Somehow the longest chapter of year three. I've no idea how it's managed to overtake the finale, but it has. Once again, I'm not quite sure how I feel about this chapter. The last scene in particular is a bit different to what I normally do - it's a bit long and winded, and perhaps hard to follow in some places, still I hope you enjoy it all the same.

As is usual with my stories, there will be a break between this year and the next. As of yet I do not know when I will begin posting chapters from year four, but a the very least there will be a gap of a month or two. I'm only human, after all, and I need time to get a headstart on year four. I imagine I'll start posting earlier if I'm pestered enough.

I've started a Discord. I intend for it to be a small, relaxed server - nothing to fancy or grand. If you have any questions about my writing, want to discuss my work, or simply want to hang out, you're more than welcome to join. The link is in my profile.

Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.

The next chapter will NOT be published the coming Saturday.


Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate

The Blackest of Nights

XIX. Knightfall

Bright white light slipped past closed eyelids. Harry squinted, rolling over with a groan.

"I'm too young for heaven . . ." he murmured irritably, "Send me back."

Someone chuckled from across the room.

"Too right you are, Harry."

Harry shot up, clawing at his eyes with the back of his hand. When his arms fell, his eyes were assaulted by none other than Albus Dumbledore, bedecked in offensively bright robes coloured purple and scarlet. Harry could just barely make out the vague outline of the hospital wing behind him.

"Er - hello Professor." said Harry awkwardly, reaching blindly for his glasses. He eventually managed to press them gently atop his nose.

"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore drew up a chair with a graceful wave of his wand, "I hope I find you well - or, as well as once can be after all that happened."

Harry shifted. Images flickered across his mind - curly black hair, a thestral of silver and blue, and flames of hot gold -

"What happened?"

Dumbledore paused, frowning.

"I was about to ask you that myself." he admitted, "Do you remember much?"

The flames of gold grew hotter. Bellatrix's laugh clawed at his skull, and the thestral's glowing light crumbled beneath a sea of dementors -

Harry shivered.

"Yes, but -"

A limp body lay upon the ground. Harry watched as fur slid back into pale flesh, the unmoving body of Professor Lupin glowing beneath what little remained of the full moon.

Harry looked up. His hands balled up nervously in his lap.

"Sir, is Professor Lupin - is he -"

Dumbledore turned. Harry's eyes followed his gaze, slipping across the room and upon a bed in the far corner. An ebony blanket lay atop something Harry couldn't see - a body of some sort, curled into a ball as stiff as ice. A feeling just as cold settled within Harry's stomach.

Pointless.

"Lestrange, I assume." Dumbledore murmured.

Harry nodded. His head fell, his eyes latched determinedly to his sweaty fingertips.

"His death was not in vain." Dumbledore muttered, "He and Professor Snape succeeded in protecting Mr. Longbottom, the youngest Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger as well. I have spoken to all of them already. All three confess they could not have escaped without him."

"He fought off Bellatrix," said Harry, "Him and Snape."

"A feat impressive enough on its own." admitted Dumbledore, "Unfortunately, very few will ever truly appreciate the sacrifices he made. Far more worrisome events have occurred."

"Sir?"

"The Hogwarts Wards, Harry." he whispered solemnly, "Nearly a ninth of them were destroyed. By Fiendfyre, no less."

Dumbledore sank further into his seat, his fingers tapping along the side of his armchair uncertainly.

"Such a thing is almost unheard of." said Dumbledore, "Fiendfyre is evocative magic - in most cases, its strength is determined by one's desire to destroy, rather than their own magical power. It is notoriously difficult to control."

"In most cases?" asked Harry uncertainly.

"In most cases." Dumbledore nodded, "It is ancient magic. Without incantation - nothing more than pure, raw intent. Still, the Hogwarts Wards are abnormally powerful. Until recently, I was certain not even Fiendfyre could not damage them to such a degree."

He paused, his fingers still tapping uncomfortably along the armchair.

"Not anymore, though."

"Not anymore, yes."

