#ll fic

"Would you like biscuits with your tea, Madam...?"

Yes, Mother...

Merula accepts in a tone devoid of the worldly politeness that befits their circle and slumps inelegantly into one of the living room armchairs, exhausted from a too recent Cruciatus Curse. This is in stark contrast to her mother, who holds herself together with a righteousness so ingrained in her that even a decade of imprisonment has failed to hunch her.

“Oh, I forgot to buy biscuits,” the woman exclaims, tucking a thin strand of salt-and-pepper hair that has escaped back from her tight bun.

Merula waves her wand with exasperation. Cupboard doors open, a cascade of biscuit packets tumbles out. Luscinia Snyde* stares at the boxes on the floor without understanding.

She does not remember. She doesn’t remember buying biscuits this morning, yesterday, every day this week, and every day the week before.

“We can never have enough biscuits anyway!” decrees the former Death Eater with a sheepish smile.

"Isn’t that right Madame, er...?"

“Merula.”

Luscinia’s expression changes abruptly, as if the secret of her existence has just been revealed to her. Suspended from this look suddenly filled with unknown knowledge, a glimmer of hope threatens to melt Merula’s icy heart. Because Luscinia sometimes manages to recover a whole memory, following the mention of one tiny detail, like a thread of wool that is pulled out of a knitted fabric until the whole ball of yarn is reformed. Provided that this detail finds an echo in her bruised psyche, provided that the magic works.

“If I’d had a daughter, I would have given her the same name!”

A dagger in the heart... Again! Magic never works when it comes to the surly faced Curse-Breaker who inherited Luscinia’s formidable vocal abilities. The Dementors tore away every happy memory, whole swathes of happiness. They have plundered her memory so much that it is screwed up. Her mother is broken.

Today, Luscinia knows her head is sick, but she can’t use a wand or remember what she did this morning, or, most horribly, that she has a daughter. Nor does she remember Voldemort’s visits, the tortures in the cellars or her husband going to Hogwarts for the Final Battle. The good thing is that she won’t ask about the sleeping guards or the two missing prisoners.

Nevertheless, Merula is enraged. She grew up in this manor, alone, between the monthly visits of her aunt, who preferred to let a child face alone the threats of reprisals on her person rather than assume the education of a Death Eater’s daughter. Driven by vengeful ambition, the heiress has been striving to reach the heights of magical skill to deter the avengers, prove her worth, regain the respect she is due and surpass her entire lineage!

The escape of Death Eaters and Voldemort’s rise to power has turned everything upside down. However, although she denied it, Merula had hoped for a hint of parental recognition, but all she got from her mother was the distance reserved for strangers, and from her father, the indifference of a miserable Voldemort puppet.

Voldemort... It’s all his fault! He’s the gangrene! And Merula harbours a deep grudge against this deceitful half-blood hypocrite who stole her life! But to oppose him directly is to oppose the last remaining members of her family... The Curse-Breaker has never been able to bring herself to do that.Footsteps sound in the parqueted corridor. On the lookout, Merula stands up, wand in hand, while her mother collects the boxes of biscuits, oblivious to the looming threat. The hinges of the heavy oak door creak. A cold sweat runs down her spine and Jacob Thorn appears, waving a white scarf in peace.

The young woman slips away without a word. Out of sight, Luscinia Snyde will not remember her presence. Once the door closes behind her, the mask of civility falls off. Merula grabs Jacob by the collar, slams him against the wall and thrusts her wand into his jugular.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she spits fiercely.

“I came to get you,” he replies with the aplomb of a man used to her mood swings. “I got it all figured out.”

“Fuck! What took you so long?” she grumbles, her amethyst eyes blazing with anger and resentment.

In his eyes, Merula finds all the pleas for forgiveness he doesn’t make. He is far too proud of that. Fortunately! Jacob is not like his sister, who flattens herself at the slightest frown. Merula could never have fallen in love with a wimp!

“Come with me,”

Her snarl wavers, jostled by the surges of her heart torn between her insecurities and her convictions. The man takes the opportunity to brush aside the threat of her wand.

“Get out of your cage, Little Bird... I need you. To weaken Voldemort, Nagini must be shot.”

That last sentence shakes her. Jacob, the most secretive, independent guy in the whole of the UK, needs her. A certainty intoxicates her: if someone like Jacob believes in you, needs you, he gives you value and everything becomes possible! The whole world can be yours! With this thought alone, an incredible feeling of power secretly awakens in her.

“Of course! You’d never make it without me!” scoffs the Curse-Breaker. “Besides, without me, you’d still be naked in my basement!”

“I might never have gone there if you hadn’t sent me!”

“You would have preferred ‘death or insanity’ maybe?”

Jacob takes a few seconds to absorb what he has escaped, thanks to Merula. Then he scans her unblinkingly, waiting for her decision. He knows her well. He knows that she will use the slightest superfluous word to delay the inevitable. There is a tense silence between the most powerful former witch at Hogwarts and the only man she tolerates as her equal. Then a provocative smile emerges.

