Late afternoon was the worst time of the day.

His office was a sanctuary of order, with every object in its place and every surface polished to a muted sheen. The enchanted sconces on the walls flickered faintly, their glow steady but subdued, as though even they understood: late afternoon, that liminal stretch of time when the sun's retreat left the world in uneasy balance — neither bright nor dark, neither productive nor restful.

Antoine hated it. He detested the way it made him feel: unmoored, as though the structure of the day was slipping through his fingers like sand. There was nothing to harness in these hours, nothing to anchor himself to. The morning carried purpose, the night demanded strategy. But late afternoon? It was an interlude, an invitation to pause, to consider, to reflect.

And Antoine Laurent had never been fond of reflection one bit.

He sat at his desk, a stack of parchment before him, each sheet meticulously aligned with the edge of the mahogany surface. His fingers moved with precision, flipping through the pages, his eyes scanning the text with efficiency. He paused. A letter, sealed with the official insignia of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, caught his attention. He broke the seal with a practised motion, the wax cracking cleanly under his touch.

Dear Monsieur Laurent,

I am delighted to confirm that your reserved seating for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup Final has been secured. You will be seated in the Top Box, where you will have an unparalleled view of the match.

Furthermore, in recognition of your esteemed position, we would be most grateful for your presence in welcoming and hosting key international dignitaries throughout the event. Your expertise and diplomatic finesse will be invaluable as we accommodate our distinguished guests from across the wizarding world.

Should you require any special arrangements, please do not hesitate to inform my office at your earliest convenience. We look forward to seeing you at the tournament and trust that you will enjoy what promises to be a most thrilling match.

Best regards,

Ludo Bagman

Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports

Ministry of Magic

Antoine read the letter twice, his expression betraying nothing. Bagman's enthusiasm bled through the ink, a man who had either forgotten or willfully ignored the finer nuances of formality. The words were carefully structured to flatter, but Antoine had long since learned that flattery was a tool wielded by the inelegant and uneducated. It was a blunt instrument, useful only in the hands of men who lacked the patience for true leverage.

His presence was not a courtesy but a necessity. Despite its endless posturing, the Ministry was painfully transparent in its need for competent hands to steady the diplomatic scales. They did not invite him; they required him. And yet, rather than admit it outright, they cloaked their reliance on the language of prestige and privilege, as if he were meant to feel indebted for the privilege of performing their work.

The thought amused him. Antoine allowed himself the briefest flicker of a smirk. Bagman would expect a response — the man had always been impatient. He picked up his quill and, with the same meticulous care that governed all his movements, began to draft his response.

Then his eyes flickered to the side, drawn to the photograph resting at the edge of his desk. The letter in his hands momentarily forgotten, he regarded the image as though it had called to him. His throat had turned dry though this was an unnecessary detail. The frame was simple enough. A much younger Alexander sat on his lap, both of them dressed in formal suits. He remembered this day.

Antoine had taken his grandson to the opera to watch La Traviata. The boy had squirmed at first, restless in the stiff formality of his suit, his small hand tugging at the cuff of Antoine's sleeve. But somewhere between Violetta's fragile defiance and Alfredo's desperate pleas, Alexander had grown quiet. His gaze fixed, not on the spectacle, but on the spaces between it: the controlled rise and fall of the conductor's baton, the poised stillness of the audience, the silence before the applause.

That's what Antoine had wanted him to see. Not the sentimentality of the opera, but the machinery beneath it.

He set the letter aside.

Antoine exhaled. The silence was not new; it'd become a familiar friend to him after all these years. But a certain stillness had settled into the house's bones, thick and unmoving. The house had not changed since Alexander left. Not in any visible way. The same hearth burned in the evenings, the same clock ticked. And yet, an unfamiliar weight had settled into the corners, into the spaces between carefully placed artefacts and furniture.

He blinked, the memory dissolving like mist against glass. His fingers brushed against the corner of the frame, a fleeting movement, a gesture so slight it could have been accidental.

Almost as if going against his instincts, Antoine reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. His hand hovered over it, fingers tightening around the quill. A letter. He could write one now. A simple inquiry — nothing sappy, nothing indulgent. Just a line or two to confirm the boy was handling himself appropriately. Sentiment was a weakness, a distraction.

But what, precisely, was he meant to say? What words did one summon when one had never truly mastered the art of speaking to those who mattered most?

Slowly, he began to write his script, the letters forming crisp and deliberate strokes against the parchment. But no sooner had he begun than something caused his hand to falter. A hesitation, imperceptible to anyone but himself. His jaw tightened. He reread the words — neatly arranged, impersonal, distant. He frowned. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. And then, with a practised flick of his fingers, he crumpled the parchment and set it aside.

