I got deployed, my computer betrayed me and I lost six written chapters, and I forgot my password for this site. But, ladies and gents, mice and men, reds and blues, I'm back. I'm stateside at long last, my computer has been shown the error of its ways, and my password has been remembered.


Relevant Inspiration:

Deprived by the Crimson Lord

Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, Filipino, Brazilian, South African, Chinese, Chilean, Saudi Arabian, Greek, or Chechen.


Soapbox: In this chapter, there will be a large amount of exploration into a very specific culture. I hate that I feel obligated to say that horrible people are everywhere and, obviously, do not represent their entire communities or cultures. Every country, city, and religion in the world has bad apples. Don't be like the one scumbag who slammed me in a review for shouting out a country that they didn't like. Huge countries aside, if I get the chance to shine light on a place most people don't know about, guess what I'm going to do?

E.g., It's fine if you don't like Greenland. No one does. Its very name is an ongoing lie. But the people of that frozen hell are genuine, good people. Keep up the fight Greenlanders, certainly, no one else wants to.

Be a troll, make jokes, whatever. Just don't be an actual scumbag. Don't hate guys or gals for their government, a state for its separatists, a region for its rebels, a religion for its radicals, or a people for their president.

Hope y'all learn at least one thing in this chapter, I hope you have fun, and most of all…

Enjoy.


-XV-

Salomé didn't wake to warm sheets and her bed, which sadly wasn't surprising. On the bright side, she didn't wake soaking wet and submerged in the Black Lake. She did, however, wake to a numbing cold and tried to quickly scramble to her feet. She realized immediately that her hands were tied together, and she found herself slipping and sprawling forward gracelessly. Her face hit the ground, though her hands felt snow and ice, her face felt something scratchy. Burlap? She clawed at her face and found she had a sack around her head. Her fingers felt for the tie, but she couldn't find it. A brief probe with magic found it was spelled stuck to her.

The girl took a second to breathe and focus, fighting off the initial panic, and taking better account of her situation. Her hands were tied, her head was covered in a sack, and she was laying in snow. Her feet were almost warm, and when she brought her knees to her chest and reached around them, she felt boots and socks. Tucked into these socks were a pair of leggings, the grid-patterned ones usually worn under other layers on a trip to go skiing. These, and the matching top she felt under her exploring fingers, were only doing so much to stave off the cold, and she already felt frosty dampness where snow was melting under her from her body heat.

Salomé rolled to a sitting position and brought her wrists up to her covered face. Like an infant, she gummed at the ties through the burlap. Whatever they were, they were too thin to be ropes, and certainly not chains. Zip-ties? She felt around more and found a small protrusion that could be the locking mechanism, her guess seeming more and more likely. Making a decision, the strawberry-blonde moved to kneel, before sitting back on her heels. She took a breath, and pushed her hands as far away from her as she could. Then she brought them back with all the force she could muster, pushing her elbows out to each side of her. The small locking mechanism snapped under the force of the movement, and Salomé smiled under the covering.

She resisted rubbing her raw wrists, and instead pawed around for the plastic bindings. She quickly found the remnants and felt that the snapped plastic had a small but fairly jagged edge. With one hand, she pulled the burlap away from her face, and with the other dug the plastic shiv into the cloth, rotating and twisting until she made a tear, before continuing to saw slowly but stubbornly through the material. After a few minutes of this awkward, blind progress she tucked the plastic ties into the waistband of her leggings, and stuck her index fingers into the rip, yanking hard. With a series of pops, more material gave way, and she was able to rip it enough to pull most of it off her head so it hung by the magically-secure part around her neck like a hood.

Finally, the tall girl could see her surroundings. An involuntary gasp of surprise left her lips. Before her loomed a mountain that pierced the clouds, and in all other directions were the edges of a cliff, plummeting down to choppy waves and coarse sand.

"Merry Christmas." It was John's...Harry's voice. She was still getting used to his real name. She looked up from where she had been peering over the edge. She couldn't see him. A disillusionment charm?

"Was I supposed to be the present? All wrapped up?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." His voice was dry, but she knew him well enough to guess he was smiling at her crappy joke.

"Of course not, you'd much rather someone else be all tied up for you. Someone a little shorter, a little smarter, and with hair the color of starlight?"

"That's a lot of assuming you are doing-" She had just been waiting for him to talk again, so she could better ascertain his position. She lashed out with a side kick, but forgot she was standing on snow and ice. She slipped, and fell with a squeak of surprise. Groaning at new bruises, she heard a chuckle. "How are you doing down there?"

"Great...just great." The strawberry-blonde slowly got back up.

"Good." His voice was close, very close, and she brought her hands up quickly, barely blocking a fist that had been flying her way. Slipping into her training despite how freezing she was, she quickly jabbed back, aiming slightly left of where she guessed him to be. She heard the faint crunch of shoes on snow as he leaned to dodge, putting more weight on one foot.

Perfect. Then Salomé lunged forward, arms wide and tackled her invisible attacker. Feeling him stumble and fall, she tried to land fully straddling him, but he twisted in midair, and she found herself on her side. Then something grabbed her burlap hood and yanked, choking her as the still magically tied bag cut off her airway. Knowing she couldn't dig her fingers under the makeshift garrote, she brought her head back and felt something crunch behind her. His nose. He grunted in pain, let go of her hood, and she heard snow pack as he rolled away. Gasping for air, she scrambled up and turned to face where he should be.

"Clearly... we forgot to…" She gasped for breath, "…establish a safe word. Kind of important before…" Another wheeze, "…before you just start choking a girl." She raised her fists, got her breathing under control, and quickly took in her surroundings again. An evil smirk crossed her face when she realized she could see a trail of blood from his nose leading back to where a larger pool was forming, logically below where he was standing now.

"I pegged you as someone into rough play." There was a smile in his voice. He thought he was clever. She scrunched her face, perfect disgust.

"Pegging? Not quite my thing, but if you really want you can talk to Fleur about it. Maybe she'll be willing to try?" She heard him splutter, and she swung a fast kick just above the pool of blood, remembering this time to compensate her balance for the slippery ground. Despite surprising him with her banter, she did not surprise him with the cheap tactic. Her leg encountered nothing, and she found herself off balance. Then she felt two hands grab her extended leg, and despite weighing just over 70 kilos, she found herself being literally lifted off the ground and swung through the air like a human pickaxe. Knowing she couldn't stop the magically enhanced strength; she brought her hands up to protect her face and head. Then he let go and she was flung through the air.

She landed hard at the edge of the sheer cliff, the breath once more driven from her, and clawed at the ground as her legs swung over the precipice, hanging down into oblivion. Her kicking legs found some slight grip on the wind-smoothed rock, but she could feel the rubber soles still sliding, and her fingers fought for anything to pull her up. In front of her desperate form, Harry appeared, dispelling the magic that hid him. To her further annoyance, she saw he had fixed his nose.

"Give up?"

"You know…" She gasped, gritting her teeth and fighting for traction. "I don't really feel like giving up."

"Really? Okay, I'll just wait. Let me know when you change your mind." He raised one wrist and mimed glancing at a watch. Salome avoided rolling her eyes.

"Will do." She kept clawing, briefly finding what seemed to be a seam in the rocks beneath the snow cover, and sinking her fingers gratefully into the gap. Then the rock gave, and cold soil and pebbles came free in her hand. With a grunt of pain, she slid backwards, feet losing their grip. She caught the edge desperately, and barely held on, only the last digits of her fingers on level ground.

