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Perched atop a century-old tree in the heart of the forbidden forest, Talbott, the eagle, watches the enemies gathering for the great battle to come. His amber eyes, as round as Gobstones, stare resolutely at the bloodthirsty creatures and wizards of relentless cruelty that form a dense carpet darker than the darkest night. His blood freezes, his feathers swell. The enemy forces outnumber them.

The murderers of his parents hide among them, behind camouflage spells that conceal their faces.

Faceless shadows that have stained the magnificent plumage of the white swan that was his tender mother with her blood... Killers who have beaten his father mad with pain, rocking his wife’s body against him in front of the door of their house... Monsters who have stolen the innocence of a child who was marvelling at the hatching of a nest of swallows in the attic when the tragedy took everything away...

His parents died, victims of murderous reprisals for an outstretched hand; the support given to You-Know-Who’s fiercest opponents. Relentless cruelty designed to dissuade anyone from siding with the Order of the Phoenix, led by Dumbledore.

His parents fell under enemy blows without being combatants. And although he is an auror today, he is not either. But unlike them, Talbott is a survivor.

He differs from his extroverted former partners, Tonks and Annie. He doesn’t fight evil in broad daylight. Even though he can transform himself into the only being who can look the sun in the face without being dazzled by its light, Talbott Winger is a man of the shadows. A discreet spy who hides, observes, analyses and transmits informations. In this field that requires discretion, patience, a strong will, an immense capacity to endure solitude and an extraordinary composure, Talbott has no rival.

Yet, when he sees this immense black expanse preparing for battle, the eagle wobbles beneath its plumage. His man's heart and eagle's heart tighten as he thinks of his beloved wife, who is at Hogwarts helping with the evacuation of the students. He thinks of his friends, too.

He, the loner, has earned a string of them over the years. Talbott had put up thick walls of pretension and sarcasm around his bruised heart, but they have smashed them all down to establish their unwavering friendship. They are bloody noisy, intrusive, exalted, silly at times, and most of them never standstill. They don’t understand his need for solitude. They understand his jokes even less. But they are his friends and he is proud to count himself among them.

So even if Talbott is not a fighter, he has courage and determination in spades. It takes that to be a survivor. The spy builds a warrior's heart in his chest. The animagus has assessed the power of the enemy. He is strong, the battle will be fierce. There is nothing more to expect from his observation. Talbott is about to leave his perch.

He is not a fighter. Talbott is a survivor, an eagle, a keen observer. Yet tomorrow, Talbott will fight with the wand in his hand. He will be at the side of his wife and his friends. Like the eagle, he will strike mercilessly, more unpredictable than Tonks, more relentless than Annie and as vigilant as their mentor, the late Alastor Mad-Eye.

If Death comes to slaughter him in the fray, he will take as many enemies as possible with him in his fall. The murderers of his parents will be among them if the destiny that Chiara believes in so strongly is lenient.

With these hopes, Talbott spreads his wings and flies to Hogwarts Castle to join those who have brought him out of a life of bitterness.

A shrill whistle rises to him... Excruciating pain strikes him in the sky. Talbott falls like a stone at the foot of his aggressor. His eyes close on the shadows that carry him away.

And the battle hasn't even started yet…

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Tonks paces around the living room, under the anxious eye of her mother, sitting in an armchair. Teddy has just finished his bottle and his head, strewn with turquoise strands, rests on her shoulder, covered with a bib in anticipation of regurgitation. She caresses her newborn baby's back, full of nourishing milk. He is two weeks old, and he is her most beautiful promise of happiness, a promise she carried in her womb for nine months. A promise which is called "Edward"... Like her late father.

Tonks breathes deeply of her baby's unique scent as she thinks of her husband, Remus. A tender-hearted, insecure werewolf who took years to accept the loving gaze she had on him. Their couple moves forward, backward, round and round again in a complex dance in which Tonks has mastered the steps so well that she has never stumbled. Remus can't say the same, but it doesn't matter. They love each other.

Remus is at Hogwarts, protecting the castle that has seen generations of wizards grow up. Antagonistic forces all converge on this thousand-year-old edifice. As the hour of battle approaches, Tonks' heart tightens. If Voldemort wins this war, there will be no future. Her family will be hunted down and exterminated on the altar of blood purity. The only viable future can only come true with the victory of Harry Potter, a boy with all the courage and self-sacrifice of his parents. A teenager! Much too young to carry such a weight on his shoulders.

Tonks is scared for Remus, her mother, her friends, her colleagues - especially Talbott and Annie, whom she has known since childhood -, herself, but above all, she trembles for her newborn baby. Suddenly, she becomes aware that Teddy's future doesn't wait. He needs to be saved now. Dora, as her husband calls her with affection, has left it up to Remus to protect this precious future. But the threat is so great that the auror fears that this isn't enough. And for the life of this child, Tonks will sacrifice everything.

She lacks training after her pregnancy spent hiding her home from the enemy. And, even though her metamorphmagus body has quickly returned to its pre-pregnancy shape, Tonks is still suffering from the after-effects of a long childbirth -as first ones often are-, the hypersensitivity of her breasts gorged with un-drawn milk, shortened nights, or the fall of her hormones exacerbating her emotions and colouring her hair brown.

Fortunately, Tonks knows that to face the darkness, one also needs the joy of life. Something her loving husband has always lacked. But the witch has enough of that for two. She can even make a bloody battalion fizzle!

And a mother's heart has enough courage to build the ideal world she dreams of for her son. To eradicate evil, Tonks could turn all those fucking Death Eaters into neon pink ferrets and spin them around on the ceiling of the Great Hall. It's the kind of crazy shit that her late mentor, Mad-Eye, would surely enjoy from where he is! So would her father, by the way.

As her baby finally burps, her eyes fall on the cassette radio her father gave her for her thirteenth birthday. In the hollow of her arm, she holds Teddy, peaceful in the sleep of a full belly baby. The movement makes him lift his eyelids before lazily falling back to sleep, not without having sketched out a smile for the angels. An unconscious smile of the happiness of being in the arms of his mother, whose eyes mist up with tears of emotion. This is Teddy's first smile.