His thoughts betrayed him. It was not only silence that had grown heavier in Alexander's absence — it was the nagging, unfamiliar weight of something else. A gnawing question he did not wish to confront.

Had he failed the boy entirely?

An uninvited memory stirred.

A cold evening. His father, seated across an impossibly vast dining table, the candlelight carving severe lines into his face. You think influence is earned with pleasantries? Do you believe power is a thing to be requested? His father's voice, sharp and immutable, layered with the kind of bitterness that had not softened with age even to his death. If you hesitate, you have already lost, boy.

The words clung to him, heavy as lead. His father's world had been built upon conquest, upon the careful stacking of victories. Every interaction, every alliance, a calculated move in a game that could not afford hesitation. His father had been loud in his demands, his anger a storm that could not be ignored. Passion had ruled him.

Antoine, by contrast, had been deliberate and methodical, conveying his expectations not through shouts but through silence. He had prided himself on his restraint and ability to maintain control where his father had lost it. Antoine had mastered that game. He had built his reputation, his influence.

But now, he could not help but wonder if his silence had been just as damaging, if not more so. His lips pressed into a thin line. The boy had left, as was expected, and he would return when the time was right. That was the natural order of things.

Antoine did not allow himself to dwell on it any longer. Instead, he reached for Bagman's letter, returning to the familiarity of diplomacy and necessity. His hand did not waver as he began his reply.

The other matter could wait.

The polished oak doors of the Ministry's conference chamber loomed before Antoine, their intricate carvings of broomsticks and snitches glinting faintly in the flickering torchlight. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, the deep navy fabric smooth under his fingers, and stepped inside.

The room was already alive with murmurs. Delegates from France, Bulgaria, Ireland and a handful of other nations were seated around the long, rectangular table, their voices a low hum of thinly veiled frustration.

Antoine took his seat at the top of the table, nodding politely to the French representative, Madame Dubois, whose lips were pursed in a way that suggested she had already begun her mental tally of grievances. Across, the Bulgarian delegate, a broad-shouldered man with a beard that seemed to bristle with indignation, gestured sharply at a map of portkey locations. His voice carried a gruff edge, though Antoine caught only fragments of his words: "unfair advantage," "security risks," and something that sounded suspiciously like "typical French arrogance."

The discontent wove through the chamber, layering over one another like the discordant hum of an orchestra tuning its instruments. Antoine sat with his fingers laced together, his expression the very model of composed detachment. He listened and observed not just the spoken words but the pauses between them. Language, after all, was as much about what was unsaid as it was about what was declared.

"—cannot be serious," the Bulgarian man was saying, his thick fingers stabbing at the parchment of portkey locations. "This puts us at a disadvantage. The Irish delegation would have their transfers streamlined, while ours are subject to additional clearance? Absurd."

"Security measures, Krastev. Surely you don't object to ensuring our guests aren't plucked from the air mid-transfer by opportunists."

Krastev's scowl deepened. "Your measures seem curiously selective."

Madame Dubois lifted her chin, her mouth tightening in the way it always did when she found herself on the defensive. "Perhaps if your Ministry had worked in tandem with ours rather than resisting at every turn—"

"Ah, so it is French coordination that we must defer to now?" Krastev leaned forward, his broad hands pressing into the polished wood of the table. "You speak as though your security measures have been flawless."

Despite himself, Antoine's fingers absently brushed against the polished wood of the table, and his thoughts flickered — brief but intrusive — to Alexander. He imagined the boy's sharp voice, laced with the kind of irreverent wit that only youth allowed so freely. "So this is what the height of international cooperation looks like?" he could almost hear him say, "A whole bunch of old men, dressed up to say a whole lot of nothing."

What would the boy say now, if he saw him here? Would he mock the careful manoeuvring, the polite restraint dressed up as diplomacy? Or—

Antoine exhaled through his nose, setting his quill down with deliberate ease. His mind had wandered further than he intended, further than he allowed. He focused back on the rising voices in the room.

"Gentlemen, ladies, please," he said, his voice unhurried. "We have all been made aware of the risks. We are here to resolve them, not exchange accusations."

The Irish delegate, a wiry man with shrewd, appraising eyes named O'Callaghan, exhaled heavily. "And yet that's all we've managed to do for the past hour," he muttered, though not so quietly that Antoine missed it. He rubbed at his temple before turning to Antoine directly. "Let's be honest with ourselves, Laurent. These threats — we all know what's behind them. No one here is foolish enough to believe it's just unruly fanatics. And yet we skirt around the conversation as though we can will it out of existence. Bertha Jorkins is missing, is she not? I will have the truth of the matter."

