Relevant Inspiration:
Deprived by The Crimson Lord
Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, nor Indian.
A/N: I apparently magic-ed Jezebel into the final scene with the Delacours in Chapter 6. The Delacours, Salomé, and John portkeyed from the Chateau to Beauxbatons, yet Jezebel was somehow with them when Gabrielle began the race for the gate...being the lazy post-posting-editor that I am, I shall overlook this error...you should too….if you're feeling polite.
Enjoy.
Tom Riddle stepped forward and took Amelia's proffered hand and, maintaining eye contact, bowed to brush his lips across her knuckles. "It is a pleasure, Ms. Bones." Even as he turned towards Sirius, his eye contact lingered for an intense breath more than courtesy, before the piercing gaze locked onto the other Auror. He took Sirius' hand and shook it formally, but firmly. "And Mr. Black, I have heard much of your accomplishments."
"Understated, I'm sure." The outcast of the Black family smirked, his cocky attitude falling back into place, a shield against appraisal. A small smile played at the corner of the Unspeakable's mouth, and then he turned to the Chief of Aurors.
"Thank you, Chief Scrimgeour, for the introduction, I can take it from here." The dour older man nodded, turned, and strode to his office, leaving the trio in momentary silence. Riddle, however, resumed his visual scan of his two new co-workers, as they did the same. Then, after a few terse seconds, he spoke.
"As they say, 'The devil makes work for idle hands.' Shall we get to it?" The two Aurors nodded. "Very well." His eyes left theirs and scanned the room. He took in the piled books, the trunk against one wall, and the small groups of papers and quills across the workspace. "I seem to have interrupted you, where are we on the World Cup affair?" Amelia cleared her throat.
"We have almost half of the dead identified, and most of the spells used...er, how much do you know already?"
"I am aware that the revelries after the world cup were attacked by masked wizards. I am aware that a group of fourteen apparent death-eaters were found slaughtered in the woods near the Quidditch World Cup campgrounds, that four more were captured among the tents by members of the french Dague Group and the French Minister of Arcane Defenses, and that we currently have no clues as to the identities of the killers. I am finally aware that the death-eaters were the perpetrators of the attack on the campgrounds, but it is still unknown who their leader was, nor their total numbers."
"We only have two in custody, the other two were ceded to the French when their identities were uncovered. Both were natives of our neighbors across the strait." Tom considered that, then backtracked.
"Very well. Back to our immediate response to this situation, what did I interrupt? You said something about spells?"
"Yes." Amelia spoke quickly, flushing. Then, frustrated with her oddly rampant emotions, she calmed herself down as the vibrant orange eyes focused on her. "We believe we have discovered what most of the spells used to kill the death-eaters in the woods were. We hoped that knowing them might help point towards who they fought."
"But…" Riddle prompted, sensing more.
"But, if we are right, the spells came from cultures and countries across the globe."
"And not even from the same millennia." Sirius added. "Some predate even Greece's glory days, while some, like Bathory's Blade, were created as recently as the 16th Century." Riddle looked back to the other man.
"You know your curses, Mr. Black. Would I be safe to assume that the copy of Stygian Spells is yours?" Two pairs of eyes flicked two where the man indicated, then to each other, then back to orange depths. Amelia felt her chest tighten. In her surprise at noticing Tessalic Horrors, she had missed the less infamous, but no less regulated tome. To her surprise, and relief, Tom's next words held not the arresting accusation she had expected. "A lackluster novel, in my opinion, save for the catalog of spells in chapter eighteen. I believe you would find Drach Biela's A Study of Once-Forgotten Counter-Curses and the Reasons for their Creation a surprisingly easy read, and far more useful." Sirius found his eyes widening, and a grin spread across his enthusiastic countenance.
"I'll make sure to check it out!" Tom twisted one corner of his mouth in a wry grin, but then went back to business.
"What spells are you having trouble with?" Sirius waved his wand, muttered a quick spell, and a few sheets of paper wormed their way out of several piles to float before the trio. On each piece was a transcribed description of the dead back at the World Cup, from their physical description and name, to the details of their injuries. With another wave, three sheets remained while the rest formed a neat pile on the closest corner of Amelia's desk.
"Of these three, we think the first is an old Egyptian spell, the other is a Chinese one, but we have no clue on the third." She said, gesturing to the respective sheets. Riddle scanned the descriptions, then closed his eyes and stood stalk still. He seemed to stop breathing even for a few long seconds, then his hand raised to point to the first paper.
"It wasn't a masonry spell. If it had been, the victim's skull would have been far more pulverized. As it was, the brain was powdered, but the skull was only slightly cracked and flaky." The Unspeakable eyes were flickering behind closed lids, as if he was reading a book only he could see. "I find it far more likely that he was struck by the 'iibead almiah curse. Libyan, very old, but used most frequently by the Barbary Pirates. The curse expels moisture from someone where it hits, which would explain the variance between the damage to the skull and brain.
