Relevant Inspiration:

Deprived by The Crimson Lord

Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, Filipino, Brazilian, South African, Chinese, nor Chilean.

Enjoy.


-XII-

"I still can't quite believe it." Sirius stood, looking into the interrogation room through the wall made see-through by runes. Beside him Amelia nodded, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion and thought. Before them, leaning back in the room's sole chair and with her feet kicked up on the back wall, was Bellatrix Lestrange. No table was in the room, so the witch had been forced to make do. Her hands were in the air, seemingly conducting a symphony only she could hear, and her head swayed with the inaudible rhythm. "After all these years…taken down by yours truly—"

"And an Unspeakable."

"Fine. Further massacre my pride, why don't you." The two exchanged a brief smile, before Sirius continued. "But seriously, and I am Sirius, I know she was fighting four people at once, and got blind-sided, but I still don't get why she stayed. Four people is a lot to fight for no reason."

"Well luckily, at least one of us interviews witnesses. I spoke with two of those kids; Bellatrix was buying someone time to escape." Amelia took a breath to continue, but Sirius interrupted, still lost in remembrance.

"The blonde kids weren't bad, actually. The boy knew some rather violent spells, looked like a Malfoy though. The girl had endurance, I never saw her slow down her pace once. The kid with glasses though, did you have a chance to interview him?"

Amelia frowned. "No, the other boy didn't hang around, absolutely vanished. The girl said his name was John. One of the Beauxbatons kids. Why?"

"I want to speak to his private tutor." Seeing Amelia's continued confusion, he elaborated. "He was a monster. He was defending the other two kids while holding his own. Had to be a seventh-year, we'll probably see him with the Dague Group next fall."

His partner blinked. It wasn't everyday the white sheep of the Black family heaped out such praise. She opened her mouth to comment but was interrupted by a scream of frustration from the interrogation room. The two Aurors instinctively went for their wands, but seeing Bellatrix wasn't trying to escape, they relaxed slightly. Instead, the dark-haired witch was muttering slurs, and conducting her invisible orchestra with greater fervor. Slowly, the two picked up her ire.

"Did she…did she just call Tchaikovsky a mudblood-cur?" Amelia seemed baffled.

Sirius chuckled. "Apparently he should have moved to a five-four tempo in C-sharp minor at some point in Nocturne... at least she thinks so?"

Amelia stared at him. "You don't actually know muggle classical music that well, do you?"

He smiled, "Of course not, I can just read lips. Came dead handy in seeing if Minnie was mad at us or at—"

The door creaked open, and Jane Court walked in. "Ms. Bones, Mr. Black…I think…I think we narrowed down the attacker from the Cup." Instantly, the two focused, and all levity was dropped.

"I can send a Patronus to Riddle if you don't want to explain it twice." Amelia offered, but Jane shook her head. The Investigator took a large breath and fought her anxiety.

"I don't…that is I already…did. Um, the tent the portkey went to, well it was French. The Chairman of Arcane Defenses, one Lord Sebastien Delacour. Lord…er, Mr. Riddle is already on his way to France to meet with the man."

Sirius hissed something through clenched teeth, then strode out, letting the door slam behind him. Amelia sent him a confused glance. Jane too, shared the look of surprise at the normally affable auror.


"Bloody fucking Jove, a Dragon?" Seamus was askance. He'd already said it a dozen times but, four bottles of butterbeer in, he still believed it a rhetorical question worth posing.

"Yep." Luna chirped happily, the only one of the quartet still willing to speak with him after the third repetition. Neville held his head in his hands, as Hannah sat opposite him on the floor of an abandoned classroom. A collection of books arrayed around her, she sifted through the vast materials, occasionally posing a potential strategy to him, and then the two would debate its worth. If accepted, Luna dutifully jotted down the idea on spare parchment. If not, she would continue inking small doodles in the margins.

It was an odd thing, despite how horribly Ms. Pince would flay any other student for writing in the school's books, she seemed hesitant to rebuke Luna, and would (albeit teeth gritted) spell the books free of drawings whenever the airy blonde would return them. Many rumors circulated about why. The leading theory was the Librarian was tired of finding and disposing of scores of editions of The Quibbler found around the library. Once, after scolding Luna, it was said she found four-hundred and fifty-six different copies of the paper in the Non-fiction section alone. The rumors could not be substantiated, and Luna would always avoid answering pointed questions with a quirked smile.

"What about if we charmed a blanket to float and mimic a baby dragon's cry? Could be a suitable distraction." Hannah posed.

Neville shook his head, "Unless we have to fight it, then that might make it angrier. Not to mention that would technically be a flying carpet, still very illegal." Hannah sighed, but nodded in acceptance.

"Eyebite Hex?"

"Eh, possible. Mark it down, Luna."

The blonde began to. "Why not just summon a bunch of noxious poison gas and use a bubblehead charm?"

"Luna, I'm not committing war-crimes just to survive a tournament."

"Darn."

"You can mark the bubble-head down for later, it's a useful spell that I should probably learn."

"Okie."

It was Hannah's turn again to contribute, as she switched to a book by some less-known magical zoologist. "Isn't the oldest Weasley a Dragon tamer? We could ask him?"

"That's how the twins found out. There's no chance he's going to offer help when he's on the team that brought them here."

"Isn't it worth a shot?"

Neville shifted his hands to his eyes, rubbing the weariness from them. "I suppose."

"Don't get down, Neville. We still have time…"

Seamus chose that moment to interrupt, slamming his fifth bottle of butterbeer down, empty. "By the bleeding loins of Mary, a fuckin' Dragon."

"Yep." Chirped Luna, as she finished a doodle of Cthulian the Squid playing badminton with itself.

Neville stood up and shook his legs. "Luna, 'mind dueling me, 'should help wake me up." The girl delicately laid her quill and parchment down and stood up, drawing her wand and shaking herself loose as well. The two walked across the classroom, taking up positions on opposite sides. Neville got into a stance, left leg slightly extended, right leg slightly bent. His left arm was parallel to the ground, wand extended, his right hand hung loose. If Luna had anything to say on his southpaw stance, she didn't make it known. Instead she raised her chin and eyes as if in thought, then giggled.

"Knock knock."

The dark-haired boy blinked. "Who's there?"

"Supercala."

"Supercala who?"

"Supercalafragalistic expelliarmus!" It was, all things considered, a valiant effort at surprise. Neville, however, was used to her bizarre antics. He summoned a shield to block, and riposted with a pair of stunners and a tripping jinx. Luna whispered and summoned a cloud of butterflies to block, and the survivors began to flit after Neville. Slowly, but certainly targeting him. The Longbottom boy had dueled her often enough to smell a trick, and he sent a gout of flames to incinerate the insects before they could reveal some ulterior motive.

He followed the flames with a quartet of spells, hoping the fire would obscure the attack. But when the smoke and orange light faded, Luna was missing. "Hominem Revelio Aurantiaco." Nothing.

