CenturionEon: Hello, and thank you so much, this warms my heart. I'm glad you do and I hope to deliver more quality content.

Firebrand18: Hello! Yes, I'm glad you noticed that little detail. Shaving someone there with you does make it easier as you're not alone and have some support. I can't think how daunting it must be to be all alone and have everyone counting on you otherwise you'll die. One of Alex's traits is his protectiveness over his loved ones, so he'll never let Harry deal with threats alone.

Antoine's connection was always something I had in mind when starting this book - someone who's made bad choices but still is human enough so people can relate to him. I didn't want a one-dimensional, moustache-twirling villain. But rest assured, nothing with Antoine is clear and he does have more skeletons in the wardrobe, so to say. And you're right, things do have to get worse before they get better. A lot worse. . .

As Alexander stood in front of the large windows of the Chateau, his hands in his pockets, he breathed in the fresh air and absorbed the beauty of the view. The summer sun warmed his skin. Aside from the chirping birds and the slight breeze rustling the leaves, it was quiet.

His grandfather and he had arrived via the Floo Network, which Alexander had conveniently forgotten about and hadn't been keen to experience again. His body had been coated in soot. Initially, he thought they would travel to Paris by aeroplane or train. Instead, they arrived in a room with a grand fireplace that seemed clean and stately.

In awe of the lavish room, he dropped his jaw. As if from a film set in the past, the furnishings were luxurious and rich. It was much more spacious than their house in Notting Hill, and for a moment Alexander wished he had grown up here. When he reached the arch window, his grandfather pulled the cord to open the heavy, tall curtains.

And yet, there was still an air of unease about the place despite the summer sun. It was a tad unsettling. Alexander shuddered, a prickly sensation running down his spine. A coldness emanated from the marble walls which had nothing to do with the temperature. Weird.

Alexander wasn't sure what to think when Grandfather suggested a short holiday before returning to school. Since he was a child, he had always wanted to visit Paris. It was where their family came from, and where his grandfather loved to travel for Ministry business. Alexander's ultimate dream, as a young boy, was to accompany his grandfather.

But now he wasn't so sure. He didn't know what to think anymore. Despite the twinge of guilt he felt, he could not trust his grandfather.

Over the summer, he hadn't discovered anything new; every book said the same thing: that Antoine Laurent was an upstanding and brilliant wizard who accomplished so many achievements in his life. There was no connection with Voldemort or Tom Riddle even – no one outside of Hogwarts had even heard of the latter. Alexander was starting to become tired of going around in circles.

He also wished for Eliot to be here with him; his presence could calm him immensely with his deep, baritone voice and his northern accent. But Eliot had told him to enjoy and that was what Alexander was doing. He vowed not to think about his grandfather's past (or possible present). It wasn't worth running his holiday over, so he decided to be civil.

Of course, it wasn't just a holiday, not with Grandfather as he had one or two duties to carry out while he was in Paris with the French Ministry. Unavoidable were his words. It was ordered straight from Fudge. Whatever. But other than that, it was going quite okay.

Sometimes, the atmosphere between them was awkward and their conversations stilted as Alexander gave one-word answers to his grandfather's questions. Grandfather could tell something was up as he frowned slightly while looking at him. Alexander couldn't tell him. His mouth closed up like he had Hagrid's thick treacle tart stuck there.

Nonetheless, it wasn't all misery.

On some occasions, Alexander played his violin on a lazy afternoon – a classical melody – and Grandfather listened while seated on a plush armchair, his eyes closed and head tilted back. Alexander felt serene, a sense of contentedness lay in his stomach.

He never admit it aloud but he cherished these moments like no other despite his current emotions because, at the end of the day, he still loved his grandfather. He was just afraid it might change if he found out something horrible.

∞ ϟ 9¾

During the first few days, Grandfather took him to his favourite places when he was a boy, and Alexander soaked this all up. Sometimes, to Alexander's surprise, Grandfather would excitedly beckon him to see something. Grandfather's face seemed soft and youthful as he pointed out the Butte Bergeyre (a secret village in the heart of the city with a vineyard that Alexander enjoyed exploring) or the Square du Vert Galant.