"Whereas our brains are composed of more than seventy percent water, our bones are a mere thirty percent." Sirius seemed to take this explanation stride, frowning only at his own error in identifying the spell. Amelia however, narrowed her eyes at the science behind his diagnosis. That had been...very muggle...in its style. And taking in the ring on his finger, a family ring, she had assumed him a pureblood.
"As for the Chinese spell, I would agree with your assessment based on the descriptions of the scene." Riddle continued, then added thoughtfully, "I wish I had been able to see it in person." He waved away the musing. "That is besides the point. Let's see about this final spell." Sirius perked up.
"Yeah, it tore through three of the wankers-" Amelia smacked him in the back of his head. "Ow. It even cut down a tree that had been behind them and carved a furrow into the boulder that the two victims of the Chinese spell died beside." He rubbed the back of his head and glared at his partner. "I looked through just about every book I have, and there are not many dark cutting spells that can do that much damage, even if overcharged. None of those fit the bill either." Riddle nodded in agreement.
"I concur. However, did you consider that it may not have been a cutting curse?" The scion of the Black family clicked his tongue in thought.
"Sorta...well I did, but I didn't come up with any other alternatives."
"Could one of the attackers have conjured something and banished it? They could have evanesced-" Amelia began, but was interrupted.
"A possibility, if the damage to the terrain had not occurred in a straight line. Anything conjured would have ricocheted off the boulder after losing momentum through the tree." Riddle said, eyes still flitting back and forth, in his own mental world. Amelia bit her lip, joining her partner in considering the options. Sirius came up with the next one.
"A deprimo focused into a line could have done it?" Riddle's eyes stopped flickering as he considered it, eyes still closed.
"Was the earth around the boulder disturbed? Had it shifted at all from where it lay?" Amelia considered this, eyes drifting as she too mentally distanced herself from her body, instead reviewing the scene of the slaughter in her memory.
"No, I don't think...no, it definitely was not." She said, certain. Riddle nodded, then his eyes resumed their movement.
"Then it couldn't have been a modified deprimo. The boulder would have at least broken its grip with the ground and shifted from a pushing spell of that power." Sirius nodded, acknowledging the point. They spent a few more minutes bouncing ideas off each other, however, they all had to admit, the ideas were becoming weaker and weaker. Then, suddenly, two things happened at once. Riddle's eyes stopped flitting, he stood slightly straighter, and just as his mouth began to open in a revelatory remark, there was a knock on the frame of the open door. Both Aurors and the Unspeakable spun to face the arrival, and were greeted with the familiar haunted eyes and shaven head of Detective Court.
"Good morning Auror Bones, Black…" Her throaty whisper faded as she stared at an unfamiliar face. Riddle stepped forward, the surprise gone from his face, and a diplomat's calm visage donned.
"Good morning Detective, I am Unspeakable Tom Riddle, the head of the new Huntsmen Team to which both of these aurors, as well as the World Cup Case, have been attached." She took his proffered hand hesitantly, but he sensed her discomfort, and only shook it formally before letting go. A flicker of relief crossed her features.
"In that case, I suppose I am reporting to you now. We have had several breaks in the case, and as per standard operating procedures, I am to inform you immediately of them." Riddle nodded, no hint of frustration at her over-the-top formality.
"Very well, the report, if you will." Court nodded, and took a breath.
"First, we finished our battery of priori incantatem across all the confiscated wands, as well as our AAPs…that is, our Angular Analysis Protocols."
"By factoring in the position of the corpses, their wands, and disturbances in the natural landscape, you estimate how the conflict occurred." Riddle prompted, a subtler attempt to skip any detailed explanation than Sirius would have made, Amelia noticed. The AAP was new protocol for the Department, and she doubted her partner had bothered to read the notice.
"Exactly." The detective continued. "We found rather...well, frankly startling results. Between the fourteen dead wizards, we estimate that only two offensive spells were cast."
"That's not a fight, that's an ambush!" Sirius' eyes were wide. "Lia, this means that it was a larger group-"
"Not quite Mr. Black." Court interrupted. All eyes moved back to meet hers and she once more had to fight anxiety to keep speaking, but she warred on. "That brings us to the second revelation. All of their movement orbited or fractured out from on one point of focus." She held the searing gaze of the Unspeakable. "Sir, there was only one attacker."
"That's not an ambush, Sirius, that's a slaughter."
"Lia, there's no way that-" But again, he was cut off again, this time by Riddle.
"Continue, Detective." She took another breath.
"In addition to these discoveries, my team also positively identified the rest of the dead. All purebloods, several of which were charged after the Dark Lord's death, plead Imperius, and were let free." Riddle's burning eyes narrowed.
"Anything else?"
"Um, yes, actually. We believe there were two people who portkeyed out of the 'slaughter', and we tracked where the portkey went."
"Where?"
"It was a flicker portkey, to a tent among the campgrounds. Though all the tents have been picked up, we have it narrowed down to 10 square meters." Riddle nodded, and when he spoke, his voice was that of a general, an unignorable authority.
"Good, see if you can acquire a map of the tents from the reservation list, then meet me at the campgrounds."
"Yes sir." Court hastily left the office. The Unspeakable turned to his coworkers.
