and refute, but he stopped. With a smile, he responded instead with good humor.

"I see no problem with that, so long as you girls don't torture John in my absence and my house is still standing come morning!" Caught in the universal joy of a sleepover, none of the girls made the connection between John's small nod, and Sebastien's change of heart. When the girls made to go inside, Sebastien held John back. After a few seconds to make sure they were out of earshot, he turned to the boy in silver sunglasses. "You understand that this change of schedule means the attack will likely happen tonight?"

"Yes sir."

"You understand that I don't have time now to divert some of my department's resources to help defend like we originally planned?"

"Yes sir."

"And you are certain you can promise their safety?"

"My life is forfeit should I fail, is it not? Either I am killed by you in a rage for failing, or I die ensuring their safety. The logical choice is to fight with all that I have so they can live. That would, logically, be my best hope of surviving."

"Logically?"

"Of course, sir."

"And what is the illogical choice?"

"Choosing to attack those I defend." Sebastien laughed, and when his chuckles finally subsided the boy finished. "Sir, either you will return to find me with the ladies, all of us alive, or you will return to find the ladies alive, and me dead." Sebastien cocked his head, still smiling.

"A Spartan and his shield, non?" This time it was John's turn to smile. A wide, genuine grin that changed the entire shape of face and seemed to lighten the darkening sky.

"Yes sir."


Fleur was not expecting to be awoken at three in the morning, and quickly made her irritability known through a rather proficient and diverse battery of swears not fit for a lady to say. However, even more unexpected was the failure of her vocal cords to produce an iota of noise. John's explanation, however, was quick.

"I silenced you; you're father informed me you are less than pleased with waking early." She glared daggers at him, but he ignored her, and continued. "The chateau is under attack." That got her mouth to finally stop moving, and her confused and alarmed eyes widened. John kept speaking. "I need you to stay here and watch your sister. I stunned both her and Jezebel because I didn't think they would handle the pressure as well as you." Fleur looked over to Jezebel who was asleep on the bed she had transfigured the previous evening, and saw her sister on a conjured cot. She looked over to John, and pointed to her own mouth. He unsilenced her.

"What of Salomé?" John jerked one thumb over her shoulder, and Fleur followed the gesture to see her friend standing by the door, eyes bleary, but a satisfied half-smirk on her face as she waved her wand, slowly but methodically braiding her hair into a tight braid that balled itself into a low bun.

"She woke up when I entered the room, so she already got the run down." Fleur looked once more at her friend, more critically this time.

"What is she going to be doing?" John shrugged.

"She can stay here, or try and help defend. I shouldn't need the help, but she's not the person I'm being paid to protect, so she has more leeway than you do." Fleur opened her mouth to lose her temper, but then came to a realization.

"Wait, we are under attack?! Who is attacking? Where are they? Why—" John silenced her with a flick of his wand.

"You don't need to worry about that, just stay here and protect your sister. And Jezebel. I'll take care of the attackers." As he began to walk away, he cancelled the silence around Fleur. She responded immediately.

"By yourself?" His response was equally quick.

"It's my job. I don't think I have to say this, but just in case…if this door begins to open, pour as many spells as you can into whoever comes through. Don't take chances, your sister is counting on you. Fire first, ask later."

"What if you are the first to come through?"

"I'll block."

Gerrard Montblanc was, of all the members of the Butcher of Bordeaux's team of killers, the most in tune with the muggle world. A large portion of his family's wealth came from their nominal luxury brand, and he had several cousins that had served in the French Foreign Legion, so compared with his teammate Vincent Homard's claim at understanding 'the other world' after an imperio-enforced orgy with four muggle girls, he felt very well versed in all things muggle. So when Vincent fell into an until-then invisible pit in the sand after crossing a little creek into the Delacour lands, he quickly recognized that things were not as they should be. This was supposed to be an easy mission. Sneak through the wards with the help of a cursebreaker, kidnap an Apolline Delacour and her two daughters (all three of them Veela) and then after making it back to base, the Butcher and his six men had full permission to fuck two of said women until the men couldn't rise to the occasion anymore. Easy and fun. So, as Gerrard looked down into the pit and saw Vincent pierced at least twelve times by buried stakes, he had to wonder. Why were there Vietnamese punji pits at a chateau in southern France?

John heard the footsteps, quiet though they were, as Salomé scampered to catch up with him. As he walked, his wand flicked from side to side, but instead of muttering the words to spells, he called softly over his shoulder. "Can I help you Mademoiselle Bardot?" She caught up, her face slightly flushed in warmth from the brief jog. She wasn't, however, breathing more heavily than normal, he noted with silent approval.

