Not much changes for this part of the fic from the original.

In the Bayou

December 1927

The old shack was dilapidated, barely fit for habitation, but it would do for them Graves. Bedivere mixed potions and elixirs as he sat cross-legged by the firepit. Arthur 'Squibby' stood guard with his shotgun by the door. Outside, Lucia and Bedivere's serpents maintained a perimeter. Galahad sat in the rocking chair. Its dull creaking the only sound other than the crackle of flames in the firepit. His right leg ended just above the knee. His magical core was shot, growing increasingly weak and unstable over time. Beads of sweat clung to his brow. Pain was a constant for him now, kept barely in check by the potions fed to him by Bedivere.

It was Kay who first warned them. The Monseigneurs have risen again, so the whispers went in the French Quarter. Grey-cloaked assassins, practitioners of the darkest magics, keepers of the secret rites, magisters of ancient magical law… Some claimed Galahad's late mentor was one of theirs, but the Barone never admitted to anything, though he alluded to much. He was a necromancer and likewise his protégé. Now Galahad's magic was almost gone, it was up to the rest of clan to protect one of their own. They had to worry about Snatchers – wizard bounty hunters, too. Someone had placed a price on Galahad Graves, to be captured alive, so the gossip went.

Under the festive cheer, there was unease in both town and bayou. Even the more sensitive No-Majs sensed it, holding their offspring closer even if they do not quite know why. Ancestral memory perhaps – the clank of phantom chains, loved ones lost to the night. Bedivere had felt it when he went to restock his medical supplies the week before. How the Yuletide revelries were more subdued, the calm before a tempest. Winter sage burned and old protections invoked.

The alarm wards went off. Arthur leapt to his feet, shotgun at the ready. Bedivere seized his wand and approached the door, potions abandoned. Not fast enough.

The door was blasted off its hinges, knocking both off their feet. Wooden splinters sliced into both wizard and squib alike.

Two witches, both cloaked and hooded in grey. Wands drawn. Bedivere lifted his face blearily, Arthur was lying against the far wall, a hand raised to his neck where blood was flowing, and rapidly staining his white cotton shirt red. A wandless episkey cast from across the room for now to slow the bleeding. A wand dug into his back.

"Professor?" the healer gasped as he recognized the face under the hood. He had seen it often enough in class when he was in Ilvermorny. The second greycloak loped in on his patient. Galahad glared back defiantly as a wand was pointed at his chest. He would not beg or plead for his life. His pride would never allow it.

"So it has come to this, Tante?" A dry rasp, a wry smile.

"Ava…" the dreaded Killing Curse. Icy-blue orbs into cornflower blue. The wand was lowered.

"Do it!" Professor Delance urged. "I call on the geas that binds you."

"My geas does not bind me to obey you, headmistress. My geas is to Ilvermorny – this is one of ours," the would-be assassin pulled back her hood and shot the headmistress a fleeting look of disgust.

"For the greater good, he cannot live… Look at him, it would be a mercy…"

"A mercy-kill? Use your own wand then."

Bedivere made use of the witch's lapse in concentration to Apparate across the room to Arthur. The squib was choking on his own blood. Grimly, he got to work clearing his patient's airway, knowing Galahad would be safe for now. Even Professor Fleur Delance would blanch at casting a Killing Curse on her own kinsman.

"He seeks him out for the knowledge of the necromantic arts he holds."

"There are tomes a-plenty on the forbidden art."

"But the Barone was in a class of his own and Galahad his favoured student."

"The only one who made it to Ilvermorny, you mean. Are we to hunt down those other wixen who took their training under our alleged necromancer?"

"Grindelwald cannot be allowed that knowledge…"

The argument floundered. Silverfoot refused to engage.

Arthur had lost too much blood. He passed out even as Bedivere fought to stabilize him. A soft glow of magic. A spell cast from the direction of the rocking chair. Their eyes met. A grim nod. Galahad was pouring what little remained of his ravaged core into the healing spell.