"I'm going to look at the scene in person, this puzzle might make more sense if I can see where it happened. Give the detainees a few more hours to stew, then interrogate them. Find out what they know." Sirius frowned.
"We have already-"
"Do it again. Tell them about their friends, lets see if they open up now that they know they are being hunted and we might be their only chance at survival." It was Amelia's turn to frown.
"I know they were all killed, but how do we know it was a targeted hunting?"
"We don't, but neither do they." And with that, Riddle strode out of the Auror department, and towards the apparation point. He thought back to his recognition of the spell, a revelation that had been muted by the Detective's arrival. The pieces were beginning to click together in the jigsaw, forming a picture that he had not expected.
Gabrielle, carried by the swift legs of a child powered by excited joy, won easily. It had to be said that Salomé came close to catching up with the young girl, however, a tripping jinx from the lagging Fleur sent her sprawling in the grass. As for John and Jezebel, no Shakespearean tragedy occured, and they made it safely to the gates. Though at their languid pace, it was several minutes after even the bickering red-faced older girls had made it before the two caught up. And, indeed, it was better that they had taken their time, for a giantess approached.
"Ah...Madame Maxime...this is...this…" Fleur attempted, but she was still out of breath from the jinx filled race. Salomé, only slightly less spent, had the grace to not even attempt to speak. Jezebel rolled her eyes.
"Bonjour, Madame." Her greeting came with a flourishing curtsy. "Fleur, Salomé, and I are pleased to escort Mademoiselle Gabrielle Delacour and Monsieur John Constantine to Beauxbatons for the first time." She spoke surprisingly succinctly, though John figured that her exposure to a figure of great authority made her revert to her more formal, Pure-blooded education. The Headmistress of Beauxbatons looked down her nose at her pupils.
"Indeed. Well, if there was une préfète in front of me, I would surely inform that girl that, as a student with a position of authority and...responsibility, she and her returning friends should escort a new first-year to the check-in station." Fleur's face grew even more crimson as she remembered her job as a prefect and was further embarrassed by her own breach of etiquette.
"On a separate matter, I would ask our new...exchange student to please come with me. There has been a problem with his paperwork, one that only a brief discussion should fix." Her eyes fixed on John, and there was silence for a moment before she turned back to Fleur. "There is, as I thought, une préfète here, is there not?" Fleur blinked, and flushed again.
"Ah oui, madame. Oui, there is. Uh..merci...bonne journée." With that, Fleur quickly spelled herself and Salomé free of grass stains, adding a whispered stinging hex at her friend in revenge. Then the four girls gave quick but formal curtsies, and hurried off, leaving John with the giantess.
Madame Maxime did not permit the conversation to continue until they were in her office, a looming room built for someone of her stature, having the side effect of cowing anyone who met with her. John recognized the power play for what it was, but didn't do anything to counter it. He sat in a chair slightly too tall for him, remaining relaxed and waiting for her to open the conversation. After a sip from a goblet of wine, she did.
"Monsieur...Constantine. Imagine my surprise when the Minister of Arcane Defenses, and an old acquaintance of mine, informs me that his daughter will be escorted by a bodyguard this year." She looked him up and down with a ripping gaze. "And a boy arrives with her instead." John ignored the blatant jab.
"Yes, madame."
"Are you an exchange student, as Mademoiselle Voller, to my surprise, suggested? Or are you a bodyguard?"
"Yes, madame. Both." Her glare turned viperous.
"Ignoring the fact that you are a child, and therefore decidedly a foolish choice for a bodyguard, as Headmistress of this Academy, I am certain you are not an exchange student. As Headmistress, it is one of my duties to sign off on every student, every year. I have never signed a paper for a 'John Constantine'." So she wanted to play aggressively, John mused. No, she wanted to goad him.
"Madame, to answer your first concern, I am well trained. Very. Well. Trained." He did not flinch from her gaze. "I am, also, very...very studied in the workings of your Academy. I am certain that should you choose to recognize me as an exchange student, there is much I can learn from your accomplished staff. That said, I am further certain that in my role as a bodyguard for Mademoiselle Delacour, there is no one in these facilities that could harm an errant string on her coat without my permitting it." He said it without any trace of bravado, merely calm certainty.
"If you do not believe me, Madame, you can ask for the proper ministry clearance to read my ICW MAB scores. Should you receive the clearance and not be satisfied, or are unable to gain clearance and therefore are unsatisfied, I am more than happy to fight any and every instructor you choose at this school in front of you." He removed his identity card from a pocket, and placed it on the desk. "I believe it would not be as one sided as you think." She met his mirrored eyes.
She saw the real play he had made. She had goaded him, and he had upped the ante. Added more bait to the playing field. If she lost her calm at his purposeful insolence, she made herself a flustered woman unable to control a boy a fraction of her age. If she questioned his choice to leave his sunglasses on, she again acknowledged the lack of authority she exuded over him. If she reached across the table to grab the card, she was physically showing herself controlled by his actions. It was a clever play, she had to admit. She was still unconvinced of his martial prowess, but his conversational acumen was...impressive. It was a grudging admittance, even in the private recesses of her mind.