"How's the view?" His infuriating voice drifted over to her, and then his smirking face appeared. Salomé looked away from him, and down past her dangling feet, seeing the waves and sand far far below.

"Gorgeous." Her voice was slightly strained.

"It sure is…." He glanced around at the admittedly beautiful scenery, then back down at the grey eyes below. "Enough messing around. Just give up and I'll help you up." He extended a hand, and watched her clenched jaw, the refusal in her eyes. Then the stormy grey vanished, replaced with mischievous delight.

"Nope." To his surprise, she found some purchase with her feet, and pushed, arms pulling at the same time with all the last vestiges of strength she had and launching her up and away from the cliff. One arm extended outward, and glowed red. "Stupify!" She roared, and a bolt of light shot from her hand a mere meter or so away from him.

Harry's wand leapt to his hand, and he conjured a shield to block it, barely succeeding in time. But instead of seeing surprise on her face from how fast he moved, he saw smugness. Her lips moved, and her other hand raised as well.

"Accio Harry's Wand." His eyes widened, and her smile grew. His wand shot into her hand as she began falling away. "Arresto Momentum!" Nothing happened. The shock across his face grew to fear, and Salomé felt her moment of extreme satisfaction vanish. She glanced at the wand, realizing now she could feel nothing from the cold grey coral. "Well fuck."

Then she was falling, wind washing out Harry's shout as she plummeted. She reached out magically again to the wand, and was once more rebuffed. It was like the stupid thing was resisting her. Her mind raced. Most wands, she knew, would work for someone even if it was a horrible match. Maybe not very well, but they would at least slightly work.

The wind began whistling in her ears as she was pulled earthbound like an angel fallen from grace. Fear began lancing towards her heart, but she forced herself to calm down and think. Her brother had talked about skydiving in one of his combat schools. She mimicked what he had spoken of, spreading her arms and legs to maximize her wind-resistance, and she felt her tumbling grow less erratic. But still, the choppy waves approached much too fast.

Again fear tested her, and again she warred against it. She looked at the wand in her hand and tried to reach out to it. Why wouldn't the damn thing listen? It was almost as if the stupid thing was tied to John...wait, why couldn't it be?

Salomé focused on it, trying to feel what was within. Phoenix feathers, she knew, felt warm magically. Unicorn hair felt calming and earthy. Dragon heartstrings roiled and seethed magically with adrenaline. Each core had a different magical feeling. The wand in her hand though...it just felt like Harry.

The waves grew ever closer, but still she focused. What made someone what they were? Well wizards and witches were always obsessing over blood...her idea was crazy, she knew, but she didn't have time for anything but her gut instincts.

Salomé brought her left hand to her mouth, winced, then bit hard until she tasted copper. Not having time to debate her sanity, she focused on the beads of blood flying up from her hand and wandlessly cast the Switching spell. Her blood. The blood in the wand. She closed her eyes and reached out. The response came back singing like nothing she had ever felt before.

"Arresto Momentum!" A cloud of light splashed across the waves beneath her, and she jerked to a halt, her hair falling past her face and slapping into a rolling wave mere centimeters below her nose. Salomé found herself giggling in relief as her adrenaline high came crashing down.

The French girl canceled the spell, and slid beneath the waves. Quite used to early morning swims, she made her way to the beach-edge, on the way casting a warming charm on herself. Climbing onto the beach, she was greeted by a furious Harry sprinting along the water's edge towards her.

"SALOMÉ! Of all the stupid, crazy, moronic-"

"Defodio!" Harry blinked as the blindingly bright spell flashed from his wand and carved a furrow into the sand twenty meters up the beach to her left. He looked from the gouge, to his wand in her hand.

"How the hell…" He cocked his head, and his mouth kept moving though no words came out. A wicked smile lit up her face.

"That looks a lot like a line in the sand." Then she took off sprinting towards the line. Harry blinked again, then he shook his head.

Only Salomé could almost fall to her death and be able to mentally turn around and go back to their challenge in a heartbeat. He almost felt bad when he transfigured the sand under her feet into a muggle ball-pit. He almost felt bad when her excited and somewhat smug look vanished into confusion and a squawk of shock split the air as she vanished beneath the rainbow of plastic spheres.

He almost felt bad.

Almost.


They made it back intime for the rest of their little group's morning training session. Fleur had half-heartedly argued for having the day off, but Harry had scowled her complaints away. Now, she, Salomé, Harry, and Daphne were finishing their morning laps around the Black Lake. The veela was just now reaching the point where she could mostly keep up with Daphne, save for the final, full speed lap.

This time she was able to go at her full speed for maybe the first third of the lake, after which she huffed, puffed, and complained the rest of the way around at a significantly reduced pace. Daphne had been in the habit of morning runs for longer and made it almost two thirds of the way around at a much faster pace, before she too slowed to a panting trot. Salomé, however, had officially reached some next-level, freak-like fitness. Supposedly her friend had trained with John…with Harry just a few hours ago, and yet here with their six o'clock run finishing, the strawberry blonde showed no sign of the extreme fatigue that she, in all logic, should be feeling.

But no, instead the tall girl was grinning, mania as evident in her eyes as it was in her gleaming smile. Her pumping arms all but pulled her forward as her feet smacked against earth and rock. She wore scuffed and filthy Converse all-stars, her compromise between the more padded shoes she was used to and Harry's barefoot approach. Fleur had to admit, she felt slightly jealous of the way Salomé looked in her tank top and leggings, the frankly more muscular form of her friend one of the recurring thoughts forcing her to wake up early every day to join her clearly insane friends.

It wasn't that she felt her friend was prettier than her, though she was slightly ashamed of her own vanity, but even though she was a veela, she couldn't help but worry that Harry didn't like her own, less sudden, softer curves. So she fought for a happy medium, and tried her best to squash any feelings of fear or pettiness she held for her best friend. It helped to remind herself that Salomé had yet to experience Harry's growing confidence in their albeit few moments of intimacy. Fleur smiled as she thought of the last time she had pulled him into a broom closet, the absurd cliché of it somehow driving more heat into their kissing embrace.

It was such thoughts that helped her finish her run, such thoughts that had a smile at the corner of her lips despite the pain in her legs and lungs, such thoughts…

"Hey Fleur!" The effervescent voice of Luna reached her ear, and broke her free of her reverie. The odd girl was hanging upside down, as she was so want to do, from a tree branch. Blonde tresses cascaded earthbound past bizarre pink and blue swirling glasses and radish earrings and a book that was right side-up.

"Hey…" the veela gasped out, bending over at the waist as the fatigue suddenly returned stronger than before, breaking through the wall her memories had provided.

"I'm proud of you! You're almost done!"

"Almost?" Dread began to fill Fleur's heart as the words registered. "Merde…"

"Yep." Salomé, chirped as she jogged over, looking none worse for the morning's wear despite having sprinted full speed the entire last lap, neck and neck with an equally grinning Harry. "Still have some crunches and pullups… I'll do them with you."

"You…waited?"

Salomé laughed. "Nah, but I can do them again. Easy day."

Fleur briefly amended all her previous conciliatory thoughts. She hated Salomé sometimes.


"Merry Christmas!"

Fleur groaned at her best friend's cheery attitude, then again as coming to consciousness brought a bone-deep fatigue. "Go back to sleep…" The veela mumbled, before turning back over and curling up tighter in the blankets.

