Relevant Inspiration:
Deprived by the Crimson Lord
Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, nor Filipino.
Enjoy.
-VIII-
The picturesque glade held a large plantation-manor and a smattering of cabins and sheds in a nook between three mountains. Snow claimed the lofty peaks, but the green fields held the verdant summer splendor that any postcard or wanderlust-filled hiker would fawn over. Even in moonlit darkness, as it was currently subject to, it held an inherent, supernatural beauty. Leaning on the stone railing of one of the manor's balconies, overlooking the secluded property, a lean man in slacks and a half-buttoned ivory-white shirt sipped from a crystal flute. His sin of choice for the evening was an Irish beer, but he drank it in such trace amounts as the glass permitted because the dark liquid was over a thousand years old. Pilfered from the cellars of an Irish monastery that had fallen to Saxon invaders in the mid first-millennium AD, the drink was a delicacy that few could afford.
The man smiled as he heard the chopping of rotors through the air. The incoming helicopter was still several miles distant, but to his ears even with the echoing and diffusing mountains, its approach was easily pinpointed. He spoke aloud, and though quiet, he was certain the woman thirty feet behind him could just as easily hear him as he had heard the imminent visitors.
"They actually left their escorts behind as We asked." He took another sip, though he winced as he caught his verbal slip. Even centuries later, the Royal habit persisted. He fixed the error, and continued. "What does that tell you?"
"Commander, it tells us that he is desperate."
"It does indeed, my insidious savant." The regal man grinned through another sip, razor-sharp canines gleaming in the moonlight. "And what does that make him?"
"Twice as dangerous, but twice as valuable a client for the Director." The once-King nodded mutely at his subordinate's comments.
"And the Director's choice to leave the courting to me?"
"A snub. Thrice as dangerous, thrice as valuable."
"Well done." The commander of the Manor Guard did not heap praise often, but when he did it was well deserved. Normally, he would not be in the picture for meetings with clients, but this client had requested services rendered at the highest level of mortal politics, politics that clashed with ancient European powers. And so his expertise had been deemed advantageous to the director, his master, his sire.
"Thank you, Commander. I took the liberty of having your regular team form up at the prefered overwatch positions, and the secondary team replace them as the roving guards."
"And the asset we think most suited for this job?"
"Ready and waiting." Outside, the fast moving helicopter had emerged from behind the mountains, and made its approach through a long valley that dead-ended at the mansion. While the Commander knew that the half-green, half-white Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King had many countermeasures for any threat that came its way, even the legendary vehicle wouldn't be safe if the thirteen anti-aircraft batteries hidden in stone bunkers carved into the mountains opened fire. If it grounded itself to attempt to survive, even the score of elite servicemen on board wouldn't be able to protect their charge from the forces that the Mansion could bear.
In fact, the Commander would be willing to bet that he alone could slaughter the killers who guarded the helicopter and return to the Director with the VIP unharmed. And yet, he didn't order the Sikorsky obliterated, and he didn't order it grounded with targeted electro-magnetic pulses and the occasional technology-frazzling spell. The clients who came to the Mansion trusted the Director and his forces with their safety, and in the centuries that the organization had existed unders one name or another, no clients had ever come to harm unless he had ordered it.
As the helicopter quietly whirred through the brisk air to a landing pad illuminated in the night, the Commander gave a feral smirk, gleaming fangs bared to the moonlight. He once more spoke into the air around him, addressing the woman.
"You said Royce had made contact again, but Goldflour was displeased."
"Yes, Commander. Royce believes his charge will join the tournament against her father's commands. He wishes clearance to interfere in the tournament to protect her, and desires a guarantee of political support if fallout should be engendered." The dark-haired man laughed. A sound like silk on satin.
"Goldflour is only upset because he is, at heart, a nationalist with resentment to the Old World, and France in particular." He took a final sip of his beer, and placed the glass down on the stone. Then he turned, and walked past the girl to the stairs that would lead him to the helipad. The woman followed behind. "Fortunately for Royce, I am biased, quite biased in favor of the French. Tell him that I will personally pull some strings if need be." The woman nodded once, then turned on her heel to pass the commands off.
Though she was almost immediately replaced by another bare-foot guard, the Commander of Security for the Akadimía never paused in his step. He loved the fact that the ICW had gathered the courage to reinstate the great tournament. It felt like just last year that he had been called 'the greatest mage' of his age for winning it. It would be...great...to see another victory for France.
When the helicopter landed, men in suits and two smartly dressed guards in blue and white exited, followed by a tall man with an American flag on his lapel, and then more guards. The Commander approached with his hands spread in both a broad welcome, and to show he was unarmed.
"Good evening, Mr. President, I trust your trip was smooth and uneventful. I must thank you for leaving your escorting aircraft behind, the fewer people that know of us, the better we can guarantee the effectiveness of our services." The President, used to the sales pitches of both corporations and foreign dignitaries, saw both in this man's words.
"I must say, my generals were not thrilled at the request, but I had it from the mouth of many old friends that your Academy is worth the discretion, and I can't help but think that if your services are as effective as your defences here, I am more than happy to make use of your agents." The white-haired man had a way of speaking that, even when long winded, captured the attention of the listener, and the Commander gave a genuine tilt of his head in both acknowledgement of the compliment, and in respect for the skills of another orator.