"Monsieur Constantine…" A glance brought her attention momentarily to two characters on one corner of his card. The letter 'F', and the number '4' blazed in a large enough font to recognize at this distance. F4? Function Four? She reconsidered what she had been about to say. "...let us hypothesize. If I were to believe you capable of protecting one of my students to a degree worth permitting you to stay at this school, and if I were to pass you off as an exchange student, where would you be from? Why would I have made such a sudden, and last moment change to the directory?" John smiled to himself at the olive branch. The branch was sharpened, but it had been offered. He wasn't rude by nature, so he accepted her graceful, veiled truce.
"I am a student at the College Cú Chulainn on the slopes of Slieve Foy in Cuaille, Ireland. Hearing of the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, and discovering that I had been searching for a magical school to exchange with, you quickly accepted me. You were, of course, hoping that a student of one of the Eight Great Colleges of Dueling would help bolster your team in the tournament." The Headmistress raised one delicate eyebrow.
"That would be very biased and unfair to other students in the exchange programs of other schools, would it not." John's smile was feral.
"Of course, but it is known that Beauxbatons' duelling program is not what it once was. Factor that in with the ancient rivalry with Hogwarts, and the rumors that they have several students on international Under 18 and even Under 21 teams, and suddenly you have a reason that neither the Ministry, nor the Parents will malign you for." Madame Maxime regarded the youth with grudging respect. All of those points were true. She sighed, and took another sip of wine. Seeing her frustration, John continued.
"Madame, Headmistress, I am aware that I was rude earlier, and as a student at your Academy, that was unforgivable. I spoke in haste with a misplaced desire to prove my worth. Should you choose to assign months of personal detentions as a punishment to be served every week, I would understand completely." His offer wasn't veiled at all, but it was not the time for veils and obfuscations. It was necessary for his job to remain (relatively) easy that she accepted him and, to a degree, trusted him. Self-deprecation, and entreating from a position of deference gave her all the cards, and the ability to agree to his suggestions with all of her dignity intact. Being the consummate educator, and politician that any headmistress must be, she saw it for what it was.
"I agree. You shall serve a detention with me every Saturday during the first morning class, and will be released a few minutes before the second. Your schedule will reflect this." John nodded agreement, and grabbed his ID back from the table. It no longer served a purpose where it lay other than a reminder of the argument that had come before. The headmistress continued.
"Furthermore, I expect you to be a useful assistant for Professor Zaghloul in your dueling class and to be a part, should you earn it, of our dueling team." John nodded, holding back a smirk. "And, finally, I expect you to hurry up and be on time for our noon meal. After which we will have announcements and then the students will be free to finish moving into their new accommodations and refamiliarizing themselves with the school." John nodded, and made to get out of his seat, but she stopped him.
"Mr. Constantine, as a student here I expect you to reach and surpass the highest standards of self-control and respect. That does include taking off your sunglasses indoors." John frowned.
"My apologies, Madame, but I have an eye condition for which they are a great help." She raised one eyebrow at his genuinely apologetic voice.
"And what condition would that be?" John sighed, and lifted his glasses to his forehead. Brown eyes met green. Life looked upon death. Madame Maxime closed her eyes, wincing. "And that is a natural condition?" John nodded, lowering the silver lenses to obscure the piercing veridian depths.
"Unfortunately, Madam." She nodded, and rubbed her temples with her fingertips.
"Very well, I shall inform the staff. You may carry on with your schedule...and John."
"Oui, Madame."
"It is understood that we will never talk again about...this series of discussions." John recognized each layer of that statement.
"Of course."
Fleur made sure that she chose a room with Salomé, as she did every year. The dormitories of Beauxbatons were separated into six separate buildings, three for males, and three for females. One for years one through three, another for years four through six, and a final one for seventh years. However, in previous years, there had been four witches per room, and now, with the extra space that being a seventh year provided, only two witches roomed together.
Across the hall from Fleur was Jezebel and a quiet girl named Adelie, who Jezebel had only ended up with because all the other girls had conveniently already paired up before the enthusiastic brunette could ask them. Despite her popularity, her infamously incessant mouth made her...difficult to room with for most. Jezebel and the diminutive redhead were, surprisingly, a good match. Though Adelie did not speak much due to a vocal impediment, she knew enough about fashion and the most recent gossip to occasionally hit the ball of the conversation back into Jezebel's court. An arrangement perfectly fitting the vivacious girl.
Fleur quickly unpacked her things, and then turned to her friend. She had been waiting, biding her time since the world cup to broach a subject that had been irking her for weeks. And now, free from their overly gossiping friend, and free from outside interruptions, she finally had her chance.
"Salomé? I have been waiting a very long time now, and I must ask. What did my maman mean when she said that you and John have been busy training?" She tried to hide the sudden spike of...was that jealousy...she felt when she prepared herself for the answer. Her taller friend regarded her with some curiosity.
"I have been learning to defend myself."
