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Chapter Text

October 31st, 1981
Voldemort

The evening air was cool, but he did not feel the breeze against his face. Before him lay the cottage, stripped at last of its protective enchantments by one those within had believed a friend. Of such great use had that friendship proven in the end, though not to the Potters. For the Potters, it would be their end.

He raised his hand; at the gesture, the gate in the hedge swung open. Inside the stacked stone house, the lights were still burning, and a single jack-o-lantern rested on the stoop. As he tread noiselessly up the gravel walk, his feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The cloak billowing around his shoulders could have rendered him a ghost, and it was like a ghost that he paused but a moment at the front door.

Quicker than a thought, his wand was between his slender fingers, the polished yew as deadly as its master. The lock sprang with less than a touch, and the door creaked open. To the side, the stairs - the child was in a nursery on the second floor. He would end the boy, and in so doing, end the only one with the power to oppose him. Before he could mount the first step, however, he found his way blocked.

“Lily!”

A man had appeared before him, running from the living room. He was tall and gangly, with a shock of untidy black hair and round spectacles.

“Take Harry and go!” James Potter continued, shouting up the stairwell. “It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off -”

Potter raised his fists as though he might land a blow, but the yew was quicker. A brilliant green light lit up the entry hall, and the man fell dead to the floor; fool that he was, he had not even drawn his wand. The Dark Lord barely spared him another glance as he ascended the staircase; it was always a shame to end the life of a Pureblood, but Potter had sealed his fate when he chose to marry the Mudblood woman.

At the top of the stairs was the nursery. The door was ajar, and sure enough, as he pushed it wide, there stood the red-headed mother bent over the crib. At his approach, she spun around wildly, shielding the crib with her arms.

“Stand aside, you silly girl,” Voldemort hissed, displeased at having to address one so beneath him.

“Not Harry, please no - take me, kill me instead!”

In the end, it was only the boy who mattered; the boy must be destroyed at any cost. Still, killing the woman struck a chord of dis-ease through him for reasons he could not place.

“This is my last warning,” said Voldemort, striding forward.

Lily Potter did not move, even as she trembled. Her emerald eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “Not Harry! Please, have mercy... Have mercy... Please - I'll do anything...”

He did not have time for this. Raising his wand once more, the same verdant light flooded the nursery, and Lily Potter collapsed, as dead as her husband. At last, nothing stood between him and the child.

Inside the crib was nestled a baby boy, scarcely more than a year of age. The babe had the same dark hair as the father, and the same green eyes as the mother. There could be no doubt that this was the brat of which the prophecy had spoken.

For the third time, Voldemort lifted his wand. The Killing Curse, when it came, flashed like lightning before his eyes.

Fortune chose that moment to conspire against him, for the green light did not seem to take. Instead, it filled the room, growing brighter and brighter until he was forced to turn away from it.

There was an explosion; around him, he was dimly aware of the roof caving in, but it was nothing compared to what was happening inside his chest. He felt as though he were being rent into pieces. The pain was unbearable, like nothing he had ever experienced before. And then, for a long while, everything went black.

When he came back to himself, he was a man no longer. Rather, he was shreds of consciousness, barely a shade, less than the meanest ghost. Voldemort hovered near where the cottage rafters once had been; in his incorporeal state, he could see plainly that two walls had been ripped away by the blast, the whole corner of the dwelling blown to smithereens. The debris, of course, had entirely missed the crib. Even now, its tiny occupant was being scooped up by a bumbling giant of a man to be taken to safety.

If Voldemort had been able to vent his frustration, he would have. The boy lived, it seemed, and his body had been destroyed instead, what was left of it lying broken upon the floorboards. There was a perplexing magic at play, one he did not understand.

Better to leave while he was able, for no doubt the Aurors would soon arrive. There were dark corners of the world where he could hide himself, until such time as one of his faithful Death Eaters came to restore him to body. In the meanwhile, his horcruxes would sustain him; that secret remained safe. And the very moment he returned to power, he swore to it that Harry Potter would die.

December 25th, 1981 
Vidocq

It was Christmas Day, and he was spending it at the cheapest inn money could buy. Vidocq paced the dirty floor in mounting agitation, his wand clutched tight in one hand and a glass of firewhisky in the other.

His trial the day before had gone as well as he could have hoped - he was free, after all, and not sharing Gisquet’s dismal fate in Azkaban Prison. Still, there remained an injustice that cut like a knife; namely, that while he had been made to wither away in the Conciergerie for months before his case was tried, that damned convict, Jean Valjean, had walked out of court back in March, a free man.

And what rankled worse than that, worse than having the entire wizarding government of France fawn over an old jailbird, was the knowledge that Javert yet lived; Javert, who had made it his personal mission to ensure that Vidocq would never advance among the Aurors; Javert, who would string him up as soon as look at him; Javert, who had taken Vidocq’s new-found power as Gisquet’s lieutenant and ripped it away, leaving him with nothing.

Pausing in front of the small iron stove, Vidocq took a deep swig of the firewhisky as he sought to control himself. True to its name, the drink seared his throat and cleared his head. Much as he might wish to find the Auror and make him suffer, it was too great a risk. Vidocq had regained his liberty by claiming the effects of the Imperius Curse; if he were caught seeking his rightful vengeance, the court would know at once he was a liar.

Perhaps the wisest course of action was to quit Paris for a time. He could travel North and disappear. Javert was going nowhere, and when everyone had put the war behind them, Vidocq could return, to take what was his. The city of London held a certain appeal, and his English was passable.

Tugging the bell-pull, Vidocq waited impatiently near the door. A maid came quickly, and when she knocked, Vidocq admitted her with his most charming smile.

“I was wondering, Mademoiselle, if you might be able to tell me where to buy a train ticket...”

January 27th, 1982 
Javert

“It is quite impossible, Monsieur,” said the Inspecteur.

He was standing in Chabouillet’s office, or more properly, Chabouillet’s new office. It had come about the month prior that the man was appointed Préfet de Préfecture for good, a title which he had held temporarily ever since Henri Gisquet was consigned to life imprisonment for high treason. As such, the once-Secrétaire had taken up Gisquet’s old room, supplanting the leather desk chair with his own. Otherwise, the name on the door changed, and little else did.

“Why is it impossible, Javert?” Chabouillet asked calmly. He was seated behind his desk, hands folded on the worksurface.

“Why, I! I am hardly worthy,” Javert sputtered, surprised that his superior could not see where the trouble was. “There are other men of better record, more deserving of -”

“And what men might those be?” the Préfet interrupted, looking unfazed. “Inspecteur, there is no man or woman among the Aurors of a longer or more spotless record than your own. I have been promoted, and so in turn, someone else must be elevated to the rank of Secrétaire - I would have that man be you.”

The Auror bowed humbly at the waist. “Monsieur le Préfet, you do me a great honor to even suggest it, but you must see such a thing would be inappropriate. As your protégé, perhaps it is only natural you should wish me to advance, but my record is not so spotless as you claim. There was the case of Jean Valjean, which went unsolved for nearly a decade before -”

“Yes,” Chabouillet interjected with a faint smile. “But I think that case was rather singular in a lot of respects, don’t you?”

Javert felt himself color. It was true, his investigations rarely concluded with his telling off the entire Grand Chambre du Parlement and demanding a criminal’s release, although he had no compunctions about what he had done. His flush was only heightened by the knowledge that he now shared Valjean’s bed more nights than he did not, but Chabouillet did not know that.

“You cannot sway me on this,” said the new Préfet. “I will have you report to me as Secrétaire, and you may as well accustom yourself to the idea. You can move your things to the office down the hall at your earliest convenience.”

Bowing again, Javert murmured, “Thank you, Monsieur.” The notion still did not sit right with him - a man of his background was never meant to attain so high a station - but the thought of disputing such a matter with his superior was abhorrent.

Nodding his approval, Chabouillet drew a stack of files toward him. “As you will be vacating the position of Inspecteur, there will be opportunity for other promotions as well. I daresay I can leave that to you to oversee, can I not, Monsieur le Secrétaire?”

There was a glimmer of a challenge in the Préfet’s eyes, as though he expected Javert to continue arguing. Javert held his gaze. “Of course, Monsieur. I shall endeavor to make the right decision.”

He turned to go, but was stopped once more by the sound of Chabouillet’s voice. “Do not think I haven’t noticed, Javert.”

The Auror stiffened. “Monsieur?” he asked over his shoulder.

The faint smile had returned again to Chabouillet’s face. “Your justice is tempered more evenly of late. Whatever this change in you is, it has made you wiser. You have always been a good Auror - I think now you are exactly the man we need to lead as Secrétaire.”

Javert swallowed and inclined his head. If there were a change in him, then the blame had to be laid at the feet of Jean Valjean. This, too, Chabouillet did not know, though perhaps the man could guess. It would not take a great many deductions. Suddenly eager to be alone, Javert hastened out into the corridor.

He had been force-fed mercy, and such a thing had worked his soul as a hammer worked hot iron. What shape his relationship to law and order had assumed, the Auror tried not to think about often. He would make one decision at a time, weighing the options against an uncertain conscience, and he would have to pray that served him well enough.

December 8th, 1983 
Valjean

“Cosette!”

Valjean poked his head out the back door of No. 55, the Rue Plumet, looking around for some sign of his daughter. Though winter’s icy grip had again claimed Paris, it did little to dissuade the girl from running around outside; indeed, Cosette loved to play in the snow. In this instance, however, it seemed she had disappeared to some other part of the house.

For a moment, Valjean’s gaze lingered on a patch of brick wall, ostensibly no different than the rest of the masonry ensconcing the garden. In truth, the patch was enchanted. A carefully-cast illusion concealed a secret tunnel, which if traversed brought one out to the street a block and a half hence.

Cosette had been fascinated by this magic, but she was not to play near it, not after she had fallen asleep inside of the tunnel the summer past. Valjean had spent several frantic hours searching for her, and had sent more than one owl to Javert at the Palais, before the girl at last wandered out groggily. No, Cosette knew better than to choose that as her hiding place. The tunnel was, her father told her, only to be used in the event of an emergency. He had not elaborated on just what sort of emergency that might be.

Ducking back inside the kitchen, Valjean turned away from the salon, from which issued the murmur of amiable conversation, and towards the staircase. Taking to the steps, he strained his ears for the patter of little feet; as he reached the upper level, a creak in the ceiling gave Valjean pause.

Comprehension was immediate. He passed by Cosette’s bedroom - empty, it was the first place he had checked - and Javert’s quarters, which were more often a study than a place to sleep. His own bedroom and the bath were to the right, and then at the end of the hall, above the linen closet, was a trapdoor to the attic.

Tugging once on the pull released a narrow ladder. Valjean could scarcely fit his broad shoulders through the opening at the top, but when he did, he was looking around inside of what had once been an inhabited garret. The past owner had left the furniture, draped in sheets to keep off the dust, and a few old chests and crates. Two dormer windows admitted the December sun, and playing in the middle of the floor was Cosette with her favorite doll.

Cosette looked up as her father’s head appeared over the trapdoor.

“Papa!” she exclaimed. “Is it time? Are they arrived?”

Valjean’s face broke into a smile as it so often did when he beheld his little girl. “They are indeed, my treasure. Thérèse, and her boys as well. Toussaint and Javert are keeping them company.”

“Auntie!” Cosette said with delight. “Do you think she has brought me a gift?”

Valjean laughed, taking a step down on the ladder as Cosette hurried over, doll clutched tight to her chest. “It is your birthday, I should expect she has brought you a gift. But she cannot give it to you if you are hiding up in the attic.”

He descended, and Cosette was quick to follow, brushing dust and cobwebs from her skirt.

“I wasn’t hiding, Papa,” the girl informed him. “The attic is a perfect mansion for Mademoiselle Catherine. She is excited for the party, too. See how fine her dress is?” She held up her doll for Valjean to inspect, continuing to chatter in such a vein as the pair made their way down to the salon.

Valjean allowed his daughter to run ahead of him, eager as she was to greet her guests. Instead of following, he leaned a moment against the wide door frame, taking in the sight of presents on the coffee table and the sound of happy laughter. Thérèse was there next to the window; when Cosette entered, she wrapped the girl up in a hug, having to bend forward only a little. Cosette was growing taller by the day, and Thérèse was not great in stature to begin with.

Beside them both stood Toussaint. She was an older, matronly woman whom Valjean had hired to help around the house. A Squib, one born without magical talent to magical parents, and having a bit of a stammer, Toussaint was a respected addition to the household. She laundered the bedsheets, de-gnomed the garden on Saturdays, and cooked the meals. For Cosette’s birthday, she had made a cake.

All that being the case, Valjean did not value Toussaint’s presence insomuch for her housekeeping, which Valjean could readily have managed on his own, as for her loyalty. She was fiercely fond of her employers, and could be counted on to set to any task without question. It was evidence of this that she had not once remarked upon Javert’s bed being rarely slept in, despite him having moved his rooms entirely to the Rue Plumet.

This last caused Valjean’s eyes to flicker to the fireplace, where the man himself sat in his favorite armchair. Javert was watching Thérèse’s three sons, who were roughhousing on the settee. His expression suggested he was not entirely certain what to do about the presence of more than one child in the house, and so he simply observed their antics with vague consternation.

The Auror must have felt Valjean’s scrutiny, for he looked up and they met eyes. Javert smiled in the way he reserved solely for his partner, lopsided and just a little shy, and Valjean found himself grinning in return. All at once, he was filled with a serene joy. Cosette was ten years of age, and the world was as it should be.

June 18th, 1985 
Valjean

Valjean reclined on the settee, an open book resting in his lap. He had been reading, but in the summer heat, it had grown very tempting just to close his eyes and doze...

The morning’s peace was shattered by the front door flying open with bang, and his daughter’s voice calling, “Papa! Papa!” as she ran into the room.

Startled back to wakefulness, Valjean turned over his shoulder to the girl, who was positively bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. “What is it, dearest?” he asked, rising.

“The apple tree!” she said, pointing in the direction of the specimen Valjean knew to grow in the corner of the front yard. “It’s - Oh!” Trying to contain herself, Cosette grabbed her father’s hand. “You must come see, Papa!”

Good-naturedly, Valjean let himself be dragged towards the door, though it was still clear as mud to him what his daughter was carrying on about.

“I was sitting by the rhododendrons when I had the queerest feeling,” Cosette explained as they came out onto the front stoop. To their right was the tree in question, its leaves casting an inviting pool of shade across that part of the garden. In spring, it budded with pale pink blossoms, and in fall, it produced sour apples the size of a child’s fist.

“You know, of course, Papa, that I am to go away to school soon,” the girl went on, and Valjean quickly shoved aside the pang he felt at the reminder. “And I was thinking to myself that I shall need a wand, shan’t I? I was wondering if my own might come from the mighty oak like yours, or the ironwood like Uncle Javert’s, when it seemed to me the tree told me I could have one of its branches!”

“The tree spoke to you?” asked Valjean, working to keep the incredulity from his voice.

“Don’t be silly, Papa, trees can’t talk,” Cosette laughed. “It was just a feeling. But then I looked up and I saw the most perfect branch - Oh, come, Papa, come see!”

She tugged harder on his hand, and chuckling in spite of himself, Valjean was led to the foot of the tree.

Cosette pointed up at a branch. “Just here, look.”

Stepping closer yet, Valjean could feel the press of smooth bark through his waistcoat as he craned his neck back. The branch in question was just within his reach; it was supple, with the gentlest of bows along its length. He had to admit, it looked promising.

“You have a sharp eye,” he told the girl. Cosette beamed, though her expression turned to confusion when Valjean planted a foot in the yoke made by two conjoining trunks and hoisted himself upwards.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, peering up at him.

Grunting, Valjean pushed a bough out of the way before he got a face-full of leaves and inspected the bark carefully. “A sure tell that a tree is wand-worthy will be the presence of bowtruckles - I am looking to see if there are any living here.”

In the greenish light filtering through the leaves, it was difficult to pick out the tiny creatures, but years of experience had taught Valjean the signs. A motion caught his eye, as of a stem bending in the wind, except that it was moving against the direction of the other gently swaying branches. Deftly, Valjean plucked a minute creature from its berth and clambered back down. Between his thumb and forefinger, the bowtruckle trilled in irritation, but Valjean held it gently and it eventually ceased its protest.

Back on the ground, he held it for Cosette to see. The girl leaned close in awe; the bowtruckle looked something like a walking stick, with skin of bark and arms like twigs.

“They are tree guardians,” Valjean said. “We must be respectful if we wish to cut down your branch. Run inside - you know my potions kit above the sink? Bring me back the boline and a scoop of woodlice.”

As the girl ran back toward the house, Valjean deposited the bowtruckle on the apple tree, where it stuck its tongue out at him before scurrying back up among the leaves. In no time at all, Cosette returned, carrying a measuring cup of tiny insects and a white handled knife. She handed both to her father, who climbed aloft once more.

Valjean carefully cradled the measuring cup in a bed of leaves; immediately, three bowtruckles shimmied down from the tree’s crown to greedily devour the offering. While they were distracted, Valjean took the boline and in one smooth slice, removed the applewood branch his daughter was so fond of.

Cosette clapped gleefully as Valjean jumped down into the grass.

“Papa, it is wonderful!” she cried, taking it from his hands and waving it about as though it were a wand already.

Valjean allowed himself a moment of self-pity before he stifled it again. In less than three months’ time, Cosette was going away to the Académie de Magie Beauxbatons, and though he could not have been prouder when her letter of acceptance arrived, it saddened him to know his little girl would be spending much of the year at the boarding school. Nevertheless, the happiness on her face more than made up for the ache in his chest, and as he drew her back inside, Valjean resolved that he would speak to Javert that night about what could be done to turn her branch into a proper wand.

Javert showed less reluctance to the idea than Valjean had anticipated.

“So long as she knows it may not choose her,” the Auror said bracingly. “Custom wands are a tricky business that way.”

“She seems quite confident of it,” Valjean replied, “but I will remind her.”

Nodding, Javert told him, “It is running on time for me to meet with my contacts in the Ministry of Magic anyhow. I shall request leave from Chabouillet, and we can travel to London. There is a wandmaker there of quality - if anyone can craft Cosette a suitable instrument, it is he.”

So it was decided that the three would travel to London. Toussaint carefully packed their suitcases for the week-long journey; she would see to the house in their absence. The Préfet was all too happy to give Javert the week to handle the Préfecture’s international affairs, and thusly by the end of June, Cosette stood staring wide-eyed at the hustle and bustle of London’s own Diagon Alley.

“Keep an eye on your purse,” Javert muttered. “Crowds like these breed pickpockets.”

Valjean did not reply. The babble of unfamiliar accents surrounded him, and his halting, unpracticed speech made him stand out in a way he never did in Paris. Even Cosette spoke English with better grace, having learned some of it in her Muggle schooling. Everywhere he looked, witches and wizards were buying, selling, and bargaining on the mercantile high street. Just beside them was a display of animals, including a live, golden toad the size of a cauldron.

“Papa, can we look at the books?” Cosette asked, pointing down the street to a large shop. The sign above it was emblazoned with two quills and the name, Flourish and Blotts. In the window were stacks upon stacks of volumes, available in every conceivable size and color.

Valjean smiled, some of his nerves dissipating at the promise of a bookstore. “Later, my dear,” he said. “First, we must find Ollivanders.”

Pulling a dog-eared letter from inside his coat, Javert squinted at the writing. Under his breath, he muttered, “The South end...” and then more loudly, “We need to go to the left.” With that, the Auror took hold of Cosette’s hand, and drew her in the direction he indicated.

Pushing through the crowds was less trying than Valjean had feared. It was early yet in the summer, and so the stores were not beset by all the students of Hogwarts trying to purchase their school things. They passed an apothecary, an ice cream parlor, and places to find robes, brooms, sweets... The number of options made Valjean’s head swim.

At long last, Javert came to a stop in front of a narrow, unassuming building. Peeling gold letters over the door proclaimed Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. In the window, a simple elm rod lay on a dusty purple cushion. That part of the street was very quiet, and Valjean felt a prickling along his arms as the hairs stood on end.

“This is the place?” he asked.

“It certainly seems to be,” the Auror said. “Though I must say I expected something grander.”

“It is mysterious,” Cosette declared. “They make wands here, Papa?”

Valjean pulled open the front door, and a little bell tinkled inside. “Let us go in and ask, shall we?”

The interior of the shop was as dusty as the window display. There was no furniture, except for a spindly chair in the corner. Otherwise, every available inch was occupied by floor to ceiling stacks of long, thin boxes. For a few minutes, all was silent. Just as Valjean was about to suggest the proprietor was not in, however, an old man came out of the stacks as suddenly as if he had Apparated. He seemed to take the measure of his visitors, pale eyes lingering especially on Cosette.

“Good day,” he said in English. His voice was so soft, one had almost to strain to hear it. “You gentlemen have the look of wizards, but I do not believe I have had the honor of your patronage before. What may I do for you?”

Javert cleared his throat. “It is true we have not met, sir,” he replied. His speech was almost unaccented, and Valjean felt certain that was why, at least in part, Chabouillet was willing to let his subordinate handle meetings with foreign authorities. “But it is also true we have corresponded. You would not have cause to remember, but several years ago, I sent you an owl. My name is Javert, of -”

“Ah, yes!” the proprietor exclaimed, switching to French immediately. “I remember quite well - such a fascinating letter it was. Monsieur Javert, a pleasure to have you in my shop at last.” Turning to Valjean, he bowed and added, “Garrick Ollivander, at your service.”

Valjean breathed an inward sigh of relief that he would not have to look the fool tripping over the harsh consonants of the English language. “Jean Valjean,” he introduced himself. “And my daughter, Cosette.”

Cosette curtsied, uncharacteristically shy.

Ollivander gave Cosette another appraising look. “I daresay your daughter is approaching school age. Could it be that you are seeking a wand for her? If so, you have made the right choice, traveling all the way to London. My family’s wands are the best in the business, a claim I can make with all due modesty.”

Inclining his head, Valjean said, “Monsieur, it is as you have guessed. However, we have a request to make beyond your usual services.”

Ollivander clasped his hands in front of him and said intently, “By all means, let us hear it.”

Valjean put a hand on Cosette’s shoulder. “Why don’t you tell him?” he murmured.

Approaching the wandmaker, Cosette brought forth the branch from the garden at the Rue Plumet. She thrust it into Ollivander’s hands, all traces of shyness disappearing as she asked, “Can you make me a wand out of this, Monsieur?”

Ollivander’s face lit up. “Well, well, a custom order - that is a challenge I have not enjoyed in several years. And you know, the last man who tried it wanted one of ash - not suited to him at all, not at all.”

“Can you do it?” Javert asked curtly.

“Let me see now,” Ollivander hummed, examining the branch carefully. “Smooth and supple. This is a fine piece of applewood. Wherever did you get it?”

“From the tree in our garden,” Cosette answered promptly. “It wanted me to take it - and there were bowtruckles! - and Papa says that even though it is my branch, it might not want to be my wand. Is that true?” She said all this in one long breath, but Ollivander seemed unperturbed.

“That is always a risk with a specialty piece. The wand chooses the wizard, and until it is made there is no saying for certain how it will choose. However...” He withdrew a measuring tape and took a few notes, before again looking over the branch. “I think applewood will favor you, Mademoiselle.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Javert interjected. “Are we to pay you for your labor and still leave empty-handed if the wand does not partner with her?”

Though it was Javert who asked, it was Valjean to whom Ollivander addressed his answer. “This is a quality piece of wand wood you have brought me. I shall not have to source the material for myself. Therefore, let us say this - I will craft the wand for the girl. If it bonds with her, you may purchase it at my usual price. If it does not, then I shall keep it to sell to another, and your daughter may purchase a different wand from me for the same amount.”

“That is fair, yes,” said Valjean.

“Now,” Ollivander hummed, kneeling so that he could measure the length of Cosette’s arms. “I think unicorn hair will be the thing, yes, and perhaps a finished length of... twelve and a half inches?” He took another measurement. “No, twelve and three-quarters.”

With a decisive nod, he rose again to his feet. “You are staying the week?” he asked. Javert tipped his head, and he continued, “Excellent. I shall have it finished by Friday. You may come at noon to pick it up.”

Cosette returned to her father’s side, a hopeful question on her lips about ice cream. Valjean replied that, yes, they could go and visit Florean’s, even as he noticed Javert exchanging words with Ollivander too quiet for him to overhear.

As they left the shop, Valjean turned to Javert and asked, “What was that about?”

“Mmm?” said the Auror. “Oh, nothing. An academic matter.”

“Ah.” Valjean said nothing further, but it was with a pensive air that he directed them back toward the ice cream parlor.

Javert

The week passed by in a blur. Javert spent most of his days at the Ministry of Magic in meeting after meeting. It was important work, but tedious, and he was always pleased to return to their rented rooms at The Leaky Cauldron to hear what adventures Valjean and Cosette had found their way into. When Friday came, he gladly made his excuses at the lunch hour and met the other two back at Ollivanders.

The dusty interior was unchanged, but the proprietor was in a great state of animation.

“Ah, Messieurs,” he said when they entered. “You are right on time. And the young lady as well, excellent.”

From behind the counter, he withdrew a narrow, pine-colored box. This he held out to Cosette, who hurried forward to claim it. She removed the lid, and at once gasped in amazement. Resting on a bed of velvet was the wand. Stripped of its bark, the applewood was snow white, and carved into the handle was a creeping vine with heart-shaped leaves.

“It is beautiful,” she whispered.

Ollivander looked pleased with himself. “Try it, Mademoiselle, and let us see what happens.”

Nervous on the girl’s behalf, Javert found himself blurting, “Do not be disappointed if it does not work. We will make certain you get one that -”

Cosette’s fingers closed around the handle and she lifted it from its place. “Oh! It’s all warm and tingly,” she said. “Is that a good thing?”

If it were possible, Ollivander’s expression turned even more smug. “It has paired perfectly,” he declared. “A fine success.”

Valjean went to Cosette’s side at once, cooing over the expert workmanship. Their mutual elation was plain to the eye, and Javert felt his chest warm. As the pair admired the design from every angle, the Auror looked to the wandmaker and motioned in the direction of the back room.

Ollivander caught his meaning. “A moment of your time, Monsieur Javert, that is all this will take,” he said.

Javert followed him into the back. When they re-emerged several minutes later, Valjean was on his feet and looking at him curiously. Javert shook his head slightly as Ollivander went to the register, and the Auror surreptitiously returned his own wand to his inside pocket.

Tearing a receipt from a pad of paper, the wandmaker said, “Seven Galleons, if you please, Monsieur.”

Valjean counted out seven of the weighty gold coins, and then, their mission concluded, Valjean and Javert exited to the street, Cosette between them.

“I should like to look around in the second-hand bookshop again, Papa,” Cosette was saying.

“Of course, dear,” Valjean replied. “We do not have to check out until four, so unless Javert minds - Javert?” he broke off in alarm, for the Auror had frozen where he stood on the high street, staring into the crowd. “Javert, are you well?”

The Auror shook himself, though he continued to scan the passersby mistrustfully. “My eyes are playing tricks,” he said, nearly growling the words. From the look on Valjean’s face, his tone was not reassuring in the slightest.

Taking a deep breath, Javert went on, “Yes, we can go to the bookshop. But perhaps then we ought to check out.” With what he hoped was a neutral expression, he added, “I should like to be home sooner rather than later.”

Eyeing the street one more time, the Auror made note of a back way, narrower, that led down and around a corner; a fading sign on the wall read Knockturn Alley. The figure he had seen - thought he had seen - was gone. There was no need for the hammer of his pulse in his throat, though it was difficult to convince himself of that. Valjean, too, still had a worried cast to his face.

“What is it?” Valjean asked quietly as they began to walk.

“It’s nothing, Jean,” said Javert. “It is as I said - I was seeing things.”

He must have been. It was the only reasonable explanation; anything else was too coincidental. And yet, Javert was still glad to check out of their rooms early, not quite able to shake the feeling that for an instant, he had seen the face of Vidocq staring back at him through the crowd.

September 1st, 1985 
Valjean

The view of the Pyrenees was lovely, there was no denying that. Valjean stood in the midst of the expansive lawn, watching something that was not a bird circle high above the mountain peaks. At his back was the château which was Beauxbatons; doubtless Cosette was by now well into her tour of the school with those who would become her classmates.

Valjean sighed. He missed her already, and he had not even left the grounds. Around him, formal gardens flourished in what by rights should have been rocky, inhospitable soil, magic making up for what Mother Nature did not provide. The flowerbeds were lushly cultivated, and Valjean knew how much care must go into their maintenance. Some plants he recognized on sight, but others were rarer things, or were outright fantastical. It pleased him to know the school had an appreciation for horticulture, for Cosette did so love their garden.

Cosette... he thought forlornly.

Valjean’s musings were interrupted by a shadow behind him. He turned, just as Javert went to lay his hand on the crook of Valjean’s arm.

“Her luggage has all been taken care of,” the Auror said. “And they will sit for lunch when they have finished their tour. We should go and get lunch ourselves - it is drawing on noon.”

“Lunch, yes.” Valjean looked again into the distance. Along the winding path was an elaborate golden fountain, but he did not see it. “Do you think she will be happy here?”

The hand on his arm squeezed briefly. “She will love it,” Javert promised. “Just wait until you get the first owl - you’ll see. She will shower praise on everyone and everything. The school is just as impressive as I remember.”

A small smile curved Valjean’s lips at that. He had almost forgotten that his partner had once called that place home, too. Perhaps it would not be so bad to leave Cosette there.

“Madame Maxime is a worthy headmistress,” the Auror continued. “Cosette will learn well.” He gave Valjean a knowing look. “And it is not so very long as all that until the winter holiday.”

“You are right, as always,” Valjean replied. “I shall have to adjust, that is all.”

“We could stay another night in the village, if you wish,” Javert suggested. “The lavender fields are to your liking, I can tell.”

Valjean’s smile turned a touch wry at that. “And if Cosette should send a letter in the morning?”

Javert laughed. “Then it shall arrive sooner in the village than in Paris, yes. You still do not miss a trick.”

Valjean gently removed his arm from Javert’s grip, twining their fingers together instead.

“Thank you,” he said.

April 17th, 1986

Dear Papa,
I hope you are well. The garden at home must be beautiful by now - are the wisteria blooming yet? Please give Toussaint my well-wishes; I hope she is recovered from her bout of flu.

My classes continue to progress well. Charms is very interesting, but I find Transfiguration curious. We are learning to turn snails into teapots, and I am not yet certain what sort of practical application this possesses; if we were to rid the garden of snails in such a way, we would wind up with far too many teapots for our family to ever need. Perhaps if we needed a single teapot only... But then, where would one get the snail? It is a conundrum.

Marius (Or should I say Pontmercy? All of his friends have taken to calling one another by their surnames. I suppose they think it makes them sound mature.) and Courfeyrac are in detention as I write this. It was not Marius’ fault, Courfeyrac talked him into it, but they bewitched Joly’s owl to hoot nothing but curse words. I am helping Joly try to undo it, but something we did went wrong, and now the bird sings in operetta. If this keeps up, we may have to have Madame Brodeur take a look at it, the poor thing.

I received your gift basket on Tuesday. Thank you so much for the sweets! I shared them around and everyone agrees you make a fine pain au chocolat. Please write me soon. I miss you, and Uncle Javert.

Love to you both,
Cosette

July 30th, 1987 
Valjean

“If you held still, it wouldn’t sting so much.”

Javert sat on the floor in front of the settee, his head tipped back into Valjean’s lap. A mottling of purple bruises spread out from his temple, and it was against these that Valjean was dabbing a cotton cloth. The Auror hissed again as the cloth brushed an especially tender spot.

“Are you certain that’s Murtlap Essence you have on there?” Javert grimaced.

“Quite certain,” said Valjean. “It is the bruises making it hurt. Won’t you say what happened?”

The Auror let out a slow breath. “I suppose, though in truth it is my pride which smarts the most. There was a dragon smuggler - I was tailing him, when he ducked into an old warehouse and caught me by surprise.”

Valjean made a sympathetic noise as the bruises disappeared little by little under his ministrations. “A dragon smuggler, you say?”

“Mmm. We confiscated three juvenile Welsh Greens. They’ll be transferred tomorrow to the appropriate preserve, but that is not my division.”

“You must be more careful,” Valjean murmured, bending forward to plant a kiss on the Auror’s forehead. “I love you too much to give you up because some smuggler decided to throw you into a wall.”

Javert snorted. “I have a few scrapes, I am not on my deathbed,” he said back, but he turned himself around on his knees until he could properly fit his lips to his Valjean’s. Valjean hummed, cradling the Auror’s unbruised cheek in his palm.

What began as a sweet, chaste gesture took on a different gravity when Javert rested his hand lightly on the inside of Valjean’s thigh.

A thrill ran down Valjean’s spine. His mouth opened against his partner’s, an invitation which Javert returned, until a guilty thought caused him to pause.

“Javert,” he admonished, pulling back by a hair’s breadth. “It is the middle of the afternoon - Toussaint could walk in with Cosette at any minute -”

Javert tilted his head up, catching Valjean’s mouth again, just once, before he got to his feet. “Save it for later, then,” he said, not quite smirking.

Valjean felt his face warm, but he held the Auror’s gaze as the man deliberately backed out of the room.

He could still feel the heat of Javert’s hand on his thigh.

August 17th, 1988 
Cosette

Cosette trailed happily after her father, looking at the open-air stalls with a keen sensibility. Her fourth year at Beauxbatons was soon to be starting, and there were a number of items she was after. Not least of these was a new wardrobe; she had grown a full head taller since the previous summer, and the skirt of her uniform was barely seemly where it rested above her knee.

Around her was a vibrant marketplace. Its entry concealed at what was to all appearances the end of an alleyway, the market was a venue where wizards from all over the world could peddle their wares in Paris. There were stands offering strange fruits, magical timepieces, and any number of baubles and trinkets. Beyond the stands were rows of shops; they would visit those later.

Cosette paused, looking over a selection of potion ingredients that ranged from the commonplace to the bizarre. Ahead of her, her father had stopped to talk to a bookseller he often visited. There would be a new volume in their library that night, Cosette was sure of it. Several stalls behind her was Javert, browsing through moonometers, though he was not actually looking at them; his eyes watched the street. In another life, Cosette might have found the man intimidating, but things being what they were, she was grateful for his vigilance. There was nothing to fear in a crowd with him in it.

An oddity among the caterpillars and aconite flowers attracted Cosette’s attention. Inside a small wooden box were three egg-shaped globes, smoky in color but glowing red in the center. She reached out wonderingly.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, methinks you too young to be needin’ one of those,” said a grizzled little witch, appearing from behind the wooden stand.

Cosette quickly withdrew her hand. “Oh! Apologies, Madame - what are they?”

“Ashwinder eggs - very useful in love potions,” the witch explained, giving the girl a saucy wink.

Blushing, Cosette was about to respond when a commotion down the street distracted her. She whirled around to see Javert reach out and grab a man’s arm. They were arguing, and then the man pulled away, running in Cosette’s direction. Cosette saw Javert draw his wand - her Uncle was an Auror, so that man must have broken the law! - and then the man was reaching into his robes for a wand of his own.

Cosette acted without thinking. Her applewood was in her hand before she knew it, and she leveled it at the oncoming figure.

“Impedimenta,” she said clearly, and watched with satisfaction as the man ran straight into the invisible barrier in the air. Winded, he fell over backwards.

Cosette’s burst of adrenaline was overcome by alarm as the man sat up. In her thoughtlessness, she would have turned his attention to herself, and him a criminal! Who knew what he might do? But by now, people were staring, and Javert had moved quicker than the eye could follow to where the man had fallen.

There was a hand on Cosette’s shoulder, and she looked up. It was her father, staring wide-eyed between her and the scene.

“Cosette,” he said, pulling her close. “What on earth -?”

“Well,” Javert rumbled, looking down at the man at his feet. The man’s shoulders were slumped in defeat, and he stared at the Auror’s boots even as Javert flashed the badge of his station. “I would have caught you myself, had not my niece been quicker on the draw.”

The look he gave Cosette at that was a mixture of pride and censure, and Cosette fidgeted. Realizing she still held her wand, she hastily stuffed it back into her pocket.

“Let’s see it, then,” Javert went on. “I know perfectly well you took something off of that stand you did not pay for, there is no point in denying it.”

The man on the ground bit his lip. Then, with a painstaking slowness, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a package of chocolate frogs.

“They were for my son,” the man muttered. “Can’t afford them anymore, not since Élise passed. Isn’t it wrong for a boy to never have a treat, even just once in a while?”

A look passed between her father and uncle that Cosette did not understand. At last, it was her uncle who lowered his gaze.

“Return the chocolates to the vendor,” Javert said. “And then be on your way.”

The man stood up uncertainly, brushing the dirt from his trousers. “I can go, Monsieur?” he asked.

“You may,” Javert assented, “but do not let me catch you engaged in such activities again, you understand?”

The man nodded vigorously and began to edge around them. That might have been the end of it, had not Cosette, who was thinking very hard about something, then spoken up.

“Monsieur?” she asked of the departing stranger. The man stopped warily. Digging in her pocket, Cosette pulled out a handful of bronze Knuts. “Please buy the chocolates for your son, I should like him to have them.”

Surprise flickered across the man’s face, and then the wariness returned. He said nothing, but he looked a moment at Javert.

Cosette turned to her uncle. “It is alright, isn’t it?” she asked.

Javert looked rather as though he meant to say something else, but what he actually said was, “It is your allowance, do what you will with it.”

Cosette smiled broadly, and pressed the coins into the disbelieving man’s hand. He disappeared in the direction of the sweets vendor, and Cosette felt her father pull her into one of his bear hugs.

“You scared me half to death,” he said. “But that was well done, my dear.”

Beside them, Javert shook his head. “You mustn’t interfere in my work like that. He might have hurt you!” Then he hesitated, and under his breath, added, “But yes - it was a thing very well done.”

November 10th, 1989 
Valjean

Dear Papa,
This year is just flying by! It will soon be the winter holiday, and I shall see you again. I miss you - how are things on the Rue Plumet? Marius says his grandfather is taking him on a skiing trip over winter break. I think it sounds terribly exciting, but Marius would rather stay at school. His friend Enjolras has had a falling-out with his family and is not going home for Christmas. Several of the others are staying with him, ‘in solidarity’, they called it, and Marius was hoping to join them. Sweet, isn’t he?

And I must tell you, Papa! It seems incredible I should already be thinking of such things, but I had a meeting with Monsieur Beaulieu today regarding my career path! He said he is very pleased by my marks, and wondered if I knew already what I wished to do after school. I confess, I had not thought about it in the slightest, but the moment he asked, I got to thinking. Joly and Combeferre aspire to be Healers, but I do not think I would enjoy that job. Marius is thinking of law, and Feuilly will probably be a craftsman like his father. Then there is Muschettia - I do not know what she plans to do, but I am certain it will be spectacular!

All that said, nothing I was thinking of felt quite right, and I could tell Monsieur Beaulieu was starting to wonder if something was wrong. That is when I thought of you, Papa, and of Uncle Javert. He keeps us both safe, and the other good people of Paris. I told Monsieur Beaulieu I should like to be an Auror. He told me I must do very well on my BUSE examinations first, so I suppose I will have a lot of studying to do come spring.

Do let me know what you think, won’t you?

Love always,
Cosette

Javert set the letter down on the table in front of Valjean when he had read it.

“Is this why you’ve not eaten today?” he asked.

Valjean exhaled heavily and looked aside, out the window. Trust Javert to always cut to the heart of a matter.

“It might be,” he said evasively.

Rather than reply, Javert merely took the chair opposite and looked at him. Internally, Valjean winced. If Javert were not pressing for answers, if he was sitting and waiting patiently for Valjean to speak, then he had worried him. He did not want to worry Javert.

“It is just...” Valjean began. “It is a dangerous field. She could be hurt, or worse.”

Javert blinked. “Oh.” His fingers twitched where they rested on the tabletop. “I thought perhaps... you did not approve of her choice.”

Valjean looked up at that; Javert did not quite meet his eyes.

“She wants to protect people,” Valjean said softly. “As you do.” Javert started. “But you cannot deny that it is dangerous - I worry every morning when you leave the house that something will happen.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.” Valjean looked at him helplessly. “I love you, Javert, how could I not?”

A flustered array of emotions crossed the Auror’s face all at once. For a moment, Valjean thought his partner might finally give voice to the sentiment he knew he returned, but as they usually did, the words stuck in Javert’s throat. It was endearing, really, the power their shared affection still had to render him speechless.

“You are a sentimental old man,” Javert said instead, shaking his head. “Cosette will be fine. If she has the skills to be recruited, well, then, she knows how to handle herself. And besides, she has to get through examinations, first.”

Valjean’s eyes crinkled in appreciation. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you, Javert.”

July 7th, 1990 
Valjean

Of course Cosette excelled at her examinations. Valjean read again over the results his daughter had thrust so eagerly into his hands.

Brevet Universel de Sorcellerie Élémentaire, said the heading on the score card. Universal Degree of Elementary Sorcery. Below, each course was listed along with the grade; Cosette had earned an “O” for “Outstanding” in every subject.

Lowering the page, Valjean glowed with paternal delight. “You’ve done incredibly, my treasure.”

Cosette hugged him around the middle. She was properly a young lady, encroaching on him in height, and would be seventeen in December. “Father, I cannot believe it! I can take all the ASPIC-level classes I need to be an Auror now!”

Valjean’s smile slipped for a moment. “Cosette, dear,” he said carefully. “Are you certain there is no other -”

“Well, well,” said Javert, entering from across the salon. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Cosette grinned, spinning to embrace him as well. Javert appeared less confounded by this than he once would have been, and patted her on the shoulder.

“An ‘Outstanding’ in every class, wasn’t it?” asked Javert, raising an eyebrow at Valjean.

Mutely, Valjean nodded and extended the score card, which had arrived by owl that morning.

“This is very good,” said the Auror as he read it over. “Indeed, I could not have done better myself.”

Javert’s pride was obvious whenever it was brought up that Cosette wished to follow in his footsteps, and Valjean could not begrudge his partner that, nor could he begrudge Cosette her talents, or her altruism.

Even so, the smile on his daughter’s face only did a little to ease the fear he felt at the thought of the dangerous path she wished to tread, and the knowledge that it would bring her closer to his own past than he had ever wanted for her.

October 15th, 1990 
Valjean

Valjean gasped and tucked his head against Javert’s shoulder where he sat beside him on the bench.