"We are, of course, pleased that our name carries such weight. Please, Mr. President, you may call me Charles. If you come this way, we can move to a more comfortable location for business." The two men shook hands, and proceeded into the mansion.
Antonin Dolohov looked at the bodies scattered in the hallway and idly summoned their wands to his hand as he stepped over them, carefully avoiding pooling puddles of blood and splatters of gore. He used one of the wands to unlock the cell door, and then walked in. Dolohov didn't give the two death eaters a chance to even offer pathetic thanks to their seeming rescuer before he turned their skulls inside out with two turquoise spells. Ignoring the wet slapping sound of their grey matter on grey stone, he threw the five wands he had acquired into the room, then strode out.
Voldemort's senechal and chamberlain was in the middle of guiding fiendfire through the room to remove any evidence when he heard heavy feet on steps, and a tall man raced around the corner, flanked by two members of the Dague Group. The giant newcomer measured the shorter intruder with cautious eyes.
"I would not have expected-" Dolohov didn't give him time to finish.
"Seredessa. Venca simulsen. Arxatior. Perfidia." A wave of blue flames flooded the passage, licking against and scalding the ancient walls. Among the obscuring fire came a shotgun blast of violet light, a corkscrewing silver strand of shimmering steel, and a bubbling black beam. The man to the giant's left had time to cast a flame freezing charm, but the violet cone of light shredded him like a woodchipper. The giant weathered the sudden storm, wand drawn and dancing to erect vital defenses, but the woman to his right ducked the whip blade only to be liquefied by the black spell.
Suddenly, it was one on one, and Timofey Pierre realized how woefully outclassed he was.
Fleur was beginning to regret her decision. Face down in the morning dew, fingernails caked with dirt, her clothes were as soaked from sweat as they were from the damp grass. Beside her, Salomé was sucking in air, on her back. This was training? John has gone mad! Fleur found herself on the brink of getting up and shouting her mind at the younger boy, but to her dismay, Salomé rolled over and shot to her feet. The strawberry-blonde hissed in anger and measured her breathing, before hurling herself to the side of a viridian beam that lanced her way.
Fleur watched as her friend countered with a short salvo of spells, before the ground shifted beneath her, and she tripped. The girl had the presence of mind to roll sideways on landing, avoiding by chance a following binding hex. Salomé scrambled into cover behind a tree, and threw a glance at her still prostate friend.
"You...gonna even try…" She spat, though a grin cut the tension in her labored words. Fleur scowled.
"You are insane. This is insane." The other girl shrugged.
"Perhaps, but I am definitely getting better."
"Not as good as I am, though."
"Prove it, pretty flower." It was the silverette's turn to hiss in anger, and she clambered to her feet. No sooner was she up than a viridian beam flew her way, but she blocked with a hastily drawn runic shield, and the spell ricocheted into the ground. Then she was throwing her repertoire at John.
"Stupify! Abstesso! Pulsus, Incarcerous, Privalde!" John ducked the stunner, blocked the blinding whip, then returned to nimble footwork to avoid the force hammer, the ropes, and then the cross-shaped red curse. Though the quintuplet of spells wasn't among the girl's most powerful combinations, it still surprised her that he seemed to expend so little energy to avoid any impacts. Feeling the heat of frustration burn across her cheeks, she redoubled her efforts.
"Knoss! Ellenel! Petrificus Pied! Somnus!" The bodyguard avoided these as well. She grew more and more furious. He was toying with her...mocking her and she would not stand for it.
"Celo! Amarille Mori! Vesta sepra! Everte Statum, Accio stone, relashio, shasserlauff!" But still, John remained unfazed, avoiding or blocking the potentially lethal combination. He deflected the bone splinter curse, shielded against the blood clotting hex and the sternum-splitter, then dodged the blast of force, the bludger-like rock that almost sucker punched him from behind, and the final duo meant to banish him into a tree and pin him there. Then, as quickly as she had been attacking, he was walking towards her, wand carving quick runes in the air and pushing them at her one by one.
A stunning rune. A freezing rune. A rune designed to make the target's limbs go numb and 'fall asleep', effectively immobilizing its victim. Each one forced Fleur to pour her magic into a counterspell, as the walls of energy that whispered from John's wand were too wide by the time they reached her for her to dodge.
Eventually, though she lasted almost three minutes, Fleur found her pool of magic running dry, and the next buffeting wave of magic crashed through her stammered counterspell and sent her paralyzed to the earthen floor. As she fell, and her world faded to darkness, her only victorious thought came in noticing Salomé had, even behind the cover of the tree trunk, been knocked unconscious first.
She awoke to a conversation.
"...so you're saying that runic casting is legal in formal duels."
"Yep."
"Then why don't I ever see it in professional matches?"
"It's a giant spell wall Salomé, it's kind of hard to miss with a counterspell or even a finite. Not to mention runic casting is slower than regular casting." The tall girl considered the point.
"Two questions. First, if they are so slow, how were you casting them so quickly? Second, couldn't you also just cast a finite rune on the ground? Wouldn't it counter the runic spell when the wall reached that point?" John smiled.
"To your second point, yes, well thought out! In fact, it was that exact revelation that brought about the end of Faoli Lochlear's five-year reign as World Champion. As for your first question, that's because I am really good at runes. That and I have practiced for an extraordinarily and unnecessarily long time to be able to do just that." Salomé considered this, smiling slightly at his compliment. Then her grin grew wider as she both came to a realization, and saw her friend rise groggily to a sitting position.
