74.Past the Precipice

14th of December 1994, Wednesday (7 days later) 

Narcissa

Cornelius Fudge was by no means a pleasant man, but he was a clever one, at least where small matters were concerned. Useless fools could never climb to the top of the Ministry. He was an old hand at managing publicity, whether good or bad, and balancing the department heads and the warlock-lords of the Wizengamot. Dislodging him from the seat of a Minister was by no means easy, nor was it as simple as she had first thought. 

To topple a steady position like that, she needed something big aimed directly at Fudge. The kidnapping of pureblood children under the nose of the DMLE hurt him, yes, but he had already skilfully deflected most of the blame on Director Scrimgeour. Even her husband had no real dirt on the man; the donations to Fudge and other financial aid were unsavoury, but not illegal. Over the years, the Wizengamot had left plenty of legal backdoors that suited them, after all. 

It was not that Fudge could do no wrong, but he successfully kept bigger matters under wraps, and for small matters, the blame was split and shifted.

The biggest point against him was his involvement with Sirius Black’s case—being first on the scene after Pettigrew’s supposed murder. Narcissa had already written to her cousin, but the stubborn sod refused to pursue the matter, having already reached satisfactory recompense. But even if he changed his mind, it was old news, known to the public and thus ineffective, after Fudge had skilfully manoeuvred to keep his reputation pristine during Sirius’s swift trial.

Her niece had given her everything House Black had on Fudge, but after pursuing the leads in the last two weeks, Narcissa was met with disappointment—most of the matter had been meticulously cleaned up. The child sired on his colleague from the Department of Magical Catastrophes had long since disappeared, probably set up in some cosy house across the pond, and the witch with whom he had an affair was nowhere to be found.

At first, Narcissa was merely vexed by her lack of success, but as she failed to find anything of substance, that vexation turned into hopelessness. If House Black’s vaunted blackmail was no good, things were looking grim for her. She could escape neither her niece, now that her daughter was ‘fostered’ away in secret, nor the Dark Lord. Narcissa Malfoy Black was not one to give in to despair, but being backed into a corner made her chest tighten and sleep uneasy.  

Today, she followed one of her last leads.

Snow danced in the air, shrouding the cosy town of Darlington in white. It was quarter past noon, but the streets were quiet, half-deserted as Muggles preferred to spend their lunch break indoors, away from the biting winter chill.

Her footsteps came to a halt before a red brick facade with opaque windows and an old sign with Jeff’s Coffee written in long-since rusted letters. She pushed the door open and marched into the dimness inside.

The first thing to greet her was the pleasant floral scent mingling with the burning of oak, with the prattle of Muggle tele-screen echoing from the inner wall. Narcissa’s eyes slid across the taproom and found it as empty as the streets outside, save for the man behind the counter and a short, haggard-looking figure by the far corner, sitting with two steaming cups before her.

Narcissa waved away the sleepy barman when he gave her a questioning look and quickly seated herself across from the sole patron.

“Hello, Ms Ashton,” she dipped her head politely, even though the witch seated across the table was Muggle-born. “I’m pleasantly surprised you agreed to meet in person.” On previous occasions, those women deeply involved in Fudge’s matters had stubbornly refused to meet, no matter how she tried to cajole them. When Narcissa had once intercepted one of them after work, the woman had gone quite pale—almost as though she had seen a ghost—and would not speak a single word.

Something was not right. Something beyond the usual cover-up of sordid affairs that men of power often did.

“Mrs Malfoy,” the woman rasped, voice hoarse and choppy. 

Nelly Ashton might have been a delicate beauty once, but now she looked like a wilted flower despite not even reaching thirty. Her auburn hair looked like old straw, brittle and thin, and her face had an unhealthy, pallid hue, with purple bags etched deep beneath her murky eyes, making her as ghastly as a ghost.

“I have some questions,” Narcissa glanced at the barman who was dozing off, but still leaned in to whisper, “about Cornelius Fudge.”  

Nelly’s face grew paler, and suspicion bubbled in Narcissa’s chest. But the Muggle-born witch did not stand up to leave, merely remaining as still as a statue, her mouth sealed shut. Her dull eyes were now filled with pain, guilt, and shame in equal measure. 

It seems Fudge had cleaned this particular clue, too, but these methods were rarely ironclad.  

She plucked a crimson quill from her purse and placed it on the table, watching Miss Ashton’s expression like a hawk. Surely enough, recognition flashed in her eyes.

Narcissa straightened up. “Did you perhaps sign some magical contract to keep your silence? There’s no need to speak, just nod or shake your head.”

Nelly nodded stiffly. “…My life and magic are at stake.”

“Impossible,” Narcissa said firmly. “Magical contracts, even ones bound by blood, are dangerous, yes, but they cannot truly take your magic. Breaking them can leave you bedridden for a few months at most. If a powerful wizard like Dumbledore does it, there might be no backlash at all, at least nothing that affects you. If the contract is illegal under wizarding law or lacks a breach clause agreed upon by both parties, certain members of the DMLE and the Wizengamot can break it without any repercussions.”

This was only true for modern contracts. Rare relics of old made by some peerless enchanter of a long-forgotten age could kill or even take your magic, yes, but Fudge could never get his hands on such rare relics, not to cover up an affair.

Her pale eyes brightened for a moment, but her face was conflicted. In the end, hope won out over fear and shame.

“Truth be told, I was Obliviated after the contract,” Nelly croaked out, her gaze growing distant. “Perhaps it wasn’t done skilfully, but it didn’t turn out quite right. I lost half of my wits for the next few years, and my mind only cleared two years ago,” her voice cracked, “waking up naked in a brothel.”

Narcissa sucked in a sharp breath. Nelly spoke no further, but there was no need to; she could imagine what horrors and humiliation the Muggle-born witch had gone through. All of her dignity was gone, and her life was completely ruined, and that was after being used and discarded as a tool for pleasure.

Fudge was far more vicious than she had thought, a beast in human skin. Truth be told, she held little sympathy for Muggle-borns and their ilk, but this was beyond the pale, breaking all the proper conduct of someone of high standing and proper lineage.

“I shall not give you empty words of comfort,” she said after a long sigh. “But I can let you know I am dead-set on dealing with Cornelius Fudge, ruining his good name and removing him from the post of Minister. If I do well, perhaps the pompous bastard can rot in a cell for the rest of his life. If you wish to help me… I can arrange for a retired official to undo whatever illegal contracts hang over your head by next week.”