"Bonk." Luna said, and not-so-gently whacked him on the back of the head with one of the discarded textbooks. Neville spun, now seeing the bright orange outline of the disillusioned girl who had snuck behind him, and he quickly cast a group of stunners at the blonde. She cast a heavy shield to block, winced from the depletion of her core, and then threw the book at his face. He ducked, only to catch a quickly spoken flipendo to the gut. The boy's feet flung out from under him, he slammed chest first into the ground, and slid into a desk. Neville groaned, now holding his head for a different reason.

"Getting better, Luna." Hannah chipped in, glancing up from her book to her friend. "I think he might have to duel you right-handed soon."

"Thanks! Still just a little lucky, the snorkacks were on my side this time." The girl maintained, and the trio not in the process of trying to get drunk off of butterbeer all smiled. Seamus opened his mouth to complain, but stopped, sighed, and opened his sixth bottle. Luna's smile froze on her face, and she cocked her head.

"Neville, I think I know someone who could help you with preparing."

"Who would that be?"

"My friend Salomé."

Hannah frowned. "The girl from Quidditch?" Luna nodded.

Neville sighed. "Luna, the girl from Beauxbatons?" Luna nodded.

The Hufflepuff girl looked at Neville, and then back to the airy Ravenclaw. "Honey...she's rooting for her friend. Why would she be willing to help us? We are the enemy, the rivals of the French." Luna laughed.

"Well first, Salomé is really nice, and if I asked her she would say yes. Second, I already asked Fleur, the supermodel girl, if she minded." Her two friends glanced at each other.

"When did you ask her?"

"After the first Quidditch game. When Professor McGonagall took over in the booth, and the three of you were running towards the action and trying to help, I went to where the portkey went-"

"Hold up, sorry Luna." Neville was rubbing his temple. "Information overload. What portkey?" He waved his wand, repairing the minute damage from his impromptu duel with Luna, and then plopped down on the ground. The younger girl sighed, and sat down, tucking her wand behind her ear.

"Well it all started when Salomé won the Quidditch match..."


John, Salomé, and Fleur sat beside each other on the window side of the classroom, quietly talking and watching the rest of the class. Among the non-Beauxbatons students were the Ravenclaw house that they had been paired with from the start, and the yellow Hufflepuff class. Fleur took note of one of her competing Champions, the Boy-Who-Lived, several rows in front of her, sitting beside a girl with honey-blonde hair, and another girl with dark-red hair.

As the year had advanced, she had learned the blonde was trying to become a Medi-witch, and worked with the matron of Hogwarts' hospital wing in her spare time. The redhead was the daughter of some auror, and was a more-than-competent duelist. Fleur had even had the opportunity to duel the girl in one of their classes earlier, and though Fleur had easily won, she had been almost caught off guard by the girl's repertoire. Certainly, the girl wasn't bad by any measure.

John, for his part, listened idly to Fleur and Salomé's conversation, but mostly he surveyed the room from behind his silver glasses. Neville Longbottom, one of Hogwarts' two champions and a local hero of wizarding Britain. Hannah Abbot, potions and herbology whiz. Susan Bones, niece of Amelia Bones, an auror who with a 'Sirius Black' and the man who had been speaking with Fleur at the Dueling Tournament, were investigating his actions at the Quidditch Cup.

His gaze moved from the three students Fleur was focused on to the rest of the class. Trevor Birch was an accomplished duelist who had somehow been knocked out of Hogwarts' dueling team by a younger Ravenclaw, the girl Salomé liked. Cho Chang, the hosting school's seeker was also here, as were a dozen or so other students, but John was forced to finish his daily scan when the door surged open, and a man pounded in.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Professor Moody roared, and flung a silent stupefy into the back of a slow student, rendering him unconscious. The spell had been advertised more than an upcoming blockbuster, but it hadn't been sent Fleur's way, so John had stayed his hand. The teacher limped to the front of the classroom, wooden leg dragging its puppet-boot along the stone floor. When he reached the chalkboard, he planted his walking stick against the desk, grabbed a piece of chalk, and called over his shoulder as he began to write.

"Ms. Abbott, please revive your fellow student." The girl did so. Even as the chalk scratched out words on the blackboard, and the teacher's back was turned, no one whispered or passed notes. They had long since learned better. By the time Hannah returned to her seat, Moody was finishing.

"Adaptability." His words were gravel, and his eyes independently raked across his students. "Literally, the ability to adapt. I can not make it any simpler. This one trait will mean the difference between living and dying in war, and make no mistake, we are at war." He stopped to take in their reactions. "I see some of you don't believe me. Very well, Mr. Longbottom?"

"Yes, sir?" He stood.

"What happened on the 31st of October, 1981?"

"Halloween…" Muttered a voice from the back of the room. The professor's normal eye stayed locked on Neville, but his blue one swiveled to face the sarcastic culprit.

"Mr. Boot, two-feet of parchment or twenty-five pushups?"

"Push-ups, sir."

"Go." The boy got up and walked to the front of the room, dropped to his chest, and began pushing. The blue eye swiveled back to the Heir of House Longbottom. "The question stands, boy."

"Sir, Voldemort…"He ignored some muttering from his fellow students. "Was destroyed. It was believed that his death should have marked the end of the war."

"Did it?"

"No, sir."

"Good, sit down. Five points to Hufflepuff. Mr. Boot, you are about to lose your house points if you take another break, I'm certain you can do seven more without pausing."

"Yes...sir."

"Ms. Bones, stand." She did. "What happened this summer at the Quidditch World Cup."

"Sir, a group of apparent death-eaters attacked the after party."

"How do we know they were death-eaters?"

"They wore the same white masks, and several of them died and were found to have the dark-mark."

"Good, five more points to Hufflepuff. Sit down." She did. "Boot, commendable effort, return to your seat. That'll be one point from Ravenclaw for only getting twenty-four." Terry returned to his seat, and got a punch in the arm from his house-mates. Moody surveyed the students once more, and John distinctly felt as if the eye lingered on him, but he felt no mental probe. "Now, anyone, tell me what this means…" Silence. "Very well, let's pick on the french. Mr. Dach?"

The large boy stood. He wasn't French by birth, and he wasn't necessarily the brightest, but he was exceptional at Potions, and had been chosen for the Beauxbatons' delegation to get a chance to study at Hogwarts, a school renowned for its output of famous Potion makers. Horace Slughorn, Severus Snape, Martin Swoopstikes, Arsenius Jigger, Phyllida Spore, Libatius Borage, all had made monumental steps in the potion world, and Arkady Dach wanted to join that list. "Yes, professor?" The boy's accent was heavy.

"Mr. Dach, what does it mean if an organization is still fighting years after losing their leader." Silence reigned as the students waited. Arkady's face was twisted in a mix of confusion and thought. Moody realized the boy was not getting the picture. "Mr. Dach, where are you from?"

"Ukraine, professor."

"Very well, let us pretend that there was a unit of soldiers who wanted Russia back in full control of Ukraine." The professor saw the boy's eyes harden, but recognized he was understood. "And let us further say that the captain of the Russian sympathizers was killed, but ten years later the group is still efficiently fighting. What does that mean?"