"Morning, Fleur!" The Veela glared at the strawberry-blonde, but Salomé continued,
"John? Could you cast a finite rune as a wall like you did? Would that stop a bunch of spells, or would it fade after the first spell it reached?" The boy with silver glasses laughed.
"That entirely depends on how much power you put into it." Fleur narrowed her eyes as she wiped a piece of dirt off of her cheek.
"You two do this every morning…" She didn't mean to say it out loud, but her voice moved before her mind did. Her friend looked over.
"Yep. Have been for...what has it been John, a month and a half now?"
"More or less."
"And trust me, that was only a good warmup, he toned down the challenge since it's your first morning." Fleur cursed at that. She couldn't give up now. Not only because Salomé would never let her live it down, but Fleur needed to stay top of her class in as many subjects as possible. Not just because she needed to prove to the world she was more than a pretty face, but because this year, especially this year, she needed to be the best. She couldn't let the Goblet decide that anyone else was a better choice.
"Again tomorrow?" She asked. Salomé snorted.
"I just said that what we just did was a warmup…" The veela blanched. John grinned, wand spinning in his hand. Fleur took a long breath, then stood up.
"Alright, let's go."
Fleur was, decidedly, regretting her decision to partake in the morning session. While she wouldn't change her mind if she could go back in time, she had not been expecting the strain that training would tax upon her weary body. Yet, despite the mental, magical, and physical weariness she now felt, she dragged herself to her first class of the year. Just my luck. She half-groaned to herself. Dueling is my first class.
Professor Zaghloul was the only person in the room when she arrived, and he waved her over. Placing her quills, colored inks, notebook, and textbook on a desk near the front of the classroom, and approached her instructor. He was neither one of the oldest, nor the newest teachers at Beauxbatons, and had been teaching for just long enough to build a reputation among the students as one of the school's best. Though he could be brutal in the scope of the punishments he dished out to students who flaunted the safety rules, he was an enthusiastic teacher and was well liked.
Boasting over a decade of experience as a senior-investigator of EMLE, the Egyptian Magical Law Enforcement, and having represented his country in the 1989 and the 1993 Wyvernwand Tournaments, as well as his professional dueling team for seventeen years, Beauxbatons had hired him almost two decades ago to bolster their fading dueling program, However with the departure of their head coach after incurring a temporary (whispered behind closed door) two year ban from competitions, Zaghloul had not been able to single-handedly bring the team back to its former glory.
"How was your summer, Ms. Delacour?"
"It went well, thank you Professor. And yours?" He chuckled.
"It was uneventful until the Summerspell Tourney, and then the Quidditch World Cup of course." He smiled ruefully, "Of course it would be the first year that I do not go to the final match that something exciting happens…Ah, but no matter. This year will be very fun."
Fleur nodded. Before even she had learned of the upcoming Triwizard Tournament from her father, she had heard the rumors of its reinstatement from her teacher. The dueling community, having learned that if the legendary tournament was brought back a separate dueling competition would be added, had quickly gathered any political power they could muster and pushed to aid in the proposal.
Before news had even broken of the acceptance of the ICW, a small bulletin had been posted to the various Magical Ministries around the world noting new job openings for 'tournament judge' and 'dueling supervisor'. Since there were no new tournaments created by the Duelist's Commission, the group had immediately realized that the Tournament had been approved.
As she was one of his best students, Professor Zaghloul had told Fleur of the Tournament, and upon her insistence, had sent her a list of several books on dueling that she had studied over the summer.
"Are you still interested in joining our school team this year?"
"Of course, Professor." She cocked her head slightly and let a smirk play across her features. "And I intend to win the Tournament for Beauxbatons." He laughed, incorrectly assuming her bravado was only for the dueling tourney. Then he clapped his hands, and an excited grin burst forward, seemingly having been held back for too long.
"Ms. Delacour, I learned something wonderful just yesterday afternoon. Somehow, a miracle worker she is surely, our Headmistress managed to get a member of one of the Eight Great Schools of Dueling to spend their exchange year with us!" Fleur played a smile, but inside she sighed. Of course John would run along with Salomé's lie from their first meeting at St. Germain-des-Prés. Now even my teachers believe it.
"It's perfect timing." He continued, "If you and he are on the team, we will be absolutely deadly!" He showed as much excitement as a child receiving a puppy for christmas, and Fleur couldn't help but smile. Then his face turned serious, and he nodded to a student who had just arrived. "That will be all for now, Ms. Delacour. Good morning Mr. Barreau."
She returned to her seat, nodding as well to the other student. Aurélien Barreau was one of Darian Malfoy's best friends, and was dangerous with a wand. It was said that if you needed anything that the school...frowned upon, Darian Malfoy could supply it. With the teachers thinking the regal blond a saint, Barreau at his side, and his other friend Florentin Rizal being the grandson of the legendary Filipino reformist writer and advocate for a free Philippine Republic, the trio ruled the school. Barreau saw her nod, and returned the gesture, before walking to the front to speak with Professor Zaghloul about something.
Fleur considered herself lucky that she had managed to stay under Malfoy's radar for the first four years of her schooling, but then her first magical maturity had hit, and she had gone from cute girl to ravishing beauty. Though Malfoy and his friends had never made unwanted approaches or gestures to her, the cunning Rizal had approached her with an offer.
