Nothing is mine.

Vert's on an investigation mission somewhere fairly familiar...

L'Étrange Famille

Beneath a slow drizzle, white ash melted into the brown leaf-strewn, green grass of the lawn and bits of dark charcoal and scorched stone clustered at the small drain at the bottom of the path. Glistening drops of water clung to the fire-scarred stubs of beams, falling into the thick carpet of pale ash and dust between the ruined walls.

Fiendfyre. He often used it. But Grindelwald never did. Grim certainty rose from the well of her mind like a wisp of smoke. This was no accident. Harry Potter did this.

White lilies rested at the foot of the broken bed lying in the rubble, surrounded by three sets of identical footsteps.

But someone else came here to investigate too. They left flowers.

'Lumos.' Vert swept the beam of light across the ash, hunting for any other clues.

Someone else is curious about Henri Delacour.

A handful of small silver cogs lay in the ash a pace from the wilting white lilies; they glinted in the ray of light, flashing in the corner of Vert's eye as she stared down across the bare branches of cherry trees and over distant fields of long wet grass.

You only leave flowers if someone has died. Vert lifted the lilies and found two names carved into the end of the bed. Fleur and Katrina Delacour. If he killed his family, then Sarcelle's wards protecting France will soon fail.

She extinguished the light of her wand and stared into the three sets of footsteps. 'Three. The Duforts…'

But they are not his real sisters. Why come here? Vert picked her way through the ash-covered corridor, turning over everything she'd read in the catacombs beneath Paris in her head. Did they know him as Henri Delacour?

She stuck the long thin pale wand back into the pocket of her robes and listened to the quiet drip and trickle of water from the ruined roof, sweeping through the scattered pieces of rubble along the corridor, but turning up nothing but more ash and cold embers.

Nobody has been here for a while. I won't find him or anything useful here.

Vert disapparated, hopping across France and out before the tall spires of Nurmengard.

Thick snow piled against the walls and heaped the roofs of the turrets rising up toward the grey winter sky; it clung to the frosted, ice-crusted boughs of the dark-needled pines, falling in small flurries when the breeze stirred them.

Perhaps he has come here. The infuriating fog of darkness hung thick and impenetrable among her thoughts, all its secrets still beyond her grasp. I know too little still.

Vert picked her way along the roots, scuffing out the light prints with the edge of her boot after each step as she neared the snow swept wall.

No wards. From the deep well of darkness among their thoughts came a strange note of certainty. An invitation and a trap.

She pulled the long thin pale wand from the waist pocket of her loose dark robes and disillusioned herself, grimacing as the wand struggled against her magic, and disapparated, appearing atop the wall.

Snow piled along the walkway, heaping against the small wooden door into the tower overlooking the mountainside and blanketing the courtyard before the main hall.

Merde.

Vert waded to the door and wrenched it ajar, squeezing through into the turret and smoothing the snow out with her boot. Bare stone steps led down into the gloom.

If Harry Potter is here, I will have to find him. But first, let's see what I can discover about this ritual he is planning.

She tugged the door shut and crept down the steps. 'Homenum revelio.'

Four distant red figures flickered beyond the wall of the turret.

Grindelwald and his Walküren. And maybe Harry Potter. From the bottomless black well at the heart of her mind, a faint bitterness bubbled up. Mithras. That is who he is now. He betrayed us and joined Grindelwald.

Vert kept the figures there, whispering the charm over and over as she prowled the bare stone corridors, sweeping the empty turrets and cold stark halls of Nurmengard one by one and working her way toward the four silhouettes of crimson magic hovering at the centre above the great hall.

The whole place is empty. Was it always like this?

Nothing stirred from the darkness in her mind as she snuck through the hall and into the stairway.

Cold, grey stone floors and walls gaped behind each door; every room along the corridors surrounding the hall lay bare.

There is nothing here. I might as well search for him. But first…

Vert raised her wand and forced her magic through it, layering a ragged, rough web of threads over Nurmengard.

If he is not here, I will at least know when any strong magic is cast and can come observe.

She continued down the hall to the next room, where a single red figure curled up horizontally beyond the door.

Vert pressed her ear to the wood, but heard nothing. She eased the handle down and opened the door an inch.

A young woman slept, bundled up in red sheets and blankets upon a simple bed, her long dark hair pooling all around her as she drooled on her pillow.