“Damn, Merula! The most powerful witch at Hogwarts is not going to hole up like a rat at such a crucial time! It’s a disgrace!”

The phone buzzed, unnoticed, amidst the scattered papers andpens thrown across Eli’s desk. She typed away at her computer angrily, eachforceful key press echoing through the empty office.

Three weeks. Three weeks ago, she’d told her boss thedeadline was unreasonable. They’d need twice the man power or twice the time,she’d said, holding up the piece of paper where she’d laid out all hercalculations. And what had her boss said?

No.

The deadline was set.

Get it done.

Eli grit her teeth. How could some people be so stupid?Evidence clear as day was presented to him, and he ignored it.

She came back to him a week later. Here is where we’re at,she said. Here is where we need to be. Look how behind we are. Look how much thereis left to do. It is impossible to meet this deadline.

Do it anyways, her boss had said, and then picked up hisphone to chat to his golfing buddy.

Eli’s phone buzzed again. She ignored it.

One week ago. The entire department was behind her. We can’tdo this, they all said. It was completely unreasonable from the start. Therewas no chance. They needed to extend the deadline.

Unfortunately, their boss was on vacation.

Eli slammed the enter key after the millionth line ofnumbers. Her poor keyboard was going to break at this rate. Assuming herfingers didn’t break first. Because here she was, a day before the project wasdue, trying to do the work of a dozen people in a fraction of the time sheneeded.

Never mind it was Sunday, and everyone was gone. Never mindshe had told the company she needed to take today off no matter what. Nevermind it was her birthday, and she was supposed to be out celebrating with hergirlfriends. Not like her boss cared about any of that.

Eli’s phone buzzed for the umpteenth time that day, and shefinally snatched it up. She was going to turn this thing off, like she shouldhave done hours ago. She didn’t need any more distractions.

It was a picture from Nico, she noticed, her finger on thepower button. Nine pictures, in fact. What was she doing, sending pictures?Nico knew how busy she was. Against her better judgement, Eli decided to openthem.

Picture 1: A crudely made sign filled the frame, the words“Welcome to the match of the centry!!!” written in curly pink letters. Centurywas misspelled – was that on purpose, or was Nico’s spelling really that awful?It could go either way, if Eli was honest. And what did that even mean, matchof the century? She swiped to the next message.

Picture 2:  “Opponentone”, another sign said, taped on the wall. Nozomi stood below it, afake-serious frown on her face, wearing a tank top to show off her arms. Shewas standing in a power pose, mittens covering her fists. What were theygetting up to now? Eli wasn’t sure if she needed to be concerned or not. Still,she spent an extra second or two looking at her girlfriend’s face. Who knewwhen she’d next to get to see Nozomi?

Picture 3: Opponent number two was Nico, apparently, wearingone Eli’s work suits. The pants were trailing on the ground, the sleeveshanging well past Nico’s hands. The tie, at least, was perfectly done. Nico’spose was hunching over a little, holding a soup ladle close to the ground likea golf club. The final touch was a sharpie mustache, complete with cartooncurls at the ends. Eli bit back her laughter, but couldn’t hold in her smile.What was she doing in that ridiculous get up?

Picture 4: Round 1, said the sign, hanging from the ceiling.Underneath it were two chairs, stacked precariously on top of each other. Infront were Nozomi and Nico, facing off like a boxing match. Nozomi was on theright, mittened-hands held up in front of her (and Eli once again took a momentto appreciate Nozomi’s biceps). Nico was on the other side, ladle restingagainst her shoulder and a phone in her hand, like she didn’t have a care inthe world.

Picture 5: The end of the match. Nozomi had Nico in a chokehold, looking awfully pleased with herself. Nico looked half dead, mouth openand tongue hanging out the side. Her body was limp, the ladle discarded on thefloor. Eli let herself laugh, finally, the tension in her chest lightening justa little. A resounding victory for Nozomi.

Picture 6: Round 2. This sign was dangling from one corner,the chair tower having collapsed behind it. A new band aid had appeared onNico’s cheek. It wasn’t stopping her: she looked raring to go after her defeat,ladle held like a baseball bat. Nozomi had a lazy grin on her face, one handraised in a “come and get me” position. The trio of little giraffe figures she’dcollected as a child were sitting on the table nearby. A captured audience.

Picture 7: Eli winced at the results of the battle. Nozomiwas on the ground, arms covering her head. Nico towered over her (as much asNico could tower over anyone), ready to use Nozomi’s head as a golf ball. Thelittlest giraffe was on its side, the leg of another covering its eyes, as iftrying to shield it from the horror of defeat.

