Chapter 7 - Flight in the Night

Breakfast was not like it was at Hogwarts. He'd given it a week at first, thinking perhaps it had been an off day, but he was beyond sure at this point. It was all too light, with no substance. Too much cheese. Too much pastry. It left his stomach hollow and craving for the stacks of sausages of Hogwarts. Ron would hate it here, Harry decided. But as he considered that, soft titters of laughter came floating over from a group of French girls in their sky blue robes. Or… maybe not. He shrugged to himself, and picked up another croissant.

Beauxbatons was enormous, and the number of students was almost overwhelming. Where much of the ancient castle of Hogwarts lay in disuse, every room in Beauxbatons seemed fit to burst. From what he could tell, the class sizes were near four times the size of his own. Beyond France, students came from Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Belgium, and the breakfast hall was filled with languages he did not understand. It was lonely in a way, an island in a foreign sea. His interactions with students were very limited – breakfast, lunch, dinner, and occasionally the library – but some would approach him simply to test out their English. It's certainly better than how well my French has come along. Flamel might well be a bottomless pit of knowledge, but he was no linguist. And for a man centuries old, his patience for some things ran quite short. It could just be me, Harry considered. His slow progress was frustrating to no end, and it might have started rubbing off on the old man.

Reaching up, his fingers went to touch his scar. It had become a habit ever since he'd learnt the truth hidden behind its red and raw tissue. The skin was smooth and flawless. His hand brushed over his hair, silky to the touch when it had once grown tangled, shining gold in the morning light rather than black. Alchemy… It was all still quite unbelievable. He could have at least warned me.

The magic was raw and powerful and utterly unforgiving. Hooks raked into his flesh, pulling and tearing with white flashes of agony. Blind, he thought his face was melting. He could feel it bubble and drip like the hot wax of a burning candle. And the stone digging into his scar felt as though it was burrowing through his skull and into his brain. It was a nightmare. I thought he killed me. Put me out of my misery. But his vision returned, and the dripping wax of his face hardened into mask. A mask he didn't recognize. Gold spun hair, a fatty face, and murky blue eyes. The eyes… the eyes are what I miss the most. He was a plain, unassuming young man. Shorter than Harry Potter, without any of his scars, and plump from an easy life and a significant lack of exercise.

Harry had been a hair away from killing the alchemist when he woke. But Flamel simply stood smiling, proud of his work. In truth, it was incredible. Looking in a mirror, he wasn't Harry Potter, but Alic the British history student and apprentice to Wulfric. Maxime had been sold. The half-giantess welcomed him to the school with practiced kindness, before excusing herself to deal with other more important matters. Not for a moment did she suspect who stood before her. And how could she? It was Alic.

Harry couldn't begin to understand or try to explain the magic Flamel had mastered over centuries of experimentation and study. Compared to creating the Philosopher's Stone, this must have seemed a simple exercise in comparison. It went beyond human transfiguration and the temporary effects of Polyjuice Potion. It was as if he was wearing a face that wasn't his own. Permanent, undetectable, and irreversible.

I could live the rest of my life as Alic and Voldemort would never know. It was not the first time he'd thought of such. It was tempting, too tempting in truth, and at times Harry hated himself for his dark desire to leave Harry Potter and his fate behind. Alic isn't the Chosen One. I could work with Nicolas Flamel, dive into the depths and mysteries of magic, spending my days learning, researching, and experimenting. I could learn French, buy a house, have a family. No one would ever know. I wouldn't have to die.

But who would die for him? That was the question that ultimately held him back. It was what stopped him from embracing Alic. How many would Voldemort kill? Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Molly, names and faces flashed before his eyes. He would leave them to die. What of those who died for him? Susan, Sirius, Dumbledore, his father and his mother. I can't fail them. He fought the tears pricking at his false blue eyes. What's happened to me? He wanted to shout. I've never been a coward.

But you're a dead man, that same horrid voice whispered with the tongue of a serpent.

A rough scrape and scratching sound cut above the general calm of the dining area. He could feel the pressure of hundreds of eyes turn to him. Ignoring them, Harry bulled his way through a set of swinging doors.

Everything around him was unfamiliar. The silent airy hallways where students would only whisper, the ostentatious show of wealth at each turn, and the sea of unfamiliar faces shifting and changing and blurring all together. He felt lost. Where were the groups of children gossiping too loudly? The hallway duels and obnoxious pranks? The banter between houses and the endless complaints of teachers and homework?