"When? We've been together almost all summer! When have you had the time? How are you training? Is he good? Of course he's good, what I mean is-" Salomé barked out a laugh before stifling it behind a hand at her friend's glare.
"Pardon Fleur, you just sounded like Jezebel for a second there." She mastered the desire to smile, and continued. "Before you wake up, every morning, we train on the beach. Seven days in a row before one day off...I don't think John is religious or anything...I just think it's tradition to have a day off." She finished hanging her last uniform and, brushing her bangs behind an ear, she moved to begin loading the drawers of a large bureau with her less nice clothes.
"He's really good, and I think your father was right to hire him." The blonde continued, gnawing on a lip in thought. "We train in the surf and then…" She trailed off before she began describing the traveling aspect of their training. "And then he comes back while I crawl my way back." She smiled ruefully at the thought
"He makes you crawl?" Fleur was askance.
"What? No, no... non! He works me hard enough my legs don't work right…" Salomé smirked both at the unintended double entendre, and at the reddening once more of Fleur's cheeks. "What? Would you like John to work you until your legs don't work?" The last part was asked through a devilish grin and with a jabbing finger. Fleur immediately began to splutter.
"N-n-no. What are you talking about? You are saying nonsense."
"I'm not sure about that sweet flower. You know there are plenty of stories about a girl and her bodyguard…" Salomé kept up the bombardment, causing her friend to back up, waving her hands in a physical attempt to ward off the attack. However, Fleur was saved by a knock at the door, and a very familiar voice.
"Fleur! Salomé! Hurry up, are you not paying attention? Look at the time!" Another trio of knocks. "Salomé! It is lunch time, I am hungry and I know you are too. I swear, Adelie, she alone eats more than most small families!" This time a furious pound that sounded like someone kicking the door. "Ow, foutre that hurt. FLEUR!" The two girls looked at each other from within their bastion of safety from their verbal dragon of a friend.
"Do we have a choice?" The strawberry blonde shrugged in defeat.
"It's food, Fleur." The silver-haired girl's only response was a sigh. The voice continued outside.
"If you do not come out in...is ten seconds fair, Adelie? Yes? I think so too. IF YOU DO NOT COME OUT IN TEN SECONDS, YOUR ROOM WILL BE ORLEANS AND I SHALL BE JEANNE D'ARC!" Then, in what was probably a whisper for the brunette, "Was that a good one Adelie? I don't really know how to be intimidating..." Fleur looked at her friend and saw an expectant eyebrow raised. It took her a second to understand. When she did, she threw a scowl her friend's way.
"Salomé! Of course I know who Jeanne D'Arc is! I am not stupid!"
"I'm not sure Fleur, neither history nor Professor Giuseppe agree with that statement."
"Shut up!"
"Make me!"
"Mon Dieu, you are such an ass!"
"I do have one. Un cul magnifique. Or so I have been told."
"Who said that?"
"If I said John, would you get jealous again?"
"..."
"He hasn't said anything to my knowledge about yours, but if he does, I'll make sure to pass it on."
"Salomé…"
"Or if he's willing to do some physical exercise and make your legs not work…"
"AGHHHHHH!" The veela swung an angry hand at her friend, but Salomé ducked, deciding that a talkative evil she knew how to ignore was better than one with magical fireballs that she couldn't. The tall girl opened the door and charged out to the relative safety of Jezebel and Adelie.
"Ah, Salomé, I thought you would never...why are you running? Oh, so now you are going to run past us without even saying hello to me? Without saying hello to Adelie? I swear Adelie, they never tell me anything, why just this summer we were...MON DIEU FLEUR, YOUR HANDS ARE ON FIRE!"
By the time the quartet had made it to the ancient amphitheater where the students ate, Fleur had calmed down enough to only throw glares in her friend's direction. John joined them, much to Fleur's chagrin, and Salomé wide grin. After introducing the silver-lensed boy to their new quiet compatriot, the five moved through a serving line, selecting the foods they wanted from several lines of open air food stands. John noticed the dozens of runes that kept the food clean at each stand, and marveled at the french. Not many cultures would go so out of their way to ensure an old tradition was upheld. It couldn't have been easy to work all those runic arrays together, and yet, for the sole purpose of allowing students to eat outside in a relatively clean manner, the french had gone out of their way to make it possible.
The food, worthy of the complexity of the wards around them, was delicious, and each student had the choice to enjoy their global cuisine on either the terraced stone of the amphitheater, or on several long tables and benches set up across the central stage. Jezebel hurried over to the tables to make room for all of them, and so it was that they settled for polite conversation over a scrumptious meal.
However, as with all good things, it was not to last. A handsome brown haired boy with a decidedly slimey grin approached with three friends. Fleur groaned.
"Carrel, I have no desire to interact with you, much less during my first meal back." Across the table, Jezebel met John's quick glance and mouthed 'almost an ex'. The approaching youth seemed unfazed by Fleur's hostility, and nodded to his friends. One shoved Jezebel and Adelie apart to sit across from Fleur, another pushed between Fleur and a scowling Salomé to sit hip to hip with the gorgeous silverette. Finally as Carrel himself stood behind the veela, the third of the newcomer's friends attempted to shove himself between John and his ward. He failed utterly.