Picture 8: “Final round!!!!!!!!!” the sign read, propped upbetween the giraffes. Nozomi had traded one of her mittens for an oven mitt (Apower-up? A surprise weapon? Eli’d have to ask later). After carefulinspection, Eli spotted the lost mitten on the end of the soup ladle, which hadbeen cast away on the floor. Instead Nico had her bare fists up, and moreimportantly, had retied her pigtails around her face so it looked like a beard.Nozomi had done it too, Eli realized, laughing again. They both looked utterlyridiculous. Even the giraffes had been given tiny paper beards, and Eli trulylost it at that, laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

The final picture, Eli saw through her tears, was Nozomitriumphant, standing proud above Nico’s dead body, hands on her hips and onefoot on Nico’s stomach. Confetti was strewn around the floor, along with somehalf-filled balloons. For whatever reason, Eli was the only one of the threewho could properly blow up balloons, and it looked like neither of them hadlearned for this photoshoot. Instead they’d taken the red ones and scatteredthem around Nico to mimic blood. The entire picture – the tipped over thechairs, the bearded giraffes, the discarded signs in the background, Nico’sunraveled beard and Nozomi’s pristine one – it all melded together into onebeautiful disaster. Or possibly a fever dream.

How long had she been working now? It must have been nearingevening. She’d have to work fast to be home by dinner. Eli wiped the last ofthe tears from her eyes and finally shut off her phone. She’d congratulate thevictor later, once all of this was done. For now, she was feeling fired up andready to go.

A month since John touched down at the construction site of the Human Garde Academy and opened up about every single thing he was feeling. Lonely was the only word Nine remembered. John had asked him to help build the future and to heal alongside of him, seeing right through Nine’s own ghosts the same way Nine watched the way those blue eyes lit up and dimmed over and over.

They were a match, a pair that was meant to cross and balance one another; fitting that the two that relied the most on the presence of the other, or even just another trusted person, isolated themselves to heal. Nine knew the changes he personally went through during the last days, but he could only speculate exactly how much of John was new. He was the only one who never pushed him to talk about it, never tried to step ahead of him and prevent him from working through his emotions in the way he felt he needed to; he drew the line when John’s behaviors became self destructive to a point he no longer saw a future for himself.

Their reunion became a journey. Their journey brought them back to this desolate cave. This cave brought out every repressed feeling Nine felt towards John and every drop of him was met with the same splintering reaction from the other boy.

How Nine would continue to play games with himself of what pathetic, brave act he wanted to perform for everyone that he needed to impress or how Nine would rather hurt himself than admit he needed others.

How John shut out every other person that mattered to him up until those moment with Nine because he couldn’t lose anyone else. How John almost gave up his life and everything in it in the name of his first, short lived relationship.

They pushed each other to talk, but it wasn’t easy. Nine could barely put his emotions in words to himself and John stopped talking almost a year ago.

Touch became their communicator, but never in a harmful way. A careful hand on a shoulder or against an arm, a ruffle through hair and the lingering brush of thumb against a cheek.

From casual, brief touches to long, established contact, whether they overcome shyness to hold hands or embrace each other during the nights that the darkness of the cave becomes too much.

From hand and skin contact to the one night Nine couldn’t hold back anymore and had to lean in to capture John’s bliss against his lips.

Their bond became romantic shortly after they arrived here and argued endlessly about everything they should have said before, unpredicted but passionate moment underneath the stars a few miles above where they currently laid side by side, guided to whatever they wanted to label this by every piece that put it into place. When Nine couldn’t bare to put off his feelings any longer, when that spark for John that died after his vanished came back full force when John first gently rested his palm against Nine’s cheek and held his eyes during one of their softer fights.

Their relationship was new, young, but Nine still has since memorized the intensity of the nightmares by the sound of John’s tears when he slept. He never cried when he was awake, just wore the dark, sunken bags under his eyes along his newly pale skin like they didn’t exist.

John’s back was to him, tensing instantly at the sound of Nine sitting up. Like he was terrified of being caught so vulnerable; the thought alone forced Nine to frown further. He struggls to remain still, shaking ever so slight with softer sobs as the blonde tried to turn into the soft pillows to cover his face.

“It’s not bad to cry, you know,” Nine starts quietly, moving a hand to rub along John’s back. “Even the best people have to let themselves break into pieces, John.”

The other Garde didn’t respond, but his body seemed to melt under Nine’s touch and after Nine’s words.

“I think it makes a person stronger,” he adds with a sad smile, hoping John would turn to see him. “I mean, that’s what I keep telling myself when I feel like I finally have to cry.”

John freezes beneath the tenderness of Nine’s petting, then wilts against the sheets beneath him.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you when you needed it,” he said suddenly, his voice just above a whisper, trying to mask the way his words broke with the sound of his crying just seconds before.

“You can’t do everything, John. You had other places to be, other things to worry about. I’m sorry I’m sort of bad at talking and being open,” Nine retorts in a tone just as quiet, leaning down and pressing a kiss to John’s hair. “I’m getting there, I’m far from perfect in this art, but you helped me get to where I want to learn how if it means I can be here like this with you. Maybe… that’s what you can do. Maybe you should try to talk to me and tell me what these dreams are about, or what happens in them.”

“You won’t like it,” John replies, closing his eyes and trying to turn from Nine. To close himself off once more from Nine, terrified of what ever things he saw in his dreams coming true. Terrified of letting himself go and letting someone else help him.