For a moment, silence settled over the table, thick as smoke. The name was left unspoken, but its presence loomed over them nonetheless. Antoine did not outwardly react. Oh, interesting, he thought. They were all afraid. That much was certain. Fear was an easy thing to recognise even when bottled up.

Bertha Jorkins was missing.

It was a fact that had been spoken aloud only once in the meeting, yet it loomed larger than any other issue they had debated. Antoine had noted the shiver of unease in Dubois's expression, the sharp inhale from Krastev, the way O'Callaghan's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. None of them needed to say it outright to know the implications.

People did not simply disappear. Not without cause.

"The Ministry," Antoine began, "is conducting a thorough investigation into all matters of security. Any speculation beyond that would be premature." He met the Irish delegate's gaze evenly. "I trust you would not have us descend into conjecture."

O'Callaghan's mouth thinned. "Conjecture? Bertha Jorkins vanished without a trace, and yet you'd have us believe this is an unrelated matter?"

"I would have you believe nothing, O'Callaghan." Antoine's voice remained steady, but there was an edge to it now, a quiet steel. "I would have us remain focused on the task at hand. Portkey logistics and international security coordination — those are the matters within our purview. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement deems it necessary to disclose further details, they will do so."

A low hum rippled through the room. Antoine did not miss the way Krastev muttered something to his aide, nor the flicker of dismay in Madame Dubois's eyes. They wanted answers, but more than that, they wanted certainty. He turned his attention back to the parchment before him, tapping a single finger against the edge of the document.

"As it stands," he continued, "the current portkey allocations have been vetted by multiple departments. If Bulgaria feels their routes require further examination, we can assign an independent review, but we will not overhaul the system at this stage. The tournament is weeks away, and time is a precious gemstone. Our priority is stability." He allowed his gaze to sweep across the table. "I trust that is something we can all agree upon?"

Krastev's scowl deepened, but he did not immediately object. O'Callaghan looked as though he wished to argue further but thought better of it. Madame Dubois merely inclined her head, though her silence was louder than any protest.

"Fear does little to serve us," Antoine stated, tone deliberate. "We acknowledge the threats and we are aware of Bertha Jorkins, rest assured. That is why we are here — to ensure that neither the Quidditch World Cup nor the Triwizard Tournament becomes an opportunity for them to become threats."

O'Callaghan let out a dry chuckle. "And yet, you say that as though ensuring anything is within our power."

Antoine inclined his head, a faint smile ghosting at the edges of his lips. "Control is an illusion," he agreed. "But influence is not."

There was a pause. The Irish delegate considered him, then huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Merlin's beard, you're a slippery bastard."

Antoine did not so much as blink at the Irishman's remark. It was neither the first nor the last time such an observation had been made about him, and he had long since stopped considering whether it was meant as an insult or a compliment. If you hesitate, you are lost, remember that, boy.

"If there are no further objections," Antoine announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality, "then I propose we proceed with the review process as outlined. Any formal disputes regarding portkey allocations may be submitted in writing before the end of the week."

A murmur of reluctant agreement spread across the chamber.

Antoine stood, adjusting the cuffs with a deliberate motion. "Then we are concluded. Any additional matters may be addressed through the proper channels. I trust we are all capable of that much."

Krastev muttered something in Bulgarian under his breath, but it did not concern Antoine. Instead, he inclined his head to the room at large before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber.

The corridor beyond was dimly lit. The meeting ran long. They always did, and Antoine had long since ceased to be surprised by how the same arguments could be re-dressed and paraded as fresh debate.

Bertha Jorkins. The name remained a quiet pulse in the back of his thoughts. That nosy and gossip-loving woman would not disappear for the sake of it. As he rounded the corner, a familiar voice called out behind him.

"Monsieur Laurent."

He did not sigh, though the impulse was there. Instead, he turned, his expression schooled into polite neutrality as Madame Dubois approached, her heels clicking against the polished stone.

"Madame," he acknowledged smoothly.

Dubois stopped before him, folding her arms. "You handled that well," she admitted, though her tone was begrudging. "Rather enjoyed it I would think."

"I enjoy efficiency."

Dubois hummed, unconvinced. "Tell me, do you ever tire of spinning the room into your rhythm?"

"Do you?"

She did not answer, but the curve of her mouth was telling enough. She then hesitated. "You know as well as I do that the matter of Bertha Jorkins is not something we can dismiss indefinitely. O'Callaghan will not let the matter rest and I must admit neither will I."

"I have dismissed nothing," Antoine countered. "But neither do I indulge in idle speculation."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You are too careful." Dubois studied him for a long moment, then shook her head with a sigh when she found that he did not offer a counter-response. "One day, Laurent, you will find that not every matter can be managed through precision alone."