Ignoring the failure of one of his goons, and still ignoring the frosty reception, Léopold Carrel spread his hands and attempted a regal gesture of introduction. John was surprised to notice that, from how close it was to being well executed, the boy was not a poser, and was likely cut of noble cloth. However, to his trained eye, Carrel's relative inexperience showed.
"Fleur, my dear, I seek no contention with your friends. Believe you me, I was shocked, shocked I tell you, when I discovered I had been elected seventh year male préfet." He placed one hand on his chest in a mockery of genuinity. "I know that our position is one of great importance in the workings of the school, and I believe that a...quick...meeting now could let us get the unpleasantries out of the way to set the stage for a more...enjoyable future." Were it not for the clear discomfort his charge was showing, and were it not for the disgusting leer that Carrel cast with his eyes, John would have had to recognize the seventh year as a talented actor. Though exaggerated, his method was sound and his speech moved and flowed naturally with the tale he was weaving.
However, Fleur was disgusted by the boy's advances, and the boy was, in fact, leering. John spoke up.
"Mr. Carrel, even if you are supposed to be making your first inroads with a fellow class officer, I will thank you to remove yourself from the vicinity of my cousin. Even a blind man could see that your insipid intentions are not as well cloaked as you would believe." John's voice was a gently accented French, allowed a bit of his Irish brogue to mix with the words, and managed to carry across the Amphitheater. The boy with voluminous, curly brown hair sighed as he moved his raised nose to peer at the one who had foiled his attempt to make space to sit next to the beautiful girl.
"Her cousin, you are? Strange, I know of no other Delacour branch in France...nor for that matter in all of Europe. Truly my friend, lies do not befit you." John was happy to ignore the pomp in Carrel's voice, but the eyes of scores of students had begun to turn their way, and he wasn't going to let a chance pass to show Beauxbatons that there was a new status quo.
"Well clearly, you bravatic blowhard, I'm not a pureblood from the mainland. The Constantine Clan moved from the Byzantine Empire to France after the second fall of Rome, became blooded Vassal's to the Delacour Family, and then splintered into Great Britain after joining Guillaume of Normandie. Upon earning minor fame during the Battle of Hastings, we were granted lands in Caledonia, before being relocated to the Northern Counties of Ireland when we got too rowdy. If your ears and mind were functional enough to connect my accent with a basic study of French Magical History, you would have been able to assume as much." The pureblooded scion grew red, flustered by someone challenging his heraldic and court acumen in such a bold manner.
"Why you filthy cur!" He gestured to his friends and took a step back, a smug snarl across his face. "Teach him a lesson!" John didn't even let the three goons register that command. Salomé began to draw her wand, but John was faster.
"Duck." He said to Fleur. She did, and he struck like a viper. His right elbow swinging back and up while his right foot shot forward. It slammed into Goon 3's gut under and across the table, doubling over the black-haired boy, incidentally causing the youth to smash his own face into the sturdy wood. John's elbow connected millimeters below Goon 2's sternum, and then his right leg was retracting from its strike. While it was still under the table, his leg was now moving parallel with the floor in a backwards side-kick that shot from under the wood and crunched into Goon 2's hip. Goon 2 hit the floor immediately, howling.
With his foot now free of the confines of the long bench, John planted his right foot, and rotated clockwise nearly two-hundred-and-seventy degrees on it, executing a lightning quick spinning roundhouse kick that swung his left leg out from under the table, over the bench, then over the ducking Fleur and impacted the jaw of Goon 1, resounding with an audible crack and knocking him off the bench. John brought his leg back down to earth, and spun his wand into his hand, blasting Goon 3 in the face with a stunner as his head rebounded from smashing into the table, and sending him crashing backwards to the ground. The boy in silver sunglasses turned his mirrored gaze to the incredulous Léopold Carrel and, without changing the target of his glare, shot Goon 2 with a stunner for good measure.
"She asked you to leave. I asked you to leave." Under the younger-boy's scrutiny, Carrel physically shivered and nodded his head emphatically.
"Yes...yes, of course! I meant no harm of course! I'll...I'll be on my way!" He held his hands up in surrender and backed away. The once-pompous youth glanced to the unconscious bodies of his goons and saw Goon 1 still moaning pitifully, trying to gather his teeth from the floor around him. "W-w-what about Seyrès?" There was a flash of red as John stupified the crawling and blubbering bully. "Oh...no problem then...I'll be going...agh!" The last indignant squawk as the wand turned towards him, any final vestige of courage left him, and he scampered away.
Silence filled the room as hundreds of eyes watched the scene. Then clapping started from a blond boy who had stood from the stone ledges with two of his friends. As he began to clap, other pockets of students began to echo the sound, as if they were hesitant to applaud a fight but thought it rude to not follow his lead. Soon, a majority of the students were clapping. Evidently, Carrel was not the most popular. Bullies rarely were. As the blond approached, John took in his crystal clear eyes, and the two others beside him. They weren't thugs, though they looked far more skilled that Carrel's friends had been. Fleur placed one hand on John's shoulder and stood from the bench, whispering to John.