"Awwww, is someone being cranky? Ms. I'm-so-perfect didn't get enough beauty sleep? Need eight more hours after a little morning workout? At least you showered first, but you're going to sleep the day away!" Fleur frowned and, snatching one of her spare pillows, threw it backward. A small noise of surprise brought a grin to her face before, to her terror, she found herself being picked up. She tried to struggle, but to no avail. The silverette, wrapped like a burrito in blankets, glared daggers at her taller, much stronger friend.

"Salomé! Put me down!" She wriggled and writhed, but still to no avail.

"No. We have presents to open, and so help me if you get between this girl and Christmas gifts…" Fleur stopped struggling in resignation. Her friend was not making an idle threat. She had seen what Salomé did to those who tried to come between her and food, and it was far more terrifying the anger the strawberry-blonde was able to muster when people interfered with holiday affairs.

"Fine, fine, fine." The scowl returned, but this time with more disgruntlement, and less ire. "But do you have to carry me like this?"

"Oui. C'est très nécessaire." Fleur grumbled more as Salomé carried her out of her personal bedroom in their three-bedroom, two-bathroom quasi-apartment within the Beauxbatons' carriage. Harry was already waiting by a Christmas tree in the quad's shared living room, and looked up with a smile. Salomé frowned, before unceremoniously dropping Fleur on the ground. "Where did Lucretia go?"

"Apparently she was called for a captain's meeting with Coach Villaloba."

"A Christmas meeting?!"

"Evidentially. Here!" She caught the thrown package. A tiny little box wrapped in green wrapping paper polka dotted with little sleighs. Harry reached beneath the tree from where he sat with a Santa hat perched upon his messy hair. "And for our dear Fleur…"

She grumbled, but rolled over to a seated position, freed her arms from the blanket straight-jacket, and caught the package thrown to her. This one was wrapped in baby blue paper, with tiny snowman dancing across it. Fleur blinked the final vestiges of weariness away, rubbed at the crust at the corner of her eyes, and confirmed that they were, in fact line-dancing with tiny top hats and candy canes. With a typhonic yawn, she condemned herself to wakefulness, and began slowly taking apart the well wrapped gift.

Beside her, Salomé held no such composure, and tore depicted timbers and cartoon sleigh-runners apart as she shredded the wrapping paper. The lid of the box was similarly discarded as the grinning grey-eyed girl unveiled her gift. Her smile froze in confusion.

"A…a hair tie?"

"It certainly looks like one, doesn't it." Harry replied, his own smile growing wider as Salomé's waned.

"It's not just a hair tie…right?"

"What do you think?"

The tall girl narrowed her eyes, brought forth her wand, at last dry from their early morning escapade, and began a comprehensive diagnostic of the gift. Fleur, however, had finished carefully peeling away her present's blue drapes. Inside was a large leather journal. She opened to the first page, and saw her name written carefully on the inside of the cover, and a little inscription in Latin. Smiling, she flipped a page and saw a table of contents.

"It's a Bibliophile's Compendium." Harry answered her unasked question. "Just lay any book on top of it, and it will copy everything in the book at the rate of a page per second. You can select any book from the table of contents and that will be what generates in the next pages. There are a bunch of instructions after the Table, but it's pretty intuitive—" Her lips cut him off, and he froze for a heartbeat before pushing back. Breath become secondary to embracing the roiling sea of emotion, hands found themselves twisting into hair, jaws slackening as the language of love needed spoken. It had all the passion of something that would grow more and more heated, were it not for an interrupting shout.

"A WAND HOLSTER!" The two jumped, butting heads and hissing in pain, before turning quickly at the third member of their group. Salomé had the grace to look abashed when she realized what had happened, but then her guilt left just as quickly. "It's a wand holster! Right? Right?"

"Half-right." Harry said ruefully, smiling as he glanced at Fleur. "It works as a hair tie too, so you can either put your hair up with it, or wear it as you do around your wrist." The strawberry-blonde's eager grin widened with each word. "Can't be summoned from you, and even if it's in your hair, you can still summon the wand to your hand wherever your hands are. You can change what it looks like to fit whatever you are wearing, and it has an expansion to fit both your wand…and this one."

Fleur's jaw dropped as she saw him procure his grey, coral wand. He spun it in one hand and offered it to Salomé handle-first. "What? Don't you need that?" He shook his head.

"I can wandlessly cast a vast majority of my spells, and I'm getting a new one today before the ball." Fleur narrowed her eyes at his words.

"Shopping….without us?"

"Yep." He said cheerfully, before procuring a second small box from beneath the tree. "And, to make up for it, I also got you this."

It was a watch, thin steel, glass, and silver on a grey leather strap. The craftsmanship was flawless, and in every small detail her appraising eye could see the elegance of masters of varied crafts. Harry continued, "It also is a wand holster, can change what it looks like, and changes its time and date automatically no mater where or when in the world you are." Fleur raised her eyebrows, but he kept trudging on. "It has a few protective charms, a protean charm built in so if you are ever in trouble, you can reach me, and vice versa. The rune work was difficult, but I also managed to allow it to display your surrounding from a birds-eye view with the turn of the dial on the side. Turning the dial the other way turns in back to normal."

There was a heavy silence for a few seconds before Fleur spoke.

"Salomé."

"Yeah?"

"We need the room."

"Uh…there is no one else here?"

"We need the room."

"Oh."

Fleur stood, before slinking over to the seated Harry and then lowering herself into his lap. Behind her, the normally stoic Salomé stammered as she scrambled up. "I'll be, uh, going. I've got to…uh…polish your wand, I mean the wand you gave…me…oh God that sounds wrong. I'm sorry. Uh…uh…if you're going to…uh…just use protection you two!" She squeaked, and then she was gone. Fleur smirked as she leaned in slowly.

"Harry."

"Yes…Fleur?"

"The more I think about it…. I owe you a lot more than just a Christmas present or two. I'd be a pretty bad girlfriend if I didn't repay you for all you've done."

"You don't owe me… we're not—"

"Hush."

"Okay."

Her smile whispered wicked wants as her angelic lips stopped millimeters from his. "I understand you are still scared. The most dangerous, strong, powerful man I have ever met, he is scared of little old me."

Her eyes, a blue even heaven's hues could not rival, promised unholy pleasure. "And tonight, after we danse the eve away, you are coming with me, back to my room, where we can see if I can't convince you I'm not so scary."

Her face, angelic, slid against his, and her breath, warm against his ear, brought a flush to his face. "But tonight is so, soooo far away, and I don't want you getting cold feet between now… and then."

The saint before him sang the sweetest sin.

"And I don't know about you…but I wouldn't mind a taste of what's to come…"


"Marsha oylla, Thamda. Elder, it is beautiful to see you." Dolohov dipped his head in deference to the man before him. Razim Petkovich Rylenko carried generations of wrinkles and scars, weather-worn and wind-wearied. And though elected the voice of the council of the clan, the Teip to which Antonin had been born, it was not just through age that the man had gained the respect of his people, but through his steady and wise leadership that had taken the clan through decade after decade of trials. In peace, the old man in simple but warm clothes, balding head hidden beneath a sun-stained kufi, was the Teip's equivalent of a village chief.

"Salam aleikum, Antonin, muha vu ho? Is your family healthy?"

"I am well, so dika vu, barkalla, and they are doing just as well…" Dolohov trailed off, baiting the hook. He saw the elder's brows drop in concern.

"Yet you have come home?"