“Fudge in a prison cell,” Nelly murmured as if she had not heard anything else. Then, her haggard face hardened like a piece of old leather. “Let’s do it now. Magic or no magic, it makes little difference to me now, and if Fudge can suffer—” 

“Wait.” Narcissa cleared her throat, glancing around the empty establishment. “This is not the place. Since we’re going to dig out skeletons from Fudge’s closet, we have to take this matter to the professional.”

***

Even though Nelly had said that she didn’t care about her magic—and perhaps the life of tragedy and loss had indeed numbed her to the point of indifference—the mere idea of loss was a taboo to Narcissa. Sure, it might only be for a few months, perhaps nearly a year, but something told her that the woman before her no longer cared about life and death. While suicide never came easy, it would be far easier to expire when bedridden and without magic.

Narcissa refused for such a thing to weigh on her conscience. A week of waiting was too long, but that was the limit of the connections House Malfoy could utilise right now, so she could only write a swift letter to her niece.

What she did not expect was Juno sweeping in together with Rita Skeeter (who had already been invited) into a rather cosy hotel room downtown later the same evening.

“There’s no need to worry about false contracts,” her niece sneered, eyes glowing purple with power. She stabbed her wand at Nelly, and something cracked; a ripple of heavy ripples of power washed over the room. But the emerald family ring on her finger glowed with eerie grey, and the shockwave obediently faded before it could do any harm.

Dangerous. Her niece had grown far more powerful than Narcissa would have thought. Breaking a contract with raw power with no position of authority in the Ministry to back her… this was something she believed to be only possible for someone of Dumbledore’s calibre. And while Juno had yet to reach the headmaster in power, just this display was beyond impressive. No wonder she and young Harry had eyes for each other—they were a match made in heaven.

“That’s it?” Nelly asked, voice thick with feeling.

“Yes,” Juno said, face softening as she looked at the haggard Muggle-born woman. “Nothing stops you from speaking of what happened now, Ms Ashton. You might have heard of Rita here, a reporter of some fame.”

Rita’s face grew agitated as if to say something, but a cold glance from her niece deflated the venomous woman like a punctured balloon.

Clearing her throat, Skeeter sat on the cushioned divan and took out an ordinary quill and notebook. “Tell your story, dear. Don’t fear, just share every detail, and I will do the rest. But first, take a sip to soothe your throat.”

The Muggle-born witch did not hesitate, drinking the cup of butterbeer mixed with a mild truth potion that Rita had prepared. 

“Approached by a witch in the Ministry in the summer after Sixth-year, offering opportunities for unfortunate Muggle-born witches. I thought it was an internship…”

“It wasn’t Fudge who approached me, but Corvus Selwyn and a high-level ministry aide by the name of Umbridge—”

“No wonder nobody noticed,” Juno muttered under her breath. “Target those most unfortunate and least likely to finish their N.E.W.T.s, and dropping out during the summer wouldn’t raise any scrutiny from Hogwarts, not when a Muggleborn or a poor half-blood does it. Continue.” 

“They brought me to a mansion in the countryside…”

“There were other Muggle-born girls with me as young as eleven, each one confused as if put under some curse…”

The more the woman spoke, the more uncomfortable Narcissa grew, finding herself shifting in her chair all too often in a manner completely unbefitting of a lady. Nelly Ashton’s words grew hoarser by the minute, but she did not cry; she did not stop, speaking with cold detachment, as if the things had happened to someone else, not her. Even Rita’s initially eager face had gone as pale as chalk, the quill in her hand quivering more often than not. 

“We drank potions, and after that I don’t quite remember most of the details…”

“Most of the men wore masks, but when I heard them mention some names. Selwyn. Burke. Rowle and Longbottom. Goldstein was mentioned more than once. Fawley. Jameson. Buckstone… Valois, Dupont, Bumont, that I remember.”

“Beaumont, you mean,” Narcissa uttered absentmindedly. 

Nelly gave her a brittle smile. “Yes, that was it. There were other Germanic-sounding names, and I heard more than one wizard speak with a Yankee accent…”

“…Fudge took me out later in an apartment of his own, treating me like a pet. It wasn’t bad for a while, but then he found some other girl that caught his fancy, and Bagnold came with a contract, Obliviated me, and you know the rest.”

Completely appalled at what she had just heard, Narcissa’s first instinct was to doubt. Perhaps Nelly Ashton had indeed suffered quite a lot, but embellishing or lying here and there would not be out of the question. But a moment later, she dismissed that thought—Rita was a skilled hand in this, and her mild-truth speaking potion would make any attempt at deception obvious.

Juno also nodded, face gone glacial. “She’s telling the truth—not even a single lie, unless she is somehow an Occlumens that has surpassed a peak. Did you get everything, Rita?”

“…Yes.” The reporter stared blankly at her notebook, as if struggling to make sense of the words that she had written. “This is big. Too big. Too many powerful men of renown, wealth and influence are involved. Cuffe will never print this, being on the list himself and the other chief editors have even less power to decide the Prophet’s direction than he does.” 

Nelly’s shoulders sagged, her eyes dimming again. 

Despite herself, Narcissa wanted to reach out and console the woman, but her hand froze the moment it was lifted, the words of comfort stuck in her throat. Rita was right, and the Ministry… pursuing this in the Wizengamot was impossible. 

An icy scoff tore from Juno’s throat. “What was it that you often loved to say, Rita? Right.” Her voice turned high-pitched, “The people deserve to know the truth.” 

“This will ruin me if I find a way to post it,” Rita whimpered. 

Narcissa would have laughed if not for the seriousness of the situation. Skeeter sounded and looked no different from a seasoned whore claiming to be a virgin on her wedding night, but there was little surprise in that. Yellow Pages reporters like her were all the same.

“Ruin you?” Juno clicked her tongue, then reached out, placing a hand on Nelly Ashton’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ms Ashton. You will have justice, as will the other poor souls involved with this mess. I will make sure of this.”

“How?” Narcissa asked despite herself, voice hoarse. “If it were just Fudge involved, it might have been somewhat easy. But he’s merely a part of a far greater scheme. The waters here are deep. Too deep. All these names are powerful or wealthy or well-connected or all three. And Cuffe’s involvement is the worst of it—even if it’s his brother or his uncle, Barnabas will do his best to keep it all under wraps.”