He didn't know where to go. He didn't know the school – its nooks and crannies and secrets. There was no Marauder's Map of Beauxbaton. It was warm and cramped and cluttered, unlike the cool expansive hallways of Hogwarts. Oddly enough, he found himself missing the meaningless chatter of the moving portraits. If Sir Cadogan is making me nostalgic, then I've really gone barmy.

The sun beat against his back as it climbed in the sky. The fresh air of the mountain was refreshing after hours spent inside the palace, and even more so the dungeons. An endless feeling of fatigue had taken to following him like a shadow, but now, outdoors, he could feel new life surge through his tired muscles.

A beaten dirt track branched off the main trail that took the students to their Creatures class at the foot of the mountains. Brown dust kicked up from his feet as he found himself walking the path towards a large wooden stable and paddock. Grazing freely across the green grass were a herd of Abraxan horses. One of them came up and nuzzled against Harry's side, likely searching for some sort of snack, but their tastes were much too refined for something Harry might be carrying in his pocket. When he first happened across the herd, he'd looked for the broad shouldered courser that carried him up the mountain, but wasn't able to find it. Though the remainder of the Abraxan horses had come to know him over his visits. It was a stretch of calm, where he could isolate himself from his troubles. He could enjoy the warmth of another magical being, and feel its breath puffing against his cheeks. A lazy smile spread across his face.

Time would pass quickly here. Staring up at the drifting clouds, seconds would blend to minutes, and minutes into hours. Only here, in this peaceful refuge, sheltered by the hulking bodies of the Abraxans, did he dare let his mind think of Fleur.

Live and love, Dumbledore had told him with his dying words. But why was it so difficult to do so? He was failing both, and he wasn't sure where along the way he went wrong. I never had a chance. It was true. For so long in his life, he soaked in grief and shouldered the blame for things beyond his control. But this was something he had to accept. I was destined to die the moment the curse hit me, and Fleur… I couldn't have known what she was. It had been too easy to love her. She was strong, and talented, and beautiful. Fierce and soft, a maddening combination that boiled his blood with desire. She understood him like very few could, both the good and the bad. But how much of that was actually her? Where did Fleur begin, and where did the spy end? The two seemed so similar that he wasn't sure which one he'd fallen in love with. It was Fleur. It had to be.

She'd said she had come to love him. She wanted me to come with her. He remembered that clearly, the honesty in her pale blue eyes, and the shattering of his heart when he apparated away. Would she recognize me now, he thought pulling at his blonde hair, would she see Harry or would she see Alic. He wondered how far her home was from here, she'd said she grew up in the south of France. Did she sit where I'm sitting, and visit these horses? He knew they were silly thoughts, but he could afford that here.

He thought of that Christmas night where he'd given her his gift, and when her lips were soft velvet on his own. He'd betrayed the Weasleys in that moment. Bill had thought her his fiancé, and he stole a kiss from her under the roof of his childhood home. Disgust should have been coiling in his gut, but instead he felt a rush of satisfaction and pleasure. I wish we'd done more. It was a selfish thought, but if there ever was a time for them, it was now. I'll be dead before we see each other again.

It was then that he heard a scuff of stone, and his eyes opened from their daze. Perhaps it had been a deeper sleep then he realized, because he woke and found himself still dreaming. Pale blond hair, near silver, was shimmering in the early sunlight. He could see her walking towards him, pale and pretty. A soft, shy smile quirked at the end of her lips. "Fl…" He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped before the words could fully sound. It wasn't her. She was too small, too thin, and girlish in ways that Fleur was not. But he knew her all the same. It's hard to forget someone you pulled out of a lake, Harry laughed to himself.

"Bonjour." Gabrielle's hand shot out in an unsure wave."Madame Maxime zought eet would be nice eef someone joined you wiz ze 'orses." Her English was not as refined as Fleur's, and her accent was very pronounced. Gabrielle walked slowly around to the open gate, and tentatively made her way forward. She's nervous, Harry noticed, and patted the ground next to him.

A gentle brush of color filled her cheeks. "I'm Gabrielle," she said, crossing her legs beside him.