The crowds and new surroundings distracted him enough to be genuinely awed and intrigued, and he even caught his grandfather smiling brightly at him. It had been a long time since he felt like this, enthralled and curious about the world while trusting his grandfather to show it to him. They ate at vibrant restaurants and viewed the iconic landmarks. He wished he had a camera so he could capture this.

Alexander discovered a particular favourite place with Berthillon that he kept coming back to – a dazzling shop that sold luxury ice cream and sorbet on the Île Saint-Louis. Grandfather had to drag him away before he purchased all the flavours there. He also visited various chocolatiers and tasted strange flavours he never dreamed before of including chestnut honey, grapefruit, and basil.

He always had a sweet tooth so this was like heaven to him and so he indulged himself. The restlessness and anxiety of the past year disappeared like a drifting balloon. Grandfather was merely content to see him happy, so he frequently used his money.

However, some days, Grandfather shut himself in his office and managed his work. He left Alexander to his own devices and warned him not to get in any trouble. It was during this period that Alexander found time to send letters to his friends.

He was surprised to see Hedwig swoop in through the windows, especially as she had probably flown over the channel to get here. Harry's letter thanked him for his presents (sweets, chocolate and a miniature golden snitch ball) and birthday wishes. Alexander wrote him back with a promise to tell him if the Dursleys were troubling him. He'd come and get Harry himself regardless of what his oaf of an uncle said or did.

Alexander then moved on to write Ron's letter:

Hey Ron,

Nice to hear from you, mate. Do me a favour, yeah, and never pick up the phone again. Seriously, I think my eardrums are still ringing from last time. If I get the time, I'll show you how to use it. It's not that hard, and your dad might know. Why don't you ask him?

So, Egypt, huh? That sounds amazing! Hope you're having a good time. Tell your dad I said congratulations on winning the Grand Prize. And say hello to your mum from me.

I'll be honest, I'm slightly envious that you get to see all the Mummies and tombs. You're so lucky. Imagine what you might discover. It sort of reminds me of the old Indiana Jones films. Eliot and I watched that on VHS. Oh, shit, you probably don't know what that is. Forget about it.

Tell me all about Egypt when I see you next. Don't know when that'll be. My grandfather hasn't told me how long we're staying in Paris. I'll see you on the train if I don't.

Best wishes,

Alexander.

Alexander's letter to Hermione was slightly longer and he took his time with it. Once he started writing he couldn't stop:

Dear Hermione,

How am I just finding out that you were in the South of France? You could have told me before. I think we just missed each other. You're back in England now, I'm guessing? I'm in Paris but I could have come to you. There's a train that takes me there in four hours.

But anyway, tell me about your holiday, I'd love to hear about it. Hopefully, you did see the sights and not just study, right? Though I wouldn't be surprised if you did. You'd be pleased to know that I finished all of my homework and did some extra reading. Aren't you proud of me then? Not sure about Harry and Ron but I expect – as you do too – that they probably haven't got much done.

So, South of France? I'm imagining beaches and an endless blue sea. I've never been so you'll have to tell me in your next letter. Paris is incredible too.

You know, I'm surprised at how much I'm enjoying this holiday even though I told you I wouldn't in my previous letter. Things are going surprisingly well with my grandfather. He doesn't scold me as much and he takes me to all these brilliant places. This is the most he's ever spent time with me, can you believe it? He's still working often which is fairly annoying but I find time to preoccupy myself.

We're staying in my family home. It's huge, by the way. I mean, I knew we had a house in Paris, Grandfather had mentioned it before, but I didn't know it'll be this big. There are so many rooms to fit your family and Ron's and still have rooms left over. Imagine that! You'll be pleased to know there's also a library. I can't describe it well enough to do it justice, you'll have to come over someday to see for yourself.

My favourite part of the Chateau, however, would have to be the orchard. It's very pretty, I'll admit, especially because it's the summer right now. There are apple trees and pear trees that surround it. The apples are this rich red colour while the pears are green. The trees are so tall it's like they're touching the clouds and stars above. They must have been growing for a long time. Before my grandfather's time, I think.

There are these primroses that grow near the house. Different colours as well. That's your favourite flower, right? I might bring some when I come back.