And the auror surprises herself to dream of the first laughter, the first words, the first steps, the first friend, the first metamorphosis, the first stupidity, the first broomstick flight, the first day at Hogwarts... All these first times that count in the full life and that Teddy will be deprived of if... No!

So, Tonks decides to take action. She is going to help shape a future where her son will lack nothing. The auror looks at her mother. Andromeda's resigned smile didn't deceive. She has understood, as only a mother can.

With all her soul, Tonks hopes her face will be Teddy's first picture book. But just in case, she inserts a blank tape, grabs the rebel microphone, which slips out of her hand for a second. The auror curses her legendary clumsiness and presses the 'record' button.

"Teddy… This is your Mum..."

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For some days now, a special atmosphere has reigned in Hogsmeade, an unbearable heaviness, a tension typical of latent conflicts, such as the peculiar atmosphere preceding a violent storm.

It reminds Professor Kettleburn of the day Dumbledore invited him to witness the death of Fawkes, his loyal and majestic phoenix, and its rebirth.

The revival of the wizarding world is underway. It has arrived in the form of Charlie Weasley, fiery as a young dragon, and Tulip Karasu, dashing as a unicorn. They urge the people gathered at the Three Broomsticks to rebel against the Death Eaters who patrol the village as if they were on conquered territory. The two friends ask them to be part of the reinforcements intended to overwhelm the enemy once their ranks are broken by the complex nomenclature of the terrain where the ultimate confrontation will take place.

The villagers are reluctant. They are not combatants. Most of them are just shopkeepers or pensioners, and all remember the horrors of the first war against Voldemort. The names of some of his fiercest supporters have even become bogeymen who are supposed to make children obey. Silvanus also remembers that dark period, which saw the suffering and death of so many brave sorcerers.

This time, it's worse. The world has never been as dark as it is now that bloody Voldemort has taken over the Ministry of Magic.

Even today, wizards die. Even the most best of them all, Albus Dumbledore, has fallen. Some sorcerers threatened by the status of their blood have fled the country. Thanks to the fortunes of his sympathizers allowing him to get expensive ingredients, Voldemort dominated the savagery of the Werewolves by carrying out targeted attacks against families opposed to the despotic regime of the Ministry of Magic.

Yesterday’s schoolmates are today’s enemies. Families, generations of wizards to whom he passed on his knowledge with passion, are torn apart. This conflict must stop. And it all rests on Harry Potter, the survivor. A survivor who needs allies.

But the pensioner only has one arm and half a leg. That’s not much to fight with. From this point of view, others are much better off! All they need is a little courage to stop suffering and finally act. They feel an emotion unknown to Silvanus Kettleburn: they are afraid.

There are a thousand and one ways to say "No!", to reject the nauseating ideas of these wizards who are dumber than flobberworms and whose arrogance cannot bear to be ridiculed. Silvanus can’t fight, but that won’t stop him from contributing to the collective effort by setting an example. Death Eaters want submission. They demand the deference that magical creatures deserve a thousand times more than they do.

The villagers begin to show signs of impatience with the pair urging them to act. Curfew time is coming soon, and no one wants to be caught violating it. The judgement of the Death Eaters’ patrols in case of infraction is merciless.

Professor Kettleburn tightens his prosthetic limbs and stands up. No one expects anything from a cripple, so no one protests his premature departure.

“Next time they come on patrol, look out your windows!” he shouts at the assembly, straight as justice.

He smiles at Tulip Karasu and places an encouraging hand on Charlie Weasley’s shoulder. Both of them observe him, as curious as they are worried.

The pensioner returns to his house, climbs the stairs and then the ladder to the attic, with a full bucket at the end of the tongs that serve as his arms. It isn’t easy with his infirmity and the old man is out of breath. Sweat oozes from his forehead. It’s heavy.

Once at the top, he opens the skylight overlooking the street and checks his watch. It’s soon time for a patrol. He looks at the contents of his bucket, the stench of which fills his nostrils and makes him gag.

“Ugh, some are rotten...” he mumbles with a mixture of satisfaction and disgust. “Ah! There they are! Right on time!”

A group of Death Eaters has just appeared around the corner and is heading in his direction. The old man calls out to them from the top of his perch. He provokes them, insults them, mocks them, and by golly, he laughs as they crowd under his windows, not knowing how to react to his audacity. Only one of them makes an exception and quietly heads for Hog's Head Inn. Aberforth, the old goat who runs the place, is tough, so Silvanus has no doubts about his ability to deal with this intruder. He concentrates his attention below and spills the bucket full of flobberworms covered with stinking mucus on the Death Eaters. Then he knocks out one of them by throwing his bucket at his head!

“Suck on that, you filthy, purulent warts!” exults the pensioner as a clamour and applause rises from the surrounding houses.

It is not only the song of the phoenix that can awaken courage in hearts. That's why Silvanus Kettleburn, the zany cripple, has convinced a whole village to fight... With a simple bucket of flobberworms.

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"If he was dead, I'd know."

With her wand lit like a lighthouse, Badeea faces the darkness of the narrow tunnel leading to the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade. In her other hand, she holds that of a terrified pupil connected to the next pupil, who is just as frightened. This is one of the last groups to be evacuated from the castle, the arena of the ultimate battle against You-Know-Who. Some students sob. Others weep silently, while others lock themselves in a tense silence that the warmth of a mother's embrace will only break.

On her side, Badeea thinks about her husband, who left to evaluate the enemy forces and who still hasn't returned. The witch prays in her mind that nothing untoward has happened while keeping a precious certainty. Only one certainty. Talbott is not dead. Because if her husband had died, Grim Reaper's scythe would also have struck her heart, which would have shattered like crystal.

But Death is not the only one to fear tonight. His companions, 'Pain' and 'Injury', are ahead of him. Therefore, Badeea is eager for her beloved husband, a disciplined auror with the soul of a poet who reserves the exclusive reading of his most beautiful verses for her. He must come back to her!