Nine moves his hand to John’s side and turned the other boy to face him, laying down besides John and softly tracing his hand down John’s arm and side. He moves his fingers up and nestles them in the hair at the base of his neck, running a thumb against John’s neck to his chin. The blonde responds by leaning his forehead in against Nine’s, unable to escape the comfort and safety Nine’s touch brought out in him.

“I want to hear about it all,” Nine urges, leaning and kissing his partner softly. “You can let me in too, John. I’m not the only one who needs help being free and that’s ok.”

John goes quiet, responding by opening his eyes and meeting Nine’s with a sad glint, but his hand slowly moves up and plants itself on Nine’s side, tightening against the skin to pull Nine closer to him. He takes a shaky breath.

“Promise?” He asks in a cracked voice. “No matter whatever the dreams are, or what is going on with me, you’ll stay here.”

“It’ll take more than a couple of scares to drive me away from you, Number Four,” Nine leans in and kisses John again but doesn’t move to pull away immediately. They kiss quietly, pulling each other into a space only they could exist in. When Nine broke it again, he was barely a breath from John’s lips when he spoke again.

“Nothing can push me away.”

John let out another deep, shaky breath, but he doesn’t try to move from Nine’s contact.

“I won’t lose you,” he murmurs.

Nine smiles a little and kisses John’s forehead, nose, cheeks.

“If you’re scared you can’t help me, I’m flattered but I’m ok and I will be ok. Right now, John, you need to be ok.”

John nods once, barely, then lays an arm down against Nine’s arm in a lazy cuddle, settling back a little so he could meet Nine’s eyes. He holds Nine’s eyes, the blue depth changing from sad to quiet determination.

The efforts of hundreds of wands united in a single purpose pierce the dome that protects the thousand-year-old school. Attacked from all sides, the protection collapses piece by piece, scattering reddish residues of magic into the night. Like the others, Ben Copper casts uninterrupted salvos of offensive spells to eliminate any trace of the impenetrable barrier.Behind him, the bloodthirsty werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, urges them to use more magic, more effort... more rage!

Ben Copper does not bear the Dark Mark. Yet, he joined the Death Eaters of his own free will. He, a Muggle-born.

The paradox!

The man of today left behind him the boy trembling under Merula Snyde's bullying, like a leaf beaten by a storm, the ridiculous student with multiple phobias isolating him from everyone, the reckless teenager rushing headlong into danger because he had something to prove, a life to justify and another, lost forever, to avenge.

Buoyed by Rowan's sacrifice, the wizard embarked on a career as an Auror alongside Tonks, Talbott Winger and Annie Thorn. A way for him to take part in the evil's eradication that plagues the world. Their training has been a long and bumpy road that has highlighted mental instability and a pathological propensity to take reckless risks that could turn him into danger to himself and others. In order not to be expelled, Ben Copper fought against himself to correct his nature and, in the end, he graduated with honours, his results surpassing even those of Annie and Talbott.

He soon received his placement, a quartet composed of personalities as different as they are complementary. His first mission: to solve a series of murders, the barbarity of which, judging by the corpses, would have turned the guts of a butcher. After a long investigation, Ben and his team tried to arrest a suspect.

After falling into a trap, two teammates were subjected to the Imperius Curse. Manipulated, blackmailed, pushed to their deepest limits, they all experienced Hell before managing to free themselves from this deleterious grip and regain the upper hand. Shocked by the sadism of this bloodthirsty assassin and determined to prevent him from doing any further harm, the young Auror eliminated him. If Sirius Black knew how to take advantage of the loopholes in Azkaban, this guy would have been able to do it too. The prospect of this demon regaining his freedom was both terrifying and unacceptable. For Ben, a radical solution was needed.

The outraged disapproval of his teammates still rings in his ears.

They called him a "monster"! In a panic, Ben falsified all the witness memories to make it look like self-defence. It wasn't legal. It wasn't moral, either. But it was damn right. Ben did society a favour by killing that sadist! Because he was working for justice, Ben didn't deserve a stay in Azkaban for the death of that murderer. Why did they refuse to understand?

Observant and perceptive, Alastor Moody found out. He demanded Ben's resignation before he retired. Excluded from a society he wanted to serve with all his soul, the wizard's isolation was the fertile ground for the growth of the worst seed.

Hate grows in the voids of existence. And the void, Ben, was full of it.

Later, Voldemort controlled the Ministry of Magic, which created a Muggle-born Registration Commission, an administration designed to discriminate and weed out the wizards like Ben. Abandoned by all and forced to rely only on himself, the ex-Auror lived in total destitution in hiding, until one day the Snatchers dragged him to the feet of Fenrir Greyback, the alpha among outcasts. A morbid fear had frozen his bones as he recognised the man, the beast... The monster.

A ruthless predator voluntarily at Voldemort's command, waiting to build up enough Werewolf troops to overthrow those wizards on all sides who unanimously despise lycanthropy.

So Copper had an idea. Since the wizarding world didn't want him, Ben would reject it in turn and drown the resentment that consumed him in blood.