As for the city itself, it's remarkable. The architecture is something I think you'll enjoy and there's plenty of history to it. There are books I'm sure you've read. I've found that Paris and London are similar in a bustling way and the people are frantic. Maybe I'm betraying London by saying this but Paris is a far more beautiful city; yes, the Seine River might be smaller than the Thames but the bridges are more picturesque. I don't have a camera to show you, unfortunately.

Anyway, before this becomes an extremely long letter – though it possibly has – I'm curious to know what you're doing right now. Have you got ahead with the reading? I haven't got mine yet. Shocking, I know.

Before I forget, is there any word about Harry? I'm worried about him staying with those Muggles. He'll never tell us if he's in trouble – we both know what Harry's like. Also, do me a favour and don't reveal this to Harry, okay? That I'm worried. Not even to Ron.

I hope you're well and I can't wait to see you guys. If not in Diagon Alley, then definitely on the first of September.

Yours,

Alexander.

Alexander was left to explore by himself, as long as he didn't go too far or leave the city. He hadn't been lying to Hermione, the outside of the house was the most captivating.

A few metres away from the Chateau there was a small lake and the water was film-star blue. As he leaned over to peer at his reflection, he saw a crystal-clear reflection of his face with his eyes a light blue and the sun shining on them.

There was a path leading up to the Chateau and primroses – from pale creams to deep yellow – grew upon the grass. In the middle of the orchard, surrounded by the apple and pear trees, Alexander lay often with his eyes closed as the warm rays of the sun washed his worries away. It was the closest thing he felt to peace.

Inside, a few of the rooms were locked while others had large white sheets covering the furniture. It seemed that no one had properly lived here in years. It was drastically different from the Burrow, which had been warm, cosy and welcoming, just like its inhabitants. The Chateau, however, felt like cool, wooden flooring with splinters.

One afternoon, Alexander walked through the hallways, bouncing a tennis ball against the walls and catching it with one hand to amuse himself. Suddenly, the ball accidentally bounced against a door that crept open. Alexander paused. He believed the door to have been closed and a sprinkling of curiosity arose within him.

He reached out to fully open the door as he stepped forward. The room appeared to be untouched like someone had cleaned it as there were no cobwebs or collected dust anywhere. They left everything the way it was.

He crossed the doorway and glanced around. The walls were painted a deep shade of blue. Alexander's breath hitched and an alien feeling overcame him. He didn't need proof to know whose room this belonged to. As if he were trespassing, he thought someone was trying to sneak up behind him, grab him by the shoulder, and drag him away.

He hesitated, sucking his bottom lip in, as he wrestled with his brain. He released his lip and inhaled. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to take a quick look. It wasn't as if he was planning to wreck the place. He just wanted to see. No one could fault him for that. And Grandfather was in his study. He wouldn't know.

Alexander walked in and sniffed the air. Although there were belongings, there was no smell or sense of life. He shivered, hesitating on whether he should go back before this becomes a violation, but his inquisitiveness was stronger. He couldn't help it; he'd always been a curious child wanting to know more about the world. He used to drive Grandfather insane with all his questions and it was Eliot who answered with exasperated patience.

A double bed lay in the centre pushed up against the wall. The covers and bedsheets were silk. Alexander was half-tempted to jump on it and press his cheek on the soft silkiness. A couple of stuffed animals rested on the bedframe. A polished broomstick slouched in the corner – a comet that must have been impressive for its time. Harry and Ron probably appreciated it more than he did.

His gaze drifted. There was a bookshelf that had a couple of Hogwarts textbooks. He stared and wondered if he could come back and see them later. There was also a decent amount of Stephen King novels with old-fashioned covers. Alexander's eyebrows rose. Seemed like his mother was into horror novels.

He moved across to a large, beautifully crafted desk. A pencil pot and books covered the surface. Yet, it was the large, antiquated camera that caught his attention. In its day, it must have been shiny and new. To his surprise, it was an ordinary muggle camera as the pictures were still. He pressed the button and images flickered. They were blurry and the quality wasn't very sharp, but they featured landscapes and the orchard.

Alexander's eyes widened and his mouth parted. Other pictures included his mother and her friends when they visited the Chateau. She seemed to be a natural in the photos, each smile bright and confident. Alexander surmised that she liked being in front of the camera.