“Tell me when it’s over,” he implored.

“This pass, or the entire game?” asked Javert, his amusement evident.

They were seated among the screaming spectators watching Beauxbatons’ second Quidditch game of the season. It was the first year Cosette had made the team; she played Keeper, a position to which she was well-suited in Javert’s opinion. Valjean was inclined to agree, but as he had sat through most of the first match with his eyes shut, it was harder for him to say. At the rate the second match was progressing, he was likely to spend it much the same way.

“She is just so high up,” Valjean whined against the Auror’s coat. “What if she should fall?” This was followed by, “What just happened?” as a cheer went up from the crowd.

His question was answered for him by the boy providing commentary, whose name was Bossuet or some such; dimly, Valjean recognized the name as belonging to one of Cosette’s friends.

Magically amplified, Bossuet's voice drifted across the stadium. “That’s Chaser Fleur Delacour with the Quaffle, scoring another ten points for Bellefeuille. The standing is thirty points Bellefeuille, twenty points Ombrélune.”

“They’re coming back Cosette’s way,” Javert informed him, and Valjean risked a peek at the sky.

Above them, Cosette hovered on her broomstick in front of the three goal posts, her green Quidditch robes fluttering in the wind. A trio of Chasers from the opposing team, dressed in silver, bore down on her. Flying forward as fast as their brooms would take them, the three tossed the Quaffle back and forth. At the last second, the center wizard pulled back, flinging the ball at the nearest hoop.

Cosette had watched their approach impassively. As soon as the ball was released, however, she shot straight up and knocked it away with the tail of her broom. The green-clad half of the stadium erupted in cheers again. Valjean joined in, even as his stomach lurched.

“Another slick save by Keeper Cosette Valjean. She is in top form today, I do hope Marius is in the crowd...” came Bossuet's voice, narrating.

Valjean groaned and rubbed his forehead.

“She’s got more skill on a broom than you have in your little finger,” Javert observed, still squinting up into the sky.

“It wouldn’t take much,” said Valjean. The last time he had been on a broom, he had been stiff as a board the entire flight and had toppled off onto the ground upon re-entry. He could fly to save his life, but he much preferred to Apparate.

The game went on another two hours; in the glaring autumn sunlight, both Seekers had difficulty spotting the Snitch. Ultimately, it was Ombrélune who ended the game, but Bellefeuille had put up a strong offense. By Valjean’s calculations, the team was still in the running for the Cup.

Cosette found them in the stands after she had changed.

“Father, Uncle,” she greeted them, kissing them each once on the cheek. “Thank you for coming!”

A younger girl with long, silver hair passed them by, and Cosette called, “Oh, Fleur, your pass to Phillippe was perfect, nicely done!”

Fleur turned around. There was something inhumanly beautiful in her features, and it was plain from those around them that many of the students were enamored with her, boys and girls alike. Embroidered on the breast of her robes was a leaf, the symbol of Bellefeuille house, above which was printed “Delacour” in fine letters.

“Cosette, thank you,” came the short reply. “I was just on my way to meet Mother and Gabrielle, excuse me.”

Javert watched Mlle. Delacour disappear with a slight frown on his face. “Rather forthright, isn’t she?”

“No more than you are, Uncle,” Cosette laughed. “But come, let us go and -”

The sound of a nervous cough interrupted whatever she had been about to say.

Valjean beheld a young man with tawny brown hair scuffing his feet, a bouquet of roses tucked under one arm.

“Cosette,” he said. “Hello. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt...”

The girl laughed again, a tinkling sound like bells. “That’s alright. Father, Uncle, I do not believe you have met Marius yet. Marius, this is my family.”

Marius bowed formally, but anxiously. “Pleased to meet you, Messieurs,” he stammered. “Marius Pontmercy, at your service.” He looked back at Cosette. “I had best be going - Courfeyrac will be looking for me - but I w-wanted to give you these.” So saying, he shoved the bouquet into her arms and ran off into the crowd, his face flushing beet red.

“Isn’t that kind of him?” said Cosette, smelling the fresh-cut flowers. “Of course, I must tell him he needn’t give me a bouquet after every match - roses are expensive!”

Javert huffed. “A Pureblood family like that, he can afford it.”

“Oh no,” Cosette said seriously, shaking her head. “He won’t take so much as a Sickle from his grandfather. Isn’t that noble of him? He says things like how isn’t it unfair that so few wizards hold so much of the wealth and power? And he’s right, you know...”

The political talk fell on Valjean’s deaf ears. The moment that bashful boy had pushed a dozen roses on his daughter, it had suddenly occurred to Valjean that beyond whatever choice she might make of occupation, there were yet other ways fate could take Cosette from him.

September 1st, 1991 
Valjean

It was not yet mid-morning, and Valjean was seated at the breakfast table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee. Cosette had been picked up by carriage to begin her Terminale year at Beauxbatons. It pleased him to know that after ten more months, Cosette would finally be moved back in at home. He could see her every day.

At least, he could until she got married. Her and the boy Pontmercy were, it seemed, courting in truth. Their romance had blossomed over the summer intersession, and Valjean’s dismay had gradually mellowed into a disgruntled resignation, made easier to bear by the knowledge that the boy was respectful, if a bit prone to nervousness, and seemed to be in no hurry to spirit his daughter away from him.

Chasing the thought from his mind, Valjean turned to the next page of the paper, Le Oracle Parisien. Printed underneath an ad for doxycide was a black and white photograph of a castle, the banners on the ramparts moving silently in the breeze.

Boy Who Lives Starts at Hogwarts, read the headline. Curious, Valjean looked down at the article beneath.

SEPT. 1 1991
Ten years after the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter, known popularly as “The Boy Who Lived,” is due to begin his magical education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Potter, age 11, has lived with Muggle family since the death of his parents ten years ago. He enters the school now under the  tutelage of acclaimed Headmaster Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, who is noted for his alchemical work in partnership with Beauxbatons alumnus, Nicholas Flamel. Like most schools of magic, Hogwarts is Unplottable, and its precise location is unknown. It is believed, however, to be located somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. Whatever comes next for young Harry Potter, we at Le Oracle Parisien wish him all the best.

Valjean set the paper down thoughtfully. How strange it must be, he reflected, to have the eyes of the world when one was still so very young.

June 20th, 1992 
Valjean

The commencement ceremony was set to be held on the Beauxbatons grounds in the center of the formal garden. A great white pavilion had been erected for the occasion, under which was arranged an orderly sea of slender birch chairs, all facing the dias at the front. Valjean sat with Javert and Toussaint somewhere in the middle; the rest of the seats were taken by other families, but the dias was as of yet empty.

A hush fell over the gathering and in unison, all stood for the entrance of Madame Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons. She was a witch of outstanding stature, perhaps eleven feet in height, though the pavilion had obviously been designed with her in mind; there was ample room for her to tower comfortably above the assembly. Mme. Maxime was an olive skinned woman, with a hooked nose and thick, black hair drawn back in a tight bun. Taken altogether, she had an elegant yet severe beauty, and Valjean felt an immediate respect he usually associated with the nunnery.

Mme. Maxime strode calmly down the center aisle to the front of the room, where she took up a position left of the dias.

“Today we are gathered,” she began, “to honor the accomplishments of a fine generation of young people. Each student who mounts this stage has completed their seven years of magical education, and is ready to pursue a career in the discipline of their choice. On behalf of the faculty of the Académie de Magie Beauxbatons, I would ask fortune to smile upon these students, as they enter into the next chapter of their lives.”

There was a polite round of applause, followed by an upwelling of music from the right; lifting his head, Valjean beheld a single wood nymph playing upon a cello carved from silvery wood. The rich, lingering notes tugged at something deep in his chest. Then the processional started, and the crowd turned as one to look down the aisle.

The students had traded in their usual silk uniforms for powder blue dress robes, upon which was pinned the symbol of their house. They looked splendid as they walked in, and Valjean briefly allowed himself to wonder what it might have been like to wear a robe for such a ceremony himself. Then he caught sight of Cosette, and all traces of nostalgia vanished as for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

She was radiant. There was no other word for it. The smile on her face was brighter than even the ample sunlight. Valjean found himself squeezing Javert’s hand, and though the Auror usually objected to such things in public, for once he did not pull away.

One at a time, the students were presented with their certificates. Valjean’s eyes were riveted to his daughter throughout, and it was likely only the solid weight of Javert’s hand in his that kept him from bursting into tears. He needed to go to her, to congratulate her, to remind himself that she was real, that she was not going to leave him.

His nerves were wrecked by the time it was over, and Valjean barely even heard Mme. Maxime’s closing remarks. When at last all were dismissed, Cosette ran to him. For a moment, the weight of Valjean’s fears disappeared under her embrace; his little girl was grown, but she cared for him still.

Then Cosette took a step back. “I did well on all my ASPIC’s,” she said, looking earnestly between Valjean and Javert. “Do you think the Aurors will accept my application?”

Javert returned her look seriously. “The training program is very intensive,” he said. “You have a good chance, but even if they do not accept your results, you will be a very employable young witch - you should be proud.”

“Yes,” Valjean agreed hoarsely. “You’ve done so well. And for what it is worth...” He took a deep breath. “I hope they do take you on. You know I worry, but... if this is what you want, if this is how you wish to help others, then I want it for you as well.”

Cosette beamed and reached out to hug him again. Valjean hugged her back, striving to ignore the knot of tension in his stomach. Then Toussaint interrupted, waiting to impart her congratulations on the new graduate, and Valjean let her go.

Whatever Javert’s words to the contrary, he knew Cosette would succeed in whatever she set her mind to. She was skilled and intelligent, and she would be an Auror if that was what she wished. Only time would tell whether that wish would be his undoing.

August 3rd, 1993 
Javert

The yellow rays of morning light fell across the page of a report, illuminating the small, tight script which was Inspecteur Coste’s. Javert had received it the night before, delivered by a harried-looking owl; the initial excitement he experienced at its arrival had dissolved into bitter disappointment upon learning that the Patron-Minette had managed once again to evade justice. The gang’s continuing freedom was a sore spot - how was anyone to take magical law enforcement seriously if they could not even apprehend a handful of lowlife wizards?

Across the table sat Valjean, reading the newspaper. It had become custom between them, Valjean with a cup of coffee in one hand, the daily edition of Le Oracle Parisien in the other, and Javert with his reports. Soon he would have to leave for work, but privately the Auror relished those quiet moments just after dawn.  

The newsprint rustled as Valjean unfolded the next section. Javert did not glance up, concentrating on the means by which Montparnasse had eluded Coste’s forces, and so he missed Valjean’s almost imperceptible flinch, the words on the page draining the color from his cheeks. Then Valjean laid the paper flat on the table, and Javert lifted his head.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, frowning.

Valjean bit his lip and looked away toward the wall. “There is... a wanted poster in today’s Oracle,” he said.

Javert felt all expression slide from his face. “Ah.”

“You know of it, I presume.”

Slowly, the Auror nodded. “We were warned,” he said. “Not that Britain expects it to involve us - from what I was told, Black’s eye is fixed on the Potter boy. I suppose it was only a matter of time until our media caught wind of the debacle.”

“You weren’t going to tell me.” Valjean cocked his head as though it were a question, but it came out a statement.

Javert shifted in his chair. “I thought it might... distress you,” he replied. “What does the paper say of it?”

Valjean flipped the paper open to a page mostly taken up by a large black and white photograph; it depicted a snarling wizard with sunken features and dirty, matted hair. Amidst the other tattoos emblazoned across his bare chest were the numbers ᛈᛉ-390; for a fraction of a second, Valjean’s hand hovered above a similar spot on his own chest, before he hastily raised his fingers to adjust a few curls of his hair. Javert cursed the editors at Le Oracle. What right had they to drag bad memories out into the light?

Valjean read aloud, his voice carefully devoid of inflection. “The infamous Dark wizard, Sirius Black, made his name anew when he became the second man ever to escape Azkaban Prison. The break-out is believed to have occurred in the late hours of July thirtieth. There were no signs as to how Black escaped, and British authorities remain baffled. Black was imprisoned for the murder of twelve Muggles and a wizard, following the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

He looked up at Javert. “That is all it says, besides a warning to the general populace.”

The Auror nodded. “They did not mention you by name?”

“No.” Valjean hesitated. “Will they catch him, do you think?”

Javert snorted. “I doubt it,” he said. “Not immediately, at any rate.”

“Is it wrong if I should be glad of that?” The question was spoken softly, and Valjean’s eyes were downcast.

Javert bit back an uncharitable response; the idea struck him that it was not the moment for his usual abrasive remarks. Reaching across the table to take Valjean’s hand, he said quietly, “Black did kill thirteen people, Jean.”

“I know,” Valjean murmured. “But even so...” Then he looked up. “Cosette cannot know.”

Javert frowned. “She is an officer now, I do not think I can keep it from her.”

Valjean shook his head vehemently. “Not Black,” he said. “Me. She will ask, when she hears that Black is the second to escape, and she cannot... she cannot know that I...” He shuddered. “I do not want her to associate me with that place.”

“You were pardoned,” argued Javert. “What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Valjean insisted. “And what about you? Do you want her to know that you arrested me, and her mother? If she starts digging through old records, who knows what she will find?”

There was a long silence. “Very well,” Javert said eventually. “I will see what I can do.”

Valjean did not reply, but the gratitude in his expression spoke volumes. For his part, Javert felt like he at last understood some of his partner’s apprehension. Cosette had long ago wormed her way into his grudging heart, and the prospect of her thinking less of him was unbearable. It was just unfortunate that her new position as Auror gave her access to exactly the sort of records that would reveal the worst of him.

November 1st, 1994 
Cosette

“It is a shame they did not reinstate it sooner.” Cosette stood at the hall mirror adjusting her navy uniform where it sat under her curls. “I might have put my own name forward.”

“You most certainly would not have,” her father replied, stepping out of the kitchen. “People die in that tournament, Cosette. That they have brought it back at all is...”

The stairs creaked as Javert descended from his bedroom. “Really, Jean,” he said. “Even with all the new regulations?”

Her father looked at the man aghast. “You cannot tell me you support this ludicrous competition. ‘International magical cooperation’ or not, a student is bound to be hurt, you mark my words -”

Javert leaned against the railing and smirked. “I am only teasing,” he said. “In truth, I believe you have the right of it. It is a barbaric sport.”

“You don’t think it sounds thrilling?” Cosette asked wistfully.

“After the year of the cockatrice mauling?” Javert shook his head. “It is spectacle. Politics. No, so far as I am concerned, the Triwizard Tournament is a waste of government time and resources.”

Cosette withdrew a letter from her pocket, smoothing over the delicate cursive script with her fingertips. “Well,” she said, “I am happy Fleur is representing Beauxbatons. I am sure she will do wonderfully.”

Her uncle pecked her father once on the cheek when he thought Cosette was not looking, though the mirror revealed more than he intended. Cosette only smiled. They were both so shy with their affections in front of her; did they perhaps think she would be mortified if they acted as other parents did?

When he turned around, Uncle Javert clapped her on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “if Beauxbatons wins, then perhaps it is not so barbaric a sport after all.” He strode to the door, adding, “We’ll be back by seven, Jean. Tell Toussaint I can reheat my own meal.”

Cosette went to join him, and for a moment they stood upon the stoop, two Aurors on their way to the Palais de Justice. Then they Disapparated, and the garden was empty again.

June 18th, 1995 
Vidocq

It was not Vidocq’s first choice to return to Paris. There was more news to be had in London, closer to the epicenter of the rising storm. Even so, there were rumors, portents which told him that something was coming, and these drew him inexorably back to Paris’ criminal sink.

Though over a decade had gone by since the darkness last held sway, Vidocq knew well the signs of a shadow emerging from hibernation. Agents of the Dark Lord were on the move, ever since the incident at the Quidditch World Cup. There had been disappearances, too, not enough to incite the suspicion of anyone in authority, but on occasion one here or there which spoke to Dark magic’s use.

He found himself again walking familiar streets, his head bowed and unrecognized. Time had changed him; Vidocq’s hair was now more grey than blond, and a full beard hid some of the deep lines around his mouth.

Snippets of conversation fell upon his ears. After so long abroad, it was both refreshing and strange to be surrounded entirely by French voices. What truly made him feel at home, however, were the hints of argot he overheard while traversing the back ways of the city. The language of the underground, cant of thieves and murderers alike, it was the patterns of code that let Vidocq know he had found like company. Among them he could acquire lodgings, and no-one would inquire too closely into his business. When it came time to recruit, as he was growing certain it soon would, Vidocq would be well-placed to adopt a hiring position.

No, it was not Vidocq’s first choice to return to Paris, but the more days went by, the surer he grew that it was the right one. He had wanted but one thing for fifteen years - his new wand could attest to that - and the time was drawing on when revenge would finally be his. He would be there when the sky fell, and would take his pleasure in watching the city burn.

June 25th, 1995

Cosette,
I wish I wrote with better news. I wish I wrote to say that I had beaten the boys in the third task and brought our school eternal glory. I wish I wrote to say that I was returning to France with a thousand Galleons’ prize money and a handsome young man on my arm. I even wish I wrote to say that I lost, and that this would be the worst news I had to impart.

I lost. That is to say, Harry and Cedric won, they tied for the Triwizard Cup. But then, something went wrong; I do not know the details. What I do know is this: Cedric Diggory is dead, and Harry Potter says it was You-Know-Who who killed him.

I know how it sounds. It sounds like a nightmare, too terrible to be true. But You-Know-Who is alive, though the Ministry of Magic would like to pretend he is not. The witches and wizards of France cannot afford to be so lax in their response - for all our sakes, something has to be done.

You must believe me, Cosette. You have been a friend to me, only kind, never jealous as so many others are. I have written you because you are clever, and because you are an Auror. Perhaps this knowledge will do you good. I hope that it does. Above all, be safe. We are all in danger now.

Your friend,
Fleur

Cosette laid the letter down on her desk, frowning at it. She had already read its contents three times, but this was the first where she got through it all without fear clenching at her heart. Father did not speak of the war, and neither did her uncle. If it was true, if Voldemort were somehow alive and returned to strength, there was bound to be a second war, not only in her lifetime, but perhaps even very soon!

At that thought, her fingers gripped at the front of her robes. There was no time to be afraid; Fleur had warned her, and she had to make good on that warning while there was still a chance.

If the British Ministry was denying Voldemort’s return, it was no use going through official channels. She could only imagine what Javert, her uncle, yes, but also the Secrétaire, would say if she suggested He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was risen from the dead on such flimsy evidence as a classmate’s say-so. What, then, to do?

Biting her lip, Cosette drew towards her a fresh sheet of parchment and her blotter. With a steady hand, she addressed a letter to Marius. Marius would pass on her message, and it would invite less attention than if she wrote Enjolras directly.

Enjolras, she knew from class, was an organizer and lawyer-turned-political advocate. His aggressively pro-Muggleborn stance had always drawn sidelong glances at school, where Purebloods were traditionally expected to abjure such company. Perhaps he would have a solution, a way to act without the government’s approval.

Long after the family owl left to deliver her letter, Cosette sat up in her bedroom. Night was falling, and for the first time since she was a small child, she felt afraid of the dark.

Chapter Text

December 20th, 1995
Voldemort

The Château de Lestrange lay quiet and empty in the burgeoning twilight. If that desolate part of the countryside had been of the sort to attract visitors, they might have described the sight as eerie. Surely such a grand estate, with its gargantuan stone gatehouse and sweeping slate roofs, was meant to be a hub of activity no matter the hour. Surely there ought to have been servants scuttling back and forth, tending to the upkeep of the fine residence. And yet, perhaps it was not that there were no servants, no activity. Perhaps it was only that the servants of that estate had the power to carry out their business unseen, and knew the price their masters could exact if such lowly creatures showed themselves.

Had anyone explained as much to the hypothetical passerby, they would only have scoffed and replied with, “Masters, what masters?” for the estate had been abandoned some fifteen years prior. Even the townsfolk of the nearby Les Essards had relaxed their guard somewhat, as the faery lords had not emerged from their barrow in nearly a generation’s time. The Château de Lestrange was, to all appearances, utterly deserted, and the people were not entirely wrong to believe thus, for the estate had indeed been abandoned. But it would not be true to say that such was still the case, not anymore.

Lord Voldemort reclined in the head chair of the dining chamber as if it were a throne, a monstrous snake coiling around his feet. By the way the room’s only other occupant bent and scraped before him, it would have been easy to mistake him for royalty, though there had never been a wizard king in Europe.

“A drink, Wormtail,” the Dark Lord commanded, his voice high and cold. His hand gestured at the sideboard, upon which rested a crystal decanter of fine wine.

Peter Pettigrew, alias Wormtail, practically fell over himself in his haste to do his master’s bidding. It was very amusing the way his hands, one of them ghostly silver, trembled around the stem of the wine glass, as was the way he would not look the Dark Lord in the eye.

Voldemort raised the glass to his lips. The drink was an expensive vintage, but he did not taste it. His thoughts were turned elsewhere. A dark fortress lay far offshore in the middle of the freezing North Sea; he had thought of that place often of late.

“Do we move according to schedule?” he asked aloud, turning the glass in his long, tapered fingers.

“Y-yes, my Lord,” Pettigrew stammered. “The dementors are eager to c-cooperate.” He shuddered slightly at that, and Voldemort smiled.

“Excellent,” he said softly. “No doubt the Ministry will blame the breach on Sirius Black. Who could have guessed dear Bella’s cousin would make himself so useful in his escape?”

From where Pettigrew stood hunched by the sideboard, Voldemort detected a faint flicker of dismay. The emotion did not linger long in the man’s thoughts, but the Dark Lord felt a cruel satisfaction at it. Even after so many years, Pettigrew was haunted still by his betrayal of old friends. There was not enough regret to threaten his loyalty, never that, for Pettigrew feared death too much to disobey, but it kept him miserable and downtrodden, and Voldemort was content for him to remain that way.

The wine glass returned to the tabletop, and below it, Voldemort extended his hand. The snake Nagini reared her head, nuzzling against his palm before slithering up the leg of the chair and into his lap. He stroked her smooth scales absently as he deliberated.

“Send word to the others,” Voldemort said at last. “Malfoy, Macnair, the rest. They can greet my faithful upon their return, and bring them here where they will be far from the Ministry’s reach. Every measure of enchantment we will put upon this place, until it is impenetrable. No doubt Bella and Rodolphus will be pleased to be back in their manor.”

Pettigrew bowed low and retreated from the room. When the heavy doors shut behind him, Voldemort returned his mind to his Death Eaters, his precious ones, who had suffered the torment of Azkaban rather than renounce him. They would be well-rewarded for their devotion when soon they stood again at his side.

Valjean

“How long do you have off?” Valjean asked, holding up a holly bough to inspect it. He was in the midst of arranging several such branches on the mantelpiece above the hearth. Around him were stacks of boxes, all half-open and spilling garlands and ornaments onto the floor.

“Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day,” Javert replied. He was perched on the settee, diligently untangling strands of lights as per his partner’s request. “I told Chabouillet it was excessive, but he insisted.”

“As well he should,” Valjean said reprovingly. “I barely even see you on weekends anymore.”

“Blame the Patron-Minette,” came the moody response. “The longer they go on without being caught, the bolder they become. They’ve graduated from petty theft to major burglary to murder. Chabouillet would have my head, but even he can see there’s nothing more we could be doing.” The Auror tugged at a kink in the wires with particular aggravation.

“If there is nothing more you could be doing, then you might as well take a break,” said Valjean. “You’ll run yourself ragged at this rate.”

“I still say it is excessive.” More quietly, Javert added, “Though I will not pretend I am displeased by it. I have missed this.”

“Have you indeed?” said Valjean, quirking his lips. “Well, there is a whole other box of lights that could do with untangling. Cosette bought them at the flea market last year, and they are a Gordian knot of a mess.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Valjean remained facing the fireplace as Javert got to his feet, the festive greenery suddenly forgotten in his hands as his partner came up behind him. Toned arms slipped around Valjean’s waist, clasping across his front and drawing him close. Javert’s warmth pressed to his back, and the Auror rested his chin on Valjean’s shoulder so he could murmur into his ear.

“You know it is you that I miss.”

Valjean’s voice was teasing as he replied, “Do I know that?”

“Perhaps I should make certain,” said Javert, and Valjean’s eyes fluttered closed as the Auror pressed his lips to the skin of his neck.

“I missed you.”

His mouth slid up to Valjean’s jawline.

“I missed you.”

Dropping the holly to the floor, Valjean turned around to kiss Javert for himself. His partner hummed contentedly, and Valjean smiled into the motion.

“I missed you,” Javert said again quietly. Then he asked, “Where is Cosette? She is not about to stroll in here and receive the shock of her life, is she?”

Valjean chuckled at that. “No,” he said. “She is on a date with Marius - I believe they are getting lunch at a café again.”

“Wonderful,” Javert purred. “Do you know, for once, I actually feel I might like the boy.”

Valjean raised an eyebrow. That Javert barely tolerated Cosette’s fiancé was common knowledge. “Is that so?”

“Mmm.” The Auror guided him over to the settee, shoving the Christmas lights aside carelessly. Valjean sat, and Javert curled up alongside him; in his chest, Valjean’s heart thudded a little faster. He fit his head against his partner’s shoulder as Javert continued to speak.

“And with Toussaint away visiting her cousin for the holiday... It is not often you and I get the house to ourselves.” The Auror’s fingers crept under Valjean’s cravat, undoing the buttons of his collar. “I might have to send Pontmercy a ‘thank you’ card.”

Valjean snorted. “That’ll be the day.” His amusement stuttered to a halt as Javert’s thumb traced over his collarbone. The touch tickled, just light enough to raise goosebumps down his arms. “Javert,” he breathed.

“Something you want?” the Auror grinned, his expression bordering on wolfish.

“You, always.”

Javert turned faintly pink around the edges at that, but the cheekiness was not gone from his voice as he replied, “Make yourself comfortable.”

Raising a hand to his own neck, Javert extricated himself from his dress robes. Valjean, who rarely bothered with such garments inside the house, was already down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He reclined against the arm of the settee, stretching languidly along the white cushions as he watched his partner’s uniform slip from his shoulders, revealing a starched linen shirt beneath.

Javert turned to him with a particular gleam in his eye. “The Préfet has been most generous in giving me the time off,” he said. “I must be sure to use it to make up for the things I’ve been neglecting.”

Valjean’s legs shifted apart as Javert crawled hands and knees over top of him. Crouched on all fours, the man’s face was suspended inches above his own, and Valjean stared up into cool grey eyes which were crinkled with warmth.

“Would you say you feel neglected, Jean?”

Valjean reached up to run his hand through Javert’s hair. It was thick and silky, and he loved that he could wrap his fingers in the long strands. “By you? Never.”

Javert tsked. Bending closer, the man’s voice was a whisper in his ear as he muttered, “You were supposed to say ‘yes’.”

Shaking with silent laughter, Valjean whispered back, “My mistake. Yes, very neglected.”

“Hmmm.” His partner settled himself, sprawling possessively across Valjean’s lap. His narrow frame was warm and solid, and Valjean arched appreciatively against the pleasant friction. “I’ll have to correct that,” Javert went on, tipping Valjean’s chin up. “It’s only appropriate, after all.”

Javert kissed him then, and Valjean’s lips parted under it. Age may have tempered their desires somewhat, but propriety and schedule kept them apart to such a degree that on those occasions when the Auror was feeling amorous, Valjean was only too happy to indulge him.

His breath hitched as Javert untucked his shirt, the brush of a palm over the sensitive skin of his stomach making Valjean tremble. He responded by tightening his fingers in long chestnut hair, and Javert groaned against his mouth.

The Auror pulled back just enough that Valjean could feel the warmth of his breath. “Cosette should go on dates more often.”

The affectionate smile which split Valjean’s face reached the corners of his eyes.

“Perhaps she should, at that,” he said.

Cosette

Cosette had informed her father that she was leaving on a date with Marius.

In this, she was not entirely honest.

It was the case that she was at a café. It was also the case that Marius was with her. However, to call their outing a date would have been over-generous at best; she doubted whether it would meet her protective guardians’ standards, at any rate.

The Musain sat on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, a quaint, historic slice of the city which, much like everywhere else, was slowly being subsumed under a growing number of retailers and fast food restaurants. The café’s front of house consisted of whitewashed walls and sturdy tables, offering pedestrian but generously-portioned fare. Then there were the kitchens, and behind the kitchens was a back room. This back room was notable for two reasons: first, because it had a private stair up to an alleyway on the Rue Cujas, and second, because it was the meeting place for the Amis de l’ABC.

Cosette leaned forward in her chair, seated at what was one in a long line of tables. At the head stood Enjolras; he had a letter spread out before him, and it was the contents thereof that he was addressing his audience with.

“- goes on to report that Monsieur Arthur Weasley was attacked while on guard duty last night by the snake belonging to Lord Voldemort.”

Across the table, Joly looked up from a deck of cards with a wince. “Hey, Enjolras, ‘You-Know-Who’, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Enjolras continued as if he had not heard. “Though Weasley’s wounds were life-threatening, he was transported immediately to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and is expected to make a full recovery.” Refolding the letter, he slid it into an envelope. “Dumbledore concludes his missive by stating that Voldemort was unsuccessful in retrieving the item he sought. He expects, however, that he will try again.”

Where she sat, Cosette frowned, mulling over the news. This was the fourth such meeting she had attended, ever since her message had prompted Enjolras to establish the group.

“Authority cannot be trusted to act,” their leader had said at their inaugural session. “It is up to the people now to unmask this despot and his agents.”

The first meeting had been fueled by passion and declarations of purpose. Bahorel made contact with the reinstated Order of the Phoenix, sending a veritable flock of owls to like-minded parties, and for a time, spirits were high as everyone prepared to defend their neighbors against the threat of the Dark Lord. Since that first afternoon, however, the fervor seemed to have fizzled somewhat. Enjolras was fiery as ever, but their friends on the other hand...

Cosette glanced around her. Marius had the look of someone struggling to pay attention, his expression glazed over. Across the table, Courfeyrac had drawn Joly and Jean Prouvaire into his game of Exploding Snap, while further down, Bahorel and Bossuet were heckling the golden-eyed Jean Marie, hoping to persuade the boy to shift into the figure of a wolf. Cosette hid a smile at that; the littler Jean was like a cousin to her. His older brother, Jacques, sat nearby, arms crossed over his chest. Jacques wore a scowl, irritated by the younger’s popularity.

In point of fact, it seemed the only ones engaged in the proceedings beside herself were Feuilly, who had taken the day off from his workshop to attend, and Combeferre, a reserved young man who had just recently completed his Healer’s certificate. He looked at Enjolras thoughtfully, considering the latest letter from the Order.

“Voldemort places great value on this object he pursues,” Combeferre said, then paused to frown at Joly, who had tutted at the use of the Dark wizard’s name. “Will the Order truly not tell us what it is?”

Enjolras shook his head, his mouth thin. “Only that it is something he did not have when last he rose to power. Dumbledore will say no more than that.”

“That does us no good,” said Cosette. “If we do not know what he is after, what help is there we can offer?”

Two of Courfeyrac’s cards blew up in spectacular fashion, and he sighed. “The round goes to you, gentlemen,” he said, waving smoke out of his face as Joly and Prouvaire each picked up new cards. Turning to Cosette, he added, “Does it even matter? There have not been Death Eaters in this country for fifteen years. Britain has their attention for now, not France.”

“Maybe so,” said Feuilly, “but if Delacour’s information is correct, it is only a matter of time before they return.”

“I should like to hear Fleur’s story for myself,” Prouvaire piped up. He was wearing a tartan scarf around his neck, and that particular afternoon, his wavy hair was blond. There was no saying if it would be the same color by the following morning. “Perhaps listening to her retell it could fill in some of the gaps.”

Cosette smiled. “That’s an excellent idea, Jehan,” she said. “I’ll invite her to one of our next meetings.”

From the rear of the room came a new, deeper voice.

“Said Louis L’Amour, ‘A wise man fights to win, but he is twice a fool who has no plan for possible defeat’.” Grantaire was seated at a table near the wall, where he had been brooding quietly over a bottle of firewhisky. “Surely no-one in this room believes they could duel Lord Voldemort and come out the victor.”

The atmosphere sobered by degrees. Several members of the assembly looked around uneasily; neither Joly nor Bossuet even bothered to correct Grantaire with the common euphemism. Cosette’s gaze turned down toward the table. What did she think they could accomplish, she wondered. Voldemort had somehow overcome death itself; was it naïve to try to stop him when his eye inevitably turned toward Paris?

Enjolras did not back down from the query. He met Grantaire’s gaze coolly and said, “No odds are insurmountable. We know the truth, a truth which the powerful would have suppressed, and therefore we have a duty to fight. If you doubt us, you know where to find the door.”

Bossuet cleared his throat and fiddled with a quill. Inwardly, Cosette felt a pang of sympathy for her dark-haired friend. Grantaire’s admiration of Enjolras was readily apparent, yet in spite of it, their leader was often stern with him. The two stared at each other across the room for a long moment. Then Grantaire lowered his eyes and took a slow drink from his bottle. He made no move to stand, just looked sourly at the tabletop.  

When it was clear that Grantaire was not about to get up and walk out, Enjolras’ shoulders eased somewhat, and gradually the others relaxed as well. Quiet chatter sprang back up between parties, and the mood was bolstered by the entrance of the serving-girl, Mlle. Louison, who came bearing several platters of sandwiches.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to the place,” Louison scolded the group at large as she set the platters down, “but garbage collection can’t seem to find the bins out back, and I’ve got trash bags piling up outside the door. I’ll get a telling-off from the Madame if something isn’t done.”

“I explained it to you, Mademoiselle,” said Enjolras. “It is a Fidelius Charm. Jehan is our Secret Keeper. The Charm is for the good of the cause, and for your own safety. Should the enemy seek to learn of our whereabouts, this room will be hidden from them, and the staff here will not be implicated in our actions.”

The young witch tossed her head dismissively. “Be that as it may,” she replied, “you boys must do something about my bins - That is, boys and girls,” she corrected herself, punching Cosette affectionately on the shoulder. “Oh, if only I weren’t working all hours of the day... I’d give those Death Eaters a run for their money, and make no mistake.”

Enjolras motioned down the length of the table.

“Bossuet, Jacques, go and relocate Mademoiselle Louison’s garbage bins nearer to the street for her. The Charm’s influence should not extend far past the back door.”

Together, Bossuet and Jacques stood as they were bid. The stair up to the alley was behind a door at the rear of the room, and it admitted muted daylight and a gust of winter air as Jacques pulled it open. As if blown by the wind, a youth breezed in at the same moment, tipping his cap to Jacques jauntily.

“Hello, Gavroche,” said Bossuet. “What’s the news?”

“It is snowing,” the youth replied. “And there was another robbery last night. Rumor has it the Patron-Minette are responsible.”

“Gavroche,” a woman’s voice interrupted. “Gavroche, come get a sandwich before Feuilly and Bahorel eat them all.”

Cosette looked up to see Éponine Jondrette hailing the boy. Éponine was Marius’ neighbor, who had taken to attending their meetings of late. She had amber skin and dark hair, the latter of which was cropped fashionably short. In stark contrast to the others, Éponine was aloof, keeping mostly to herself except where Gavroche was concerned; for the boy, she held a special fondness.

Gavroche bounded over to her with enthusiasm, and as they stood side by side, Cosette reflected not for the first time that there was something uncanny in the shape of their faces and the smirk on their lips. She did not remark on it, nor did anyone else. Gavroche was an orphan, or so he said, and that was his own business. As for Éponine, she spoke not a word about her family.

With food on the table, everyone was reminded that it was past the lunch hour. Cosette’s stomach gurgled as she reached for a sandwich. She needed to eat, she knew, or else her father would have cause to be suspicious; after all, who would return from a café still hungry? Fortunately, the Musain served an excellent roast beef, and so it was no chore to partake. Cosette handed Marius a sandwich as well, settling her napkin across her lap.

Just then, Bossuet and Jacques returned from their mission, such as it was, and a slight frown passed over Marius’ face.

“What is it, dear?” Cosette inquired.

Marius shook his head. “It’s nothing, really,” he replied between mouthfuls. “Only... how does the Fidelius Charm work, again?”

Cosette smothered her amusement. It would be unkind to laugh, for in truth it was a terribly difficult spell to master. It was only because of her Auror’s training that she understood the theory of the thing, though she had never cast one. Enjolras himself had put the enchantment on the Café Musain.

“It is a way to hide something,” Cosette explained. “Something you do not want to be found. And it does not just have to be a thing - it can be a person as well, or a place.”

Marius nodded. “Enjolras wanted to prevent anyone from following us here.”

“Precisely. The caster takes their secret and hides it within the soul of a single other person. That person becomes the Secret Keeper.”

“Jehan,” said Marius.

Cosette beamed at him. “In our case, yes. Jehan is our Secret Keeper, and so nobody can find the room here unless Jehan himself chooses to say where it is.”

“Which I’m not going to do,” Jean Prouvaire interjected, leaning across the table towards them. “Voldemort himself couldn’t make me.” His voice shook a little around the word “Voldemort”, but he was radiant with pride at the responsibility entrusted to him.

“What is it,” Joly grumbled to himself, “with everyone wanting to say that damn name?”

Cosette continued, gesturing earnestly to Marius. “Nobody but the Secret Keeper is able to share the information - say if you or I tried to tell Fleur where we met, we wouldn’t be able to open our mouths. And any other wizard would walk up and down the Rue Cujas and never notice the back door.”

Enlightenment dawned in Marius’ eyes at that. “I see. So garbage collection couldn’t find Louison’s bins... because Jehan had not told them where to look in the alley?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why Jehan had to bring us here in person for the first meeting?”

“Yes,” Cosette laughed. “I really think you’ve got it this time. Although,” she added as an afterthought, “I suppose he could have written down the instructions, that works just as well.”

Behind them, there was a loud gasp of astonishment as Jean Marie finally gave into the demands of his admirers. Quicker than the eye could behold, his smallish figure grew and distended itself, until there was no longer a young man seated in a chair, but an enormous wolf looming over it, whose ears nearly brushed the ceiling. Bahorel clapped the wolf on the flank in delight.

“Isn’t it amazing, Feuilly?” he asked, waving the man over. “I told you! You missed it last week, but I told you -”

“You did,” Feuilly grinned. “I ought to have believed you. Jean,” he added with a salute, “you are going to send the Death Eaters running for the hills with that trick!”

The loup garou grinned in return, his pink tongue lolling like a dog.

“Oi, Feuilly,” said Bahorel, “do a sketch of this, why don’t you?”

Bahorel promptly stuck his head inside Jean’s massive jaws, like the lion tamer in a picture book Cosette had once possessed as a child. Laughing, Feuilly withdrew a pad of paper from his satchel and flipped it open, passing dozens of drawings for curious magical devices. A moment later, pen in hand, he began to draw in neat, sweeping strokes.

“Oh, excellent!” said Grantaire, leaping to his feet. “Except I don’t think you’ve quite captured the ugliness of Bahorel’s features, what about if you -”

“Hey!”

The modelling session dissolved into laughter as Bahorel tried in vain to yank the drawing away from Grantaire, who was making his own obscene additions to Feuilly’s sketch. Grantaire chortled, then lunged back against the wall as Jean Marie nosed his way into the middle of the action, snuffling Bahorel’s shirt with a giant, wet snout.

Cosette giggled into her hand before she caught herself. What focus the congregation had had was lost; those who were not egging on the chaos in the background were either chatting about their holiday plans or trying to stack Exploding Snap cards into towers. It was well that they were enjoying themselves, but Cosette could not help but think of Monsieur Weasley in the hospital, and her brow creased.

Enjolras alone had not moved, still standing at the head of the table. The letter was back in his hands, and he read it silently to himself. Rising, Cosette circumnavigated the scattered chairs until she stood across the corner from him.

“What do you make of it?” she asked.

Enjolras did not look up as he replied. “Voldemort is moving slowly. It benefits him for the Ministry to deny his return, which they can continue to do so long as he does not show himself openly. But as for where he is now...” He drew a breath. “Who can say?”

“You’re right,” Cosette murmured. “He is moving slowly. We must be cautious - whatever he does next, it will be clever.”

“Shall we agree the same time next week to meet?”

“Oh.” Cosette colored slightly. “It will be Christmas, and then New Year’s. I do not think I can.”

“Ah.” Enjolras’ voice was expressionless as he said, “Very well. We will plan to meet in the new year, then.”

“Would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?” The words were out of her mouth before she could consider them, and Enjolras appeared caught off guard.

“No, thank you,” he said after a moment. “I will not intrude on your family.”

“Papa won’t mind,” Cosette said hurriedly, “and Javert minds everything, but he can’t object, really. No-one should be alone on -”

“In any case,” Enjolras spoke over her protestations, “I have work to be done. There is a rally for werewolf equality coming up, and I need time to draft the pamphlets to be issued at the Préfecture.” He met Cosette’s eyes briefly. “Thank you, you are very kind, but you can see why I must decline.”

Cosette pursed her lips, and though she did not say anything further, she could not help but think of Enjolras sitting alone in his apartment and feel sorry on his behalf.

A hand on her sleeve made her turn. It was Marius, looking at her curiously.

“Are you ready to go, my love?” he asked. “It is getting to be late, your father will wonder where I am keeping you.”

Cosette wrapped her fingers around his. “Forgive me,” she said. “I lost track of time. Will you walk me home?”

Marius flushed as he smiled. “I’d be delighted to, Mademoiselle.”

Outside, large white flakes powdered Cosette’s hair and shoulders, and she drew her robes more tightly around herself against the cold. Marius linked his arm through hers, and together they began the trek back to the Rue Plumet.

Slowly, the falling snow erased their footprints from the alleyway, and with them, any trace of the hidden door.

Chapter Text

December 31st, 1995
Cosette

New Year’s Eve arrived in Paris with some fanfare. The Rue Plumet was no exception, and Cosette invited Marius to No. 55 so as to share in the festivities. Toussaint prepared a lavish dinner for La Saint-Sylvestre, which had included not only a roast turkey, but also oysters and smoked salmon. By the time the meal drew to a close, Cosette’s sweater felt a bit tight around the middle, and Marius’ cheeks were turning red with the champagne.

“I thought we might have some games,” said Cosette’s father, looking around the table expectantly.

The girl sat up at once, grinning. “That’s a wonderful idea, Papa!” she exclaimed.

Getting to his feet, the man went on, “I bought some wizard crackers to try - the box should be around here somewhere.”