Juno glowered at her. “Are you a witch or what? If Cuffe is involved, it’s even better. One Imperius with a good truth serum, and he’ll spill everything he knows, bring out anything incriminating on hand and, believe me or not, I’ll make him post that very same confession on the front page of the Daily Prophet, and by then, even if the Wizengamot wants to cover it all, they won’t be able to.”

The Muggle-born witch perked up, looking up at Juno with undisguised hope. 

“This…” Rita hesitated for a moment. “If you do this, there’s no going back. This might rip apart half the Ministry, destabilise the whole of Wizarding Britain when there’s a war going on the Continent. It doesn’t seem wise.” 

Her niece’s lips curved. “Perfect.”

The reporter jerked away, a trembling finger pointing at Juno. “You’re mad, Black. This whole thing is not just madness, but illegal. Using Imperius on another—”

“Speaking about legality now, are we, Rita?” Juno quirked a brow. “If anything, Cuffe turning powerless under the Imperius and being forced to confess all of his dirty deeds is a comeuppance. This is a most righteous use of Dark Magic, and I believe no witch in Wizarding Britain will fault me for it.”

Rita Skeeter choked, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, with her face growing from red to green, to pale, and then she slumped back on the divan. “…Have it your way. I don’t care anymore.”

The Muggle-born witch looked like she was about to cry, grabbing Juno’s hand as if she were a drowning woman reaching for a straw. “Thank you, Miss Black. I…”

In a skilful, far too smooth manner, she watched her niece soothe the emotional woman in less than a minute, making Narcissa feel too old.

She always knew Juno was a talented witch with a bright future, but the demeanour, boldness, and foresight she displayed today far surpassed her understanding. There was greatness in her, unseen in House Black for many generations, and the ruthlessness to match with the skill to do terrible things that previous Black of Black could only dream of. And her newfound skill in magic…

Her niece had the makings of a Dark Lady to rival Voldemort, or perhaps surpass him.

But unlike the Dark Lord, she was not alone. Harry Potter hid himself well, cleverly avoiding the public eye after the Corsica fiasco, but his magic and intent did not lie.

Merlin and Morgana come again.

Later that night, Narcissa returned home, immediately interrogating Lucius about all of his dealings with Fudge. She was not worried about his involvement in the matter, not after being the one to Obliviate him after every little illegal matter, but rather feared that the already-stained Malfoy name could not take such a heavy scandal if they had any meaningful involvement. 

Lucius did indeed acquire certain properties for Selwyn, Fudge, and others with less-than-savoury means. But this was a small, easily glossed-over matter, especially now that she was the one making the first move.

Forewarned was forearmed after all.

---

Unrest After The Goldstein-Selwyn Scandal   

By special reporter Octavia Brightmoor, 23rd of December, 1994

Only two days after Cuffe’s public confession and suicide, the public protest in Diagon Alley calling for more drastic action by the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Scrimgeour, turned into a full-blown riot, resulting in the wanton destruction of dozens of shops by the end of the day. 

Although nobody died, dozens of witches and wizards were wounded, including two Aurors on duty. Four suffered severe harm, requiring a lengthy recuperation in Saint Mungo’s. (More about the damage in Diagon on page seven) 

After the riot was ultimately dispersed, Rufus Scrimgeour came out to make a public statement, promising that serious investigations were “already underway” and that those guilty would not get away, but that legal procedures must be followed, lest the innocent be implicated. Then, he strongly urged everyone not to resort to senseless violence and, if they have witnesses or any information on the case at hand, to immediately report it to the DMLE. (More on how to contact the DMLE on page 11)  

Furthermore, it’s still unclear what the stance of the DMLE and the Wizengamot is following the Ministry’s final session the previous day. Although some claim that Cuffe’s letter of confession was specifically timed, his subsequent suicide out of ‘great guilt’ created a great problem, taking away a valuable witness. There are rumours that he took his life to ensure his words are even more impactful, but certain sources in the DMLE imply that he left behind a Pensive full of damning memories and the infamous Goldstein-Selwyn ledger he had compiled based on his participation.

Fudge has yet to appear for a statement (or in public, for that matter), even though his name has appeared more than twice, and the accusations against him are quite damning. Rumours run rampant about the Minister for Magic and his involvement, and many speculate that he must be mustering support in the Wizengamot to suppress the matter. Others claim he’s preparing to flee to the Caribbean Islands.

Although the exact number of victims trafficked by Corvus Selwyn is unknown, the Daily Prophet confirmed that nineteen names on the list had indeed been Obliviated and were missing months’ worth of memories and had blood-based contracts binding their person, an extremely illegal piece of magic.

Algernon Longbottom, previously known as a respectable member of society and also one of Cuffe’s accused collaborators, died last night after falling from the stairs and breaking his neck. Some suspect that Dowager Augusta Longbottom had taken action instead, cleaning house, but there is no proof to substantiate such a claim.

Master Duellist and retired DMLE director Felix Fawley crippled his brother and another suspected conspirator, Edward Fawley, with his bare fists, sending him to the critical ward in Saint Mungos’. An hour later, he came out with a statement that his brother meant to flee, forcing the respected Mr Felix to perform a civil citizen’s arrest on a suspected criminal, who tried to resort to lethal force.

An unidentified individual has assaulted Armando Rowle and Damon Jameson, though they were repelled and fled after being wounded. (More on the dangers of vigilantism on page fourteen)

Amos Diggory has turned himself in to the DMLE for investigation, but the details are unclear. Scrimgeour refuses to comment.

With certain influential figures from their own countries involved, French and MACUSA representatives have arrived in Wizarding Britain with an official inquiry to join the investigation, but Rufus Scrimgeour refuses to grant such permission without Wizengamot authorisation. 

On the other hand, German representatives are delayed by the civil unrest brewing in Wizarding Germany after Lord Incendius proclamation.

Although most of the victims are Muggleborn with no backing or power, they were far from the only victims. Trusted sources confirm that many Muggle children were involved…

---

25th of December, Sunday 1994

The Beauxbatons Champion

Fleur felt stifled all over.