Their story began with them working in tandem in their quest to find the last cursed vault. Combining their talents and their respective needs for solitude, they learned to tame and then appreciate each other.

And when one day Badeea asked him to pose for her, Talbott finally agreed, overcome by her insistence. The artist was able to capture the mysterious charm of her model, with his proud, even aristocratic, posture, and she let her emerging feelings shine through in her work.

Thus, love blossomed until that wonderful day when he proposed to her, after having watched her all afternoon painting a field of flowers with the breeze carrying away clouds of petals, a fairy-tale image the painter dreamed of immortalising.

With patience, Talbott waited for their wedding night to reverently take her virginity. A detail that probably precipitated their marriage, but Badeea never regretted it. She loves Talbott for better and for worse until death does them part, as they say in the romantic comedies her mother sometimes watches...

And Death hasn't separated them, not yet. The witch knows if it did. So Badeea prays with all her soul for an imminent reunion. She has no choice. Badeea must believe it.

The witch temporarily lets go of the hand of the child who is following her to put back the few strands of hair that have escaped from her dark hijab dotted with stars.

"Cheer up, kids! We're almost there."

At the end of the tunnel, Aberforth's great silhouette appears in the door's recess he has just opened. He holds a torch, and something lies on his forearm. With his dark face and scowl, he looks even more grumpy than usual.

"Ah, it's you... You're just in time!"

Badeea's blood freezes and her heart races. "Talbott!"

She rushes up to the old wizard and delicately grasps what is resting on his forearm, taking care not to pull at his long salt-and-pepper beard.The eagle squeaks.

“The mascot snuck in and dropped him off here,” says Aberforth.

Badeea frowns, trying to remember who the wizard is calling by that name.

"Barnaby?" she asks, delicately lifting the crude bandage around the animagus to inspect his wound.

Aberforth nods.

“I almost attacked him until he waved your husband in front of me like a white flag!” The wizard glances around at the students, huddled together, and winces as he recognises a few Slytherin children of Death Eaters’ descent. "It sounds serious! Take Winger to Pomfrey's quickly. I'll take care of the kids,"

"Thank you, Aberforth, and stay safe."

"And thank you, Barnaby," she adds in her mind, a little relieved to find that their former classmate still has such a tender heart despite his current allegiance.

Without looking back, Badeea returns to the castle as fast as her legs can carry her, competing in speed with Tonks, whom she passed earlier in the same tunnel. The witch tries to chase away the spectre of Death, which hovers like a scavenger around the bird of prey.

“Death, go away! It's not time yet!”

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Surprised in Hogsmeade by a patrol of Death Eaters reeking of rotten flobberworms, Charlie and Tulip defend themselves as best they can against an enemy that outnumbers them. A rain of curses rains down on them without let-up. A wizard seasoned by his work with dragons, Charlie builds protective shields, slipping a counterattack at every opening.

Her black eyes bulging with terror, Tulip Karasu struggles to stand beside her comrade. The hand that holds her wand trembles, an icy sweat oozing from the pores of her skin. Panic grips her beating heart. She feels powerless. Worse, she is a liability to her friend, who is trying to protect her.

In her defence, Tulip is just a shopkeeper. She only came to provide some logistics and to convince others to fight. She did not foresee having to battle for her life after she completed her mission. For a moment, the witch considers surrendering, hoping for leniency from their enemies.

A killing curse pierces their magic shield, misses its target, and passes over her head. At that moment, Tulip realises that these are ruthless killers, without the slightest scruple. Her soul shudders at the Death that follows these sorcerers like a shadow. Her throat knots and her whole body stiffens. She also loses her breath, which, in retrospect, is not bad considering the stench they give off. But worst of all, her eyes water at her pitiful weakness.

So, while her friend gets all the attention of the Death Eaters, his wand spitting spells like an angry dragon unleashing fire, Tulip finds refuge behind a barrel in a cobbled alley, crossing the primary avenue of Hogsmeade.

The dark wizards have turned the village into a no-go zone for magical teleportation. For the time being, the duo must rely on their legs, skill, and nerve to get out before they disappear.

With excellent reflexes and exceptional physical condition, Charlie doesn’t let the numerical superiority get him down. However, at one against ten, his chances of getting out alive are very low. Running along a wall to avoid being caught off guard, he confronts the enemy with a coolness that compels admiration. It takes a lot of nerve to live among dragons, unpredictable and ferocious creatures.

Paralysed, Tulip can not help him. A shopkeeper in Trick or Treat doesn’t need to know how to fight. She doesn’t need to be as brave as Tonks, her best friend and a skilled Auror. She doesn’t have to be as oblivious as Kettelburn, who thinks he can stop an angry erumpent's charge by putting his hand in front of it or... fight off those pesky Death Eaters with a bucket of rotten flobberworms. True, fanged frisbees can decapitate the unwary customer. But they have no warlike intent, and an immobilisation spell is enough to neutralise them. Unlike these dark mages, thirsty for blood and tears.

“Psst.”

A hissing sound calls out to her. She turns her head left, right. Her panicked gaze turns behind her. A few feet away, a door has opened, revealing Madam Rosmerta, the owner of the “Three Broomsticks”. Hope springs up in her beating heart. Tulip could discreetly leave these Death Eaters infested places by the roofs? Thus, Tulip could survive!

Charlie continues to fight like hell, trying to move the combat zone to the exit of the village. There is no time to lose. Tulip can run away while he keeps them busy. It’s the perfect opportunity, in fact.

Tulip has always prided herself on breaking the rules, but today the redhead takes no pride in breaking the basic rules of friendship. But who cares about rules when it comes to survival?

So then, stealthier than a shadow and without another glance for the companion she reluctantly abandons, Tulip rushes through the breach that is offered to her.

“Forgive me, Charlie Weasley... We'll do better separately,”

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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 his 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!

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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 shadow partner.

Annie...

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Alone.

Her boyfriend is safe in Ireland. She sent her partner to France, and her brother has abandoned her... Again.