There was one photo that stood out from all the others, however. Alexander didn't recognize the man who had his hands in his coat pockets. Still, he appeared faintly familiar. Contrary to his mother's impish grin, he appeared solemn and uncomfortable – this man looked as if he'd never smiled in his life. A telephone box stood behind him, indicating that it was London. He must have been another one of Amelie's friends. Looking for him now was likely a fruitless endeavour. Madam Hooch mentioned last year that her friends were either dead or untraceable.

Alexander placed the camera down and was about to walk off when his foot tripped over something. He looked down to see a loose floorboard shoved to the side. He was about to straighten it when a flash of colour caught his eye. In anticipation of the contents, he bent down and opened it, his stomach tightening. He prayed it wouldn't be a cluster of rats. His prayers were answered because, in the middle of the sandy floor, was a tattered pink cardboard box.

Alexander felt wary but still picked up the box. Dust drifted off the top and became lodged in his throat as he blew it, triggering a coughing fit. After he'd calmed down, he chewed his lip as he took off the cover.

It seemed to be an assortment of personal possessions. He sat on the chair and placed it on the desk as he inspected the items. Some were intriguing: a stack of letters; a spare quill and ink; a handful of colourful sweets, which Alexander suspected was a secret stash; a moleskin pouch that clattered money when he shook it; omnioculars; a paper that looked like an unfinished script; a pack of red and black Marlboro with a lighter; and an unfamiliar reflective but transparent glass sphere with a map of the world.

Underneath all this was a thick-paged bound book that looked like a journal. His heart jumped. He didn't want to read something so personal, it was a violation of their privacy. But his mother wasn't here. Alexander hoped she mind.

He sighed then placed the floorboard back in its place. He walked out and shut the door before peering both ways to see if anyone was in the hallway. It was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and then swiftly raced to his room with the box held tightly to his chest. Upon entering, he gathered the objects and placed them in his trunk, beneath the compartment for his clothes.

∞ ϟ 9¾

In the time that he'd been on holiday, Alexander had come to terms with the Metro system and could travel and navigate his way so long as he had money. This wasn't a problem. He sometimes travelled alone within a limited distance agreed upon with his grandfather.

This time he tucked the journal into his jacket, pressing it against his chest and out of sight. His grandfather allowed him to leave so long as he was back at the Chateau by seven o'clock and not a minute later. He agreed. It was the only way that he could be sure he wasn't going to be disturbed. He had a horrible feeling that if his grandfather discovered the written object and who it was by, he'd rip it off Alexander. Besides, this would let him learn the type of person his mother was, through her own words and mind.

He also kept his mother's metal lighter in his pocket and occasionally fiddled with it by opening and closing it. For some reason, it was comforting and addicting.

This morning, he visited the Parc Monceau, a public park in the heart of Paris and spent his time walking around. He sat on a nearby bench. Mothers with pushchairs, a couple, and some morning joggers went past. It would be a good place to read, especially during the early afternoon, and he made a mental note to come again.

He looked down at the journal in his hands. It was wrinkled and so he had to be careful when handling it as it felt delicate. He flicked to the beginning page and written in cursive was: 'this journal belongs to Amelie Laurent, a future famous actress, anyone else keeps out before I turn you into a hairless rat.' He grinned and a soft chuckle escaped his chest.

Alexander briefly flipped through the pages and saw that the writing was tiny and crammed into every corner of each page. Sometimes there was a diagram or drawing or two. He knew it was going to take him a while to fully read it, and he will possibly need a magnifying glass for assistance.

One of the most memorable things to happen to him during his holiday also took place in the park. It seemed that a girl had taken quite a fancy to him.

As he read a page from the journal on his lap, he held the cigarette lighter. Taking it out, he opened and closed it mindlessly, making the metal 'click' each time. He was interrupted by a voice.

"You know smoking kills, right? Haven't you been watching the news?" The voice was unfamiliar and spoken in French.

Alexander peered up, startled, as he halted his lighter movement. A girl stood in front of him; she appeared to be his age and tilted her head at him. She wore a skirt and a pink shirt with a white headband. Alexander flushed; she was pretty, that much was obvious.

"Huh?" he muttered unattractively, then cleared his throat, responding in French, though it was a touch rough. It had been a while since he had a proper conversation. "I'm sorry, what?"