"Yes, Thamda. You know I have married into another Teip, one in England." He saw the well-veiled scorn for going and joining a woman's family in Rylenko's eyes, but it was an argument long ago settled. "My Teip has been at war with a man named Dumbledore, a former warrior and now-tyrant of my people who would have us neutered, to have us submit to humiliation." The metaphor was crafted to bring forth Rylenko's nationalistic patriotism, images of a Chechen wolf emasculated, the very thing the Teips across the Caucasus had just gone to war with Russia for; freedom for the tribes that had sought such since mankind had first settled these ancient mountains. Dolohov saw the previous disgust quickly give way to fury. Good. He continued.

"My Baechcha, my War chief, Voldemort agrees with me that we could both benefit from working together. That is why I have come here, not just to visit the homeland."

"Why now?"

"Two reasons. One is personal, the other is because I saw a way to help all of Chechnya." Rylenko smiled and gestured for the younger man to follow him. The two walked from the edge of the family's lands. Around them, curious men and women went back to their work. A young and pretty woman looked up from where she was scrubbing clothes against a rippled sheet of metal, meeting Antonin's eyes before she blushed, and looked back down at her work. Rylenko shook his head and chuckled, a warm smile spreading across his features.

"You should have stayed, Antosha, plenty of options here."

"If I had, I would not have the opportunity I am bringing now."

"Yes, yes, you mentioned this great chance for Chechnya. Tell me of it."

"It has been, a few weeks since we repelled Russia's unprovoked attack on Grozny and yet she still has not executed a solid retaliation?"

"Russia has been slowed by the snows and the accident in Moscow."

"Accident?" Antonin asked with mock surprise.

"Yes, the elevator malfunction in the Kremlin…" Rylenko narrowed his eyes and turned his head to stare at his former Teip-member. "Are you saying that someone assassinated three generals, two officers in the KGB, a defense contractor, and two Oligarchs beneath the nose of their spymaster Stepashin himself?"

"No, I am saying that I saw an opportunity while attacking some of Dumbledore's old-world allies in the Red Hall…" Dolohov made sure to display utter certainty on his face, knowing that if Rylenko saw any lack of conviction on his face, he would immediately lose this opportunity. "And I felt Allah made his intentions for me clear in the moment." Immediately the disbelieving eyes gained a new intensity, and Dolohov felt the man searching for any deceit. They walked for almost five minutes, coming to Rylenko's house before he felt the searing heat of silent judgement recede.

"It is good that you are finding your faith, Antosha." Though the words were not ringing with joy, the use of the diminutive form of his name let him know that the elder was genuinely pleased. "And the opportunity to so severely injure the leadership of Russia was truly a gift from Allah, but you are still not showing how we can help your Teip?"

The two men had settled into chairs on the cracked concrete porch of the Thamda's home. Two tin cups were on a small table between them, a corked bottle of Vodka ready if an agreement was reached. Antonin nodded at the question. He chose his words carefully.

"There is a man, a Lord in France. His family is very old, and very powerful, he is directly opposed to the French becoming more insular, and with him in power it could be that old families call upon old Alliances, claiming that we are but terrorists."

"What connections does this Lord have?"

"He is Catholic… and is part of the fledgling but powerful remnants of the Templars, the Military Order of Malta. This gives him sway in the Church, and the Government. The Order even has a voice in the United Nations."

Rylenko narrowed his eyes slightly, raising a bushy eyebrow. "Yes, Antonin, we have fought wars millennia ago against the Catholics, but not all are still so violent as they once were..."

"This man was arrested for being caught torturing and murdering magicless citizens of France."

The elder Chechnyan blinked. "Then it sounds like your people, the magicals, in France are doing the right thing in arresting him, no?"

"The…president of the magicals is his close friend, and this same Lord oversees the French magical police. He didn't stay in jail for long before he was free once more." Antonin suppressed a smile as he saw the man nodding along, the poisoned well slowly working. Wise men often could 'see', or sense lies, so a parade of half-truths and twisted tales worked far better.

"This man, he does sound like a curse upon the world…but Antosha, we already have a foe on our very doorstep. I have not forgotten all the good you have done for our people with your gift, but you must understand all of Chechnya is at immediate risk from…" He trailed off and sighed. Leaning back heavily, he shook his head slightly. "You said this was also personal. What has this man done to you?"

Antonin allowed a grimace to play across his face. But inside he was smiling. "Two of the women in my Teip were at a sports match. This Lord had them tortured. Amy, one of the women had her arm cut off with a sword, Bella had sand poured down her throat. She suffocated." Pure anger blazed across Rylenko's face. The traditional laws of Chechnyan Teips were clear; the only correct response to your family being hurt was revenge. Complete, and total.

Antonin Dolohov left the nation of his birth an hour later, the seeds of distrust now sprouting hatred from a watering of half-truths and convenient falsehoods. His master had tasked him with fixing the problem in France, and this was his solution. Outsourcing, much as Malfoy had done, admittedly, but where the magical failed these muggles would not.

They believed that this was a matter of duty and honor. An eye for an eye. They believed that this would also help their homeland, taking a Bishop off the great Chess Board of war. Pawns were worth sacrificing for such an end. Perhaps most vitally, they also believed that it would help tip the scale in the millennia old conflict between the religions of God. Fools, Antonin thought, but devious fools. And certainly, more than any other reason for returning here for help, Dolohov knew that Lord Sebastien Delacour could not anticipate the scope of the threat coming his way.


Draco dismissed his friends after he was certain they understood exactly what he expected of them. Lady Carrow had expressed her displeasure with his father on nearly every occasion he had met the Shadow, and he was loath to fall into the same rut of failure and disappointment that his father seemed to frequent. He refused to fall to that level.

He celebrated the last-minute change of formality of this event from 'black-tie' to 'festive attire'. Most wizards it seemed had not seen the bulletin in time, and to many were now dressed in stifling formality, bland amidst the colorful decor. Now, clothed in the finest of grey suits, sage green vest over a crisp white shirt, and wearing a seafoam green tie, he couldn't help but feel smug in the certainty that he was the best dressed man here. The grey dress-robe he wore over the entire ensemble itself cost more than most families brought in every year. Draco made sure to quash any visible signs of what he was thinking, but he let the certainty swell within him, drawing on that self-confidence to fortify any reservations he had.

His master had taught him that one's physical presentation not only affected what others thought of you, but it also helped boost one's own self-image. Sure, misplaced confidence was a false step on the staircase to success, but if you could back up your ego, it was nothing but an ever-multiplying advantage.

So as Draco watched all the students passing through the antechamber with their dates, checking in with Professor McGonagall before entering the Great Hall, he surveyed the masses from his personal high. Crabbe and Bullstrode. Goyle and Parkinson. Zabini and Greengrass. Draco figured they were just going as friends, as last he had heard Zabini was still dating some girl from the continent.

He saw the Weasley boy with one of the Patil girls, he couldn't really tell which, and he could barely care less. The other Patil had arrived with Dean Thomas. Amazing, someone he actually cared about even less than the ginger buffoon. Pike Burke and Zoe Accrington, both nodded to him on their way past. In sharp contrast, Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson coldly ignored him. Draco resisted rolling his eyes, especially because he caught a glimpse of a few more interesting arrivals. The Boy-Who-Lived had arrived, his arm looped with Hannah Abbott. The two looked good together, and it probably wouldn't be long before they would officially be a couple. That is, if they weren't already.

With them arrived Seamus Finnegan and Luna Lovegood. The strange girl looked a little out of place with her sunflower-yellow dress and radish earrings, but the outfit fit her personality. The Prefect, Gabriel Tate and Susan Bones arrived together, as did Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang. The two Champions and their dates stayed behind in the antechamber, as the other couple continued into the hall. Draco had half a mind to approach them and strike up a conversation, but he noticed a more interesting set of arrivals.