Annie checks her equipment and buckles her bag. Through the window, her gaze wanders over an indistinct horizon in the night. Indistinct. Like her future.

When was the last time she asked herself what would become of her?

The answer that comes to her clenches her heart. It was at the beginning of her Auror training, after she had known passion. The one that consumes you until you leave only a heart in ashes.

The witch had to rebuild it, piece by piece. During this time, Annie and Jae were everything to each other. In turn, partners, lovers, friends, a bit of all of this at the same time and so much more... He has always been there, never letting her storms and wrecks push him away, and for seven years, they experienced everything together.

Jae deserves to be happy, to embrace a companion more joyful than loneliness. That’s why Annie did everything she could to ensure him a bright future with Penny, regardless of the outcome of the Battle.

Her mind drifts to Sam, her boyfriend whom she learned to love deeply after having given in to his advances out of spite. When she asked him to leave England because she could not fight without being sure of his safety, he obeyed without complaining about being left out. Because he believes in her, and that confidence is worth its weight in gold.

After the war, maybe she could talk about marriage... By making sure that the idea comes from him, of course!

“I miss you,”

But not as much as Jacob. They haven’t seen each other for months and he’s already disappeared. As usual. He disappears, she looks for him; they find each other and he runs off into the unknown. Oh, never for the sake of hurting her. A goal always justifies his actions. A goal more noble and ambitious than staying by her side. Always. She exhales her tension with a sigh and pours herself a glass of Firewhisky, which she drinks in one gulp, alcohol burning her bitterness.

She’ll kick his ass when they win.

The witch clenches her fists. Projecting herself into the future will strengthen her resolve to survive in a succession of battles where every wizard who falls under her spells will ensure her survival and everyone else’s. She hopes not to have to fight Barnaby or Ismelda.

A cracking sound startles her. She turns around, drawing her wand and putting it away. It’s Jacob. A shower and clean clothes, and he is back at his best. Only his face keeps the watermark of the last ordeal he endured.

“I haven’t been here for a long time...” he says, his eyes staring disapprovingly at the couch that moved here along with Sam. Jacob never liked him.

“Yeah!” Annie confirms, her voice heavy with reproach.

“Pip... It was too risky. I was undercover! “

Annie has a small incredulous laugh. “I didn’t see an undercover wizard. I saw a guy we had to get out of a jam! That said, it’s becoming a habit...”

“Your nerves are on edge! Don’t take it out on me, Pip!” he says in a tone that commands respect.

The witch winces. He is right. This is not the time for a brotherly joust. She pours two glasses of Firewhisky and they toast to a ceasefire.

“So you and Merula... Since when?”

“Never mind, it’s over... She betrayed me, tortured... I hate her!”

It is rare for Annie to see Jacob bare his soul. The years of separation because of the cursed vaults have seriously marred their complicity. They tried to find it before they realized that time lost could not be made up for.

Unconsciously, Jacob had wanted to pick up where he left off. But during his absence, the little girl who saw him as a hero had given way to an accomplished witch, an adult before her time. Disillusionment, bitterness… Guilt.

“I bet she didn’t use the Cruciatus Curse?”

A stubborn silence answers.

“She said she would never have succeeded in using that magic against you... Probably because you have to enjoy the suffering of your victim to cast it,” Annie says with a falsely innocent look.

“Stop it! You’re not Mum!”

“She would tell you to listen to me!”

“Of course! You’re the heroine! Me, I’ve gone from child prodigy to the poor, undesirable bastard who is constantly reminded that he was saved by his little sister!”

The lack of recognition and the inability to forget that their parents did not look for him, or so little, after his disappearance in the cursed vaults, eat away at Jacob’s insides like acid. Bruised by these years of absence, Annie’s heart tightens. She remembers all too well the time when the world treated them as outcasts, and when their mother took calming potions to overcome each day without her son, one after the other, so much the pain of having lost him was a torment. As for Dad... Whatever! Nothing was the same after Jacob’s disappearance. Her brother can’t understand.

“They tried to turn the page,” Jacob says, sipping his drink. “it’s a lot easier to do it over a dead body than over a ‘missing’ person who might turn up at any moment! So they did nothing, while turning a blind eye to your research out of cowardice. You were a child! Do you think that’s normal?”

Jacob’s gaze pierces her, so sharp is it. Annie shrugs.

“The question never arose... I looked for you because it was the only thing I could do. Point... Don’t blame anyone for my own choices,”

An impulse pushes her to hug him. This may be the last time, after all.

“And stop blaming yourself too,” she says as he hugs her tightly. “You can’t spend your life blaming yourself for mistakes you made trying to protect me, my brother.”

⚫

Chapter Text

🟡

“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?”

Chapter Text

With some students, Poppy Pomfrey is taking stock of her equipment.Preparing for a hecatomb is not part of a matron’s job description.That said, her duties at Hogwarts have changed dramatically of late. The nurse used to dress wounds caused by failed experiments, clumsiness, quidditch accidents, or the wacky recklessness of students. She has also accompanied them through the upheavals of adolescence, menstruation, growth spurts, sexuality, contraception, etc...

But this year, Poppy Pomfrey has been treating students in distress, victims of abuse that no child should endure in a school. Outraged, she even came close to giving up her apron! An idea quickly aborted. Without her, where would the students have found refuge?

The infirmary was the last bastion of humanity in a school transformed into a reformatory camp, despite the teachers who tried to protect the pupils from the dreaded Carrows siblings.

Now she is about to discover another side of her job.

The slow, heavy step of an army of giant statues shakes the ground. Led by McGonagall, they form the second line of defence for the castle, just behind the multiple protections deployed by Professor Flitwick. Let’s hope they hold out until the chosen one, Harry Potter, is ready to defy Voldemort.

“You, listen to me,” she says, pointing to two witches who had come to help. “You will be triaging the injured. This is an important mission! You will be the ones to ensure that the most seriously injured are given priority.”

Without waiting for an answer, she shows the grouping areas according to the level of urgency.