"It's just that you look too young to smoke. You know, the lighter. My dad has one just like it." She gestured toward the lighter in his hand. The girl stared curiously at him, her arms crossed playfully.

Alexander shook his head and closed the journal. He placed it back in his coat. "I don't smoke," he denied. "It's not mine."

"Ah, so you stole it then? That's a crime. That makes you a thief." There was a tiny smirk on her lips.

"What, no!" Alexander exclaimed, his mouth agape, "I -"

The girl laughed and boldly sat down him on the bench. Alexander was taken aback.

"I'm only joking. Promise. My name's Esmée by the way. With two 'E's. What's yours?"

This is how he came into contact with Esmée. Now it wasn't his mother's journal that took him to the park but the brown-haired girl who flashed him a coy smile as she leaned in to kiss him. It was a shock at first, and she giggled at how aflame his face became.

She was 14 years old, a year older than him, and had lived in Paris all of her life, fairly close to the park. Alexander won't lie. He liked the attention she gave him and he rather enjoyed kissing a pretty girl. Who wouldn't? Her kisses were soft and her tongue tasted like strawberries. She also liked the way he looked.

"Have you ever been told you're handsome?" She asked once, running her fingers gently across his cheekbones. "It was the first thing I noticed when I saw you." Alexander still wasn't accustomed to her directness.

He blinked. "Er, no, they haven't." He paused, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I am?" he asked quietly.

"Ça Alors, Alex!" Esmée barked a laugh, her tone high-pitched. She reached up to run her hand through his hair. Alexander closed his eyes. "Have you seen yourself? Your hair is so soft and your eyes are to die for!" She giggled and looked at him teasingly. "Also, the way you speak French is just so funny."

Alexander sighed and rolled his eyes with a faint smile on his lips. She poked fun at his accent, but he couldn't help being raised in London.

Besides that, he felt very pleased. His confidence in his looks swelled. Eliot had mentioned that he'd grown taller since last summer, so Alexander took to measuring himself.

In early June, he noticed two enormous spots on his face in the bathroom mirror and almost had a breakdown. Well, at least, they looked enormous to him. Eliot thought he was overreacting. But he was glad that Esmée didn't mind it too much, or perhaps she hadn't noticed. Besides, Alexander wouldn't see her again when he returned. This was just a bit of fun for both of them.

Truthfully, he didn't know much about Esmée. They didn't talk much. Sometimes, they walked around the park and Alexander wished to hold her hand but was self-conscious about people seeing him and throwing him weird glances. So, his arms were kept flat to his sides.

Esmée had no trouble grabbing his arm or his hand to pull him along. They shared kisses behind a large tree. Sure, she did not make him feel dizzy like Helen did, but she was fun to be around and he was comfortable in her presence. Plus, her kisses made him feel warm and fuzzy.

At first, the kisses were more of a pressing together of lips. Alexander was ashamed to say that his technique wasn't the finest. There was a lack of rhythm and his body was too stiff.

"No, no, Alex – not like that," smiled Esmée encouragingly. "See like this. Relax your muscles." And she pulled him in.

Esmée was patient with his awkwardness. She found it cute apparently. Alexander turned redder than the apples that grew in the orchard when she teased him. She had a knack for doing that to his chagrin.

He also didn't know what to do with his hands. They lay at his side unmoving as Esmée cupped his face. She grabbed his hands and guided them to her waist without breaking the kiss.

Alexander then let his instinct guide him and embraced her more firmly, pulling her flush against him. She yelped in surprise and then became more passionate. By listening to the soft noises she made, he could tell if she was enjoying it or not. Now that he is more confident, he initiates some gestures, much to Esmée's joy.

It wasn't Alexander's first kiss, mind you; that had been with a girl in his primary school when he was ten. It had been a shy peck and no acknowledgement of it afterwards on his part. He recalled feeling embarrassed at the time and didn't know what to say to her, so he blatantly ignored her. It was rude looking back.

He and Esmée had shared their first French kiss, however. Alexander smirked. A French kiss in France, how ironic. Neither of them had expected it.

Alexander felt her tongue brush up against his lips. He frowned, not knowing what this strange texture was. He was about to break away and ask her not to do that –

The next thing he knew her tongue slipped into his mouth and his brain shut up. He sounded an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, like a low grumble. After a few seconds, they pulled back for air.