"The Assistant Master of Students...elected by the teachers to act as an authority even higher than the student elected préfets." Fleur, to John's surprise, gave a small curtsy. The boy inclined his head.
"Mademoiselle Préfète Delacour. Do we have an issue among the préfets?" His voice was cultured and rich. Every bit what Carrel had been attempting to sound like.
"Non, Maître Malfoy." John's eyes snapped over to the blond, and the other boy noticed. Fleur, now standing in front of her bodyguard, didn't and continued. "My cousin became...upset with a perceived slight that Préfet Carrel made to me. John is an exchange student from one of the dueling schools and, thus, is more accustomed to more...physical resolutions. I had already planned on explaining his infraction to him." Malfoy nodded, and turned his gaze to John.
"I can no longer say that it is a good afternoon, unfortunately, but I can say that it is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur…?
"Constantine."
"The College Cú Chulainn? Fleur said you were from a dueling school, and with your accent I must make some assumptions."
"You would be correct."
"I heard that the College beat the Tunis Institution only to lose to the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije in the quarterfinals last year."
"Yes, well it was Nikaya Lipasky's senior year, and with Connor Tennison magically exhausting himself in the first round, we didn't have anyone who could truly match the Herzegovinian Hellion." John let a little heat rise in his voice, trying to sound as if he had felt insulted by the hinted jab at his school. Malfoy seemed to take the honeyed bait.
"Fair enough." He smiled. "Unfortunately, I will have to take you to the headmistress to speak about this...fight." Jezebel shot to her feet, but the blond boy raised one hand to forestall the verbal barrage that she was about to unleash. "I understand John was defending his cousin, but I still must make a formal report."
Jezebel still looked ready to unleash, but Adelie laid a hand on her roommate, and the fuming girl sat with a huff. John turned to the girls.
"It won't be long." And he walked away with Malfoy, leaving the girls and Malfoy's two friends behind. Though they all knew each other, the other two boys recognized the atmosphere for what it was, and left with polite apologies for the hassle their friend had been obligated to make. Jezebel finally had had enough.
"Twice in a matter of hours since he arrived he has had to meet with the headmistress, it must be some sort of record! What even were they talking about?" Salomé slid her wand back up her shirtsleeve and pinned it there between her forearm and two hair ties, the looser of which she had slid further up her arm. Now, she spoke.
"As you know, John went to one of the Eight Great Schools of Dueling. They include the College Cú Chulainn in Ireland, the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije just north of Sarajevo, and the Tunis Institution in Tunisia, all of which he just mentioned. Every year the eight schools compete in the Cup of Eight for the right to send their team to compete in the ICW's World Dueling Championship.
"Last year, a student from the Univerzitet Bosanske Magije named Nikaya Lipasky led his school to winning the Cup. He is called the Hellion because of his seemingly supernatural magical endurance and his mastery over the dueling world's version of fiendfyre. In the finals of the Cup, he used it to not only batter his opponent with multiple, independent, flame whips, but also transfigured some of the fire into creatures to attack his opponents from behind. He is already ranked an International Master at just eighteen years old, and is thought to be a Grand Master within two years." Fleur cocked her head.
"Where are the other five schools?" Salomé didn't even need to think.
"India has one in Odisha, Australia has another in Tarra Valley, there is also one in South Africa west of Pretoria, and the largest of them all is, appropriately, in Texas. The last, and certainly not least, is the Dragon School in China. It's exact location is a closely guarded secret."
"No school in South America?"
"Funny story to that, one of the most interesting times when Muggle Policy affected the Magical worlds. You see, when the American president James Monroe-"
"Salomé!" Jezebel all but shouted, agitated. "How do you know all of this?"
"Besides Football and Quidditch...and perhaps food...dueling is my greatest passion. I'm not very good yet, but then again I haven't been training since I could walk. I didn't perform any obvious accidental magic as a kid, so I didn't even know magic existed until I got a letter from Beauxbatons." Salomé smiled a little at the memory, but Jezebel was still stupefied.
"Since when have you liked dueling? You haven't talked about it before today, not ever!" Fleur smirked.
"Yes she has, Jezebel, rather often in fact."
"Non, I would remember if she had! Why, are you accusing me of not caring about what my very best friends-"
"Jezebel." Adelie placed her hand on the excitable brunette's shoulder again. It took her a few seconds, her mouth moving but no sound coming out, before she overcame the verbal tic. "You're n-n-not that g-great at listening. When...when o-others talk, you like to j-j-just wait until it is y-y-your turn to talk." Jezebel's jaw hung open. There was a stunned silence for a few long, glorious seconds.
"First, that is the most you have spoken all day! Adelie, great job!" She gave the wide-eyed Adelie a crushing hug before turning to face her friends at large. "Second! Why have none of you told me this! Do you expect me to fix problems I don't know exist? Do you think I don't care? You see what I must deal with, Adelie? My so called friends, great friends they are, they never tell me anything! Why just the other day..."