Headmaster Karkaroff had arrived with a woman that had taken the Malfoy heir a second or two to place. Angelica Cole, a beast-handler for the Ministry. Draco guessed this was a naked ploy for the Durmstrang man to try and weasel more information about the next tasks from a woman who had helped with the Dragons from the first task. Not a bad move, but a little on the nose. Draco's eyes slid over Professor Moody and Septima Vector to the third of the Champions to arrive. Viktor Krum and Ginevra Weasley were both wearing heavy coats over their outfits. The platinum-blond wasn't surprised, as he had quickly realized the Quidditch prodigy had a soft spot for the red-headed spitfire. One he was already planning to exploit.

"Good evening, Heir Malfoy." The voice startled him, and Draco cursed at his flinch as he turned to see a slightly shorter boy had slid beside him in his reverie. He blinked again. It was John Constantine...without glasses? But with shoes?

The boy was wearing a slim white suit jacket, open over a black shirt with its top two buttons undone. His pants, shoes, and trio of white-edged pocket handkerchiefs matched the shirt, with not a single stray string or fuzz to be seen. Draco blinked as he took in the smirking face of this new Constantine, and that's when he saw them. Mirrored silver pools looked back at him. Contact lenses unlike any he had seen before, reflecting the ambient light so they seemed to be glowing underneath hair that had been mussed into a wild but deliberate style.

In a word, Constantine looked...dangerous. Not a bodyguard as he had said in front of half the school not long ago when those men had come for the Delacour girl, no. He looked far more experienced than his young features suggested, dangerous as any man Draco had ever met. Despite a flicker of fear, the Slytherin's training did not leave him, and he inclined his head ever so slightly.

"Mr. Constantine, I can honestly say you clean up nicely." Backhanded, but of course it had to be.

"I would say the same, but honestly you always dress like you have an interview. Not that you've ever actually had to pass an interview." A decent retort, though making a joke about his wealth and familial connections was so...pedestrian.

"No, I wouldn't really." Draco smirked, and he was about to continue when John cut him off.

"I didn't address you to just start trading cheap insults. I don't like your family Malfoy." John met his eyes, and though he had to look up at Draco, the Slytherin didn't feel any of the normal boosted confidence he normally gained from such a situation.

"Yes, my family does have a... reputation."

John cocked his head, and let a small smile play about his lips. "A reputation I believe you plan to maintain...though I hope you prove me wrong." Constantine brought his hand up and patted Draco's shoulder, something that would imply friendship to anyone watching. The words that came with the gesture, however, held no such warmth. "But know this; if you are anything like your cousin Count Flavius, and you even try to hurt Salomé…" The voice trailed off, and a Cheshire grin stretched across youthful features. "…then I'll kill you too." Then he was gone, walking with the confidence of a King towards the staircase across the antechamber.

Draco had to swallow back the taste of actual fear, calm his heartbeat, and gather his wits from what he just learned. He had just barely managed to place the barest approximation of a fake smile upon his face when he saw the two women coming down the staircase. He found his jaw going slack, and his heart began racing for an altogether different reason. Fleur Delacour, in a single-shoulder white dress, descended the staircase like Aphrodite coming down from Olympus. Her dress had meandering opaque designs with negative space that gave the illusion of being see-through, and the whole thing positively flowed around her hips with every step, suggesting at every curve beneath. She was a vision.

But amazingly, Draco found his eyes sliding to her companion on the steps, and his mouth dried further. It was Salomé, that couldn't be denied, but it didn't fit any picture he had in his mind of the muggleborn. She wore a two-color halter dress, the backless top half was the silver of starlight, and the fern-green bottom half had a high-slit that went just above mid-thigh. Her hair was done in winding waves over her left shoulder, and a white-petalled flower with a yellow center was affixed amid the tumbling strawberry-blonde river that covered her left ear.

Numbly, Draco began walking towards the stairs. In his periphery he saw John greeting his date, but despite his own proximity to a veela, he couldn't help but stare further at his own date. The closer he got, the more subtleties he picked up. Her one exposed ear had a simple glimmering stud earring, and she had some slight mascara applied to her lashes, bringing her grey eyes into sharper focus. But, he noticed with some surprise, she was wearing barely any other makeup.

In the nuclear brightness of a Veela all prettied up for a formal event, anything she would have done extra would have fallen flat in comparison. So, other than the mascara and a few touches of concealer to hide a barely-there smattering of acne, she had gone without. She had done her hair, worn a dress and some accessories, but otherwise was just herself. Draco found her unbelievably beautiful. Deep down, some resisting part of him tried to add that she was only beautiful for a mudblood, but he just couldn't assign that word to her. Then he realized she was at the bottom of the stairs, and was looking at him, staring at him.

"Well?" She asked, a gentle blush at her cheeks as she slowly turned a full circle, a smirk on her face to hide the nervousness that he could see beneath. Draco opened his mouth to respond, but found his mouth dry again. The dress clung to her hips when she moved, and a long... long leg teased from the slit of her dress. He swallowed, and took her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

"My lady, you look divine." And he meant it. She tried unsuccessfully to hide her blush.

"And you look r-really handsome." He smiled at her stammer, then his eyes finished drinking her in and he narrowed them slightly at the flower.

"Is that a daffodil?"

"Yep." She smiled, and he felt his heart bounce. But he found himself smiling too. Narcissus Poeticus. Clever girl. He turned with her to face towards the Great Doors, and held his left arm out. She looped her right arm through his, and began walking with him to check-in with Professor McGonagall. The assistant-Headmaster cocked one eyebrow at the pair approaching.

"Mr Malfoy, Ms Bardot, welcome."

"Thank you, Professor." Draco gave a formal bow, and Salomé followed a second later with a passable curtsey. The elderly witch smiled and dipped her head. Draco then led his date into the Great Hall itself. Instead of immediately walking to mingle with people, they moved off to the side, and joined one of the two walls of guests who lined the aisle down which the Champions would soon walk. The Malfoy heir introduced his date to a dozen couples before finally reaching an open area at the front of the throngs of people, one with the perfect view of the walkway the champions would take on their way to open the dance.

Salomé quirked her nose slightly, then her eyes slid over the masses to meet Draco's inquisitive look. "Do you know how to dance?"

The blond smirked. "It was a staple of my education. My mother made sure to teach me herself each morning from the time I was seven to when I was ten. After that I spent a year at Madame Gagneux's. I still visit twice a year to make sure I am not too rusty."

"Thank God."

"Why?"

"Because I can't." Draco blinked, then laughed.

"Not at all?"

"I can slow dance, but anything else I know is really not suited for a fancy ball."

"Well, Miss Bardot, as long as you don't step on my feet, I'm sure we can stumble along and have a good time." She was surprised by his open smile, where before she would have expected to see scorn or resolute disgust. She reevaluated her opinions of him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! If I may have your attention!" They turned to face the entrance and saw Professor McGonagall in finer robes, standing with a closed scroll. Her normal stern countenance was still up, but even she seemed to be hiding excitement. "I am proud to present your Triwizard challengers, who will be leading the dance tonight.

"First, from our own institution, Heir Neville Francis Longbottom accompanied by Ms Hannah Charlotte Abbott." There was polite applause before the couple strode into the great hall, heads high, and eyes forward. Draco nodded slightly; they both were defaulting to their pureblood training. They were also dressed well, both the Longbottom and Abbott families being of Sacred Twenty-Eight ilk. Though, it had to be noted, Hannah was a half-blood. Draco held back a frown, if he hadn't known, he would not have guessed just based on her mannerisms.