“And over there?” asks one of them, pointing to the back of the room.

“We won’t be able to save everyone who shows up,” explains the matron with the lucidity of a seasoned professional.

A brutal but necessary truth. Then she shows other wizards the posters on the wall.

“These are care protocols. Follow them. If you’re lost, in a panic, refer to the posters. If the answer is not in there, ask me... Only if it’s not there! Do you understand?”

It’s hard to delegate when you’re still doing everything yourself. That’s the price she has to pay for being able to concentrate on the serious cases.

Screams of a distraught woman ring out, pleading for urgent medical help. Badeea Winger storms into the infirmary and rushes towards the healer, a lifeless raptor in her arms.

“It’s Talbott!” gasps the woman. “He’s an animagus.”

“I can’t heal him in this form! Put him down here,” she exclaims, pointing without hesitation to a bed in the life-saving emergency area.

Poppy is not an expert at the transfiguration, she has to concentrate on performing the return to normal spell.

The painter’s desperate plea echoes around the room. “Save him, please!”

“I’ll do my best,” Pomfrey promises, waving her wand as she mutters the appropriate incantation.

No promise of a cure until the diagnosis is made. That’s the basic.

The magic works, to the relief of the matron. Gradually, feathers melt together to form clothes, wings become arms, claws become foot, the beak takes the shape of a hemmed mouth with an aquiline nose above it, and the down melts into the dark skin of the unconscious Talbott Winger. Without missing a beat, the healer checks him. The cyanosis is severe. His body temperature is too low. She looks for a pulse. A skilful cutting of the clothes exposes the auror’s chest and abdomen. Perforation of the lungs.

Helplessness overwhelms her. Earlier, Poppy could have saved him. She could have knitted the flesh back together, regenerated the blood flow, inflated his restored lungs with air and stabilised his heartbeat. But it’s too late. There is no resurrection magic. Talbott Winger is dead.

Beside her, Badeea nervously tucks a few brown locks back under her veil. Gently, the nurse puts a hand on her shoulder. She should probably invite her to sit in a secluded corner, offer her a cup of tea with some calming potion, take the time to present things gently, gradually, until the inevitable announcement becomes an obvious one leading to an understanding and acceptance as immediate as it is resigned.

Violent jolts animate the shoulder on which her hand is placed.

“I’m sorry... Talbott Winger is...”The nurse feels as if the fatal word could kill her. Yet putting the words down is the only way to make the awful truth concrete. “It’s over. He’s dead.”

Dazed, the young woman takes a step back and puts her hand over her heart. Her large brown eyes cling with the energy of despair to the healer’s sympathetic gaze, then turn to her dead husband.

“I didn’t feel it... I should have... known it, felt it in my heart, but I didn’t feel it,” Badeea says, looking haggard.

Madam Pomfrey should tell Badeea that she did the best she could, that she has nothing to blame herself for, that it’s OK to have believed it all the way. Poppy should also reassure her, tell her that time will do its work, that life will take its course again, that one day she will again feel the caress of a sunbeam on her skin, that she will again find beauty in a palette of colours and that she will find the strength to smile again.

But words are lacking, and so is time. Already, other voices are calling her.

So Poppy says nothing, she just stares at the door, hoping to see a friend of the artist appear, to whom she can pass the baton, who can listen and tell her everything she needs to hear. There is no one.

A voice rises above the others, urgent. In a brief embrace, the healer tries to convey all the words she does not speak.

A mountain of professionalism crushes his guilt at having to leave this grieving twenty-five-year-old woman alone with her grief.

Too late to help a dead man.
Too early to help those who mourn him.

Chapter Text

"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.

Chapter Text

Waving her wand in every aisle of the library, Madam Pince makes sure that every book, every grimoire, every scroll is in its proper place and protected by enchantments. Nothing must be forgotten.

If the Great Hall is the heart of Hogwarts, the library is the head. How many inventive, brilliant minds have polished the wood of the desks scattered between these high shelves rising to the ceiling? How many ideas and theories have been born from a journey through the pages of an old grimoire?

In this section, there on the left, are stored the school records of all the students who have built their minds at Hogwarts, from the most mediocre to the most brilliant. The most recent ones were written by Irma Pince. But value waits for no time. Each piece of writing in the library has its own value. Invaluable.

And ever since she took up her post, the Hogwarts librarian has jealously guarded her territory, where she maintains order, discipline and, above all, silence. Concentrated, barely disturbed by the delicate rustling of pages being turned.

Irma has never been appreciated by the pupils, who do not understand the special care that must be taken of the books they shamelessly chip, scribble and annotate. But she always thought fondly of the students who treated books with deference, such as Hermione Granger, Jacob Thorn and the late Rowan Khanna and Cedric Diggory.

As she approaches the door, she looks back at the place one last time, filled with memories. She tightens her grip on her wand and locks the heavy door. Then Irma casts various protective charms and enchants the stone bench nearby.

Madam Pince has always been good at enchanting objects. Generations of students can attest to this, as she rained school supplies down on their heads for breaking library rules.

The bench moves with the clumsy gait of a heavy piece of stone on legs until it stands in the way of the door to her Ali Baba's cave, which no "Sesame" will open.

The clash of offensive spells crashing against the protective shield surrounding the castle echoes in the darkness of the corridor. Feverishly, the librarian approaches a window and looks up. Each spell that explodes in multiple sparks against the magic shield creates concentric waves, like circles disturbing the surface of the water.

"Irma! Have you seen Peeves?" asks a gruff voice from behind her. "McGonagall sent me to find him."

The witch turns and sniffs disdainfully. This man with whom the librarian used to feel a bond of order and discipline now inspires nothing but contempt. Argus Filch has disappointed her. Twice.

The first time was when the caretaker sided with that horrible Dolores Umbridge. To make amends, Argus helped rearrange the restricted section by delicately carrying in his uncultured hands' grimoires containing more knowledge than his Squib noggin could comprehend.