He slowly rose from his armchair, which wilted to dust as he did. A withered hand rose to his face, removing his half-moon spectacles and wiping at his face. He replaced them upon his face, and for the first time in as long as Harry had known him, Albus Dumbledore truly looked his age.

"The destruction of the Hogwarts Wards is a great deal, Harry." he confessed, "The eyes of the entire Wizarding World are upon us now. Such magic has not been seen since the end of the last Wizarding War."

Harry fidgeting nervously. Try though he did, he could not bring himself to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"Minister Fudge has already addressed the press. He blames Bellatrix, of course. He seems to think she's simply altered the color of her magic. For the sake of spreading fear, of course."

Dumbledore paused, thinking carefully.

"It's a plausible theory." he admitted, "And certainly an excellent excuse. Much of the public accepts it as the nothing more than the truth. I, however, find myself unconvinced."

Harry looked up. His hands shook beneath the sheets of his bed.

"You don't think it was Bellatrix, do you?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"No Harry, I do not."

Harry ducked his head. He let out a slow, shaky breath.

"There were so many." he whispered. "More than I'd ever seen before. I tried using my Patronus, and it worked for a bit, but -"

This way was so much easier.

"I've been so angry." Harry admitted, "At - At Voldemort, at my relatives, at - at everything."

Words failed him. Harry took a deep breath, straightening up.

"This way was so much easier. I know I shouldn't have, but -"

I did. And it's too late to change that.

A weight fell upon his bed. Harry looked up, watching as Dumbledore settled himself along the edge of Harry's bed, removing his spectacles once more. He dabbed at them meticulously with the ends of his robes before replacing them upon his crooked nose.

"I was young once, long ago." Dumbledore muttered, "In my youth, I too often found myself in situations I couldn't truly explain. I had a thirst for knowledge, a desire to see and change the world only matched by one other. Together we decided to explore the world - or, as much of it as we could at our young age.

"One night, we came across something rather odd. A sea of countrymen, all marching towards a misshapen house on the edge of a hill. Naturally, we were curious. We hid amongst the crowd, transfiguring our robes into leather and producing pitchforks and torches that matched their own.

"We arrived after a half hour. There weren't many within the house - a young woman, her husband, one of their mothers, and a young boy. Their son, I imagine."

Dumbledore paused, grappling for words. His fingers wrapped tight around the edge of Harry's bed.

"The boy wasn't very old. Four or five, I think. But he felt familiar. Like myself. Abnormal. Unusual. And slowly, I began to realise just why the sea of countrymen was marching beneath the cover of the night."

Harry took a deep breath.

"What happened?"

"We stopped them." said Dumbledore simply, "We took a more benevolent approach at first. But there were hundreds of them, and skilled though we were, the both of us were quite young. Eventually, we changed tactics."

Harry looked up. His eyes pressed gently against the pale blue of Dumbledore's -

A furious dragon of silver and white flames rose higher into the air. He watched as the clouds evaporated, leaving its path barren.

The winds churned around them. Albus heard the shouts and yelling grow louder, but he ignored them, focusing on how he felt. He pictured the boy across the hill, the family that refused his own growth, everything that held him back, preventing him from becoming more -

Pale blue flames joined his. A boy his age stood across from him, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. An eagle of sapphire screeched, its wings slicing through the sea of countrymen below. Not even their bodies remained to fall to the floor, for the fire consumed all in its path.

"Gellert." he grimaced, struggling to hold his wand upright, "They're gone. They're all gone."

The dragon of fire suddenly felt more difficult to control. Albus strained, both hands wrapped tight around his wand.

"Good." murmured Gellert. His eyes, both a colour different than the other, shone blue and silver beneath the light of the fires, "They deserve it."

Harry looked away. A strange, uncomfortable feeling welled up in his stomach.

"There will come a time, Harry, when you must choose between what is right, and what is easy." the headmaster muttered softly, "It is my hope you will make a better choice than I."

"That was Grindelwald, wasn't it?" Harry whispered. Dumbledore nodded, "I knew the two of you were close, but -"

"We had much in common. Alone, but brilliant. Full of ambition. A desire to change the world. Much like yourself, I imagine."