No, too much… you will exhaust your magic.

Save Tante the trouble of killing me then. A rakish grin.

You fool. Thankfully, the bleeding stopped under their joint ministrations and the colour returned to Arthur's cheeks. His breathing and pulse steadied. His eyelids fluttered as he regained his senses.

"I'd advise you to move camp," Silverfoot said quietly. "There are Snatchers abroad." She gave a slight bow which was reciprocated by Galahad – the acknowledgement of a peer to a peer. Was there the faintest twitch of her wand? Bedivere could not be sure. If a spell was cast, there was no malice in it. The aura felt clean, almost a blessing.

Fleur Delance spat out something in what Galahad recognized as parseltongue. Their dazed snake guards tumbled out of mid-air in a tangled ball, looking as ashamed as any reptile could look. Lucia untangled herself from the writhing mass and bared her fangs at the headmistress before Bedivere called the cottonmouth back to him. He did not know the former Head of Horned Serpent was a fellow parselmouth, yet it seemed fitting.

Delance glared at her deputy. The geas her predecessor had placed on Silverfoot bound her to serve Ilvermorny for the terms of two headmasters. When Silent Thunder left, it had been a dangerously close race between them. Silverfoot was always the old man's creature. Yet at the same time, she was a Monseigneur. One did not turn one's back on a lifetime of ingrained tradition so easily, no matter how corrupted they had become through the ages. Silverfoot's dubious reputation had settled it for the board of governors. Professor Fleur Delance with her unblemished record succeeded the old drunk. That left Delance with a resentful deputy headmistress and DADA master. Her term was ending soon. There was too much controversy after Paris. Ilvermorny had stagnated. The school needed a younger, more energetic leader. Five years perhaps, if she was lucky, before she would be forced out by the board.

The Monseigneurs hailed from the powerful wizarding clans of bygone times, said to have originated in the courts of the Merovingian kings before the Statutes of Secrecy. The three Unforgivables were said to have come into popular use about that time.

Avada Kedarva. The original use of the Killing Curse had been to put wizards grievously wounded out of their misery in a time when the healing arts were lacking. Later it became a means of execution upon judgement by magic.

Imperius Curse had been a means of manoeuvring from behind the scenes. Ensuring a condemned noble did not disgrace himself or his family by bolting or cowering before imminent death. Or firmly steering a monarch away from a disastrous action.

The origins of Cruciatus Curse were more obscure. Some sources claimed it had originated as a last-ditch treatment for a now-extinct plague afflicting wizards where they fall into such numbness such that they stopped breathing. Others claimed it was simply a means of punishment or extracting information from those thus cursed, as it was now.

They paddled on, looking for a patch of open sky so the bark canoe could take to the air. The rift was always there despite their current truce. The De Lances were among the Monseigneurs once before they turned their backs on all it stood for. Silverfoot used Crucios and Imperios during her advanced defence classes, along with some highly suspect curses.

Silent Thunder had jestingly referred to Delance as the Spider – sitting in her office and controlling the school from there. Later he had cursed her for not talking his only grandchild Swift Runner out of volunteering to fight in the Great War. She was only his Ancient Runes tutor, not his House head. If the then Wampus House head Dona Severina did not stop her student from volunteering, how could she? Silverfoot had discerned his intentions and put the student through a punishing duelling session before declaring him unfit for the military. Since when had they listened to advice? Swift Runner was cunning enough to trick his grandfather into allowing him absence from his studies. A pity that. The boy had promise…

"Ghosts, not actual spirits but those of our making," Silverfoot's harsh voice over the dip of her oar. "Lay them to rest." A pale face framed with dark hair. Twin pools of sorrowful black peering out from beneath the ripples. Forgive me…

"Any word from our friend in Hogwarts?" Delance's voice cut in. It was unsettlingly how Silverfoot could seem to delve into a person's thoughts, without the need to meet their eyes. Bedivere had promised to move as soon as both his patients were stable enough. If Delance were lucky, Galahad would not be another ghost for her.