The second was when he joined forces with these bloody Carrow. If the Ministry employee won his favour by offering him power in a school where his work is so disrespected, what excuse does he have for supporting people who have nothing to offer him but a future of suffering and contempt?

He has gone too far. Argus Filch may look at her with a look of tenderness that he usually reserves only for Mrs Norris. Irma remains inflexible.

The librarian has never been pretty. Her face is as dry as old parchment, her hooked nose gives her a profile of a carrion bird, and her lips constantly pursed in irritation give her that sour look that no one has ever found attractive. No one until Argus Filch. A squib, a man without magical powers, who abhorred the restlessness of the students - even more than she did - and who dared to admire her with the humility of old-fashioned courtesy. Her female heart was stirred. Hence the emergence of deep resentment. She allowed herself to be softened and drawn into a friendship with fuzzy edges... This is the result!

Under Snape's deleterious leadership, assisted by the Carrow, Argus Filch applied punishments from another time. Oh, he had not denied himself the pleasure of carrying out the threats he had been making for years. Drunk with illusory power and respect. He chained students to the dungeon, distributed the lashes, as Pomfrey distributed the ointments.

So, the witch reorganised the library. Irma highlighted books on basic healing charms, helped students concoct healing potions. She highlighted adventure novels so that tormented souls could escape, she helped with homework so that weak minds would develop critical thinking skills and not swallow the snakes that some wanted them to swallow. Irma fought with her weapons. With books, with knowledge. At first, only the Ravenclaws came to the library to find the peace they couldn't find elsewhere, soon joined by students from other houses under the leadership of Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. No one had a problem with it. Who would have had the audacity to accuse the library vulture of coddling the students?

But the time of the Death Eaters is over at Hogwarts.

"I heard him go by earlier, he was throwing chalk at the Slytherin students being taken to the dungeon... Whose side are you on this time, Argus?"

His hands tighten on the cat he's holding in his arms.

"Still the same, Irma,"

"Still the same?" This is no time for jokes!" she scolds sternly. "You’re a weathervane following the wind!"

"I have always served Hogwarts!" he defends himself huffily. "This is my home!"

"Then find Peeves and protect our home until there's nothing Voldemort can do to get you out of it except to take you out feet first!" orders Irma as she resumes her walk, determined to prevent the chaos from reaching this part of the castle.

"So there's no room for forgiveness, Irma?"

The witch stiffens, her face turning until she welds her sour gaze to the Squib's.

"This is more a time for alliances of circumstance than forgiveness, Argus!"

Chapter Text

🔴

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!

The Battle only just begun!

🔴

Chapter Text

🟢

"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 tumble 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!"

🟢

*I named her mother Luscinia because that is the Latin name for birds of the nightingale family. Both blackbirds and nightingales are birds of melodious song, and Merula's mother was known to be talented enough to be a member of the Frog Choir. Incidentally, I liked the little alliteration in Luscinia Snyde.

Chapter Text

Rosmerta stirs the bubbling brew in an enormous cauldron and watches as the Death Eaters confiscate her wand and search her inn. Their leader explains they are looking for Charlie Weasley. This “traitor to his blood” has escaped thanks to an accomplice, who threw Peruvian instant darkness powder at the right moment.

Bilton Bilmes... Old joker!

After being subdued by an Imperius Curse, Rosmerta was not sure she wanted to stand up to Voldemort. Her courage wavered too much under the weight of guilt for an injury inflicted on an innocent student. She felt weak, too vulnerable to be useful. Yet, while Charlie Weasley fought like an angry dragon protecting his friend from the patrol, now inspecting The Three Broomsticks, she did not hesitate to rescue the terrified Tulip Karasu by helping her flee.

The urgency overcame her fear of being a ball and chain at the feet of the good wizards.

And now their pursuers are opening every wardrobe, and lifting every spell to find the duo!

And that, Rosmerta can’t allow. She has seen Charlie Weasley grow up and he still come to greet her every time he returns home. She has seen Tulip put an end to all her procrastination about her future to become the successful shopkeeper she is today. The innkeeper cannot abandon them!

Rosmerta mops her forehead with her sleeve and tries to deepen her shallow breathing due to stress.

She can’t face faceless monsters, but she knows the men and underneath their masks, hoods and shapeless robes, Death Eaters are men like any other... They won’t get out of here.

1/Spot the leader.

That’s easy. He’s right in front of her, barking orders and monitoring her hands. Despite his mask, Rosmerta feels the weight of his inquisitive and distrustful gaze. She has never made her loyalty a secret, so she refrains from any overdose of honey in her attitude. Insulting the enemy’s intelligence would undermine its purpose.

2/Dulling his vigilance

Besides being an excellent judge of character, Rosmerta knows how to flirt, play with her charms, pretend to be an amiable woman or be complicit with the female gender to push its customers to consume. And then she knows how to get the king-clients off their pedestal, to kick out the drunks stuck to their chair or the toilet bowl, the barflies fleeing their loneliness, the stalkers and prostitutes on the prowl, the shady wizards... A single innkeeper has to know how to do all this without help. Knowing how to command respect without appearing threatening is an art that Rosmerta has mastered to perfection.

So she starts the conversation by openly condemning the mess that the thorough search of the premises causes. Without appearing hostile. Subtle dosage.

People always assume that a person who proclaims his disapproval despite the potential consequences is incapable of being sneaky.

So Rosmerta takes advantage of this by adding a powerful sedative to the butterbeer she brews with a wooden spoon. She takes a sip and swishes it around in her mouth before spitting it back into an empty tankard. The caramelised flavour of her drink perfectly offsets the bitterness of the potion. The sedative is undetectable, even to the most trained taste buds.

3/Waiting for him to eat out of her hand.

While stating that the Hogsmeade shopkeepers refuse to engage in the battle of Hogwarts where they would be nothing but cannon fodder, she hands the patrol leader a steaming mug.

“If you’re there, you might as well consume... No?"

He grabs it, removes his mask, and sniffs the beverage suspiciously. “Are your chimneys still connected to the mains?”

“Only the one at the back,” says Rosmerta as she serves his companions, her heart pounding.