I know how boys are looking at you. While we can't prevent them from that, I can stall their physical approaches for a year, until you get better control of yourself and your abilities. It was always like this with Rizal. He made the offers that Malfoy could never make if he wanted to still claim ignorance of his 'procurement' empire. Florentin did his research to find what people would need before they realized it themselves. Then he would make them an offer, and they would of course refuse.
Later, however, when they realized that they did in fact need whatever Rizal had offered, they would find the price increased and with no choice but to pay it. She hadn't fallen for the trick, and by that evening he was a hundred galleons and one favor richer. As always, he and his friends had come through. The first, and last boy to approach her that year with less than noble intent found himself at the wand-tip of Darian Malfoy, and charged with harassment. The result, the accused had detention for half the year, lost his class points in the annual Class Cup, and Fleur was at peace for her entire fifth year of schooling.
As she watched Barreau speak with the professor, she didn't hold it against the trio of boys. They were just playing the games politicians did, but several years before their peers realized the need for such games to be played. And, if she was honest, she had benefited from the year of peace. A stress-less break that let her catch up on her work, and progress past the majority of her fellow students into the top five in her school.
"Fleur! You didn't tell me you would be here this early! Why not? I would have walked with you! Adelie would have too, wouldn't you have Adelie? Of course you would have." Jezebel dropped her things on the table right of Fleur's, and as suddenly as the brunette had appeared, the rest of her entourage had materialized.
Salomé sat beside her as always, Adelie with Jezebel at another table separated from theirs by a narrow aisle. John sat at the table to her left, with an open seat on his left. She smiled wanly at her friends.
"Good morning, Jezebel." She said. "I had a few quick questions for the Zag I wanted to ask before you got here. I didn't find them important enough to interrupt our inevitable conversations, so I got here before you." Jezebel seemed at least partially placated, and she nodded.
"Very well, but must you keep calling the Professor that? It is not polite, and most certainly not proper. He is a master duelist and has earned the respect-"
"Jezebel, everyone calls him 'the Zag' when not talking directly to him." Salomé supplied, to Jezebel's obvious irritation. However, there was a loud clamor that interrupted her, as a heap of students piled into the classroom, swarming to various desks and arguing over their seating to try and be near their friends. It was the inevitable last second rush before the bell. Jezebel shot Salomé a look that declared in no uncertain terms that they would be revisiting this later. It was at that moment that the subject of their conversation coughed to gather the room's attention.
"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to a new year of classes and, more importantly of course, a new year of my dueling class." Scattered chuckles met this, and he continued with a smile. "For those who don't know, I am Chevalier Raghad Zaghloul, but you may call me Professor Zaghloul or just Professor. I served for twelve years in the Egyptian Magical Law Enforcement, and had the privilege of representing Egypt in two Wyvernwand Tournaments, wherein I reached the round of sixteen and the round of eight respectively. I also duel for the Baghdad Behemoths, and have been part of six championship teams with them.
"I have taught here at Beauxbatons for twenty years now, and I was knighted a Chevalier of Magical France by the Court of the Old Empire five years ago for my contributions to both the Dueling Program and the international investigation into the Siegfried-Summers Case." He noticed a couple of blank looks, and extrapolated. "The Student Abuse Scandal among the Mediterranean Dueling Teams." He paused to let his resumé sink in, then continued.
"Needless to say, your safety is my priority, and as I have in the past, I will make certain that you are safe in all we do, from training to class trips." There was a quiet murmur that spread through the students. Professor Zaghloul smiled. "Yes indeed, we will be taking several trips this year to watch a formal Dueling tournament, perhaps take part in a small one and, if you all show discipline and attentiveness during my lessons, we might even have the chance to spend three days training with Los Bandidos de Barcelona." The classroom burst into noise. Even the least dueling savvy of the students knew of the reigning kings of the World Dueling Championship, who had maintained the title since the turn of the decade.
"That being said," He began again, drawing a semblance of silence from his students, "Most important to you is the training we will do, and I see no reason to lecture you further. We are going to start with the basics today, a simple block-strike combo. Most commonly a protego followed by a stupefy or an expelliarmus. If everyone would get up and move to the wall, your left wall please."
The students did, and with a softly muttered spell and a wave of his wand, Professor Zaghloul moved all the desks aside to clear a massive space for working. "Note, starting next week the desks will be stacked on dueling days, and spread out as they were today on formal class days. I will let you know ahead of time which days are which so you don't need to bring all your things to class. Now please pair up, and practice the common block-strike. I will walk among you and gauge where you all are." The students did, quickly flooding to their friends and scattering across the room. John looked around, took in the odd glances his glasses were gathering, and saw Darian Malfoy's eyes meeting his own. Of course. Curse his luck.
"Mr. Constantine, I would enjoy the chance to practice against someone of your skill."
"It would be my pleasure, préfet." John took up his nonchalant duelers stance, square on to his opponent and with his hands behind his back, while Malfoy settled in a more formal one, side on. The blond raised a single eyebrow.
"Most unorthodox, especially from a student of one of the Great Eight." The black-haired boy grinned at the barb, and took in all the angles of his opponent's stance. Feet, hips, shoulders. The slight bend in one knee. The three o'clock sideways angle of his wand. The tilt of his head.
"An Andorran blend, yours is. Not common either." Malfoy dipped his chin in acknowledgement.