Amelia had been on her way with Sirius to interrogate the prisoners when he had remembered to run back and grab something from his office, and had promised to meet her there.
"You can start as the 'good cop' and I can catch up a few minutes after that and be the 'bad cop'. It'll be great!" He had said, and sped off. So she had been by herself, when she had rounded the last corner before the cells on one of the Ministry's lowest floors when she had seen the Auror in charge of security unmoving, and in the process of being dragged into an open cell. She had reached for her wand before someone who must have been disillusioned stunned her in the back.
So here she was now, groggily fighting off the effects of the stunner and finding herself roped up like the victim in an old western, and listening to the two death-eaters arguing about if they had time to 'make an example of her.' One had suggested that a crucio could provide a faster form of lesson, that they didn't have time for a full 'cut and cure' treatment.
After almost a minute of back-and-forth, the second man had convinced the first, and the first had raised his wand, snarling the torture curse. She saw the crimson light begin to emanate from the wand. Her wand. Then a bronze shield appeared in front of Amelia, blocking the curse.
The two criminal's eyes grew wide, understandable, considering that their supposedly unblockable spell had been absorbed by something that should have shattered from the strain, and they turned and fled down the hall. As she heard footsteps behind her, she couldn't help but begin to form the words of a thank for her partner, but then Tom fucking Riddle was stepping past her, closing the distance to the fleeing suspects with casual menace.
He raised an empty hand as if he was conducting an orchestra, and brought it to the floor. The stone ceiling ahead of the death eaters melted like a waterfall of cold magma, and they stumbled to a halt to avoid the sudden barrier. Riddle beckoned with one hand, and the leftmost prisoner shot towards him. Wandlessly and wordlessly casting, Amelia noted, shaken. He kept the same hand aloft, and spread his fingers wide, conjuring a blazing red rune in mid air. The flying death-eater collided face-first into the rune, and collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut.
His companion raised the stolen wand, her stolen wand, and launched a weak barrage of spellfire at the advancing Unspeakable, but it was hopeless. Riddle waved one hand, and the spells simply faded from existence mid-flight. With his other hand, he banished the prisoner into the wall of the passage, where the death-eater's head hit the steady stone, and he too slumped to the ground. With a swish of one finger, the stolen wands flew to his hand, and Riddle turned back to Amelia. He canceled the still-glowing shield in front of her, evanesced the ropes, and handed both her wand and the dead guard's wand to her.
"You are uninjured I see. Good. The Ministry can't afford to lose any more Aurors to cowards like these...especially not one of the best they have." She flushed at the compliment, and before she could reply, he had swept by her, laying a hand ever-so briefly on her shoulder, and then was gone as quickly as he had arrived. The skin of her neck, even under a cloak, blouse and undershirt, burned red with warmth. The smell of his magic lingered in the wake of his presence. Smoke from the campfires of a hiking-filled youth. The first downpour of spring. And a subtle, earthy-vanilla scent that reminded her of the Heliotrope flower. Amelia shivered. Fuck.
N/B: \Quite a lot of research went into everything dueling related in the chapter, from the Schools to the spells. Most of the final product has cool historical cookies hidden behind one or two simple google searches. Treasure hunt to your heart's content!
\For those still frustrated by the Sunglasses secret, I can say this. I choose my words very carefully when describing what happens when the glasses come off.
\A review or two wanted Fleur to get in on the training. Fear not, that is an inevitability, and this chapter also served to clear the remaining plot obstacles to that.
\Guillaume of Normandie is a french spelling of the anglicized William the Conqueror, who grabbed his armies, hired some vikings, and conquered England in the early 11th Century.
\The Assistant Master of Students is my french version of the British Head Boy and Head Girl. I just didn't like that title, nor its direct translation, so I made my own. (I will still use the normal terms at Hogwarts, as it would be selfish to change canon that much. *Laughs in hypocrisy*)
\The final scene is supposed to have a different feel to it. If it seems weird, I have done my job. If not, let me know. I want to add that ability to my repertoire, but I obviously can't if it doesn't work.
Authors Note:
Sorry for the long Nota Bene, but this is almost thirty pages in two weeks! Let's keep the ball rolling! Y'all are wonderful with the ridiculous support you give. We are close to eight-freaking-hundred followers, more than forty-thousand reads, and y'all are killing it with the reviews! Literally, every...single...time that I see another review pop up I lose my mind! I will, of course, continue fighting to deserve all the support y'all are sending my way.
As in the last chapter's note, if y'all need prayer or anything, let me know.
To answer those who were curious, I'm a Parris Island marine [though I have a relative who's a Hollywood marine. We, obviously, banter about it every holiday reunion].
[And as for Handwashing and Antibac versus Prayer, who wins in a healing contest? Marksbay, we might have an argument on our hands...I believe only Rock, Paper, Scissors can solve this… :) ] [B/N: Why not both?]
(Errors in written french corrected after comments from a guest. Thank you for the help.)
Across religions, across borders, across the dinner table, stay safe,
'Love y'all,
Semper,
Vi