With a gesture, he designates two men to watch over this access. They empty their glasses as soon as they are served. The ghost of a smile on the lips of a sweaty innkeeper.

While continuing the conversation, Rosmerta watches for the reactions of everyone, ready to dive for the back door at the slightest hostile gesture. She crosses her fingers that the sedative will work on all the Death Eaters simultaneously. If she could, she would even cross her toes, because she doesn’t dare imagine what will happen to her if it doesn’t.

4/Admiring the result.

One of them falls unconscious on his comrade who holds him up with difficulty, before collapsing in turn. Finally, four death eaters collapse, forming a mass of black cloth on his floor.

The last one left in the scullery seems to resist. Probably because of his robust constitution. He stands there, frozen, his arms falling along his body. Rosmerta hesitates. At the same moment, like devils bursting from their box, two cloaked wizards burst through the service door and neutralise him with a wave of their wands.

“Two more in the Great Hall and three upstairs,” Rosmerta informs, crouching against her cauldron with her hands on her head.

They are the enemies of her enemies. That is enough for now to consider them allies. The duo rush into the inn and neutralise the other Death Eaters. Rosmerta winces as she hears the crash of the fight and when they return, she stands up.

“Jacob Thorn! Merula Snyde! Glad to see you!”

The pair bind the Death Eaters tightly together. Reaching the last one, the big burly man who resisted the sedative, Merula stops Jacob’s wand movement.

“Wait! I only know one guy of that size who can’t tie his shoelaces...”

All eyes focus on the dangling laces of the sturdy hiking boots. Then Merula straddles the massive man lying on his side, removes his hood and grabs his hair to turn his face towards them. Rosmerta hiccups in surprise. How could a young man with such a tender heart be a supporter of Voldemort?

“Barnaby has buckled under heavy family pressure but he doesn’t share any of their shitty ideas!"

Chapter Text

🟢

A dark tide of Death Eaters and creatures spreads over Hogwarts like an oil slick on the ocean, coating the defences of the castle with blackness. The lycanthropes form the first line of attackers.

Tense, Cecil Lee pulls his wand from the sleeve of his unit’s purple uniform, decimated by the power of the packs unified by Greyback. Cecil always thought that nothing good could come of a werewolf. The proof is right in front of him, storming Hogwarts on the orders of You-Know-Who. They are soulless beasts, ruled by the selfishness of their bloodthirsty impulses. They are scourges, the most ferocious of which, like Fenrir Greyback, deserve only death, while the others should be caged. In St. Mungo’s or Azkaban, it doesn’t matter.

And Remus Lupin or Chiara Lobosca will not convince him otherwise! They claim to cling to their humanity, yet they are not helping to limit the spread of their infection by registering and being monitored by the authorities.

Only one lycanthrope is exemplary, a voluntary prisoner during the period surrounding the full moon because he has been conditioning it since adolescence. Scarlett Sparks, a Muggle forced to leave the world she came from to live in the one where she is an outcast with no magical powers, and therefore no future. A special bond has developed between them. Cecil feels the same fascination for her, wrapped in caution and pity, that one reserves for a rare beast that captivity and illness make as irritable and nostalgic as it is unpredictable.

Tonks and Thorn often tell him that this woman cannot become his pet. He knows that. She is a werewolf! But the weight of the word ‘woman’ hints at an underlying message he doesn’t understand. No wonder! As his late older brother, Barnaby’s father, said, he was never the brightest Galleon at Gringotts. Today Cecil can say without fear of cruel retribution that neither was he. He was only compensating for his intellectual weakness with power, with the approval of their mother, who cleared him of his stupid violence by proclaiming: ‘Common sense doesn’t matter when you have the strength to dictate who is right or wrong!'

Lightning bolts spring from his wand and split the air. Some hit their targets, who collapse unconscious, many fail, and finally, a few are parried before the offensive wave splits into several torrents from which his long-time enemy emerges. Fenrir Greyback.

He is a colossus, with animal intelligence who, like the skilled predators, knows that no prey will escape him. His nails are sharpened into claws, and he tears at the clothes and flesh of Hogwarts’ defenders. The image of the bloodthirsty leader of the pack with his head in a pumpkin makes his moustache, trimmed with the same care as his topiaries in the family manor, so Cecil Lee lets out a “melofors jinx”. Meanwhile, a witch is being hacked to pieces. Her blood spurts out and stains the werewolf, whose face twists with bad joy. His spell explodes into multiple orange sparks on a magical shield.

What?

Suddenly he is struck by a curse and falls heavily on the stone. He feels as if he's been run over by the Hogwarts Express. He snorts and stands up, blood pulsing in his temples. A man with eyes burning with fierce determination challenges him. It’s Barnaby’s old classmate and, incidentally, a resigned auror, Ben Copper.

Cecil doesn’t understand. Why is he interfering?

Greyback smirks at him over the head of his protector, whose hair he strokes with a bloody hand, before merging back into the tumult of the Battle.

The duel begins amidst the smell of sulphur, blood and ashes, in the shattering chaos of a merciless war. Magic spurts from their wands, and Cecil can only defend himself against this more competent wizard. After several attacks, his magical barrier shatters like glass, a stunning spell hits him full force. A thicker-than-average skull saves him from fainting. Haggard, he staggers to his feet and fires back blindly. The curse misses its target and hits the creature a few feet behind. Petrified, he watches the disorderly gesticulations of the monster, whose attention he has just drawn. A spider the size of a draught horse darts towards them, snapping its claws.

“Copper! Come here so I can suck your brains out!”

Its virulence toward the lycanthrop is perplexing. Copper turns pale and runs past him, not caring about their fight. Cecil follows without thinking. In a frantic flight, they slalom between two combatants, step over a wounded man, trample a corpse and cross the moving grid of coloured lightning bolts that shoot out from all sides.

“Why are you following me, old moustache guy?” snaps Copper.

“Capturing werewolves is my job!” he says with a pointed look.

“It won't let it happen and neither will I!”