I know, I'm Harry Potter. You know me, he wanted to say but couldn't. "Alic, it's nice to meet you Gabrielle."

It was quiet, only the huffing of horses between them. Gabrielle fidgeted with the end of her skirt, and Harry eventually took pity on her. "So it was your Headmistress that sent you after me?" Harry wondered why that was.

"Madame said zat you come out 'ere often…" She paused and looked up to him. There wasn't a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Blue ones, though darker than Fleur's. "Ze horses, zey like me because I am part Veela. She zought zat maybe you would like to know more about zem." One of the horses leaned over then and sniffed her hair as if to prove her point. It licked her cheek with a long tongue, sending Gabrielle into a fit of childish giggles.

"But you're only a first year… aren't you?" Harry caught his mistake quickly. You don't know her, he reminded himself. "You don't learn about creatures until later."

"Een our third year." She nodded, bouncing slightly on the soft grass with the movement. "But Madame let me visit zem zis year. I 'ave an older seester who used to go 'ere, Fleur." Harry fought to keep any reaction at bay. "When I was too leetle to come, Fleur would tell me ze stories of ze 'orses wiz big white wings. She said zat eet was always quiet 'ere, and a good place to do mes devoirs…" A cheeky look danced in her bright eyes. Cupping her hands, she leaned in to whisper in his ear, "and to sleep too." Her face was alive with mischief, blushing as if she had just said something scandalous. Harry couldn't help but smile.

Feeling more comfortable with herself, Gabrielle reached into her pocket and pulled out brown ball that fluttered to life. It buzzed in the air, jerking in what was made to appear as random direction. But to the trained eye, one could see beyond the pattern. It's going left, Harry predicted. Gabrielle went right and snatched at empty air. Her face scrunched with a tiny frown. Down. It went down, and so did Gabrielle, but not quick enough. The wooden orb bounced off the tips of her fingers. Harry laughed, and Gabrielle glared at him, before setting herself for her next attempt. She's got determination, I'll give her that. Up and to the right. He knew where Gabrielle was going before she even moved. She went down, and it went flying over her shoulder. Needs a bit of work on her concentration though. She made her first catch four attempts later. She went left even before the snitch did, and it skimmed directly into her hand. Her smile was blinding and infections, and so big you'd have thought she won the World Cup. Slowly, he watched her catch more and more, picking up on its pattern. A true snitch was near random, enchanted almost to have a mind of its own. Only the very best seekers in the world could occasionally predict its erratic movements. This was not a true snitch, only a carved toy.

Flushed, with sweat sticking strands of hair to her face, Gabrielle took a break and let the snitch float by her head. "A gift?" Harry asked, already knowing it was.

"Oui!" She looked so happy. "Eet was a Christmas gift… from 'Arry Potter." I know, I remember buying it, he almost said. But suddenly, the smile slipped from her face. Her lips were trembling, and she moved to hide her eyes.

"What happened?" Harry was troubled by her sudden shift in demeanor. He moved to touch her, but halted awkwardly and brought his hand back. Alic didn't know her well enough for that. Harry did.

"Ze n-newspapers," she sniffled while trying to speak, "zey s-s-say zat… 'e eez dead."

Harry froze.

"They think I – that he's dead?" He felt almost dizzy. It was the strangest feeling, and one he couldn't begin to put into words.

"Z-zey say zhat… le monstre… Voldemort killed 'im. Madame deed not want us to find out, but I 'eard some of ze older students say zat zhere was a fight at Hogwarts." She burst into tears then, and Alic or no, Harry pulled her to his side. Gabrielle pushed her head deeper into his shoulder. "Maman and Papa are worried," she said some time after her tears had dried. "Weez Grindelwald and Voldemort, zey don't know eef we are safe. And Fleur…" Gabrielle was shaking. "Fleur does not answer my letters when I ask about 'Arry."

Harry squeezed her thin shoulders, though his heart sank to the darkest of depths. Of course she doesn't. It was all a beautiful lie was it not? His earlier thoughts seemed only a childish fantasy.

"Deed you know 'im?" She asked, taking Harry by surprise.

"I…" Harry was unsure how to answer. Do I know him? I am him. Though saying that now would be utterly foolish.