"Make me a werewolf."

After the stupor, Fenrir grinned carnivorously. Greed glinted in his dilated pupils. Greyback didn't know it yet, but they were made of the same wood. Men who will do anything to achieve their goals. Hardliners.

"I enjoy biting kids better... They're more tender," Greyback hummed, licking his lips obscenely.

Nevertheless, the alpha pounced on him and gave the blond a painful glimpse of the violence of his dominance instincts before imprisoning him until the next full moon that has made him a new werewolf.

A large, muscular hand ruffles Ben's blond hair. The ex-auror submits willingly to this treatment, which is not at all affectionate.

He is no longer alone.

Never again alone.

A shadow clouds his large brown eyes. At the signal, the entire pack sets off. Ben is in the front line. He is strong, powerful. Copper runs, adrenalin runs through his veins. An army of animated stone statues in a tight row stands in his way. Not for long. His magic makes his wand twinkle.

"Flipendo Maxima!"

Part of the first line of defense collapses on the second, as Acromentulas slither between the stone legs, or advance over the rubble. Other wizards follow suit. The haphazard steps of the trolls and the slow, heavy steps of the giants make the ground tremble under his feet. As in a game of dominoes, the second line of statues topples the third, then the fourth. The fifth resists. But no matter!

Determined, Jae Kim walks through the gloomy forest surrounding Snyde Manor. The hasty departure of wildlife fleeing the human approach echoes in the night, lit by a gibbous moon. The tension of his silent companion is tangible. Annie disapproves of this meeting place. The risk of ambush is too great. This is precisely why no one else could have accompanied him.

After Voldemort’s rise, Jae used his smuggling routes to ex filtrate Muggleborns and other Death Eaters targets, and Annie used her duties to cover them up by leading their pursuers on false leads. Thus, Chiara, their werewolf friend who deserted her pack that had fallen under Greyback’s domination, could take refuge in France. Diego too.

Annie is an Auror. Jae is a smuggler cook. They are not on the same side of the Galleon. Yet, they have always helped each other. He contributed to the success of her missions by providing her with information; she saved him from Azkaban or from his rivals. They are friends, partners, and they have been lovers for a long time. Their relationship has always been one of total trust and non-judgment, and since their teenage years, their respective solitudes have met every time they were single. They can’t love each other, so they gave each other pleasure. It’s better than nothing.

For several months, another woman occupies Jae’s thoughts. Always present to concoct the potions needed for certain negotiations or to repair the side effects of a few dubious transactions, she has supported him in most of his undertakings. Her solar beauty, her gossip and her kindness won over his heart, which Jae had long thought closed to all the other women who were not Annie. Alas! Penny Haywood was brutally torn away from him before he could confess his feelings.

But after weeks of investigation and negotiation, Jae is going to get her out of this Hell. The last evacuation before chaos and war.

Nobody at the meeting point, a clearing with a rune stone. Annie's spirit slips through his mental defences to comfort him, but through her legilimency, he also detects her anxiety.

Suddenly, a veil seems to be torn away to reveal a witch flanked by two people huddled together. Jae stiffens. This is not what they have planned. They are two. The witch pulls her hood over her shoulders and steps aside to expose her prisoners. Penny and… Jacob?

Merula’s vanity feeds on power, and money is an excellent source of it. So, the smuggler throws a well-filled purse at her. She weighs it and with a look allows Penny to join him. He takes her hand in his, trying to convey all the affection that no words can describe. Her chapped lips draw a tired smile, but full of promise. Then Merula unlocks Jacob’s handcuffs and pushes him unceremoniously toward his sister, stunned. He is in an awful state.

“Get him out of here!”

Jacob rushes to Annie, snatches her wand from her hands, and turns it on his jailer.

“Traitor!”

The air becomes electric as the two enemies stare at each other as if the world no longer exists. Jae shudders, fearing the worst, blood pulsing in his ears. He stands in front of Penny and probes the Auror, undecided.

“Go on! What are you waiting for?”

“Merula, don’t provoke him. We’re going to leave nicely and...” says Jae.

“Crucio!” Jacob’s voice has the hardness of a block of ice.

With a blood-curdling howl, Merula falls to her knees under the power of the terrible curse as Annie throws herself on top of her brother to stop this madness.

“Stupefy!” shouts Jae.

The prisoner collapses. Merula pushes Annie away, who wants to help her. “Get out!”

She stands up and walks towards the fainting mage. The witch bursts into a sinister laugh, her amethyst eyes full of painful madness. She curtsies mockingly. “I bow low... Me, I would never have succeeded in using this magic against you!”

With a sneer of bitterness, Merula turns on her heels. “You have fifteen minutes to leave my property!”

Annie pours the essence of dittany to heal Jacob's raw wounds–the rest will wait. Then Jae wakes him with a spell. “Renervate,”

The quartet leaves the premises without a word. First on foot, then by teleporting to the shore where a Portkey awaits them.

“This book will take you to Deauville. Chiara and Diego are waiting for you there,” says Jae to Penny.