What would you know of my wretched life, Madame, he thought, you with your carefully curated smiles and a heart wrapped in silk. Still, his smile did not waver. "And when that day comes," he said, "I will adjust accordingly. Good day to you."

As he turned the corner Antoine felt her scorching gaze upon his back. He did not head straight for the exit. His path turned, weaving through the halls of the Ministry until he reached a door set apart from the main thoroughfares.

A sharp knock. No hesitation.

The door creaked open, revealing a cramped office lined with filing cabinets, and parchment stacked in neat but overwhelming piles. The woman behind the desk barely looked up before sighing.

"Laurent."

"Amelia."

Amelia Bones set aside the quill she had been writing with, folding her hands before her. She was one of the few within the Ministry he held in a certain regard — not because she was particularly charming, but because she was competent, which was more than he could say for Fudge.

"You're not here to exchange pleasantries," she said, reaching for a file and flipping it open. "I assume you want an update."

Antoine stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "That would be a reasonable assumption."

She exhaled sharply. "The records indicate that Bagman has no concerns, dismissing her as scatterbrained and prone to forgetfulness. We've no grounds to contradict his assessment."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially," she said, meeting his gaze levelly, "we are nowhere near an answer that anyone would like to hear."

Antoine said nothing. He merely waited.

Amelia sighed again and rubbed her temple. "Bertha Jorkins's disappearance is not an isolated incident. There have been. . . rumours, slight though they are. Sightings. But nothing conclusive. Nothing anyone is willing to put their name to. And until we have proof—"

"No one will act."

Her silence was confirmation enough. Antoine reached into his pocket, retrieving his own neatly folded copy of the letter from Bagman. He set it on the desk, tapping a single finger against the paper.

"We have dignitaries arriving from across the world for the Quidditch World Cup. People of influence. People whose trust in our security measures is already tenuous at best."

"I am well aware," she said, her tone dry.

"Then I suggest that the Ministry begins considering which truths it would rather uncover quietly before they are forced into the light. We both know this is not an isolated incident, Amelia. That old hag didn't disappear for nothing."

Amelia studied him for a long moment. Then, with a weary nod, she reached for another file and slid it across the desk. "Off the record," she said. "This is what we have."

Antoine unfolded the parchment, scanning the notes within. The words were sparse, but they were enough.

Enough to confirm what he had already suspected.

Enough to suggest that whatever had happened to Bertha Jorkins was not a mere disappearance.

She leaned back and steepled her fingers. "And now that you know, what would you have me do? Declare the Cup a risk without a single shred of verifiable evidence?"

He closed the file with deliberate care.

"No," Antoine said smoothly. "I would have you prepare contingencies. Quietly. Background inquiries into any unexplained movements within the Ministry. Subtle measures that will not send that fool Fudge into one of his infamous dithering fits."

She rubbed her temple. "Antoine, I will do what I can. But if you truly believe that something is at play here, you might consider setting aside that polished detachment of yours long enough to determine what it is."

"You will keep me informed," he simply offered. It was not a request.

Her lips twitched, the closest she had come to a smile since he had entered. "You say that as though I have a choice." She glanced down at the papers on her desk, then added, almost as an afterthought, "How's your grandson, by the way? My niece, Susan, is in the same year as him."

He paused. A slight hesitation. Barely a flicker. Antoine Laurent did not hesitate. He turned back to her, his expression unreadable, a mask of detachment as he offered the same smile he had perfected over the years.

"He is well."

A casual remark, harmless in intent, but it struck too close to the raw edge of something unspoken. He would not allow it to surface here, not in this office, not before Amelia Bones, not before anyone.

"I always thought he had a certain spark. Sharp mind. Handsome too — at least, if you ask my niece. And opinionated."

"A tendency toward irreverence, more like."

She gave a half-shrug, though something was knowing in her gaze. "Mmm. And yet, I imagine you value that more than you let on."

Antoine did not dignify the remark with a response. Instead, he offered a perfunctory nod, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the edges of his coat.

Amelia exhaled, letting the silence settle before tilting her head. "Family's a tricky thing, isn't it?"

"Tricky is an inadequate word."

"Susan's started to notice boys, she's at that age I suppose," Amelia said with a wry smile, shaking her head as if the very idea was both amusing and exhausting. "And from what I gather, your grandson seems to be right at the centre of that particular storm."

Antoine arched a single brow, the faintest flicker of surprise showing on his face before he controlled it. "A curious observation."

"Oh, don't pretend to be surprised. Sharp mind, handsome features — what adolescent girl wouldn't take notice?" She gestured vaguely. "Granted, most of them are still stumbling through their own self-awareness, but you know how these things go."