"My dad preferred pure French." Of that, I am well aware. John thought. "But my teacher was Spanish, so I mixed the two." Darian finished, then suddenly, "Lacera." John's wand flicked out.
"Protego Media. Ripostă."
"Protego Fessus." Malfoy conjured the iron shield to block the yellow Romanian knock-back hex. He lowered his wand half way, his eyes still locked on his opponent. John nodded, and the two lowered their weapons at the same time. "You are certainly fast."
"I have worked hard to become so." John quoted, but as he expected it went over the pureblood's head. Off to his right, another voice called out.
"While not exactly the simple block-strike, that was certainly well executed Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Constantine." The two students saw their teacher approaching, and the blond teen gave a deep nod of acknowledgement.
"Thank you, Professor. Mr. Constantine is a student at the College Cú Chulainn, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to have him as my training partner."
"So I have heard." Professor Zaghloul focused on John. "I presume you intend to join our dueling club as well?"
"Yes, Professor. I look forward to being able to learn from such an accomplished duelist. The College unfortunately lacks any teachers of the Egyptian schools of magic." The teacher cocked one eyebrow, unwittingly copying Malfoy's earlier gesture.
"I would think a school of the College's reputation would not allow such a gap in their curriculum to exist."
"It is with regret that I must say that they prefer to focus on East-Asian and Roman disciplines of magic more than the African and Arabian."
"In that case, Mr. Constantine, it would be my pleasure to supplement your education. If I may ask, what rank did you hold in your class in Ireland?" John's response was interrupted by a small explosion, shouts of shock from across the room, then some hastily hushed bickering. Professor Zaghloul rolled his eyes. "It is the first day of classes! The first day!" He stalked off to find the perpetrators. Malfoy turned to John.
"Welcome to Beauxbatons, where even sixth and seventh-year students still act like first-years. If you will excuse me, as Assistant Master of Students I should...give assistance to the professor." He smiled wryly, and walked off after Zaghloul.
The rest of the class went by more smoothly, with their Professor hovering over the groups, an example in the loss of freedom that came with irresponsibility. When he dismissed them, it was with a larger pile of homework than the students were hoping for on their first day, but not quite enough to incite vociferous complaints. It was also at this time that the quintet were forced to split, no longer sharing the same schedule.
While Jezebel and Adelie went off for potions and Fleur had to go help keep order in a library study hall, John and Salomé had runes. The two chatted aimlessly as they walked, before Salomé stopped mid-sentence, trailing off into thought.
"John, how are you going to protect Fleur when you do not have the same schedule? Have you already planned for the field trips?" John nodded.
"I've planned already for travel, but for safety at this school, I have a shorter list of ideas. Admittedly, I have already implemented several of them." Seeing the girl's frown, he continued. "Did you ever figure out how I kept you from apparating during your land-navigation sessions? When I left you out in the backroads of France-"
"And the Italian Alps that one time."
"-And the Italian Alps that one time." The youth acknowledged. Salomé sifted through her memories of those training sessions. To landing in the sheep's fold. To discovering she couldn't apparate back to the chateau. To hiking home.
"I always figured you were following me…"
"And that would stop you...how?"
"Well either you somehow made a portable anti-apparition runic array and kept it on you, or you discovered a spell that can counter an apparition?" He smiled.
"Close, but not quite." Then he sped up and rounded a corner to the final hallway before their classroom. Salomé hurried after him.
"Wait, dammit John, which one was I close with? John!"
Lord Delaguède thundered down stone stairs, leaping past the corpses of ministry guards, and sprinting towards the holding cells. His personal team of four mercenary wizards, experienced killers with whom he had worked for almost two decades, were close at his heels. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed two of them to check the bodies they were passing for survivors. He normally wouldn't have cared, but with an attack on the French Ministry, the paperwork would already be asinine enough without having to explain his callous disregard for the useless cell guards.
He slid around the final corner and into one of the lowest levels of the Ministry's prison and he immediately saw a hallway savaged by spellfire, and two wizards. One was prone and unmoving on the ground, and the other was sitting beside the dead man, back to the wall, wand in hand, and panting.
The Hammer of Magical France cleared the hallway himself, and then sent one of his men to check out the nearly molten contents of a once-cell. He approached the panting man and narrowed his eyes.
"Lord Chervaux, you appear injured. What happened." The sitting Lord smiled ruefully, and wiped a trail of blood from his face with one sleeve. He gestured with his wand to the dead giant on the floor.
"I heard the alarms and arrived a minute before you did. Commander Pierre was engaged in a conflict with an unknown hostile. I stepped in to help but it was too late. The attacker was…" He trailed off as he shifted where he sat, and Delaguède saw that he had taken a piercing hex to the knee. The Hammer couldn't help but nod in respect as the Oldblood Party's candidate for Minister of Arcane Defences didn't cry out in pain, but just cast a numbing charm and a blood-congealing hex to staunch the blood flow. "...was quite skilled."
"Will you need that looked at?"
"No, I believe I have staved off the worst of the damage. I think I will let it heal naturally as a reminder to stay vigilant." Lord Delaguède wasn't looking at the shorter man anymore, and so he missed the rueful grin that accompanied the statement. Instead, he regarded the body of the man he had known as being a very capable fighter. He closed Pierre's eyes with two fingers, and said a quick prayer to the dead man's god. The giant was more disposed to believing in the pagan ways, but Maximilian had respected Timofey and it was the least the living man could do.