"W-what was that?" Alexander could barely speak. He blinked several times.

Esmée had a pink flush on his cheeks and was smiling shyly. "I don't know. I didn't decide it – it just kind of happened. I wanted more from the kiss and so –" She bit her lip then asked, "Was it okay?"

"Um, yeah. It was great." He grinned. "Can we do it again?"

Esmée laughed and grabbed the back of his neck to pull him in.

Once, Alexander felt a pinch of guilt in his chest as he knew he still liked Helen and would love to kiss her like he did Esmée. He wondered if she'd kiss like this as well. But the thought immediately evaporated from his mind when Esmée leaned forward.

This whole thing had placed him in a delightful mood for the rest of the holiday. He realised his ego had probably soared too.

31st August 1976

I'm beginning my fifth year tomorrow. First of September same as always. I won't lie – though technically I'll probably only be lying to myself – I am excited. Probably for the wrong reasons. This year is important for all of us as it'll determine my marks and thus my future.

Or so my dearest father claims.

I want nothing to do with it. I've decided I'm already going to be an actress when I leave Hogwarts – or maybe I'll write a wizarding play. I can picture it already – me rolling in cash and my name in bright shiny lights.

Speaking of my father, he's been particularly controlling this summer. That may have been because of the boy he caught in my bedroom. Okay, so, I may have forgotten to lock the door. But these things happen. How's a girl to know? And he was supposed to be at work. Still, it was hilarious to see how red his face became from all the anger. He looked like a pressed tomato almost.

Ah, poor, poor Michael. He didn't deserve the lashing he got from my father. Now because of my father, I'm not going to see Michael again. God that's so unfair! Michael is too afraid of crossing my father – most people are really. He's ruined all of my fun. That's what he is: a fun ruiner if that's even a word.

Honestly, I didn't care all that much about Michael. He was one of the best-looking in my year and a good kisser so I'm only sorry to have missed that. And, yeah, I might have said some things to my father but I cannot fully remember that right now. It was ugly that's all I recall.

I don't know why he's been such a bastard recently. I mean it isn't the Middle Ages, I am allowed to kiss and sleep with whomever I want. Truly. And as much as I hate it, he is my father, not my jailer.

This summer I've spent mostly at Yaz's place. Her house is smaller but her parents are so much cooler! They don't ask her questions and let us do whatever we want basically. It's amazing, such a breath of fresh air from Mr Controlling.

I can't stand my father anymore. Everything about him pisses me off from his smug, superior smirk towards others and the slimy people he associates with. Urgh! I have to see them in the house all the time. I can't stand Lucius Malfoy but most of all Corban Yaxley. There's something about that man that just gives me the creeps. Haughty, blunt, and domineering is everything that he is – just like my father in a sense.

I hear them sometimes, in the meetings they have. I don't like the way he talks about Muggleborns like they're scum on his shoes, and I especially loathe the way my father just laughs and does nothing to discourage him. It makes me feel sick to my stomach!

I often think there's an impenetrable wall between me and my father. I still remember when he used to bring me presents when I was younger and take me to wizard plays. He doesn't do that now. Now all he cares about is working and having secret meetings at our house. He doesn't care about anything. Not about me. I bet he doesn't even remember Mother.

But it's whatever. I don't care anymore. Not really. And I'm not stupid. I know where my father stands. It's despicable, his way of thinking. Can you imagine that he wants me to think the same? I don't and I never will! How can I? It's wrong.

SO, I've figured that maybe it's better to be my father's greatest disappointment; I'll gladly carry that name with me for the rest of her life like a prestigious medal. I'm not afraid of being called a traitor. Quite proud of it.

It is just torture being in the same house as him. All I can do now is count the days until I can go back to Hogwarts. Not long left now.

Hello guys. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I wasn't quite sure of it. Hopefully, it came out all right. A lot of discoveries by our main boy. We're also back to Alexander's perspective, but who knows, I might focalise it from someone else's. Let me know if you want to see a specific character's point of view.

My days now are filled with Zoom interviews and phone calls, so I'm not sure when the next chapter will be but it won't be long (fingers crossed).

I'm eager to know your thoughts, so please don't hesitate.