"I met 'im once," Gabrielle continued before Harry could start. "'Arry saved me. Eet was ze Triwizard Tournament, and zey put me under a lake. 'Arry pulled me out when 'e deed no 'ave to." Of course I had to. You were… are only a girl. It was only after the fact that he'd found out they weren't in any danger."And zen 'e won ze entire tournament, beating Fleur and ze ozzer boys even though 'e was only fourteen. 'Arry was an hero."

"I… I never had the chance to meet him." Harry finally said, lamely. "I graduated from Hogwarts before he started." Her shoulders slumped. It clearly wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry." She sounded genuinely sad. "Fleur used to tell me zat one day she would bring 'Arry home so zat I could meet 'im and be friends wiz 'im. Maman and Papa said d'accord, when I asked zem eef he could come visit. Now… now I will never 'ave ze chance to tell him merci for saving me."

A clocked chimed, reverberating across the open air, and together they looked up into the distance. "J'ai le Transfiguration maintenant," Gabrielle said, wiping at her eyes, "je m'excuse…" she trailed off in French, forgetting herself. Rushing away, almost too quickly, she sent him one last watery smile over her shoulder.

Harry let out a deep breath, the emotion almost overwhelming him. He watched her disappear down the dirt path and in the direction of the school, and only then did he let a tear fall free from his eye. He'd come here for peace, and found only distress.

She'd cried for him. She cried for Harry Potter. The thought made his throat close upon itself. She thinks I'm dead. The world too. He'd left without word on purpose, to prevent others from following him. He'd kept Kreacher and Dobby away specifically for that reason. If the papers called him a traitor or a coward, he would understand. But that he died? How did it come to that? Movement could be heard ahead of him, and for a moment he thought Gabrielle had come back for some reason.

She hadn't. "Get up." It was Grindelwald standing in his grey robes, leaning on the wooden fence. "Up, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid your flower's sister isn't returning. Busy weeping her way to class I would assume."

Harry remained seated and stared through narrowed eyes, glad that his lone tear had long since dried. "How did you get here?" Harry might have looked like Alic, but Grindelwald remained the same. The man refused to have his appearance altered, and Harry had a newfound surge of protectiveness surrounding his cloak.

His lips lifted into a smile. "Even without a wand I have my fair share of tricks. Only a fool would think I am helpless when unarmed." He spoke with a casual arrogance that Harry despised. There was nothing he wanted more at times then to spit in his face. "But I followed the girl after hearing where she was sent. A pretty girl in truth, I can see why you desire her sister."

Harry shot to his feet, the sensitivity of his emotional state releasing a surge of rage.

"Ah, now you listen. It always takes just a little bit of pushing for you, doesn't it Mr. Potter." He said calmly, not moving.

Blood came rushing into his head with immense pressure, and he saw red. Scratchy material filled his fist, as he lifted Grindelwald in the air by his collar. "I'll kill you right now if you say another word about her! I swear it!" He shouted in his face, but Grindelwald gazed down from his grip implacable. "I don't care what you or Dumbledore planned. I'll bloody well do it!" He thrust him back and turned away, running his hand through his blonde hair. Its silky feeling only made him angrier.

"You have a spine after all. I'd begun to worry." Grass crunched several feet behind him. The herd of Abraxan horses shied away from them following his outburst. "Transfigure me something."

Harry sighed with his anger still stirring, not in the mood for a lesson. He drew his wand anyway, knowing it wasn't a request he could deny. Twisting out of the ground with a long sweep of his wand, one of the wooden poles snapped and stretched before settling into a long bench decorated with carved flowers. Grindelwald approached it, his eyes sharp in their examination as he tapped it in places with his fingers. "Next," he said, "and do try something above the level of a child." The bench shifted into the shape of a giant cat, just as golden fur came sprouting from its wooden pores and it took a halting first step. A lion snarled low and dangerous, prowling towards Grindelwald who glanced towards him. "Flashy, Mr. Potter, but something more intricate if you will. Next." In an instant, the predator was gone and a chess set sat in its place. Finely cut pieces were shaped in black and white marble, studded with twinkling gemstones. Grindelwald picked one up, twisted it around in his hand, and tapped it gently against another piece. "Next." His wand beat like a heart. The chess set melted into one, before sprouting upwards into a hunchbacked pawn near four feet in height. Grindelwald eyed it curiously, and moved to step forward. Just as McGonagall had done in Harry's first year, the pawn pulled a stone sword from its scabbard and stopped him short. Grey-blue eyes watched him closely. "Next." With a violent twist of his wrist, the pawn grew into a hulking form. Blazing in his grip to the point of blistering, he nearly dropped his wand. Two white wings sprouted from its back, and the stone construct went to join its cousins, though with a visible limp to its gait.