Dach furrowed his brow. "It...it would mean that they have a new captain?"

"Precisely, Mr. Dach, you may be seated." The boy looked relieved, but content, and did as he was told. "Now, boys and girls, if the enemy has maintained their cohesion, their unity over such a long period of time without their leader, then they are still a threat. If an enemy still poses a threat, and still carries out attacks, then we are still at war." He paused to let that sink in. Many of the students were nodding along.

"Good," he continued. "Now, there is a phrase, invented by an American Muggle during a time of war, I'm looking at you muggleborn few, who has heard of 'OODA loop"?" One or two hands wavered on the edge of raising, but two definitively raised. "Ms. Granger, of course...Ms. Bardot, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Educate the class."

"It stands for Observe, Orient, Decide, Act. The loop means it's a repetitive process."

"Very good. Ms. Granger?" John watched as a girl several students to his right stood up. She had curly brown hair that was in a messy chignon at the nape of her neck. He had seen her in most of his classes. She was smart as a whip, and apparently the nearly uncontended top-student in Hogwarts.

"Sir, Observe indicates the first step in any situation is to gain as much information as possible to assist one in making the best possible decision. Following this, one should Orient themselves to the situation. This is an important step as without immediate reaction to your observations, one could find themselves disadvantaged in moments of surprise. Orienting yourself can also allow you to best use the information you have gathered. Then, one must Decide. By choosing what to do based upon all assessments, and then orienting yourself accordingly, your decision can be most effective and most appropriate to the observed problem. Finally, Act. All of the observation, orientation, and decisions mean nothing if you never act upon them."

"A bleeding mouthful, but certainly accurate. Fifteen points, Ms. Granger." She nodded, sat, then began writing a shorter answer in her notes. "Alright, now to what we are actually doing today. In my classes, I have reviewed and taught quite a few spells already, and today is your first test." There were audible reactions to this news, from moans of complaint from the Hufflepuff's, to objections of surprise from the Ravenclaw, to Granger's head snapping up from her revisions.

"No," Moody trudged on. "Not a written exam, a practical one. Everyone, deposit your belongings on my desk, then drag all your desks and chairs to the hallway wall. Hurry, let's go." The students did, subconsciously leaving space between their things so no one would be tempted to filch any supplies. The basic survival skills of school. Moody then paired off the students. "Ms. Granger, Ms. Bardot, you two are together. I'm curious how you two apply your knowledge." Then he was off, leaving the students in the dark until finally, after making them all stand fifteen feet apart, Moody explained.

"Now, each of you will Observe your opponent, Orienting yourself in the best manner with which to combat them. You will Decide what spells you will use based upon what they are likely to do. You will simulate a fight in your mind, preparing for when I give the signal, and then you will Act." Both of his eyes swept the room. "Your purpose when the time is up? Disable, defeat, slow, or otherwise disadvantage your opponent so that you are the first one to bring me a piece of Quidditch equipment." Quiet murmuring began. "The whole school is available for you, and your time limit, from when I give the word to Act to when I will be beside the Groundskeeper's hut, is half an hour." The murmuring had turned into excited discussion. The Professor fired a cannon blast from his wand, and regained the class' attention.

"The first student to get me a piece of quidditch equipment will get an Outstanding, as well as permission from me to check out a single book from the restricted section. The first five students will gain an Outstanding as well as bonus points on the next written test. The next ten will get an Exceeds Expectations and bonus points on the next written assignment. The following fifteen students will receive an Average score and a single bonus point on the next written assignment. Any students after that will get a Poor. If you are able to meet me at the finish with no equipment, you will be given a Dreadful. If you fail even that, well, certainly a Troll would be more capable than you." The students were silent as they took in the information. "Any questions?" There were none. "Alright. Observe."

With a greater focus then they had perhaps shown all year, the students squared off against their opponent. Eyes locked on eyes. Gazes swept each other. John surveyed Susan. She had a wrist holster hidden with notice-me-not charms, and a small pocket knife in her right boot. Interesting. She had a bezoar in one pocket, and a few vials concealed in another. Her eyes were blue, but not bright: stormy but attentive. Someone had trained her a little.

Susan Bones regarded the boy in front of her. He wore mirrored silver sunglasses, and she could see her warbled reflection in them. He had short, slightly messy black-hair, and the beginnings of a smirk. She couldn't see where his wand was, so she could assume it was in a lower-back holster, or on a concealed wrist holster. He was from a dueling school before Beauxbatons, so she could lean on the latter of the two options. He wore a slightly larger uniform then would fit him correctly, she assumed for ease of movement. His shoes...weren't there. How had she not noticed before?

Fleur scanned Neville, taking in his relaxed stance, and his own curious glances. He was fairly handsome, but his feet were slightly too close to seem truly natural. Not quite perfectly trained in dueling culture. Odd. Then she remembered where such assumptions had landed her when she faced John, and she withheld judgement. He had shucked his robe, and his clothes fit him well. His wand was out of sight.

The Boy-Who-Lived watched the French bombshell take him in. He had already stowed his wand in his back pocket, a stupid place, and one that would lower her estimations of him when he retrieved it soon. She stood light on her feet, smiling at him, and it was all he could do to not stare at her lips, her beautiful red lips, delicate neck, the way her clothes accentuated her-

Dammit, he blinked himself free, frustrated at the sheer force of will it had taken. In defense, as he continued his surveying, he kept thoughts of Hannah at the front of his mind.

Salomé analyzed Hermione. The girl was plain at a glance, and pretty after some more consideration. She certainly wasn't a beauty, but her eyes held blistering intelligence. The tall French girl felt as if the smaller girl was a hawk, hunting her every expression for a mouse of a detail. The Ravenclaw girl was...difficult to read.

Granger read the tall strawberry-blonde rather easily. An athlete from a young age. Perceptive. Skilled. The girl was on both Beauxbatons' dueling and quidditch teams. In the hallways, she kept a track of the people who walked by, and checked a room for exits and threats when she entered. She worked hard where she was not as accomplished, and stayed focused in classes where she was. All this, Granger had paid attention to as the year had passed. But there was something else in the grey eyes...a touch of pain...no, not quite. It was something she had seen in her fathers eyes when his lips grew light after a few too many drinks. When he spoke of his time serving overseas.

Moody spoke. "Orient."

John rolled his neck, took a breath, and moved his feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back.

Susan shifted into the stance she had slightly modified from her aunt, wand flicking into her hand and standing side on to her opponent. She kept her wand lowered, no need to expend energy to hold it up for however long until the go was given.

Fleur slid smoothly into her own stance, unorthodox, but developed as the best way she could quickly defend against someone as fast as John. Drawing her own wand, she began silently counting.

Neville drew his own wand, and squared off, right-handed. He would take this seriously.

Salomé didn't draw her wand, but lowered her center of gravity slightly, shifting as well to her toes. She glanced at her wrist watch, saw the time, and sent a smirk towards Hermione.