"Maybe." whispered Harry, "But I don't know if I'm ready to change the world just yet."

I don't know if I should, either.

Dumbledore's eyes bore into his own.

"In many ways, no one is quite worthy of such an ask." he said slowly, "And yet someone must. For if not you, then it will be someone else. There are others far worse than you, Harry."

Harry nodded, a girl of scarlet eyes and abnormal beauty sitting briefly amongst his mind's eye.

"I suppose so."

Harry straightened up again, forcing himself to hold his head high.

"Does it ever scare you?" he asked uncertainly, "What you did, that day?"

Dumbledore's features wrinkled, his breaths suddenly shaky.

"It didn't, back then." he admitted, "And yet now, I find myself wishing more than anything that I'd never raised my wand."

"Even though you might've died?"

"Even though I might've died." the headmaster whispered, "I ask myself, from time to time, why I did it. I was a different man back then, to be fair."

"But?"

"But," Albus continued, "I have another theory as well."

His eyes twinkled. Within them, Harry could just barely make out the ghost of an image.

Blonde hair. Eyes, each a colour different than the other. Tall and lean, with a crooked yet charming smile.

"Gellert Grindelwald."

Dumbledore sighed.

"We do peculiar things in the names of those we hold dear, Harry." he confessed, "Something you can relate to, I'm sure."

Harry nodded solemnly, the memory of Bellatrix and the dementors still fresh in his mind.

"I'll be better." he promised quietly, "I'll control myself, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again -"

"You don't have to tell me, Harry." Dumbledore allowed himself a faint chuckle, "I should know. I've lived it."

Harry quieted. His eyes slowly wandered the room, eventually falling upon a copy of the Daily Prophet in the far corner. He could just barely make out the title from where he sat.

'Hogwarts Wards destroyed for the first time in a millennia!'

"It's a big deal, isn't it?" muttered Harry.

"To many, yes." Dumbledore sighed, "Destructive magic to this degree is seldom seen. You've attracted the attention of the entire Wizarding World. France, Japan, Germany, Asia, and the Americas in particular seem rather interested."

"They don't know it was me though, do they?"

"No, they don't."

"Will you tell them?"

"No, Harry, I will not." he paused, staring at him, "I imagine I am one of few capable of understanding why you did it. It would be more than a little hypocritical to share your secret with the world."

Harry nodded.

"I must, however, implore you to never repeat that feat again." Dumbledore added, "As headmaster of Hogwarts, it is my duty to ensure the safety of my students. If you prove a true threat to their wellbeing, I will have no choice but to ask you to leave the school grounds and not come back."

Harry nodded soberly.

"Do they think it's me?" he asked eventually, "Do they even know I was there?"

"Your name is not officially listed in the papers." said Dumbledore, "Just as Mr. Longbottom's, Mr. Weasley's, or Miss Granger's names are not present either. You should know, however, that your body was found by the Aurors. The Ministry may, at the very least, suspect your involvement."

"Fudge doesn't seem the type to believe it."

"No, he does not." Dumbledore agreed, "Most won't. They fear the truth. Very rarely do we fear the truth more than the unknown, but this is such a case."

Silence lingered for a moment. At last, Dumbledore straightened up, wiping dust from his robes.

"Is there anything else you would like to ask me, Harry?" asked Dumbledore, "I suspect Madam Pomfrey will be returning soon."

"Er -" Harry thought for a moment, "Yes, actually."

He leaned forward, his fingers curling around the blanket atop his lap.

"When all of us were running into the forest." he let go of the blanket, "You didn't interfere. Why?"

Dumbledore nodded sagely, as though he had expected this.

"Our choices are our own, Harry." Dumbledore whispered, "It is not my place to interfere. Were you anyone else, I may have -"

"But?"

"But you are not." said Dumbledore simply, "Dark times lay before you. You, of all people, must learn the consequences of your own actions. For when you must next make a choice more meaningful than this, I will not be there, will I?"