Becoming the champion was not a surprise, and it gladdened her… for a few moments. That had been her chance to get close to Harry Potter without the nasty interference. 

When Black came to the backroom a few moments later, she understood that Harry had never intended to participate, for if he had, this haughty witch would never have been selected by the Goblet. The chance to meet with him never quite came, and she slowly realised he never truly cared about the competition. Or about her. When the Yule Ball was announced, the spark of hope reignited, only to gutter out when Fleur couldn’t catch a glimpse of Harry Potter, aside from the rare cases he attended(slept in) classes. Even then, he would disappear the moment the bell rang.

The avoidance was rejection, plain and simple. He was choosing Juno Black, and that stung more than the cruellest of hexes.

As bitter as the thought was, there wasn’t much she could do. She had hoped to utterly crush Black in the First Task and use the victory to catch Harry Potter’s attention, proving herself better with a wand.

Dreams were beautiful, but reality… even Madame Rochefort, the Beauxbatons Transfiguration teacher, can’t conjure iron, let alone precious metals like silver.

Damn it. 

Damn that wicked Black witch!

Damn her own Veiled Form for giving her those sleepless nights.

“Looking brilliant, Fleur,” Adeline’s voice awoke her from her thoughts. After over three months at Hogwarts and Madame Maxime punishing everyone she caught speaking French outside the privacy of their quarters, they could not completely shed their accent, but their grasp of English had greatly improved. That did little to dispel their dislike for Wizarding Britain and its dreary weather. Especially its dreary weather. Although she could reluctantly admit that Hogwarts had its own sort of charm, it grew on you like fungus.

Shaking off the errant thoughts, Fleur glanced at her friend, now dressed in a tight cream-coloured dress that fit her caramel curls but was a bit too revealing… and a bit too thin for winter in the Scottish Highlands. “You’re not that bad yourself. I envy you a little.”

“Envy me?” her friend muttered, face all aggravated. “Ah, my dress is not nearly as good as yours, and I’m not stupid enough to compare anything else with a veela’s innate perfection. At least you have a date, while Krum rejected me without blinking an eye, leaving me all alone for the evening.”

‘At least you had the opportunity to ask the one you fancy to be your Yule Date,’ Fleur thought bitterly.

Instead, she said, “I envy your ability to go without a date. This is a luxury not allowed to champions like moi. Now, I have to drag along a fool with me.”

Adeline wiggled her eyebrows. “That Davies fellow doesn’t look that bad. Tall, handsome enough, and as fit as any other Quidditch player. From what I gathered, his grades are decent, too.”

“Looks are all he has,” Fleur sneered, voice dripping with disdain. “With just a whiff of allure, he’s as obedient as a dog, and just as eager to lick my feet. But it would be better if he were a dog, at least he would be of some use then.”

It had been an easy choice—since she had to bring a ‘real’ partner to the Yule Ball, she could bring someone easy to control. Just one look from her, and Roger Davies would obey her every whim, no different from the thousands of other weak-willed wizards.

“At least he’s better than Potter,” Adeline’s tone was mocking. “I heard he’s in second place in the sixth year in grades while being the Quidditch captain for his house team. What does the Boy-Who-Slept have? They call him Tryhard Potter, but all I see is sleeping in class or outright absence. This year, I haven’t seen him cast a single spell. A single spell, Fleur! I say just give Davies a chance, or at least try to enjoy the evening.”

“If you like Davies so much, you can have him instead,” Fleur bit out, tone sharper than she intended. She could argue how she sensed the power coursing from Harry, growing stronger by the week—both quality and quantity. She could speak of the sharpness that prickled at her mind when she caught his gaze, or how her senses screamed danger the more she tuned them, a telltale sign of touching upon the peak, something that the vast majority of witches and wizards could never achieve for a lifetime, let alone a young wizard not yet of age. But it would be of no use, for Adeline did not believe vague hunches as much as she believed her eyes. “Forget it. Help me do my hair.”

Harry Potter was the most exceptional wizard of his generation, a great talent that even faintly surpassed Dumbledore at the same age. Yet such a genius was perfectly content to fade into obscurity, which should have been nearly impossible given his childhood fame. For someone powerful and capable, it should have been unthinkable.

It just didn’t make sense.

The more she thought about it, the more nothing about Harry Potter made sense, and it drove her mad.

She pushed her frustration away. Once they were both sufficiently prepared, they took their white fox-fur cloaks and swept into the antechamber. Glancing through the window, Fleur only saw an empty yard shrouded in snow. Some of the witches were waiting here, shivering in the chilly Scottish air, while others had already left for the castle, judging by the fresh trails in the snow. She regretted not telling Davies to wait for her in the Great Hall. 

“Hey,” Adeline nudged her. “Isn’t that your sister?”

Following her friend’s gaze, Fleur froze. To her great surprise, she saw a small, familiar figure in the corner, clad in a dress of silver-grey satin similar to her own.  

Gabrielle immediately shrank, looking away, as if caught after she had eaten the last cookie in the jar back home. 

“What are you doing here?” Fleur demanded after dragging her over with a flick of her wand. “First years can’t go to the ball.” 

Her sister’s small, round face pouted. 

After hesitating for a moment, she straightened up and said, “I am waiting for my date.”  

“Your date?” Fleur echoed, voice growing dangerously low. “Why am I hearing of this only now? You’re too young to date.”

Her sister didn’t back down as she expected but instead raised her chin defiantly. “It’s I who invited Ron. He’s a good friend, and I just wanted to go to the ball.” 

Fleur opened her mouth to chastise Gabby, but looking at her stubborn face, the words never quite left her mouth. She knew that stubbornness very well—she had seen it too many times in the mirror. Trying to persuade her little sister or outright forbidding her to go would only increase her interest in this ‘Ron’, producing the opposite effect. 

“You didn’t use that, did you?” Fleur leaned in to whisper.

Her sister’s nose wrinkled. “No, Ron helped me a lot. Besides, it doesn’t have much effect on him.” She warily looked around, as if expecting Madame Maxime to leap from the shadows. “Let’s stick to English.”

As they waited, more and more of their fellow Beauxbatons students gathered here—mostly the witches, all in dazzling dresses. But no matter how flashy their dress or perfect their make-up was, it couldn’t make up for the lack of natural temperament, and they could barely compete with Gabrielle, a twelve-year-old veela. A few of the younger years gathered up, watching with envy as wizards with sleek hair and stylish vested robes trimmed with silver and blue marched into the snow to find their Hogwarts dates. Although many had complained about the stiff British wizards and catty witches, almost all of the Beauxbatons students seemed to prefer them to their schoolmates.