"Stop." Grabbing the horse by its mangled back leg, Grindelwald tore at the twisted limb, shattering it into flying shards of stone. A horrific screech pierced the air, forcing Harry to cringe as he watched it stumble pathetically to the ground. The earth shook beneath their feet with the mad stamping of the rest of the herd who looked on in horror. "You fight the wand."

"It burned me," Harry bit through the pain. Opening his hand, it was red and raw.

"I know the feeling of the wand. You are fighting it." From the ground beside them, the horse continued to moan pitifully. "The wand gives you power, and you complain of it hurting you." He spat in disgust. "And shut that thing up, before I am tempted to snap off some more." Harry waved his wand, and a wooden stake lay silent and still in the grass.

"Tell me," Grindelwald started again, pacing the grounds with his arms behind his back. "Were you capable of such things before?"

He already knows the answer. "No." Harry told him anyway.

"Yet a wizard, not having even reached his majority, is capable of feats of transfiguration that would please some masters. What is that if not power from the wand?" His eyes were filled with desire, and fixed solely on the Deathly Hallow. "To bring life to your creations, to conjure storms that shake the earth, to send down hellfire that leaves behind only smoldering ruins, requires power. And the wand is power."

"A wand is only the tool of the wizard who holds it," Harry found himself saying. Though he wasn't sure if he believed his own words.

"That is the sort of drivel you here from a wandmaker trying to sell their product," Grindelwald snorted to himself. "Those who delve into the deeper mysteries of magic know that is not the case. And that is no ordinary wand."

Harry knew he spoke true, remembering the effect of the brother wands, and how this one saved his life from Lena.

Grindelwald ambled over to the Abraxans, who shuffled away in fright. All, save one. It trotted over without fear, and with an odd sense of familiarity. From the pocket of his robes, Grindelwald pulled out an apple that appeared to be coated and shining with real gold. The horse took it into its mouth greedily, as Grindelwald stroked its long flowing mane and whispered into its ear.

"The wand fills you with that power," he said, turning back to face Harry. "Embrace it. The longer you resist what it offers you, the longer you will burn for it. You wish to have any chance of defeating Voldemort? Then your hope lies in the wand. Let it rush through your veins, and let no one stand before you."

Harry looked down to where it was tingling his fingers, sparking like static. Was I always meant to have this? Is this the power Voldemort knows not? What about the rest of the Hallows? They were questions he did not have an answer to.

"But power always comes with sacrifice. The wand will consume you. It will take what it can, and still want more. And you will crave for it all the same. Its power will become as much a part of you, as itself. No wand will ever bond with you again after feeding upon its corruption. Are you prepared for that?"

It's why he still doesn't have one, Harry realized. In the weeks that had passed, Grindelwald had ample opportunity to find a new wand. But he remained as bare as in his tower.

Harry tightened his grip around the elder wand. Grindelwald's lips pulled into a smile, watching him. "Yes," he laughed, "guard it closely." Stepping onto the path, and turning one last time, he said, "When you've made your choice, our lessons can truly begin."

It was hours later that he returned to the palace, his mind a storm. The sky was falling with vibrant colors that painted a pretty picture above Beauxbatons. It's all fake. Bitterness stung his tongue. Life is too ugly for a place like this. It was filled only with terrible truths and impossible choices. But somehow they seemed to fall all on him. He passed through the hallways like a ghost, forgotten and unnoticed, only the odd student even glancing in his general direction. They don't know all I've done. All I still have to do. Would anyone know in the end? Who would tell his story, Grindelwald? Harry hoped not. Perhaps Flamel might make a passing note about him, buried somewhere in the mountain of his research. What would be said about Harry Potter?