"Adolescent distractions are fleeting," he said at last, more to himself than to Amelia. "They hold little consequence in the long run."

"Well, fleeting or not, they feel like the end of the world when you're that age."

"Precisely why they're so inefficient."

"Oh, Merlin." Amelia rolled her eyes. "They're children. Half the point is to be gloriously inefficient."

He thought of Beauxbatons, the towering elegance of marble corridors, the way the winter sun filtered through high-arched windows, casting long, cold streaks of light across polished floors. A sudden image of a girl with ink-stained fingertips flickered in his mind. A flash of dark eyes over the rim of a book. Fleeting, he thought.

Amelia narrowed her eyes at him for a beat longer before heaving a sigh and returning her attention to the documents before her. "Well, Laurent, if that's all, I've got a mountain of paperwork and a minister who will pretend he wasn't warned when everything inevitably goes sideways."

Antoine took the exit for what it was. "Of course."

He turned, his movements measured as he stepped through the threshold. But as the door closed behind him, he exhaled through his nose, the air constricting in his chest.

By the time Antoine returned home to Notting Hill, he desperately needed a drink. The firewhisky burned as it slid down his throat. Antoine exhaled slowly, the weight of the silence pressing against his ribs as he lowered himself into the armchair in the living room. The glass of amber liquid remained steady in his grip, but his fingers tightened around the crystal edges.

The house was oppressively empty. The quiet felt like a sentence. He didn't blame Alexander. He barely knew how to face him after he learnt the truth.

How were you supposed to speak to your grandson after he learnt — from someone else, no less — that you had accidentally killed his mother, unaware she was a pawn caught in the crossfire of your war? How did you face him, knowing the truth would stain every word, and that the weight of that guilt and shame was yours to carry, quietly, for the rest of your life? How could he have foreseen that the woman who had become an inconvenience, a loose thread in the larger part of his dealings, was his own daughter?

He had uncovered the connection too late, the truth surfacing only after the deed had been done. And by then, there had been no way to undo it, no way to fix what had already been broken beyond repair.

And so, he had done what he did best. He had controlled what could be controlled. Managed what could be managed. He had ensured that the boy was taken care of, that Alexander's life continued as seamlessly as possible, unburdened by the ugly reality of his grandfather's past.

Antoine reached for the locket around his neck and opened it, his gaze falling upon the woman captured within its frame. Camille's eyes still held that quiet wisdom, the corners of her mouth shaped by the hint of a smile she had so often worn in life. She had always been better at navigating the fragile nuances of human emotion. Without her, he had been left to navigate Amelie and Alexander alone. And he had failed.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound low and tired. I am an old man, he thought. And all I have left are ghosts.

His grip on the glass tightened; he should've noticed Alexander growing more distant, his words edged with frustration that Antoine had dismissed as youthful indignation. The boy had always been strong-willed, too clever by half. But Antoine had miscalculated. He had mistaken Alexander's growing resentment for mere rebellion when it had been something else entirely. Hurt. Betrayal. The realisation stung more than he cared to admit.

Had he failed mother and son both? He was a bad grandfather and had been an even more terrible father.

He closed the locket with a clunk and placed it over his heart. He rubbed a hand over his face. Camille would have seen it. She would have known the right words to say. But Antoine Laurent had built his life on restraint, on discipline, on control. And in doing so, he had failed to see the boy unravelling right before his eyes.

The firewhisky swirled in his glass. All these reckless adventures of Alexander's at school had been never-ending. If Amelie hadn't sent him to an earlier grave then Alexander would without a doubt. The boy had inherited his sharpness, yes, but where Antoine wielded precision like a scalpel, Alexander struck with reckless, untempered defiance. And defiance, Antoine had learned long ago, was not without consequence.

Quirrell. The Chamber of Secrets. Sirius Black. And, inevitably, Potter. It always led back to that boy.

Antoine had not given much thought to Harry Potter beyond his utility as a symbol. The Boy Who Lived, a story repurposed for politics, used to shift alliances, to inspire hope or suspicion depending on the narrative one preferred. He was not the first child to be swallowed by legend, nor would he be the last. But his presence in Alexander's life had proven more than an incidental disruption. It had been a catalyst.

The truth had come out because of Potter, because of that damnable mess of a third year, before Antoine could reveal it to his grandson in his own time. Antoine still recalled the coldness with which Alexander had confronted him for protecting him. Alexander's voice had been carefully level, but the rawness beneath it was impossible to miss. "And who were you to decide that, Grandfather?"

Who indeed?

He had not answered. And Alexander, for the first time in his life, had walked away.