“Look at her,” Adeline whispered, head tilting at Maglene Montclair. “She finally got together with Alex.”

Indeed, the slender Montclair witch had taken Alexandre’s hand, and even her floral patterns on her dress were of a matching purple with her partner’s sleek robe.

At one moment, they were holding hands, then they were snogging each other senseless, blinding Fleur’s senses with the overflowing lust and affection. Her irritation boiled over, and she found her fingers curling around her wand, half tempted to curse them with something nasty.

Amusement and exasperation rippled through the gathered crowd as Fleur suppressed her annoyance.

“They’ve gotten quite bold, and the evening has yet to start,” she said coldly, sliding the wand back in her sleeve.

Her friend giggled as she flipped her long fish-braid over her shoulder. “You know Maglene’s reputation. Poor Alex doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”

“Why don’t you go warn him, then?”

“And take away this juicy source of gossip and amusement?” Adeline tutted. “No way. Besides, Alex’s eyes are blinded by those two big lumps of meat Maglene so proudly displays. If the cut of her dress was any lower, it wouldn’t be much different from being naked. The way she’s snogging him, you’d think it’s a dementor trying to suck out his soul.”

Thankfully, the fervent couple finally departed, making their way to the castle and sparing Fleur’s senses.

With the cold gust of air that came through the opening door, the earlier excitement shrouding the waiting students was quickly cooled, and many pulled their fur cloaks and jackets tighter. 

Some of the younger girls started chatting about the Emberwick Manifesto, while others talked of the endless skirmishes in the Austrian Alps that seemed to have bogged down the ICW strike force. Spain, Egypt, and Norway had all withdrawn their Hit Wizards to deal with protests at home, and in Portugal, wizards were outright demanding the reclamation of Old Wizarding forests and settlements. Other countries had their own problems, and the ICW and Mugwump councils were once again paralysed, this time by MACUSA and the South American delegations.

The great ICW victory at Gail Valley had been undone with one single declaration, and Ascalon Emberwick’s popularity had increased tenfold, drawing many unhappy and marginalised wizards and witches from every part of the world. Many were deterred by the sinister reputation that came with being a mass-murdering Dark Lord, but just as many were drawn in after he had swiftly pushed to implement every single promise he had made in the territories under his control. Even the werewolf and the giant attacks had drastically slowed down across the continent.

Fleur listened only with half an ear and great disdain. Ascalon Emberwick was nothing but a murderer, and no veela would ever believe a word that came out of his mouth, not after slaughtering so many of their kind. Three covens, five gatherings, and over two hundred and fifty dead by his wand or his sinister flames. This was the heaviest blow against the veela community in the last century and a half, and even Fleur had lost two cousins, albeit distant. For any veela, this was a blood feud that could only be repaid with Ascalon’s head—nothing else would ever suffice, no matter how silvery his tongue was.

But veela knew better than to seek out retribution with a Dark Lord, especially one who countered her and her kin so brutally.

Before long, Hogwarts wizards trickled in through the snow outside, picking up their dates. After cleaning up and dropping the dull black school robes for something more official, most of the boys looked… half-decent, though she’d never admit it aloud. 

Coincidentally, her own date soon arrived, eyes glazing over the moment she loosened the reins of her allure. “He’s not shabby at all,” Adeline murmured, eyeing Davies’s lean body with some appreciation. “Not half as good as Krum, though. I wonder who managed to snag him?”

Her question remained unanswered, for this was one of the great mysteries of last month, seeing that many witches had tried to become Krum’s Yule date, but to no success.

Swallowing her reluctance, she stepped forth and hooked her hand underneath the dazed Roger, nudging him to escort her on the way. Just as they left the carriage, a silver-haired missile rushed before her, almost crashing into a red-haired wizard.

A burly boy, with a sharp jaw that Adeline would call ‘hunky’ if not for the slight childishness clinging to his features and with clean, dark crimson robes trimmed with golden thread across the sleeves and collar, reached out and patted Gabby by the shoulder. 

He looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it—perhaps she had seen him more than once in Hogwarts.

“Why don’t you introduce your date, Gabby?” Fleur called after her sister.

Gabrielle froze for a moment, then turned to face her, looking all timid. “Sister, this is Ronald Weasley. Ron, this is my sister, Fleur.”

“Evenin’.” The boy gave her a polite nod, eyes not lingering on her form even for a moment. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” she returned stiffly, losing control of her allure for a moment.

She could have reined it in before affecting others, but chose not to.

The red-haired’s eyes grew turbid for a moment, and then he shook his head, blinking at her with confusion.

“Sister!” Gabby huffed, her small face growing angry. “Don’t be mean. Let’s go, Ron!”

Without waiting, she dragged the boy towards the castle.

In great contrast, Roger, who clung to her hand, was completely dazed, drooling like an idiot.

“Tsk, it seems your sister has good taste,” Adeline said with a chuckle. “Though I don’t think they’re together. He looked at Gabby the same way you look at her—like a younger sister.”

“He better be,” Fleur swore under her breath. Or he’ll find out what my wand is capable of.

They quickly marched towards the snow, the path illuminated by floating magical lights.

The sting of the winter chill sobered her up and soothed her frayed nerves. The more she thought of Gabby’s ‘friend’, the calmer she grew. Yes, if he could withstand her own allure, Gabby would have no way to influence the boy.

Was it just friendship?

Friendship between a witch and a wizard was wishful thinking. It existed, yes, but more often than not, at least one of such friends tended to develop feelings for the other given sufficient time—such was the curse of proximity and understanding, and keeping their intentions pure would become harder and harder as time went on. And if one of them was a veela, it would be… nearly impossible.

Then, she looked at the still dazed Roger to her side and felt another surge of annoyance. 

“Stop drooling,” she elbowed him with a furious whisper. The boy shook himself awake, gave her an awkward apology and quickly wiped his face with a handkerchief, all the while Adeline was laughing boisterously behind them. “Do you know anything about… uh, Ron Weasley?”

“Mad Dog Weasley?” Roger cleared his throat.