He passed from the dining room into the kitchen; when a few minutes had gone by and he had not yet returned, Cosette noticed her uncle looking a bit shifty in his chair. And sure enough, after another moment, they all heard her father call out, “Has anyone seen the package from Cribbages?”

Javert wore an expression that could only be described as “guilty”.

“Hmm?” he said. “Oh, I believe I saw it stuck beneath the stairs...”

Entering with a large wooden box tucked under his arm, Valjean shook his head in bemusement. “Haven’t a clue how it ended up over there.”

Javert made no answer, suddenly very interested in Toussaint’s choice of place settings.

As her father set the package down on the table, Cosette beheld letters painted in blue across the side which read, Cribbages’ Wizard Crackers, and then the lid popped off to reveal a number of colorful party favors resting on a bed of straw.

“We used to have these at home every Christmas,” said Marius, taking Cosette’s hand in his. “There was one year that Grandfather -” Then he paused, his expression darkening for a moment. “But never mind that. Anyway, they are quite delightful.”

Cosette’s father withdrew a cracker wrapped in blue foil and tossed it across the table. “Perhaps you will start us off, then.”

Marius took hold of one end, offering Cosette the other. “Shall we?”

Cosette tugged; immediately, there was a bang like a cannon blast and the dining room disappeared in a pall of bluish smoke. When it had cleared somewhat, there remained on the table a Western cowboy hat and a sack of dungbombs. A click from the corner told everyone that Toussaint had captured the moment on her boxy camera.

Marius gestured at Cosette and swept the hat onto his head. In terrible imitation of country twang, he said, “One for the little lady next.”

Scarcely able to see through her laughter, Cosette took a cracker from the box and held it out to her fiancé; hers exploded to reveal a pink beret and a dozen white mice. The mice promptly scurried out of the dining room as fast as their tiny feet would carry them, and Cosette watched them go with concern.

“I do hope they stay out of Chouette’s way,” she said. “The owl might eat them!”

“Better that than leaving them to run around for all and sundry to trip over,” Javert muttered. “Live mice, I ask you - what sort of gift is that?”

“Your turn,” Valjean interrupted cheerfully, extending a gold-striped favor towards him. Javert accepted it with more dread on his face than such a little thing probably deserved, though when the ensuing cloud of smoke and silver stars dissipated, Cosette was forced to concede that perhaps her uncle’s apprehension was not entirely misplaced; the cracker had left him with a wizard chess set, and also a flowery bonnet.

“Excellent,” Javert said, the sarcasm positively dripping from his voice. “Another game for you beat me at mercilessly.”

Her father huffed lightly in response. “You let me win, as you very well know. Put the hat on, and then I’ll pull one.”

Javert looked at Valjean in disbelief. “I am not wearing that,” he said.

“Everyone else is wearing theirs.”

“Yes,” her uncle said testily, “but no-one else got a bonnet.”

Though her father made no reply as he reached for his own cracker, his face was so put out that after another moment, Javert muttered something unprintable and shoved the bonnet onto his head.

“Toussaint,” he said, “I swear, if you take pictures of this, I will never speak to you again.”

Javert’s threat was interrupted by another bang. The fumes left Valjean with an admiral’s cap, and a wooden flute which when held would only play a shrill rendition of Good King Wenceslas.

“Madame?” he asked next, offering a favor to Toussaint. The woman giggled, a half-empty champagne flute held in her other hand as she accepted it.

The resulting explosion provided the woman with a top hat, which she promptly donned, and a deck of enchanted cards.

“Please,” said Javert, holding out his bonnet, “I beg you, Madame, to trade.”

Toussaint twirled the black hat between her fingers and then returned it to her head.

“I think not, Monsieur,” she said gaily. “It makes me look rather d-dashing.”

Javert sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. The look he gave Cosette’s father as he sat in the bonnet conveyed precisely how unamused he was by the whole affair.

“What time is it, Papa?” Cosette asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Her father checked his pocket watch.

“Half-past eight,” he said. “A few hours to go yet before midnight.”

Standing, Cosette took Marius by the elbow. “Let us make a fire in the salon,” she said. “We can roast chestnuts in the meantime.”

Cosette

Retiring to the salon proved to be a fine idea. Cosette sat curled up like a cat on the settee, her knees drawn to her chest. Marius was beside her, stroking her hair absently as she leaned against his shoulder. The fire had burned splendidly for some time, but now was reduced to coals, the embers casting a reddish glow over the room. In the low light, Cosette grew sleepy. It was well that it was nearing midnight; she did not think her eyes would stay open much longer.

In the corner, her father stood talking with Javert, their voices too low to overhear. They had been as such for a while, ever since the popping of chestnuts ceased to be a source of amusement. Vaguely, she wondered what they were talking about; there was much they did not share with her, and though she trusted that they had their reasons, it still chafed that they were so guarded with their respective lives. If Cosette had hoped that earning her place as an Auror Third Class would cause her uncle to open up any, she was disappointed. Her coworkers were equally tight-lipped; whether that was because they knew as little as she did, or because Javert had ordered their silence, was harder to say.

A couple of words drifted over which caught Cosette’s attention. Straining her ears, she did her utmost to listen over the crackle of the fire.

“...of the Phoenix,” Javert said quietly. “...received an owl from Kingsley and...”

She knew that name, Cosette was certain of it. Feuilly had exchanged correspondence with a M. Kingsley; he was an Auror in the Ministry of Magic, and also a member of the Order. Like her, Kingsley was in a difficult position; perhaps his was even more so, for his government was denying Voldemort’s return outright. Would he have told Javert the truth if they were acquaintances, or kept quiet so as to not jeopardize his career? Cosette closed her eyes, shifting against Marius’ side in her efforts to eavesdrop.

“...nothing but vigilante justice, of course,” Javert went on, his voice growing louder in his irritation. “...Eaters are a matter for the police...”

Cosette’s father made a placating gesture, glancing nervously toward where the pair sat on the settee. His response was inaudible, and Cosette bit her lip in frustration. If only she were a little closer.

Then Marius sat up excitedly, waving at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“It is midnight!” he declared. “Happy New Year, everyone!”

At once, Cosette forgot her vexation. “So it is - Happy New Year!” she said back, embracing him ardently.

Her father coughed. “Ah, Javert, perhaps we should give the young people a moment to themselves.”

Rolling his eyes, her uncle replied, “If you think that wise.”

As the parents disappeared into the next room, Marius leaned forward and pecked Cosette on the lips, just the once.

“What a wonder, to spend another year with you,” he said.

Cosette’s cheeks warmed, and she looked down at the sparkle of the engagement ring on her hand. “It is like a dream,” she murmured. “I have all I could ever want, and more besides.” Turning to Marius, her mouth puckering pensively, she asked, “Do you ever feel like one day you’re going to just... wake up?”

Marius kissed her again, on the forehead. “It is late, you have been thinking too much. Or reading too much of Jehan’s poetry.”

She laughed. “Oh, but his verse is lovely,” she replied.

Her father reappeared in the doorway, looking a little flushed himself and smiling. Another glass of champagne was in his hand, and he raised it as he beckoned to the young people. “Javert is pouring more, if you would like to make a toast.”

“Certainly, Monsieur,” said Marius, rising. He offered Cosette his arm, and added, “Unless Mademoiselle is too tired for drinks?”

Cosette smiled as she joined him. “Of course not. Let us toast, and then I can bring your blankets out to the salon.”

They followed her father back to the dining room, and it was some time yet before the lights in No. 55 were finally extinguished for the night.

January 3rd, 1996
Javert

Javert’s chair creaked underneath him as he shifted his weight, reaching for the next parchment in the stack upon his desk. Despite his usual fastidiousness, he had spent enough hours completing paperwork that a few splotches of ink were staining his fingertips; if there was one thing Javert minded about his promotion to Secrétaire, it was the sheer volume of documentation it required. He completed it without complaint, for he knew it was vital to the operation of the Préfecture, but he much preferred to work in the field. That was now more Inspecteur Coste’s job description than it was his, though the heightened security of late meant he was called upon to oversee assignments with greater frequency. It pleased him to get out of the office, though Javert could hardly feel thankful for the cause; international terrorism was no small matter.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Javert called, looking up.

The door to his office swung inwards and he beheld Satki, Auror First Class, standing in the corridor outside. The Auror was a tall woman with skin like walnut wood, and she wore her hair pulled back in a thick braid.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire,” she greeted him with a wry smile. “I just saw Cosette downstairs. She said to remind you to take your lunch hour today.”

“Satki,” said Javert, standing. “Do come in.”

Allowing the door to shut behind her, Satki approached the desk and asked, “How is Jean?”

“Well,” Javert replied. “He is out visiting with Thérèse today.” Retaking his seat, he went on, “You have completed your report, then?”

“Yes.” The woman withdrew a file from under her arm and laid it out on the desktop. “I have reviewed the contents with Coste, and he agreed there are a few... I shall call them anomalies. I told him I would speak with you about it personally.”

Javert flipped open the file folder and thumbed through its contents, his brow furrowing.

“Tell me about your assignment again, from the top.”

Standing at attention, Satki began, “As you will recall, I was tasked with investigating a recent uprising in one of the giant colonies. My instructions were not to intervene, only to observe and gather information.”

Javert nodded attentively, turning to the next page. The giants had their own system of self-governance, and it was generally preferred that the tribes manage themselves without wizard interference. Even so, it was important to monitor changes in leadership, as new Gurgs had a tendency toward violence in order to prove their worth. In-fighting between giants was permissible; endangering human lives was not.

“I led my team on a covert mission to Minsk. There we met with a small envoy of Belarusian Aurors, and together we traveled north-east into the mountains.” Satki paused to point to a photograph, in which an enormous, ugly creature snored against a mountainside. “That is our most recent image of Karkus, the old Gurg. He was beheaded by the new leader, Golgomath.”

“Charming,” said Javert dryly, “but not unusual.”

“No,” agreed Satki, “and at first I thought that was all there was to the matter. However...”

Javert pursed his lips. “Come on, let’s hear it, then. I am surprised - you are not usually one to mince words.”

“It is just,” Satki said, “that there is no evidence of anything wrong, per se, merely some things that do not quite add up. Part of me thinks it is nothing to be troubled over, and yet...”

“And yet you thought to come to my office to seek my opinion anyway.” Javert regarded her frankly. “Satki, you are an excellent officer, and your instincts have been good before. Tell me about these anomalies, and we shall see if we need concern ourselves further.”

“Flip to page ten,” said Satki.

Complying, Javert stared a moment at the image taped to the parchment before he asked, “Well, what is so odd about giants holding a torch?”

The Auror shook her head. “It is not a torch,” she replied. “Or at least, not a usual one. It is a single branch enchanted with Gubraithian Fire.”

Javert leaned back in his chair. “Gubraithian Fire? Are you certain?”

“We overheard Golgomath boasting about it,” Satki replied. “And it was not just talk - he stuck it in a pot of water to prove his point.”

That certainly constituted an anomaly in Javert’s view. Everlasting Fire was not easy to conjure; the advanced spellwork was beyond the abilities of most wizards, and was certainly no skill a giant had ever possessed.

“Very well,” he said, crossing his arms. “You have my attention. What else?”

“Golgomath was wearing a very fine battle helmet - I would guess it was goblin-made, or a clever forgery.”

“It could have been stolen,” Javert pointed out. “Certainly, the goblins would argue as much.”

“Maybe so,” the Auror countered, “but you have to admit it is a strange combination. Two items of significant value, one which only a wizard could have created, and a giant beheaded over the prizes? That to me says they were recently acquired, and Golgomath grew jealous.”

“You think someone is in contact with them. A wizard.” Javert got to his feet and began to pace.

“I think...” Satki inhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. Wizards have not treated with giants since...”

Javert’s steady stride broke its rhythm. It was possible, though not common, to win the favor of a Gurg by offering up gifts of sufficient worth. Such favor could come with many advantages: safe passage through the giants’ territory, for one, or loyalty in a fight, for another. The last time anyone had openly treated with giants, the Death Eaters recruited them on behalf of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Javert recalled the image broadcast in papers across Europe of the Dark Mark, summoned like some twisted constellation in the sky above the World Cup, and the back of his neck prickled.

“Here is what probably happened,” he said. “Probably, some hapless wizard was passing through on his way to Minsk and was robbed, then eaten. Probably, the giant Golgomath was then envious of the treasures claimed by the Gurg, and deposed him.” Javert turned and looked Satki in the eye. “That is my official stance on the matter.”

The Auror raised an eyebrow. “And your unofficial stance?”

Javert was silent for a long moment. “Unofficially...” he said. “Unofficially, I agree that you are right to flag this as strange. I do not think there is enough there to be cause for alarm, not yet, but I suggest we watch the situation. Send an owl to Belarus. Advise them to reconnaissance the area surrounding the colony more thoroughly, and to post a watch. If nothing comes of it after a month, then it likely is just an anomaly. But if something does...” He trailed off, disquieted by the direction his thoughts had led him.

“If anything happens, we will hear of it,” Satki concluded, nodding. “I will borrow an owl.”

Javert turned and passed the report back to her. “I’ll inform Chabouillet. Otherwise, I see no reason to mention this to anyone else. It will only create consternation without cause.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Satki dipped her head and made to go. Then she paused, her hand resting on the doorknob. “For what it’s worth, Javert, I hope it really is only an anomaly.”

The Secrétaire snorted. “You and I, both,” he said.

Satki took her leave, and in her absence, Javert tried to return himself to the documents requiring his signature. It was a fruitless attempt. Over and over, he ran the facts of the case around in his head. Satki was correct to say things did not add up, but to what end would anyone bribe a giant with such priceless gifts?

Unbidden, the memory returned to him again. It was over a year since the news from England had stirred the continent into a frenzy, but there could be no doubt that the aftershocks were still affecting government policy. The summer of ‘94 had seen the Quidditch World Cup held in Dartmoor; as the single greatest sporting event in the wizarding world, it had attracted spectators from around the globe. What started as a fast-paced match between Ireland and Bulgaria turned suddenly grim when masked Death Eaters marched through the campgrounds, setting tents ablaze and terrorizing the Muggle groundskeeper. Most damningly of all was the appearance of the Dark Mark in the sky, a figment in the shape of a skull with a snake in its mouth, the personal emblem of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

It was an emblem Javert was well-acquainted with. The Death Eaters had a custom of conjuring it above the homes of their victims, a final punctuation on their acts of terror to strike fear through the heart of entire neighborhoods. Moreover, it was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s pleasure to magically brand the same image on the forearm of his followers, a sort of identification which was as useful to the Aurors as to other Death Eaters. And finally, in what was to be the most memorable of incidents, Javert had once discovered that very sigil scrawled in blood across the wall of his old apartment, his landlady dead in the next room.

When photographs from the Cup first appeared in Le Oracle Parisien, Javert was ripped forcibly back to that moment, the metallic stench permeating the air and his meager belongings in shambles. How foolish it had been to think the Death Eaters were all caught, or were too chagrined by the threat of capture to come out of hiding. When Valjean saw the photos, his face had turned white as a sheet, and he did not speak a word the rest of the day.

It was likely only the memory of the War which had him so on edge. Satki’s report was undoubtedly strange, but strange did not equate to Dark. He was, however, gratified to know that Belarus could keep an eye on the giant colony. Their follow-up would surely lay his doubts to rest.

There was no further use in trying to concentrate on his paperwork, not when he was in such a state. Standing, Javert stoppered his inkwell and headed decisively for the door. Chabouillet would set him back on track.

The Préfet was in his office; when Javert knocked, he heard a, “Come in,” and found Chabouillet standing in front of his bookcases, looking contemplatively at a volume in his hands.

“Monsieur,” the Secrétaire said with a bow.

“Ah, good afternoon, Javert.” The man spoke with a distracted inflection that caught Javert’s attention immediately.

“If this is a bad time -”

“No, no.” Chabouillet looked up at that and smiled, though to Javert it seemed a little strained. “I assure you, your arrival is very timely. What can I do for you?” The Préfet returned to his desk as he spoke, whereupon he set down the publication as if reluctant to let go of it.

Javert blinked. “I - that is, Monsieur, Satki delivered her report to me.”

“Oh?” Chabouillet seemed to focus at that, and Javert wondered if perhaps the Préfet needed a diversion as much as he did. “I trust everything was in order?”

Inclining his head, Javert replied, “Her report was thorough as always, and her findings were as to be expected. There was a small oddity, however, that I believed better to be monitored. I have asked her to contact Belarus, so that their Aurors might run additional reconnaissance.”

Chabouillet nodded. “I see. Nothing too troubling, I hope?”

In the reassuring presence of the Préfet, it was harder to remember his own doubts without it feeling like an overreaction. “I do not believe so, Monsieur. Belarus should have confirmation for us within the month.”

“Excellent.” Chabouillet’s eyes flickered once more to the book, and Javert could not dismiss the feeling he was intruding.

“If there is nothing else, I will be on my way,” he said. “I fear I have interrupted your reading.”

The Préfet startled a little at that, and then laughed. “Is it really so obvious? Truly Javert, you have interrupted nothing. You have merely caught me in a moment of weakness.”

The Secrétaire’s eyebrows drew together. “I seriously doubt that, Monsieur, if you will forgive my contradicting you. May I ask what is the matter?”

Waving his hand at the book, Chabouillet replied, “I was searching for an obscure bit of case law to assist Merle in an investigation. When I opened it... Well, see for yourself.”

Still frowning, Javert drew closer to the volume in question and opened the cover. Immediately, his breath caught in his chest. Tucked alongside the vellum endpaper was a scrap of parchment covered in carefully transcribed notes; the words were themselves dry, un-absorbing things, detailing the correct usage of a particular bit of legalese, but the penmanship was as unmistakable and haunting as a ghost.

Chabouillet had observed the change in Javert’s expression. “You see, then, why I was taken by surprise. Really I should not have been - this was once his personal library, after all.”

Javert nodded without speaking. What he had wanted was to set his mind at ease; what he had received instead was the painful reminder of treachery from one who ought to have been a pillar of virtue. It did not matter that he had been imprisoned for over a decade, Henri Gisquet still cast a long shadow over the Palais de Justice.

Deliberately, Javert snapped the cover of the book shut.

“Perhaps you should have one of your clerks sort through the bookshelves,” he suggested. “There is no reason to keep such drivel lying around.”

Where they rested on the desk, Chabouillet’s fingers twitched. “Ah. Perhaps, Javert, perhaps.” The Préfet cleared his throat. “While I have you here, you may debrief me on your progress with the Patron-Minette.”

It was a transparent change of subject, one which Javert was relieved to embrace. He was not going to dwell again on how a respectable superior had ordered his own execution at the hands of the Death Eaters. He had done enough of that for a lifetime.

“They remain elusive, Monsieur,” Javert replied. “As their last break-in occurred over the holiday, there were few Aurors on duty to collect evidence. Chevallier did his best, but the trail has gone cold again.”

“Damn.” Chabouillet shook his head. “They are good, I have to give them that. What did Chevallier manage to learn?”

“It was the same M-O as before.” Javert pursed his lips. “No doors or windows visibly broken, the protective enchantments bypassed, and a decent sum of gold stolen. No witnesses either - the Abels were out of town.”

Chabouillet drummed his fingers thoughtfully. “Analyze the demographic they are targeting and post a watch on any houses that seem a likely mark.”

The Secrétaire nodded. “I’ll see to it, Monsieur. With Satki’s assignment complete, I can put her team with Coste’s. To watch every bourgeois district in Paris will require a substantial force.”

“Do what you need to do - pull more Aurors off their teams if you have to. I want these people arrested, Javert, and soon.”

“Without question.”

As they discussed means and methods, Javert felt the knot in his chest gradually begin to loosen. It was a day like any other, and it was only his own paranoia that had him so riled up. By the time he left the office, he felt almost himself again, and was able to at last quiet that voice in his head which softly insisted that something, somewhere was not right.

Chapter Text

January 13th, 1996
Cosette

The Café Musain was totally silent.

Cosette kept her fingers pressed to her mouth, a nauseous feeling making itself at home in her stomach. Around the room, people stared at one another wide-eyed and scared; Joly’s face was blank and distant, while across the table, Combeferre sat with his head in his hands. No-one wanted to look at the newspaper lying before them, or at the headline printed in thick black letters across the front page.

Twenty minutes prior, the meeting of the Amis de l’ABC had been in full swing when Courfeyrac came dashing through the door, not even pausing to wipe the slush from his boots as he burst upon the scene. Enjolras rose at once from his chair, a question starting in his throat, but he had not had time to ask it before Courfeyrac withdrew a copy of Le Oracle from under his coat and threw it down on the tabletop. Voices rose in a jumbled clamor; Cosette reached for the paper, but Prouvaire got to it before she could. He read the title, and it was his gasp that drew the attention of the others. Then he turned the page around for all to see, and the room went quiet.

The paper was an extra, the information having reached France not until after the Oracle was already run off the press that morning. Still, for all that the two pages lacked in length, the weight they carried was immense.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN, read the headline.

Directly underneath it was a subheading, Ministry Fears Black is ‘Rallying Point’ for Old Death Eaters.

Below that, ten black and white photographs depicted the escaped prisoners, a motley collection of the most feared Dark witches and wizards in Europe. Cosette recognized some of the names from dusty files in the archives of the Préfecture; each of them was attached to a vicious, bloody history, and each was a loyal supporter of Lord Voldemort. It seemed that in the end, high-security cells had not been enough to contain their malice. The girl shivered with foreboding; a few of the names were French.

“It does not follow,” Feuilly said eventually, breaking the silence. “According to Dumbledore, Sirius Black is an innocent man, and working for the Order. He would never have helped put these people back on the street.”

“They are making him a scapegoat, obviously,” Bahorel retorted, pounding his fist on the table. “That British Minister, Fudge, is an idiot - he knows Voldemort is back, but it is easier to blame Black than to admit to his own incompetence!”

“He’s right,” said Bossuet. “Look at the transcript on the next page - lots of bluster, and very little in the way of fact. Black had nothing to do with this.”

At the head of the table, Enjolras took a deep breath. “There is only one who could have orchestrated such an uprising - Voldemort himself.”

At his words, a collective shudder went around the room. It was one thing to speak of darkness and Death Eaters when they were merely a distant possibility; it was quite another to be faced with them.

Under the table, Cosette reached out and squeezed Marius’ fingers in tacit reassurance. Even as she did so, her eyes swept the table. Bahorel looked ready to fight the first Death Eater he came upon, with his fists if necessary. Prouvaire appeared drawn, but his mouth was set in a determined line, and he kept a tight grip on his chestnut wand. Beside him was Gavroche, who seemed almost eager. The boy had clambered onto a chair, leaning over the tabletop to stare at the photographs. Cosette gave a half-smile; her friends would not give up, not when there were others in danger.

Enjolras held out a hand for the newspaper, and Combeferre slid it to him wordlessly. Standing, the young man moved over to the wall, the entire room fixed upon him. With a flick of his wand, the newspaper floated up and adhered itself to the plaster; ten surly portraits glowered down at the assembly, the photos’ subjects spitting or leering as they felt so inclined.

“Look well,” said Enjolras, waving a hand at the photos. “That is the face of the enemy. And unlike Voldemort, these have no reason to hide. They will not hesitate to carry out his agenda, now that they are free. As of today, our purpose is renewed. We must ready ourselves to fight this evil.” Their leader looked around at the somber faces surrounding him. “It will behoove everyone to be cautious - courage is no substitute for vigilance.”

Combeferre planted his hands on the tabletop and stood from his chair, looking at the group gravely. “Our first recourse must be to gather information. Feuilly, follow up with Kingsley - find out what the Ministry knows about this. Bahorel, you contact the rest of the Order. Courfeyrac, Marius, put your Pureblood names to good use and watch for signs of Death Eater allegiance among the elite.”

“I will not,” Courfeyrac protested hotly. “I would eat my hat before I allow anyone to ‘de Courfeyrac’ me.”

Perhaps it was only a trick of the light, but Cosette could have sworn that Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Then do not let them. But the two of you will not look out of place in the Marais, and someone must keep an eye on the goings-on there.” He continued before Courfeyrac could voice another objection.

“Cosette,” he said, “as an Auror, you are positioned the closest to what our government knows, and they have resources we could not hope to access. Learn whatever you can and report back.”

Cosette nodded, though privately she wondered how much it would help. The Aurors did not have all the information, and in that light, even Javert would struggle to draw conclusions which were accurate.

“Joly and I will keep our eyes open for suspicious injuries or deaths. Jehan, you and Bossuet are charismatic young men - ingratiate yourselves into bars, cafés, wherever you can, and sift through the rumors for those that might contain a nugget of truth.”

“And I?” asked Gavroche, drawing himself to attention.

Enjolras turned and addressed the youth. “Gavroche, you will go into the street. You are small, and people will underestimate you. Listen to the vagrants and the displaced - they may well know more than the rest.”

Gavroche nodded firmly. “Very well,” he said, “but I should like Grantaire to go with me.”

Grantaire looked up from where he sat talking to himself, evidently surprised to be included. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you going to go?”

Shifting in his seat, Grantaire looked from Enjolras to Gavroche, who was watching hopefully; Cosette could see the circles under the man’s eyes, and she wondered when last Grantaire had slept.

“Certainly,” the man answered at last. “Audere est facere - I shall dare, and I shall do.”

“Good,” said Enjolras. “Everyone, keep track of one another. There is safety in numbers. Do not be reckless - this is not the time.”

The room broke out in discussion as each made ready to attend to their task; Gavroche skipped over to where Grantaire was sitting, and the older man gave him a crooked smile. All the while, the portraits in the paper presided silently over the meeting, a chilling reminder of what was at stake. Though they were only pictures, Cosette fancied she could feel the weight of their stare. It was only a matter of time, now, until they came face to face.

Javert

The door to No. 55 flew open with a bang as Javert all but ran into the house. He was halfway to the salon before the leaf could swing shut behind him, his wand drawn and clutched in a hand that trembled.

Valjean was standing beside the fireplace as Javert entered, holding a copy of Le Oracle. He was already looking up, doubtless having heard the door slam, and whatever he saw in Javert’s face caused him to take a step backwards in alarm.

“Javert, are you alright?” His words were apprehensive, and Javert could hardly blame him; he supposed he looked a state, his queue disheveled and his robes askew.

“Jean,” he said, panting. “You’re here, you’re safe.”

For a moment, Valjean appeared nonplussed. “Yes, of course. Javert...”

The Auror stuffed his wand away and crossed the salon, relief making him light-headed. When he reached Valjean, Javert pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He was mildly surprised to find himself still shaking.

“I got away as soon as I could,” he said, his voice coming out muffled. “The entire Préfecture is in an uproar. I had to be there, but all I could think was...”

Valjean kneaded careful circles into his back, pressing the tension from his shoulders. “Javert, you’re not making sense,” his partner said quietly.

Without lifting his head, Javert gestured at the newspaper now in a heap on the floor. “Didn’t you - did you see -?”

“Yes,” Valjean answered, still speaking like Javert was a spooked deer he wanted to calm. “I saw, and it is an awful turn of events, but the danger is not imminent. This place is quiet and out of the way, that is why we chose it. Few enough people know where we live, and anyway, Britain’s Prime Minister says they are being led by Sirius Black. Surely their attention will be turned elsewhere.”

The Auror drew a deep breath, willing his tremors to cease. “But Gisquet,” he said. “His name was on the list, his picture was -” Javert cut himself off before he could think too long on the photograph which had landed on his desk earlier that afternoon. Azkaban had altered Gisquet, his proud, highborn features sunken and gaunt, but the fire in his eyes had not died, only turned wilder.

“He won’t have forgotten what I did,” Javert finished, finally raising his head. “And he won’t have forgotten you, either. The entire time I was at the office, all I could think was, what if I got back and he had found you? What if I got back and you were...”

He took another breath, determined to maintain what was left of his composure. “And then there is Bellatrix - if she wasn’t mad before going to Azkaban, she certainly is now.”

Valjean’s arms tightened fractionally around him. “It has been very quiet here,” he said. “But if it is any consolation, I renewed the wards around the property as soon as I saw the news.”

Nodding, Javert’s eyes fluttered closed. Of course Valjean had thought to strengthen the enchantments on their home. The lessons of caution were not ones quickly unlearned.

“Where is Cosette?” Javert asked. “We need to have a family meeting, now.”

His partner frowned. “She is on a date,” he replied. “She and Marius went to lunch again.”

“A date?” Javert’s eyes flew open incredulously. “Azkaban has just had its largest breach of security since its inception and you let her go out on a date?!”

Valjean raised his arms helplessly. “They left together just before noon - I only heard what happened an hour ago.”

Javert opened his mouth to reply when there was a knock at the front door; he whipped around, his hornbeam wand returned to his hand before he was even conscious of reaching for it.

“I’ll answer that,” he said as Valjean took a step in the direction of the hall. “You stay here.”

The brass knob felt cold in his hand as Javert turned it. For the second time that afternoon, he threw the door open wide, heedless of how it crunched against the plaster. In the same motion, he leveled his wand at the visitor, who proved to be no more threatening than one very startled Marius Pontmercy. The boy was waiting on the stoop with Cosette, and neither one of them looked nearly concerned enough about their loitering in such an exposed position.

Javert reached out and grabbed Cosette by the arm, dragging her bodily into the foyer.

“I suggest you go home,” he said to Marius curtly. “It is not safe. If you possess any brains at all, you will ward your apartment and stay there.”

So saying, he slammed the door in the young man’s face. The Auror then strode back toward the salon, tugging on his whiskers in agitation.

“Uncle,” Cosette said behind him. “Javert. What is the matter?”

Javert did not reply, choosing instead to stop in the middle of the room between the settee and the bergére chairs. Valjean had taken a seat, and was watching him with a slightly wary expression. In some distant corner of his mind, the Auror was aware that he was making a scene, but he was too far gone to care. Cosette appeared in the doorway, hovering there uncertainly.

“I want you both to listen to me,” Javert said. “From now on, should anyone wish to enter this house, you must confirm that they are who they say they are first, is that clear? No matter who it is, you must make certain.”

“How?” It was Valjean who spoke, leaning on his knees as he sat forward.

“Cosette knows.” Waving the girl closer, Javert added, “Magic can be deceived, but even the cleverest wizards are not omniscient.”

“You should ask the newcomer a question only they could answer correctly,” Cosette explained. “Except, I do not understand why - Uncle, Papa, what is happening?”

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Late last night, ten Death Eaters escaped Azkaban Prison.”

Cosette’s eyebrows drew together in an expression uncannily similar to one her uncle often wore. “I saw. But I still don’t understand.”

“You saw?” Javert repeated. “You saw, and you didn’t come straight home?”

Pausing at the end of the settee, Cosette stared at him. “Come home? Uncle, the Death Eaters are not in Paris. And if they were, well, I am an Auror - I would have a responsibility to do something about it, not hide in my room like a child!”

Javert’s train of thought ground to a halt at that, and he blanched as he imagined Cosette dueling with Bellatrix.

“No,” he croaked. Before anyone could comment on his sudden pallor, Javert quickly went on, “That is, you are assigned to the Patron-Minette case - arresting the gang is the Préfet’s current priority. As you say, Death Eaters have not been spotted in Paris, but even so, I would like us to each take every precaution from now on.”

Valjean nodded carefully, as though he were afraid Javert was about to go off again. Cosette, on the other hand, just looked angry.

“You shouldn’t speak to Marius that way, he was only walking me home.”

Javert’s mouth thinned. “He should have taken you home the minute you heard what happened. What sort of fiancé is he to let you stay out for hours when it isn’t safe?”

“The sort who isn’t a chauvinist, for starters,” Cosette retorted. “I do not see what the problem is, Uncle - one minute you admit the danger is not in Paris, the next you talk as though you expect to be attacked at any minute. Which is it? If you have cause to think these people might come after us, I deserve to know why.”

At that moment, Valjean stood, eager to steer the brewing argument out of dangerous waters.

“Cosette,” he said. “I am sure Javert did not mean to insult Marius. He is simply concerned for your safety, as am I. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions.”

Cosette looked between the pair of them. “Every other Auror in the Palais de Justice is going to be talking about the Death Eaters tomorrow, not the Patron-Minette. Javert knows more than he is saying, and I think so do you, Papa. It makes nobody safer to keep me in the dark.”

With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the hallway. A moment later, and the sound reached them of her footfalls climbing the stairs. Valjean stared after her, mouth agape.

“I will talk to her,” he murmured. “She is just confused, and probably frightened.” Turning, he added, “I expect you to talk to her, too - she deserves an apology for your shortness with Marius, at the very least.”

Javert said nothing as Valjean followed after his daughter, but the moment he was alone, he again took his wand from his pocket and ran a hand down its length.

The long hornbeam instrument was a peculiar one for a number of reasons; first, the tree species, which was a stubborn variety known to bond only with those who had very particular aspirations in life; second, the dimensions, for Javert was a tall man, and his wand extended from the inside of his elbow all the way to the tip of his middle finger; and third, the greenish scar that started at the handle and ran down the shaft of the otherwise flawless bone-colored wood. It was that scar, comprised of living tissue, which made his wand especially unusual, and on that day of all days, he dedicated a moment to tracing his finger along the vein-like pattern.

It was not a pattern anybody commented on. On the rare occasion that someone did, Javert fixed them with his most disapproving glare, and the unfortunate inquirer was usually quick to make their excuses and go. There were a number of things in the Secrétaire’s life that he did not talk about; his wand, and how it had come to be in that state, was just one of those things.

Alone in the salon, Javert glowered at the thin rod in his hand. There was a spell he needed desperately to work, but the last time he had had occasion to use it, it had acted as the falling stones before an avalanche. He licked his lips, even as his fingers tightened their grip around the handle.

Raising the wand, Javert whispered, “Expecto patronum.”

A thin white mist issued from the tip, but nothing more substantial than that. Javert swore; of all the spells in an Auror’s arsenal, that was the only one he could not seem to perform. It was a difficult magic, yes, but a necessary one in his field.

Steadying himself, Javert cast his thoughts around for a memory. Memories were the key to producing a corporeal Patronus; under the right conditions, one powerful enough would cause the spell to take on the form of an animal, a sort of spirit protector, which was capable of delivering messages or staving off dementors, among other things. There was much that was Dark that had cause to fear a Patronus.

The memory which came to mind brought a small smile to his mouth. It was of New Year’s Eve; Cosette and Marius were talking on the settee when Valjean pulled him into the next room. The clock was still striking midnight as Valjean kissed him, and Javert sighed gratefully against the man’s white curls. It did not matter how much time passed, it always seemed impossible that he could have so much.

Concentrating, Javert said again, “Expecto patronum.”

The resulting mist shone more brilliantly white, but it was no more solid than his first attempt.

“Damn!”

His grip on the memory faded, and in its place, Javert felt the familiar upwelling of panic. The only information he had about the breakout was that there was no information; law enforcement was internationally baffled. And yet, it seemed improbable that so many high-security prisoners could have escaped unaided. They would have required assistance, perhaps even from the inside. Was it possible to bribe a dementor? Javert had never thought of the creatures as possessing a sentience that could be bargained with, but perhaps that notion was mistaken. If it was, if the Death Eaters had somehow persuaded the dementors to their cause...

Javert swallowed hard. “Expecto patronum,” he growled. “Expecto patronum. Expecto -”

The wispy magic was pathetically incomplete. Resisting the impulse to throw his wand across the room, Javert shoved it back into his pocket instead. He turned, raking his fingers through his hair, only to find Valjean standing in the door frame, watching him. His partner’s face was tight with concern, and Javert was beset by guilt and an immediate embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking as measuredly as he could. “I don’t know what’s come over me today.”

“I don’t expect you to apologize,” Valjean replied. He moved forward, hand outstretched to take Javert’s in his. “There has been a lot of disturbing news today - I only wish I knew how to help.”

Javert pulled Valjean closer, letting himself lean on the man’s warm, solid frame. “You can help by staying out of harm’s way,” he muttered. “If anything happened to you, I can’t imagine what I’d... And that spell is doing nothing for me,” he added, disgusted. “How am I supposed to protect you like that?”

Valjean squeezed his hand, the strength of his grip an unsubtle reminder that there was more to his partner than met the eye. “I can look after myself,” he said. “Though I seem to recall your Patronus Charm got us out of a bad situation once before. An incorporeal Patronus still has its uses.”

Shaking his head, Javert said, “I won’t have you thinking I’m not happy. I am happy - here with you, I am the happiest man I’ve ever been in my life. But no matter what memory I pick, I can’t seem to make it work.”

“You’ve got a mental block around it, that’s all.” Valjean ran his thumb over Javert’s knuckles. “You do not expect it to work, so it doesn’t. You will get it, one of these days.”

Javert sighed. “How upset is Cosette?” he asked.

“She’ll come around,” Valjean replied. “Truth be told, I think she is most bothered that you won’t tell her what we know.”

Javert let out a bark of laughter at that. “Yes, because it makes for such pleasant telling. She would be horrified, and then once she got over it, there would be a million other questions you’d rather I didn’t answer. I won’t lie to her, Jean, and that is exactly what I would have to do the moment I started telling her about the Lestranges or Gisquet.”

“I know,” Valjean said heavily. “I know.”

Javert laced his fingers through Valjean’s. “All we can do is wait. These are the most wanted criminals in Europe - with everyone looking for them, perhaps they will be caught quickly. In the meantime, keep your head down.”

Valjean pecked him on the cheek. “I will. And Cosette?”

With a twist to his lips, Javert replied, “I suppose I shall say I am sorry for snapping at her ninny of a fiancé. I will talk to her. And I will see to it she stays assigned to the Patron-Minette case. She may be clever enough to finally catch up with them, and it will keep her from chasing after Death Eaters.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said quietly. “It’s strange, how much this feels like before.”

“It won’t be like that,” Javert replied. “I swear it.”

January 12th, 1996 
Gisquet

In that part of the North Sea, the storms never ceased.

It was a curious fact that if one were to look at any map of Muggle transportation, whether by air or by water, every route diverged around that singular point, like a river parting around a sandbar. The reasoning was always put down to strong currents or dangerous wind patterns, but in truth it was a hundred layers of enchantment that drove them away. Thus it was that no Muggle ever stumbled across one of the best-kept wizard secrets: Azkaban Prison.

The prison was a fortress, an impenetrable stone tower perched upon a rocky outcropping. Waves lashed at the shore day and night, and the howling of the wind was as ubiquitous as the cries and groans of its inmates. Hovering over it all was a thick blanket of icy mist, the breeding ground of the dementors.

Dementors were terrible creatures, and in Azkaban they were jailer and shackle in equal measure. Stone walls and a tumultuous sea were scarcely even necessary when wizards were imprisoned within their own minds; the dementors devoured every happy thought and memory until nothing remained in that place but an endless, living nightmare. It was a wretched existence.

For Henri Gisquet, fifteen years passed in a hazy blur; with no way to mark the weeks or hours, and no thoughts left in his head but those of ruin and despair, the time stretched and distorted like the worst sort of dream. Every day wore at his soul like the waves upon the rock, and slowly it consumed him until he found himself often muttering in the corner, senseless words tumbling from his mouth which spoke of power and rescue and vengeance. Now and then he was lucid enough to feel shame, or anger at how far he had fallen. Mostly, he was not.

Then, one lonely night in what he would later learn was January, the fog clouding his thoughts began to recede. As if waking from a deep sleep, Gisquet raised his head and found himself staring at a figure he knew on the other side of the bars. The figure was a man with long, pale hair. At his side was a white peacock, which glowed with an ethereal white light that banished the hatred and madness of the prison.

Silently, Lucius Malfoy touched his wand to the bars, and the lock clicked and opened. Once more, Gisquet felt as though he were in a dream, not a nightmare that time, but a fantasy. He rose, and as he entered the corridor, not one of the dementors came forward to stop him. He did not say a word as he paced steadily to the staircase; it was possible he had forgotten how.

Out on the beach, the feeling of dread returned. There was a group of dementors hovering above the broken rocks, black wraiths against the black sky. He could sense them watching him with their faceless malevolence, but they did not approach. Rather, it seemed as though they were waiting for something. Gisquet breathed deeply; the air was full of salt, but it was fresh, and for that reason it was the sweetest thing he had ever known.

There were footsteps behind him. Turning, Gisquet beheld others taking their first, hesitant steps outside the walls. Bellatrix was among them, and her husband, Rodolphus. Antonin Dolohov and Augustus Rookwood were other familiar faces.

They were free. Gisquet did not know the reason, but neither did he much care. Azkaban would not claim him, he would not die on that godforsaken island, and the ones who put him there would be made to regret it.

Henri Gisquet opened his mouth. For the first time in fifteen years, he began to laugh.

Chapter Text

January 15th, 1996
Vidocq

He had picked the dingiest bar on the block. It was the sort of place that threw men in the dumpster when they passed out in the bathroom, the sort that forgot to ask questions when the tip was substantial enough. Vidocq had done a lot of business in bars like that, but he was not there on business. He was there to drink, a fact to which the stack of empty shot glasses beside him could attest.

His grasp on the time of day had diminished considerably, but Vidocq supposed it was not night any longer. Rather, it was very early in the morning. Even so, he was not about to leave; for one, he was not sufficiently drunk. To remedy this, Vidocq dropped another couple of silver Sickles on the counter and waved at the bartender without looking up. It occurred to him that he needed a shave.

With a grunt, the bartender slid another shot of firewhisky across the countertop. Vidocq downed it in a single gulp, wincing as the potent liquid burned his throat. Once upon a time, he had had a newspaper next to him; its current place was on the floor, where it was accumulating footprints and wrinkles, but when he tried to bend down and pick it up, the room started to spin, and so Vidocq left the paper where it was. It was unclear even to him whether he was drinking in celebration or in misery; certainly, his associates had enjoyed a tremendous victory that week, and yet if Vidocq had expected to be contacted, he had thus far been out of luck. He had not received so much as an owl bearing tidings, much less the prospect of any future engagement.

A man wearing a cloak chose that moment to seat himself beside Vidocq at the bar. Vidocq grimaced; he would have sworn he was the only patron left in the establishment a minute ago, yet the way his night was going, he was hardly even surprised that someone had come along to crowd him. He tapped his glass against the wooden counter, wondering absently if it was worth it to buy another.

The newcomer reached a hand into his purse, withdrawing three fat, golden Galleons. He set these down in front of him, allowing the coins to clink pointedly. At the sound, the bartender looked up.