Antoine took another sip of firewhisky, the burn sharp against his throat. Silence. It had always been his weapon, his shield. Now, it had become his punishment.

There had been a time when he had thought himself immune to regret. Regret, after all, was an indulgence of the uncertain, it served no purpose. But it had crept into his bones regardless, settling in the spaces Camille had once filled.

Fatherhood had been an altogether different battlefield — one for which he had never been properly equipped.

From the moment Amelie had learned to walk, she had done so with purpose, her tiny steps more a march than a toddle. Bold, rebellious, and utterly relentless — she had been a force of nature that no amount of discipline could quell.

Antoine had tried, of course. He had tried to shape her, to carve her into someone strong and capable of understanding the world before it had the chance to crush her. Yet, no matter how he pushed, Amelie had never yielded. She had been sharp, brilliant, but unmanageable. He had offered her the world, placed the tools of power before her, and still, she had refused to wield them as he had. Her defiance had infuriated him, not because he had desired obedience, but because he could not understand why she had chosen a different path.

She had inherited his sharp mind, but none of his restraint. No, Amelie had always chosen fire over steel, rebellion over diplomacy. Every accomplishment, every success was thrown in his face as if to say: See? I am what you wanted me to be, father, but only because I chose it. Now, she was gone, buried beneath the weight of his own mistakes.

Alexander was different, but only just. He had inherited Amelie's fire, but where she had wielded it like a sword, he carried it in his bones, simmering beneath a carefully measured exterior. He was too clever, too perceptive.

Antoine had been too overbearing with Amelie, too restrictive. She'd hated him for that. He'd sworn that he'd be different when raising Alexander; he wouldn't commit the same mistakes. He had let him be free, knowing full well that freedom came with its own burdens, with its own price. And now, the boy was lost to him. Not physically, not yet, but in all the ways that truly mattered.

Perhaps he had believed, foolishly, that Alexander would return in time. That the world would eventually push him back toward the only place that had ever remained steady. That resentment would fade into understanding, and anger would settle into something resembling forgiveness.

But time did not heal wounds merely because one willed it to. Some wounds festered. Some remained raw, never quite closing. And if there was one thing Antoine Laurent understood with absolute certainty, it was that the wounds inflicted by family cut the deepest.

The letter he had abandoned earlier that day still sat in his study, half-formed, an unspoken sentiment trapped in ink. He had always known how to write to ministers, to dignitaries, to adversaries. But not to his grandson. Not to the boy who had once sat in his lap, clapping with unrestrained delight at the opera.

Would Alexander even want to hear from him? Would he see it as an intrusion?

It was at times like this that he really envied Eliot and his unrestrained ability. Truthfully, he'd been slightly wary of him at the beginning due to his status as a squib. He remembered his father's face when he spoke of them. Useless. Weak. A stain upon the bloodline. The words had been delivered with the same casual cruelty as any other observation his father made. And for Antoine, some prejudices had a way of burrowing deep, settling in places one did not always wish to examine too closely.

Eliot had disarmed him, not through force or strategy, but with the sheer audacity of his existence. Unbothered, unburdened by the expectations of lineage, of power. He was a man who had never wielded a wand and yet Eliot had no need for control. He simply was.

What would he say if he saw Antoine now, drink in hand, deep in thought? Perhaps he would find it laughable, this quiet war Antoine waged with himself. Or perhaps, worse still, he would see through it.

What would Camille think of him now?

The thought made his grip tighten around the glass.

Perhaps it was too late. Alexander had made his choice. And if so, what was there left for Antoine to do but carry on as he always had?

The streets of Camden were damp with the remnants of an earlier rain, the uneven pavement slick beneath Antoine's steps. He had never much cared for this part of the city — too crowded, too unstructured, too alive in a way that resisted order. Amelie would've loved it, he thought.

Eliot's building was unremarkable, a modest block of flats with peeling paint and narrow stairwells. Antoine ascended without hesitation, his patent shoes barely making a sound. When he reached the door, he did not knock immediately. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. He was not accustomed to arriving unannounced.

Finally, he knocked. A pause. Then the faint shuffle of movement inside before the door swung open.

Eliot stood on the threshold, barefoot, a button-down shirt hastily thrown over what appeared to be a pair of striped pyjama trousers. His dark brows lifted, mouth curving in a smirk. "Well, well. If it isn't the great Mr Antoine Laurent gracing my doorstep. What's the occasion? Ministry scandal? International crisis? Or have you finally come to admit I was right about that awful whiskey you insist on drinking?"

Antoine did not react to the teasing. He had long since learned that Eliot's humour was a weapon as much as a shield. Instead, he inclined his head slightly. "May I come in?"