The sound of scraping leather heralded the arrival of a new man, and curses made clear who it was. Sebastien Delacour raced over to the side of his dead friend, and several tears broke free from his eyes and slid down flushed cheeks. His sorrowful eyes snapped up to his long-time rival and he bit back accusations when he saw the condition of the seated Lord. Instead, he asked his question more diplomatically.
"Who did this?"
Fleur had nearly torn her hair out by the roots by the time she had finished acting as an intermediary between two squabbling third-year girls, and was now manning the reception desk near the front of the library. Never one to let the time go to waste, she had several books open around her as she worked on Professor Zaghloul's assignment.
She was pleasantly surprised to find a reference to a former Triwizard tournament in her search for the applications of dueling fundamentals in surviving attacks from ICW regulated beasts. Apparently, a few centuries ago, a sixth-year student from Durmstrang had been trapped in a labyrinthine maze...the Labyrinth of Crete itself...and had been forced to resort to third-year dueling training to survive an encounter with a trio of Anubi.
According to the book in front of her, it was a perfect case of repetitive training, the ceaseless practice of the same simple spell list to the point of flawless execution, paying off with results in the field. And speaking of training and diligence with results...between morning practice with her bodyguard, and the letter she had hidden in one of her books, she was taking every chance to prepare herself for this year's Tournament that she could. With a glance around, confirming that no eyes were on her, she pulled out the aforementioned letter and read through it quickly. It would do.
When the class was over she approached a young Mitchell Barreau and lied through a mask of boredom. "Mitchell. I was told by someone to get this to your brother. It came from the gossip chain so I can only assume it is from some secret admirer." To his credit, or simply as a confirmation of how common such a thing was, the boy just nodded wearily.
"Oui, préféte. I am sorry they bothered you with this."
"A gold Livre to deliver a message? Please. I wish every love-struck fool mistook me for the Mail Service." The boy ate the beauty's lies like ambrosia and nectar, not even a smidge of suspicion crossing his naive features as he smiled widely, lost in her ethereal beauty. She hid a sigh.
As the first day of classes came to an end, Salomé felt the anticipation knotting up inside of her. She packed her bags quickly when the potions professor Madame Bonner dismissed them with barely any homework and her trademark, "Y'all stay safe!", and before anyone else had even exited the classroom, she had transfigured her clothes from class robes into workout clothes similar to the football uniforms she had worn for years, shrunk her books to fit in one clenched fist, and was halfway down the hall, sprinting. She made it to the room she shared with Fleur and just as speedily changed into her quidditch gear, grabbed her broom from the closet, and rushed back outside, almost knocking down a few classmates in her rush, and throwing rapid apologies over her shoulder.
Yet, despite all her hurrying, she was still only the third to make it to the quidditch field. Both the schools undeniable, champion beater Lucretia Botrel, and the school's flying teacher and quidditch coach Professor Villalobos were already flying around and batting a bludger back and forth. Lucretia saw her from the corner of her eye, and after smacking the iron sphere away, she rocketed towards Salomé and slid to a stop less than ten feet away.
"Shalom Sal', heard you couldn't get out of class."
"We don't all have contracts with professional clubs." Salomé responded with some actual heat, but not enough to be truly, seriously angry. Two things were known to all about Lucretia. The first was that she was the queen of gossip, and just as Malfoy and his friends could supply anything you could need, it was said that if anything was happening at Beauxbatons, Lucretia knew it. Second, she was so good at quidditch, she regularly got away with skipping the last class of the day to get some extra practice.
Lucretia was signed to the twenty and younger team for the Division 2 champion team of Europe, the Paris Titans. Since the season had started, only two games had been played in Europe's middle division of quidditch, and the Titans had won both. Lucretia had tallied six kills (knocking an opposing player off their broom with a bludger) in those two games, and over forty 'breaks', where she broke apart an attacking run and forced a turnover in possession.
Even in top tier quidditch, those numbers would be impressive. In the youth league of Division 2, it was almost unmatched. Salomé sighed, exhaling the slight jealousy she felt. One day, she would be as good as Fleur in dueling, and one day she would be as good at quidditch as Lucretia. This, she promised to herself.
"Want to join me in some warm-up laps while we wait for the others?" The caramel-skinned girl with jet-black hair asked, backhanding with her bat a bludger that had tried to catch her unaware. Salomé nodded, mounted her broom, and soon was soaring through the sky. As the minutes ticked by the rest of the team began to trickle in from their dorms.
Jasmin Leblanc and Gwen Popelin were the only two sixth year players, and Didier Rouselle and the dreamy-eyed Yves Devereaux completed the quartet from seventh year. Finally, as amazing as several players from Beauxbatons' fifth year were, it was a fourth year that had claimed the spot in the Elite 'Team Premier' crafted by Professor Villalobos each week after practices. Kevin Gauthier was the seventh and final member of this prime squad that had the chance to personally train with the former Mexican national starlette each week, and the training showed.
Once a player made the team for more than a few weeks, it was increasingly unlikely that they would be unseated by any other student until they graduated and left the spot open. Salomé was proud to say this would be her second year as a member, but Lucretia had been uncontested since her third year, and all signs were pointing to Kevin having similar potential.