Deciding that Acromantula is a more urgent threat, he points his wand at it. Cecil seeks shelter, then grabs the werewolf's arm and drags him against a wall. This limits the blind spots.

"Why is it after you? You are on the same side!"

The arachnid’s abdomen bursts into flames, but it rubs against the ground to smother the flames and accelerates, screaming with rage.

“I practised spells on it when I was a kid! It swore revenge! Let go of me if you don't want to be collateral damage!”

They walk along a wall that a giant’s foot pierces and the two enemies flatten themselves on the ground, protected from falling rubble by a magical shield. Cecil didn't really want to protect this werewolf, cruel even before he was infected. It was a reflex, as disturbing for one as for the other. Their uncertain looks lock as they stand up.

Suddenly, with a wail from the dusty smoke floating over their heads, a giant’s hand comes down and grabs some rubble, Ben Copper with it, to send it crashing into a tower from which he falls back. Inert.

He's not dead… Right?

🟢

Chapter Text

⚫

Obeying McGonagall, determined to give Potter the time he needs to achieve his goal, Argus Filch hobbles off to the dark, dank dungeons with his cat in his arms, to find this damn poltergeist. There he is! Bombarding every student entering the Slytherin dormitory with pieces of chalk.

“Peeves! McGonagall wants you!”

He throws one of his projectiles wich lands in his eye. Mrs Norris ruffles her fur, ears pressed to her skull, as Argus rubs the point of impact. When he opens his eyes again, he finds the Poltergeist floating in front of his nose.

“Grumpy Filchy didn’t say ‘pleaaaase’!”

“No time for politeness! The castle is under attack,”

“Go jump in the Black Lake, Filchy!”

Peeves shakes his head to jingle the bells that hang from the hat he is so proud of. Then he turns and throws another piece of chalk at the last student entering his dormitory, whose heavy door drowns out the protests. The angry, blood-smeared ghost of Slytherin House floats through the closed door to them, followed by the clanking of the chains of penitence he has been wearing since his death.

“Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle are missing!” The Bloody Baron announces in his gloomy voice.

“Those sneaky snakes are probably sabotaging the defences from the inside!” replies Peeves.

“Or rather looking for Potter,” says the caretaker in a harsh tone that doesn’t convince the Poltergeist.

Anyway, he only listens to the Bloody Baron. The latter cuts off all discussion by ordering the Poltergeist to use ‘his talents’ to thwart the enemy, which puts Peeves on a cloud of happiness.

“Stop strutting around! Pissing off the world isn’t wizarding!” growls Filch to bring him back down to earth.

He leaves the basement and orders in a tone that hides nothing of his dislike. “Get over here!”

Argus hates Peeves, who only thrives on chaos and takes pleasure in getting everyone into trouble, including those insufferable students who drive Argus crazy.

He also hates children. Even as a child, Filch hated those brats who waved their wands at him to make him spit slugs without him being able to retaliate, or who sang that a Squib would never get into Hogwarts. Filch lives, frustrated and jealous, chased by the eternal echo of their taunts...

So when he finally got into Hogwarts, he was happy to make those ungrateful wizards who didn't realise their undeserved luck pay for his years of bitterness... His position in the most prestigious magical school is his revenge on the bloody wizarding world, which has never ceased to despise him for the sole fault of being born as he is.

Therefore, he doesn’t care about the hardship, the lack of consideration or the morality of who is in charge, as long as Argus can stay here, keep order with his cat, and talks with Irma, the only witch who is pleasant to be around. That’s why he obeyed Snape and those damn Carrows, to whom at least one credit must be given. Under their authority, the students remained quiet! No one had the wit to be facetious anymore. Chaos and insolence were too severely punished and above all, Peeves was rare! It was a vast improvement in his working conditions that Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump that he was, could never offer him, he thinks, scratching Mrs Norris between the ears in a gesture of mutual comfort.

Mrs Norris is his only family. With her scrawny body, dull fur, foul temper and bulging yellow eyes that nevertheless stared adoringly at him from the first moment they met, it was obvious that this world would leave no place for such a pitiful-looking cat. A bit like him. This instant recognition sent the first spark of love through him.

Peeves still follows him through the corridors, cackling like a chicken. Shots and explosions shake the castle as its structure cracks. A great agitation animates the walls. Portraits sail from one frame to another, transmitting orders and news, and the windows open onto a misty sky dotted with magic. Suddenly Peeves is interested in medieval armour, like the ones he used to lock up Mrs Norris in, who suspiciously jumps out of Filch’s arms and walks away, tail low.

Peeves doesn’t have time to show off the spear he’s just stolen when a spell explodes near them with the force of a bomb. Pieces of rock fall from the already weakened ceiling. In shock, Filch’s heart misses a beat, his ears ring to make him dizzy, and despair fills his mind, void of any coherent thought.

“MY CAT!!!”

Arms over his head, he runs to her, all the while dodging the rocks that crash with a thunderous sound. He falls to his knees, his body shielding the huddled feline from the falling rubble. Lightning strikes his arm with an ominous crack and the caretaker screams, causing his terrified cat to flee. With misty eyes, Argus sees her slip through the rocks and disappear into a cloud of dust. That’s when he realises. Argus has almost lost his only treasure. For a second, he imagines himself surviving with the weight of that loss. Trembling with anger, he stands up despite his broken arm and pulls a key from his pocket.

“Peeves!” he barks, indifferent to the somersaults celebrating his adventures.

He offers him the key to his office, urging him to use all the artefacts he’s confiscated during his years of service against the invader.

“Sure? There are so many!” says Peeves, stunned and delighted. "It's Christmas in May! "

His smile stretches from ear to ear and tinges with wicked glee. In his dark eyes, Argus sees the malevolent ideas sprouting in his mind like quackgrass in a vegetable garden. Good!

Those bloody Death Eaters who are destroying his house by nearly killing his cat are about to experience the vision of Argus Filch’s Hell: they will suffer the unleashed chaos of the most unbearable, unpredictable and petty Poltergeist!

⚫