Eliot's gaze flickered with something, curiosity, perhaps, or concern too well hidden to name, but he stepped aside without pressing. "Of course. But if you've come to tell me the world is ending, I'd at least like to put on socks first."

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. An old rhythm, tested over years of conversations that had never needed embellishment. Eliot had been there in the aftermath of Amelie's death when Antoine's world had realigned into something colder, quieter. When grief had not yet settled into something manageable, something he could place into neat compartments and control. Antoine had never spoken of it, not in the way that Eliot had wanted him to, open and raw, burning at the edges like an ember refusing to die out.

"So?" began Eliot after he'd offered a glass of scotch to Antoine. "You going to tell me why you're actually here, or are we going to pretend this is just a social call?"

Antoine considered his words carefully before he met Eliot's gaze directly. "Alexander."

Eliot's smirk faltered, replaced by something more serious. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Right. I figured it was either him or the fate of wizarding diplomacy."

Antoine set his glass down on the table, aligning it carefully with the grain of the wood. A useless gesture, but one that steadied him all the same. "I want him to attend the Quidditch World Cup with me."

Eliot blinked. "That's. . . unexpected."

"He has distanced himself. That is his prerogative. But this" — he gestured faintly as if the very notion of reaching out required physical effort — "would be an opportunity. A chance to speak, if nothing else."

Eliot tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "And let me guess, you want me to convince him? Persuade him that spending an entire event with his grandfather is the best idea he's ever had?"

Antoine met his gaze levelly. "If that is what it takes."

Eliot huffed, shaking his head. "You do realise lying to him will only make things worse when he figures it out?"

"He does not have to know it was my request."

Eliot's expression shifted, something sharper flickering beneath the amusement. "Fuck, you still don't get it, do you?"

Antoine said nothing. He had learned long ago that Eliot would speak his mind regardless of whether permission was granted. Eliot sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"You can't force this. You can't manoeuvre your way back into his life like one of your damn diplomatic strategies. He's not an international delegate you can outplay in negotiation. He's your grandson, Antoine."

Antoine's jaw tightened. "It is an opportunity," he said evenly. "For conversation. For. . ." He hesitated, the word unnatural on his tongue. "For. . . time."

"You know, you could just say you miss him. But you need to stop treating him like a problem to be solved."

Antoine looked away, his gaze settling on the muted glow of the lamp in the corner. The truth had always been the most difficult thing to stomach.

"I will consider your words," he said finally, his voice as careful as ever.

Eliot snorted. "Of course you will." He regarded Antoine for a beat longer, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alexander's stubborn. You know that and I know that. So he's still angry. Enormously so."

"Yes I had supposed," Antoine said quietly. "But Eliot, I'm afraid that if I wait until he is no longer angry, I may find that I have waited too long."

The words hung between them. For once, Eliot did not have a response. He simply nodded, considering. Then, with a small, resigned sigh, he lifted his own glass and drained it in one go before setting it down with a quiet thunk.

"Alright, I'll talk to him."

Antoine inclined his head. "Thank you."

Eliot waved a hand. "Don't thank me yet. He might very well tell me to sod off."

"He will not."

"You Laurents. Always so damn certain."

When Antoine left Eliot's flat before Alexander came home, the light was beginning to wan but the rain had not let up. Rivulets trickled through the cracks on the pavement and raindrops soaked his suit and coat. He had no desire to call Alfred to bring the car around or to apparate. His mind was lost to thoughts and memories.

Camille had once accused him of treating people like chess pieces, though in gentler words, words softened by love rather than exasperation.

"Our Amelie is not one of your colleagues, mon amour," she had said once, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear with a kind patience. "You cannot structure a child's heart the way you structure your world."

He had grown up in a world without such uncertainties. Order had been his father's doctrine, expectation its rigid spine. His father's voice had long since faded from the world, and yet, it had never truly left him.

Antoine had been very young the first time he learned what failure meant in his father's house.

It had been winter, the air inside their grand estate brittle with cold, the fire in the study casting long shadows against the high walls. He had been four, perhaps five, standing before his father's desk, his small hands curled into fists at his sides as he tried to control his trembling. He had misspelt a word on an essay — a single word, a careless mistake — and his father had deemed it an unacceptable lapse.

The lesson had been swift. Pain had a way of teaching better than words ever could.

"Precision," his father had told him afterwards, his voice smooth, unshaken. "It is what separates the great from the forgotten."

Antoine had not cried. He had learnt early that tears solved nothing. Weakness had no place in his father's home, and so he had swallowed it down, pressing his small fingers into his palms until his nails tore into flesh. He had vowed never to be caught unprepared again. Never to falter. Never hesitate.