Harry shook his head.

"I will be available for as long as I may, should you need it." Dumbledore assured him, "But I can not walk your path for you. That journey is entirely your own -"

Slam.

The Hospital Wing doors swung open, revealing none other than Madam Pomfrey.

"He needs rest, headmaster!" she yelped, striding across the room and towards a shelf bedecked in vials. Her fingers wrapped tight around two in particular, both filled to the brim with potions coloured a brilliant shade of green.

"I'm fine." Harry assured her, "Honestly, I reckon I'm ready to go -"

But Dumbledore shook his head.

"Though it may sadden you, I'm afraid you will have to spend what little is left of term in the Hospital Wing. Professors McGonagall, Snape, and I have all agreed that it is for the best, given all that has happened. It will give you time for the racket to die down, so to speak."

Harry nodded, unable to hide his disappointment.

"Open." Madam Pomfrey appeared next to him, a vial clutched firmly in her palm, "Open your mouth, Mr. Potter. It'll make you feel better."

Harry stared at the shimmering green liquid.

"For some reason, I doubt that."

Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. He watched on as Madam Pomfrey gently raised the glass to Harry's lips. The boy sighed, drinking the potion in a quick gulp. His eyebrows furrowed in distaste.

"Now rest." she told him before turning to Dumbledore, "He needs to rest, Headmaster, he's beyond tired -"

"Of course, Poppy," said the headmaster gently, "I'll be on my way shortly."

Harry watched as he rose to his feet.

"In two days, following the end of term, you will be on your way back home." said Dumbledore, "Until then, I suggest you do as Madam Pomfrey says, and relax."

"Do I have to go back?" sighed Harry.

"For a time." said Dumbledore seriously, "It is for your own safety. If not, I would not ask this of you."

Harry nodded slowly, watching as Dumbledore strode away.

"The Greengrass sisters left these for you." the headmaster said, plucking two bags of Chocolate Frogs from the end of the bed, "And Miss Lovegood attempted to send you what I believe was a radish, though Madam Pomfrey has since confiscated it -"

Harry snorted.

"Stay well, Harry." Dumbledore winked at him as he made his way towards the doors, "We'll be amongst many new faces soon."

"Goodbye, Professor."

The wooden doors swung closed, and the headmaster disappeared. It was only when he was gone that Harry had time to ponder just what his parting words truly meant.

-(xXx)-

A chorus of sober applause filled the room. Neville watched as the headmaster fell back into his seat, his own palms wrapped tight around the wooden table.

For once, it was warm. The golden flames from within the Forbidden Forest had purged nearly all of the dementors from Hogwarts, leaving the school in a warmth Neville hadn't felt in nearly a year.

Still, the coldness in his chest lingered.

His eyes slid to the end of the hall. Several rows of witches and wizards lined the entrance, bedecked in armored robes of scarlet. Ornate patterns of gold, black and silver slid down their robes.

Aurors.

He swept past each of their faces, gazing beneath their hoods and into their eyes. Some of them stared back. Neville looked away.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Hermione muttered. She too had been watching the Aurors, "Even after the whole Chamber of Secrets dilemma they never came -"

"That's different." said Ron seriously, "This is worse, much worse."

"Worse than students being petrified?"

Ron nodded, shoving his plate aside.

"Before last week, had you ever heard of Fiendfyre, Hermione?"

"No, of course not -"

"I had." said Ron, "Dad told us about it. It's special magic - no words, no wand motion - you just make it happen."

"I get that." Hermione hissed, "But just about every Dark Witch and Wizard in history has used it. What's so different now?"

"It was gold," muttered Ron. He glared at Hermione when she rolled her eyes, "Hermione, Fiendfyre isn't like normal magic. It's always the same strength, the same orange colour - always the same. The only real difference is how well you can control it."

"So?"

"So," Ron continued, looking thoroughly irritated, "when you see Fiendfyre that's different - Fiendfyre far more powerful than it should be - it's always a cause for concern, isn't it?"

"Because it shouldn't be possible?"