Once the seven were all present, Professor Villalobos called them all together. She didn't lock the bludger away, and instead let her prodigy fend it off every dozen or so seconds. It was her modus operandi, always alert, always ready.
"Welcome back to work." It was the Latina's style to always remind her students that at high levels, it wasn't just a game, it was a job, and it required dedication and effort just as a job required. "I'm going to cut to the chase, so you can hear it from me first." She met the eyes of every single one of her players. "The Triwizard Tournament is being reinstated this year. A dueling tournament and a quidditch tournament are being added to the event." As her students erupted into questions, she held up one hand to silence them. Behind her, Lucretia smacked away the untiring bludger.
"This year, maintaining your positions in this group means guaranteeing you will represent Beauxbatons at Hogwarts, where the Tournament will be held. As you know, the Scottish school has been our rivals for centuries, and I will not accept any player giving anything other than their all." There was silence among the players as they took in this information. Their coach continued. "That being said, to account for injuries, we will add three substitutes to the roster. They too will be positions up for grabs by any student who wants it enough."
"Professor, will they be joining us for practice today?" Villalobos shook her head at the quiet question from Jasmin.
"Non, but I have selected the three who will join us tomorrow for practice. The sixth year Assia Allouane, the fifth year Miray Savim, and your classmate Mr. Gauthier, Lea Koch." Salomé knew of two of them. Though she didn't recognize the eldest of the three, Miray was a tall lanky boy from Turkey that loved football almost as much as she did, and they had waged many a heated discussion over whose team was superior. Lea Koch, she also knew.
The young German girl had brown hair with blue highlights, sharp bluish-grey eyes like the Atlantic on a cold day, and a tongue as sharp as her wit. She was Lucretia's savant apprentice in all things fashionable, whether whispered or overt. Salomé hadn't known the girl to be skilled at quidditch, but if 'The Aztec Wolf' thought her suitable, who was she to argue? The next question came from the other beater on the team, the hulking seventh year from Cameroon, Didier Rouselle.
"Will Victor Krum be playing for the Durmstrang Institute?" Their coach nodded.
"Of course. But it is important to remember he is not the only threat. Durmstrang has two other players of note, and our rivals have the potential to field a full squad of threats. Do not get complacent." She took in their nods of agreement and then let loose a feral smile. "Who's ready to practice?" The seven shot into the sky, followed by their coach yelling instructions.
She shouted corrections to the beaters on their technique in hitting curling shots that had the potential to 'chase' opponents from behind, corrected Yves with some serious venom when a cheeky behind the back lob from Kevin narrowly slid past the keeper's fingers and into the left hoop, and shot off to challenge Jasmin for the snitch. The Mexican national had a seeming unending pool of energy, and she easily kept up with, and even occasionally burned in pure speed, her students even though the older woman had been retired for more than a decade.
After almost an hour and a half, she ended practice, but asked Salomé to stay. When she was certain that the others were out of ear shot, she looked the taller seventh year in the eyes. "You sent me a letter over the summer regarding something you had seen the Magpies do last season in the English League?" Salomé nodded.
"Oui, mademoiselle. I was thinking I could give it a try, after all, I did play for a few clubs before coming to Beauxbatons." The dark-haired woman looked at her with scrutinous eyes.
"You were ten at the oldest."
"C'est vrai. However, I have kept up with an informal club here, and during the summers I stay in touch with the old team." Seeing her teacher's reluctance and hesitations, the strawberry-blonde pressed on. "And, when on base with my brother, I play with his friends. They are all in peak physical condition and I can keep up with them! Well, all except Kylien, but he used to play for Les Bleus!" Villalobos saw the passion the younger girl had burning behind grey eyes, and she smiled ruefully.
"Very well, but you had best practice on your own time. If I do not think it works often enough in team practices, you will have to stop." Salomé smiled widely.
"Oui mademoiselle, merci beaucoup. I will not let you down."
That night Fleur let her thoughts sprint from the letter she had written to Aurelién Barreau, to her morning training, to the announcement at supper by the Headmistress. The announcement that was the final confirmation in her eyes that her plan was the correct one. Madame Maxime's grand reveal at dinner had made John stare at her through those mirrored lenses and had made Jezebel and Felix ask Salomé if she had known it was the Triwizard when Salomé had 'revealed' the reason for John's arrival back on their first trip together to Saint Germain. Her playful lie that had become the truth. A non-serious joke that suddenly the teachers and headmistress at her school believed. A lie that because John went along with it with such zeal, seemed the truth.
Doing her classwork at the large desk she and Fleur shared in their room, Salomé thought of John. It was a testament to her current state of mind that the announcement of a Quidditch and a Dueling tournament in tandem with the regular Triwizard Tournament was not her primary focus. Sebastien had said the boy represented the most elite bodyguard program in the world. And, as hard as that was to believe even with all that she had seen, she kept returning to the same thought. The same thought that her best friend was musing upon.
She had been lying when she had made up a past for Fleur's mysterious 'cousin' when they had first met on that shopping trip. There hadn't been even a crumb of truth to what she had said, and she had been less than serious when she had smirked through her words. Yet, suddenly, her deception was the accepted truth. What kind of people could make reality from lies?
Dolohov apparated into the Ancient House of Black only to find a dark curse headed his way. It was instinct alone that saved him from the first, but it was practice that had him countering the second spell, and then on level ground for the third. He now recognized his opponent, the spitting image of Bellatrix, though younger by almost twenty years.