But standing here now, beneath the dim glow of street lamps and the endless grey of the London sky with Eliot's words rolling in his mind, he wondered if he had not simply exchanged one form of brutality for another. His father had been forceful, and merciless in his expectations. And Antoine — Antoine had been cold.

Different methods. The same result.

He had not raised Amelie or Alexander the way his father had raised him. There had been no harsh reprimands, no punishments designed to teach obedience through pain.

So then when had he lost the boy? When did the child who once looked up at him with wide, eager eyes become the young man who could barely meet his gaze without a layer of frost between them? Was it strength he had forged in the boy? Or only distance?

The memory of Alexander's voice, edged with betrayal, surfaced. "And who were you to decide that?"

He had done what was necessary. Hadn't he? He had given the boy every advantage, ensured he was protected, and positioned for success. He had kept him at a distance, not out of cruelty, but necessity. A father, a grandfather, was meant to prepare his kin for the world, not coddle them against it.

And yet. . .

Antoine pulled his coat tighter around him as a sharp gust of wind cut through the street. The World Cup would not fix this. He was not naive enough to believe that a handful of shared days and diplomatic pleasantries would mend what had cracked between them, that Alexander would ever forget his deeds or blackened past.

But it was something. A chance.

He turned down another street, his pace unhurried, his mind still burdened with the past like a leech sucking the blood from a body.

Back at the Ministry, a few days later, Antoine finalised his plan.

He sat at his desk, the silver nib of his quill hovering just above the parchment. The ink at the tip gleamed in the candlelight, poised for motion, but his hand remained still. He could feel his hesitation, an unfamiliar sensation.

The letter to Eliot was brief. No embellishments, no unnecessary words, just a single, undeniable truth:

I trust you'll do what's best for Alexander. If he's angry, let him be angry with me. I can bear it.

The words sat on the page like a challenge, daring him to reconsider. He had written it without flourish, without his usual precision, because there was nothing to refine. It was a statement, a declaration of responsibility he could not shift onto another.

His fingers tightened slightly around the quill. Was this the right course?

Amelie's face flickered to life in his mind — not the pale, lifeless ghost he had buried in the deepest recesses of his conscience, but as she had been in life. Alive, vibrant, full of fire that couldn't be suppressed. He saw the way she had laughed, head thrown back, unafraid to defy him.

He had thought, once, that her defiance was a failure on his part. That her refusal to yield was an act meant to wound him. But now, all these years later, he wondered if it had not been the greatest proof of her strength.

Alexander had inherited that fire. It had also made him formidable in ways Antoine had not anticipated. Perhaps, if he had been a different man, he could have embraced it rather than fought against it.

But he was still Antoine Laurent, and there were things he did not know how to do.

He folded the letter and sealed it. The wax bore his insignia, sharp and clean, though he suspected Eliot would roll his eyes at the formality of it. He did not care. Some habits were not so easily shed.

The Portkey arrangement had been simple enough. A battered book, unassuming in its presence. Something Eliot could slip into Alexander's hands without suspicion.

Antoine knew it was a deception, but he had long since made peace with the necessity of deception. The boy would be angry — furious, even — but anger was manageable. Anger meant he still cared enough to feel. Indifference would be the true death knell.

It was done. The letter would be sent. The Portkey would be delivered. Alexander would come, and if nothing else, Antoine would face him. That, he supposed, was the least he could offer.

Or perhaps, the only thing he had left to give.

Hey guys, thanks so much for reading. I hope this chapter was good. I'm very pleased to hear that people are enjoying this story, I never realised that it'd grow to this, especially when I first thought of Alexander.

But first time writing from Antoine's perspective, I hope I did a good job of that. Truthfully this started as a quiet character study of Antoine being his usual emotionally constipated self, the miserable bastard, ahaha, but then it kind of spiralled into a full-blown deep dive into his psyche, family trauma, and questionable decision-making skills. We love a grandfather who thinks he's playing 4D chess but is actually just emotionally floundering.

At its core, this story is about control. Antoine has spent his entire life mastering diplomacy and restraint, only to realise too late that some things like family, love, or forgiveness cannot be manoeuvred like a well-played chess game. His entire relationship with Alexander is a slow-motion car crash of miscalculations and the quiet devastation of regret.

I think the real tragedy of Antoine isn't that he doesn't care but it's that he cares too much, in all the wrong ways, and by the time he realises it, the damage is already done. But, listen, he is trying, okay (even if it means manipulating his way into a conversation with Alexander via an underhanded Portkey scheme. Baby steps).

Anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts and thanks so much for your comments and support.

I hope you guys are having a good day. See you next time!