'Arry was an hero… Gabrielle's fragile voice echoed in his mind. Would people remember him fondly? Impossible, he shook his head. The man who fled Britain. The man who let his friends die. The man who robbed the life of an innocent woman. The man who freed Grindelwald. The man who couldn't find love. The-Boy-Who-Lived, only to die at the end of his story. A hero…

Flamel's laboratory was unbearably hot and stuffy, sweat slickened his skin the moment he entered. In the great pit once filled with burning coals, a fire roared, basking the room in its furnace breath. It must have been shooting twenty feet in the air. The alchemist was a tiny speck of white glowing orange and gold. He fed the flames powders and potions that sent them twisting into monstrous shapes and flashing different colors. How is he not a melted puddle on the ground? Magic was the answer, but not a satisfying one. His eyes were watering from the brimstone, and each step sent him coughing up smoke. Flamel took notice of him when he was feet away, and rushed to pull him off to the side.

"Alic, I can't have you contaminating my work." He spoke as though annoyed. I hate how he uses that stupid name. "The magic of the horcrux must not come near the purifying flames."

"That is supposed to help me?" It was burning so bright that Harry could only look at the blaze for a moment. "What, am I supposed to walk in there?"

Flamel looked unamused. "You could if you wanted. It would save me the trouble of trying to keep youalive while destroying the soul."

"What is it then?" Harry asked.

It's Alchemy, he predicted. "It's Alchemy," Flamel said. Harry made a face. It's always his damn answer.

"And what is Alchemy?" He ground out through his teeth, going through their usual routine.

"An art you will never understand." Flamel answered, just as Harry knew he would. Often times Harry wondered if it wasn't just Flamel being a prick, but that he'd simply forgotten they'd had this conversation numerous times. He is pushing seven hundred…

"Can you at least explain how this… Alchemy… might help save my life."

"The purifying flames are not a solution. They are only a step in the process." His sagging face quivered, and his tone was bored, as if he had better things to do then explain himself to a bothersome teen. Which in fact, he did. My life to be exact. "I have gone over revisions of my earlier failures, and have drawn new inspiration. The flames were an integral part in the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, and I plan on using their properties to create something similar – though altogether unique. Rather than a stone that sustains your life force, I wish to generate a stone that anchors your life force."

"That's a horcrux." Harry's voice was ice cold. It was a wonder frost didn't build along the metal tools on the desk beside them.

Flamel waved him away dismissively. "Attempts have been made to anchor life by some method or another throughout history. Horcruxes are not unique in that regard. What makes a horcrux, is the act of tearing one's own soul. My stone, if done correctly, is a tether that will latch on to the entirety of the soul, keeping it whole. Though it is much more complicated than that, and there are countless variables I need to account for. There is still the matter of which soul it will latch on to, yours or Voldemort's. And there is the meaning behind Dumbledore's letter as well. Albus was a brilliant and worthy partner, and had he requested a stone of his own I would have likely made him one. His mind was a work of art, cunning and quick, and always kept sharp. But he was a deeply emotional man as well, old and tortured even when he was young, often hiding his pain behind metaphors and clever word play. He thought the Hallows important. But why, is lost to his usual mystery." Flamel returned to stoking his flames.

Harry lay on the bed in his cramped room that evening, twisting and turning with the day's events. He could still hear the crackling of the flames Flamel had kept burning well into the night. It was hot and noisy, and he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. He could blame it on anything he wanted, but deep down Harry knew what was keeping him up. Wrestling with himself, he was unsure if he was making the right choice. Though in truth, his mind was already made.

Pushing out of his sweat soaked covers, and padding across the floor, he approached Flamel who looked to be hunched over asleep at his desk. The man turned at the sound of skin sticking to stone. A frown was on his face, a pencil in his hand, and ink covered parchment was spread out underneath his arm. He's working, not sleeping, Harry corrected himself. The man never sleeps. It was unsettling how unnatural the little old man sitting before him was.

"What is it you'd like, Alic?" Flamel asked.

"Do you know where Grindelwald is?" Harry went straight to the point.

"He's left." The man returned to his scribbling.

"Where to? I'd like to speak to him."

"What about?"

I don't think it's really any of your business, he wanted to say. "About something we spoke of earlier today. Can you tell me where he went?"

"It would be rather difficult," he tutted, blowing lightly on the drying ink. "He's left the school."

AN:

A few days sooner then when I initially thought of posting this, but here it is. I hope you all enjoyed it!

Let me know your thoughts on the new pieces introduced to the story, and how you feel it will all pan out. Your reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated, and serve as a great source of motivation for me to keep at my current pace. The plot only thickens from here.