Granger blinked. She didn't understand the smirk, nor why it seemed the girl was readying herself to try and tackle her the moment the word was given. The Ravenclaw shook it off, and readied herself. Her body was almost square on with Salomé, similar to John's stance. However, Hermione kept one foot slightly forward of the other, her knees were slightly more bent, and her wand was at her side, also conserving strength.

Moody growled, "Decide."

John considered-

"ACT!" The professor cracked out, cackling. Most of the students flinched in surprise, not expecting such a rapid-fire pair of commands. John didn't. But as fast as he drew and fired a spell, the tip of his wand was still glowing when someone was quicker. Fleur unleashed a massive burst of her allure as fast as thought, and everyone reacted to that.

Susan's body went slack, just enough that John's lightning-fast stunner passed a hair's breadth from her cheek, and blasted the chalkboard behind her into fragments. His spell had the unintended effect of breaking Susan's lapse of focus, and her wand was up in time to shield his second spell.

Neville briefly slackened as well, and Fleur's own stunner blazed into him, sending him stumbling back. Hermione blinked just a second too long, and she awkwardly raised her wand as she focused her attention back to where she knew Salomé would be charging her. She still had plenty of time to react and to-

But Salomé had no such intent. Instead the girl, having bet on Fleur wanting to take advantage of her Veela heritage, shot towards the huge windows. As she ran and wove her way between dueling students, she drew her wand from the hair-ties on her left arm. Her first whispered spell was an open-handed runic counter-spell much like what she had used in her duel with Boquin Chu Hua. The difference was that this one wasn't strong enough to stop what she had faced in that duel. But here, she just needed something to keep her from getting stunned for a few seconds. Then she used her wand. Her second spell severed the chain holding one of the huge chandeliers to the ceiling. Her third banished it through the huge stained-glass of the fourth-floor classroom. Then Salomé flung herself out the window.

Had Hermione Granger been hit with a stupify, she could not have been more stunned. That being said, she was still on the Hogwarts Dueling team for a reason, and she idly incapacitated a duo of Hufflepuff's who tried to team up to take her down.

Susan tried a counter attack, but John easily blocked, then he wordlessly summoned one of the wizards beside her. The new, though unwilling, arrival blind-sided the girl, and the two collapsed into a heap. The barefoot-boy shot Fleur a glance, and saw she was running towards the classroom door, flinging spells. He sighed, and followed, but was delayed by a not-insignificant group of students apparently eager to avenge his annihilation of the Hogwarts duellist early in the Tournament.

A few moments later, Hannah spelled Neville awake, and the two joined the various still-conscious students in half-fighting/half-scrabbling their way out the door. No one it seemed was eager to follow the crazy girl from Beauxbatons out the window. At last, only unconscious bodies remained with Moody. Unconscious bodies, and Hermione Granger.

"Can I help you?" The professor growled, natural eye locked on her, and blue orb swirling around aimlessly. Hermione accio'd a piece of broken desk, and transfigured it into a beater's bat. She handed it to the now openly smiling professor.

"Here, sir. Would you mind if I were excused to go to my next class early, I had a few questions for Professor Flitwick."

"Aye, lass. And take twenty points with you."

"Thank you, professor." She stepped over her fellow students towards the door, waving her wand twice before putting it away. Her belongings on the front desk shrunk, and zipped into her raised hand. "Have a good day, sir." Then she was gone.

Moody chuckled to himself as he transfigured a piece of the chalkboard into a bludger. "Clever girl, very clever." His tongue slithered to the corner of his mouth, and his chuckles became coughs and wheezes. He took a sip from his flask, and the twitch receded.

'Mad-eye Moody' cast a wide-spread reviving charm, and gave the now-conscious students a chance to orient themselves. Then he called their attention to the floating bludger.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE, ladies and gentlemen. You only have twenty-two minutes left, and only two before I send this lad hunting." The kids scrambled out the door.

-XII-

Fleur ran through the hallways, angry now that she hadn't been joining John for his morning training. She was fairly fit, but after hissing out spells and fighting her way from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and then having to sprint quickly to avoid the annoyingly persistent boys chasing her, she found her breath coming fleetingly. All but skidding around a corner, she was surprised to see a dead end hallway with naught but locked doors to serve as escape.

She spared a glance over her shoulder, and though she could not yet see her pursuers she could hear their scuffling shoes on the stone. She ran to the first door, and tried to charm it unlocked. Nothing. She tried the next. And the next. Locked.

The footsteps grew closer.

She took a shaky breath, and turned to face the corridor entrance, raising her wand prepared to defend herself. But before the first pursuer could round the corner, someone grabbed her from behind and yanked her backwards. For a second she felt as if someone was bear-hugging her, and as if someone had thrown a dark cloth over her face, but then everything brightened and her breath returned.

Her wand shot up, only to stop as she realized John was with her in a classroom. One of the locked classrooms. Fleur frowned, she didn't remember hearing a door open behind her. The frown made way for burning cheeks, his hand was in hers. She saw her crimson cheeks in her reflection in his glasses. "Wha—?"

"Are you okay? I'm so sorry, it took me a second too long to catch up." The normally composed boy was everything but, his knuckles white in her hand, and his head tilting as he took her in as if to check for any injuries. "I shouldn't have left you for that long, I should have been right there, I missed my first spell, I—"

Fleur didn't know what it was in that moment, the sudden humanity he was showing perhaps, or his hand in hers, or his concern, but she leaned across the small space between them and pressed her lips to his, shutting him up. Lightning arced into her thumping heart, and her eyes widened. It was as if everything had clicked, a fog had lifted, and suddenly the world was translated from some obscure language to the most basic of french. John froze at the contact, and the kiss remained unreturned. Fleur leaned back quickly, trying to get her composure as she holstered the wand she still awkwardly held in her hand.

She needn't have worried, for John was stock still, jaw slightly loose, and glasses slightly askew. An awkward pause. Fleur cleared her throat with an equally awkward cough as fire burned across her cheeks. Her bodyguard was still frozen. "That bad, huh?" She forced out, trying to sound nonchalant. Finally, he gathered the words to respond.

"Fleur…we can't...I can't." He let go of her hand.

"Non? Why not?"

"My job is to protect you, I'm your bodyguard."

"Et alors? So what?"

"Fleur-" She interrupted him with a jabbing finger in his chest.

"Non, I will finish." She fought to pierce his glasses with her gaze, blue eyes hardening. "I am one of the top students in Beauxbatons and you...you would still eclipse me if you were a real student." She swallowed stubborn pride. "You are very smart, and that is attractive. You are certainly not ugly, and I know I am not. You care about people, even though you try to hide it. I like that. Not to mention I am a Veela and you do not care."

"Fleur-"

"Arrêter de parler, shut up. I have met very few people who could even resist the allure, much fewer who can ignore it. We are close in age, and even though you are younger, I am always the one learning new things when we talk...I like that."