“What can I get you, Monsieur?” he rasped. It was the most consecutive syllables Vidocq had heard him utter all evening.

“A gin and tonic for me,” replied the stranger. “And another firewhisky for my friend here.”

“I’m not your friend,” Vidocq said brusquely, making ready to leave. He did not care to be solicited by a strange wizard, even if he did buy him drinks.

The stranger gave a harsh laugh, his features hidden beneath his cloak. “No,” he agreed. “You’re not. But you might care to talk to me anyway.”

Stymied by a reluctant interest, Vidocq hesitated. The bartender placed two glasses on the counter; as he did so, the stranger laid down another couple of Galleons and gestured toward the back room with a flick of his fingers.

“Right, Messieurs,” said the barkeep, sliding the coins into the pocket of his apron. “I just gotta check on the, uh... I’ll be in th’ back.”

As the man shuffled away, Vidocq turned sideways on his stool. He swirled the whisky in its glass, but did not drink it.

“Not to be rude,” he began, “but who the hell are you?”

The stranger merely tipped his head back, until the light caught the contours of his face. For a moment, Vidocq stared in shock.

Then he said, “Well, I'll be damned.”

Something like a smirk crossed the man’s expression. Then he turned his head back down, and Henri Gisquet was again shrouded in the folds of his cloak.

“So,” said Gisquet.

“You look like hell,” came the response.

All was silent for a moment.

“I’ve been to hell,” Gisquet replied eventually. His voice was almost thoughtful. “I’ve seen it first-hand.”

Vidocq nodded. “But you got out.”

The cloak gave a sharp jerk of its head ‘no’. “I was let out.”

“By who?”

“Who do you think?”

There was another beat.

“So it’s true,” Vidocq murmured. “There have been signs, but I was beginning to wonder... It’s really happened. He’s back.”

That time, the cloak nodded the affirmative. “He is. And he has given me a task to perform. I am looking for a suitable partner.”

“Someone to order around, you mean.” Vidocq looked at him sulkily. “You’ll find that a harder thing to do these days. I’m not as innocent as I used to be.”

Gisquet snorted; both of them knew perfectly well that Vidocq had never been innocent. “As I said,” he began, “I need a partner. I have business of my own to attend to - I require someone else who can handle the legwork.”

Vidocq raised an eyebrow. “And you want me? Why?”

Gisquet took a long drink of gin. When he spoke, his voice was very soft. “You are loyal to no-one but yourself. That is a dangerous trait, and yet... I think you will be loyal to me in this.”

“Oh?” Vidocq chewed on his thumbnail. They had reached the negotiations. “You are very sure of yourself.”

“I can give you what it is you desire.”

“And what is that?” Vidocq demanded. “I have no use for your money, and I don’t need you to win power, not anymore. What is it you think you can offer me?”

Gisquet turned his glass in his fingers so that it refracted the light into tiny rainbows. “What would you say to Monsieur le Inspecteur Javert’s head on a platter?”

At first, Vidocq was too astonished to say anything. Then he said, “It’s ‘Monsieur le Secrétaire’ now.”

Gisquet hummed. “Moved up in the world, has he? And dear André is Préfet. Well, well.”

“So this task of yours...” Outwardly, Vidocq remained detached, but on the inside his mind was in turmoil. Gisquet’s hunch was correct; his offer was not one Vidocq could easily refuse.

“It will take time,” said Gisquet. “And very careful preparation. But if it is implemented correctly...” Vidocq caught a glint of teeth as the man grinned. “You will get what you want, and more besides.”

Under the counter, Vidocq gripped his wand. It was just short the length of his forearm, carved from a bowed branch with a sharp turn after the handle; the thing had caught his eye while in London, and on a whim, he bought it. Quickly, he had come to realize that it knew him better than he knew himself; his every wish it catered to, but most of all it fed on the single, burning desire in his heart until they were one and the same, his wand and his obsession. Yes, Vidocq thought, hornbeam suited him well.

“If we are to do this...” he said aloud. “Whatever you mean to do to Javert, it must be good.”

“I went to prison because of that man.” For the first time that night, Gisquet’s voice betrayed the true depth of his loathing. “Believe me, Eugène, it will be good.”

Éponine

As she marched down the Rue Cujas, Éponine looked back over her shoulder. She did not think she was being followed, but it paid to be careful, especially where Montparnasse was concerned. Fortunately, the dandy was in the habit of sleeping until noon. Part of that was the nocturnal nature of his occupation; another part was nothing more than pure self-indulgence.

The street behind her was clear, its only occupants Muggles traveling to and from their cars. Grinning a little, Éponine ducked into the alleyway and stopped in front of the back door to the Café Musain. She had a book in her bag to lend Marius, and a prime bit of information to offer the rest. It was a good day.

Taking a final surreptitious look around, Éponine slipped through the door and took the stairs down. They ended with another door, through which she could make out the sound of voices on the other side. That was also good; she had no intention of sitting alone like she was waiting for someone.

Pushing her way inside, the girl rummaged through her bag until she found the volume she was looking for. She raised her head, meaning to pick Marius out of the crowd, but the sight which greeted her stopped Éponine in her tracks.

Standing among a handful of the Amis was a visitor, a young woman quite unlike any Éponine had ever seen before. She had long silver hair, porcelain skin, and when she spoke, her voice was like the bubbling of a crystal fountain. Éponine was momentarily dumbfounded. No-one had so much as acknowledged her arrival, too riveted by their guest to take notice of her, and she felt an immediate and profound dislike budding in her breast.

“Good morning,” Éponine said loudly, crossing the floor.

Of those who were gathered, about half looked up. Marius was among them; he stood linked hand in hand with Cosette, the latter of whom Éponine made a concerted effort to avoid looking at. Joly also turned, waving enthusiastically. On the other side of the table, Prouvaire sat staring at their visitor, a wistful expression frozen on his face. His hair that afternoon was a flamboyant shade of pink, as were his cheeks. There was a piece of parchment in front of him and a pen in his hand, but he had not written a single word. Beside him stood Courfeyrac, who was equally slack-jawed with enchantment. Of all of them, Grantaire alone seemed to have no inkling of what was going on; he was in the far corner orating aimlessly to himself, already halfway through a bottle of something stronger than butterbeer.

“Éponine!” Cosette exclaimed, beaming.

Unable to continue ignoring her, Éponine gave the girl a pained smile in return. “Cosette,” she said, and nodded to Marius.

“This is Fleur Delacour,” Cosette continued, gesturing to her silver-haired friend. “Fleur, Éponine Jondrette.”

“Hey.” Éponine held out her hand, and was almost grateful when Fleur did not take it.

Cosette looked between the two of them, a crease appearing over her button of a nose. “Fleur was there when Monsieur Potter told England that Voldemort had returned.”

“Ah.” Éponine gave Fleur an appraising look. She was a fey, wispy thing, but there was a stubbornness to the slant of her mouth which hinted at a stronger mettle underneath. It was the worst possible combination; Éponine already had Cosette to contend with, and the last thing she needed was another smarter-than-she-looked pretty face for competition.

“I am on leave from London,” Fleur said primly. “I have taken a position with Gringotts, the wizarding bank, but Cosette asked me to come to your little meeting, and so I said ‘yes’.” She screwed up her face as she glanced around the lackluster room, and Éponine supposed the cheap café was not good enough for the bourgeois witch. That was fine by her; the sooner Mlle. Delacour got fed up and left, the happier she would be.

From behind them came the sound of the door. Éponine turned to see Enjolras entering accompanied by Combeferre, while at the same time, Feuilly strode in from the kitchen with Mlle. Louison. The serving girl bore her usual platter of sandwiches, and Éponine’s stomach reminded her pointedly that she had yet to eat that day. A few others trickled in after them; before long, the back room was a-flurry with conversation.

Éponine settled down in a chair across the table from Marius. He returned her smile, a fact which made her insides do an uncomfortable flip, and she deliberately turned her attention to Enjolras instead. The young man was taking a seat, deferring his usual place on the floor to Fleur.

“Mademoiselle Delacour,” he said. “Your testimony is much anticipated by our members.” Steepling his fingers, Enjolras looked slowly around the room. Éponine let his gaze wash over her with indifference as she reached for a sandwich. “In a moment, each of you will recount what you have discovered since last we met, but first, let us remind ourselves what it is we are up against. Mademoiselle?”

Fleur’s expression was no-nonsense as she took command of the room. “I am Fleur Delacour, of the Château Delacour in Auvergne,” she said. “Last autumn, I was chosen to represent Beauxbatons in the Triwizard Tournament.”

Courfeyrac, who had not stopped staring with a positively smitten look on his face, whistled loudly and applauded. Fleur looked briefly gratified as she continued.

“Yes, I was pleased. From Durmstrang Institute there was Victor Krum, the Quidditch celebrity -”

“He’s the best Seeker in the world,” Bossuet muttered, elbowing Bahorel in the side.

“- and for Hogwarts, there was Monsieur Cedric Diggory and little ‘Arry Potter. At first, I thought it was very unfair that Hogwarts got two champions, but ‘Arry is a sweet boy, and he saved my sister, Gabrielle, during the Second Task, so -”

“Perhaps we could skip ahead to the end of May,” Enjolras interrupted. Éponine echoed his impatience; she had not come to listen to Fleur Delacour wax lyrical about some English boy.

“Yes, yes,” Fleur snapped. “I was just getting to that. Well, all of us were ready for the Third Task. It was a simple challenge - we were to find our way to the center of an enchanted maze, and claim the trophy there.”

Her voice was quieter as she went on, “I did not make it far. One of the professors, he was a Death Eater in disguise.”

“A Death Eater?” Combeferre repeated sharply.

Fleur nodded. “He drank Polyjuice Potion to take the shape of an Auror whom Dumbledore had hired to teach. The Death Eater used his magic to Stun me, and that is the last thing I remember. I woke to see my parents and Madame Maxime - I learned from the Headmistress that Victor had been Stunned as well. We did not know until after that he had been put under the Imperius Curse and made to torture Cedric.”

A collective murmur went around the room; to cast the Imperius Curse on another was one of the grossest misuses of magic in the wizarding world. Only the Cruciatus and the Killing Curse were considered its equals. Éponine swallowed, less at Fleur’s story than the reaction to it. If any member of the Amis learned the sort of company she kept... But they knew nothing of her life, and Jondrette was a safe surname. She looked back up as Fleur continued.

“The wait seemed to last for a long time. It was only ‘Arry and Cedric left, and no-one could understand what was taking so long for one of them to reach the center. Then -” Fleur paused, and for the first time, there was something anguished about her expression. “‘Arry appeared in a flash. He was carrying the trophy, and people began to cheer. I was the first to notice - he had Cedric by the arm, and Cedric... was not moving.”

Courfeyrac patted her on the elbow consolingly, only removing his hand when Fleur gave him a disparaging look. She took a shuddering breath.

“None of us knew then what had happened, only that Cedric was dead, and ‘Arry said it was Voldemort who killed him. After, ‘Arry told us - the trophy cup was bewitched. It transported him to a graveyard, where a servant of Voldemort used Dark Magic to give him a new body. Then he summoned his Death Eaters to him - ‘Arry barely made it out with his life.”

“And now You-Know-Who has set the rest of the Death Eaters free from Azkaban!” exclaimed Joly. “Soon, they will strike, and then -”

“Let us not be hasty,” Combeferre interrupted. “So far, they have remained in hiding. Why?” He looked down the length of the table, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “During the last war, the Death Eaters tried to overthrow our government, but they failed. They moved too quickly, and were careless. They will not make the same mistake this time.”

“And that is why,” Feuilly chimed in, “it is so important we make what connections we may. The more who join our cause, the fewer might be swayed by Voldemort’s threats.”

At the back of the room, Jacques Marie spoke up. “My mother, she be of some influence among the loup garou of Paris. She says we must be sidin’ with the wizards in this fight.” His eyes were proud as he continued, “As we speak, my brother Jean champions our cause with her. Between their combined efforts, many will listen.” Then his expression seemed to darken.

“Others... will not,” he said. “My family’s kind be disliked by human wizards. Some skin-changers take it to heart. They be more easily corrupted.”

Joly gave him a pitying look. “I’m sorry about Garrett,” he said.

“He be angry,” Jacques replied simply. “And I ask - can you blame him?”

Across the table, Bahorel got to his feet. “It is the same with the werewolves. Like our cousins, we have been disenfranchised. We are ostracized by society, cannot hold a job, because of our condition - and the government does nothing! Voldemort stirs some to vengeance, and how may we persuade them otherwise when those in power will make no changes to improve their lot?”

At that, Grantaire chuckled gratingly from the corner. “Anyone who’d fire you due to your ‘time of the month’, Bahorel, is forgetting about all the perfectly legitimate reasons to fire you.”

It seemed that the shadows retreated to the corners of the room as laughter broke out around the table. Even Éponine could not prevent the snicker tugging at the corners of her mouth as Bahorel, indignant, spun around, his alder wand in hand and a jinx upon his lips.

Then, before he could silence the wizard in what would undoubtedly be creative fashion, a shimmering force field erupted between the two. Bahorel walked into it headfirst and stumbled back into his seat in surprise. As one, heads swiveled in search of the spellcaster. Éponine expected to see Cosette risen from her seat, ever the one to keep the peace, but the girl looked quite as surprised as the rest. Then, one by one, eyes settled on Enjolras.

The young man sat in his seat beside Fleur, his ramrod-straight cypress wand held between his fingers.

“Bahorel,” he said calmly, “remember our bylaws. Magic is not to be used during our meetings, except in the service of our members.”

“I think shutting him up would be to the service of everyone else,” Bahorel muttered, hunching into his robes, but he returned his wand to his pocket.

The magical shield dissipated, leaving Grantaire looking a little dazed behind it. He opened his mouth as if to say something smart, and then closed it again with a furtive look at Enjolras.

In the silence which followed, the room grew oppressive again. Enjolras seemed to sigh soundlessly.

“Your report, Combeferre?” he asked.

Combeferre’s mouth puckered in exasperation. “Joly and I have been through every hospital record we could lay our hands on. If there have been any suspicious deaths or injuries, the Healers are not reporting them.”

“Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac tore his gaze away from Fleur with some effort. “Nothing. The Purebloods are being cautious - I do not doubt there are those who would favor Voldemort, but they will not admit it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Even so,” Marius added, “there are no shortage of those who despise Muggles and Muggleborn wizards. To hear Gillenormand speak of my father...” His handsome features twisted as though he had swallowed a lemon.

“The news from Kingsley is little better,” said Feuilly. “The British Ministry is running an aggressive propaganda campaign to discredit anyone who says that Voldemort walks among us. There is no official help coming from that quarter.”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras got up, rounding where everyone sat until he stood in front of the drunkard’s preferred table. He tapped his fingers on the surface. “I notice Gavroche is not here. Have you any word on your assignment?”

Grantaire grinned. “Men must have somewhat altered the course of nature; for they were not born wolves, yet they have become wolves. Do not disdain Voltaire,” he added as Enjolras turned around with an irritated snort. “Gavroche investigates the streets, I investigate the wine shops, and thus like is kept with like, and no-one suspects a thing. Today he follows a lead - a husband and wife were evicted from their apartment last week for not keeping with the rent. The wife told the boy of a strange thing she had seen near the bank of the Seine. Now, they are vanished as the delicate buds of spring beneath a frost, and he means to find out where they’ve gone.”

“And what strange thing was it she saw?” asked Enjolras, narrowing his eyes.

Grantaire shrugged. “Who can say? A ghost, perhaps, as men seldom walk through solid stone, and yet one has passed into the quai beside the Pont d’Iéna seemingly to disappear. And isn’t that just the way - we try, we fail, we posture, we aspire, we pontificate - and then we age, shrink, die, and vanish.”

Éponine cleared her throat.

“I have news,” she announced, waving for quiet. “Something I think you should know.”

Everyone turned to look at her, and Éponine brushed off a flutter of nerves with ease. What she had to share would be more than sufficient to stop anyone inquiring too closely into the Pont d’Iéna. “I have seen a Death Eater,” she said. “In Paris.”

Pandemonium was instantaneous. Cries of alarm and disbelief echoed around the chamber, and Jehan dropped his pen onto the floor with a clatter.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras demanded. “Are you certain?”

Éponine scoffed. “As if I would say such a thing if I weren’t. There is a shop in the ninth arrondissement. The woman who owns it sells artifacts, rare potion ingredients, that sort of thing. Not all of it is strictly legal. I was there looking for unicorn hair - the apothecary was out.”

She lowered her voice as she continued. “I hadn’t been in the place long when I heard the bell over the door ring, and a lady’s voice. There was some item she wanted - I couldn’t tell what it was, but it was probably cursed. The owner didn’t want to sell it to her. That was when I turned around, just in time to see the lady pull up her sleeve. And, well, if you had seen what I saw...”

“Was it the Dark Mark?” Joly whispered. “Was it his mark?”

Éponine shrugged. “I told you, she was a Death Eater.”

“This Death Eater,” Combeferre said keenly. “What did she look like?”

Éponine eyed the newspaper clipping still stuck to the wall, and the ten sinister wizards that glowered down from it. “She was none of those,” the girl replied. “She could not have been much older than me, with wavy blonde hair. And she was short.”

“Good work,” said Enjolras. “Someone must stake out this shop in case she, or others, return.”

“I’ll do it,” Éponine said quickly. “The owner trusts me, she won’t mind if I hang around.”

Enjolras saluted her. “Thank you, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Cosette,” he added, facing the other girl, “what are the Aurors doing to contain this threat?”

Cosette bit her lip. “I wish I could say,” she said regretfully. “My uncle does not want me to be a part of the investigation - he would not hear another word on the matter! And now he sits in meeting after meeting, and will tell me nothing of what goes on.”

Enjolras shook his head. “That will not do,” he said. “Without information, we are blind. Make no mistake - the Death Eaters will be gathering information of their own, and they will not have qualms about breaking the rules to obtain it.”

Cosette made fervent promises that she would learn more, but Éponine heard little of it as she smiled to herself. It was good for once to be the one who was praised, not playing second fiddle to anyone else’s accomplishments. To be listened to, to have her opinion asked... yes, that was a feeling she could get used to.

The meeting did not last long after that. Some, like Feuilly, had to return to work, while others prepared to make their way back home. Cosette grabbed Marius by the hand, speaking softly to him and Fleur as the trio headed for the door. Éponine went to follow them, but amidst the chatter and scraping of chairs as the Amis departed, she was distracted by another voice.

“Apollo.”

It was Grantaire who spoke, his speech slurred slightly by drink. Curious, Éponine paused, listening under the pretense of fixing her hair.  

Enjolras looked around. “Yes?” he asked.

Grantaire struggled to sit straighter in his chair, leaning forward across the tabletop. “You didn’t let Bahorel jinx me.” His face was almost comically puzzled.

Enjolras shifted his weight. “It is as I said - our bylaws do not permit it. Jinxing you would have been unproductive and distracting to the others.”

Grantaire gave him a look which was almost sly. “You’re sure that’s the only reason?”

Now Enjolras simply looked confused. “I do not know what you are asking.”

Abandoning subtlety entirely, Grantaire waggled his eyebrows. “Fancy seeing a play one night?”

The expression slid from Enjolras’ face. “I am busy,” he said flatly. “I suggest you find someone else to ridicule.”

“But I’m not -”

Enjolras took off in a huff, leaving Grantaire to stare after him. For a moment, the man seemed frozen. Then he collapsed back into his chair, raising his bottle to his lips.

“That sovereign of hearts, that soul of our souls,” he muttered under his breath. “How could this beautiful cause produce in you an effect so abominable?”

And then, Éponine felt her heart twinge in sympathy, for she recognized the look in Grantaire’s eyes. She supposed she must look the same when she gazed upon Marius.

Marius. The thought reminded her.

She put her hand to her bag, digging through its contents until she found the book. The young wizard had already left the Musain, his fiancée hanging off his arm as was her wont.

Dashing up the steps to the back door, Éponine looked around. There was no sign of Marius anywhere, neither in the alley nor on the street. He was undoubtedly walking Cosette home, and Éponine did not know where the girl lived.

Her face fell. Slowly, she returned the book to her bag, and began pacing down the Rue Cujas. What did it matter if the Amis thought her an asset to their cause?

She was still so lonely.

Valjean

Seated in his worn armchair by the fire, Valjean was caught up in reading a book. Or at least, reading was what he had intended to do when he sat down. In reality, he had gone over the same page three times without registering any of it.

It was not that Valjean was uninterested; he did not always share Cosette’s taste in literature, as she was more fond than he of romances and fairy tale endings, but when his daughter had suggested a new mystery novel that she liked, he had been willing to indulge her in trying it. So far, it was proving quite enjoyable. The protagonist was a detective with a wry, prickly personality, who reminded Valjean enough of Javert to make his lips quirk in amusement as he read. That evening, however, he could not seem to focus.

The cause of his distraction was across the hall in the dining room. Even there in the salon, the muffled sound of voices reached him. Usually it did not trouble Valjean when his partner chose to hold meetings in their home. It gave him the opportunity to greet Javert’s colleagues, several of whom he would have called friends if he were asked. Such meetings were not commonplace, for Javert took unspoken pains to keep his work from intersecting with Valjean’s life, but when they were necessary, Toussaint would bring out tea and cakes regardless of the hour, and occasionally Valjean could talk Coste into playing him at wizard’s chess. The Inspecteur invariably won, a fact which Valjean did not mind in the slightest. No, strange as it still sometimes struck him, Valjean was pleased to invite the Aurors into his house. It was the reason for that night’s meeting which had him worried.

Ever since the thirteenth, Javert had worked ‘round the clock shifts. It was not all for the sake of tracking down the Death Eaters, either; the news of the breakout had people panicked, and there was damage control to be done. Adding to the atmosphere of fear and confusion were those petty criminals taking advantage of the situation to frighten and coerce others. Javert would not say so, but it was plain to see he was exhausted. This meeting was one more in a string of sessions which seemed only to go in circles. Underlying it all was the terrifying truth that no-one knew where the Dark wizards had gone. They had escaped, only to seemingly vanish into the ether.

Then there was Cosette. The girl had returned from her date with Marius unusually quiet, though she insisted that nothing was wrong when her father inquired as to what was on her mind. She had not even tried to charm Javert into letting her sit in on his meeting, a request which the Secrétaire was accustomed to denying her. Her easy acquiescence on this latest occasion struck an uneasy chord through Valjean, and his novel was suddenly much less absorbing than the mystery unfolding in front of his eyes.

The muffled voices grew louder; it seemed that the meeting had reached its conclusion, and the Aurors were making their way out to the antechamber, gathering coats and purses before taking their leave. Valjean gave up on reading, turning the book over on the cushion to hold his place as he got to his feet.

Out in the antechamber, Javert stood in earnest conversation with Chevallier. From the grim look on both of their faces, Valjean gathered that it was not a social conversation. Then there was Satki, donning a long, beige duster, Merle with his trademark lilac hair, and Coste, who frowned down at the casefile in his hands. In the back stood the Préfet, M. Chabouillet. His arms were crossed, and he looked like he had slept as little in the last forty-eight hours as Javert.

“No time for chess tonight, Jean,” Coste said ruefully, looking up from the report he was studying.

Valjean gave him a small smile. “I figured as much,” he said. “Don’t worry, your winning streak will keep.”

Coste grinned. “You’re just waiting for the right moment to wipe me off the board.”

Valjean’s smile widened briefly, then he sobered. “Get some rest, all of you,” he said to the entry hall. “You can’t do any good if you are ready to keel over.”

Merle laughed. “Oh, I intend to,” he said. “Brevet is already put out that I missed dinner with him last night.”

“Sure, it’s dinner with you that he misses,” Satki teased, shaking her head. “The way he looks at you, you’d think he was a lost puppy -”

“And what would you say to dinner, Ada?” Coste interrupted, flashing her a wink.

Satki rolled her eyes. “Not tonight, Mathis, I am too tired to be hungry. Ask me next week.”

The Aurors filed out into the night, followed closely by Chevallier, who was still talking with Javert.

“- and the Patron-Minette will no doubt be using the recent chaos to their advantage,” Javert said. “Get anyone who can be spared on patrol. Assign Cosette to the Marais - her fiancé lives in that district, she has cause to be there.”

Valjean watched his partner with affection as the man leaned out the door frame, giving his final instructions to his subordinates. That was when Chabouillet, who lingered in the antechamber, caught Valjean’s eye. He nodded in the direction of the salon, and Valjean licked his lips. Glancing once more at Javert’s back, Valjean padded toward the room, the Préfet at his heels.

It was a long moment before Chabouillet said anything. He merely stopped and stood in the center of the rug, surveying the space with a measured, appraising eye. Valjean hovered by the settee, feeling suddenly off balance. Alone out of all Javert’s associates, Chabouillet was one who unsettled him still. The Préfet was ever polite, even friendly, but he was not a friend as was Coste or Satki. Valjean had not forgotten that it was the Préfet, then Secrétaire, who insisted he be returned to a jail cell after saving the life of the Premier Ministre, and though Chabouillet had never insinuated a thing after the pardon was granted, he was not a man Valjean cared to be alone with if he could help it.

“You’ve done wonders to the place,” Chabouillet said when he broke his silence. “I remember the first time Javert invited me here - for dinner, if I remember correctly. Quite the transformation.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said cautiously. He very much doubted that the Préfet wished to discuss his choice in décor.

Humming tunelessly to himself, Chabouillet approached the fireplace. Upon the mantle was a pair of silver candlesticks, but what had the Préfet’s attention were the many picture frames stood up between them. Most of the photos were of Cosette, but Valjean appeared in a few of them, sometimes tending his garden, sometimes carrying Cosette on his shoulders. There was also a portrait of Javert, which was prone to scowling whenever anyone looked at it for too long. The Préfet mused over the collection.

“You have made a good life here,” he commented, his fingers brushing against a brass frame. The photo inside showed a young Cosette the day she began at the nearby Catholic primary school.

Valjean inclined his head. “I have tried,” he said humbly, still wondering what the man was getting at.

Chabouillet nudged that picture aside, uncovering another. It depicted the very same fireplace, in front of which stood the three of them together. The Javert in the photo was trying adamantly not to laugh, even as the little Cosette tugged repeatedly on his robes.

“Thérèse took that one,” Valjean supplied. “On Cosette’s twelfth birthday.”

“Thérèse,” said Chabouillet. “Ah, yes. The loup garou, of course. You see her still?”

Valjean nodded, though the Préfet was looking away from him. “She comes once a week for luncheon.”

The noise Chabouillet made was noncommittal as he replaced the photograph.

“I am not a fool, you know,” he said suddenly. “I can see what you are to him, and what he is to you.”

Valjean’s heart stopped in his chest. “You can?” he asked weakly.

“At first, I was unsure,” the Préfet admitted, still facing away from him. “And then I thought perhaps it was merely an infatuation. Clearly, that has not been the case.”

As if to make up for the time it had lost, Valjean’s heart began to pound at a furious rate. He could feel the beat of his pulse in his ears.

Always when they were asked, they gave out that Javert shared Valjean’s home for convenience’s sake, and Valjean did not mind a boarder who helped to pay the mortgage. That Javert had a soft spot for his daughter, who he treated like a niece, was another excuse. The law may not have prohibited their courtship, but there was the matter of Valjean’s record, which despite his having been pardoned was a record nevertheless. It had raised eyebrows enough when the Secrétaire to the Aurors of France moved in with a once-inmate of Azkaban; he could not bear to let Javert suffer the inevitable gossip if word got around they were lovers.

And if that were not enough, this was Javert’s superior officer. Chabouillet had never seemed concerned with Merle seeing Brevet, but Merle was only an Auror Second Class, and neither was he the Préfet’s personal protégé. Valjean swallowed hard as he tried to put his thoughts in order.

“Anything that you want, it is yours,” said Valjean quietly. “I have money enough, I can pay. Just... leave him out of it. I won’t risk his title, or his reputation.”

At that, the Préfet turned around. “You think I’m blackmailing you.”

“Why else would you bring it up now, after so long?” Valjean asked, gazing at the floor. “You say that you knew, so why wait to express your disapproval unless you stood to gain something by it?”

The Préfet took a step forward. “I am not blackmailing you, Valjean.”

Valjean looked up.

“Make no mistake,” Chabouillet continued, “if I did not approve, I would have put a stop to it long ago. But you are good for him in a way that we... that I am not.” He frowned slightly to himself. “It was a strange thing to realize,” he said, “that in all the time before, no matter how much his work pleased him, he was never really... happy.” He cleared his throat. “So, no, that is not the reason why I wished to speak with you.”

“Then what is?”

The Préfet pursed his lips. “He loves you.”

Valjean gaped at him, flabbergasted. Certainly, he knew that in his heart to be true, but there were sentiments Javert could never quite bring himself to share aloud, not even once, and so to hear it from Chabouillet of all people was astonishing.

Forcing himself to close his mouth, Valjean asked, “Javert told you that?”

“Ha.” Chabouillet shook his head, adding dryly, “I think Javert would rather face down a horde of stampeding centaurs than admit as much to me. But it is true, nevertheless. And in that truth, there is a danger.”

“Monsieur?” Valjean tilted his head to the side. Every time he thought he knew what the Préfet wanted, the man turned the conversation around on him.

“I am giving you a warning,” the Préfet said. “And I advise you take it to heart.”

Chabouillet paced forward until he stood a hand’s breadth from Valjean. When he continued, his voice was low.

“You give him a weakness,” the Préfet said. “I have known Javert a long time - once he is set on a path, nothing will shake him from it. Nothing, it would seem, but you. And so you had best be careful - there is a war coming, Valjean, and Javert will be on the front line when it hits. If you are compromised... I fear he will throw everything away, even his life, if it saves yours.”

“I would never ask that of him,” Valjean replied. His words shook slightly; whether with anger or fear, he was uncertain. “If it came to that, I would rather he didn’t -”

“I do not doubt it,” Chabouillet interrupted. “But it is not me you have to convince, and you know how stubborn he can be. You must not let it come to that. We need him, if we are to stand a chance.”

“Monsieur le Préfet?”

Valjean and Chabouillet looked up in unison at the sound of Javert’s voice. He stood in the doorway to the salon, watching the pair of them quizzically.

“Forgive me, Monsieur, I thought you had gone. Did you wish to revisit the list of known sympathizers to the Dark Arts before you depart?”

Chabouillet dismissed him with a motion of his hand. “We have been at it for hours,” he said. “I doubt revisiting the reports tonight will turn over any new leads. No, I will leave that in your capable hands; I only wanted to have a short word with your housemate.”

“Of course,” the Secrétaire replied, with the barest of glances in Valjean’s direction. “In that case, allow me to see you out.”

Chabouillet nodded once at Valjean before he turned to leave. Javert led him out to the front door, bidding him a good night, even as Valjean stood rooted in the salon. A moment later, there was a faint pop as the Préfet Disapparated, and then the house was their own again.

Javert returned to the salon, still wearing a slight frown.

“What was that about?” he asked.

Valjean smiled faintly. “Nothing, my dear. Just clearing something up. Are you done for the night?”

Javert’s frown deepened. “I ought to go through the notes one more time...” he said, but he did not sound entirely convinced.

Linking his fingers through his partner’s, Valjean said softly, “You need to rest. Come to bed.”

Javert squeezed his hand, and for a moment, Valjean thought perhaps he had swayed him. Then Javert let go. “I have to go through the notes,” he said. “I’ll join you in a little while.”

He turned to go, and Valjean sighed inwardly, the Préfet’s warning echoing in his head. Was this Javert’s usual devotion to his duty, or was it because it was personal to them that the Auror was so bent on working himself to the bone?

He knew Javert had every intention of keeping his word. He knew that the man planned only to read through his notes once and then retire. He also knew, with a clarity that felt carven from stone, that notes would turn to reports, which would turn to more notes, until so much time had passed that the sky was lightening on the horizon.

It would be many hours yet before Javert at last tumbled onto the mattress beside him, utterly spent.

Chapter Text

January 17, 1996
Éponine 

Éponine Jondrette knew who she was. She was Éponine Jondrette. She was also Éponine Fabantou, and Éponine Alvarès, and Éponine Balizard, and Éponine Genflot. By birth, she was called Éponine Thénardier, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that she be whomever her father asked her to be, whensoever he asked, without mixing up which version of herself she was meant to be at present.

At that particular moment, she was a Thénardier in truth, running down an alleyway just as fast as her legs would carry her, dodging between garbage cans and decaying cardboard boxes. She clutched her wand, blackthorn and dragon heartstring, in her right hand, even as she held the item close to her chest with the other. She could not Disapparate with it, not yet, not before her sister caught up with her.

From behind came the sound of shouting. Éponine looked back over her shoulder and immediately wished she had not; there were three Aurors following in pursuit, their navy robes as good as a badge to identify them as Magical Law Enforcement. Sticking her tongue out in consideration, Éponine aimed her wand at a low-hanging balcony and spat, “Bombarda!”

The balcony exploded into pieces, falling to block the path between her and the Aurors in a cloud of dust. The shouting increased; Éponine ducked on instinct, just as several jets of red light flew over her. Up ahead, there was a niche in the wall where two apartment buildings met. She darted inside, casting a Bedazzling Hex over her hiding place. A moment later, the Aurors ran past, not even glancing at where she had concealed herself. Éponine waited until they had vanished, chasing phantoms, before she crept back out into the alley.

“‘Ponine!” hissed a voice from above.

Looking up, Éponine beheld a small, brown-haired head peeking over the edge of one of the buildings.

“Azelma,” Éponine hissed back. “Get down here, now!”

Murmuring the incantation for a Feather Light Charm, Azelma stepped over the roof parapet and floated gently to the ground. No sooner had she landed on the cobblestones than Éponine rushed to her side.

“You’ve got it?” Azelma asked, her eyes wide.

“Later,” said Éponine shortly. “The bobbies will realize soon that I got past them, and they’ll double back.” Grabbing her sister firmly by the arm, Éponine took a step forward and Disapparated.

At once, the alley disappeared around her, to be replaced by the black vacuum of space. For a moment, she felt like she was being squeezed on all sides by a great pressure, and then the vacuum released her.

Rematerializing, the girls found themselves returned not so much into the world as under it; the alley was replaced by the sewer, and they stood upon the service walkway which ran along its length, the trench carrying stormwater and street filth being on the other side of the guardrail. The sewer ought to have been pitch dark but for the occasional emergency light, and yet there were torches affixed to the walls which filled the subterranean passage with an orange glow.

“Let’s see, ‘Ponine!” Azelma squealed at once, crowding closer and trying to pry the object out of her hand.

“Hey, watch it,” said Éponine, shaking her off. Tucking away her wand, she rubbed at her temples; Disapparition always seemed to give her a migraine. “If you break this thing, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

When her sister quieted, Éponine laid the item out carefully in her palm. It was a gold bracelet, too big for her bony wrists, and set with sparkling diamonds. What really made the bracelet valuable, however, was the secret cache behind one of the jewels, which held a few drops of Veritaserum. The use of Truth Serum was tightly controlled, but that did little to stop wealthy Pureblood families from acquiring it and slipping it into the drinks of their political adversaries. Notoriously difficult to brew, Veritaserum was worth a small fortune to the right buyer.

“Perfect,” Éponine breathed.

“‘Ponine, you’re back!”

Spinning around, Éponine wrinkled her nose as she beheld Montparnasse striding towards her, arms outstretched in greeting. He was dressed in burgundy dress robes, ones with far too many frills at the sleeve, and a shabby top hat. Under his arm, he carried an ebony cane. Some wizards used such an accessory to conceal a wand; the dandy used his to conceal a knife.

“‘Parnasse,” Éponine returned, not bothering to hide her contempt.

“Now, don’t be like that,” Montparnasse pouted. Reaching the pair of sisters, he threw an arm around Éponine’s shoulder and pulled her close. Éponine closed her eyes. So long as the wizard did not speak, she could imagine the touch came from someone who did not make her skin crawl.

Montparnasse spoiled that illusion almost immediately. “You’ve got the goods?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the goods.” Éponine slipped out of his grasp. “No thanks to you. Where the hell were you with Babet, huh?”

The dandy shrugged. “We don’t work for nothing,” he said, “and your father’s two weeks behind paying our fee. Dunno where Babet was. Me? I was asleep.”

Éponine snorted. “Figures. And while you were doing that, Azelma and I were getting chased by the bobbies - Aurors, ‘Parnasse, three of them!”

“Take it up with your father.” As he spoke, he ran his thumb down the length of his cane. He gave her a meaningful look as he slid the surin out of its sheath and turned it around in his fingers. “When you do, you might remind him that he owes us. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Tell him yourself,” Éponine muttered crossly, seeing the senior Thénardier emerge from a smaller tributary passage.

“Éponine!” M. Thénardier cried, his prideful expression barely masking what would otherwise be blatant avarice. “Azelma! My darlings! And what have you brought me?”

Éponine held up the bracelet so that it caught the light. “What you sent us for.”

Stalking forward, Thénardier took the gold band from her, the pride fading from his face and replacing itself with choler. “This is all?” he asked. “Madame Descoteaux had no other trifles, no other precious thing you might have pawned?”

Éponine shrugged. “Nothing that wasn’t under fifteen enchantments. Without Babet as a Curse Breaker, we were out of luck - we were nearly caught as it was, and then they’d have jailed us and taken the bracelet to boot.”

“And the letter?” Thénardier inquired in a state of great agitation. “You first gave her the letter?”

“‘Course I did,” said Éponine. “Azelma and I have done this a hundred times, haven’t we? I gave her the letter, told her I was Mam’selle Fabantou, daughter to the unlucky playwright -”

“Fabantou is my most successful persona,” Thénardier pontificated. “If I’ve made five francs by him, I’ve made fifty. People still have a respect for the arts, it’s the only fine thing left in our society -”

“- and she didn’t give a damn,” Éponine finished. “Said she wasn’t giving anything more until you put a finished script in her hand. That’s when I went around the back and snatched the bracelet.”

Thénardier tutted. “Ungrateful woman. It is the plague of the rich, that they can disdain us on a whim, whenever it strikes their fancy. I should like to be rich - then I would say to them, no, I think my time is not worth yours, and see how they like it!”

There was one thing which every version of Éponine, from Jondrette to Thénardier, had in common: each was entirely destitute. For all that she stole and lied and cheated, it never seemed to make a difference; her father had much that he owed, and his lenders were not ones inclined to wait for their return on investment. Once, the family had done well enough for themselves, even owning a small inn in Montfermeil, but no longer. M. Thénardier lost it to his creditors, and they had been ruined ever since.

Montparnasse returned his blade to its place with a smooth schick, leaning all his weight on the thin shaft of the cane as he asked, “And my money, Thénardier? The Patron-Minette aren’t so patient, either.”

Thénardier wrung his hands. “You’ll get what’s due,” he said, his countenance calculating. “I’ve got a job coming up, a good one -”

“Your jobs are getting more dangerous,” Montparnasse returned, a thin smile on his face. “The Aurors want so badly to arrest us, it’s almost not worth the pay-off. You’ll give us double.”

Thénardier’s eyes bulged. “Double?” he spluttered. “Double, he says?”

“Double,” agreed Montparnasse. “Or you can find a way to pay your debts without us. I wish you all the best in that improbable venture.”

“Double...” Thénardier murmured feverishly to himself. “It would take a big job - serious money -” He continued talking aloud in that vein, pacing, until he stopped very suddenly. “Double it is,” he said. “You -” he gestured at Éponine, “- go and hawk the bracelet. You know where to take it. You are to accept no less than twenty-five-hundred, you understand?”

Éponine understood. She understood that no matter the figure she wheedled out of their fence, she would not see a single banknote. The money would go to cover their debts, and her little sister would go to bed hungry again. There were only so many sandwiches she could smuggle from the Amis’ meetings.

“We will meet here tomorrow night,” Montparnasse was saying, “and we shall discuss this ‘job’ of yours.”

Her father bobbed his head in assent, and Éponine turned, listening to the water rush in the stream below. The bracelet was heavy in her hand. For a moment, a seed of rebellion in her heart told her to throw the thing in the sewer and have done with it, but she did not do that. There were people, dangerous people, and if they did not get what they were entitled to, there was no telling how they might think to retaliate.

Éponine’s shoulders slumped. She withdrew her wand from her pocket, and once again Disapparated.

Cosette

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was located on the lowest level of the Palais de Justice, adjacent to the dungeons but substantially more pleasant. Though they were underground, there were windows spelled to admit natural light, ones which mimicked the weather outside, and which rotated slowly through various pastoral scenes as the day passed. Grey felted cubicles divided the space into small offices, each its own reflection of the witch or wizard who occupied it.

Cosette Valjean, Auror Third Class, sat at her desk reading through a report with rapt attention. Her office was a tidy one, without any loose papers or files strewn about, but it was not stark. A tiny ceramic pot held a Moly plant, black of stem and with white flowers powerful enough to counteract enchantments when consumed. Pinned to the wall of her cubicle was a calendar; January’s image depicted a cozy hearth-side scene, the flames visibly flickering in the fireplace. Beside it was tacked a photograph of Marius, who smiled sheepishly. From time to time, the Marius in the picture would flatten his unruly hair, or wave at the camera.

Cosette lifted a ceramic mug to her lips absently. She was drinking tea, but she scarcely even noticed as she turned to the next page. The report was authored by Auror Second Class, Arthur Proulx; she had requested access to every document the Préfecture had on the Patron-Minette, and, perhaps relieved that she was not pushing to investigate the breakout from Azkaban, Javert had approved her access. What arrived at her desk was an enormous crate of papers, some very recent, others yellowing at the edges. The task of going through them all methodically, searching for any thread or pattern to follow, was a daunting one. Still, she set to it without complaint. Cosette had not been raised in a household where one shied from a challenge.

The earliest parchments were all profiles. Just over a dozen Dark wizards were believed to belong to the notorious gang, each of them marked as dangerous and presumed hostile. There were four, however, who were the de facto ringleaders. Their names, such as was known, were Gueulemer, Babet, Claquesous, and Montparnasse. It was entirely likely that those were pseudonyms only.

Gueulemer was the brawn of the operation, outfit with a powerful build like an Achilles or a bear, but clever as well. Those unlucky Aurors who thought they might get the jump on him were quick to find themselves trapped in a headlock, their wand snapped in that great fist as easily as a toothpick.