‘Mad Dog?’ her friend mouthed behind them, wide-eyed.

“Why do they call him that?”

“Well, he’s a bit of a brute, really.” The Ravenclaw wizard nervously tugged at his collar. “Weasley’s punched more than one classmate in the face, and doesn’t even spare the girls if they cross him. I heard he knocked out the teeth of a few Slytherin gals some time back, trying to defend some young blonde frenchie. Uh, I think she looked a bit like you. But have no fear—Weasley doesn’t really bother anyone unprovoked.”

She looked a bit like you.

The words kept ringing out in her head, as realisation sank in. Had Gabby been bullied by those British cows and kept quiet about it? That indeed sounded like her sister, who liked to bottle up things and deal with them on her own to prove she’s no longer a child. 

Perhaps this Ronald Weasley wasn’t so bad.

They trudged along the trail in the snow, with balls of blue flame flickering above their heads, casting away the darkness and lighting the way. The sprawling lawn at the entrance was transformed into a grotto full of fairy lights, and Fleur spotted hundreds of fairies hiding between the conjured rosebuds and fluttering over statues of what looked to be an ugly British version of Father Christmas and his reindeer.

The entrance hall was warm, full of light and decorations—even the plain armours standing by the walls were shining like silver, with golden garlands hanging around their necks. It was also extremely crowded as the Great Hall’s double doors were still closed, buzzing with the sound of a thousand hushed conversations.

As Fleur entered, she felt a hundred pairs of eyes, filled with envy, desire, hate, and other baser emotions, settle on her. She immediately tightened her control over the allure, but it was already as tight as it could get.

This was just the result of her natural beauty, coupled with the rare designer dress hand-woven by the great Madame Tonks herself.

Then, Amelia Bones’s voice rang over the commotion. “Champions to me, please.”

“See you in a few,” Fleur said to her friend and dragged Roger to the Hogwarts deputy headmistress. 

The chattering crowd parted to give them way.

Professor Amelia Bones was a mature woman, something only accented further by a tight dress of fine golden silk with a black bodice done in black thread. A wreath of thistles crowned her crimson hair that was matched with lipstick and rouge on her cheeks, only adding to the appeal, and even Fleur caught herself staring for a long moment. She was not the only one—many young wizards struggled to tear their eyes from the headmistress’s ample chest or charming face.

Krum was already there with a pretty witch in blue robes and a nervous smile that Fleur hadn’t seen before. 

Then her breath stopped. Harry Potter descended from the great marble staircase, dressed in a stylish green vest that accented his eyes and black pants and sleeves. Fleur could look into those green eyes forever. 

But unfortunately, Harry only glanced her way once before his gaze moved on. Worse, Juno Bellatrix Black was clutching his hand. Fleur would begrudgingly admit that her appearance wasn’t half-bad… for a British witch, that was. Inky black dress slashed with bronze and intricate patterns, a willowy figure with a full chest, and a waterfall of raven-black hair flowing all the way to her waist, so straight that not even a single curl could be seen. To Fleur’s dismay, Juno’s high heels were not as high as her own, yet she was still taller.

But today, there was something… colder to her. Something darker, or at least darker than usual.

Even Harry looked somewhat shaken, and the oddest thing was that the two of them did not talk at all. Had they fought?

No, besides some stiffness in their gestures, the closeness radiated off the pair of them.

The two Ravenclaws joined them with Professor Bones as the doors to the Great Hall swung open. Amelia briefly explained the itinerary for the champions, which included entering in a formal procession once everyone else was settled and dancing in the opening waltz.

“Granger?” Juno’s eyes widened with surprise for a long moment, but she nodded politely to the witch beside Krum, then turned to Fleur. “Delacour. Didn’t expect you’d take our Quidditch Captain for the night.”

Roger tried to say something, but his tongue seemed to have gotten all twisted up, and all that came out of his mouth was a garble that made Fleur’s face light up with shame. 

“Dear Davies looked like the most tolerable choice of a wretched lot,” she managed with a stiff smile, throwing her partner a scathing look. Then, she glanced at the boy who made her Veiled Form flutter once more, but this time she was prepared and kept it reined in. “Don’t forget to save me a dance, Harry.”

“Careful now, Delacour.” Juno’s voice was so cold it could freeze hell all over. “You should save your strength and put your mind to solving your clue, lest you want to lag behind even further.”

“I already solved it, Black,” Fleur lied, lifting her chin proudly. But the Black witch was too tall to look down upon. Probably some dark magic heritage from her unsavoury family. “Probably faster than you did.”

It was not a complete lie—the egg clue was solved, but not from her. Madame Maxime had not helped her, but Adeline and her parents had solved the clue well enough. It would be foolish to waste time that could be spent on training or study on such mundane matters, especially when so many were eager to help her.

Juno’s lips thinned. “I deciphered mine in a week, if you’re so eager to know.” 

Fleur’s jaw tightened. Faster than her own egg was solved.

Before they could exchange more barbs, Harry cleared his throat loudly and gently ushered his date to the other side of Professor Bones.

The Granger witch by Krum’s side drew a lot of surprised looks as the crowd streamed in, and the clucking hens from Victor’s fan club eyed her with loathing so thick that even Fleur’s hair stood on end. Adeline passed by a bit too close, eyes lingering on the witch in question for a long moment. Fleur knew what her friend was doing—evaluating if Granger’s beauty was ‘worthy’ of Krum.

Sighing, her shoulders sagged, and she slipped into the Great Hall with the rest of them. 

Fleur’s gaze swept through the crowd, finally finding the mop of red hair accompanied by a short figure, and she let out a breath she didn’t remember holding. Her sister was laughing happily as she chatted with Ron and what looked to be a pair of twins in green robes, and the Weasley boy acted the perfect gentleman. Good.

Then she glanced at Davies, who had finally managed to gather himself, but couldn’t find it in her to pay him any attention. There was no harm without comparison, but he had less bearing and dignity than both Harry and the Weasley boy.

Once the entrance hall was empty, it was their turn. 

Amelia got them in line, the first being Juno and Harry with the most points, leaving Fleur behind them and Krum and Granger last.