"Second, representing Hogwarts, we have Heir Cedric Amos Diggory accompanied by Ms Cho Lian Chang." More applause, more raucous than before. No surprise, Draco knew how popular the elder Hufflepuff was. Diggory was dressed conservatively, though the same could not quite be said for Chang, her Qipao dress ludicrously tight and a slit on the side almost reaching her hip. Draco saw Salomé looking at him from the corner of his eye, and he turned to face her, smirking and squeezing her hand. She blushed, looking away and making to brush her usual locks behind and ear before catching herself a second before ruining her laboriously crafted tumble.

"Next, from The Durmstrang Institute, Mr Viktor Rumenov Krum accompanied by Ms Ginevra Molly Weasley." More restrained applause, as if the hosts didn't want to even approach the fervor for their own champions. Krum was dressed nicely and had a heavy bear-fur coat over his crimson and black formal attire, but the date on his arm drew the eye quickly, having shucked her heavy coat. Draco found himself equal parts fascinated, equal parts ashamed. Surely, Chang's outfit had been risqué in and of itself, but she was also…older? She and the redhead were only a year apart, so why did he find himself so off-put by a similar outfit on the Weasley girl.

"Didn't know LBDs existed in the wizarding world." Salomé's voice drifted past his confused mulling. He looked at her.

"A what?"

"LBD. Little black dress." Draco snorted. It was…little. The sleeveless black material stretched over the slight girl, coming to mid-thigh. A pair of tall black leather boots came to just over her knees, near-stiletto heels clicking with each cat-walk step. Her bright eyes blazed from behind black eyeliner that curled into wingtips. Her hair completed the caricature of an outfit, in a high burning red ponytail. "Your headmaster looks especially displeased."

He looked up, and while most of the teachers seated at the head of the great hall, Dumbledore's face was especially tart, as if one of his lemon drops had gotten the proportions of sugar wrong. Draco chuckled. "Well I would be pretty upset if a former student of mine showed up to a formal event dressed…well…

"Dressed like a whore?"

Draco choked on air, and bent over wheezing. He gathered his wits as quickly as possible and stood, turning to face his date, still fighting spluttering fits. "What foul…foul language."

"Am I wrong?"

"I mean, no… but still. Shame on you." She smirked, dangerous.

"What, Mr Malfoy… you don't like a woman with a foul mouth? That's a shame."

"I didn't…say that. But some words and actions are for closed doors. Its proper to be careful what you say in front of the masses."

"Oh, so I've been, what, improper? Are you going to punish me for it?" Normally, he would have shied away from her challenge, but luckily, he had taken a little potion to help with this evening's events. Courage filled him, and he took a step closer, almost chest to chest as he looked ever so slightly down to meet her eyes. He saw her shudder, but her grey eyes never flickered away.

"Someone sounds eager…" Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. Her ears burned red, but her lips stretched into a smirk. A response formed, but the moment was broken by a hacking cough, someone awkwardly trying to clear their throat. Both teens spun, seeing McGonagall blinking heavily at the entrance to the Great Hall, mouth silently trying to form words. All noise in the hall quieted, students curious at the normally stoic witch struggling.

"Last…from Beauxbatons… Heiress Fleur Isabelle Delacour accompanied by…by…" The couple entered the room, heads high, imperious as nobility. McGonagall cleared her throat again and was finally able to manage the words. "Accompanied by Lord Harry James Potter."

Bedlam.


Sebastien still had it. Now certainly, his former acute awareness of his surroundings had diminished and dulled somewhat since his heyday, but he comforted himself in the thought that he had probably only missed the man following him for a few minutes. Only a few minutes before that nagging voice grated on his every nerve enough for him to stop and gawk at a newspaper stand, and then buy a copy of some inane tabloid.

He didn't really care that some American actor had broken up with his supermodel trophy-wife after eight months of marriage, but the purchase had allowed him to catch sight of a man on the opposite side of the street stopping awkwardly to pretend and goggle at the contents of the nearest glass-walled shop. Since the man wore no gleaming engagement ring, and couldn't be a day older than twenty, he could certainly assume the man had no real purpose staring at wedding dresses alone. That and the fact that the shrew-faced man kept glancing back to see if Sebastien was moving again.

The Delacour patriarch resisted the urge to roll his eyes and continued his previous course. Now that he had made one of the tails, he was more cautious in his searching. Over the next four city blocks, he found there were three men following him. One was genuinely skilled, one was half-decent, and the last was the shrew-faced man. He guessed the former was a forgotten remnant of the Wars, the second was either a student of the first or just an enthusiast, and the last was probably just a reluctant volunteer.

Sebastien stepped into an alley, and took off sprinting, counting quickly in his head. He knew after losing sight of one's target, an anxious follower would rush to be able to see their prey once again. He had little time, and finding the perfect spot, he ducked behind a dumpster about halfway to where the alley ran into the next main street. Drawing the wand he had gotten in his escape from custody, he prepared himself to figure out who was following him and why.

The sound of voices drifted to him through the alley, a discussion in a language very much not French. Odd. Then the clicking of metal, a handgun being racked? Stranger still. Yet, this wasn't the first time Sebastien had faced muggles in close combat, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He waited until he saw the extended silver of a pistol enter his view, then he shot forward. A disarming charm, saw the gun pop out of its owner's hand, a confounding charm had the man blinking, and then a special charm Sebastien had taught his men spun the man backwards.

Lord Delacour grabbed the gun out of the air, placed it into the small of his pursuer's back, and froze the man from the shoulder's down with a perificus subcullus. Down the alley where they had come, two men stood on opposite edges of the alley, both carrying handguns. One was glancing back and forth between the now hostage and the third follower. This third man had a weariness about him that spoke of decades in the cold streets of a war-torn Europe. The pistol in his hands didn't so much as waver. A steady hand, a steady man. The experienced one. Sebastien smiled.

"Gentlemen, please drop your weapons, and kick them this way. No need for violence…" He trailed off as he saw a dinged-up panel van pull up to the alley between the other two pursuers. Its side door swung open, and two more men stepped out. In their hands were Kalashnikovs, the unmistakable weapons raised to bear.

Sebastien felt his jaw slacken. This wasn't a mugging, nor men from the Ministry tracking him. What the hell is going on? The captive he held immobile as a shield turned his head slightly, and tried to spit at him, only succeeding in staining the shoulder of his own coat.

"Gori v adu ved'ma!" He hissed. Sebastien felt his confusion grow. Was that Russian? Then he saw a final figure in the opening of the van door, bringing a tube to his shoulder, its conical green tip turned to face the French Lord. The frozen man smiled viciously, and spoke again, this time in terrible French. Terrible, yes, but clear nonetheless. "Burn in hell, witch!" Then his friend in the van pulled the trigger on the RPG.

Sebastien turned and ran, casting a flame-freezing charm on himself, but not quite completing a cushioning charm when the explosion detonated behind him. The force of the blast picked him up and flung him out the far side of the alley. He slammed into a parked Peugeot, and felt glass shatter as he rolled over the roof, falling to the pavement in the street. His vision went red, and the world swam.

Dimly he heard screams, and loud cracks tore through the air. Horns blared, and cars swerved, crashing into each other. Sebastien grunted as he forced himself to his hands and knees, making himself crawl towards the front wheel-well of the car. With the engine and the majority of the car's inner workings between himself and the rifles, he stood the best chance of surviving.