"I want to help."

"That's nice."

"I'm serious."

"As am I." He passed an intersection of corridors, and stooped to draw a small pair of runes on the floor right by the corner. He stood and looked at a marble statue of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, and made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. He turned to face her. "What experience do you have with killing?" She blinked.

"N-n-not killing, really. I mean, I've never had too, but I could if I needed to." John looked unimpressed.

"There are men here, who have come to kidnap your friend, her sister, and mother. They will likely ransom your friend, and claim they killed Gabrielle and Mrs. Delacour."

"Claim?"

"Yes, because in truth they will rape them. They won't care that Gabrielle is underage, and will probably use that to get Apolline to give herself willingly to try to spare Gabrielle." He saw that his blunt words were hitting hard, but he didn't let up. "If they find you and Jezebel here, they will happily add the two of you into circulation in their gang rape. A short and loud brunette and a leggy, athletic blonde? Yeah, doubt they will pass that opportunity up." He stopped finally when he saw a single tear roll down the girl's cheek. But, to his surprise, and for the second time that morning, his approval, her eyes held steely determination. She stared him down, doing her best to show her conviction.

"Then we will have to kill them first." He narrowed his eyes. His response was quiet, but intense.

"What happens if I fail? They kill me, then they kill you, or worse, capture you?" Instead of backing up, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Their eyes were locked, his cold behind silver curtains, and hers, grey storm clouds brimming with energy.

"Better I die or be captured than Gabrielle, Fleur, or Jez." He looked at her, and saw her passion, and the truth of her words. Then he nodded, and turned away once more, speaking into the air in front of him loudly enough for her to hear.

"I will draw them in, while you pick off stragglers. Remember, they will not take it easy on you, they are rabid dogs. Put them down."

Flavius Malfoy, Butcher of Bordeaux, feared killer across magical France, was glad that Vincent had found a trap so quickly. Though it had cost the man his life, the party moved much more carefully thereafter, and thereby missed many more traps that they might have otherwise stumbled into en mass. They had avoided a larger pit with a floor covered from corner to corner with runes that their curse breaker had claimed he had never seen the like of, and a trip wire that swung a comb of spikes at groin-height. However, though magic had healed his leg, one of their number still limped after stepping into an honest-to-god, fifteenth-century bear trap. The man's leg should have been absolutely fine, but clearly there was foul magic at play.

Flavius was beginning to dislike this mission. But, being a true professional, he wouldn't let his men see his growing frustration. He had already decided that he would instead vent his frustrations on little Gabrielle. A harsh smile began growing on his face. One that stopped when the front door opened to the chateau sixty feet in front of them and a barrage of spellfire shot out, turning the early morning darkness into a prismatic light show.

"COVER!" He yelled, throwing himself behind a nearby planter. With his back to the newest threat, he watched as one of his remaining six men went down, the front of his robs drenched in blood, wet fabric clinging to the now apparent crater in his chest. A brutally well aimed battering-curse, Count Malfoy realized, and reassessed the difficulty of this mission again. None of them had expected the women to be ready for the raid, much less willing to throw roman-era siege spells. Though well composed for the havoc of the sudden counter-assault, Flavius missed one detail. The battering-curse, caio, had been used by wizards hidden amongst the testudos of Rome's legendary legions. Safe beneath the shield wall and roof, the roman spell-casters had moved slowly closer and closer to the gates of whatever fortification they were assailing. Once they were within twenty or thirty feet, they would cast the spell at where they thought the drop-bars of the gates were, shattering wood and bending metal. Never in the long age of roman conquest, had it been recorded to have any lethal force at the distance Flavius had just witnessed.

Salomé watched as the first salvo of spellfire she and John launched battered the area around the small attacking force. She saw one of the men go down with a deep crunch sound that made it all the way back to her ears, but was unable to see the actual effect of the shot. After a quick breath, she made to cast more spells, but John pulled her to the side, and out of the open doorway. She looked at him, the question obvious in her eyes. He spoke quickly, but calmly, and in short sentences so her adrenaline filled brain would comprehend.

"Go to the side entrance by the gravel dueling lane. Go outside and crouch behind the patio furniture. They will send one or two men that way, and they won't think anyone would hide there. Any sane defender would hide inside the chateau, not outside. When they pass you, take one or two out from behind. If you only get one, run to the water." He took in her sneakers, jeans, and light jacket over a t-shirt. Nothing heavy or bulky. "You're better dressed for a swim then they are."