Not him. Vert pointed the tip of the wand at the woman, weighing up the risk. Better to find him first. She may be useful in killing Mithras.

She closed the door with a soft click and crept along the narrow hall past more empty rooms toward the pair of crimson silhouettes a few doors down. Pressing her ear to the door, she closed her eyes and held her breath.

'Daaaaaaaph? What are you reading?'

'A book, Astoria.'

The Greengrasses. Astoria and Daphne. A touch of hot anger seeped from the darkness, a bitter twist of it, turning like a blade in her heart and fading away. More shallow traitors.

'Is it a romance?' Astoria asked. 'Are you thinking about babies again? Do we need to get you a date with Mithras? You've held his hand now…'

A long sigh came through the thick wooden door. 'No.'

'You're no fun, Daph.' Astoria snickered. 'What happens when all this is done and we can have more of a life again?'

'I like this.'

'I know.' Astoria groaned and something wooden scraped across the stone. 'You just like sitting in the turret reading books. You know no nice quiet sensible boy is going to come bursting in here—'

A soft creak sent a flash of ice through Vert's veins and she flinched back from the door.

The door at the far end of the corridor swung open and a tall, auburn-haired woman cocked her head, her deep red eyes sweeping the corridor.

Merde. Vampire.

Vert crept backward, holding her breath.

The vampire sniffed the air and tucked a long broad steel blade beneath her arm, stalking forward and bursting into pale mist. She flowed under the door into the Greengrasses room.

'Enni!' Astoria cried. 'We had a whole team meeting about you doing this, you're not allowed to sneak into rooms in a creepy way. It upsets Daph. And Chasca.'

Vert paused at the door to the steps, straining her ears, but the low murmur didn't carry.

Time to get further away.

She climbed the turret, glancing at the pair of armchairs in the otherwise empty room on the floor above and following the steps up to a smooth, stone wall.

Strange. This is the highest turret. There should be one more room. From the dark sea lying beneath her thoughts, came a faint recollection of tapestries, bookcases, a broad desk, and a tall slim man standing with his arms tucked behind his back before a window overlooking the mountainside. Grindelwald's turret. His prison. It must be sealed.

Vert disapparated, stepping out beneath the floating glass lanterns and into the low light of the flickering white flames in the bronze brazier.

'Where has he gone?' she whispered. 'What is he doing?'

The shifting shadows cast by the drifting glass lanterns held only questions, and the dark well within her mind gave up nothing.

He killed his family. Joined Grindelwald. Why? A sacrifice for the magic of the ritual the sphinx spoke of?

'I will have to continue to observe.' Vert strode down the corridor and pushed open the door to room five. 'He will reappear again soon enough and then I can stalk him and learn what I need to learn.'

For now, I wait. It will not be for long.

She drew the door shut and swept back the hood of her robes. In the blurred distorted reflection of the small rune-carved silver pensieve, she glimpsed the streaks of dirt and ash and dust in her hair and across her pale cheeks and throat.

Vert pulled the wand from her pocket. 'Scourgify.'

The charm stripped the dirt from her hair and off her skin, but the wand fought her magic and the spell scraped at her skin, leaving it stinging.

She pulled her damp robes off and tossed them over the stack of books next to the pensive, staring at the green swirl upon her ring.

Only Vert.

Vert stripped off the rest, dropping the plain black bra and tight dark shorts atop the pile and cleaning them with a jab of her wand. The cold crept in from the still chill of the catacombs and she shivered, running her hands down over her body, studying every inch of smooth pale skin. But the darkness at the heart of her thoughts gave up none of its secrets.

Only Vert. She cleaned herself, gritting her teeth at the sting of the cleaning charms.

A few stubborn patches of dirt lingered, dark smears across her breast, ribs, and hip. Vert poked the wand at them again, but a faint shadow clung to her hip even through the sharp sting of the cleaning spell.

I need a better wand. This one is a poor match for me.

She dried her clothes off with a murmur and pulled her underwear back on as the steam rose off the loose dark robes, streaming across the pile of old, worn books.

Vert set the wand down atop the book heap and dressed. It rolled down into the gap between Charming the Mind and The Weight of a Soul.

Mithras will appear again soon as he did in Polans. She polished the green swirl on her silver ring and drew together everything she'd learnt since waking and speaking with the sphinx. And someone following him will know what I need to know.

AN: Boring old self-promo bit!

linktr . ee / mjbradley