Her emaciated face and bleary eyes knot his stomach. She looks so vulnerable in her rags, barely concealed by that cape. He feels like he’s leaving a puppy by the side of the road and hoping it will survive. Doubt and guilt assail him like stakes in the abdomen. Jae Kim never thought he would be torn between the two women in his life.

“And you? What will you do?”

“I’ve got stuff to sort out,” Jacob scolds before disappearing, giving no one time to protest.

As usual, Jae sees Annie break down under her brother’s apparent indifference.

“We’ll fight at Hogwarts,” he says.

Annie places a hand on the smuggler’s shoulder. “Go with her... You’ve done enough,”

“That’s not our plan,”

Annie’s eyes get cloudy. “That’s my plan... Petrificus Totalus!”

“Why?”

The two friends accompany him to the ground, stiff as a board. Annie kisses the corner of his lips. A soft, wet imitation of their first kiss in the Hogwarts kitchens, the one he won after a bet.

Her answer resonates in his mind as she pulls herself together. “You know damn well why,”

Petrified, Jae wants to protest!

“Take care of each other!” orders Annie, placing a Portkey and a bag full of gold in Jae’s immobile arms. “In case of defeat, never come back!”

In tears, Penny briefly hugs the Auror. “Be careful,”

Helplessly, Jae endures the whirlwind of a journey in the arms of the one he loves while his mind focuses on his lifelong partner.

Annie...

Locked in the cold, damp basement of a mansion of which he knows every corner, Jacob broods over the dark thoughts of a betrayed man. In the light coming through a window well, he observes the bruises on his skin, and his raw wounds, the result of endless torture. Spells have made the bones in his legs disappear, potions have made them grow back in abominable pain. Water bubbles enveloped his head in a simulated drowning. His body was burned and thrown against the pillars of the interrogation room.

Retaliation for his actions, but also a way to make him hand over his accomplices, to make him confess his objectives, what he knows and the informations he has passed on and to whom…

For whom did Jacob keep silent?

Was it loyalty to Dumbledore, who asked him to infiltrate the Death Eaters to get at the heart of the enemy? He is dead. And so are his only friends.

For Snape, who suggested he eliminate Nagini, Voldemort’s loyal snake, using the Fiendfyre? Jacob dislikes this double agent whose true loyalties he can’t figure out.

To be on the side of good? Jacob has navigated so many murky waters he doesn’t even believe it anymore.

For Annie? His little sister is doing just fine without him and has proven it time and time again.

For his mother? He has long since stopped expecting her to be proud of him.

So for whom? For whom did he keep silent? Whether or not he talks, he’ll end up dead here!

A door creaks and Jacob stands up. Will he be tortured again? His jailer walks up to his cell and watches him silently, entrenched behind her mask. Jacob’s face twists with pain and rage as he recognises the figure of his visitor, his torturer... and the executioner of his heart.

This witch whose stubbornness, pride and cunning he has come to appreciate. She has several labels in Jacob’s eyes: self-proclaimed rival of his sister, discreet accomplice to his infiltration by facilitating his search for information without denouncing him, passionate lover and finally...

“Traitor!”

“I had no choice.”

Jacob signs his contempt with a spit. “Traitor!”

“Why did you target Nagini?” she says, removing the mask concealing her face.

Jacob’s gaze defies irises the intense colour of an amethyst. Why kill Nagini? Because it is the only being in the world that Voldemort seems to have any kind of attachment to, and Snape claims the snake holds a piece of Voldemort’s soul. Therefore, killing the reptile is a condition for the annihilation of You-Know-Who. The wizard would rather die than tell her!

“You'll regret stopping me,” he says, clutching the rusty bars of his cell. “Why did you do that? I thought we were on the same side, Merula. What the fuck has changed?”

The lock mechanism suddenly activates and opens the door of his prison with a sinister creak. Then a pair of handcuffs materialises around his wrists. As soon as he takes his first step outside, Merula tightens the handcuffs.

“Follow me!”

Her voice snaps like a whip. Jacob follows the witch to another dungeon where she asks the prisoner wrapped in a warm cloak, her own, to follow her as well. Despite the dirt and her hunched back, he easily recognises this other prisoner. Penny Haywood. She must be the potionist plucked from her home to concoct countless cauldrons of Wolfbane potion that he has vaguely heard of. She is so weak that their jailer does not even bother to handcuff her.

They walk through tunnels lit by the few torches that light up as they pass, and Merula coldly informs them that all forces have converged on Hogwarts to confront each other.Suspicious, Jacob moves forward with cautious steps. Will they be killed? No, if Voldemort wins, he will still need Penny. Will they be moved somewhere else, where no one is likely to find them?

A shiver ran down his spine. With a shy smile, Penny wraps her arm around his bare shoulders to share the warmth of her cloak. Her kindness touches him all the more because he no longer expects anything from anyone, and for a second, Jacob considers playing the hero for this girl. She’s a good friend of his little sister. That would be at least two people to put flowers on his grave. But then he changes his mind. Who knows what traps are lurking in this labyrinth that Merula moves through so effortlessly?