Babet was his polar opposite, thin and sallow. He was a potions master, adept in mixing all manner of tinctures and more than a few poisons. Callous and insincere, Babet was a talented wizard bound by no moral compass. He and Claquesous were each known to have served the Death Eaters in one capacity or another, but of Claquesous, that was all that was known. Possibly the man was a Metamorphmagus, or else so adept at Transfiguration that he could conceal his appearance at will. No-one knew what he truly looked like, and few lived long enough to say they had met him at all.

As for Montparnasse, he was the youngest of the group. It troubled Cosette more than she could say to learn that the wizard was near her own age. For all that he lacked in years, Montparnasse made up in bloodlust; he had more corpses to his name than any of them. Moreover, it seemed that the youth was not satisfied by the Killing Curse. When he took a life, it was inevitably a grisly affair.

Such were the facts.

Then, there were the reports.

Cosette chewed on her lip, twiddling a quill between her thumb and forefinger as she considered her list of notes. The evidence generally agreed that the gang had started as a ragtag group of ruffians, engaged in minor acts of larceny. They were blackguards and thugs, of the sort one might expect to encounter down a back alley. When Montparnasse entered the scene, the Patron-Minette experienced an uptick in body count. From there, it was a short descent into more serious crime: murder, housebreaking, and the occasional kidnapping.

Of late, the offenses had taken on a new style of execution. Perhaps the shift was inconsequential, but Cosette could not help ponder the change. Before, the gang’s activities had been inconsistent, showing several competing standards of methodology. Montparnasse’s contributions were obvious, but there were also cases of battery and assault mingled with forced entry and blackmail.

Recently, however, the break-ins were all the same: the wards and charms of protection were circumvented, and a substantial amount of gold was stolen, all occuring while the occupants were out of the house. Then the gang vanished, seemingly without a trace. It was only on the tip-off of an informant that the police knew it to be the Patron-Minette at all. Since then, there had been several attempts to catch them in the act, all of which were unsuccessful.

Perhaps the gang had simply streamlined their efforts, but Cosette was unconvinced of that. It struck her that someone else could be pulling the strings, someone wily enough to keep two steps ahead of the Aurors. But who, she wondered, was capable of commanding wizards of such fickle temperament?

Almost of their own accord, the girl’s eyes flickered to the far wall of the department. Ten posters clung to the limestone, courtesy of a Sticking Charm. The posters were much larger than the newspaper clipping upon the wall of the Musain, but the faces were the same.

Cosette shook her head. Not everything went back to the Death Eaters, she chided herself. In any event, the Patron-Minette had been following their new pattern since before the breakout. And yet, once the thought had occurred, it was not one easily let go of. She thought of Enjolras’ disappointment at how little information she had been able to provide, and frowned. It was true what she had told her uncle - it made no-one safer to keep her in the dark - but Javert refused to let her aid in the investigation.

An idea occurred then. Perhaps Javert would tell her little, but he was hardly the only Auror in the Palais. Standing to stretch, Cosette looked casually over the top of her cubicle and scanned the room. Many of the others were out on assignment, but there were a few at their desk. Satki was in the middle of a very aggravated conversation with Inspecteur Coste, but Merle was sitting at his desk quietly writing.

Carrying her mug with her, Cosette took a final glance around, ensuring that her uncle was not present. He would be upstairs in his office as Secrétaire, and anyway, he could hardly object to casual conversation between colleagues. So Cosette told herself as she approached where the lilac-haired wizard sat.

“Hello, Merle,” she said brightly.

Looking up from his work, Merle’s eyes widened, and he hastily stuffed whatever document he was working on into a folder. “Mademoiselle,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cosette laughed. “I was just on my way to grab some more tea,” she said, indicating her mug. “And I realized I have not said hello. I’ve been so busy going through the Patron-Minette’s files, I hadn’t had the chance.”

Merle visibly relaxed. “I see. Are you making any headway?”

“Slowly.” Cosette set down her mug as she continued, “I am working on a theory - it seems to me the gang may be answering to someone else, though employer or coercer, I could not say. And you? Is your investigation progressing?”

The nervousness returned to Merle’s face at that, and he looked around as though expecting to see Javert looming in some corner. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it...” he mumbled. “Something about ‘reducing workplace gossip’.”

“Oh, I understand,” Cosette said quickly. Of course her uncle would have forbidden his team from talking to her. “I expect it will all be resolved soon, anyway.” Switching tactics, she smiled and inquired, “How is Brevet?”

“He is well.” Smiling in return, Merle added, “He might be promoted from clerk soon, but it isn’t official yet, so we aren’t spreading the word.”

Cosette’s happiness was genuine as she clapped and offered her congratulations. Brevet was a clerk in the délit courts with whom Merle had become acquainted. Their budding romance followed the arrest of a Class C Non-Tradables smuggler, and it was the topic of some discussion amongst the Aurors and clerks alike. The general consensus was that they made a sweet couple.

“But doesn’t he worry?” Cosette asked suddenly. “Father frets over me constantly, and I am not the one tracking Death Eaters!”

“Well...” Merle glanced around again before leaning in closer. “Of course he worries, but someone has to do it, don’t they? Otherwise everyone is at risk.”

“I suppose so...” Cosette eyed the wanted posters again. “Still, I am glad it is not Marius’ job to catch them.”

Merle hummed. “I believe I may have run into your fiancé the other day. What does he do, again?” It was hard to tell whether this was an innocent query or an attempt to change the subject.

“He is a lawyer,” Cosette replied. “And actually, that reminds me -” She resolutely ignored the prickle of conscience she felt at lying. “- He told me a rather strange thing about an old court transcript he happened across, and I’ve been meaning to ask someone about it.”

His interest piqued, Merle cocked his head. “Oh?”

Tucking her hands behind her back, Cosette rocked on her heels. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask,” she said. “I know you’re not supposed to talk about your investigation.”

The Auror licked his lips. “Well,” he said slowly. “If it was an old transcript, that should be alright. What does the lawyer want to know?”

Hesitating for just long enough, Cosette said, “He thought he recognized one of the Death Eaters’ names, but couldn’t think of why. When he went back and did some digging, he wondered if there was a mistake - is it true that Henri Gisquet was once the Préfet de Préfecture?”

Merle stilled. Just as Cosette was starting to worry he might tell her to leave, the man sighed and gave a single, short nod. “He was,” the Auror said. “I’ll never forget the look on Javert’s face the day he caught him.”

Cosette’s breath stopped in her chest. “Javert? He was the one to catch Gisquet?”

“Well, yes.” Merle lowered his voice even more, glancing in the direction of Satki’s cubicle, but her argument with Coste had turned into a shouting match, and she was not listening to a word they were saying. “After what Gisquet did, I have to say he deserved it.”

“You mean trying to kill the Premier Ministre?” The Oracle had told her that much about Gisquet’s misdeeds.

Merle shook his head ‘no’. “Not only that,” he said. “You see, the Lestranges -”

But then, he cut himself off mid-sentence. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He closed his eyes. “That information is classified for a reason. If he found out that I’d said so much already... Oh, God.” The Auror looked imploringly at Cosette. “Please, say you won’t ask him about it.”

Merle looked so horrified that Cosette felt her heart melt with pity. Her uncle was admittedly not known for having an even temper.

“I won’t say a word,” she promised. “Thank you, Merle.”

The wizard gave a small, relieved chuckle. “Happy to help,” he said. “And I hope I’ve answered Marius’ question.” Something about his face suggested that he knew it was not really Marius asking.

That was when Satki stormed past, her furious expression insufficient to hide the hurt in her eyes.

“Oh, drat,” Merle said beneath his breath. “I’d better go and see what that was about.” Standing, he put a hand on Cosette’s shoulder, his usually carefree expression shadowed. “I will not ask what you are up to,” he told her, “but be careful. These are not people to be trifled with.”

With that parting warning, Merle took after the senior Auror, leaving Cosette alone in his wake. Cosette shook her head; it seemed she was not fooling anybody. And yet, Merle had still answered her question, letting slip a bombshell in the process.

She had not known - had not even suspected - that Javert was the one to first catch Gisquet, so thorough was her uncle in his bid to keep his past to himself. If that were the case, if Javert were responsible for putting the Préfet behind bars, then it explained at least in part his volatile reaction to the present crisis. And yet, at the same time, that revelation raised more questions than it answered.

Getting her hands on the court transcript of Gisquet’s trial had been easy, for that was a matter of public record. To her surprise, however, she had found much of the transcript to be redacted, a thick black line utterly obscuring the carefully-taken notes until someone with the proper clearance were to tap their wand against the parchment. It had told her enough to discover that Gisquet had been Préfet, but as to whatever role Javert played in his arrest, she remained unenlightened.

Cosette took hold of her mug, gripping the handle tightly. Her thoughts were far away as she sifted through information like the pieces to a puzzle. She was afraid there were a lot of pieces still missing.

It was with that in mind that she began to walk, like one in a dream, toward the corridor and the lift at the other end. If she were going to ask difficult questions, then Cosette supposed she might as well go right to the source.

Javert

The Secrétaire was bent over his desk in a state of great concentration, re-reading a letter for what felt like the umpteenth time. Under normal circumstances, he had no difficulty understanding the English language, and yet in this instance, Javert was certain he had to be mistranslating something. The possibility that he was reading the cursive script correctly was a prospect too alarming to consider until all other options were exhausted.

The letter was addressed to him personally. It was written in a hand he did not know, but was signed with a name that he did; the letter was come from the Governor of Azkaban Prison, a man whom Javert had not met with in over two decades. Even so, the wax seal upon the envelope was enough to reawaken the memory of his time spent monitoring the conditions in that place; back then, it had been just another one of his duties. Now, the reminder made him vaguely sick.

It was impossible to Apparate to or from the Isle of Azkaban. Officials and prisoners alike had to be transported there by boat, a harrowing journey through the rough seas which left even the most stalwart wizard shaken. That trial was nothing, however, compared to what awaited prisoners upon reaching the island. No sooner did they set foot upon the ground than they were subject to the malaise of the dementors, the only true guards of the prison. It was possible, if one were to observe the faces of those condemned there, to watch as the hope was drained from their souls entirely.

As for the agents of the police, their presence was required only twice annually to check that the facilities were all in good order. No sooner did an Auror approach the place than it became necessary for them to conjure a Patronus in order to stave off the island’s crippling effects. Even in those days, Javert had possessed little skill for the Patronus Charm, and yet a keen eye for detail and a prodigious knowledge of the ways of criminals had earned him a position anyway; as such, the Governor was always to accompany his visits, in order to cast the necessary enchantment. The result was that they had become familiar with one another, and the sight of a ghostly hound-shaped Patronus lighting the dank prison corridor was one the Auror still sometimes had dreams about.

Now, Javert stared at the letter on his desk. Carefully, he picked through the words again, searching for his error which would change the meaning of an otherwise disastrous missive.

To Mr. Javert, Secretary,

It’s been a long time, Javert, but I will not waste parchment on pleasantries. I was afraid I would need to get the attention of some bureaucrat, so it came as a relief when I was told it was you I ought to be writing.

Possibly word has reached you already, but in light of the recent breakout, I am resigning my post as the prison Governor at Azkaban. However, there is a further complication beyond the escaped prisoners which the press is not reporting. In fact, very few of our own have been informed, lest we create hysteria. We are, however, trying to alert the relevant authorities across Europe as a precautionary measure; forewarned is forearmed, and all that.

As you will no doubt recall, Azkaban has very few human staff. There is myself, a few clerks to manage the bookkeeping, and the occasional Auror brought in when circumstances require. For all that we are few, one of our duties intersects closely with that of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and is of the utmost importance to international security: namely, the tracking and containment of the dementors, whom without our persuasion would just as soon desert the island for the mainland, where they would wreak havoc among the civilian population.

It would appear that, following the breakout, approximately half a dozen dementors are now unaccounted for. Possibly this is a clerical error. However, while this is under investigation, it is my official recommendation that this be treated as an emergency. Until further notice, we are to assume that at least six dementors are acting outside of Ministry control. You will be notified when this situation is resolved.

I regret that we have not corresponded more over the years, but then, neither of us were ever much of ones for conversation. Take care of yourself.

Best,

Gregory Laird, Governor

Javert wanted to have misunderstood. He was increasingly certain that he had not. With an appalled snort, he shoved the letter back into its envelope and put his head in his hands. The gross incompetence was staggering. And if there were six dementors unaccounted for, then that would be just one more line-item on his growing list of problems to contend with.

Taking a deep breath, the Secrétaire put the matter from his mind and redirected his focus. Mlle. Lapointe had brought him an update on the status of the missing prisoners; though he suspected it would tell him nothing new, it was his job to read it regardless.

No sooner had he opened the folder, however, than there came a knock at the door. Where it rested on the tabletop, Javert’s hand tightened into a fist. A particularly irate stray thought suggested taking hold of his inkwell and throwing it at the interloper, but he disregarded the impulse. Instead, he closed the folder, set it slowly aside, and then folded his hands on the desk.

“Enter,” he said, his voice hard.

The door swung open on silent hinges. Javert was fully prepared to berate whomever it was for the interruption, but then the door stopped, and he was brought up short.

“Cosette?” Javert asked, his brow furrowing.

The girl stood in the hallway, looking a little timid at the expression on her uncle’s face. For all that they were family, it went against every one of Javert’s principles to treat her differently than he would any other Auror. Even so, he could not quite bring himself to raise his voice with her.

“You do not have an appointment,” Javert said instead. His frown suggested that there had better be good reason for the interruption.

“Your pardon, Monsieur,” came the demure reply. Cosette entered his office, her navy robes swishing around her feet. She held herself at attention, and Javert was put in the rather curious position of recognizing a parody of himself in her posture. “Would you rather I came back later?”

Suddenly weary, Javert touched a hand to his temple. “No,” he said. “No, go ahead. What is it?”

Clearing her throat, Cosette approached. “I have been working on the Patron-Minette case, as you asked.”

The Secrétaire pursed his lips; he did not think that giving an order was akin to “asking”, but he let the turn of phrase slide.  

“And I have been thinking,” Cosette continued. “Perhaps we are looking at this the wrong way.”

Continuing to frown, Javert turned his head toward her. “How do you mean?”

“Recently, the gang’s offenses have all been the same - precise, coordinated, untraceable.”

“Yes,” said Javert waspishly.

“So,” Cosette went on with the air of one riddling something out, “they must be planning each move that they make carefully. No alarms tripped, the enchantments undone or evaded...” She looked at Javert with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “The Patron-Minette are casing their targets in advance.”

Javert stood from his chair. “You may be right,” he said. “Which can only mean -”

“Someone is gaining access to the house beforehand!” Cosette finished. “Someone unassuming enough to talk their way inside, and who has the skill to identify what spells are where. If we can discover who is responsible -”

“We can warn the next target,” Javert murmured. “We could finally catch them at it.”

Head veritably buzzing with ideas, the Secrétaire walked back and forth behind his desk. “Line up interviews with the victims,” he said. “Beginning with the most recent. Get a list of every person who set foot in the house in the two weeks prior to the robbery. Check alibis, check connections...”

His hands grasped at the air as if he might wrap them around the miscreants’ throats. “Ask Proulx to assist you.” Javert turned to look at the girl. “He can organize the interviews, but I want you there to question the victims, you understand?”

“Yes,” Cosette said, the excitement shining in her face. “Yes, I will ask him.”

Exhaling, Javert passed a hand over his face. “Finally,” he muttered. “Some good news.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Cosette asked, “Is your own investigation going poorly, then?”

With his too-harsh laugh, Javert replied, “You could say that. And now it appears that there are dementors which have vanished as well, and that is just marvelous -” He shook his head, irritation returning as quickly as it had left.

Cosette tilted her head. Her father sometimes wore the same expression, when he had a question he was too polite to ask.

“Well?” Javert said flatly. “Out with it, then.”

Aware she was caught, Cosette flushed but said, “I had an idea, that was all.”

“Yes?”

“I was only wondering...” The girl tugged at a strand of her hair. “Le Oracle says that the Death Eaters are mobilizing around Sirius Black. Maybe that is true, but what if it isn’t?”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “If it isn’t?”

With a slight shrug, Cosette said, “Black has been in hiding since his escape, I do not foresee him showing himself now. But I did get to thinking... What of the first wizard to escape Azkaban?”

Javert choked, which he immediately covered beneath a cough. “What’s that, now?”

“If Black was the second, then there must have been someone before. And yet I can find no mention of them anywhere.”

“That is because,” the Secrétaire said sternly, “those files are restricted. You are not to go looking for them.”

“I was only thinking,” Cosette insisted, “that perhaps that case might shed some light on this one. Their method of escape -”

“- is irrelevant.” His lips pressed so tight as to be bloodless, Javert had to take a steadying breath. “Believe me,” he said to Cosette, “that case has nothing to do with this one. The wizard involved was pardoned.”

“Pardoned?”

“Of all charges. So put it from your mind.”

Cosette looked like putting it from her mind was the very last thing she wanted to do, but after a moment, she nodded reluctantly.

“Now if you will excuse me,” Javert went on, “There is work to be done.”

“Very well, Monsieur,” Cosette said. The defeat in her voice as she took her leave was too close to how she sounded on the occasions when they argued, as though she should have known better than to expect an answer from him. It stung, but not enough to overcome the the sudden protectiveness swelling in his breast.

Cosette did not know what she was asking, and therein lay the problem; she could not know, not if Javert was to honor his agreement with Valjean. That their conversation had come so close to the subject at all was unacceptable. Clearly, he had been right to officially designate the court records as unavailable.

When at last he turned again to the contents of his desk, Javert parsed quickly through Lapointe’s ‘update’, such as it was. The paper was less than useless to him, for the populace was all but battering down the door of the Palais demanding a solution, and meanwhile they were without a single lead. It was hardly Lapointe’s fault; whatever charm of concealment the Death Eaters were using, it had to be a powerful one.

Javert traced lightly over his wand, something Cosette had said nagging like a stray pebble in his thoughts. The Ministry of Magic claimed that the Death Eaters were following Black’s example; ostensibly, it seemed a plausible explanation, but when he stopped to consider it, there was a shade of doubt cast over that supposition. If the Death Eaters were not in league with Black, if they were working under their own power toward their own ends, then there was no guarantee that they had remained in England. They might have gone anywhere.

With a faint shudder, the Secrétaire thought then of a château deep in the forests of the Loire Valley. Possessed by a decided uneasiness, Javert had his hand on the door handle before he was conscious of moving across the room.

In the hall outside, a thick red carpet ran down the long wood-paneled corridor, passing offices left and right. It was in front of the very last door in the hall that Javert came to a stop.

He raised his fist to rap on the solid oak, but for a long minute, he stood there wavering. It was not for him to burden Chabouillet with his troubled thoughts. He himself might ease the Préfet’s mind, for such was his duty as the man’s subordinate, but to impede himself upon his superior’s time was asking too much. And yet, if he remained silent, Chabouillet might be left to think that Javert did not trust him to confide in, and nothing could be further from the truth.

He almost turned around and returned to his own chamber. Instead, Javert knocked, just the once.

The door opened immediately.

“Javert?” said the Préfet, standing just on the other side. “Come in, please.”

“Monsieur.” Javert bowed his head, and entered.

Chabouillet’s office was pristine as it always was; such was one of the things Javert admired in his patron, for the two men shared the same preference for a neat, orderly space. The Préfet did not sit at his desk, but stood behind it, his hands clasped in front of him.

“You wanted to see me?” Chabouillet prompted.

“I did,” Javert confirmed, and then paused. When he spoke again, it was with a touch of irony. “This is getting the better of me, I think.”

The Préfet raised his eyebrows. “The Death Eaters?”

Javert nodded. “I am jumping at shadows,” he said. “How can it be that we know so little?”

Chabouillet shrugged. “If it were easy, there would be no need for us. What is the latest?”

With a scowl, Javert replied, “Lapointe has gotten nowhere questioning our usual informants. And now I find myself wondering - suppose the Death Eaters are not moving under Black’s banner? If they are on their own... My God, there are some which might think to come to Paris!”

It did not need to be said which of the Dark wizards that might be; Javert could see in the tightening of the Préfet’s mouth that he knew precisely whom Javert was speaking of.

“And if they do?” Chabouillet winced. “Javert, if the Death Eaters were in Paris, then Lapointe’s informants would have told her so. It is inconceivable that they could move here unnoticed, even in the criminal underworld.”

Javert dropped his gaze. It ran against his nature to dispute authority, but Chabouillet’s logic did not follow. “The informants? We cannot count on them to talk,” he said. “Think how it was before, people were too afraid to speak out. We cannot pretend that Gisquet -”

“Gisquet would not dare show his face here, not while I am Préfet!”

Astounded, Javert raised his head to stare at his patron. Chabouillet was crushing a piece of parchment in his hand, his expression thunderous.

“Monsieur?”

Visibly forcing himself to relax his hold on the crumpled paper, the Préfet shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I ought not have shouted.” Drawing a ragged breath, he added, “It is not you I am angry with, anyway.”

Javert was silent, giving the Préfet time to collect himself. Chabouillet took a seat slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I thought I could live with it,” he said at last. “When they put him away, I told myself it was no less than he deserved. I made my peace with it.”

“And then this started. Now I cannot sleep at night for wondering what he is planning.” The Préfet met Javert’s eyes, and the sheer frankness he saw there was almost painful. “There is a month of my life which to this day, I cannot remember. But despite that, sometimes I still miss... What ever made him decide to double-cross us?”

His throat constricting, Javert crossed the floor and laid a tentative hand over Chabouillet’s. “I have often asked myself the same thing,” he said. “But I expect his reasoning would be inexplicable to me.”

The Préfet looked away then, the briefest of smiles flitting over his features. “You were always an excellent protégé,” he murmured.

Letting that remark pass without comment, Javert asked, “How would you like me to proceed?”

Chabouillet sat back in his chair. “For now? As you have been. We can do nothing until the Death Eaters show themselves. But have the others on high alert - the moment we hear anything, you must be prepared to act.”

Javert bowed. “Of course, Monsieur le Préfet.”

“Javert?” Chabouillet said before his subordinate could turn to go.

The Secrétaire paused, midway to wishing the man a good afternoon.

The Préfet’s words were subdued when he said, “I have not forgotten what Gisquet did to you. An offense against my protégé is an offense against me. It is not one I am willing to forgive him for.” A trace of his sardonic humor returning to his voice, Chabouillet added, “I thought you might wish to know that.”

For a moment, Javert did not reply. Then he said, “Thank you, Monsieur.”

The walk back to his office was a long one, for all that he did not have very far to go. The resurgence of Dark forces had overturned many things, bringing back into the light of day some memories which were better left buried and undisturbed. All at once, Javert found he wanted to be home. Jean would not know any better than Chabouillet what to do, but his gentle touch was always welcome, and perhaps his warm eyes would thaw the cold weight of foreboding pressing on Javert’s heart.

Chapter Text

February 8th, 1996
Gisquet

The marble tile was cold beneath his knees as Gisquet knelt upon the floor. To kneel in front any other would have been a humiliation, and he would tolerate no more of that, but to submit to this august figure was as natural as the lynx bowing before the tiger; power demanded reverence, and there was none more powerful than the Dark Lord.

“Rise,” rasped the quiet voice. It sounded like the rustling of leaves underfoot, or the crackling of parchment, but Gisquet knew it could change in an instant, becoming the cruel shriek which had ended the life of so many.

He got to his feet, careful to keep his head respectfully lowered. Gisquet was conscious of the others lurking in the corners, half-obscured in the dim light but for where the glow of the fire reflected off of their skeletal masks. The Dark Lord seemed almost to lounge in his armchair, and Gisquet’s fingers brushed subconsciously against the Mark on his arm; mere minutes ago, it had seared his flesh like fire, a summons calling him at last to his master’s side. He had Disapparated without hesitation, following the binding thread of magic until he had found himself in the Grande Salon of an opulent estate.

Now the Dark Lord watched him, his gaze at once heavy and disdaining, the hallmark of one who was accustomed to being obeyed. There was nothing human in those eyes, scarlet and reptilian, but they were alluring all the same; Gisquet had always been drawn to men in positions of power. The corner of the Dark Lord’s mouth lifted then, as though he knew his servant’s thoughts, but his eyes did not change; they remained pitiless and cold. It fell upon Gisquet to break the silence.

“It is as you predicted,” he said. “The Aurors suspect nothing. So far as they are concerned, we are camped somewhere in the British Isles. They are on alert, but remain ignorant of our presence here. And that is how we will entrap them.”

Pausing for breath, Gisquet glanced again toward the back and the Death Eaters gathered there. Among them stood Vidocq, masked like the rest. Gisquet could not stand him, everything about the wizard turned his stomach sour, but he was a means to an end and an efficient one at that.

Turning back to face the front, Gisquet admitted, “I was... arrogant before.” There was no point in denying it, not to his master, who was as close to all-knowing as they come. “In my pride, I was careless, and allowed loose ends to unravel everything. That is not a mistake I mean to make twice.”

Voldemort gave him a single, slow nod. It was little in the way of encouragement, but it spoke volumes coming from the Dark Lord.

“Our plan is a good one. As we speak, the Aurors are sitting on their heels, overwhelmed and under-informed.”

Gisquet allowed himself a knife-like smile. “They know not where we are nor when we may strike, and meanwhile their resources are stretched thin between growing incidents of petty crime. Vidocq acts on my behalf - already he has succeeded at ingratiating himself among them, and they are oblivious to him there. We will be perfectly poised to destabilize the Aurors from within, feeding them misinformation while staying ahead of their every move. It may take months, but we will succeed.”

Said the Dark Lord, “For your sake, see that you do.”

He then reached out a hand, beckoning another closer, and it was a second wizard who stepped forward to stand at Gisquet’s side. A wave of his elm wand Vanished his mask, and Gisquet recognized M. Rodolphus Lestrange, whose aristocratic features had not entirely recovered their handsome qualities following his incarceration.

Dutifully, Rodolphus bowed. As he swept back upright, he said, “The Manor is thoroughly warded - I put the last spells into place myself. Any wizard, even one who has known our hospitality, would be unable to find it now unless he bears a Dark Mark upon his arm.”

Voldemort sat forward. “Very well. And your other task?”

Rodolphus seemed to wince. “My Lord,” he said, “we are working towards a solution, but it is difficult. The Order of the Phoenix -”

“Spare me your excuses!” Voldemort snarled, and Rodolphus took a step back. Gisquet could not blame him for that; the Dark Lord’s ire was a thing of dread. “I want that prophecy,” their master continued. “You will learn its secrets. When you are not carrying out my instructions, return to this place. Neither Britain nor France can touch you here.”

Rodolphus bowed again, and Gisquet wondered if it irked the man to share his family home with the rest of the Dark Lord’s followers. The once-Préfet could not have cared less how M. Lestrange felt, but the thought did give him an idea, one which brought the same cunning smile back to his face.

He coughed politely; immediately, all eyes were upon him, and he bowed again lest the noise be mistaken for insolence.

“My Lord,” said Gisquet, speaking to the ground, “If I may, I have a proposal to make.”

Voldemort tipped his head to the side as he considered the words of his servant. “I can see your mind, Henri,” he said softly, “and I find myself intrigued. Speak, that the others may know your intent.”

Rising, Gisquet explained, “We ten shall remain here, out of sight until it is time to mount our offensive.” There was a grumble of dissatisfaction at this, which Gisquet did not doubt originated with Mme. Bellatrix in the corner.

Waving a conciliatory hand, he went on, “But there is no reason for the rest of the Dark Lord’s servants to keep to the shadows. I know the Aurors well - should our allies go forth, leaving destruction in their wake, the Aurors will put their focus there. They will think even less of us as they try and fail to contain them, and meanwhile we have only to tighten the noose.”

Voldemort nodded and straightened in his chair; at once, there was absolute silence.

“I find this diversion to be to our benefit,” he said. “Take heed, all - send what messages you must to the werewolves, the loup garou, and to my lesser followers. They should know this - fear is our greatest ally. They may do as they see fit to inspire it.”

Around the Salon, robed figures bent at the waist and Disapparated, the better to spread the Dark Lord’s wishes. Anticipation thrummed like a drum beat through every fiber of Gisquet’s being. The Préfecture had not the means to circumvent their rising tide, and in its desolation, those who wronged him would have no choice but to remember that it was Gisquet - had always been Gisquet - who was the more powerful.

Crossing the floor, the wizard caught the shoulder of one of the Death Eaters before they could disappear. Turning, the cloaked figure paused, and Gisquet knew he had picked the correct silhouette out of the crowd.

“Vidocq,” he said. “I have another task for you.”

The wizard Vanished his mask, and Gisquet beheld Vidocq’s scowling features.

“I told you I wouldn’t be ordered around,” the man hissed. “Or have you forgotten that?”

Gisquet clapped him on the back, leading him out of the Salon and into the corridor.

“Fear not,” said Gisquet. “You will like this task very much. It concerns our mutual friend, Monsieur le Secrétaire.”

Cosette

Marius’ arm was slung around her waist as he and Cosette walked the by-now familiar streets to the Rue Cujas. It was not so very far a distance from No. 55, and their route sometimes took them on a detour through the Jardin du Luxembourg when the weather was fair. That February morning, the air was biting with frost and Cosette’s breath hung about her in wispy clouds, but the sun shone brightly in the sky, and there were children ice skating across the garden’s frozen pool. By the time they reached the Café Musain, Marius’ nose was cherry red. Cosette could scarcely feel her fingers, but the cold did not stop her laughing gaily when Marius planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Mademoiselle,” her fiancé said, holding open the hidden door.

“Monsieur,” she returned, curtsying as she took the stairs down from the landing.

Inside the back room, the Amis were gathered around the long table, their chairs abandoned as they stood pouring over papers spread across the surface. The room was filled with a low hum as the group spoke amongst themselves; inquisitive, Cosette hailed Jean Marie, who came bounding up to the pair of them.

“Hullo, Marius,” said the boy. “Cosette.”

“Hello, Jean,” Cosette grinned in return, reaching up to ruffle the boy’s hair. Though he was younger, having another year left still of his mother’s home-schooling, he was taller by far, and there was something wolffish in the way he moved, never so much walking as padding across the floor. “What is the news?”

Jean’s golden eyes blinked at her. “It be a change, that’s sure. You’d best be comin’ to see.”

Glancing at one another, Cosette and Marius followed as Jean led them over to where Courfeyrac was arguing a point with Bahorel.

“I am telling you -” said Courfeyrac, “- this is unrelated.”

Bahorel shook his head. His face was drawn after the full moon a few nights prior, but his voice was firm as he replied, “There is no discounting anything until we know for certain - these two could provide valuable insight!”

“If your idea of ‘valuable’ is a couple of soused wizards starting a duel in a bar,” Courfeyrac said mulishly. “In which case I’ve got to question your priorities.”

Squeezing in between the two before the conversation could escalate, Marius interjected with, “Courfeyrac!” and then, “What is going on?”

“What is going on,” Courfeyrac replied, lifting a page from the table, “is that the day we have been waiting for is here - the Death Eaters have made their move.”

“What?” Cosette asked in amazement, pushing her way forward to see the table’s contents for herself. “What happened? Where? When?”

“All over Paris,” Bahorel said grimly. “Minor skirmishes mostly, at least as far as have been reported, but Combeferre received an owl and had to leave immediately - the hospital believes there is a rogue werewolf attacking without provocation.”

Cosette’s eyebrows drew together. “But the full moon was four days ago - it is broad daylight out!”

“Yes,” said Bahorel. The tension in his shoulders was apparent to the eye. “I am aware.”

Prouvaire appeared at Marius’ elbow; usually such a statement on Bahorel’s part would have invited a pun from the younger man, but perhaps noticing the expression on his face, Prouvaire elected to keep his wordplay to himself. Instead, he held up an envelope.

“Owl from the third arrondissement,” he announced, passing it off to Cosette. “Another incident, though whether it is the Death Eaters or not, I could not say.”

“That is the trouble,” Courfeyrac said to Marius, his friend and sometimes-roommate. “It is like a madness has taken the city - before there was nothing to report, and now there is more than we know what to do with! Eyewitness accounts tell us some of these are Dark wizards at work, but as for the others? We do not know.”

“This is very strange,” Cosette murmured aloud, studying the contents of the envelope. “The letter says here that a Madame Descoteaux experienced a break-in at her home. A concealed safe in her powder room was emptied while she was away at the Opéra. But that sounds like...”

She trailed off, thinking, only to startle when a voice across the room called her name.

Looking up, Cosette beheld Enjolras waving her over; she handed the letter to Marius and skirted around the table to where their leader was bent over another parchment with Fleur Delacour.

“Do you know anything about this?” Enjolras asked, indicating the paper. “Delacour’s friends in the Order claim that our Aurors were involved in investigating the matter.”

Pulling the parchment toward her, the girl’s eyes swept over the missive. It described a journey undertaken by Cosette’s former Headmistress, Madame Maxime, to treat with the giants and win them over to the side of good in the brewing war.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes - it was some weeks ago, but I am certain I overheard Satki mentioning giants to Inspecteur Coste.”

“But -” Cosette added, faltering as she read further down. “But it says here that Madame Maxime and her companion were attacked by Death Eaters! Satki never said a thing about that!”

Fleur pursed her lips. “This is why Madame Maxime’s mission failed. She was run off, and the Death Eaters won the giants’ loyalty in her place. They know very little, the Aurors,” the girl added. “They were not looking for Dark magic, and so they found none.”

Cosette bit her lip, torn between wanting to defend her friends and recognizing the truth in Fleur’s words. The Aurors were not always quick to accept an inconvenient truth.

“So the giants have sided with You-Know-Who,” she murmured. “And the dementors must be leaning the same way.”

Enjolras shot her a look. “Dementors?”

Cosette nodded wearily. “Something my uncle let slip - I do not think he meant to. It seems that Azkaban is missing a few of its guards.”

Fleur shuddered. “Those horrid creatures? They will have joined the Death Eaters for certain - I suppose Voldemort has no qualms offering them human souls!”

Enjolras appeared troubled. Raising his head, he called for the attention of the room. When he had it, he asked of the assembly, “Who here can perform the Patronus Charm?”

Cosette raised her hand, as did Enjolras, Jean Marie, and to everyone’s collective surprise, Joly.

“What?” Joly sniffed in response to the mutters of skepticism around him. “Just because none of you can do it...”

“Combeferre can as well,” said Enjolras. “Which makes five.” He turned to Cosette. “We will have to teach that spell to the group, I think.”

“Isn’t it terribly hard to learn?” Prouvaire asked, looking to Enjolras anxiously.

Their leader smiled without humor. “State-sanctioned propaganda,” he replied. “If the citizenry believe a Patronus is beyond their abilities, then they will fear Azkaban and its guards all the more, and it is easier to keep them in line.”

Drawing his wand from his pocket, Enjolras said, “Observe. Expecto patronum.”

He gestured with the cypress instrument, and a great ball of blue-white light erupted over the tabletop, where it coalesced into the form of a phoenix batting its wings. Cosette gasped with the rest; her own cairn terrier did not seem nearly as impressive in comparison. With another gesture, Enjolras dismissed the phantom bird; it faded almost reluctantly back into the ether.

All was quiet for a moment following that display. Expressions of wonder were not confined to a few faces; the phoenix was a rare Patronus indeed.

Then from the back of the room came the inevitable interruption. Cosette was uncertain whether Grantaire made it a conscious effort to interject at the worst times, or whether it was purely his own misfortune, but she braced herself for the backlash as the cynic cleared his throat.

“It is harder in the presence of a dementor,” said Grantaire.

Enjolras blinked. Laconic, he asked, “Know a lot about that, do you?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Enough,” he said shortly. “You feel yourself begin to grow weaker in the dementor’s presence, until all you are is cold and empty, and can’t bring to mind anything by which to resist its power.”

For a moment, Enjolras seemed genuinely taken aback, not so much by the truth of that statement as by the fact that it was Grantaire who had uttered it. “Well,” he said, and Cosette could not recall ever quite seeing doubt flicker across Enjolras’ face as it did then. “Certainly it is more difficult under pressure. That is why everyone should learn - if one of us is compromised, another can cast the spell.”

“Another meeting, then,” Bossuet spoke up. “But as for now, what is to be done about the Death Eaters?”

It was Courfeyrac who answered in Combeferre’s absence, unusually serious. “So far, it is only the lesser servants of Voldemort who are stalking the city. The reports make it plain - shops have been looted, a few people cursed, and others more violently attacked.”

He gestured at the newspaper clipping on the wall. “Those ten have not been spotted yet. Voldemort is doubtless keeping them close until he is ready to launch a full-scale assault. In the meantime, we have a duty to protect our countrymen. That is what we are here for - now let us make these scum regret preying on the innocent.”

A chorus of “Hear, hear!” went up from the assembly. Enjolras gave a firm nod.

“Very good,” he said. “Each of you has your district to patrol - do so. Take it in shifts, but make certain the streets are always watched. If you come across a Death Eater, do not engage without backup. Even if they have not the training of Voldemort’s lieutenants, they will still think to use spells no civilized man would utter.”

Courfeyrac took Bahorel by the shoulder, pulling him and Bossuet aside for a quiet word. Cosette turned to Fleur, a question about giants on her lips, when Gavroche crawled out from under the table and tugged the hem of her robe.

“Gavroche,” said Cosette, jumping in surprise. “What are you doing down there?”

“Mam’selle,” the boy said, “Marius thought you might want this back.” Gavroche extended his hand, holding out the letter the owl had brought.

“Oh!” Taking it, she added, “Thank you!”

The youth gave her a toothy grin and then crawled back underneath the table, where he lay flat on his stomach with a sheet of paper and some of Grantaire’s little-used charcoal sticks. He appeared to be sketching a map of the sewer line.

With an affectionate huff, Cosette shook her head. Then she looked around until she caught Marius’ gaze from across the room. Holding up the envelope, the girl mouthed “Thank you”, only for her to blush as Marius blew a kiss in response.

With great satisfaction, Cosette opened the letter and skimmed its contents again. Mme. Descoteaux had been visited by the Patron-Minette, she was certain of it. Cosette only needed to go to the Palais and prove as much. By pure chance, a lead had fallen right into her lap.

“Gavroche,” the girl said aloud, “would you please take a message to -”

And then she stopped, for the boy had looked up from his child’s fort with a familiar spark in his eyes, and Cosette was struck by a rather singular thought.

The thought was this: in spite of how many were gathered there in that back room, there was one member of their ensemble still missing.

She had not seen Éponine once all day.

Éponine

With a sigh, Éponine turned the wrong way in her chair, leaning her back against the edge of the card table. She held her wand pinched between two fingers, bouncing it listlessly. Despair was a silent houseguest, but it found other ways to make itself known as it occupied every corner of that little apartment. In the dingy front room of No. 4, the Boulevard de l’Hôpital, the soft whir of the fan was the only sound.

“Prior incantato,” Éponine muttered. A silver mist issued from the tip of her blackthorn, coiling into the shape of a lock keying open before it dissolved. A tiny smirk tugged then at her lips; Babet may have broken the protective enchantments over the safe, may have Confunded the trap on the inside of the door before it could explode into a ball of flame, but it was Éponine’s clever fingers and way with a wand that had cracked it open like a dragon’s egg for the taking. The job had gone off without a hitch.

Elsewhere in the apartment, a door slammed, and Éponine flinched. She rolled over onto her side, stuffing her wand back into her robes as voices approached from the rear hall. With bated breath, she listened.

“- only half of what we agreed,” came the petulant grousing Éponine knew belonged to Montparnasse. The wizard blushed when he was angry, a trait which might have been endearing if not for the vicious ferocity at the end of his short fuse.

“You will have the rest soon enough,” M. Thénardier replied placatingly. “Consider it a deposit, with more to follow.”

Peeking past the card table, Éponine spied her father’s silhouette standing in line with that of Montparnasse, the dim radius of the hall light at their back. Flanking the pair on either side were Gueulemer and Babet; Claquesous, as was usually the case, had concealed himself somewhere out of sight. Though her father’s features were confident, there was a certain way he slumped in his shoulders which offered the Patron-Minette his deference. That was as much a lie as the rest, for Thénardier feared nothing except perhaps poverty, but it kept the gang appeased if they thought him cowed. Still, one could not be cowed who possessed no pride to begin with, and Thénardier was the sort who would crawl on his belly if it got him what he wanted.

“A deposit,” Gueulemer repeated, low and hoarse. He chuckled at that, with more threat than amusement. “You spoke of good money. This is horseshit.”

“Old Descoteaux’s fortune was not what the woman led us to believe,” Thénardier said fretfully. “Such is the way of the rich, they are forever putting on airs. But forget that - my schemes have turned you a profit, do not deny it. You cannot pretend as though my methods have been ineffective. And the Aurors have not laid a finger on you, no matter how that old fox Javert has tried running us to ground.”

“I am in need of new dress robes,” declared Montparnasse. “See these elbows, they are threadbare. And the latest fashions are expensive - the meager coin you paid out is insufficient. Whatever job you line up next, it had best be fit to make kings of us, or the Patron-Minette may start looking to other means to collect our debts.”

Her father replied quietly in earnest, and Éponine had to make a strenuous effort not to miss a single word.

“I am meeting a wizard tonight. He has work for us, the bona-fide article, and his people are willing to pay well for men who know how to keep their mouths shut. Meet me tomorrow at the Pont d’Iéna, and I will tell all.”

Montparnasse gestured to Gueulemer and Babet. He fixed his top hat over his curls, gave a single discourteous nod, and then as one, the Patron-Minette Disapparated.

Into the sudden emptiness, Thénardier muttered, “Slinking back to the gutter that spawned them, I have no doubt.”

Éponine slipped off her chair and crept over to the moth-eaten sofa, unseen as her father glared into space. Sinking into the cushions, she heard the creak of hinges, and then her mother’s shuffling stride coming down the hall.

“Are those sons of whores left yet?” the woman barked, peering beadily into the dim front room. “They’ve eaten what was left in the kitchen, and smell of the sewer besides.”

“Hush,” M. Thénardier commanded with a nervous look around. “You would not say as much to their face, do not speak so now.”

Mme. Thénardier was a woman disinclined to talk back to her husband. Even so, she cast a glance over her shoulder towards the bedroom, where her beloved Azelma was hiding from the gang of thieves.

Éponine’s heart gave a strange twinge; her mother had not looked upon her with the same doting concern ever since their faded fortunes had taken her pretty, girlish face and turned it thin and gaunt. Mme. Thénardier had little love to spare, and it was not to be squandered on homely daughters. So it was that Éponine wore her hair short, and made do with robes instead of dresses, and told herself she did not mind.