"What if they circle the house clock-wise instead of counter-clockwise to the dueling lane?" She asked, surprising him yet again. He made a mental note that he would stop underestimating this girl. He leaned out from cover and sent another barrage of color towards the attackers, then ducked back beside her as a few return spells splashed across the stonework beside the door.

"They won't. They are all right handed, and will not want their casting hands to have limited movement from proximity to a wall." He took a quick breath. "That, and frustrated attackers will take the quick ninety-degree quarter-circle as a path over the three times as long two-hundred and seventy degree path." He threw the redundant numbers out to see if she could process them in the heat of the moment, with spells still impacting the outer wall of the chateau. She could.

"How do you know they are all right handed?"

"I saw most of them when I just checked. But also all the misses hit our side of the doorframe. Any southpaw's would have had a slightly better angle to hit us around the inside of the door, their shots would have overcompensated left, but would have still made it through the door way. No spells did, thus all are right-handed." Salomé blinked rapidly as she tried to comprehend his explanation as quickly as he gave it. She gave up.

"When I make it to the water, what next?" She asked, backtracking.

"During my first tour of the grounds, I saw bubbles rising a few dozen meters off shore. We are on the Mediterranean Sea, so its likely gillyweed. Wait till he thinks you've drowned or swam off, then rise out of the water and kill him from behind."

Flavius and two of his men made it to the front door of Chateau Delacour by taking turns providing covering fire so that the other two could make it closer and closer. It had been Gerrard's idea, but he was going with the wounded Marc to the entrance beside the dueling lane. As all purebloods knew, having a heavily warded door beside a location where magic was cast both frequently in large amounts was a poor idea. The residue of such a sheer volume of spells caused havoc and interference with a ward's ability to recognize and respond to various magical input. Instead of moving the dueling lane farther from the house, the Delacour family had elected to keep it close, likely wishing for the weather charms from the house to also service the gravel path. Unfortunately for them, that meant that the door there would have the weakest charms of any entrance to this chateau.

Flavius had lost his composure by now, and was shouting orders to his men. He realized his mistake too late. With his shouting, he had revealed his proximity to the door, and his intentions. He threw himself to the side, wand up and forming a shield. In his efforts to land in the least painful way possible, he didn't see the barefooted boy step out from cover, and dispatch his men with a pair of rose curses before fading back into the chateau. When he rolled to his feet, shield up and ready, however, he did see his two companions. Both were dead. Their faces were now unrecognizable, skin bubbling and then bursting, puffs of steam rising from the wounds. The smell of burnt flesh and meat filled the air.

"Flavius." The voice came from within the door, and sounded like a far-away echo. A male voice. He growled, and entered the building, wand at the ready. "Flavius." Again the voice came, and he began following the single word. The simple challenge. The archaic instinct. He reached an intersection of two hallways after the eighth call of his name. He took a breath, and turned the corner. His wand lowered without his thinking, and his feet carried him a few more steps. There was a boy, waiting barefoot forty feet down the corridor. His eyes were hidden behind silver reflective sunglasses, and his hands were behind his back. His head was cocked slightly, as if measuring the Count. A mere boy. Flavius laughed.

Salomé watched as the first man rounded the corner of the Chateau. She watched as he cautiously made his way towards the door through which she had so recently exited. Very cautiously. He was limping. She waited. After an agonizing minute of the man shuffling, no one else had followed. Her heart hammered in her chest. Still no one else rounded the corner of the house. The limping man slowly reached the door, and began casting a series of spells at it. She glanced at the corner of the house. The limping man was alone. Standing up from behind her hiding spot, she raised her wand, arm shaking, and took a few steps closer to the man.

"Stupefy." She heard the spell too late, but she was still beginning to execute a dive to try and avoid the red jet of light when it hit her and sent her sprawling on the patio.

Gerrard had gone left, all the way around the house instead of going right with Marc. His logic was simple. This whole operation had been nothing but a pile of shit since they had crossed that little river. From the punji pits to the traps to the ambush by the front door, he was tired of getting fucked over, so when he told Marc to take the short route, he correctly calculated that, they would arrive close to the same time. With his limp, Marc still beat his ally to the side door, but not by much. In fact, it was that slight delay that caused Gerrard to see the strawberry-blonde girl stand up and take aim at Marc. He took a second to admire the view from behind her, then licked his lips and stunned her. Marc jumped when he heard the spell cast and impact a body near him.

"Merde. Gerrard, did you have to let her get that close?" He then took a second look at her. "She's not a Delacour, what should we do? Kill her."