"Exactly." said Ron, pulling his plate back, "Dad reckons only someone like Dumbledore or You-Know-Who could do something like that."

Hermione frowned.

"They don't think it was Dumbledore, do they?"

Ron laughed.

"'Course not. Dumbledore wouldn't ever use magic like that, would he?"

"Gran said his Fiendfyre is silver." muttered Neville absentmindedly, "Silver and white. She said so in her letter last night."

Hermione paled. Ron rolled his eyes, helping himself to a serving of mashed potatoes.

"Alright, maybe he has then." he swallowed as spoonful before speaking again, "He's fought through two major wars, Hermione. Why are you surprised?"

"I suppose," mumbled Hermione. She turned back to her food, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

Silver and white.

Neville's eyes scanned the hall. There was a gap in the Slytherin table, between Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott. A boy his age should have sat there.

Gold.

Neville frowned, turning away from the Slytherin table and back to his food.

-(xXx)-

Click.

"For the love of God," the Inspector hissed in rapid French, "They've got to stop locking the blasted door!"

They all watched as he fiddled with the lock. Shaking his head, the Inspector reached into his pale blue robes, searching for something. He removed a silver instrument from his pocket, snapping it onto the ornate bronze handles.

"Just a moment." he told them all, curling his long, thin beard around his finger, "They'll know we're here."

Suddenly, the instrument burnt a bright red. Steam poured from the hole in its center, and with a loud 'pop', it soared into the air and back into the Inspector's pocket. The door slowly slid open. Many loud voices rang through the room, each trying to speak over the others. An earthy brown eye peeked out from within.

"Ah, Garnier!" the man inside exclaimed, "Just a second -"

His fingers clambered around a silver chain, and the door swung wide.

The room was somewhat small, taking the shape of an oval. Its walls seemed to neatly surround an ovular table of silver and bronze. Each of the thirteen chairs that lined the table's edge were filled.

Minister Laurent. Madame Matisse, Sir Bernard, Lady Bardot -

There were others, too. Countless witches and wizards - all of whom were easily recognizable - stood along the table's edge. Their voices died down as the door clicked shut.

"News, Garnier?" Minister Laurent asked tiredly from the head of the table. Grey hairs poked beneath a sea of matted brown, "What has Dumbledore said?"

"I do not know." Inspector Garnier said, "But his response has arrived. Beaufoy was tasked with retrieving his letter from the Bureau des Magicommunications."

Minister Laurent nodded. His eyes - the left of which was hidden behind a golden spectacle - turned to the younger witches and wizards behind them.

"They're here regarding our task in the Tournament, I assume?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Have them stay for now." Laurent muttered, "There's nothing they can do until we get confirmation from Albus -"

"Which he must provide!" hissed Madame Matisse. Her bushy black hair bristled furiously, "After what has happened?"

Shouting broke out through the chamber again. Minister Laurent rose to his feet, slamming a gavel on the table.

"Silence!" He shouted irritably, "Legality does not require anything of him, this you all know!"

"And?" asked a lady with long, silver hair, "The entire world is watching, Laurent! What will the parents of Beauxbatons students think of us sending their students to the site of - of - that site of horrors!"

"I am well aware of your concerns, Madame Tautou." said Minister Laurent, "As it is, I am pushing for as much of the Triwizard Tournament to be held away from Hogwarts as possible.

"However," he continued, drowning out the shouts that threatened to emerge, "As Hosts, the British Ministry and Hogwarts School have the final say on the tournament's conditions. I can not risk offending them!"

"Offending them?" Lady Bardot laughed, "The British? Who cares if we offend them? I will not have my daughter sent to a school flooded with such vile magic -"

"It matters little." the grey-haired Sir Bernard whispered, "Shovel your pride. Our nation has not yet recovered from Grindelwald's reign. Theirs has. We are in no position to risk weakening our ties with them."

Bardot glared at him, throwing her hair over her shoulders. Minister Laurent pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation.