"I… I shouldn't," He saw Fleur making to interrupt him again, so John threw up his hands and continued on a different line of argument, "But, I'll think about it, alright, I'll think about it...just... Fleur, you realize I'm only protecting you for this year, after that I'm going to be gone." The blonde took a deep breath, and regarded him. His arms were loose at his sides, and there were still the traces of shock in his slack stance. It was hard to tell why she felt so certain now, but she had long ago learned to trust such powerful feelings. The Veela let a smirk play about her lips.

"Then I'll give you more to think about..." She lay a single hand on his jaw, let the fingers of her other hand slowly trace a path up the back of his hand and towards his bicep, and leaned into him. Her lips found his. Her eyes fluttered. Fire burned within her, and heat sang in her soul.

He was still, steady but unresponsive.

...then she felt a hand gently rest on her hip, before slowly...ever...so...slowly gliding to her lower back…

An eternity seemed to pass. Fleur began to pull away.

Then John pulled her back, he returned her kiss, and time lost meaning.


Salomé slid into her seat next to Luna with a smile. She wasn't breathing heavily, and steam was no longer floating from her flushed skin, but her competitive smile hadn't yet abandoned her. Luna looked up from sketching… something. She smiled too.

"Hey, Salomé! How's your day been?"

The older girl began flipping through her notebook to the correct page. "Not bad at all." She glanced up and saw a list of instructions on the board. Apparently, Ms. Vector had to take an emergency leave of absence, and wanted her students to spend the period studying for their test the following Tuesday. "I was the fourth person to complete a challenge Professor Moody gave!" She paused briefly to grimace, then shook the miniscule frustration away. "Granger, of course, came first. Still not sure how. Then the Boy-Who-Lived got second, but only because his Firebolt is ridiculously fast, and the Ravenclaw seeker...Cho, right?"

"Yep. But Neville doesn't like that name." Luna's voice was quiet.

"What, Cho?"

"No, he doesn't like being called 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'."

Salomé frowned. "Really? Why not?"

"What if everyone called you 'The-Girl-Who's-Parents-Died-In-A-Terrorist-Attack."

The taller girl almost shrunk in on herself in embarrassment. "I-I never thought of it like that. I'm sorry."

Luna let one hand alight on her french friend's arm, and spared the girl a smile, before turning back to her doodles. "It's okay, and now you know. But you can make it up by training him for the Tasks."

The French girl blinked. "Uh, Luna, my best-friend is competing against him. Not to mention, the first Task is this afternoon."

"Not a problem." The airy blonde beamed. "You can start after today's task, plus I already got Fleur's permission."

"When?"

"Why does everyone ask me that? Well it all started after you won the Quidditch match..."


The crowd was a living, breathing entity, roaring as loud as any dragon could. The Champions stood in a tent, each holding the tiny, but still quite feisty model dragons they had chosen. Cedric was joking with Neville, and had to flinch away when the small Hungarian Horntail had stopped trying to fight the boy who grabbed it and instead leaped for the elder Hufflepuff's Swedish Short-Snout. The two chuckled more as the tiny brown menace glared daggers at Neville for holding it back.

Victor turned the Chinese Fireball upside-down, and looked at the protesting model's stomach and chest. Fleur caught a glimpse, and quickly realized what the Bulgarian was doing. She too flipped her Common Welsh Green. If these were models of what they would actually face, then any missing scales or flaws in the near-perfect armored hide of these dragons would be present on their much larger brethren.

She found no such flaws, and recalculated her approach. Then, she swallowed her pride. Idly, she noted she had been doing that a good bit lately. Pride slays even Dragons, she reminded herself, then snickered. Maybe I should summon a monster of Pride to fight today! She waved away the humorous thought, and began walking. Neville and Cedric were surprised to see her approach them, and stopped their conversation.

"Bonjour...I have some knowledge of Dragons, but not as much as you might for one from your country. Would you...comment dit...would you trade me some advice from you for some from me?" The boys shared a glance. They seemed hesitant. Then Neville shrugged.

"You didn't mind if your friend helped me, so it would be kinda rude if I refused to help." He let loose a gentle smile, and the tension faded. "Welsh dragons are surprisingly timid. Sure they'll fight tooth and claw if they feel cornered, but it's nowhere near as aggressive as their Scottish cousins."

"Merci, for my part, the flame-freezing charm works to give you a few seconds of safety from dragon fire, but I still wouldn't recommend charging right through the fire and flames. The two boys in yellow-trimmed robes blinked.

"Seriously?" the older one shook his head in wonder, "Thank you. I had no idea." Fleur lowered her head slightly in acceptance, but raised it when a gruff voice added to the conversation.

"Mr. Longbottom...you say you did not put name in goblet?" Victor approached, eyes lasers on the Boy-who-lived. Neville shook his head, resolute.

"I swear I didn't. Cedric is a close friend and I knew he was submitting his name. Plus, I have no desire for further fame, and I am already lucky enough to have been born into some wealth, I don't need any more." Krum took a few seconds to think about this.

"Then I do not hold grudge. You do not seem like cheater." He pointed a finger at the little creature in his opponent's hand. "Horntail is very strong and fast. Sometimes, dragons escape enclosure in Romania, and fly into Bulgaria. My father works for security forces. They fly on brooms and force Dragon to chase them. Because dragon is big, it can not fly fast for long. When dragon gets tired and...weak, they capture."

Neville nodded, "Thanks. And please, call me Neville, it feels weird to be called Mr. Longbottom." The normally stoic Bulgarian gave a wide grin.

"Then I am Victor." The two shook hands.

Cedric looked back and forth among the Champions, and adopted a false look of hurt. "Well, what about me? Neville and Fleur get help, but Victor and I are left high and dry!" Viktor smirked.

"I do not need help. I am Viktor Krum." The champions all shared a laugh, a moment of levity before the announcers began pumping the crowd up, and the stands shook with a cacophonous roar.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...wizards and witches...lads and ladies, please give your applause for our first Champion, Cedric...DIGGORY!"

John watched with ambivalence as the older Hufflepuff boy transformed a rock to a dog, and sent in yelping around the edge of the arena, causing the dragon to focus on the easier prey, and to give the boy all the time needed to grab his golden egg, the apparent target of the task. Unfortunately, the Swedish Short-Snout caught the trick in the last moments, and smashed some of her own eggs in a rush to incinerate the would-be-thief. Thankfully, Cedric remembered the charm Fleur had recommended, and fled the arena with mere second-degree burns.

However, it was now that he began to get anxious. John let his gaze sweep the arena, searching for threats. Twelve aurors. Some wore their standard long coats, with their badge on a chain much like a pocket watch. He tried to name all those he knew. Black, Bones, Dawlish, Moody, Savage, Proudfoot, Shacklebolt. He didn't see the most dangerous of them though. His eyes swept back through the crowds. Many adult wizards from around the world were here as well. He had memorized many of their faces and identities after learning of the Tournament. From France he saw a few minor lords, a few ministers, and even a few presumably off-duty members of the Dague Group. From Bulgaria, Krum's family, a few members of their governing body, and even a man who was actually not allowed to leave Bulgaria for fear of European sanctions, but had apparently snuck his way out to see the tournament. John didn't care, it wasn't his business.