“Azelma is to take Bamatabois what he is owed,” her father commanded. “She is good for that. You must stay out of sight tonight - I am conducting business here.”

“And are we eating tonight?” Mme. Thénardier asked, the tremulous waver in her voice no less apalling than her rages.

“Tomorrow,” said her father. He clasped his hands together. “Tomorrow we eat steak and drink wine.”

Éponine’s knees tightened against her stomach, which gurgled all the more for the reminder that it was empty. She thought of the meeting she had missed, and the opportunity to slide a few more sandwiches into her satchel.

“‘Ponine!” called M. Thénardier, and Éponine sat bolt upright. Spotting her, the wizard hastened over, tapping the arm of the sofa meaningfully. “You are going out to-night,” he said. “Patrol the block. Any sign of the police, and you send the signal.”

The girl nodded without hesitation. Whatever opportunity she had to go outside, she would take.

She got to her feet, casting a look back at the apartment as she unbolted the door. The girl’s eyes took in everything from the rickety table, to the kitchen, dark where her father was too stingy to replace the broken bulb, to the cigar smoldering in the ashtray, and she thought to herself not for the first time that there had to be more to living than what her family afforded her.

The outside air was a breath of new life as she took in the sight of the setting sun over Paris. A breeze stirred a lock of hair against her cheek, and Éponine felt some of the weight on her shoulders ease, if only for a little while. She took the steps down from the Gorbeau House two at a time, not quite skipping past the brown lawn on her way to the street.

That was when a voice saluted her from up the sidewalk.

“Éponine!”

Turning, Éponine beheld Marius drawing closer, and immediately she felt herself falter and grow clumsy.

“Monsieur,” she returned as nonchalantly as she could.

“I have told you,” Marius half-laughed, “you need never ‘Monsieur’ me.”

He said ‘vous’ to her, but far from sounding distant and too formal, it made all that was left soft in her chest flutter with consternation, for Marius made it seem as though he spoke with respect. There were many boys and a few girls at whose hands Éponine had known another’s touch, but they had no respect to offer a street rat, nor had she ever expected to receive any. For that reason, Marius was special.

“And how was your day?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice as she added, “I suppose you and your fiancée went to the Café Musain.”

Marius did not seem to notice her tone. “Yes,” he said. “We missed you there.”

Éponine’s face heated; Marius had missed her. “I had a conflict,” she found herself explaining. “A family matter.”

A curious light in his eyes, Marius looked toward the darkened windows of No. 4. “I do not believe I have ever met your family.”

“They are not worth meeting,” said Éponine. “Except maybe ‘Zelma, my little sister.”

The curiosity had not faded from his eyes when Marius asked, “Where are you off to at this time of night?”

“Just for a walk,” replied Éponine. “The city is quieter after the sun goes down.”

“Be careful,” Marius advised. “The streets are dangerous tonight.”

Éponine murmured a soft, “Thank you, Monsieur,” as Marius moved toward his rooms at No. 6. He had not gone far, however, when he stopped with an, “Ah!” and half-turned back, reaching into the pockets of his robe. When his hand reemerged, he was holding a lopsided sandwich bundled in a napkin.

“Are you hungry?” Marius asked, his cheeks turning pink in the dwindling daylight.

Éponine startled, and cursed herself silently as she fumbled for a response. “N-no,” she said. “That is, I’m alright.”

“For your sister, then,” Marius insisted, and Éponine hated how kind his eyes were, how in spite of herself she wanted to accept. Then Marius said, “Cosette has noticed you putting them in your bag - she thought perhaps you would like one after missing the meeting today.”

At the mention of Cosette’s name, the light, fizzy feeling in her stomach turned to lead.

“No,” said Éponine coldly. “No, we are quite well without it, thank you.” She turned away, fingers curling into fists at her side as she added, “I am not a charity case!”

Before Marius could respond, she took off down the street until her breath started to come in heaving pants, and her eyes stung with tears that refused to fall.

What business was it of hers, Éponine wondered. Why couldn’t she leave well alone?

Vidocq

Dusk had fallen when a cloak in the shape of a man appeared suddenly on the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. The man seemed almost as if to step out of thin air, materializing with a faint pop, but the street was deserted, and no-one was there to remark upon the strange apparition.

For a long minute, the cloaked man did nothing but scan the row of apartments that made up the Gorbeau House. Once, it might have been an acceptable, albeit cheap, place to rent a property, but it had since changed ownership and fallen into disrepair as the landlord invested in development properties closer to the city center. Now, the roof sagged, the iron railings were twisted and rusting, and the bricks were pockmarked with graffiti. There were other marks there among the spray paint, but it took a wizard to uncover those, and a villain to decipher their meaning.

When at last he turned his head, the apparition seemed to fixate upon No. 4. He approached noiselessly, climbing the steps to the front door. Only then did he pause, checking he was alone before rapping once upon the doorframe. The door opened by a fraction of an inch, and a wizard peered out. By way of greeting, the newcomer tugged up the sleeve of his robe, revealing the image that stained his skin as black as the magic running through it, the shape of a skull with a snake in its mouth.

At that, the wizard paled, and held the door open wide. The figure stepped in, throwing back his hood, and Thénardier recognized the man who had approached him, one who called himself Vidocq.

“Beer, if you have it,” Vidocq said curtly, only to snigger to himself as Thénardier scrambled to obey. His partnership with Gisquet had its perks, he could not deny that, and one of them was the Dark Mark upon his arm. There was no warning or ultimatum so effective as the sign of Lord Voldemort’s inner circle.

When Thénardier returned, he was carrying two bottles, and he gestured at a folding card table.

“Please be seated, Monsieur,” he said, his voice high and reedy. “We haven’t much, but we know the meaning of generosity in this house, make no mistake. Perhaps Monsieur would care to -”

“Let’s get this over with,” Vidocq interrupted, moving to take the proffered chair.

“Of course,” said Thénardier, falling over himself as he hurried to sit in the seat opposite. “A man such as yourself has many appointments. You wished to discuss business?” He slid the beer bottle across the tabletop.

Vidocq popped the cap off the bottle with a flick of his wand and brought the amber glass to his lips. The drink tasted like piss and smelled worse. He swallowed and took a second swig.

“Yes,” Vidocq grunted at last. “Business.” He laced his fingers together, assessing Thénardier thoughtfully. He did not look like much, but sometimes men like that made the best sort of crook. “There is a job I want done,” he said. “You have only to follow directions to the letter, and you will be compensated for your trouble.”

Thénardier eyed him, and Vidocq revised his assessment. The man was definitely a crook, and a bold one at that, if he was thinking of haggling with a Death Eater. Vidocq had approached the right wizard indeed.

“This job,” Thénardier said with practiced tact. “What would Monsieur have us do?”

Vidocq looked at him levelly. “You are to escort the mark to a secure location of my choosing, and see to it that he stays there.”

Thénardier leaned across the table. “I would need a name.”

Vidocq gave him one.

Then Thénardier’s eyes went wide, and he leapt up from his seat, beginning to pace and gesticulate wildly. “You and I are of one mind, Monsieur,” he said. “Truly, a prescient and groundbreaking suggestion. You must know, of course, that he and I are acquainted - indeed, he once humiliated me in my own home! However, if I may make a suggestion...”

Vidocq raised an eyebrow.

Thénardier paused and looked him in the eye, a slow and terrible smile spreading over his face. “There is yet more we can accomplish here,” he said. “You see, it is as I said - I know him, as I know those he holds dear. I also happen to know there is a fortune hidden away, ripe for the plundering. I will make no secret of it, Monsieur - though revenge is sweet, I am a profiteer, and revenge does not pay the bills.”

Vidocq considered this, turning his wand over in his fingers. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will hear you out. What is it you would do?”

Thénardier explained, and as he did so, Vidocq began to smile with a mein equally terrible. They talked long into the night, and a plan came gradually together.

Chapter Text

February 14th, 1996
Vidocq

It is at this point in the narrative relevant to introduce one of the most peculiar attributes of the city of Paris, namely its strange, chthonic underbelly that has featured in so many works of fiction and tabloid canards. Miles of sewer were buried beneath the pavement, some of it new with all the trappings of modern plumbing, and some of it centuries old. Maps existed which showed the sewer in its entirety, but there were few who ever saw with their own eyes more than what museums and tour stations allowed. Fewer still knew of the crevasses, places in the southern quarter of the city where fissures had opened over the years in the brick walls, only to find the empty air of caves on the other side. For it was not merely tunnels and pipes in this upside-down world, but also a long network of treacherous mines.

The mines of Paris were not to be trifled with, whether by Muggle or by wizard, and both mundane and magical governments had taken pains to prevent their citizens from trespassing. Grids of stone pillars were all that remained of the once-vibrant economy in excavating limestone and plaster gypsum from under the city’s foundations; some places were so riddled with holes in the soft rock that they had become unstable. Then there was the matter of their abandonment, for in the absence of human life, other life had taken up residence. There were parts where the rats would not go, for fear of the creatures that dwelt there.

Any tourist could tell tales of the region in the mines called Les Catacombes, and the millions of bodies laid to uneasy rest within. But the tourists were permitted only a glimpse of that labyrinth, and the mines extended well beyond what they could see. Catacomb became tunnel became stone gallery became collapsed cave became tunnel again, squeezing farther and farther into the bedrock. And every so often, there was a crevasse, an opening a mere meter in width into the medieval sewer. It was within those secret grottos, all but forgotten by most, where Vidocq had long ago claimed space for himself. Upon finding himself returned to Paris, the wizard had staked his claim once more.

The sound of distant water dripping was a constant in his segment of the mines, but the ground on which Vidocq stood was dry and sandy, and he surveyed his handiwork with some delight. There was the large cave which he kept as a reception space; a few chairs were gathered at a table in the corner, but it was otherwise bare. His own quarters he made in a separate cave to the rear, and then there was the tunnel which branched off the side wall and delved down into a long, sinuous passage. His crowning achievement, however, was the Fidelius Charm laid into the stone. There was no-one, wizard or not, who could find him there unless he wished it. Even the Dark Lord himself could not undo a Fidelius Charm.

There was one other thing of note in the main chamber; torches provided much of the light, but there was also a glow cast by the fire made in the corner, over which simmered an iron cauldron. The contents thereof looked like little more than brown sludge, which meant that it was brewed to perfection. Of course it was; Gisquet had prepared it himself, and a man did not get to be the Préfet to the Aurors of France without some prodigious magical skill.

Coming to a halt alongside the cauldron, Vidocq took the silver flask from his hip. Usually he preferred it full of firewhisky, but of late, it had carried a different sort of elixir. Careful not to spill even one precious drop, Vidocq ladled Polyjuice Potion into the flask until it was near to overflowing. Then he holstered it at his side and withdrew his wand instead. There was a spring in his step as he moved toward the tunnel.

The tunnel off the side of the cave was dark. A single torch at the end flickered and flared but in vain; the darkness was a tangible, oppressive force, and it infused every boulder and stalactite with a malicious weight. It was also much colder there, and his breath came in little clouds.

“Expecto patronum,” Vidocq muttered, and a white light shimmered into existence, falling to the floor, where it took on the form of a grackle. The bird fluttered around his legs with hopping steps, holding the hungry shadows at bay.

Traversing deeper into the tunnel, Vidocq glanced to either side. Cut into the rock were irregular chambers, places where miners had followed a gypsum vein only to be forced to stop lest the tired stone above give way and crush them. It was all now shored up by magic, but not for the purpose of further pilfering the mineral from the tunnel. Instead, the shallow hollows had a new purpose, one which required very little renovation to fulfil.

Vidocq was midway down the tunnel’s length when he came to a stop. To his right was one of the chambers. Iron bars driven into the stone barricaded the mouth of the opening, trapping its single occupant within as neatly as a fly in a spider’s web. The darkness seemed to press in the closest there, as if the draining force had centered its attentions on the unfortunate resident of the cell.

For the time being, the prisoner was leaning his back against the iron door. At the sound of Vidocq’s approach, he raised his head to glare with dull eyes at his captor.

“I might have known,” Mathis Coste spat. “Come back for more, have you?”

“Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” Vidocq said with false magnanimity. “You are more lucid than when last we spoke.”

At that, a shudder passed through the Auror. He was stripped to the waist, and in the light of his Patronus, Vidocq could see the goosebumps raised all over the man’s flesh, as well as the blue and purple reminders of what it had taken to subdue him. “Not for lack of trying,” Coste grit out. “What was it you drugged me with?”

Vidocq hummed, wrapping his fingers around the bars and looking down. “A cocktail of my own invention,” he replied. “Three drops of Veritaserum into some old-fashioned laudanum. Do you know how hard that is to come by these days? But Muggles used to love the stuff - it’s good at what it does.”

“Veritaserum...” Coste repeated, and his head fell into his hands. “What did I say?”

“The better question is, what didn’t you say?” Vidocq tilted his head consideringly. “You sang like a songbird - everything I wanted, you spilled without a second thought.”

The Auror took a deep breath. “And now that you have what you want, you’ve come back to kill me, is that right?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Vidocq laughed. “You might prefer it to having to live with the mess you’ve made. But no - I’m not about to kill you yet. You still have something else I need.”

Forcing himself onto his knees, Coste turned so that he could glower to Vidocq’s face. “You will not have it,” he said. “Whatever information you haven’t stolen already, you can shove it up your -”

Vidocq gave a dismissive flick of his wand, and the Auror was lifted bodily and thrown against the back wall of the chamber. He crumpled to the ground with a muffled cry, and then there was silence.

The keys hung beside Vidocq’s hip flask, and these he now availed himself of, stepping inside the cell with a click of the lock.

“Don’t worry,” said Vidocq softly. “It isn’t information I’m after. And you've been helping me with this already, you simply don’t remember. Granted, you were high as a kite, so I don’t think anyone will blame you. Or maybe they will - you let yourself be captured, after all.”

Groaning, the Inspecteur turned over, trying to get up on his elbows, but Vidocq aimed a swift kick at his ribs, and Coste fell back with a choked noise of pain. Then Vidocq planted his boot heel on Coste’s chest, pinning him in place as he leaned over to speak.

“Don’t take it too hard,” said Vidocq. “It’s only every friend you have among the Aurors who will suffer because of what you’ve done.”

Blinking dazedly, what Coste said next was, “Those are my robes you’re wearing.”

There was no warning as Vidocq’s hand shot forward, ripping several hairs from the man’s scalp. Coste snarled and twisted, comprehension dawning in his eyes, but Vidocq’s boot heel dug deeper into his chest, and in his weakened state, it was all that the Auror could do to keep struggling.

Standing upright, Vidocq unscrewed the cap of his flask and added the short hairs to the potion, which fizzled unpleasantly in response. Out the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a dementor on the opposite side of the bars, waiting impatiently for Vidocq’s Patronus to dissipate so that it might feed once more on the Inspecteur’s memories. Vidocq was only too happy to oblige it.

Tipping his head back, the wizard took a long draught of his magical elixir. From the floor, Coste watched warily. There was a minute where nothing seemed to happen, and then he felt his skin ripple, body changing size, growing shorter and broader, his beard shrinking back into his face. In a matter of moments, he was no longer Vidocq, but Inspecteur Mathis Coste, regaled in his splendid Auror’s robes.

Looking down at the broken figure on the floor, Vidocq said in Coste’s voice, “I’ll say ‘hello’ to Satki for you, shall I?”

Galvanized by horror, the prisoner got shakily to his feet, perhaps preparing to launch himself at Vidocq in desperation, but he was too late. With a nasty parting grin, the newly-made Inspecteur gripped his wand tight and Disapparated.

Marius

Marius leaned his chin on his hand, his elbow resting on the tablecloth, and a besotted smile stretched across his face. He supposed he looked ridiculous, but he knew he could not look otherwise. He did not know how anyone could, in the presence of the glowing young woman seated across the table from him.

It made a nice change to go out on a date for once, a real one, to smile to M. Valjean’s face when he was met at the door without any deception or hidden motives. It was not that Marius failed to understand the need for caution; the Amis’ cause was an important one, but M. Valjean would surely see only the danger if he knew what his daughter was wound up in. Even so, Marius was unabashedly grateful for their outing, and the opportunity to have his fiancée’s attentions entirely to himself on La Saint-Valentin.

“It is a charming place,” said Cosette, beaming at him over her menu. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the length of her bare throat, and Marius caught himself staring.

“It is,” he agreed hastily. “Very charming.”

He had chosen a tea house for their afternoon, part of a fussy boutique near the Marais. Truth be told, he had not had a clue where to take her; Marius’ finances were such that he went out very seldom on his own. He had resorted therefore to hounding Courfeyrac for suggestions. It had taken some experimentation to determine which suggestions were actually suitable for luncheon, and which were Courfeyrac’s preferred establishments for picking up a new bed-mate. The tea house had looked by far the most promising.

Yellow plaster walls and windows of stained glass filled the salon with color. In the back beside the kitchens stood a massive antique hutch, stacked full to bursting with shelves of boxed tea leaves. Rows of petite tables for two were occupied by couples all sharing in the holiday, and from the ceiling hung glass bell jars full of candlelight.

“It is well we could go out today,” said Cosette. “I’ve never seen so much sun in February.”

Marius murmured in agreement, looking out the wide bank of windows that faced the street. It was indeed a crisp, clear afternoon, without a cloud in the sky.

“Your work goes well?” Cosette inquired, folding her napkin in her lap.

Marius nodded. “There is a new case I am defending,” he said. “One of underage magic. A boy cast a Disarming Spell in the middle of the street, and in front of a Muggle girl, so it’s doubly problematic. He’s facing expulsion and a hefty fine. However, it appears to have been an act of self-defense, so according to Article Three, Clause Eighty-Six of the International Statute of Secrecy -” Coloring, Marius stopped himself. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Got a bit carried away with the lawyer stuff.”

“No, it is quite fascinating,” Cosette told him. “The Aurors make arrests based upon code of law, but it is the courts who determine how the laws are to be enforced - when things are as they should be, every branch of government is in balance, and we are all equally accountable to one another.”

They were interrupted by the serveur, who looked to them both expectantly with a pad of paper in his hand.

“The Paris Earl Grey for me,” said Marius. He had not had time to look at the menu. Cracking it open, he picked the first thing his eyes settled on. “And the... croque monsieur with salmon.”

The serveur nodded, taking a flurry of notes. “And for Mademoiselle?”

Cosette hummed as she deliberated. “Perhaps the Jasmin Impérial to drink,” she replied. “And the courgette and shrimp tarte, if you please.”

With an, “Of course, Mademoiselle,” the serveur turned and scurried off to one of the many other tables awaiting their turn to order.

Raising his head to his fiancée, Marius met her eyes. Cosette’s smile dimpled her cheeks, and Marius found himself returning it without trying.

“And you,” he began, “how are things in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

Cosette seemed to muse on this. “My own assignment is making some progress,” she responded. “It seems that two of those who were robbed by the Patron-Minette may have been visited by the same girl in the days prior to the break-in. It is admittedly a tenuous lead, but it is the first we have had in awhile. I will be conducting further interviews next week to see if we can establish a greater correlation. But as for the rest...”

She shook her head. “My uncle does not have all of the facts. Ten loyal Death Eaters are far more worrisome if one accounts as well for Voldemort’s return. But I learned a strange thing - it seems that Gisquet was once the Préfet de Préfecture, and it was Javert who arrested him.”

Marius frowned. “But Gisquet was one of -”

“The ten who escaped Azkaban, yes.” Cosette puckered her lips as she thought. “And I think that has Javert worried.”

“You do not think he would come back here?”

“I don’t know.” Cosette picked at the lace sleeve of her dress. “My uncle insists he only wishes for us to take precautions, but why do that unless he expects trouble? And of course Papa will not say - if anything, he is more reticent about the War than Javert!”

There was little that Marius disliked more than to see Cosette upset. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should have guessed this would not make for cheerful conversation.”

“You needn’t apologize,” Cosette said with a small smile. “I was the one to ask about work to begin with.”

“Something more pleasant, then,” Marius suggested. “Have you any plans for the weekend?”

At that, Cosette brightened. “Oh, certainly!” she said. “You know that Papa and I go every Sunday to Saint-Étienne-du-Mont? Well, the Sisters there have asked us to go Saturday as well. It seems that with all the unrest lately, there are more people than ever seeking shelter at the church.”

Marius raised an eyebrow to her. “I’m not sure that is any cheerier a subject than work.”

“But it is!” Cosette laughed. “We have the chance to help, to provide food and blankets and comfort. Papa’s philanthropy brings him such joy. It is a good thing to share with him.”

She continued to talk of their volunteerism in that vein, her hopeful nature banishing the gloom as if it were but a passing cloud, and all Marius could think on was how brilliant she was, how generous, and cleverer than him by far. Her love was so freely given to all that it was hard to imagine himself holding any special place in her heart, but the truth of her affections was written in the shining of her eyes, and in every brush of their feet below the table.

And then there was the matter of her father, M. Valjean, who for all his similarity in appearances to Marius’ grandfather, could not have possessed a more different disposition from M. Gillenormand. His grandfather was an indulgent man, and it amused him to spend his fortune spoiling his grandson, but Gillenormand cared nothing for those who walked in humbler social circles, and actively despised those born, in his mind, to lesser blood. Valjean was warm in a way that his grandfather had never been, and Marius almost envied Cosette for that; almost, but he could not truly envy his love anything, and for all that Valjean had been uncertain of him at first, they had come to a certain accord. He treated Marius as he might a son, and truly there was no more Marius could ask than that.

When their food arrived, Marius ate with enthusiasm. It made no difference that he had not known what to order; the sandwiches were entirely to his liking, light and flaky, and filled with fillets of fish that melted on the tongue like butter.

Cosette held her teacup up to her nose and inhaled the floral steam like a perfume. “Mmmm,” she sighed with contentment. “It is exactly right.”

Marius just smiled, taking a sip of his own drink. He was more used to wine than to tea, but in the Valjeans’ house, Toussaint made tea to spare, and so he had grown accustomed to it. Earl Grey was a safe choice.

“Did you know,” Cosette said suddenly, looking over the rim of her cup, “that Aunt Thérèse can read tea leaves?”

Marius set down his cup in surprise. “Tasseomancy? Really?” he asked skeptically. “Is she any good?”

“Mmmm.” Cosette raised her cup to her lips. “She gave me a reading once - told me I would soon fall for a brave, handsome young man. I thought she was only teasing, but then we returned to school from holiday and the very next day you stopped those boys from picking on Jehan, and I realized how much I’d come to fancy you.”

Suddenly his ears were as scarlet as his face, and Marius said indistinctly, “It was no business of theirs, Jehan may wear his hair pink if he likes...”

“Of course he may,” Cosette said, reaching across the table to take Marius’ hand. “But it is not just anyone who would say so.”

Marius was saved from having to come up with a response by the serveur, who returned with two saucers and a plate of scones with red fruits.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Cosette, and she reached for a pastry.

“Here,” said Marius, handing her his saucer. “You may have mine.”

“Are you sure?” Cosette asked. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

Marius laced his fingers through hers. “A sweet lady should have sweet things,” he said. “It is yours, my dear.”

Cosette picked up the scone delicately and bit into it, minute crumbs sticking to the corners of her mouth.

“Mmm,” she giggled through the mouthful. “It really is good. Have a bite, at least.”

“If you insist,” Marius grinned.

Then there was sugar on his tongue, and Cosette’s thumb brushing a bit of scone from his cheek as laughter danced in her eyes.

“I love you,” she said.

Marius raised her hand to his lips. “I love you, too, my treasure,” he replied.

The tea house hummed and bustled around them, but Marius scarcely noticed. So far as he was concerned, the entire world was their single table, and the woman he shared it with. By the way Cosette looked at him, Marius knew she felt the same. How wonderful a thing, he thought, to love and to know himself loved in return.

Javert

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Satki demanded as she burst without preamble into the Secrétaire’s office.

Javert started, smearing ink across parchment as his quill jerked against the page.

“Perhaps you might see fit to knock next time,” the Secrétaire said dryly. He blotted at the stain, only for the ink to smear further. Giving it up as a lost cause, Javert balled the parchment into a crumpled heap and set it aside. “What is wrong with whom?”

“Coste,” said Satki venomously, as angry as Javert had ever seen her. “Mathis,” she added. “I cannot believe him - I thought we were friends! I thought - I thought perhaps we were more than friends...” She shook her head. “But he’s been distant these past few weeks, and then this morning he was so rude - on today, of all days!”

“Today?” the Secrétaire repeated uncomprehendingly. “What is today?”

The look Satki gave him could have curdled milk. “What do you mean, ‘What is today’? It is La Saint-Valentin, you absolute ninny.”

Javert had no answer for this. He was not certain he could recall an occasion where a subordinate had stood and offered him insult in his own office. A possible exception to that rule was Vidocq, but Vidocq was a snake and a traitor, and therefore did not count.

“Well,” the Secrétaire said finally, “if I am a ninny, then so are you. You know perfectly well that I am no paragon of romance.”

At that, Satki seemed to deflate. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I just... He never used to act like this, and now I don’t know if it’s me, or if he’s seeing someone else, or -”

“Not a paragon of romance,” Javert interjected. “If you are asking me for ‘relationship advice’, then you are wasting your time.” He wrinkled his nose at the very thought. “You would be better off talking to Cosette, or Brevet - anyone else in the office. Even Chabouillet is married!”

“I just thought,” said Satki, “that as my friend - as Coste’s friend - that perhaps you might... talk to him.”

“Talk to him?” Javert spluttered. “Satki, if we are friends as you say, then you should know very well that I have no skill for that. No. I am sorry, but no.”

The Auror sniffed, and that was when Javert noticed how red her eyes were. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “There are times, Javert, when I think you haven’t changed a bit. Why Jean continues to put up with you, I haven’t got a clue.”

Satki bowed stiffly at the waist. “Thank you for your time, Monsieur,” she added bitterly, and then turned around and walked out, shutting the door with a bang behind her.

To say that Javert was stunned would be an understatement. He was half-inclined to jump out of his chair, drag Satki back into his office, and upbraid the Auror for her disrespect. He was equally inclined to go after her and apologize. What he settled for was to sit unmoving in his chair, staring at the door as though it might burst into flames any minute.

When had his officers started coming to him, not to receive their assignments, but to ask his advice? When had he started allowing them to speak their minds with such familiarity? And when had it come about that he felt not irritation at their requests, but a certain responsibility to help, as a friend might?

It was true what he had told Satki; he was possibly the least qualified of anyone in the Palais de Justice to approach Coste on the woman’s behalf, especially if Satki held out hope of the Inspecteur speaking to her after the fact. Javert had none of Valjean’s subtlety, or Cosette’s softness. He was hard and stubborn and insensitive, and perhaps in that way Satki was correct; there was much about him that was as it had always been.

Once, he had been proud to be unfeeling. It gave him an edge in his career to be without the sympathies that might have undermined a lesser officer. Then it turned out that the emotions he had thought to lack were merely dormant and cold, and Valjean had without scarcely trying awoken them like Persephone thawing winter to spring. What poured forth left Javert adrift in a sea of feelings for which he possessed neither name nor explanation, and yet tethered him irrevocably to the man who had coaxed life from his wooden heart.

Still, navigating those uncharted depths had never been easy, and it continued to leave him frustratingly tongue-tied. Satki’s parting words filled Javert with a guilty weight he was uncertain how to dislodge, as well as a decidedly unrepentant flare of anger. It was no business of hers to what end Valjean tolerated Javert’s behavior. Even so, the remark stung, and it was with a pang that Javert wondered if Valjean expected him to remember the date, or if he had simply resigned himself to the holiday passing unmarked.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in a state of listless dissatisfaction. The Secrétaire puzzled over report after report; it seemed that, united under the anonymity of their skull-shaped masks, a hailstorm of old Death Eaters had come crawling out of the woodwork. Not only that, but they were joined in their cause by a number of Dark creatures, including more than one werewolf. Javert thought of Thérèse, newly promoted to Directeur of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and he wondered if he were to ask her to turn over the relevant records, whether she would do so without treating him to another lecture on police profiling.

Also included in his stack of paperwork was a series of updates on Cosette’s investigation into the doings of the Patron-Minette. The girl’s neat handwriting was small, and the reports thorough, filling pages of parchment with victims’ testimony. Javert gave it a cursory glance and set it aside. At present, that was not his priority. It was information that would keep until the Death Eaters’ crusade had been quelled.

Sitting on the very bottom of the pile was an envelope stamped with a foreign postmark; frowning, Javert slit it open to find a brief missive from the Belarusian Auror Office. The perfunctory statement said only that the government of Belarus had acted in accordance with Javert’s request, and sent an envoy to reconnaissance the giant preserve near Minsk. The envoy had not returned, and was missing, presumed dead. In light of that loss, the government did not intend to send any further parties to the territory.

Muttering imprecations under his breath, Javert filed the letter in a drawer full of bad news and ran his fingers through his hair. No doubt the witless wizards had gotten themselves crushed, or eaten. Perhaps Chabouillet could be persuaded to send a small team to look into it in a week or two. Never outsource competence, the Secrétaire thought to himself.

By then, the fire in the grate was burning low. Javert had come to the conclusion that a certain course of action was required of him, one which necessitated not insubstantial planning on his part, if he were to dispel the dis-ease Satki had left in her wake. With a gesture of his wand, Javert extinguished the fire entirely and left his office. He descended to the first floor Gallery, and from there, Disapparated into the unseen void between spaces.

When he reappeared, it was directly into the kitchen of No. 55. Toussaint, who was bent over at the stove, jumped so violently at his arrival that she dropped the mixing bowl she was holding, and flour flew with chips of ceramic all over the floor.

“M-Monsieur!” she gasped, clutching at her chest. “You shouldn’t d-d-do that to an old woman, oh I feel faint.”

“Forgive me, Madame,” said Javert, leading her over to a chair. “I did not realize you would be baking at this hour.”

“Some cookies, for the holiday,” she murmured. “Monsieur Javert, I never -”

“Never mind that,” said Javert. He marched back to the mess on the floor and pointed his wand firmly at it. “Reparo.” The mixing bowl shuddered on its base as it fixed itself, fissures in the glaze sealing seamlessly. The flour, too, flew back into the basin. Stooping, Javert lifted the bowl and deposited it on the countertop. Then he turned, regarding Toussaint intently. “Tell me, Madame, is Jean at home?”

“N-no, Monsieur,” the woman replied, getting shakily to her feet. “He went out. Said he had a few things to pick up, and that I shouldn’t wait for his return. Nor was I expecting you so early, either. I thought I’d be long since asleep by the time you got home, the way the last month has gone.”

“And you would be right,” said Javert, “except that I thought -” He paused. What, exactly, had he thought? “I thought to show something of my appreciation, and wish, Madame, to join you in baking.”

Recovering at last from her fright, Toussaint gave him a searching look. “Monsieur has a recipe in mind?”

Pursing his lips, Javert surveyed the kitchen. “There is a soufflé I have made before,” he said. “For an office social. But I do not suppose we have any gruyère.”

“I can see to that,” Toussaint informed him. “The grocery will still be open. You just tell me what you need.”

“In that case...” Javert sighed slightly. “Cheese, Madame. What I need is a great deal of cheese.”

With the housekeeper promising to see to the shopping, it was left to Javert to manage the rest. Truth be told, his memory of the recipe was a bit hazy, but most of a soufflé was egg, and so he started there, separating the yolks carefully from the whites. Then there was flour to be added, and butter, and when Toussaint returned, the cheese.

The dish slid at last into the oven, and Javert took a seat. He was unaccountably nervous for a man who had been cooking for himself ever since he was tall enough to reach the stove, and yet it was also true that he rarely cooked for others. It was rarer still that he cooked for anyone whose impression of him mattered.

Toussaint patted the man consolingly on the shoulder. “You could set fire to the kitchen, and Monsieur Valjean would still give you his thanks for trying.”

Javert did not recall having provided the woman much explanation for his sudden attempts to cook, and yet it appeared she had come to the correct conclusion nevertheless. It was well they had so virtuous a housekeeper; Javert had known many who would have been only too happy to take that insight and spin tall tales from it to tell anyone who would listen. But Toussaint was a gentle soul, and she would sooner quit her position than gossip about her employers.

As the oven did its work, Toussaint finished her cookie batter and portioned it out in scoops upon a baking sheet. Those she then covered and slid into the icebox.

“They will keep until tomorrow,” she explained, dusting the flour off her hands and onto her apron. “No point in finishing them tonight, Cosette’s gone up to her room already, all tuckered out, and cookies are best eaten warm.”

“Thank you for the help,” Javert said quietly. “You ought to rest yourself, it is getting late.”

Toussaint tilted her head to the side. “I think I will do that,” she said. “Goodnight, Monsieur.”

“Goodnight.”

The house was very quiet as Javert stood alone in the kitchen. He wondered what Valjean could possibly have gone out for so late in the evening. He wondered whether Cosette had enjoyed her day off with Pontmercy. He wondered if he had remembered to add any salt.

After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality closer to twenty minutes, the timer dinged. Donning oven mitts, Javert withdrew the soufflé dish from the oven. It had risen beautifully, a dome of golden-brown cheese cresting well above the edges of the pan. Then, moments later, disaster; as rapidly as a punctured balloon, the soufflé deflated, collapsing upon itself in a dense mass.

Javert swore, plunking the dish down onto the stovetop to glare at it. Perhaps he had over-beaten the egg whites; he had been rather aggressive with the whisk. Just as he was contemplating dumping the whole thing out and starting from scratch, however, he heard the sound of the front door.

The floorboards creaked out in the hall. “Toussaint?” came Valjean’s tired voice. “I thought you would be in bed by now.” Stepping into the kitchen, Valjean stopped short. “Javert?” he asked. “What are you doing home?”

Leaning back against the edge of the counter, Javert gave him a pointed look. “It might not be me,” he said. “Here I am, back at a reasonable hour for a change, and standing in the kitchen of all places. You ought to be asking me for the pass phrase.”

Valjean huffed with amusement. “Well,” he said, “now I know it is you. Only Javert would tell me to be suspicious of him for getting home early.”

Echoing his amusement, the Secrétaire beckoned Valjean closer. “And you?” he asked, nodding at the shopping bag in his partner’s hand. “You do not usually go out so late, especially with things being what they are.”

Sheepishly, Valjean set the bag down on the breakfast table. “Perhaps you should be asking me for the pass phrase,” he said. “I admit, I had not planned on venturing out, but there was a... project I had intended to start, and I needed a few supplies.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “A project?” he repeated. “What sort of a project?”

“Well...” Valjean scratched at his head absently even as his face heated. “You have spoken about wanting to finally make some use of the attic, and so I thought, as a surprise, I would clean it out. Only then I realized we were out of doxycide, and the attic is infested with the creatures, so I had to run and get some. As it was already grown so late, I began to wonder if you -”

“- if I had forgotten what day it was?” Javert finished.

“- would mind my starting next week instead,” Valjean said at the same time.

For a moment, the two men stared at one another.

“Oh,” said Javert, letting out a breath he had not known he was holding.

“Javert...” Valjean took a step forward, looking at him with his eyebrows pinched. “Is something the matter?”

Javert swallowed. “I thought...” he began, then shook his head. “I had forgotten what day it was,” he admitted instead. “And had to be reminded. You do not... You deserve someone who remembers such occasions, someone who is not so -” He stopped, staring tight-lipped at the wall.

A wave of emotions passed over Valjean’s face; shock, understanding, and something that was less like pity and more like tenderness. He closed the gap between them, and Javert did not resist as Valjean’s arms slid around his waist, pulling the man tight to his chest.

“Hush with this nonsense,” Valjean murmured against his shoulder. “You have been working impossible shifts for a month - who could remember such a little thing in the midst of all that?”

“But it is not a little thing,” Javert insisted. “After what we have been through, I should at least be able to remember -”

“What is this?” Valjean asked, looking at the pan on the counter.

Turning to follow his gaze, Javert snorted. “I thought I would make soufflé,” he explained. “For you, as a... as a gift. But it fell apart as soon as I took it out of the oven, so it is ruined. I did not have time to make another.”

Valjean turned, a warm smile spreading across his face, and for all that he felt unworthy, Javert could not help but bask in the glow.

“You made soufflé? For me?” The touched light in his partner’s eyes was almost more than Javert could bear. “It is wonderful,” said Valjean. “I am sure it will still be delicious.”

Then he laughed. “Do you remember the first time you cooked for me? You made eggs,” he said. “For breakfast. I do not believe I had ever been so confused - there I was, half-expecting to be arrested, and you were there scrambling eggs in a frying pan.”

Javert chuckled. “I do remember,” he said. “I also remember turning around, only to be struck dumb by the way you looked standing there.”

Valjean’s arms tightened around his back, and Javert was suddenly very aware of the way he was pinned against the counter.

“You thought I was good-looking?” Valjean asked, leaning in until their noses were mere inches apart. His voice had lowered, but there was also a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“Mmm.” Javert shifted against the counter, letting Valjean press even closer. “I always knew Madeleine was too handsome for my own good, but I had... other doubts to contend with at the time. That morning was the first where I realized Jean Valjean was not so hard on the eyes, either.”

Javert was dimly aware that they were treading in dangerous water, that they had broached subjects which were as likely as not to incite an argument, but there was nothing argumentative in Valjean’s thoughtful hum, or the closing of his mouth over Javert’s.

Javert’s fingers dug into the counter for support as Valjean kissed him boneless, the slow but certain press of lips and tongue driving any lingering self-recrimination from his heart.

When at last they broke apart, Valjean pulled Javert upright as easily as if he were a rag doll; they stood chest to chest for a long while, their breathing synchronized, and Javert felt an unprecedented sense of resentment for his post, and how it kept him from this.

“Happy Saint-Valentin,” Valjean said. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he spoke the words, and Javert raised a hand to brush his knuckles against the man’s cheek.

“And to you,” Javert murmured. “It is a rather silly holiday, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Valjean agreed. “But I am glad to share it with you, even so.”

Javert smiled crookedly. “And I, with you.”

Then he put a hand on Valjean’s elbow. “Sit,” he said, steering him toward the breakfast table. “Eat some of the soufflé, though I know you shall lie and tell me it is not ruined when it is, and then perhaps we can discuss this business with the attic.”

Valjean let himself be led easily. He sat; he ate soufflé; he assured Javert that no matter how flat it had gone, it still tasted wonderful; and they talked late into the night as they had not done in a long while.

Earlier
Éponine

Dragging her feet as she went, Éponine slowly traversed the length of the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. She did not have any desire to go home, but neither did she think she could stand to sit in the Café Musain any longer. With Marius gone, she hardly saw the point in being there. The others were well-meaning, but they did nothing to fill the emptiness in her heart.

Finally, shoes scuffing on the pavement, Éponine stopped in front of No. 4 and stared up the front steps at the door. To her surprise, the door opened. It was her father who slipped out, and, seeing her, he motioned emphatically toward the porch.

Stifling a groan, or a curse, Éponine cut across the lawn and up the stairs.

“Inside,” Thénardier said brusquely, and as Éponine passed him by, he scanned the street with his eyes until he was satisfied they were not being watched.

Entering into the front room, Éponine was brought up short by the sight of the Patron-Minette gathered in their entirety; a bristling pack of wizards armed to the teeth met her startled gaze as her father shut the door behind her.

At the fore stood Montparnasse. “Well?” he asked of Thénardier. “You’ve gathered us here, I trust it is not without good cause.”

“Quiet.”

The command was spoken out of nowhere and everywhere, and even Montparnasse seemed to go a shade paler as the room collectively recognized Claquesous’ voice.

“Let Thénardier speak.”

Thénardier bobbed his head in appreciation, but Éponine did not miss the sheen of sweat along his receding hairline.

“I have gathered you,” the man said. “I am a man of honor, and I shall uphold my word. I have promised you money - well, you will have it. Our ship, Messieurs, has come in - we have been commissioned for a new job. It requires everyone’s complete cooperation.”

Chapter Text

March 3rd, 1996
Valjean

The project in the attic proved to be even more ambitious than Valjean had guessed. The doxies, foul-tempered creatures with the shape of a pixie but the carapace of a beetle, were still to Valjean’s mind living creatures, and therefore not deserving of eradication. Instead, he diluted the toxin he had purchased into a spray bottle, individually spritzing each one just enough to briefly paralyze, before removing their unconscious bodies from the premises and releasing them outside.

As the attic had been entirely overrun by the things, it took some weeks to rid himself of them completely, made all the more difficult by their tendency to swarm and by their venomous bite. Valjean was sporting more than a few blisters on his hands and wrists by the end of it, and he had taken to downing an all-purpose antidote with dinner to dissuade any side-effects. Eventually, however, he was certain he had routed out the last of them. The next step was to clean; there was old furniture to remove and any number of boxes to clear out before the space could begin to be usable. That was a task he intended to start presently, but first he had a visitor.

The knock came directly at two o’clock, as it always did. Valjean set the kettle on the stove, then hurried down the hall to answer it. He unbolted the door, drawing it open just enough that he could peer out. His wand, English oak, sat comfortably in his hand, relaxed but at the ready.

The sight he was met with was of a woman, short, and who had curly brown hair. Around her shoulders were draped several shawls of varying color and quality, while a star-shaped pendant lay over her breastbone. More startling than the rest of her appearance was her eyes, which were sunny and golden, almost canine.

“Thérèse,” Valjean smiled. “Welcome.”

“Jean,” Thérèse returned. “Kind of you to be havin’ me, as always.”

It was a ritual of theirs, that dialogue, as well as what came after.

“The first meal you shared with me?” asked Valjean.

“Stew,” Thérèse answered at once. “Beef and vegetable.”

“Correct,” Valjean said. “Your turn.”

“The taglock you used to break your Unbreakable Vow?”

“A rosary,” Valjean replied. “From the factory in Montreuil.”

And like that, each satisfied that the other was whom they were supposed to be, Valjean opened the door wide and Thérèse entered. For all that Javert seemed to fret over his safety, in this his call for caution was perhaps unneeded; Valjean was more unsettled by the escape of Bellatrix and the others than he let on, and he was exceedingly careful that no-one pass over the threshold he was not certain he could trust. Their home was warded, yes, but what good were such protections if one let their foes in by the front door?

“And how be you today, Jean?” Thérèse inquired. She removed her outermost shawl and her shoes, hanging the former on the hall tree. Valjean locked the door behind her and turned around, just as the kettle began to whistle from the kitchen.

“Very well, thank you,” he said. “Tea?”

Thérèse inclined her head. “Of course.”