"It is unlikely that what happened will occur again." Laurent assured them tiredly, "Those capable of True Fiendfyre are few and far between -"

"Yet one is clearly there." snapped Matisse, "At Hogwarts."

"This is something we have already known." said Bernard with exasperation, "Albus Dumbledore has been the school's headmaster since 1969, and has been present at the school for a long time before then -"

But Madame Matisse rose to her feet, glaring daggers at them all.

"I have already questioned several veterans from the Global Wizarding War!" she yelled, "Silver and white, his magic is silver and white, not gold -"

"And the English Minister blames Lestrange." Bardot sniveled, "An incompetent buffoon, no doubt."

But Laurent shook his head, rummaging through a stack of papers that sat before him.

"Our intel on the British Wizarding War suggests that Bellatrix Lestrange was Lady - well, You-Know-Who's right-hand woman. It would be prudent of us to assume she is, at the very least, a capable witch."

"Not this capable." snarled Matisse, "True Fiendfyre is magic of a different kind."

"I must agree with our dear Madame Matisse." muttered a wizened old man in the corner, "If Miss Lestrange were truly capable of such a thing, she would have revealed her cards long ago, during the British Wizarding War."

The table nodded in assent. Sir Bernard quickly scanned a copy of the Daily Prophet, nodding slowly.

"Their explanation is plausible." He muttered slowly, "The British Ministry seems to think Lestrange simply found a way to alter the Fiendfyre's appearance. "

"Which she would do for what reason?" Madame Matisse snapped.

"Fear-mongering, obviously. You know how it is with Dark witches and wizards, they've all lost their heads -"

"It's possible." Laurent noted, "It would match the damages, which, though concerning, do not appear to cover more than a ninth of the Hogwarts grounds."

"It remains little more than an unlikelihood." the wizened wizard decided, "The perfect cover-up. It was always the explanation they would have published, regardless of whether it were true or not."

Those around the table nodded in assent. Minister Laurent sank back into his seat, looking thoroughly irate.

"Then who," he asked, throwing his hands, "Who, Mister Picard, do you presume to be responsible?"

They all turned to the man in the corner. He let out a deep sigh as he fastened his cloak, his blurred eyes glancing around at them all.

"A student." he whispered quietly, "It is the only true possibility -"

Chaos split through the room like fireworks. Minister Laurent slammed his gavel furiously as the shouting grew, rising to his feet again.

"SILENCE!" he roared as the gavel snapped in two. He repaired it with a lazy flick of his wand.

"It is preposterous!" one woman muttered, "A silly, foolish idea -"

"Then who else might the culprit be?" Picard challenged adamantly, "Not a teacher - they too would have revealed their cards during the British Wizarding War, seeing as they all participated in it!"

"It may have been an outsider," muttered Matisse, "Someone from outside the Hogwarts Grounds."

"That isn't possible, Madame. The Wards could have only been broken from within the Hogwarts grounds."

Madame Matisse stiffened.

"A week ago I wouldn't have thought it possible for the Hogwarts Wards to be broken at all. Forgive me for not discounting the possibility of outside influence."

Laurent nodded tiredly.

"Nevertheless," he continued, pushing the stack of papers aside, "The Wards are, as of now, being fixed. The British Ministry claims they will be just as strong as before, although whether or not that can be trusted -"

He turned to Bernard, who nodded.

"Members of the Hall of Enigmas have already investigated." he noted, "The power of the Hogwarts Wards is inherently tied to its inhabitants. So long as the students remain within the school until the end of term, the wards will regenerate to their fullest extent."

Laurent sank back into his chair, letting out a faint sigh.

"The Wards are of little concern, Minister." said Lady Bardot seriously, "Though I am pleased to hear they will be fully operational, they are little more than an afterthought."

Minister Laurent's expression tightened.

"I understand your concern. I will do my very best to ensure that the culprit is found and that the members of Beauxbatons' entourage - and your daughter, should she be amongst their number - will never encounter them."

Lady Bardot smiled gently, her posture suddenly more relaxed than before.

"Thank you, Henri."