"Avalmorn. Vecali. Hespa sevre. Caliburne." The dark haired woman fired, words flowing together as the Gaelic quartet of spells left him wincing when avoided the first three only for the flaying curse to catch his upper arm. Blood was in the air, and she grew more savage, her grin widening. "Inculca Maxima. Mortiari finitem. Sessulsetta." He blocked with a compound shield. Then countered.
"Dridex. Venca simulsen. Gretri vetta. Braxiocalghen." Much like the witch she so closely resembled, she spun and flipped out of the way of most of his assault, only sparing a small shield to redirect the bone-exploding curse. The two stood twenty feet apart, breathing quickly, eyes narrowed. Clapping broke the moment.
"Well done Miss Black, very well done. I do not remember the last time someone has touched Antonin." The two spun to face the voice from the top of the stairs. Voldemort stood looking down on the duo with an amused smirk on his lips, his Shadow at his heels. He waved a hand and repaired all the damage the hallway and first floor had taken from the brief fight. "I take it your mission was a success." Dolohov spun his wand into its holster much like an American gunslinger, and bowed his head slightly.
"Of course, my Lord. I had the added privilege of killing the commander of the french Dague Group, a Timofey Pierre, and leaving the scene with Mance Chervaux seemingly having tried to stop me." The Dark Lord nodded in approval.
"Very well done. It has also come to my attention that Sirius Black has been availing himself of this house's library. Ensure that there is nothing...incriminating there."
"As you will it, it shall be done." With a wave, he dismissed Dolohov, and his blazing gaze turned to the girl.
"It appears you are ready for your mission."
"Of course, my Lord. I serve at your leisure." Her curtsy was flawless, deep, and unmistakably subservient.
"Good. I took advantage of the slave quarters in the back gardens to stow your next target, and placed a pensieve there for your use. Take your time, this needs to be flawless." The woman raised from the show of deference.
"I will not shame your faith in me with anything less than perfection." Nymphadora Black promised, eyes strong in her certainty.
N/B: \The Commander's identity can be inferred from what is given, but it is not necessary for the future plot to figure it out.
\ It is hard to convey a speakers verbal patterns in prose when they do not often use filler words or phrases, so if President Clinton's words do not feel like what he would say to readers alive during his presidency, you have my regret.
\Dolohov is supposed to be one of the Dark Lord's best duelists and killers, I hope this chapter reinforces that fact.
\With the increased presence of Dueling in this story, more and more original spells will be used. If y'all want a seperate 'fic' of just the characters and spells, let me know. If y'all have other ideas, let me know as well.
\NOTE! It will never be necessary for y'all to remember what each of the spells I make for this fic do. I add all the new spells that I do to expand on the limited combat spells shown in Canon, with the hope of enriching the world.
\Rizal was a real person, and was instrumental in inspiring Filipinos to actively seek freedom from Spain and later the United States. (Originally, my character had a different name, and was the son of the president of the Philippines (a man who was once an infamous extrajudicial enforcer of the war on drugs and the drug trade. However, it was brought to my attention that he recently cracked down on the freedom of assembly, speech, and other values that my boyfriend and I (as Americans) find dear. Several Filipino's (Including the reviewer, 'The Crucible') requested that I change my characters name. As it would not effect my story, and I had not done due diligence in my research of the man whom I originally named Florentin after, I did.)
-Note- I will leave The Crucible's review up (as well as the other few reviewers who also notified me of my error), as they deserve the credit for educating me on where I failed as a researcher and writer. I have no intention of trying to hide my ignorance, nor my failures. It is the job of a writer to be diligent in research, and prudent when referencing reality. I am thankful that when I failed, you the readers corrected me. Thank you. -Endnote-
\Being a Chevalier in France is roughly equivalent to being Knighted in Great Britain, it is an earned title with great social significance.
\A Livre was the currency of The Kingdom of France and West Francia from 781 to 1794. In this AU, it is still the currency of choice for Magical France, though the slow modernization of more progressive parties (Like that of Laurent and Martin) are pushing common muggle currencies to replace it.
\The Paris Titans are, amazingly, a real life Quidditch team. They are the four time champions of the European Quidditch Cup. No other team in the European League has been champion more than once.
\Once more, if I use French words in my writing, the sentence makes sense even without it, so don't worry if you don't speak it. This is both to streamline dialogue, and so that I don't pad my word count with giant block translations of blocks of french.
Authors Note:
Almost a month wait for this chapter. Thanks for the patience, as always. This was a very difficult chapter to write. I wanted Beauxbatons to feel like a school, but also feel magical and fun. I battled long and hard to find a way to make reading about school fun. I realize that fanfiction is generally a haven for nerds and those who probably enjoy classes, but not everyone does. I settled for breaking up the classes with moments from the rest of the world, a style that I plan to continue unless y'all loathe it.
From a glance at the world of the Akadimía, to Beauxbatons, to the reveal at the end, this was as fun a chapter to plan as it was to write, and the next chapter is looking equally grand. After all, I believe y'all have waited long enough for the schools to all meet at Hogwarts!
As the story continues, the final team rosters for the Quidditch Tournament, the people joining the Dueling Tournament, and the Champions of the Tasks will all be revealed. Some should be obvious, but a twist or two may present themselves!
Semper,
Vi