Valjean pointed his wand down the corridor and gave it a flick; so regular were their get-togethers that the tea set had come to know their preferences by heart and required only a little magical prompting. Valjean then invited the woman into the salon, and they settled comfortably in front of the fireplace. The tea set came floating down the hallway soon after, laying itself out upon the coffee table and scooping sugar cubes into the waiting cups as if at the hands of an invisible serveur.

Handing his friend a steaming cup and saucer, Valjean turned to her and asked, “And you, Thérèse? I know these last few weeks have been hard.”

Sighing, the loup garou took a pensive sip of her drink. “Garrett’s choices be his own,” she said. “I miss him, but I won’t be havin’ that kind of sentiment in my house. Whatever the government think of us, wizards as people mostly be decent folk. If we be decent folk ourselves, then we need to show it.” Thérèse shook her head, sending her curls bouncing. “The cards check in on him from time to time, and he be keepin’ safe. I just wish he’d forget this nonsense and come home.”

Valjean nodded sympathetically. It had caused the woman no end of grief when her middle son stormed out of the house in anger following an argument, and he had been missing ever since. Thérèse believed him to have taken up with a rogue colony of werewolves. Valjean felt for her; he could only imagine how he would react if Cosette were to run away.

“I pray he sees sense, and returns to you soon,” said Valjean. “You must miss him terribly.”

“I do.” Thérèse shrugged slightly. “But I cannot tell him what be right, he must decide that for himself.”

Valjean sipped at his own tea without replying. It hardly seemed fair he should sit comfortably in his stuffed chair when his friend’s child was off who-knew-where and presumably in the company of Dark wizards. Thérèse shot him a look as though she knew precisely what he was thinking.

“You were always too kind for your own good,” she told him. “But you don’t need to be worried ‘bout me. I’ll manage.” She set her saucer down on the table between them and smiled. “Now why don’t you tell me what be your grand designs for the attic. Goodness knows you’ve done work enough.”

Valjean laughed. “Not quite enough yet, I’m afraid,” he said. “The doxies may be gone, but now the real work begins. There is years’ worth of junk up there, some of it ours, some of it from the last renter. All of it has to go.”

Clasping her hands in her lap, Thérèse leaned forward. “Indeed,” she said, eyes sparkling with interest, “but then after, what do you be plannin’ to do with it?”

“I thought perhaps a studio,” Valjean replied. “Javert has his own ideas, of course - he proposed a guest bed upstairs, but his office is so formal, and he uses it for his work, I should not like my hobbies to intrude. A table in the corner overlooking the garden could be quite nice. I might like to take up watercolors - I could sit and paint the flowers, and he could sit and read.”

Thérèse looked at him shrewdly. “Aye,” she said, “but a guest room may be wiser. With Cosette engaged, you’ll have grandbabies underfoot before you know it.”

Valjean’s heart gave a sort of complicated twist at that. It scarcely felt possible that the same flighty, wisp of a girl he had taken from the Thénardiers’ inn was now a woman, grown and soon to fly away to a nest of her own. Still, the idea of grandchildren warmed his heart with a hope he had never given himself leave to consider.

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “I suppose that is so.”

“But then,” said Thérèse diplomatically, “surely your attic be large enough it could hold both?”

Valjean smiled. “I have thought of that,” he said. “If Javert can be persuaded to compromise, then perhaps we shall do that exactly. I do not think it will be so hard to convince him.”

Thérèse fiddled with her cup, turning it around on her saucer. “The Secrétaire is a lucky man,” she murmured. “It makes me miss...”

She trailed off, and Valjean felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment. Thérèse had guessed at the leanings of Valjean’s heart even before Valjean himself had, and she was one of few who knew the true extent of his relationship with Javert. Never did she seem bothered by it, as some might, but neither did she ever discuss her own marriage, or how she came to be a single mother to three children. The one time Valjean had inquired further, she had given only a vague response before changing the subject. Even so, it was plain that there was an old hurt there, one which had scarred over but never truly healed.

“You’ve done well by your boys,” Valjean said gently. “You should be proud of that.”

Thérèse patted his knee. “You are good to say so,” she said. “But there be something else I been wantin’ to tell you.”

Valjean waited quietly as Thérèse seemed to gather herself. He was reminded then of how much younger she was, how there was a certain fragility about her that juxtaposed her strength. Something in her face reminded him of Cosette, and the little girl she used to be.

When Thérèse spoke, her manner was subdued. “You told me once that you weren’t sure you wished to be knowin’ your future. I think now I see what you mean.”

Valjean frowned. “Thérèse...” he said slowly, but the woman shook her head.

“Two nights ago, I thought to give myself a readin’,” she said. “I hadn’t done one in a while, and I had this... feelin’ I couldn’t shake, like there was something I been needin’ to know.”

With her fingers, she pried apart her tea bag, letting the leaves fall free of the mesh and into the dregs of her cup.

“The first thing I did was to pull out my tarot, the cards speak volumes when they wish it. I shuffled the deck, turned over the top card, and... it was the Tower, Jean, the lightnin’-struck Tower.”

The intricacies of divination were a mystery to Valjean, but he had to admit that did not sound promising. Part of him was tempted to dismiss it; chance had put that card on top, and nothing more. He remembered too clearly, however, the prediction Thérèse had made him once, and how true it had turned out to be, in the end. He kept his mouth shut as the woman continued.

“Well, I was startled, but the Tower means change, big change - it don’t have to be bad. So I took another card to clarify.” Thérèse’s face tightened, and it was clear her next words were forced. “The Nine of Swords. That be what the second was.” Tugging at her pendant, she added, “Not the combination I was hopin’ for, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“What does it mean?” Valjean asked nervously. Of all the branches of magic, none left him quite so perturbed as the art of foretelling the future.

Thérèse winced. “Nothin’ good.” She shifted in her chair, and ate another sugar cube without bothering to drop it into her tea. “Well, you can imagine, I was a bit wound up. But try as I might to get a clearer picture, the cards kept comin’ up muddled. So then I tried crystal scrying. I couldn’t see a thing in the ball. Just blackness.”

She met his gaze, and Valjean felt a shiver go through him, because for the first time all afternoon there was a trace of something unpleasantly like fear in the woman’s eyes. She swirled the remnants of her drink around the bottom of the teacup before turning it over onto the saucer. When she lifted it again, the leaves were streaked all down the porcelain sides. Thérèse studied the results with a frown.

“You see?” she said, holding the cup out to Valjean to examine. “No omens. Just a mess.”

Valjean was of the private opinion that he never saw anything in the bottom of a teacup besides a mess, but clearly that was not the case for the loup garou. Taking a look, he was forced to concur. If there was a message there to be had, then it was buried beneath lumpy green tea leaves. At a loss, he settled for putting a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Thérèse took an uneven breath.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “It is just - I don’t know what it means. Always, I been able to see somethin’ - images, symbols, phrases. There be a calamity comin’ for me, I can say that much, but its nature be hidden. Never has such a thing occurred before.”

Valjean rubbed a hand over his face as he pondered her words. “I think I know too little of these matters to advise you,” he said. “But Thérèse...” The woman looked up, and Valjean squeezed her shoulder gently. “Anything I can do, anything at all, please tell me.”

Thérèse gave him a small smile. “Of course,” she said. “Now look what I’ve done,” she added, pushing her hair out of her face. “I’ve gone and got myself all worked up. Who can say what be wrong, anyway? A fickle thing, peerin’ past the veil. Maybe it only be a bad conjunction of the planets.”

She sounded like she was trying to reassure herself as much as Valjean, and Valjean got the impression she had not entirely succeeded. Nevertheless, she shook off the spell of melancholy with good grace, bending over to pour Valjean another cup of tea from the pot.

From there on out, Thérèse kept her conversation forcibly cheerful, and gradually the atmosphere lightened. Even so, Valjean was glad to wave his wand and send the tea set floating out toward the kitchen, and when Javert returned home many hours later, it was to find the two friends half-dozing by the fireside, an unfinished game of wizard’s chess on the table between them.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” said the Secrétaire with his usual dry humor.

Blinking herself back to alertness, Thérèse sat up. “Good evening, Monsieur,” she said. “And how does your investigation be progressin’?”

“I am not at liberty to say.” Removing his long, blue greatcoat, Javert folded it over his arm and added, “Suffice it to say that it goes badly. Lapointe and Chevallier are both laid up this week after an attack in the tenth arrondissement. I am understaffed.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Thérèse said, depositing her saucer on the occasional table.

Getting to his feet, Valjean padded over to his partner’s side. He reached up on tiptoe, pecking the man once on the cheek before settling back on his heels. For a moment, the lines around Javert’s eyes softened, and he touched a hand to Valjean’s elbow. Then he took a step back.

“I have not eaten,” he announced.

“What, all day?” Valjean’s eyebrows drew together. “I will call Toussaint, you’ve got to have a meal before you -”

“Don’t bother,” said Javert, brushing him off. “There is bread and cheese in the pantry, I can fetch it myself.”

Valjean watched as Javert strode off toward the kitchen larder, feeling he should insist on making a proper dinner and yet unsure that the man would eat it if he did.

Thérèse came up beside him to join in staring at the hallway. She crossed her arms with parental disapproval. “You best be makin’ sure he gets food in his stomach,” she said. “He’s bound to keel over one of these days, the way he eats.”

“I’ve tried to tell him that,” Valjean replied, “but he never listens.”

“You listen.” Thérèse patted his arm. “Thank you for that. It’s a relief, havin’ someone to talk to.”

“Always.” Offering her his arm, Valjean walked her to the antechamber. Thérèse gathered her things together, and Valjean reflected that he was grateful not to share the woman’s talent. The burden of his past was enough of a secret to keep; he did not need the burden of his future as well.

Then Thérèse Disapparated, returning home to prepare supper for her boys, and Valjean turned toward the kitchen. He found Javert with half a slice of bread in his mouth, hacking chunks off a block of cheese with the butcher knife.

“You know there are leftovers in the icebox.”

Javert grunted in response. “No time,” he said around the bread. “Working, still.”

So saying, he piled the cheese up on a plate and headed for the stairs, no doubt intending to sit in his office. Valjean followed after, hesitating when they reached the landing.

“I was going to clear out some boxes,” he said as the Secrétaire nudged the door to his room open with his elbow. “Will the noise disturb you?”

Javert tossed his head. “Do as you like,” he replied. His plate he set with a thunk on the desk, before pulling out a stack of reports. “I expect I shall be here all night.”

Valjean nodded, though Javert was not looking at him, and then he moved down the hall. At the end, just before the closet, was the hatch in the ceiling which led to the attic. From the closet, he took as many cleaning materials as he could carry one-handed, and then Valjean pushed open the hatch.

The last thing he saw as he ascended the ladder was Javert’s office door, and the tail-end of his partner latching it shut.

Valjean

Dropping his armful of mops and rags to the floor, Valjean surveyed the extents of his latest undertaking.

The attic was a disaster, there could be no doubt of that. The wide stretch of floorboards where Cosette once loved to play dolls as a girl had filled over the years with those trinkets the family intended to fix or give away, but never quite got around to dealing with. The back corner was entirely overtaken by holiday decorations, left in a haphazard pile from when Valjean had taken down the Christmas tree and Javert was too busy to lend his impeccable sense of order to the process.

On the other side of the long, narrow garret was a maze of furniture. Valjean doubted whether even the sheets thrown over each piece were enough to keep the dust off; every surface it seemed was thick with grime and cobwebs. Valjean cracked his knuckles. It was a tremendous task, but he would not be daunted. Whistling a tune, he directed his wand toward the floor.

“Scourgify,” he said, and a thick lather of bubbles erupted from the end, scrubbing the surface clean. Another wave of his wand animated the mops, and they set themselves to washing. That left Valjean to frown at the stacks of boxes; most of them, he did not have any inkling as to what they might contain.

With no better idea of where to begin, he approached the nearest stack and removed the topmost parcel. It was taped shut against invading doxies, and so with half a glance back toward the ladder hatch, Valjean took from his pocket a small token.

To the untrained eye, the device looked like nothing more than a simple brass Knut, barely worth the efforts of even a determined pickpocket to pilfer. Javert would not be pleased to know that such an object was in Valjean’s possession, for they were favored by a decidedly suspect crowd, but it was a useful little thing, and Valjean could not be convinced to stop carrying it. Perhaps it was sentiment; perhaps it was an old instinctual caution. The enchanted device was easily concealed in a pocket or up a sleeve and would attract no undue notice except under the closest of scrutiny.

Like a magician performing a coin trick, Valjean turned the token three times between his fingers. That was when, with a soft click, the object unfolded into a short knife; the blade was no longer than one of his fingers, but it was sharp, and it cut easily through the tape holding the box closed.

The insides were lackluster, not that Valjean had expected any different. There were old books of Cosette’s, ones which she no longer read but her father could not bear to part with, a few assorted articles of clothing, and a carton of Every Flavor Jelly Beans so ancient they had likely fossilized. The clothes Valjean set aside. Those he could take to the church, and the Sisters would see to it they were given to someone in need. The sweets went into the garbage bin. As for the books...

Valjean bent down, fingers closing over one leather-bound volume. The supple green cover was embossed with a pattern of leaves and the words, Le chêne et le roseau. Underneath was the author’s name; it said in plain lettering, La Fontaine. Javert had given the book to Cosette for the very first birthday she spent in their home. That book Valjean tucked carefully under his arm; the rest he set beside the clothes.

The next box was much of the same. Playthings outgrown, a pot without a lid, a lid without a pot - these and more Valjean sifted through, markers of a life that changed and shifted, but which was full nevertheless. At some items he stared in befuddlement - since when had they owned not one, but three ice cream makers? - and at others he had to stifle laughter. It was no wonder he had been unable to find any of his gardening tools come last spring, when it seemed Javert had, in some effort to tidy the house, packed them all away. If there were one place where they were often at odds, it was in the minimum state of cleanliness to be maintained throughout their shared abode.

The thought brought an affectionate smile to Valjean’s face, as he could just imagine the Auror despairing over one too many trowels cluttering up the antechamber, still covered in clods of dirt from a day’s exertions in the garden. Valjean returned the tools to their receptacle, relocating it to near the ladder. Those he could put in the shed behind the house.

Around him, feather dusters moved of their own accord, mops pulled grime off the floorboards, and the space was transformed little by little into something fit for human habitation. It was still drab, the lath walls bare of plaster, and the painted trim around the windows peeling, but as the stacks of goods dwindled, Valjean imagined what it could be like, furnished with new whitewash, gauzy curtains, perhaps an easel and a footstool beside it. In the dormers he would put armchairs, and a guest bed could go against the short wall with a painting above it. So lost was he in his visions that he quite suddenly realized he had reached the very last of the boxes.

As he bent to open the lid, Valjean paused. Something about the shape struck him as familiar. It was an old clothes box, of the sort one might fold a suit in. A foggy memory returned to him, of a Christmas long ago and a gift he had given. The smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he pried the lid up was tinged with nostalgia.

What was inside that most promising of packages? Not any great treasure, and not the navy coat which had first come in it all those years ago, either. Instead, Valjean’s fingers stilled against the side as he examined the contents. He remembered, now, why it was up there in the attic, buried. The box contained documentation, mounds of it, and more financial statements than he could quickly count. It had taken time and effort to install his fortune legitimately into the bank, and he dared not discard his records, but neither did he dare leave the information anywhere Cosette might stumble upon it.

Quickly, Valjean thumbed through the pages; the rough outline they painted of his life was more than sufficient to elicit some delicate questions. He was about to clamp the lid back down when he felt something which was not paper in the bottom. Distracted, he withdrew a smaller box, thin and long. It was bright red, and he almost dropped it in his recognition. There was a minute where Valjean did not move, afraid to open it in case he was mistaken, and equally afraid to open it in case he was not.

Finally, and with a reverence he showed very few of his possessions, he lifted the top. Inside on a bed of tissue paper was a rosary. Its jet beads sparkled in the meager light, and Valjean was accosted by a myriad of conflicting emotions. His fingers trembled where they traced the delicate crucifix, as perfect and glossy as on the day it was minted.

After sitting motionless for what felt like an age, Valjean gently replaced the lid. He set the rosary beside the gardening tools; as for the box of papers, that he moved to the very back corner where it was scarce to be noticed, there to stay until he found a better hiding place. He was not unduly worried about that; Cosette had not ventured into the attic in a long time.

With the boxes sorted, the largest pile being one of donations, Valjean turned to eye the furniture. He was unsure how the pieces had been brought up there - surely not through the tiny hatch in the floor? - and he was even less sure of what all there was to inventory. Under the blanketing sheets, the pieces looked like formless masses, and only occasionally did one leave a leg or a rail sticking out from underneath to suggest its identity.

Valjean raised his wand. With a flourish, the sheets peeled off, folding themselves and dropping into a stack. The folds were not perfect, and Valjean knew that if Javert had been present, he would be voicing his disapproval, but it was good enough. A cloud of dust rose in the air, shaken loose by the motion; as it settled, the mops redoubled their efforts to wipe it away. Valjean’s attention, however, was for the collection revealed to his eyes.

There was first and foremost a bed, with an iron frame and a frilly skirt. There were also several bookcases, a couple of mismatched chairs, and more that was obscured behind, out of sight. He approached, looking the pieces over appraisingly. Bookcases were always a welcome addition to his ever-expanding library, and if the bed could be used for guests then it was one less purchase to go out and find. As Valjean drew closer, he also discovered a large globe, a couple of packing crates, a steamer trunk, and in the very back, a chest of drawers.

“Cistem aperio,” Valjean said, pointing his wand at the nearest crate, and the nails pulled cleanly out of the top. He looked inside with great interest, but it was empty except for some musty packing straw.

Hefting the crate easily, Valjean was about to crack open a second when he heard a noise. Stopping where he stood, he looked around for the source. At first, there was nothing, and he thought perhaps he had imagined it. But as he moved back toward the crate, he heard it again, a soft, repetitive rattling.

Turning his head, Valjean beheld a strange sight. The steamer trunk was shaking slightly, as if there were a creature locked inside of it. Perhaps an animal had chewed its way in and become trapped. He only hoped it was not more doxies, for he had had quite enough of those.

It was a different spell on his lips as Valjean redirected his English oak wand to point at the trunk. “Alohomora,” he pronounced.

The trunk unlatched, and the lid opened. What emerged was not precisely an animal, though perhaps that descriptor would not have been entirely out of place. Valjean felt himself go slack-jawed; what he was seeing made no sense in the slightest. He shook his head as if to clear it, but the apparition did not change. Then it spoke to him, and Valjean felt certain that his heart stopped beating, for he knew that voice. It was a voice which had no right to exist outside of his nightmares.

In his shock, the crate tumbled from his arms, but Valjean did nothing at all to stop it as it came crashing to the floor.

Javert

The Secrétaire slogged through reports with his fingers wound tightly in his hair; it was an unconscious tic he despised, for it mussed his otherwise faultless queue, pulling strands out of the ribbon, but he was too overworked to care. With Chevallier out of commission, struck in the chest by some vicious curse, Javert was left with one fewer Auror to lead the rest. It could not have come at a worse time, incidents across the city having risen tenfold. Even the Muggles were noticing, and there was more and more pressure from the Premier Ministre to put an end to it. They had made a few arrests, but not enough, and those they had taken in were not talking, unswayed by the threat of imprisonment.

Frustrated, the Secrétaire flipped over a piece of parchment, trying to redistribute his teams for what felt like the twentieth time. If Coste took two more officers, and Satki took three, it would at least somewhat balance the load, but nor would it be effective when each already had ten subordinates to manage. He added a few talleys to his parchment before dropping his quill in disgust. No matter how he sliced it, the numbers were against him. What he really needed was more leadership.

Pressing the back of his hand to his eyes, Javert forced his jaw to relax. If he continued to sit so tense in his chair, he was liable to crack a molar. Perhaps he could offer Lapointe a field promotion. It was a solution he had not yet tried, at any rate. Deliberately, he picked the quill back up off his desk, only to drop it again as something heavy hit against the ceiling with a thud. Javert’s eyes flickered upwards. The steady creaking of Valjean’s footsteps had stopped.

“Jean?” he called out impassively, not bothering to get out of his seat. “Everything alright?” In all likelihood, the man had just set a box down too hard. Hopefully the contents were not fragile.

Javert drummed a beat against the desktop, squinting at his list, only to realize a minute later that he had never received a response. Moreover, stopping to listen more intently, Javert was certain he heard the sound of voices.

At once, he was on guard. There should have been no-one else up in the garret to speak to; Javert would certainly have noticed had Toussaint passed by, and Cosette was out of the house with her fiancé. A dozen scenarios flashed through his head, none of them agreeable. He slid his wand from the pocket within his robe, and pointed it at the ceiling.

“Homenum revelio,” he said.

A single greenish silhouette appeared upon the ceiling; Valjean was alone, then, standing in the attic above him. And yet, Javert’s intuition bristled with dis-ease. For the second time, he thought he heard the muffled strain of conversation.

Had anyone seen him in that moment, they would have been impressed with how easily the Secrétaire displayed the grace of a younger Auror, creeping silently out into the hall at the top of the stairs, his every step measured to avoid those floorboards which might squeak and give him away. At the end of the hallway was the ladder, and the hatch at the top which had not entirely closed. Now he knew that he heard voices; Valjean’s was soft and plaintive, answering to another whose tones he could not quite place.

Javert put his wand between his teeth - this was not the time for dignity, and he refused to hamper his reactions by returning the hornbeam to his pocket - and began to climb. When his head struck against the panel in the ceiling, Javert pushed it up just enough for him to peer over the edge. The sight that met his eyes caused him to freeze, first with confusion, then with horror.

Valjean’s back was to him. Javert could make out the man’s shoes, his legs, his hands, and the way the latter were clenched white-knuckled at his sides. He could also see clearly what had reduced him to such a state, a terrible specter of grim virtue and icier disposition looming from across the room.

In that moment, what Javert saw was himself. It was like looking at a mirror, except that the mirror reflected only the bad and none of the good.

“Javert,” Valjean pleaded, and he was not looking at the hatch but at the figment in front of him, “if you would listen for but a moment, I do not -”

The figment narrowed his eyes, advancing. “Must I repeat myself? You will address me by my title!”

Valjean took a step backwards. “M-Monsieur l’Inspecteur - ah, Secrétaire? I think there has been a mistake. You are not well, you should -”

The double of Javert strode forward, boot heels clicking solidly against the ground, not a ghost or an illusion but a physical force to be reckoned with. He grabbed Valjean by the shirt collar, and where the other Javert stood on the ladder, he jerked back. It was too familiar a gesture, too true to life, and there was no mistaking Valjean’s flinch which was as much a product of the history between them as his present fear. Javert was just grateful he could not see his partner’s face.

Yanking Valjean closer, the second Javert growled, “You are to come with me.”

It was to Valjean’s credit that he did not back down, even as his voice shook. “I was pardoned. You know that.”

Then it was Javert the original’s turn to flinch. When had Valjean last said “vous” to him?

“Is that what you think?” The double’s voice was spiteful, and Valjean pulled away, extricating his shirt from the figment’s grasp and massaging his neck gingerly. “You have a criminal record. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed itself, and I say you are to come with me now.”

Valjean’s next words were faint as he asked, “Come where?”

The smile which split the double’s features was all the more ghastly for how Javert knew that expression, knew how often it had appeared on his own face when he made a particularly fine arrest. What was going on? No imposter could have mimicked his mannerisms so well, surely.

“The Palais de Justice,” said the second Javert. “To stand trial before your transferral to Azkaban Prison.”

“I will not go,” Valjean said quietly but firmly. “I will not - Javert, what has happened to you?”

The double closed in, grappling Valjean that time by the wrist, until his partner was left with no choice but to turn as the figment twisted his arm into the small of his back. From his vantage point under the access panel, Javert’s stomach lurched; Valjean’s eyes were squeezed shut, but that did not prevent the tears leaving tracks down his cheeks.

“Did you really think,” the figment said, a cruel slant to his mouth, “that I had taken up here for any reason other than to keep an eye on you? The court may have set you on a pedestal, but the stars fated you to fall, and now everyone will know you for what you are. Cosette will be so ashamed, she will marry the idiot lawyer and hope to forget she ever knew you.”

Valjean shook his head, trying desperately to prevent the poisonous words from settling in his skin, but if the small, choked noise he made were any indication, he was failing.

“Javert,” he whispered, “you know I love you.”

The malicious Auror drew his wand, waving for a pair of spelled handcuffs. “Surely you have noticed,” he said, “that I never say the same. But then,” he added, gesturing pointedly with the wand, “you also know I do not lie.”

It was at that point that Valjean’s knees gave out, and he slid from Javert’s grip as his own personal hell closed in around him. But where he stood on the ladder, the other Javert was not watching Valjean any longer. He had noticed two things: first, that his double’s hornbeam wand was one without any scar of green wood winding down the shaft, and second, that there was an old trunk standing open and empty beside a bookcase. Then he thought he understood.

With a cry, Javert leaped up through the hatch, shoving the panel aside and brandishing his wand like a weapon. The other was in the midst of hauling Valjean back to his feet; at his entrance, the double looked up and snarled. Before he could react, Javert took aim and said very clearly, “Riddikulus.”

At that, the double stepped on the hem of his robe and tripped, tumbling over sideways. Valjean, shaking himself loose, looked around in astonishment. “Javert?” he asked. “What -?”

“It is a boggart, Jean,” Javert replied through gritted teeth. “Riddikulus,” he added as the boggart picked itself back up.

With that second spell, the boggart-Javert found itself suddenly attired for the bath, Auror’s uniform replaced by a fluffy bathrobe and rabbit slippers. Valjean emitted a watery chuckle, and the boggart’s eyes widened in alarm.

“It must have been living in the trunk,” Javert explained, bearing down on the Dark creature.

For every step that he advanced, the boggart took one back, until seeing at last that its game was up, the creature turned tail and fled into the trunk, lid snapping shut behind it. The steamer rocked to and fro as its inhabitant settled into place, and then the only sound in the ensuing silence was of Valjean’s harsh breathing.

Slowly, Javert turned. Valjean was facing away from him, his shoulders shaking.

“Jean?” Javert asked softly.

There was a sniff, and Valjean’s arm moved as he wiped his eyes. Javert did not know what to do - it hardly seemed right to try and touch him after what he had just witnessed, and words felt too heavy on his tongue - but then the impossible happened; Valjean turned to look at him, and contrary to Javert’s every expectation, the expression he wore was one of naked relief.

“Javert,” he said back, voice rough with crying. “Oh, Javert, I -”

Swallowing, Valjean seemed to give up on speech, half-walking, half-running across the floor instead to throw his arms around Javert’s middle and bury his face in the crook of the Auror’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean whispered, barely audible.

Tentatively, Javert returned the embrace, feeling the tremors still chasing through his partner’s broader frame. “You are sorry?” he repeated. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Taking a deep breath, Valjean shook his head. “I should have realized. I know you would not - I know you would never -”

Javert waited as Valjean struggled to collect himself. After a minute, the man said more clearly, “The boggart only chose that shape because it thought it would hurt the most. I am not - I am not afraid of you, my dear.”

The pet name caused a pain in his chest that Javert was unable to categorize. He held Valjean closer, setting his cheek against the man’s soft curls.

“I would not blame you if you were,” said Javert quietly. “It is perfectly natural you should fear prison, just as it is natural you would associate me with that place. I cannot fault what is natural.”

“No,” said Valjean, raising his head, “but you do fault yourself, and I never wanted that.”

Pressing their foreheads together instead, Javert murmured, “I should be able to say it. That I am fortunate to have your affection, that I...”

That I love you. Those were the words he wanted to say, the words that stuck like knives in his throat. Surely it was not so hard for others to express their attachment; surely Valjean did not feel like the world might come unglued whenever he said as much to Javert. Perhaps there was something wrong with him, something that could not be fixed by time alone. Valjean deserved better, he knew that much.

“It is no matter,” Valjean said, kissing Javert softly on the mouth.

As his partner pulled back, there remained something indescribably sad in the depths of his eyes, and Javert wanted nothing more than to smooth it away. He loosened his hold, that Valjean might step aside if he so chose, but chased his partner’s lips with his own to kiss Valjean in return. Valjean’s eyelids fluttered closed, and when the man did not retreat from his touch, so did Javert’s. Gradually, he felt Valjean’s trembling subside; then callused fingers wrapped around his.

Blinking, Javert found Valjean regarding him with a rueful expression.

“I think I’ve had enough of cleaning for one day,” he said, and Javert could not prevent the grating laughter that resulted.

“I should say so,” he muttered. “Come, I shall prepare some tea.” Then he added, “Leave the trunk to me, and I will take care of it one of these days.”

Valjean nodded. “I should be grateful if you would,” he said.

Javert led him to the ladder, letting Valjean lean on his arm for support. He was under no illusions where his strength was concerned, and if Valjean were to trip, there was a good chance he would pull the both of them to the floor, but it seemed to be the closeness that Valjean craved, and Javert was all too happy to grant it; anything to more quickly erase the image of the man weeping at his mirror image’s hands.

By unspoken agreement, it was Valjean who climbed down the ladder first. As he disappeared through the floor, Javert cast a final glance over his shoulder at the steamer.

It was many years since he had encountered a boggart. Back then, his priorities were different, and the creature presented itself as M. Chabouillet, his patron furious over some perceived failing. The young Auror had been stymied for two reasons; first, his natural shame and dismay at having disappointed his superior, and second, the realization that to put the boggart in its place, he would have to imagine some humorous assassination of his dear patron’s character. Now he was certain that if he were to take a look in the trunk, he would find a very different representation of his worst fear.

Yes, Javert could guess well enough what he would see. It was a consideration for another day; Valjean needed him. That thought was fixed firmly in his mind as he climbed down through the hatch. The last thing he heard before the panel shut tight was the sound of the trunk, rocking slightly.

Chapter Text

April 17th, 1996
Vidocq

“If you tread on my robes one more time...!”

“It’s pitch dark, what do you expect me to do?”

“You could piss off, for a start.”

Vidocq inhaled, looking upward for strength. The squabbling had commenced immediately upon the arrival of his recent hires, and already he regretted extending them the invitation. In a perfect world, he would have attended to matters on his own, but Gisquet was insistent that they be cautious. The more proxies they employed, the less likely it was the Aurors would connect the dots before it was too late. And so Vidocq was prepared to be patient - for a little while.

“Shove me again, I dare you -”

“As if it’s my fault they cut these tunnels so narrow -”

Vidocq’s patience snapped.

“Shut up.”

At his command, there was a sudden, ringing silence. Even the Patron-Minette were not prepared to contradict a Death Eater.

“Lumos,” Vidocq growled, and the tip of his wand lit up with a brilliant blue-white light. Around him, the band of wizards shielded their eyes against the sudden glare; there were at least ten all gathered together in the tunnels, their faces blackened with a grease that rendered them virtually unrecognizable. “We are nearly there,” he added. “You -”

He pointed, and Thénardier’s eyes widened at being singled out. Then the man’s expression smoothed over into one of supreme politeness, and he stooped in an obsequious bow.

“Whatever Monsieur requires,” said Thénardier.

Rummaging through his pockets, Vidocq withdrew a folded sheet of yellowing parchment.

“Here,” said Vidocq, pushing it at Thénardier. “They answer to you, you can show them where to go.”

Raising his own chestnut wand, Thénardier muttered an incantation and held it over the page as it also began to shine.

“It is a map,” he announced, and the Patron-Minette crowded closer, each to put his own eyes upon it. Charcoal lines spiderwebbed across the parchment, showing in crude detail one segment of the vast underground network. “This here, it seems to be the place where we crossed over to the mines from the sewer. This tunnel is shown there, and -”

He looked up, puzzled, only to stumble backwards in astonishment as the enchantment was lifted from his sight and he beheld the glowing mouth to Vidocq’s suite of caves.

“But,” he said, gaping, “there was nothing there a moment ago.”

“It is a Fidelius Charm,” Vidocq explained shortly. “I am its Secret Keeper. I drew that map - I do not want you pestering me every time you have another man who needs to find this place - but mind what you do with it. It is a map to the Aurors as much as it is to you, and you would be wise to remember that.”

“I shall cast a charm of concealment over it,” Thénardier promised. “And it shall live within my especial care. Messieurs -” He gestured to the others. “Let us follow our generous employer and see this place he has brought us.”

Vidocq allowed himself a single, toothy grin. He was still proud of his spellwork. The map was a necessary risk; he could not afford to be seen with any man of Thénardier’s, least of all when he was undercover. Pointing at the cave mouth, Vidocq swept inside without waiting for the others to follow.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said over his shoulder. “I will know if you have, and you won’t like the consequences. Besides, all that I want you to worry about is what is back here.”

Waving the gang onward, Vidocq marched toward the side tunnel, only pausing when he reached the opening in the stone.

“Wands at the ready,” he instructed. When all were appropriately armed, Vidocq led the way into the passage, his grackle Patronus fluttering alongside him. The resulting light fell across the pitted rock, illuminating places where condensation had frozen into long icicles, and Vidocq caught a few muttered complaints about the sudden drop in temperature.

Then he reached the first of the cells, and the muttering behind him increased.

“This,” said Vidocq, “is what you are here to guard. There are only two now which are occupied, but there will be more. You let one of them escape and you can take their place, savvy?”

“You have dementors down here,” said Gueulemer, his gravelly voice sounding nearly unsettled. “Why were we not told?”

Vidocq raised an eyebrow. “Because you did not need to know,” he replied. “They are irrelevant to your task - if anything, they will make it easier.”

Turning to the others for support, Gueulemer scowled. “We didn’t agree to this. I’m not getting paid enough to put my soul on the line.”

“Aren’t you?” Vidocq looked at him levelly. “You can walk out if you wish. Go on, try it and see what happens.”

Gueulemer stared him down insolently, dissent written in every tense line of his posture, but in the end he dropped his gaze and stepped away to rejoin his associates. Then Vidocq looked at the rest, spreading his arms in a tacit question. Several expressions darkened, but no-one else spoke up in protest, and Vidocq smiled.

“It’s not so bad as all that. Keep a Patronus at your side, and you’ll hardly notice. It’s not you they’re here for anyway - they know who it is that feeds them, and they should not trouble you much. Still, I do advise not getting in their way - it would be a shame to waste my investment, and there are enough bodies here in the mines as it is.”

Continuing to speak, Vidocq eyed his latest acquisition through the cell bars. “Eat here, sleep here, take it in shifts - I do not care. Just keep them under lock and key. But whatever you do, I need them both alive. Let one die, even if it’s just from exposure, and your life isn’t worth half of theirs, is that clear?”

Half a score of heads nodded sullenly. They obeyed him, but they did not like him. That was just fine with Vidocq; he was not there to be liked. Only Thénardier seemed entirely unaffected, his face unreadable. Surveying the line of cells, the man’s eyes glittered with greed and malice.

“Boulatruelle, Depeche -” he began, “the two of you keep your eyes on the front of the cave. Mangedentelle, Dupont - follow this tunnel to its end and watch it. Brujon, Bizarro - the rear. The rest of you, here with me to guard our guests of honor.”

Vidocq nodded his approval. “I leave this to you, Thénardier,” he said. “I am - or rather, Inspecteur Coste is - due back at the Palais in an hour. You’ll find your day’s pay sitting beside the bed in my quarters.”

Thénardier bowed low. “Monsieur remains a generous employer,” he murmured, and Vidocq took hold of his wand in preparation to Disapparate.

Just before the world vanished around him, Vidocq overheard Thénardier speaking. The man was talking lowly to Montparnasse, and he caught the words, “Find ‘Ponine. Tell her she better have news, and quick.”

Éponine

Kicking her feet under the table, Éponine sat slumped down in her chair, staring into space. Around her, the Amis mingled in clusters, greeting one another and spreading the latest from their respective posts, but she had other worries to contend with.

Over a month had gone by since her father was hired by Vidocq, and there could be no doubt that the arrangement was working out favorably; there was food on the dinner table, the utilities were paid, and Azelma even had a new dress to wear. It was good pay, more reliable by far than housebreaking, but then there was the matter of the job itself, and the fact that it troubled Éponine.

Thénardier had been unusually non-descript in his instructions to her.

“The less you know, the better,” he snapped when she asked for more detail. “Do as I say, and the rest will attend to itself.”

And so she did what she was told; she, accompanied sometimes by Azelma or Montparnasse, scoured Paris for any sign of their target. She found no shortage of white-haired old men among the elite, but Montparnasse once let slip that their man had the strength of an ox, and from the look of those pampered wizards, they would have strained themselves to lift anything heavier than a paperweight.

Éponine was stumped. Not only that, she was concerned; how long would Vidocq be willing to wait before he demanded results? He seemed certain his man lived in the city, yet that was all the more he knew - no address, no neighborhood, not even an occupation.

It would have helped to have a name. Éponine had contacts, places she could go for information, but her father refused to share it.

“If the Aurors catch wind of who we’re after, we’re done for,” he hissed, and Éponine just pursed her lips in silent dissatisfaction. So it was someone important, then, but not a public figure whose whereabouts were known. Even that did not narrow down the possibilities enough; there were enough wealthy, reclusive wizards in Paris to fill a dragon’s gullet.

And through it all, Thénardier was engaged with other matters. Éponine did not know for certain what Vidocq had him doing, but she was not sure she wanted to. The little she had overheard of whispered, late-night conversations alluded to kidnappings, to interrogation, and to still other things that made her vaguely ill. But then, what was there to do? Even if she could have stood up to her father, there was no standing up Vidocq. The Death Eater could kill her without a second thought and find a different street rat to do his dirty work. She was disposable. They all were.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Enjolras, who clapped his hands and said, “Well, let us commence.” The others took their seats, chairs scraping against the flagstone floor. There was a substantial crowd that day, and an electric tension crackled in the air even as the group looked respectfully to their leader. Across from Éponine’s place, Marius and Cosette sat side by side as they usually did, their fingers intertwined on the tabletop, and Éponine could not help that her gaze lingered there even as she turned to face Enjolras.

“As it stands,” Enjolras began, “I think I am not wrong in saying we all have word to share. Let us take a moment to commend Bahorel in particular, who last night fended off a marauding group of Dark wizards, saving the life of a Muggle woman and her son in the process.”

The room broke out into applause, and where he sat at the far end of the table, Bahorel grinned, basking in the praise. His arm was in a sling, and there was a nasty cut that ran across his cheekbone, but he seemed entirely unbothered by his injuries.

“Damn fools didn’t know they were trying to hex a werewolf,” he chortled. “Thought the one’s eyes were gonna bug out of his head when his Stunner bounced off me.”

Enjolras nodded, his expression retrospective. “All have done admirably in their efforts. You have much to be proud of. And yet I wonder - is it enough?”

Faces turned to frowns around the room as people bent to murmur to one another. Leaning across the table, Combeferre said gently, “But Enjolras - all of us are already on alert. We are doing everything we can.”

“No,” said Enjolras. “So far, we have not been acting, only reacting. It is time we took the offensive in this fight.”

“Hear! Hear!” Bahorel crowed, grinning ear to ear. “Let me back at those Pureblood bigots, I’ll show them what fighting looks like.”

Éponine’s head turned as Prouvaire spoke up. The soft-spoken boy was the one who had first brought her there with Marius, revealing to her the alley on the Rue Cujas and its secrets.

“I agree,” Prouvaire said boldly, looking around for anyone who might challenge him. Combeferre frowned, but did not interrupt. “And I do not believe Enjolras would have made the suggestion if he did not already have a plan.”

Their leader inclined his head. “It is true that I have thoughts on how we might accomplish this, but I would welcome feedback from all of you.” He looked pointedly at Combeferre. “In fact, this plan comes to us from Cosette, who has alerted me to a significant new development.”

The room’s attention shifted its focus to Cosette, and Éponine narrowed her eyes. Did Marius have to stare at her so, practically glowing with her worship? It was enough to make anyone sick, Éponine thought.

“My uncle, Javert, has decided to move against the Death Eaters directly,” Cosette said. “I have learned what he intends, and I believe we can support his efforts. We are for the same cause, after all. It would be a victory for us, and a warning to the Death Eaters that the people of Paris will not be so easily beaten.”

Bahorel clapped his hands. “A joint effort, perfect. I’d more than welcome the chance to show up the Aurors.”

“It is not a competition,” Joly reprimanded him. “What is it the Secrétaire plans to do, Cosette?”

Éponine leaned forward in her seat, listening intently. She could think of a few people who would be very interested in the answer to that question.

“There was an arrest today,” explained Cosette. “Three wizards conjured a magical storm in front of the Louvre - they shattered the glass pyramid before they were apprehended, and there were at least thirty Muggles who had to be mind-wiped. The point being, none of the others we’ve taken in have said a word, but one of these has. He is just a boy, and he was frightened, I think. The Death Eaters coerce many into following their order.”

Cosette looked so genuinely sorrowful at this that Éponine had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. She felt certain that whoever this kid was, the last thing he wanted was some Auror’s pity.

“The boy, Deniel, says that there is to be another attack next week,” Cosette went on. “It will be a concentrated strike outside the Palais Brongniart, and Deniel expected there to be ten Death Eaters involved, at the least. The Aurors will be present to intercept the attack. If we join them, we can lend our aid - the Aurors will be most concerned with arresting the perpetrators, but there will undoubtedly be Muggles who are in danger. We can protect them, and assist the Aurors at the same time!”

The gathering broke out into conversation as all discussed the pros and cons of such a strategy. Jean Marie stood up, flashing a canine grin.

“I think it is brilliant. Well done, cuz!”

Cosette gave the youth an appreciative smile. Many seemed to be in agreement, but Jacques grabbed his brother by the shirttails and tugged him back down into his seat.

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” he asked, looking frankly at the rest of the group. “Cosette says this Deniel is the first to inform on the enemy - isn’t it all a little convenient? It could well be a lure to draw out the Aurors and surround them.”

Looking between Jacques and Enjolras, Courfeyrac got to his feet. “There’s no saying whether it’s a trap or not,” he said, “but if it is a setup, then the Aurors may be in danger as well. It is all the more reason to go.”

“Combeferre?” Enjolras cocked his head. “What say you?”

Settling back in his chair, Combeferre pursed his lips. “I do not like the idea of setting out to pick a fight. However, it would appear the Death Eaters already plan to do exactly that, and we would be remiss to let them carry out their plot when we might have interceded. Innocent lives must be protected.”

“Any other comments or objections?”

The Amis looked around at one another, but no-one said anything.

“Very well, then.” Enjolras put his arm in the air. “All those in favor, let us vote on it.”