Laurent nodded back. His eyes roamed across the room, falling still as they latched upon Picard's.

"You're certain, then? It could only have been a student?"

"I suspect it, nothing more." Picard muttered, "Magic of this sort . . . it is born from necessity. It makes its presence known, particularly during youth. It did for Albus and Gellert, and I have no doubt it did for Madame Voldemort as well."

Laurent swallowed, and the room as a whole took a deep breath. To his left, Bernard frowned to himself - something that did not escape the French Minister's notice.

Henri Laurent turned to him, leaning closer.

"What is it?"

Bernard leaned in, his mouth to Laurent's ear. Those who shared the room strained their ears in an attempt to overhear, but Bernard quickly cupped his lips.

"Our intelligence has reported the involvement of four students." Bernard whispered to Laurent alone, "Their names have been kept out of the press, but their presence is known to us."

Laurent felt his jaw clench. His fingers wrapped tight around the edge of the table, slowly turning pale.

"Their names?"

"I could not tell you from the top of my head." Bernard admitted, "But one of them stuck out to me."

"Who?"

"Harry Potter."

Laurent frowned, watching as Bernard sank back into his seat.

"Now is not the time for secrets, Laurent." Madame Matisse hissed angrily, "That which is important must be known to us all -"

"My dear, it is nothing of consequence." the French Minister assured her, "Our secrecy is for the sake of privacy, nothing more -"

Slam.

"A letter, Minister!" a young man called. He strode through the room, the wooden doors slamming behind him, "From Dumbledore!"

Laurent quickly took it from him, ignoring the glare Matisse and many others sent his way. The envelope wilted with a quick tap of his wand, and he raised the letter to his spectacle, reading it quickly.

"'To be split equally . . . a shared honor . . .' - excellent." he folded up the letter, setting it alight with a wave of his wand, "They've agreed to our demands."

He turned to address the rest of the room, standing up.

"The tournament is to be divided and hosted equally amongst the three schools. Beauxbatons will be responsible for hosting one of the three tasks."

Many of them sighed with relief. Laurent, nodding to himself, turned to Inspector Garnier and the interns that accompanied them.

"We must begin preparations." he said quickly, "Notify each of the departments - no, have them do it. You stay here. There is much to discuss."

Garnier nodded, turning to them all.

"Right. Laure, off to the Bureau de las Justice Magique. Charlotte, to the Bureau des Magicommunications."

The two nodded, vanishing through the wooden doors and out of sight. Garnier addressed the others in turn, and one by one, the others followed.

"Jean."

A young man with bright blue eyes and an unusually boyish appearance turned to him.

"Yes, Inspector?"

"La Salle des Énigmes." Garnier muttered, "And don't get lost."

Jean nodded slowly.

"Of course, Sir."

Jean took one last look around the room - his eyes slipping from Minister Laurent to the esteemed Lady Bardot and around again - and he stepped out, watching as the large bronze doors slid shut.

The halls were cold. Jean stared curiously at the layers of grime and dirt that marred the walls here, deep below France. It was very clear that this place, wherever it was, was a place not used often.

A dingy light awaited him at the end of the tiled tunnel. Jean clambered onto the lift, his clammy fingers pressing against the only button there was.

Up.

The lift slowly rose. At last, there was a loud 'ding', and the door slowly slid open to reveal a magnificent dome of silver and blue.

Several men turned to him. They all were adorned in silver Ministry robes, each accompanied by expressions somewhere between amusement and confusion.

"Do you often hide in the visitor's closet?" one of them asked, grinning.

Jean spun around. Where the lift had once been now sat a small, dingy dressing rack bedecked in torn, worn-out robes.

Clever.

"Come here, boy." one of the older men said, "Let's get you where you're supposed to be."

He winked at him. Jean nodded, following after him.

"Where are you ordered to go?"

"La Salle des Énigmes."

The man nodded.

"Let's get going, then."

The pair shuffled through the dome and towards the far end, through a narrow hall, and into a dingy room. As they entered the lights flickered off. The door slid shut behind them.