"Non, headmistress… Qui va la?" A raft on the creek lit by a magical lantern and laden with supplies. Three figures cloaked with their hats and hoods pulled low.

"It is only us friends," a strained female voice. Silverfoot felt her wand tingle in its holster against her thigh. Delance's breath hitched. Wrong. There was something wrong.

Protego! Delance cast the shield both silently and wandlessly. Silverfoot drew her wand for a hex. But it was too late. Silverfoot's hex clashed with shield, smothering it. The blast shattered their bark canoe and threw both witches into the murky water.

"Must be Hector and the twins," Galahad saw the laden raft gliding up to the shack through the window. He froze. "Izzy never goes without her twin. It's not Hector and Tris with her."

He seized Arthur's shotgun and downed a dose of pain-relief potion. He dragged himself up with the aid of the windowsill. Just as he thought his night could not get worse.

"You'll hit Izzy," Bedivere warned. He loathed No-Maj firearms, having witnessed close-hand their effects on flesh and bone. Arthur was muzzily staggering to his feet.

"You can patch her up afterwards, right?" Galahad gritted his teeth and aimed.

"Tris will kill you."

"Parley!" one of the strangers lifted a hand as he stepped onto the makeshift pier. "There is no need for bloodshed. We come for the necromancer's apprentice."

"Wrong house!" Galahad barked. He lowered the shotgun enough for Bedivere to bat it out of his hands. It discharged into the floorboards, ripping a hole in them.

"Galahad Graves. You come with us in place of this young lady." Iseult whimpered as a wand was dug into her throat by the speaker's burly companion.

"He is not well! He needs a healer!" Bedivere called out as Lucia slithered up his pants into his pocket. The other snakes had long slithered off, considering their duty discharged.

"Then you come with him too, Master Healer," the burly wizard growled.

"Where are Hector and Tristan?" Bedivere asked.

"Petrified in a cabin outside town. Lord Grindelwald gave us instructions not to irk Master Galahad by killing any more of his brothers. However, he didn't say nothing about sisters…" The threat was emphasized with a squeeze to the witch's breast.

"Or squibs." Behind them, Arthur gave a choked cry. A rope had wound itself around his injured neck and was dragging him off his feet. Careless, Galahad chided himself. They had not noticed the second Snatcher making his move.

"Terms accepted. Two of us for Izzy and Squibby," Bedivere held out his wand handle-first in surrender. With his other hand, he summoned his healer's bag and potions. The Snatcher released Arthur who fell onto the floor gasping for air.

Bedivere watched as his wand was taken by the Snatcher. Magic-restraining cuffs were slapped onto his wrists. Galahad was allowed his crutches, but he was similarly cuffed. Iseult was none too gently shoved onto the pier. A mild stunning hex before her wand was tossed carelessly beside her limp form.

"Can't I have some fun with her first?" the burly wizard leered at the hapless witch.

"Oh, shut it. The Master is waiting," his companion added. "And he hates being kept waiting."

A battered tin bucket was shoved into their hands. The Snatchers took hold of the bucket as well before the slighter one tapped on the rim with his wand and recited the spell. Portkey. The bayou and their shack vanished in a swirl as they were yanked off to their destination.

A Reparo would not cut it. Their canoe was wrecked beyond salvaging. Battered, bruised, and bedraggled, the two witches fought their way through the bayou back to the shack they had left earlier to find an injured squib and a stunned witch. The healer and Galahad were gone. At least the Snatchers had left the Graves' supplies and raft behind.

Author's Notes:

I just could not leave the Graves clan behind, can I?

Qui va la ? – who goes there? (French), used as a sentry's challenge. Yes, I gave the Ilvermorny duo a flying canoe. Pre-railway, the children from the villages went to school by flying canoes.