They marched into the Great Hall to the students’ applause, and her gaze flicked over the surroundings. The walls were covered in sparkling frost and garlands, with mistletoe and candles, garlands and ivy hanging above the starry-black enchanted ceiling. The house tables were nowhere to be seen, replaced by nearly a hundred smaller ones, each lit by a pair of yellow lanterns and a dozen chairs.

It looked passable, all things considered, but not nearly as good as Beauxbatons—aside from that enchanted ceiling. Stars were scattered in the pitch darkness above, glowing brighter than they ought to, yet still giving the evening a wondrous, ethereal feeling.

Fleur enjoyed the looks of worship and amazement for a long moment, and then her fingers tightened on Roger’s grip as he tripped, steadying him. Useless.

At this moment, she almost regretted becoming the Beauxbatons champion. Almost.

Dumbledore gave them a distracted smile as Professor Bones led them to the top table, where the teachers and the Ministry officials were seated. Madame Maxime’s brow was as furrowed as usual as the enormous Hogwarts Magical Creatures teacher talked eagerly about some odd creatures called Blast-Ended Skrewts. Unlike his usual shabby look, his mess of a beard was combed smooth and oiled, and he wore a thin robe of finer material, without any stains that did little to hide the bulky frame underneath. ‘A single slap from that meaty hand as large as a plate would probably knock down a werewolf,” she mused inwardly.

Potter and Black were seated between Dumbledore and a stern old wizard by the name of Crouch on one side and the short Charms Master on the other, while Fleur and Roger found themselves next to a despondent-looking witch with frizzy hair and large glasses that made her eyes look comically big, already sipping from a bottle with a strong, fiery scent. The Arithmancy teacher? Or perhaps the Divination one?

Fleur glanced at the shiny golden plates and found them all empty. 

“Smoked salmon and braised red cabbage,” Granger spoke at her plate, and the dishes in question materialised with a soft pop.

She wrinkled her nose at her own plate. The food here was tasty, but a tad too greasy. “I will have duck confit and foie gras.” 

Relief washed over her when the dishes appeared—and they looked properly appetising.

The Yule feast officially began, and thankfully, there were no boring grand speeches. As chatter quickly filled the hall, Roger Davies began happily talking to her about the most boring matter of Quidditch. When he saw her lack of interest, he tried to turn to Krum, but found the Bulgarian seeker all too engrossed in his date, discussing the layout of Durmstrang, before Madam Zagorska gave him a stern look. When the headmistress looked at Granger, her eyes narrowed even further, and if looks could harm, Krum’s date would stay in the Hospital Wing for a full month.

“…Terrible business, Dumbledore,” Crouch was complaining with a tired sigh. “I know the people are angry, but this lawlessness cannot continue.”

The headmaster looked rather tired; the usual twinkle in his eyes was completely absent. “It’s this particular brand of lawlessness that drove the people to take matters into their own hands, and I can’t say I blame them.”

The Ministry wizard shook his head vigorously. “But we must have law and order! Otherwise, we’re no better than savages. If this goes on, our institutions will all fail, and the very fabric of our society will fall apart. Trust in the ministry will be completely eroded, and we’ll be no different from that mess in Dalmatia. Damn Cuffe couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to pull off this stunt. Did you know they found the whole of the Selwyn clan slaughtered in their manor this afternoon? They were all mauled to death by what looks to be some wild beast. Throats torn out, innards eviscerated completely, and they all died in terror.”

A few of the teachers gasped, but many did not look particularly concerned.

“Werewolves?” McGonagall asked, wrinkled face heavy with worry.

“No, not werewolves.” Crouch lowered his voice, but Fleur heard him all the same, “The Aurors know how werewolf attacks look all too well, and the full moon is in two weeks. This is some other monster, and of the size that fits, only a wampus cat could possibly slaughter the Selwyns to the last. Even the young boys were not spared. The gate was blasted open, though it must be someone quite powerful to tear through the Selwyn protective enchantments from what I know, and no wampus cat has ever been brought to the territory of Wizarding Britain. ‘Death to all nonces’ was written in blood on the wall.”

“Good riddance, I say,” Moody barked out a harsh, grating laughter before clearing his throat at Bones’s withering glare. “Maybe not the little brats—killing innocent children is never a good sign, that goes without saying. But the rest of that lot? You’ll find no pity from me. Still, whichever beast or monster did a good deed to get us rid of the Selwyn scourge. Saves me the trouble—and I was itching to join the new investigation task-force Scrimgeour was mustering.”

The headmaster’s gaze slid over to Potter and Black, but both of them met his gaze with confusion and surprise.

“Not all Selwyns are dead,” Dumbledore said. “Elyna Selwyn should be safe apprenticing under Alfonso Hellquist, and she’s too young to be involved in such unsavoury deeds. The old enchanter will protect her from all harm; that much is easily within his capability. Ralina, the future Lady of Selwyn, is also a student here, though I imagine she has a tall task ahead of her, and the stain of her family name would follow her for life.”

“And that’s why we need law and order, Dumbledore,” Crouch grumbled. “Yes, what happened is a terrible travesty, but without following proper procedure, things will not get better, only worse. Soon, some angry fool will dig up a long-forgotten blood curse, ignore all laws, and cast it, getting Merlin knows how many innocents implicated. We might even have a public lynching. A public lynching! As if we’re living in the dark ages!”

The man took a deep swig of his cup. “Heard the Goldstein boy doesn’t have it easy here either, getting hexed into the Hospital Wing—as if he’s at fault for having a crooked granduncle. Diggory’s son has also faced backlash, but the Puffs protect him well enough.”

“I just didn’t expect this from Amos of all people,” Amelia Bones said, voice glacial. “He always looked the perfect gentleman, a loving father and husband. Poor Eliza must be heartbroken.”

“Who doesn’t have a black sheep or two in the family?”

“I don’t,” Moody tutted. “And young Anthony will be fine—I’ve put all the troublemakers into detention, and they’ll be shovelling hippogriff shit and dragon dung until the school year ends. You should be the one to worry, Barty. One day, your wayward son might return to take your head. You should take a page from old Felix’s book.”

Crouch’s face darkened. “I just might—if I get my hands on my unfilial son. As for Fudge… that emergency Wizengamot meeting on the 30th doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Yes, well, it’s not quite legal to arrest the Minister for Magic,” Moody growled. “No doubt the puffed-up fool is trying to delay his impeachment.”