“Traitor, traitor, traitor,” he mumbles like a mantra.

It is difficult to perceive the distance travelled or their direction in this monotonous environment with no landmarks to rely on. The darkness clouds his senses. Without wanting to, he lets himself be intoxicated by the feminine perfume that warms his skin... and despite himself, his heart.

Love and the desire for revenge tear him apart.

Merula is his little bird... but she’s also a fucking traitor!

"Liz, are you sure? My sister is safe?"

After another glance at the tarot cards on the table, the witch nods as she pushes her round glasses up her nose. Beatrice has changed a lot in a few months. Her English rose skin has taken on a lovely shade of apricot with freckles, blonde locks have lightened under the Taveuni sun, and the sharp eye she used to have on the world has become blunted by contact with the Fijian people.

Their sweetness of life, the warmth of their smiles melted the umbrageous gangue that Beatrice had surrounded herself with since the kidnapping of her older sister.

"And Ismelda?"

Liz takes another card draw and shakes her head negatively. Warned by Ismelda Murk that the Haywood family was the next target of a faction of Death Eaters and werewolves, they were in the midst of preparations to flee the country when Penny was snatched from them. Miraculously, the rest of the family escaped, but the violence of the attack left Beatrice's parents in a prolonged state of sideration, forcing her to take charge of their departure. Seeking to get as far away from the bloodthirsty pack as possible, Beatrice gathered all their savings, and the family moved to Fiji where they were welcomed with open arms by Liz Tuttle. But the witch is constantly worried about her former friend, now a Death Eater.

Ismelda has always taken an unhealthy pleasure in the morbidity and suffering of all life forms: muggles, creatures, and even wizards. Provocations for attention, it seems... It has never made her cruelty any less real, and it has always deeply offended Liz, who is hardly surprised to see her fellow Slytherin embracing supremacist ideals. This is a recurring point of contention with Beatrice, who believes there is still hope, seeing Ismelda's warning as irrefutable evidence of lingering inner light.

For Liz, Ismelda Murk is one of those intolerant people who are sometimes kind in the name of "People like you are the scum of the earth and should be eliminated, but you're not! You, I like you!".

What happens when she is up against the wall and her affection comes into direct conflict with her deleterious ideals? Despite her poor social skills, Liz fears she knows the answer. That's why the magizoologist has opposed any idea of returning home, despite Beatrice's recurring urge to save her sister. In the UK, her blood status alone can condemn her to death.

So the Haywood family enjoys the island of Taveuni, a beautiful lush garden with waterfalls and gently rocked by the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean. But the archipelago's major attraction for Liz is not really the beauty of its landscapes. Fiji is a peaceful world where wizards, muggles and magical creatures live together in harmony. All share the same culture and all welcome the visitor, no matter what their background, with smiles from ear to ear. The country and its ancestral way of life made a powerful impression on the child she was when she first visited the archipelago.

This is why she hastened to settle there as an adult. Fijian society is an example for Liz Tuttle to follow, and she wishes to discover the foundations of such a harmonious society that respects the needs of each species. She hopes to be able to adapt them to the Western world. A goal that is the opposite of any supremacist's.

Beatrice frowns before wiping the disappointment from her face.

"I'm going to tell Mum and Dad the good news... Are you meeting us at the Luau?"

The question feels like a stab in Liz's chest. At that moment, she considers revealing the terrible battle that is taking place at the same time in their homeland, but then she changes her mind. Let her enjoy the Luau!

These festivities, where all the inhabitants share a traditional meal, with music, dancing and performances where Muggle fire dancers share the stage with fire crabs, are some of the best celebrations in the South Pacific islands. For Liz, the Luau is a symbol of a true ideal of life.

"I'll do some more card reading and join you," she says, lifting the coconut half-shell filled with an earthy liquid.

"I'll never understand how you can swallow that stuff!"

"You get used to it," Liz says philosophically. "Even though I admit to enjoying its effects more than its taste,"

"The opposite would be surprising. It's bitter with a horrible earthy taste!" Beatrice says with disgust.

Lacking the inner eye, the magizoologist lacks her mother's talent for divination. Liz consumes Kava to make up for this handicap. The anaesthetic and deeply relaxing properties of this local plant root-based beverage sharpen her awareness and ensure the correct interpretation of messages from fate.

Thus, she can say that Penny is on a journey to safety.

But destiny is not immutable, set in stone. Every man holds his own in the palm of his hands. So, every day, Liz asks a question of the fortune-telling cards. Every day, the same question. The same question for each of the twenty members of the Circle of Khanna: Annie, Ben, Merula, Badeea, Talbott, Diego, Andre, Beatrice, Penny, Tulip, Jae, Barnaby, Chiara, Ismelda, Tonks, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George and herself.

Since she began this agonising ritual, the answers are invariably the same, hanging on the date of 2 May like multiple swords of Damocles.

At the end of the Luau, the Circle of Khanna will have only thirteen members.