His limited training came back to him, limited in the scope of Muggle warfare, and he tried to draw on as much of his normal magical-police background as he could. He couldn't help anyone, much less stop the threat if he couldn't get his own act together.

Step One: Take inventory. With screams and bullets ripping the air around him, he took a quick stock of what he had. One wand. One handgun with who knows how many bullets. He fumbled with the weapon until he found the magazine release, and the bottom of the pistol grip fell. Sebastien peered down the mag and saw at least three bullets before his blurry vision merged the rest together. He pushed the magazine back into the weapon.

He then looked to himself. There was a large gash across his forehead, several across his face from hitting the pavement, shrapnel in his back, and his ankle was swelling to the size of a grapefruit. Sprained. Not bad for an explosion. He chuckled and tasted copper. And he had almost bitten his tongue through. Drawing his wand, damned the consequences, he quickly healed all but his back, which he numbed with a charm. It was too risky operating on wounds he couldn't see.

Step Two: Identify the threat. Sebastien lay flat and peered beneath the Peugeot towards the alley. Multiple pairs of legs were running his way. As he got back to his hands and knees, he heard explosions in the distance. What the…non, focus. He took a deep breath, and pocketed the pistol. Better to use an unfamiliar tool as a last ditch effort. He didn't know why Russians were after him, nor why they were blowing up Paris. For all he knew, it was the start of World War 3…unlikely as it was since they had known he had magic and seemed mostly focused on him. Just thinking about it hurt, and Sebastien stopped trying to make sense out of mania. Instead, he needed to survive.

-XV-

A faint mist was all that remained of the massive thunderstorm as Cado finished his evening run. He was breathing audibly, but not heavily. By his side, Kylien just bounced in place, a smile gleaming in the post-dusk light. "Done already? What would Irina say of such lackluster stamina?"

"Embarrassing you know my ex-girlfriend's name, but not the name of the girl you snuck in from the bar last night and needed help sneaking out this morning."

"It was Tina!"

"Fathima."

"I thought she said fat Tina...who was I to argue with the truth." Cado smacked the back of his friend's head. "Foutre! Is that a ring?"

"Sal sent it with her last letter. Some kind of lucky charm."

"Girls these days...magic rocks, fortune telling, astrology...crazy the lot of them." Seeing the ringed hand cocking back for another swing, Kylien scampered to the side. "Easy easy, I don't care, just make sure Capitaine doesn't see that." He raised a hand, scrunched up his face, and mimicked their Commanding Officer. "If it is not a wedding band, no jewelry will be worn. It only serves to drive a wedge in unit cohesion, show disparities in family income, and decrease our lethality…"

Cado rolled his eyes at his friends not-inaccurate imitation, and was about to respond in turn when a low siren began wailing. The two men blinked, then burst into action. They hadn't even made it to the barracks door, when it was flung open, and several men flooded out, already in full combat gear. The team currently on call for any emergency, all they had needed to do was throw on their flak jackets and helmets, and grab their rifles, and with everything from the mess hall to the gym in the same building, the entire team was out of the back of the building and sprinting for the strip of helicopters just fifty meters distant. One of them deviated slightly towards Cado, and pulled a hand-held radio from a small bag at his hip.

"Margis Bardot! Sergeant!" Cado caught the thrown device.

"What's going on Gendarme?"

"Explosions in Paris, Margis! All hands on deck!"

-XV-

Sebastien ducked a corner as brinks and mortar exploded in red and grey chips at head height. Foutre. He found a cast-iron fire escape and began scrambling up it. It had been ten minutes since the first explosion had rattled his ears, and yet it felt like 10 years had passed as he ran. He tried to focus on the most desolate areas, knowing that despite the screams and rattling gunfire he heard from many directions, he seemed to be a focus for at least some of the violence. Hopefully, he could draw some of that away from innocent civilians.

Beneath him he heard shouting, and then the rattle of the Kalashnikov. Angry buzzing whipped by him, along with a staccato of clanging from rounds impacting the iron bars of the switch backing stairs. One bullet snuck between the hatching metal, and laced a line of pain through his thigh, a splatter of red painting the flaking black handrail. He muffled a cry of pain, and threw himself the last few steps to the top, and over a ledge onto the gravel dotted roof. His ankle caught the edge and twisted… again. His knee scrapped stone, but he dragged himself up and limped on.

Taking cover behind a brick chimney, he cast a quick mending charm on his ankle and knee, and took another few second to examine the wound through his thigh. An entrance wound, and an exit wound. Clean through. He cleaned and then closed it. More shouting from the fire escape.

Dimly, he heard a loud whirring growing closer, and looked up to see several helicopters screaming over the city, dark shadows in the bright emissions of the City of Lights. Raising his wand, he shot up white sparks.

-XV-

It had only taken Cado and Kylien five minutes to grab their entire kit and sprint back to one of the helicopters, its blades already whirring. The rest of Cado's team of five caught up in time to load up with their team leader. They threw themselves in the back of the AS532 Cougar, before Gaston slammed the doors shut.

"Bonjour, Margis! Get caught in your civelots?" The huge man cackled, nodding at Cado's civilian running clothes. The team's machine-gunner was a beast, built like the very Disney character his nickname came from. He also loved to workout in his full battle uniform, the sweat he stained his clothes with, after a few dozen washes, turned his uniform a grey-er color than the rest of his comrades' ink black. A 'salty' uniform, it was called. He had been mid workout when the sirens sang, and having only had to throw on his ballistic vest and helmet, he was the most dressed of his team.

"Mettre les adjas!" Cado hissed, "Some of us have seen enough sun to salt our uniforms naturally."

Kylien, ever the parrot, agreed. "Oui, fuck off Gaston."

Cado tuned out the argument as the rotors roared louder, and the pilot pulled the bird off the grass, and began blasting north-east towards Paris. He tugged on his pants that he had brought, cinched them tight, then tugged off his sneakers. After he slid into his boots, he tightened the Velcro straps at the bottom of his pants around his boots. Next, he slid into his uniform shirt, before redonning his flak jacket. After he was fully dressed, Cado pulled on a plugged-in headset so he could talk to the pilot. Without it, the noise was too great. Around him, his team worked to get ready as well.

"Luc, thanks for being ready."

"Toujours."

"What's the situation?"

"Explosions in Paris. Gunfire. Multiple groups of hostiles."

"Arms?"

"Kalashnikovs and RPGs."

Kado frowned. "Sevens? Twenty-nines?" He knew the difference in the RPG was huge when it came to defeating modern armor and, more importantly for them, aircraft chaff.

"Reports vary. You know civilians, they couldn't tell an M4 from an F2."

It took four minutes for the helicopter to fly the twenty kilometres from Bièvres to Paris. Technically, if they had flown at the safe max speed for the vehicle, it would have taken a minute or so longer. But Paris was under attack, and no commander in his right mind would fault a pilot for going full throttle.

By the time they were skimming houses, the whole team was in full kit, with their weapons loaded, checked and ready. The side doors were once more open, and all but one of the team was holding onto an overhead strap to keep their balance. The fifth man, Henri, had the German-made PSG-1 on a hanging loop of paracord, and aiming out the side of the helicopter. He was belted to the floor of the vehicle by a carabiner at the small of his back.