A few other people of note were there from other countries. Tanitha DeWees and Wix, the commentators of the Dueling Tournament. The young Russian dueling phenom Nikaya Lipasky. The head of the Committee for Draconic Rights (a sham organization of course). Even Andrea Chavez, daughter to the drug king of South America (a wizard himself), was present, albeit with an entire retinue of private security. Despite all the skilled wizards and witches in the crowd, John didn't let his guard down. Perhaps it was because of all the skilled people that he didn't let his guard down.

Then she was announced, and he had to slow his racing heart… and to keep his hands from clenching too tightly.

-XII-

Dumbledore applauded politely. Mr. Diggory had accurately applied his school curriculum to survive an encounter with a dragon. The headmaster couldn't think of a more perfect way to prove that Hogwarts was indeed still the preeminent school of magic in the world. The teacher's around him were full of praise for the boy, but the White Warlock of Britain didn't partake in the complimenting. Instead his twinkling eyes drifted briefly to the girl walking into the arena. He was not affected by her allure, though he could feel the slight waves she was letting loose in her fear for the dragon in front of her.

He spared a look at the Beauxbatons students in their section of the stands. Madame Maxime sat demurely, but her hands were not so much folded as clenched in her lap. All around her, the students showed part excitement and part worry...except for one. Dumbledore ran the boy through his mental list of the visiting students. John...Constantine. Formerly a student at the College Cú Chulainn...the boy wore silver reflective glasses and no shoes. He also was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and was intently staring at the confrontation unfolding. Unlike his fellow students, his face was slack with impassiveness, completely at odds with his body-language. He was also...annoyingly difficult to focus on.

Dumbledore decided he would floo-call the College to ask about the boy, certainly such disregard for a uniform dress code spoke of a rude and combative attitude. Moreover, certainly the passive runes the boy had on his person, if not technically illegal, were not permitted by College or Beauxbatons' rules, much less Hogwarts'. Dumbledore's charmed glasses normally helped see through such obstacles, but even as an empath, the boy was a statue among the teeming energy of his peers.

Moreover, as Dumbledore glanced around the stands, there was something else disconcerting…

"Dumbledore?" The old wizard's eyes snapped back into focus and saw the expectant look of the students and staff all around him. He blinked, now noticing that his fellow judges all had spelled numbers into the air. He hadn't even noticed what the french girl had done.

"Please forgive me, I found myself enthralled by Ms. Delacour's performance." Judging by the overt reactions of those around him, his words seemed acceptable, so he forged on. "Impressive, of course, and so I truly believe our French Champion deserves…" He trailed off and swiped his wand, a smoky blue nine appearing in the air above him. He smiled through his frustration, and resolved to not lose focus in such moments again.

-XII-

In the stands with the visitors from around the world, a man who looked nothing like the Commander of Operations for the Akadimía smiled at Dumbledore's sudden attempt to cover up his day-dreaming. This man had also noted Dumbledore's lingering eyes staying all-too-long on Unit 0762. On agent code-named Royce. On John Constantine. So many names for the same person. And yet there was one more.

The man was not alone in his mind, as his master could easily and clearly see through his eyes and hear through his ears. "So Dumbledore is thinking of reaching out to Ireland to learn more of John." The Master thought.

"Yes. But that won't be a problem. Do you want me to deal with it, or will you?" He thought back.

"Charles, you wound me. Of course I would relish the opportunity to get out from the Mansion." Charlemagne couldn't hear his Sire's voice, but he could imagine perfectly the fang-bearing smirk.

"Of course. I will abstain from interfering." He felt Le Grec leave his mind, and he went back to watching the spectacle. Apparently, the boy from Durmstrang was casting dark charms at his dragon's eyes. As he watched, the Commander had a gentle lingering question at the edges of his mind. John had been trained by the best at concealing his true feelings, so why was his body language so expressive today? Was 0762 developing genuine feelings? Charlemagne shrugged off the worry. No, of course not, the Akadimía had long ago beaten true emotional feelings from the boy.

-XII-

His heart pounding so loudly he was sure it was audible, John hid a sigh of relief behind a mask of neutrality as Fleur easily charmed the dragon to sleep, and walked over to claim her egg. He didn't really care that Karkaroff deducted points for stupid reasons, or that Dumbledore seemed to start awake when it came his turn to judge, he just stood up, and made his way to the Champions tent. Salomé started to get up as well, but he waved her off.

"It's alright, just going to make sure she's safe while everyone is focused on Krum and Longbottom." His words were quiet, so none of the other students would hear. The tall girl nodded, then went back to an enthusiastic discussion with Lucretia over who would replace Victor Krum in Durmstrang's quidditch line-up.

The moment John's feet touched soil after leaving the wooden bleachers, he felt something. A honed instinct, perhaps. Maybe it was just the result of training, but he had long since learned to listen to it, and he found himself sprinting, head low, toes digging into the cold ground, and his arms pumping. A second later, he felt the invisible wards he had placed around the champions tent alert him to intruders. The bodyguard shot past a boy in red and gold who dropped a box of candies in surprise, and kept running until he had finished the half-lap around the stands, and saw the path leading down a small hill to the Champions' tent.

At the bottom of the hill, approaching the tent with wands drawn, were a talk lanky boy and a short stout one. Beside them, wands not yet drawn, were two other stocky boys. Three wore green scarves. The fourth wore yellow.

Morons, John thought, wearing their own house colors to a crime. He quickly activated a series of security wards around the tent that he had left dormant. Then, he attacked.

John, at full sprint, flung himself forward in a diving forward roll, cutting his momentum into a fraction of what it had been. Had his opponents been trained opponents they might have heard him approach and spun to engage him, wherein his roll would have served to avoid the first salvo. But they were mere schoolchildren, and no such attack occurred. As John finished his roll, he let his wand arm rise along its natural path. He had angled himself perfectly, and it was only a matter of timing.

His first spell blasted into the back of the fat boy's knee, buckling him. The boy grunted as he fell, or he would have had he not been also silenced by the new wards. John's second spell came as he regained his feet after the roll. This one smashed into the boy's back, and he crashed to the dirt unconscious. Comical were the flamboyant reactions of surprise from the would-be-attackers, all silent as well. The taller, thin friend of the short boy was mid-turn, wand raising and words on his lips when a grey spell hit him, and he fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

The third boy got a spell off. John, now walking forward, caught it on the tip of his wand, and flicked it back, the depulso blasting the caster into the ward-scheme. He shuttered in mid air as his body shook like he had hit two power lines at once. The fourth boy silently screamed a dark curse, and the teal beam missed John by several body-lengths. John's own hex hit the boy, sending him to his knees and clawing at his eyes.

The bodyguard strode over to the boys, and was about to cancel the effects of his spells and stun them all, when he passed through the silencing wards and heard a noise that was not the boys moaning or screaming in pain. A bug...a beetle flying as fast as it's wings could take it out of the silenced zone.