"Putain non! This mission has caused the death of too many of us, and even when Flavius quells the little rebellion inside, he will be furious, we might not get any of the women intact for ourselves." Marc reassessed the Stunned girl.

"So you're thinking—"

"Oui, I'm taking a piece of this before it's too late." As Gerrard spoke, he began by throwing the girls wand behind him, and then undoing the button and zipper on the girl's jeans and working them down her legs. He licked his lips at what lay beneath. Marc pulled the light jacket off of her, than her shirt, but stopped after that.

"What the fuck?" He said, confused. Gerrard looked over.

"It's a 'sports bra', muggle thing. Here, I'll stretch it, you cut it." He put one hand on the blonde's back, and pulled with his other on the muggle material. Marc raised his wand, and uttered excitedly, "Diffindo!"

Salomé awoke when one of the two men was pulling her shirt off. Somewhere, despite all of the panic and fear that was coursing through her body and forcing adrenaline into every fiber of her being, her brother's words came to her, 'Freak out after you've survived. In training, they were allowed to break any one of our bones they wanted. My file had the report from the accident, so when I realized they were going for my knee, I almost gave up and quit. Instead, I focused on the goal. Survive. You can be certain I lost my shit and got hammered when I got back from Graduation, but not until then." She heard their short conversation in her mind, and some bit of his life that he had drilled into her took command, and she kept her breathing steady. Then, when she heard the spell spoken, she forced her pinned body into a roll towards the cripple.

He reacted naturally, trying to move back out of the way, straightening from his crouch and half-hopping away from his now mobile captive. It was in his hop, that his spell rose higher than intended, and lost its previously controlled size. Feeling the grip on her bra slacken, Salomé continued the movement, spinning on her hip, and lashing one leg towards the cripple. She felt it connect with his bad leg, incidentally on his knee, and both felt and saw his knee collapse the wrong way, a hideous crack accompanied by the crunch of bone on bone. He immediately fell down, and began howling. Her blood pounded in her ears, and she rolled like she was on fire, up his legs. This served to slam her full weight against his broken knee, bringing a sharper wail, and giving her the momentum to bring her elbow up and over into a downward swing like a headsman executing a deserter. Finishing the picture, her elbow slammed the cripple in his throat, turning his screams into a gurgle as he reflexively tried to suck in the lost oxygen, and instead swallowed his tongue.

Salomé grabbed his wand where he had dropped it to clutch at his mouth and throat, and shot to her feet. In a blink, she launched a silent depulso, and the choking man's head burst apart, leaving a star-shaped splatter on the patio. Breathing heavily, chest heaving and nose flaring, she felt the adrenaline begin to fade, and the soreness and emotion begin to flood back into her body. Then she remembered the man who had stunned her, and the adrenaline came back in full force, erasing the pain as she threw herself to the side, spinning at the same time to raise the wand at the next threat. Her instincts were unneeded. He was dead.

Gerrard Montblanc had been licking his lips when his captive had shocked him by moving. He had opened his mouth to shout, when an errant cutting curse slotted perfectly between his parted lips, passing cleanly through the base of his skull and severing his spine. He lay with his mouth open, drooling blood like a red spring.

Salomé fell to her knees, body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane trying desperately to hold onto its branch. Her lip began trembling, and she fell to her side, curling up and cradling the stolen wand. Tears streamed down her face as her body shuddered from silent sobs.


The spell was fired so quickly, only the combination of his wand already being half-elevated and an instinctive shield saved the Count Malfoy from death. As is, he didn't have time to notice anything more than the orange beam deflecting off and incinerating a potted plant into ash before the barefoot boy in front of him launched a salvo of spellfire, dull wand dancing in the dawn light that cascaded through open windows. Flavius dove to the side, nearly smacking his head on a marble statue of some historical legend to avoid the barrage. Instincts told him to move again, and he rolled backwards to the junction of his hallway with another as the statue transformed into a lioness. The huge cat flung herself at the blonde Count, but he managed to grunt, pulsus decimati, anda black curse banished chunks of her back at the child who would dare oppose him. Flavius didn't like this fight one bit. He had only had time to cast twice and already he was on the defensive.