“How did it feel?” says Jae as he lights a cigarette, lying on a deck chair facing the English Channel, shimmering under the moon. Inside the house, Chiara examines Penny, very weakened by months of deprivation and servitude.

Sitting on the ground, Diego dives into his memories, his eyes riveted on the sand that he lets slip through his fingers.

Triumphant Diego Caplan greets the jubilant crowd who chants his name and applauds his victory. The stronger the opponents, the better the show, the greater the glory of the winner, so Diego feels deep gratitude for the worthy duelists. They are partners who contribute to his legend. Caplan keeps his English championship crown and complacently poses for the front page of the Daily Prophet. A myriad of flashbulbs crackle. He runs a hand through his dark hair and gives a dazzling smile to the photographers... The hysterical audience shouts his name and reaches out to touch him. Diego savours this moment of glory, preceding another evening of unbridled sex washed down with champagne.

Suddenly, crazy shadows eclipse the lights of the arena. They move around, enveloping the crowd and blowing a wind of panic before spreading out along the walls. In an instant, death eaters block all the exits and one of them materializes, alone, in the arena. A mask preserves his anonymity. The only visible piece of flesh in a dark mass of loose clothing, a large hand clutches a fir wood wand. A tough, determined and intimidating character.

Diego’s smile fades. The wizard had expected this. They had warned him that this would happen. Diego Caplan’s resounding success has upset Voldemort and his followers. He represents everything that these supremacists abhor. He is a half-blood who fraternises with everyone, regardless of their extraction. That such a wretch should have the impudence to dominate such a demanding discipline of witchcraft is an affront to all purebloods! They cannot tolerate it. The champion has become a target to be slaughtered on the altar of their noxious propaganda.

In a sharp voice, the stranger demands a duel without delay, notwithstanding the fatigue of a man coming out of a confrontation. Completely disloyal, but any negotiation is futile. So the champion accepts the challenge of this challenger, whose malice vitiates the air like a poison. Then Diego focuses on his opponent. The world no longer exists. In his ear, his heartbeats the measure of the eternal refrain of his life, and his whole body prepares to dance.

The two wizards greet each other.

The duel is a subtle dance where you have to impose your rhythm on your opponent, so Diego takes the initiative. Both men use their magic. Attack, dodge, riposte, protection, feint, offensive, parry.

Usually, each movement improvises a complex choreography where the fighters become artists. Dance of life. Terrible as it may be, no one can deny the grace of a confrontation between two valiant and self-respecting fighters.

But there is no beauty in this raging dance, oozing hatred and contempt. Diego struggles to read the sequences of his opponent, whose wand whips through the air, casting spell after spell. Merciless. Disturbed by this outpouring of hatred which is foreign to him, Diego Caplan loses his rhythm. A misstep threatens.

The most unforgivable of spells is cast. The sorcerer nimbly dodges the impossible to parry spell. With horror, Diego sees in a morbid slow motion, the green lightning strikes a woman who falls dead, her face frozen in an eternal expression of fear. Dumbfounded, he becomes deaf to the terror of the audience taken hostage.

Then Diego understands. This is not a duel, a dance, or even a show of strength. It is an execution.

A shudder runs through him as his brown eyes take in the assembly of tense, tearful, trembling, or emotionless faces. One dodge and one of them will fall. The sorcerer resigns himself to the last will.

To look his first and last enemy straight in the eye.

The champion discovers the hard face of a fifty-year-old with a murderous aura, as inflexible as his wand. An emerald gaze devoid of pity pierces him.

What will the world remember about Diego Caplan? As an example of Pureblood superiority? Or a martyr who will exalt the spirit of those who oppose You-Know-Who? A final thought flies to his loved ones.

The fir wand moves without trembling, faster than the blink of an eye, while something inside him rises like a powerful and devastating groundswell. The rage to live. The man is lively. A privilege of youth, Diego is more so.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Death is a demanding dance partner who does not easily accept to be led. But Diego Caplan is a particularly skilled dancer.

The spell strikes in the chest. The enemy collapses. After a moment of stupefaction, when the entire room tries to understand, comes chaos. The ceiling of the arena collapses with a bang. Spells fly everywhere, shrill cries are heard, and wizards flee. Taking advantage of the confusion, Talbott Winger, Auror and Voldemort's opponent, grabs his arm and drags him out of the arena to teleport them to safety.

Then, under the aegis of Annie and Jae, he joins Chiara in France. The lycanthrope needs a benevolent guardian during the full moon and he needs the balm of a kind-hearted friend. It is an obvious choice to bring these two exiles together.

“Well, Diego? How did it feel to kill someone?”

Diego returns to the present time and watches the smuggler make smoke rings with his mouth. Jae keeps his thoughts to himself, but he is afraid for Annie, who evacuated him against his will to save him. He fears she will be scarred forever by war and Death. Diego understands all this better than anyone, but his friend doesn't need to know everything.

After a few months, he can say without lying. “It doesn’t matter, since in the end necessity has erased everything.”

Jae frowns, puzzled. “Even if it was Barnaby’s father?”