The tiles beneath their feet crackled. Jean watched as they shattered, rising into the air and curving into the form of a twisted, withered being.

"The boy borne of fire, the queen of the sky. The oracle of light, all-seeing and wise. A girl in the ice, her breath stills the air. A boy with no might, alone in despair. . ."

The tiles shimmered. Jean stepped back, watching uncertainty as the tiles leered at him.

"I seek a successor." the voices whispered, "But whom am I to choose? Who is the most special of them all . . ."

Jean stammered, turning around. The man he had followed was gone.

"I - I don't know. Maybe the queen from the sky -"

No.

Jean paused, frowning.

"It's the muggle, isn't it?"

The only one who isn't special. The most special of them all.

The warped being grinned a crooked smile.

"How desperately we seek what we deem peculiar, something full of grandeur . . ."

The tiles blurred. Jean watched as its claws pulled something from nowhere, the granite taking the shape of a muggle on strings.

"Yet the most glorious of enigmas sit before our very eyes." it whispered, "Not so special, after all . . ."

The creature of tiles raised the puppet to its jagged mouth, swallowing it whole, and the world around him vanished into nothingness.

"What - where -"

"La Salle des Énigmes." someone said offhandedly from behind him, "Though you certainly took your time getting here."

Jean spun around. He stood in the center of a vast circular room. It stretched on for as far as he could see - Jean couldn't make out the ceiling, or any of the walls. For all he knew, it might not even be circular, after all.

Six shelves stretched on for an eternity, each starting just feet from where he stood. They continued on, each heading far away from him. Jean edged closer, examining the peculiar instruments that lined the closest shelf.

"You knew I was coming?"

"Me? No." The man muttered from somewhere behind him, "The little flower did."

Jean turned. A man hidden beneath midnight black robes stood beside the opposite shelf. He seemed to be examining one of its many instruments.

A rose.

Jean edged closer, examining it carefully. Its petals were as dark as the man's robes, its stem a bone white. A number of petals lay at its base, wilting.

"What is it?"

"A doorway."

"To what?"

"Everything."

Jean stared at it, frowning.

"Strange."

"It feels stranger." the man muttered, turning away, "Go on. You can touch it."

Jean stared at him.

"What'll happen if I do?"

The man simply shrugged.

"I'm not sure. It hasn't told me yet."

Jean frowned. Curiosity pressed against his skull, and a single, soft digit pressed against the soft surface of one of the rose's petals.

The gardens of Versailles stared back at him. The boy grimaced, his emerald eyes shining behind circular spectacles. A deep breath escaped him as he turned away from the bright lights of the city out in the distance.

His fingers wrapped around something in his pocket. A sapphire emerged, with silver lines inlaid within its center. Fog-like wisp seemed to leak from the silvery lines in the stone, which formed a peculiar pattern. A circle within a triangle, and a line that split the two.

The boy stared at the stone speculatively before turning it thrice in his palm. The stone glowed as bright as the moon in the night.

Someone appeared. The ghost of a man, hidden behind something between fog and smoke. His form shimmered, flickering in the night.

"You've decided, have you?"

The boy frowned.

"I have."

"And?"

The boy sighed, staring irritably up at the flickering man.

"I'm in."

The ghostly man distorted, his translucent lips curving into a smile.

"Excellent . . ."

The world spun. Jean jumped back from the rose, watching with horror as another petal fell to its base.

"What was that?" he stammered, "Was it the future?"

"Perhaps." the man whispered curiously, "You can never really know for sure. A funny thing, fate. Not one to be trifled with. Don't concern yourself with it."

Jean frowned, forcing his breath to slow. He turned back to the rose again, his eyes falling to the fallen petal. Only a few remained.

"What happens when they all fall?" he asked curiously.

"We may never know." the man whispered.

"Why?"

But the man stayed silent, pointing at a golden plate beneath the midnight rose.

'La rose de minuit, un baiser de mort. Un chemin vers tout ce qu'il y a. Quand il sera parti, tout le reste sera mort depuis longtemps.'