Knowing he had briefly obscured the boy's vision, the Butcher of Bordeaux launched his own salvo of curses, hissing out his spells, followed behind by an ice blue jet of light. Fully expecting success, he could only gape as the boy raised his left hand and made a fist. The stone floor erupted upwards in a huge protrusion of rock. The stone wall crumbled under the force of the attack, but did its job, blocking every single spell. All except the lone blue bolt. Flavius watched stunned as the stranger in silver glasses caught the spell on the tip of his grey wand, and flicked it back at him. Knowing what would happen should he be hit, he threw himself back into the perpendicular corridor, narrowly avoiding an icy death. Count Malfoy leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Who the hell was this boy? His musing was interrupted when three red spheres of light soared by, turning mid-air around the corner to slam into his defenseless side. Cursing loudly, Flavius was blasted through several other potted plants and down the hallway. His vision swam as he tried to pull himself to his feet.

A hand grabbed him, spun him, and pinned him to the wall by the collar of his robes. The blonde haired Count looked into the face of the boy who had beat him. It was at that moment he realized several things. First, this boy was very fit, clothes tight over a muscled frame. Second, the boy was in his mid-teens, but his face lacked the soft edges that marked anyone of that age. Finally, he realized that this boy had never once spoken during the fight, all his spells had been silently cast. With a shaking hand, Flavius reached up and pulled the silver glasses off of his foe. The eyes that stared back were as pale as death, enrapturing, and lacking any innocence. No pity could be found in the emotionless stare. The piercing orbs locked on his own. The boy spoke.

"To whom shall I send your wand?" Flavius coughed and hacked out a painful response, blood from internal wounds threating to escape with his words.

"My son…Darian…" The boy nodded, and pressed the point of his wand against the would-be kidnapper's gut. 'May…may…may I know your name?" Flavius asked, his final words a choked gasp.

"No."

Outside, as waves slid over sandy shores, gulls cried to the rising sun. Trees bent slightly in a light breeze. Squirrels danced amongst the quiet branches. The air was crisp, perfect. Inside the chateau, a muffled thump gently sounded in the hallway. John let go of the blonde Count. Count Malfoy slid to the floor, much as the waves slid over the sandy shore. He bent slightly, much as the trees outside bent in a gentle breeze. His heart was quiet, much like the branches were quiet in the perfect, crisp air.


"My Lord, news from your spy in the ICW." Antonin Dolohov knelt, head bowed and holding a letter up for his master to grab, if it was his will. It was. A strong hand took the folded parchment and smoothed it out to read. Much like his bitter rival, he smiled.

"So Crowe is being kept in his cage. Splendid. With The Hungarian still in Spain, and our dear spy still in South Africa, we may proceed as planned." The man sent the letter floating into the fireplace behind his chair with a casual twitch of his fingers. The flickering firelight outlined his chair in orange, backlit in the dark room. His face, cast into shadows, held eyes that somehow seemed to glow in the dancing darkness, dying coals in ashen embers.

The hand that had levitated the letter moved up to stroke his stubble. There was silence for almost a minute, then, at last, Tom Marvolo Riddle spoke again.

"Antonin, send Pettigrew to Bellatrix. He hasn't yet been properly punished for his failures this spring. Once you have done that, return to me with Crouch and Miss Black."

"At once, my Lord." Antonin turned, and took his leave. The Lord called Voldemort turned to a shadow that lingered in one corner of the room.

"Amy, I have heard that Lucius seems to have delegated the mission I gave him to his cousin. Please ensure that Lord Malfoy understands the gravity of my displeasure. Then send his son to me. It is time we complete the boy's preparations for this year."

"Yes, my Lord."


N/B: \La Rouge is French for 'the red', referring to Sophie Thomas' hair and history (Not really a Nota Bene, but I figured it would confuse some people.)

\I have nothing against Montblanc, the company. Just smelled the cologne (Legend) on my boyfriend while writing and used the name. (10/10 Would Recommend)

\Baise ça is my translation of 'fuck that' from English to French. I couldn't officially confirm its veracity (i.e. Google Translate agrees but my French contact is annoyingly out of contact. (I'm a hypocrite, I know.)), but I rolled with it.

\Pulsus decimati: I used my limited Latin to create a spell. Translates (not really) as 'decemate and repel'.


Authors Note:

So here is a twenty-eight page long 'thank you' for your patience and the many reviews (that's twenty-eight pages before I added the header and footer). I tried to make it twenty-five pages for twenty-five reviews at time of writing, but I had too much fun with Jezebel. [B/N: Translation: Vi had fun releasing her inner gossip.]

I wish I could say that the boyfriend got hurt again and that is why this took so long to update [B/N: HEY!], but it's really because I had lots of fun during the summer and kept procrastinating on writing. However, I understand that it was a dick move to make y'all wait that long, so it won't happen again.

I did put a lot of effort into this when I was actually writing, so please read, review, and share it with others if you like it. Y'all are wonderful.

Semper,

Vi