“Professor Dumbledore,” Granger’s nervous voice rang out from across the table. “Do you know if… Sally-Anne Perks is involved in this mess? Her withdrawal last year was too sudden, and—”

“I am not privy to the DMLE investigations,” Dumbledore said, suddenly looking a decade older. “And I dread getting involved, lest I do… something drastic. But I have sent an inquiry to Scrimgeour in person, and I have some connections in the department.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Rest assured, Miss Granger. I have full trust in Rufus in this matter.” His voice grew cold and dangerous. “If he fails these poor girls, I promise you here—I will take matters into my own hands. But for now, trust in the authorities. Let us speak no further of these grim matters. Tonight is a time for celebration and joy.”

Emotion then drained from Albus Dumbledore’s face, and Fleur was reminded that this was not merely a grandfatherly old man, but the most powerful wizard alive, with none his equal.

The talk soon diverted to other topics, but she had already lost her appetite. She wanted to say that this Goldstein-Selwyn scandal was a terrible thing exclusive to the British, but quite a lot of powerful French magnates were possibly involved, and Adeline’s cousin twice removed had his name on it, too.

When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore rose from his golden chair and asked everyone to follow suit. The wizened headmaster then swept out his wand, sending all the tables to the walls, leaving the floor clear.

Another wave of his wand conjured a raised platform of dark oak into existence by the right wall, along with a set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes. 

Some tasteless British band dressed in weird, hairy but ripped robes marched on stage, much to the delight of the Hogwarts students, and even Roger shook himself from the daze, applauding eagerly.

The tune began, a tad too slow. 

A waltz. 

Small mercies. Madam Maxime and her equally tall date danced with surprising grace, while Dumbledore and Madam Zagorska made for a surprisingly fitting duet, though she could see the headmaster’s mind was not in it.

It was Harry and that Black witch leading the waltz with a slow, but steady pace, each movement filled with feline grace. How could it be?

How could a mere witch be a better dancer than her, a veela?!

And Harry’s movements were in perfect sync, something that shouldn’t have been achievable without years of practise. 

In contrast, Roger only stumbled once and stepped on her toes twice and soon her foot was aching. 

Once the song ended and applause filled the hall, she loosened the control of her allure ever so slightly until Roger’s eyes glazed over, and quickly led him to the table, leaving him seated there.

As the clapping died off and the next song began, Fleur found her target and bravely marched up to Potter. 

But Black spotted her and gave her the cattiest grin Fleur had seen in her life. 

Then she leaned forth, lifting her slender hands to cup Potter’s face and sealing his mouth.

The world froze then, and Fleur could hear her Veiled Form shriek with fury, and her own magic roiled beneath her skin. With great struggle, she controlled herself before her own dress was set ablaze.

It felt as if they snogged for eternity—and perhaps they had—and even the Weird Sisters had stopped their tune.

Someone whistled from the crowd. Fleur realised that everyone was looking at the pair.

A flush-faced Juno Black then finally separated, looking all too pleased as she looked Fleur straight in the eyes, and her face bloomed into a victorious smile.

“I am pleased to officially announce,” her breathless voice rang out through the Great Hall, “that Harry and I have been officially betrothed, set to marry once we’re both of age.”

Cheers and wolfish whistling rippled through the hall, shutting down a few shrieks of despair from other girls, yet a quick, merry tune came from the stage.

Fleur didn’t quite remember what happened afterwards, only that she slumped on a nearby chair, feeling like the world was falling apart. It stung far more than the loss of a prospective partner ought to, especially one who was so… well-fitting. It was not merely physical attraction (although Fleur wouldn’t deny that Harry Potter was handsome), but something deeper and far more magical. And that alone was too rare and too important for a being of magic such as her.

The worst perhaps was that the first boy she ever fancied slipped away without sparing her a second glance.

Her pride… was shattered to a thousand pieces.

Yet the world went about without her, uncaring about her misery, and Fleur merely stared at the half-empty glass of wine she had filled at some point. She didn’t even remember returning to the table. Her vision was blurry. Was she…crying?

At some point, Gabby and her date found her.

“Hey,” Ron said, voice laden with concern. “Are you—uh, alright?”

“No,” Fleur croaked out, hurriedly wiping her eyes with her sleeves. “Not really.”

“Want to dance?” he asked. “Promise I’m decent enough—not to step on your toes, at least.”

That got a wet laugh out of her. 

“I can dance with you, too,” Gabby chimed in. “But I’ll definitely step on your toes.”

“Thank you both,” Fleur smiled lightly, suddenly feeling a lot better. Her gaze roamed over the tables, finding Roger Davies exactly where she left him, snoring by the table. “There’s no need. I’d rather chat.”

Ron and Gabby exchanged a glance before the boy shrugged and pulled out a seat for her sister before taking the one beside her. 

“Let’s chat then,” he said, scratching his brow. “I didn’t introduce myself properly before. I’m Ronald Weasley, but my friends call me Ron. I like playing chess, pumping iron, and supporting the Chudley Cannons. You look quite athletic—more than most other witches, at least. Do you play Quidditch? How’d you train?”

Fleur couldn’t help it. She burst out in uncontrolled giggles.

---

Author’s Endnote: Whew, personal problems aside, I finally managed to get this shit done.

Starring: Fleur ‘A witch taller than me? Must be dark magic!’ Delacour, and the magical edition of the Epstein Files. Thankfully, no Satanic plots this time.

Honestly, my plans for dislodging Fudge weren’t anything special (all things considered), and a bit convoluted, so I had a bright idea. I was originally going to go for the Selwyn Case (files), but the name Goldstein just fit too well not to use, and it rolls off the tongue far better. Selwyn and Goldstein are not the masterminds, merely the most involved of the ring-leaders, mind you. The stuff that powerful wizards can get away with is far crueller than what irl Muggles can ever achieve, and with the unholy amount of magic that can mind-control, remove memories, and even bind people in magical contracts, such a scenario of abuse is far, far too plausible for it not to happen.

And with a corrupt and overly bloated Ministry of Magic… ahem. All the prerequisites are there.

I might dig into the details later, but not too much. But magic itself makes it far easier for your average Joe to find trouble with those suspected of involvement and so on, and this is definitely something I will explore.

Anyway, I think this was the last somewhat calm and peaceful chapter (editor’s note: wut?). From here on, things will only get truly… serious.