Cado looked between his men and saw they were all watching him. He rapped the side of his helmet, and pointed upward. Heads up. Be alert. He then tapped the closed ejection port cover of his rifle twice with a finger. His men all triple-checked their own gear, going over their buddies as well. Kylien found his own cover open, and flicked it shut. With all the debris kicked up by a helicopter's rotors, the bolts on their weapons could gather dust and grit, and jam when they needed it to fire, thus until the men were shooting, the ejection port covers were to stay closed. Kylien checked all his gear again. As the saying went, thrice safe, never sorry.

A voice came through all their headsets. "Margis, Sergeant, I'm seeing a flare from a rooftop."

"Any chance it's a hostile?"

"Unlikely." The pilot was a part of France's 4th Special Forces Helicopter Regiment, the elite of the elite. Cado trusted his judgement.

"Get us to that roof, then get back to base. You can do the most help bringing more men out here."

"Understood."

-XV-

Sebastien watched with amazement as the dark shape spun before him, wind blasting the loose gravel across the roof. He winced as a piece of flying rock caught his brow and felt something trickle down his cheek. The helicopter slowed to a halt a meter or so above the roof, spinning blades too high to hit the few antennae dotted around. Five men hopped down, and began sweeping his way, hunched low. Behind them the helicopter began departing, spinning southwest. One of the men turned to face the helicopter and knelt seeming to scan the other rooftops. Two moved towards him, weapons raised, and the last two split, one moving to the edge of the roof to scan the street, and the other taking several steps wide and focusing his rifle on the metal fire escape.

One of the two men approaching Sebastian yelled out. "Mains! Hands! Montre tes mains!" The Delacour lord obeyed, dropping to his knees and holding his hands up and wide. They were empty. A universal gesture.

"Il y a des hommes…" Sebastien began, only to be cut off by the man heading for the stairs.

"Fusil!" Almost at the same time, the former Chairman heard a burst of gunfire, followed by a wet smacking sound, and then metal clanging on metal. "Un mort hostile!" One hostile down. One of the men approaching him stopped, then made some sort of hand gesture, and the man who had been moving to look at the street moved instead past Sebastien towards the brief gunfight.

"Monsieur." The French wizard refocused on the man who seemed to be giving commands. "We have to search you, for our safety and yours." Sebastien just nodded, his adrenaline high starting to fade away. One of the men kept his rifle raised, covering Sebastien while the apparent leader removed his own rifle and laid it by his companion's feet. Then he approached at last, and began searching.

He found the pistol quickly, removing its magazine and racking the round out of its chamber. The weapon and its ammo went into a pouch at his hip. A small roll of money Sebastien had, unfortunately, had to steal after his escape was found next. Then finally the wand. The lord Delacour held his breath. Surprisingly, he heard his searcher whisper in his ear.

"I have to hold on to this until I'm certain you are a friendly. But don't worry, my little sister is one of you." Sebastien blinked, not quite believing his luck. The man retrieved his rifle. "What can you tell us about the situation out there?"

There was something familiar about the voice, but try as he might, Sebastien couldn't place it. He shook the curiosity away, but before he could respond, a scream echoed from the alley below. "Umeret' ved'ma! Goret' ublyudok!" Then a soft woosh before the side of the rooftop exploded.


N/B: \Y'all are awesome. I don't think I needed that speech in the pre-script, but I wanted to write it. Feel free to use the wood from the soapbox for your flaming of me for taking so long. Excuses or not, it was a long time. Sorry.

\Pretty sure the book of books has been done a few dozen times across fanfictions. If you have it in your story, rest assured it is statistically unlikely I borrowed the idea from your specific story.

\'Little-old-me' is a figure of speech. I don't know how prevalent it is in other anglophone countries, but it is a humorous, self-deprecating phrase.

\Antosha is a diminutive of Antonin. It would be like calling a guy named Peter, 'Pete'. Like calling a gal named Cassandra, 'Cassie'. Add familial or parental familiarity and you have the idea.

\Chechnya, or the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria, became a nation in 1991. Russia disagreed in November of 1994, when they tried a surprise attack to claim the Chechen Capital. They failed, and didn't formally start the First Chechen War until December 11th. Sue me for pushing it back a few weeks.

\'Festive Attire' is a dress code for events where you are supposed to dress formally, but are free to add colors and non-garish pizazz.

\Ginny is, clearly, in her rebellious teen phase.

\Draco is fun to write. Some of y'all probably have him all figured out. Hopefully, for the appeal of my story, most of y'all don't yet.

\Peugeot is a French car company. They make some fast cars. They make a lot of not fast cars.

\Margis is a French equivalent of a slang for 'Sergeant'. There are other translations, or you can just use Sergeant. When I was writing this, I used margis. Don't remember why.

\I did a metric bleep-ton of research into RAID, GIGN, the 7th (who have since been replaced in helping RAID by the GIH who fly SA330 Pumas), and more to accurately translate my knowledge and experience in the military into French military and French police equivalence. I got deep enough into the French online archives and government websites that I reached places where my search engine didn't automatically translate the pages into English. Truly the edge of the civilized world. I even had to rely on high-school French classes. Barbaric

\When it comes to banter between soldiers, sailors, marines, cops, and the rest, load-out lingo, salty-uniforms and the like, some things are universal. Some aren't. I hope my biggest faux-pas is that I had them refer to each other by their first names, and not last. Except Gaston. No one would dare use a different name for Gaston.

\Couldn't find the French equivalent of 'Contact!' when you see a threat. Any French mil-nerds out there, feel free to educate me.


Author's Note:

Thirty-eight pages and 12,300 words only for a cliffhanger. Hope y'all enjoyed the chaos!

In the research for this chapter, I wanted to do something crazy, but still cool. I have yet to read a story on this site or even AO3 that has genuine history interspersed with HP. So when I found out that the Russia and Chechnya started a scrap in late 1994, that there happened to be an actual terrorist attack in France on Christmas eve 1994 (I pushed it back a day and changed what happened slightly, sue me), and that I had accidentally tied a potential responder to the story through Salomé, and Sebastien was in the wind, I had to seize the opportunity.

But, I didn't want treat such a culture as fascinating as the Teips of Chechnya like the Bosnians. Herzegovina's better-known-half has been war-crime-d, cucked for their coastline by Croatia, and their only presence on the big screen has been a blind Natalie Dormer or the enemies of Liam Neeson in every Taken movie since the dawn of time. Lay off Bosnia guys, they've had enough.

So instead of just using the Chechens as generic bad guys, I did my research. Learned where the phrases and colloquialisms they use came from. I tried to learn why they are the way they are. To learn where from comes their soul. Philosophy aside, if there are any reading this who catch any errors, please let me know. Other than that it was Algerian rebels and dissidents who were responsible in France in December of 1994. I know that.

Penultimately, as usual, some people view Voldemort as unbeatable. They will likely see this addition of Dolohov's ploy means he is even more so. Alright, a fair point. Counterpoint, why hasn't he won already? What still lies in the way? What flaws in his mask exist? Which of his followers (aside form the obvious Lucius) hinder him more than help? Where are his blind spots? Who are his blind spots? Not to interrogate y'all with the Socratic method, but the hints are there. And if you aren't enjoying the story, that fine. Don't keep reading. I promise I will only be slightly emotionally devastated.


Finally, as for the bonus question of last chapter. Hufflepuff. Elora Dunn, the Hufflepuff Head Girl in the prior chapter, was an npc in Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery. She is always the same house as the player but is only ever introduced if you become a Prefect. A subtle hint, I know.

Stay healthy, happy, and safe you hooligans.

Semper,

Vi