John checked his wards, making sure they were still up and active. Then he followed the Animagus around the side of the tent.

-XII-

No sooner had John left, then Draco Malfoy finished counting at the top of the stairs down from the grandstand. He almost gave it a further thirty-seconds, but decided it was in his best interest to follow instructions to the letter. He walked down, nodding briefly to a few visitors to the school, and began the short trek he had been told to take. Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Cadwallader were all where he had been told they would be. In various states of consciousness, the four littered the ground before the Champions' tent.

He studied the effects they lay under. An American sleeping spell used by the Auror's across-the-pond. Crabbe wasn't being hurt by it, so Draco moved on. Goyle had been hit by a limb-splicer from Montenegro, a spell that severed the nerve tissue at the base of the neck to paralyze a target. Not lethal on its own, as Constantine had used it, but still quite illegal. Draco moved on.

Nott's body was still twitching, and small sparks of static still crackled across his clothes. Malfoy cast a grounding spell from Cameroon, and Theodore stopped thrashing. Cadwallader was rolling in the dirt, deep wounds on his face and eyes as his fingernails ripped skin. Draco cast the strongest nullification spell he knew, and when that failed to stop the self-mutilation, Malfoy stunned the Hufflepuff.

He double-checked that all his fellow students were relatively alright. Then, he began the next step of his instructions: he began walking to find the nearest teacher.


Dumbledore swept into his office, eyes hard. He waved off Fawkes' happy trill of greetings, much to the phoenix's confusion, and marched to his fireplace. The Headmaster retrieved some floo powder from the mantle, and flung it into the flames.

"Tiernan MacMael, Office of the Cathal of Cú Chulainn." He waited a few seconds and then, seeing the coals and flames form the face of his counterpart at the Irish school, he spoke again. "Ah, Mr. MacMael…"

"Chief Warlock, I believe you know my title. And though I have but one compared to you, I would appreciate you using it."

Albus ducked his head in acknowledgement, though the sparkle in his eyes remained. "Very well, Cathal MacMael, my apologies for any offense. I wished to speak with you about a student of yours currently spending his exchange year at Beauxbatons." The elderly Headmaster saw his counterpart was making no effort to speak, so he trudged on. "I believe his name is John Constantine."

There was silence for a minute. Dumbledore was beginning to think somehow the magic wasn't working, when the Cathal finally answered.

"I was not aware that Mr. Constantine warranted a call of this magnitude."

Dumbledore chuckled heartily. "Well clearly Madame Maxime has not kept you abreast of the situation. Mr. Constantine has certainly been successful in showing your school's capabilities in the Triwizard so far, but he has apparently been in an altercation at Beauxbatons that needed brought to her attention, and I have just heard today from a student that witnessed him assault several of my students. The spells he used were very dark, and not something I would think your institution would teach it's students." Dumbledore hid a curious smile behind a veneer of concern.

"And?" The response brought him up short.

"Heh, I think I misheard you, Cathal MacMael."

"No you didn't, Chief Warlock. I said what I said."

Dumbledore blinked. "You...truly don't care that one of your pupils assaulted other students?" The response carried biting mockery with heavy brough.

"You say 'apparently', you say that you 'believe', and you say that you 'heard' a student claimed to have 'witnessed'. Weak words. Sounds like hearsay to me."

MacMael let his voice trail off, to give the older man time to understand, then he continued. "If Mr. Constantine has committed a crime, I'm sure due process will bring that to light. But if you're meaning to ask if he caused problems here at the College, then no. He's been all but bleedin' perfect."

Dumbledore fought to keep his jaw clenched at the blatant aggression his counterpart was showing. But the Irishman was not quite done. "Now, if that's all, Chief Warlock, I have my school to worry about." Dumbledore frowned as the call ended. Any intent to learn more about the mysterious John Constantine seemed to have been made more difficult.

The old man reached for a sweet from the jar on his desk, and walked over to pet a curious Fawkes. At least, he thought, I know he did go to the College.


Cathal Tiernan MacMael took a breath through his nose, and slowly let it out. He hated lying, almost as much as he hated Dumbledore's holier-than-thou persona. Maintaining eye contact with the girl lounging on his office couch, he fished a sleek Motorola Q cell phone out of his slacks' pocket. Tiernan dialed a number he had quickly scrawled on a notepad earlier that afternoon, a number the mysterious girl had told him after materializing in his heavily warded office. It didn't even ring once before the call was accepted.

"Yes?" A woman's voice.

"Mrs. President? Your Excellency, I have done as I was instructed...please, my son has no magic and he's served our country with distinction for-"

"You have done well, Cathal MacMael." The woman interrupted. "Your son may maintain his position in government so long as you uphold the agreement."

"Of course, Mrs. President...but... what of the girl here?"

A pause. The girl on the couch rolled her eyes, and removed her bare feet from the armrest. She got up, and silently padded up to the Cathal's table. She picked up the scrap of paper with the phone number, and began rolling it into a thin cigarette, adding a few pinches of some green and purple plant-matter she had procured from a bag in her pocket.

"Uachtarán? Mrs. President?" He asked again. Finally, he got a response.

"She is there to ensure you do not renege on the deal. Please give her your phone and purchase a new one." Then the line clicked, dead. The barefoot girl finished wrapping the paper, and tucked it behind one ear. She stuck her hand out with a bored tilt to her head. Slowly, reluctantly, the headmaster of the College Cú Chulainn deposited the device in her grasp.

She smiled lazily as she closed her fist, and the sounds of cracks and snaps filled the air. Her eyes never left his face as she crushed the phone into powder with one squeeze of her hand. Tiernan raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Please Ms. Zatara-"

"Z." Her voice held a slight, diluted New York base.

"Ms. Z...why is all of this happening? Who is John Constantine?"

"He's one of your students...duh." Then she began walking towards an empty corner of the room. Her hair flipped as she spared the Cathal one last glance. "I'll be watching." Then she turned to face him, and her skin began to lose its color. No... It began… changing.

In a few short seconds, a hulking statue of a gargoyle now stood in his office. Unmoving, it's eyes were locked on him.


In her office in Dublin, the President of Ireland, Mary Robinson, placed her cell phone down on the table in front of her, and looked up at the short man across from her.

"It's done."

The Greek nodded, and stood. "Thank you Mary, it has been a pleasure."

"Of course." She smiled, and embraced the Director of the Akadimía.

"Will I see you at the next class' graduation in a year, or only at the reunion in six years?" He asked. She laughed.

"If I am still kicking, both of course. Wouldn't miss them for the world."

After he left, she sat down in her chair and crossed one leg over her other knee. Slipping her shoe half-off of her foot, she absently rubbed at the calluses that even time had not erased. The woman once known as 0619 fell into her memories, a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.


Sebastien strode quickly across the flagstone path towards where police tape and a few investigators kept a morbidly enraptured crowd from approaching. He scoffed. Always trust the public to linger around a murder. He knew the psychology of it, and despite what most people would claim, humanity had always been enthralled by the end of life.

Coming up upon the boundary, he pulled one side of his jacket aside with the bottom of one of the coffee cups he was carrying to reveal his badge, and one of the muggle policemen let him pass with a slightly curious, 'Bon soir.' He grunted an acknowledgement around the remnants of the scone he had scarfed down.

The concrete slab walkway through the tiny front yard of the small house on the outskirts of Marseille had a few scattered weeds among the cracks, one bright dandelion daring to make its presence known in the steel and stone jungle around. The green front door, paint cracking and peeling, was ajar, and Sebastien kicked his feet clean on the worn front mat before entering the house. Within, a local police officer contact of Function-4 stood talking with Timofey's replacement, Julie-Anne Cariveau. Formerly an attaché to the French Delegation at the ICW, she was fluent in a half-dozen languages, and could pass a further half-dozen off as her second language. She noticed Sebastien first.

"Chairman Delacour, this is Inspecteur Henault, he is our liaison with the local Muggle investigators."

Sebastien took the man in, handed Julie-Anne one of the two coffee cups, and shook his hand firmly, once. "Good evening, Monsieur Henault. How may I be of service?"

"Merci, Monsieur Chairman, thank you for coming in so quickly."

"There is no such thing as a day off in the service."

The inspector smiled ruefully. "Oui, as you say it is true. Ah, but you can help by finding the killer. We believe they are magical. The girl renting the basement called it in. She said she heard what sounded like an argument in Latin, then crashing and some sounds like…" The inspecteur consulted a notebook, "like lasers from Star Wars. Then something heavy hit the ground, some more muttered words she couldn't make out. Then nothing."

Sebastien frowned at the description, "She heard all of this? So the killer, if magical, didn't silence the room?"

Cariveau spoke quickly, before taking a long sip. "Trust me, Chairman, it was magical. The body was carved up pretty bad, but no blood was spilled. Congealing charms."

Sebastien clicked his tongue. "You've seen it then? Okay. Second question though, how certain is the girl that she recognized Latin? Could she have misheard?"

The inspector shook his head. "Non, the girl studies at Aix-Marseille Université, she studies Mediterranean history with a focus on Italy. She said the grammar was all wrong, but it was certainly Latin."

Sebastien chuckled, "Certainly true of our spells. Did our lucky girl hear anything else." There was an awkward silence and the inspector kicked his feet briefly, seemingly unwilling to mention something. "Inspecteur?"

"Monsieur, the other reason we asked you here, the perpetrator was wearing a rather unique uniform, and the girl saw it. The Sovereign Military Order of Malta." Sebastien froze. He knew of the order. It had no official territory except for scores of embassies around the world. Such was the influence of the former Militant branch of the Catholic Church that it held the power to sit in on any United Nations meetings of any security level, even those only attended by the Security Council. Many conspiracies had arisen throughout the years about why the Order still held such power, but few knew the truth. Sebastien was one of those few. After all, he was a member.

"Let's see the body, and then I would like to talk with the witness...perhaps I could recognize her description. It's worth a shot."

"Thank you, Monsieur." Henault looked relieved, and gestured around a corner to another line of red and white striped tape. Sebastien took a deep breath, and followed the pointing finger. What he found twisted his stomach.

A man lay naked face first on the ground, or he would have, had his head been attached to his body. His arms and legs, too, were missing. Sebastien handed his half-drunk cup of coffee to Cariveau, and took a pair of gloves from Henault. Then he crouched beside the body. Its back had been flayed into a grid pattern, alternating scraps of ignored skin with neat squares of stark red. It should have been bleeding all over the floor, but the congealing charms had done their job. More disturbingly, chess pieces had been placed across the grid. A distinctive victory for white.

Cariveau coughed once, clearing her throat, then spoke. "An odd endgame, Black was one move from winning with the queen."

Sebastien nodded, tugging on one of two white bishops that stood beside each other in the center of black's defense, the right one checkmating the black king and only protected by a pawn. The piece was glued in place with a sticking charm. He stood.

"The Evergreen Game, Adolf Andersson and Jean Dufresne. The apprentice had his teacher one move from checkmate, only for Andersson to check him four times in a row before taking the 'mate."

The female investigator cocked her head. "Do you think it is a metaphor? That we are only one step away but still cannot win? We are the French and the killer is the German? A remnant from the War?"

Sebastien shrugged. "Perhaps, but Dufresne wasn't French, he was German too." He clicked his tongue again in thought. "I'd like to speak with the girl."

Henault shrugged. "She's in the other room with a few of my female officers. I figured she would be more comfortable with them." The Chairman took his cup back from his partner, enjoyed another long sip, then walked as suggested, patent leather shoes softly clicking on the wooden floors. His mind raced through the puzzle before him, and how much he was starting to dislike the whole affair. He felt...targeted.

First the killer targeted someone in Marseille, practically Sebastien's back yard. Second, they did so knowing that he had close ties with the regional branch of Function-4. Third, it was committed by someone in the garments of a religious Order the Delacours had been in for years. Fourth, the killer had left a chess game behind, one of Sebastien's favorites.

Sebastien walked into the bedroom, and froze at the look of abject fear that filled the college-student who sat on the bed. She started scampering across the sheets away from him. "Madamoiselle?"

"That is the man! Mon dieu please arrest him! Don't let him hurt me!"


N/B: \(B/N: The gal was getting stressed again with life and Corps, and was stuck about ten pages in. I hated to see her so stressed over writing this, so I may or may not have written the other thirty pages, and then ran it by her. She loved it, and I hope y'all do too!)

\The Russian composer Tchaikovsky wrote Nocturne in D-Major for the Orchestra, and C-Sharp minor for the piano. Most people don't play in C-Sharp minor, however.

\Sirius' moment of frustration and anger at the end of the intro will tie into the next chapter. It has a purpose, I promise!

\The answer to any questions about Luna's duel...'Because it's Luna.'

\As fast as John is, something like a Veela's allure is technically faster, because it is controlled at will. In my humble opinion, at least.

\All the named potion masters all trained and studied at Hogwarts. More than any other school, canonically.

\In a world where rapists and murders walk free on claims of Imperius, of course an auror's niece would be taught to be extra cautious.

\A reference to Deprived is in the task scenes. Can you spot it? :)

\Yep, the Charlemagne. Vampires in this story (or any future ones) are based on Vampire the Masquerade. (B/N: The table-top RPG)

\Mary Robinson was not a trainee of a super secret mercenary organization before becoming president of Ireland...we think.

\The Military Order of Malta does exist. Its nifty.


Author's Note:

Hope y'all love the new chapter. I wasn't going to have the kissing scene happen yet, but someone convinced me it was about damn time. (B/N: Yes I did. And yes it was about damn time.)

Again with these long breaks between chapters, by God I'm trying to get them done quickly. But life is crazy, and it's hard to guarantee anything. That being said, I will never abandon this story. So worry not wonderful folks, were on this journey together.

This was also the second longest chapter to date!

Next Chapter: More dueling, more intrigue.

Much love,

Semper,

Vi