Hands went up; Éponine raised her own, and eyes swept across her without pausing as Enjolras counted. She was one of the crowd, almost anonymous.

“Motion passed unanimously,” Enjolras announced. Then his mouth thinned. “Well, almost unanimously.”

Pushing his chair out of the way, Enjolras skirted the space to where Grantaire occupied the corner. He was fast asleep and snoring quietly, his head cushioned by his arms on the tabletop. The table’s surface was littered with empty bottles, and with a snort and a flourish of his wand, Enjolras Vanished them from the premises.

“Grantaire,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Wake up.”

The darker haired man stirred in his unconsciousness.

“There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,” Grantaire muttered, his eyes blinking open, “doing more murder in this loathsome world - then I defy you, stars -”

At that moment, awareness returned more completely, and Grantaire stopped mid-speech as he registered Enjolras standing in front of him.

“Forgive me, Apollo,” he said, pushing himself up on his elbows to give their leader a tired grin, “but the night is a demanding mistress and kept me up past my hour last night.”

“Never mind that.” Enjolras crossed his arms. “We have just elected to move upon the Death Eaters. Next Monday at noon, they mean to attack on the second arrondissement. Will you join us in standing against them?”

Grantaire blinked, his brow furrowing at the request. When a moment had passed of him saying nothing, Enjolras scoffed and turned away.

As he started walking, however, Grantaire asked, “You are asking me to go with you?”

Enjolras paused. “Yes, obviously.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You are asking, not merely our faction at large?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but for once nothing came of it. Instead he nodded, just the once.

“Alright then,” said Grantaire. “If Apollo asks it, I should not dream of saying no.”

There was a very faint blush of pink on Enjolras’ cheeks as he returned to his seat.

“Meeting adjourned,” he said, an odd catch to his voice, but no-one disputed it.  

Éponine still had Marius’ book in her bag. She was determined to give it to him that time, and so she pulled it from her satchel as the Amis each got up to go. Marius’ name was still resting unuttered on her tongue, however, when Cosette leaned over to kiss her fiancé, and the name faded back into nothingness. Instead, as Marius offered Cosette his arm, Éponine made the sudden decision to follow them. Where was it that they went together, anyhow? A bourgeois girl like Cosette, she probably lived in the Marais.

Neither one noticed Éponine follow them up the stairs onto the street. Of course they did not; the girl was well-versed in how to tail someone without their knowledge. What she did not know entirely was where her spur of the moment decision stemmed from; all she was aware of was the hopeless jealousy spreading further through her with every beat of her heart. Her fingers tightened around the book cover, wrinkling the dust jacket.

The path Marius took to walk Cosette home did not, as Éponine had suspected, lead into the Marais. Instead, it led past the Jardin du Luxembourg into a sleepy little neighborhood Éponine did not think she had ever visited before. It was an area too good for the likes of her, but not grand enough to attract her father’s eye. The cobblestone streets were well-tended, and petite houses sat back from the street with gated-off front gardens. Then the pair turned down a side-street, and Éponine slipped unnoticed after them.

The house in front of which they came to a stop was no more assuming than any of the others. Marius kissed Cosette on the hand, then led her through the gate up to the front door. Éponine squinted after them, concealed behind a tree on the opposite side of the street. She ignored the urge to get close enough that she might stare through the windows, if only to get a greater taste of this life she craved so different from her own.

Marius knocked on the door. It was opened by a man who might have been old enough to be Cosette’s grandfather, but it was not that which brought Éponine up short. Rather, it was the sudden, terrible onset of understanding.

The man at the door had snow white hair, yet there was no sign of his age in the way he stood, broad-shouldered and obviously still fit. He embraced Cosette; Éponine heard a fragment of laughter and the word, “Papa,” which settled it.

Was not Thénardier always carrying on about the rich beggar who stole Cosette out from under his nose back when the girl was still no more than just the help? And here was a household which had money, but chose not to flaunt it. Was not Éponine looking for a reclusive old man? Here was just one such person secreted away in a modest home living far below his means. And did not Cosette speak of the Secrétaire de Préfecture as her uncle? That would indeed warrant the attention of the Aurors if Éponine were caught snooping.

The reality of her discovery settled across her shoulders like a physical weight. Éponine’s eyes flickered to the house number: 55, read the numerals beside the gate.

She couldn’t stay. That thought hit her all at once. Suppose someone came looking for her and found her there, with Marius and Cosette still standing on the doorstep? Éponine turned tail, scampering through shadowed gardens and jumping low brick walls, not slowing until she was well outside of the neighborhood.

What was she supposed to do? Never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed that her father’s target was someone she knew, if not in person than at least by name. Was she supposed to give M. Valjean over to him? Cosette would be devastated, and Marius with her.

Éponine took the long route back to the Boulevard de la Hôpital, the better to think as she walked. She would stay quiet, she decided, until she could reflect more clearly on what she ought to do.

Life, however, did not prove to be that simple. No sooner did she arrive in front of the Gorbeau House did she look up to see Montparnasse waiting, leaning his back against the rail.

“‘Ponine,” he said, spotting her. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out,” Éponine replied shortly. “What do you want?”

Montparnasse’s smile was more than slightly menacing. “It isn’t what I want,” he said. “Your father sent me - he says you’ve had enough time now to make progress. What have you learned?”

Éponine’s mind was racing. She could not give him nothing. “Enough to get started,” she responded. “I learned a rather interesting thing about the Aurors today.”

Chabouillet

It was growing dark. That was the thought which occurred to him where André Chabouillet sat in his apartments. The sun was disappearing behind the horizon, and in its absence, shadows stretched across the broad expanse of parquet floor. The fire, too, was dying in the marble hearth, and the emerald velvet curtains were nearly black in the twilight.

He did not know how long he had been sitting there; since dinner, certainly. Marie, his wife, was worried about him, he could see it in the lines around her mouth, but Chabouillet did not try to reassure her. She would only see through him anyhow.

He was seated behind his desk, paperwork organized into orderly piles, but he was not looking at his paperwork. Neither was he looking at the copy of Le Oracle Parisian sitting beside his arm. He already knew what it would say; Dark forces were growing bolder by the hour, attacking wizards and Muggles indiscriminately. He did not need the newspaper to tell him that Paris was under siege, nor that the people were panicking. Beside the window, his owl, Roi, sat preening his feathers, having just delivered a letter from Javert. The Secrétaire reported three new arrests, one a werewolf, and two wizards with a history of allyship to the Death Eaters. It was good news, yet still he was preoccupied.

The source of Chabouillet’s distraction rested upon the surface of his desk. It was a by-now familiar piece of parchment, covered all over with the fine, practiced calligraphy of the upper class. It was also smeared with more than a few fingerprints, from when Chabouillet had gripped the paper too hard. He realized that it was probably not seemly for a man his age to stare at Gisquet’s handwriting like a lovelorn adolescent, but the longer he stared, the more certain he was that there were memories somewhere in his head; trapped, yes, but present.

When competently cast, the Imperius Curse was a dreadful thing. It robbed a wizard of their faculties, twisting their thoughts and actions to the desires of their assailant. Under its sway, a mother would kill her own child without hesitation. That was why it was classified Unforgivable, for it made a mockery both of consent and free will. That was not to suggest it was a simple spell; the Imperius Curse was only as good as the wizard who cast it, and it demanded immense concentration. Even those Dark wizards with a talent for it could not prolong its effects more than a few days without having to reapply the Curse.

Fifteen years ago, Chabouillet had woken one afternoon upon the floor of the office to the Préfet de Préfecture with Javert bending over him, explaining that he was coming out of a trance which had afflicted him for a month, and moreover that Gisquet was the one who had induced it. The shock would have caused a lesser wizard to faint again. Further discussion after the fact revealed that the then-Secrétaire’s actions during that month had been the result of a variety of enchantments laid upon his person; Confundus Charms; the Imperius Curse; more than one Memory Charm to wipe from his thoughts any moments of lucidity.

He had not wanted to believe it at first. The idea that a month had passed without his realizing was alarming enough. The idea that Gisquet had betrayed his trust was even harder. Henri had been important to him, someone he respected, someone he had come to care for.

And yet, the more that Javert explained, the more that made sense, and when Chabouillet was reassured by the rest of the Aurors that it was in fact March and not February, he was forced to accept the explanation. For one month, he had been the slave of his superior, falsifying reports, misdirecting his subordinates, and aiding and abetting the Death Eaters in their attempt to stage a coup. He supposed he could only be grateful that he had not been made to do anything more distasteful whilst under Gisquet’s control - or at least, if he had, then he had yet to hear about it.

Javert did not want to tell Chabouillet what their own interactions had been like; the Secrétaire had had to give his protégé a direct order, and even then Javert would not meet his eyes as he spoke. When he was through explaining, Chabouillet thought he understood where the hesitation had come from; had he really drugged his Inspecteur and then left him at the mercy of a Death Eater noblewoman? And had he done so at the suggestion of Mme. Perrier, or had that, too, been at Gisquet’s behest? He did not know. He did not remember. His mind was a blank slate where his memories should have been. And yet, the idea that he might have gotten Javert hurt, even killed, was abhorrent. Javert was like family, not that Chabouillet would ever say so, for it would only embarrass them both.

Pressing his hands to his eyes, Chabouillet leaned heavily against his desk. He was sure - more than sure - that his memories were lurking on the edges of his subconscious. He could feel them, like grit in a well-oiled machine. Perhaps if he focused, perhaps if he pushed, he could break through the magical barriers in his head. He had tried before, of course, sometimes for hours, and it had always come to naught. But now, with everything that was happening, perhaps those memories were at last ready to show themselves. If he succeeded, there was a chance he might learn of some plan, some fragment of what Gisquet meant to do next. He had to try, for others’ sake and for himself.

Chabouillet tried. He strained, he pushed, he fought against the threads of magic, but to no avail. Gisquet had always made out that he was the better dueler, a notion which Chabouillet contested hotly, but in this, at least, Henri’s ability won out. Drained and defeated, Chabouillet put his head down on the desk. He had given himself a migraine, and had nothing to show for it. It was altogether an unproductive evening.

When he rose again, the fire had guttered out completely. He did not bother to relight it. Instead, he turned and went up to bed, though he knew he would only lay beside his wife in the dark and not sleep. His work would keep until daylight, and maybe by then his migraine would have dissipated. Maybe it would also take with it the sick feeling that lingered in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that returned whenever he allowed himself to think about what could have been.

Jacques

The apartment on the Rue Morand was quiet. It was never quiet. Always, there was the crackling of the fire in the grate, the tinkle of wind chimes enchanted to move without the wind, his mother’s soft voice singing folk songs to herself.

Jacques Marie looked around. The fire was cold, the wind chimes were smashed, and the salon where he stood was overturned. The remainder of the apartment appeared to have been similarly ransacked. There was no sign of his mother.

He may not have possessed the skin-changing ability handed down by his family lineage, but Jacques’ senses were keen. He could smell the stench of fear lingering in the air, and his eyes were sharp enough to pick out the occasional burn on the carpet or the walls where a stray spell had gone awry. There were also the scattered signs of a struggle; much of the destruction was too excessive to tell whether it had been an accident or intentional, but there was no mistaking the deep gouges in the wooden floorboards, the nails of an enormous canine having left their mark. There was also no mistaking the way the tracks backed into a corner, as though surrounded by now-absent foes.

Jacques did not know for certain what had come to pass, but he could guess. He was not interested in why, or what the Death Eaters wanted with Thérèse. What he was interested in was finding her, rescuing her if necessary, and personally dismembering any wizard who had laid hands on his mother.

First, he had to break the news to Jean. The boy had hung back at the meeting, chattering away with Courfeyrac and Bousseut, and he would not yet know what had occurred. Then, with Jean’s help, they would get Thérèse back. Between the two of them, the Death Eaters would not stand a chance.

He did not allow himself to think about what it would mean if they did not find her in time.

Chapter Text

April 19th, 1996
Éponine

Vidocq steepled his fingers together.

“I heard you have something to tell me.”

Éponine shifted uncomfortably in her chair, looking down at her hands in her lap rather than meet eyes with the Death Eater seated opposite her. She liked to spend as little time in No. 4 as possible these days, but now she found herself wishing she were at home rather than alone in a dusty entrepôt with Vidocq, whose rapt attention made her shudder slightly.

The entrepôt was an old one, a warehouse of the sort which was meant to last a decade at most but which was too costly to tear down when its life was finished. Derelict and leaning slightly to one side, concrete walls enclosed a tall, voluminous space with boarded-over windows. The roof leaked when it rained, and steel trusses twice as tall as a man spanned the distance between the two long walls. From them hung bits of machinery, rusting and of uncertain purpose. Stacked in the corners were piles of old crates, but whatever exports the aging structure once had housed, there was no indication of it now. Instead, the floor was empty and bare, its function repurposed for the Death Eaters’ uses. There were smears of a dubious color staining the cement, and Éponine made a conscious effort not to look at those, either.

“I have, Monsieur,” she replied, tucking her hands up under her arms. She did not care for how Vidocq was staring; indecency she was accustomed to, but this was something different, something colder and more insidious. His icy glare kept her pinned in her seat, for all that she would have been more at ease standing. “But I thought ‘Parnasse was gonna deliver my message. I’ll have a word with him if he didn’t - it’s what you are paying us for -”

“Montparnasse delivered it,” Vidocq interrupted, “but I’d prefer to hear it from you.” He leaned forward into the space between them, studying her intently. “Leave nothing out - what you know, and how you know it.”

Pushing her bangs out of her face, Éponine sat straighter in her chair.

“There is a group,” she explained. “They call themselves Les Amis de l’ABC. I thought they might prove useful, so I’ve been going to their meetings. The Amis like to think of themselves as the resistance, but they’re no threat to you - they’re just kids, most of them, or else not much older than I am.”

“And where do these ‘Amis de l’ABC’ meet?”

Éponine inhaled, grateful she could answer honestly. “I can’t say. The place is hidden under the Fidelius Charm.”

Vidocq raised an eyebrow. “You say these kids are not a threat, but they can perform the Fidelius Charm?”

Flushing, Éponine replied, “Well, one of them can, I guess, but that’s not the point. They’ve come by a story that I thought would interest you - that’s why you had ‘Parnasse bring me here, isn’t it?”

“Their Fidelius Charm... who is its Secret Keeper?”

Caught off-guard, Éponine stammered, “I - I think the boy’s name is Jean, but everyone calls him Jehan, or Prouvaire. There are two Jeans, you see, and it gets confusing. Why do you ask?”

Vidocq waved away her question, a half-smile curling the corner of his mouth, and Éponine was faced with a leaden weight in her stomach and the feeling she had revealed more than she ought. “Continue,” said Vidocq.

“Well...” Éponine sank lower in her chair, chewing on her lip. “They were talking about it at the last meeting. Apparently the Aurors arrested one of ours - a boy named Deniel - and he talked. Told them about an attack planned on the Palais Brongniart for next Monday. The bobbies plan to be there, to make more arrests.”

“They are planning on that, are they?” Vidocq rubbed a hand over his bearded chin. “Funny, you would think I would have heard about it.”

The challenge was implicit; too late Éponine recalled that Vidocq had himself infiltrated the Aurors. She had no choice but to volunteer more information; if she did not, the curl of Vidocq’s fingers around his twisted wand hinted at the consequences.

“My source -” Cosette, whispered a petulant corner of her thoughts, “- says this decision comes from the Secrétaire himself, Javert.”

At that name, Vidocq’s eyes narrowed to slits and he got to his feet. Éponine’s hand moved warily towards where her own wand was stowed, but Vidocq was not looking at her, beginning to pace instead, wearing circles around his chair.

“Javert...!” he muttered. “Of course the bastard wouldn’t have told Coste. He never says a word until he’s ready to -” Vidocq paused, swiveling to frown at Éponine. “Javert never says a word until he’s ready to act. What ‘source’ could you possibly have to know what he is up to?”

Éponine’s mind was racing. Had Cosette told them how she had overheard Javert’s plans? “I... I don’t know how she knew,” replied Éponine. “She didn’t say.”

“Didn’t she?” Vidocq hummed skeptically. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It is true that Martin planned to lead an offense on the Palais Brongniart. We must assume your source is correct, and that the Aurors will be there.”

Hiding her relief behind a question, Éponine asked, “Does that mean you will call Martin off, then?”

Laughing harshly, Vidocq looked at her and repeated, “Call Martin off? Stupid girl, you don’t know half of what you’ve given us. Opportunities such as this are not quick to present themselves - thanks to your warning, we’ll have the Aurors right where we want them.”

“Oh,” said Éponine. “That’s good, then.”

“I am very pleased,” Vidocq smiled, his mouth thin and unpleasant. “There is just one thing which would please me more. Do you know what that would be, Mademoiselle?”

Éponine winced inwardly, but nodded.

“Well?”

Taking a deep breath, Éponine tried to shield her mind; it was more difficult when she was nervous. She thought of a little house on the Rue Plumet, so different from her own, and of a white-haired man with kind eyes who was too old to be Cosette’s father. She thought of these things, and what she said aloud was, “I am still searching, Monsieur.”

“I want that address,” said Vidocq, his voice exuding a carefully suppressed anger. “I am told you are good at finding people in this city - you had better prove it, or the next time we speak, I may see about giving you more incentive.”

Éponine nodded miserably; she knew well enough what incentive would look like coming from a Death Eater. Then Vidocq dismissed her, and Éponine was all too happy to escape his presence. She barged out through the side door, not bothering to return the greeting of Montparnasse who was waiting for her there. Instead, she strode farther up the narrow lane between buildings, searching for the sewer grate she knew was hidden amid the garbage and weeds. The outlet to the sewer was another factor which made the entrepôt suitable to Vidocq and his men; it was simple to enter unseen from the street.

A wave of her wand opened the passage to her, and Éponine climbed down into the dark tunnel.

“Lumos,” Éponine muttered, and took off in the first direction she saw. She would pretend to scour the city for Vidocq’s target, all the while knowing who he was and where he lived.

The options available to her were few. She could run away, Éponine thought. She could throw herself into the river. Either option was grim, but so was confessing the truth, or waiting for Vidocq to torture her until she cracked and told the truth in spite of herself. What had Cosette ever done for her, anyway? Was protecting her guardian worth the risk?

Ruminating moodily, Éponine traversed the length of many city blocks before she returned to the surface. Only when she was certain she was alone did she allow her shoulders to slump. How had she wound up so far in over her head? And now there was no way out.

April 22nd, 1996
Cosette

The Palais Brongniart was an impressive piece of Muggle architecture, steeped in a well of history. A relic of Napoleon, the building had housed the French stock exchange since the nineteenth century. It was a hub of commerce and innovation, though there were rumors of late that the bourse was set to close within a few years’ time. All this and more Marius recounted to Cosette, speaking lowly where they crouched on a neighboring rooftop overlooking the plaza below. Cosette replied with intermittent, absent-minded hums, her attention focused on the crowded street.

On that April morning, the plaza was milling with Muggles; bankers; brokers; entrepreneurs. It was just the sort of place the Death Eaters would choose to wreak havoc, very public and vulnerable to magical attack of the sort for which Muggles would have no recourse. The Palais itself, Cosette decided, looked not so different than the Palais de Justice. It was a proud Neoclassical monument, surrounded on all sides by a Corinthian colonnade. The columns, twenty feet tall and carved of solid limestone, provided ample places to hide while casting the facade of the building in shadow. The plaza, on the other hand, was wide open, and cars trundled past on three sides in the afternoon traffic. Cosette puckered her lips in a frown; the whole place reeked of a set-up. From where she and Marius were positioned, any one of the figures walking the street below could have easily been made a target.

The other Amis were spread out in small clusters around the block. Combeferre kept a lookout perched on the roof of the Palais. Bahorel and Feuilly were stationed behind two of the stone columns, wearing Disillusionment Charms to conceal themselves from passersby. Below, Joly, Prouvaire, and Bossuet mingled unobtrusively with the crowd, acting the part of Muggle tourists. Cosette could just make out the blot of aqua which was Prouvaire’s current hair color of choice. And somewhere out of sight, Enjolras patrolled the perimeter, assisted by Courfeyrac and Grantaire. He would send a signal if he discovered anything of note; otherwise, they were to assume that the attack would be centered on the plaza.

The sun was glaring and too hot in her black robes. Cosette had left her uniform at home; she was not on duty, and strictly speaking was not even supposed to be there. Her uncle would be furious if he knew, but Cosette was not about to let that stop her. Her first priority was helping others, not listening to what Javert told her.

A subtle flash of movement caught her eye, only because she knew to watch for it. Cosette squinted at where several Aurors had Apparated into the shadow of the Palais, their backs to the stone and their stances ready.

“...funded the railroad, too,” Marius was saying in her ear. “Not to mention the steel industry. It was quite something at its height -”

Cosette nudged him. “Look,” she said, pointing out the small team of navy-robed wizards.

Marius cocked his head. “Well, there are the Aurors,” he said, looking bemused, “but then, where are the -?”

He did not have the opportunity to finish his question before it was answered for him. A ring of figures in clad in black appeared out of nowhere around the edges of the square, encircling the Muggles, and by extension, the Aurors, within. They made no effort to hide their entrance, and several people screamed as they beheld the wizards stepping out of thin air.

“Did you not say there were only supposed to be ten of them?” Marius asked, counting off the figures quickly. “There are at least twice that!”

“They know,” Cosette said with a sudden, horrible conviction. “They were warned!”

And no sooner had she come to that alarming conclusion than the Death Eaters as one leveled their wands at the crowd trapped within the ring, letting off a volley of curses in an explosive flare. Several onlookers crumpled to the ground, even as Cosette clambered to her feet.

“This is awful!” she cried. “Marius, we have to do something, now!”

Standing beside her, Marius took hold of her hand. “I’ll follow you,” he said.

Below, the Aurors surged forward despite that they were outnumbered. They were briefly illuminated in a reddish halo as each fired off a Stunning Spell; most missed their mark, the Death Eaters parrying the magical blasts easily. Then the Auror leading the charge doubled over, collapsing to the pavement as a curse struck them across the middle. From that distance, Cosette could not tell who it was, and her heart leapt into her throat. Javert alone was she able to pick out, recognizable both by his stature and by how the rest of the officers followed his direction without hesitation. Still, Cosette could see in their movements that they were caught off-guard.

“We Apparate on three,” she said, pointing to an empty patch of concrete across the street. “One, two -”

Cosette felt Marius’ hand tighten on hers as the world disappeared into a darkness that squeezed the breath from her lungs. The moment passed, and she was standing on the corner in the midst of what was becoming a very dangerous firefight. Not twenty feet from her, a blockade of three Death Eaters separated a huddle of Muggles from safety, pinning them between the Dark wizards on one side and the Aurors on the other, unable to run lest they end up the same as those less fortunate who already lay motionless on the ground. Cosette prayed they were merely unconscious. She feared they were not.

Pointing her wand straight at the back of the nearest Death Eater, Cosette’s fingers tightened on the vines carved into the grip of her applewood wand. “Stupefy,” she said. “Stupefy, Stupefy -”

The first two jets of red light struck the wizards squarely between the shoulders, and they keeled over. The last, however, turned aside and the Stunning Spell whizzed just past him. Sneering at Cosette, the wizard sent a hex flying her direction, but Cosette narrowed her eyes and said firmly, “Protego! ” Striking the Shield Charm, the hex rebounded, and the Death Eater stumbled backwards in agony as large red boils sprouted all over his face.

“Expelliarmus,” added Marius, and the Death Eater’s wand was ripped from his hand, soaring through the air to clatter at the young man’s feet.

“Hurry,” Cosette urged, motioning to the petrified stand of Muggles. “Before more of them arrive!”

The Muggles looked at one another. They were businessmen and women, dressed in suits and clutching their briefcases with white knuckles, expressions fearful.

“It’s alright,” said Cosette more gently, lowering her wand. “We’re here to help.”

It was a young man who took the first tentative step forward. When he started to move toward the sidewalk, the others followed quickly after, shuffling uncertainly and tripping over themselves in their haste to get away. Behind them was revealed a father holding the hand of a little girl. Her face was red with crying, but she looked up at Cosette with unconcealed awe.

The father appeared shaken. “She can do unnatural things, too,” he said, glancing at his daughter. “We thought she was the only one, but I see now that is not so.”

“You will get a letter,” Cosette promised, “the summer she turns eleven. It will explain everything.” Crouching, she looked the little witch in the eye and continued, “For now, there is a nice café on the other end of the Rue Vivienne which makes an excellent hot chocolate. Perhaps you would like to check it out?”

The father smiled gratefully, lifting his daughter off the pavement. “Thank you,” he said and offered Cosette a hand.

“Of course,” she returned, pulling herself back to her feet. “It’s what we are here for. Protego! ” she added, directing her wand behind the small family as a stray curse hit the ground and detonated, sending broken chunks of stone hurling through the air. They struck against Cosette’s Shield Charm, and rebounded harmlessly.

“I would suggest you go now,” Cosette informed the man, and he did not need telling twice.

As he dashed up the sidewalk, clutching his daughter close to him, Cosette turned and surveyed the plaza. The Aurors, rallying, were putting up a good fight despite that the Death Eaters outnumbered them three to one. Satki landed two flat on their backs with a single spell, the air rippling and distorting around her. Two wizards whose names Cosette did not know had conjured a snow storm, and the resulting meteorological anomaly buffeted and battered everyone within a twenty foot radius.

The Aurors were aided, though they were unconscious to it, by the Amis’ contributions. From their vantage point at the top of the steps, Bahorel and Feuilly took potshots at every Death Eater to come near, invisible but for faint shimmers when they moved. Once, Feuilly landed a hit on a Dark wizard dueling an Auror witch, and as her foe fell to the ground, the woman looked around, flummoxed, for the source of the spell. On the other side of the plaza, the trio made by Bossuet, Joly, and Prouvaire were holding their own; they could have been any magical citizens caught in a crossfire, and the Aurors paid them no mind.

Cosette, however, ducked her head as over the sound of screams she heard Javert shout, “Anti-Disapparition Jinxes around the perimeter, now! Don’t let them escape!”

The Aurors followed orders, a hazy lilac dome coalescing piece by piece over the plaza before it faded into deceptive translucence. A few Death Eaters managed to Disapparate before the spell was complete, but not all of them. Those who were unsuccessful retched, the spell twisting their insides until they gave up. Inspecteur Coste sent a curse hurling toward a wall of Dark wizards, narrowly missing Javert in the process. The spell fell short and blew a hole in the street where it landed.

“Aim, Coste,” the Secrétaire called out, and the Auror waved his apologies. Whatever wards the man was using, they must have been very effective, Cosette thought. The Death Eaters had scarcely tried to hex Coste once.

Then, something thick and ropy coiled around Cosette’s legs. Stumbling, she fell forward and landed hard on her elbow. Already, her applewood was in her hand. She twisted over her shoulder to see a great black snake cinching her calves tight. Beyond the snake stood a figure in a skeletal mask; a Death Eater had caught her unawares.

The snake reared back, its fangs dripping venom. Before it could strike, Cosette gave a jerky wave of her wand. “Evanesco,” she managed, and the snake dissolved into non-being.

Growling, her opponent stalked forward, but now Cosette was ready. “Everte statum,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

The Death Eater was lifted bodily and thrown away from her. He struck the ground with a heavy thud, and Cosette winced in spite of herself. Each clambering back to their feet, they began to circle one another warily. Cosette watched; at the first sign of movement from her opponent, she cried, “Protego! ” just as a wall of flame erupted from the wizard’s wand. The fire struck against her Shield, pushing and prodding at her defense, tongues of flame licking along the edges, but try though he might, the Dark wizard could not break through.

Changing tactic, the Death Eater ended his spell, only to spit out instead, “Avada kedavra! ”

A burst of green light exploded from his wand. Cosette wheeled out of the way, feeling the hairs on her arm stand on end as the deadly light missed her by inches.

“Incarcerous,” she returned, and lengths of rope materialized out of the air, wrapping around the Death Eater’s limbs and tying him tightly. He lost his balance as his legs were bound, tipping over backwards. The unfortunate wizard landed on top of his wand, and there was a splintering crunch.

“That was my grandfather’s wand,” the wizard snarled. “You’ll pay for that, you -”

“Cosette!”

Cosette looked up to see Marius approaching her, a grin on his face.

“Careful,” she hushed him. “If Javert recognizes us, we’ll be in a world of trouble.”

“We did it,” said Marius. “Look, they are surrendering!”

Cosette looked around her, and saw it was so. The Aurors, boosted by the Amis’ assistance, had succeeded in landing the majority of the Death Eaters on the ground. The scattered remainder, seeing that they were overcome, threw down their wands in hope of clemency. Cosette knew there was little chance of that; between the Muggles lying dead and the witnesses to be Obliviated, there were enough charges to put all the Dark wizards in Azkaban for the rest of their lives.

“Wonderful,” said Cosette. She looked again at the bodies strewn across the plaza, an uncounted number in need of medical attention. “That is wonderful.”

Earlier
Enjolras

The Place de la Bourse was flocking with civilians, scooters zipping up and down the street as pedestrians walked by reading the paper or drinking from a cup of coffee. Taking shelter from the sun and prying eyes, Enjolras slipped unseen into the breezeway below the glass and steel offices of the Agence France-Presse, motioning for Courfeyrac and Grantaire to follow. A sign warned trespassers of video surveillance, and Enjolras, spotting the small CCTV camera mounted in the corner, pointed his wand at the object and whispered, “Confundus.”

The camera sparked and spun wildly on its axis. When it stilled, it was facing against the concrete wall.

“Here,” Enjolras said, motioning for his fellows to follow him. Grantaire and Courfeyrac stepped casually into the shade off the sidewalk, and Enjolras indicated the parking lot on the other end of the breezeway.

Stealing into the deserted lot, open to the sky but enclosed on all sides by the Agence complex, Enjolras scanned the space; there were a few parked cars and a bird pecking at some crust of food, but that was all. Nodding in approval, he gestured towards a corner which he judged to be protected from the view of those sad windows overlooking the asphalt. Together, they tramped across a gravel median, avoiding weeds and slicks of oil, until they reached a position where the three could plan their strategy. For the time being, the plaza outside seemed calm.

Standing with his back to the wall, Enjolras remained alert as he said, “No sign of them yet. Let us make another circuit, and then station ourselves on the opposite side of the Palais if we do not find anything.”

“Very well,” Courfeyrac replied. “We ought to make another round past the Rue des Colonnes - I do not like that the Death Eaters could amass there unseen before charging the bourse.”

“An optimistic man,” observed Grantaire, “to accuse the Death Eaters of subtlety. Their entrance will be more direct than that, if I know anything.”

“A very good chance it won’t be, then,” said Courfeyrac dryly.

Enjolras shook his head. “Even if your prediction proves true, Grantaire,” he said, “it is still our duty to inspect the Rue des Colonnes. We are tasked with patrolling the perimeter.”

Grantaire was no longer listening. His head was tipped back, squinting up at the rooftop. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” asked Courfeyrac, smacking his arm. “Subtlety?”

But Enjolras had heard it, too, a faint popping noise from somewhere above. It was a sound with many possible sources, one which went easily ignored by those who did not know better, to their peril.

“Get down,” he hissed, pulling Courfeyrac against the cinder brick wall, just as a blast of red light flew down from above and cracked against the pavement.

“We are under fire,” Enjolras murmured. Courfeyrac’s eyes were round as he stared at the new mark on the concrete where he had been standing moments before. “On three, we Apparate to the opposite rooftop -”

He pointed, but his words were interrupted by the sound of laughter, wild and chilling as no laughter had the right to be. He looked up.

Just visible upon the roof parapet was a woman’s silhouette, robes whipping around her legs in the wind. Enjolras tensed, running through his mental tally of offensive and defensive spells. The figure leapt from the parapet, flying rather than falling in a black fume down to the ground in front of them. She was swiftly joined by two more pillars of smoke, landing on either side. Then the smoke dissipated, and Enjolras heard his companions draw breath sharply. For his part, Enjolras’ stomach clenched as recognition set in, but this was not the time for fear. Pushing the emotion aside, Enjolras straightened and looked their enemy in the face.

“Look what we have here,” grinned the woman in the center. “Bitty baby wizards sneaking about where they don’t belong.”

The witch’s raven hair hung in limpid ringlets around her gaunt face, and her girlish tone was rendered all the more unsettling by the black eyes which stared out of hollowed sockets, merciless and wicked. She might once have been beautiful, but Azkaban had changed her. This Enjolras knew, just as he knew the woman’s name. He had read it over and over again, in every newspaper and wanted poster across Paris.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” he said coolly. “Leave this place while you have the opportunity.”

Smirking, Bellatrix nudged her comrades. “Is that boy giving me orders?”

The two men with her laughed roughly. The one to her right Enjolras knew to be her husband, Rodolphus. The other...

“Henri, you take care of that one,” Bellatrix said, pointing dismissively at Courfeyrac. “And Rudolph, you get the other.”

Rodolphus leered at Grantaire and cracked his knuckles.

Bellatrix showed her teeth in her smile as she said, “These children haven’t been taught to respect their betters.”

Beyond the parking lot, there came the distant sound of screams; the attack on the Palais Brongniart had begun. Enjolras shut out the noise, his entire focus on the three Death Eaters before him. Even as he raised his wand in self-defense, his mind was analyzing the situation from every angle; as yet, there were no verified sightings of Bellatrix or the other escapees from the wizarding prison. That they appeared now meant Paris was indeed their first target, and the attacks across the city by lesser servants of Voldemort were mere cogs in some larger plan. But what was that plan, and why show themselves -

The Death Eaters struck in the same moment. Gisquet’s spell picked Courfeyrac up off the pavement and threw him into the wall. The young man’s head collided with the cinder blocks, and Courfeyrac did not resist as Gisquet grabbed him by the collar, pressing the tip of his wand to his skull. Enjolras could not see what happened to Grantaire, but his heart lurched as there was a sickening crack followed by a cry of pain, and then Grantaire was clutching his wand arm, his cedar wand falling useless to the ground.

Filled with rage on behalf of his friends, Enjolras leveled his wand at Bellatrix. Very clearly, he spoke, “Bombarda.”

The spell flew through the air straight at the witch, but she parried the blow. Rebounding off her Shield, the magic struck a car instead, and the vehicle was flipped onto its side as doors and windows were blown to bits in a cacophony of breaking glass.

Before Enjolras could open his mouth with another curse, Bellatrix acted. Swinging her arm as though she carried a whip, a white shaft of light poured out like a lightning bolt, striking Enjolras hard across the torso. The crackling energy spread over his chest, and he staggered back against the wall for support as his muscles refused to respond to his will. His fingers twitched around his wand, but the electricity would not permit his arm to retaliate.

“Who do you think you are,” Bellatrix asked, “to challenge me?”

Panting, each breath an effort as pulsating shocks made his whole body tremble, Enjolras nevertheless looked her in the eye.

“My name is Enjolras,” he replied. “We stand for the people of France, and we have sworn to oppose you and Voldemort, your master.”

“You!” shrieked Bellatrix, “- dare to speak his name? You will kneel, brat, and repent!”

Recovering some control of his limbs, Enjolras glared and said, “I kneel to no-one.”

“I said,” Bellatrix repeated, “kneel.”

Waving her wand again, this time it was a great force which bore down on Enjolras, landing in all its crushing weight upon his shoulders. Every bone in his body strained to stay standing, but far from weakening the spell, it seemed only to grow stronger until it felt like his back might break beneath it. Enjolras would have borne even that rather than give in, but the choice was his body’s, not his, and in the end, his knees buckled. He collapsed to the pavement, the weight pinning him there immobilized.

Bellatrix crouched, tipping Enjolras’ face up to look at hers. “Defiant, still, are we?” she said, her features mocking. “Perhaps your friends’ lives are more precious to you than your own.”

As the witch rose back to her feet, Enjolras glanced left and right. Rodolphus held Grantaire tightly to his chest, wand at his throat. Courfeyrac was similarly captured, his face pale and his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat.

As Enjolras watched, Bellatrix said, “Henri, if you would,” and Gisquet shoved Courfeyrac to the ground.

“With pleasure,” the wizard replied.

Courfeyrac crawled forward, fingers grasping for his larchwood wand where it lay on the ground, but the thin rod was just beyond his reach. Above him, Gisquet brandished his weapon.

“Crucio.”

Courfeyrac’s scream of anguish was terrible as he writhed in the Unforgivable Curse’s grip, and Enjolras fought to keep his expression unaffected; there was nothing to be gained by giving Bellatrix the reaction she wanted, he thought. It would only give her the satisfaction of knowing her strategy was working.

He struggled against his magical bonds to no avail as Courfeyrac suffered, gasping for air between his cries. No-one was coming to aid them. The others were doubtless engaged in a battle of their own, and Enjolras could only hope they would be victorious where he was not.

At last, Gisquet let go of his spell, and Courfeyrac fell silent but for his ragged breathing.

“Well?” Bellatrix looked down her nose. “Was that enough, or do we need to be more persuasive?”

Enjolras met her gaze steadily. “You have made your point, witch,” he said. “As I am their leader, you may direct further complaints against my person. Leave the others out of it.”

“Ooh, bravery,” Bellatrix sighed. “How precious. And how foolish.” Her face clouded. “Blood traitors. Mudbloods. That’s all you and your friends will ever be.”

At a word from his spouse, Rodolphus shoved Grantaire to the ground with the rest. Bellatrix’s eerie smile returned as she beheld the three of them.

“Are there more of you?” she asked. “Young people always have such grand illusions of resistance. But what you have to learn is, you can’t win. Not against us.”

She raised her arm, doubtless preparing to dispense with a deadly ray of emerald light, but out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras caught sight of Courfeyrac snatching up his wand at last. Likewise, Grantaire hugged a familiar cedar rod to his chest with his unbroken hand, having found it when he fell.

Tightening his grip on his own wand, Enjolras regarded Bellatrix calmly. “Not today, Madame,” he said. “But tomorrow - tomorrow we will win.”

He reached out, grabbing each Courfeyrac and Grantaire by the shoulder, and then Enjolras Disapparated.

Presently
Javert

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Javert nodded with satisfaction as Satki clapped another Death Eater in handcuffs.

“Good work,” he said. “Take Chevallier and see to it that all of them are restrained. I do not want to have to write any more incident reports.” Javert pivoted and called out, “Rousseau, check that DePaul is alive. Then Apparate to the hospital and fetch a team of Healers - we will need their assistance here.”

Inhaling, the Secrétaire surveyed the damage. The Place de la Bourse was in shambles; the aftereffects of spellwork left the pavement pitted with holes and soot marks and hailstones, which were just visible between the many bodies. The whole affair was going to be a public relations nightmare, made worse by the fact that the Death Eaters had somehow been forewarned of the Aurors’ coming, and took steps to prepare. What worried Javert most was the possibility of a leak; if someone inside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were passing information to the enemy, it could cause any number of problems.

“Coste,” Javert said, waving the Inspecteur over. “I want you to question Deniel. Find out how the Death Eaters could have anticipated us.”

Coste’s eyes glittered. “Yes, Monsieur,” he replied, bowing.

“In the meantime, help Rousseau with DePaul.” Javert pinched the bridge of his nose. “He took that curse straight to the chest, if he hasn’t bled out internally yet it will be a miracle.”

As Coste walked away to attend to the Auror Second Class, Javert’s eyes passed again over the plaza. They had won, but it was no victory. It was fortunate that there had been a few magical citizens among the Muggle crowd with enough presence of mind to lend their aid, else the Dark wizards would have had them.

He shook his head, looking at the Palais Brongniart with a pensive frown, and that was when Javert spotted an uncannily familiar blonde head among the dwindling crowd. A great weight sank through his stomach into his shoes. Marching across the plaza, Javert felt his initial horror replaced first by relief when it became clear the robed witch was unharmed, then by anger.

“Cosette!” he called sharply as he approached.

Five yards away, Cosette tensed. She waved furiously for the wizard beside her to leave, which only drew Javert’s attention to him sooner.

“Marius,” he growled under his breath.

Coming to a stop before the two of them, Javert fixed Cosette with the hardest glare of which he was capable. “What,” he began dangerously, “do you think you are doing here?”

Cosette glanced at Marius before meeting Javert’s eyes. “We were getting lunch at the place on the corner,” she said. “When we heard the commotion, we came to see what was going on.”

Even before she was through speaking, Javert was shaking his head. “That was highly irresponsible,” he admonished. “You interrupted a covert operation to apprehend a team of Death Eaters!”

“You were outnumbered,” Cosette protested. “You needed help!”

“Do not presume to tell me how to do my job,” Javert said lowly, a rising agitation blinding him to the truth in her words. “I have been an Auror since before you were born. You could have been killed, Cosette, do you realize that?”

“So couldn’t have you,” the girl argued. “Or anyone else on your team. But you always treat me as the exception, though you promised when I joined you would not.”

“You -” Javert sputtered, “you were not assigned to this task force! Your interference could have cost us this fight.”

Cosette crosses her arms stubbornly. “That is untrue and you know it. If we had not stepped in -”

“And if you had been hurt?” Javert demanded. “What would I have told your father? My God, Cosette, am I to be the one to tell him that his daughter is dead?”

Finally, Cosette’s eyes fell to her feet, chastened. She opened her mouth to speak but the Secrétaire did not allow her a word in edgewise.

“He would blame me,” Javert went on. “He blames me already for letting you serve as an Auror, even if he does not say so. If anything happened to you, it would crush him, is that what you want?”

“No,” Cosette whispered.

“There has to be consequences for this,” Javert muttered to himself. “By rights, you should be suspended - I will have to think on it. In the meantime,” he added, looking up, “go home, Cosette.”

Pointing meaningfully at Marius, Javert said, “Make certain she stays there.”

That was the last thing he said before Javert turned and stormed away, holding back his temper with difficulty. The whole situation was going from bad to worse, he thought, and he gripped his hornbeam wand tightly as he returned to deal with the aftermath of the assault on the Palais Brongniart.

Chapter Text

April 30th, 1996
Vidocq

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The boy before him swallowed, licking his lips without speaking. He glanced past his interrogator toward the bolted door behind. Walls of mirrored glass reflected the boy’s timid face a hundred times around the circular chamber, empty but for the Auror, a chair, and the prisoner shackled to it.

“N-no, Monsieur,” the boy finally replied, not daring to meet his eyes.

“No,” repeated the Auror. He began to pace methodically around the chair like a tiger, the features of Mathis Coste multiplying in endless reflections around him. “What is your name, son?”

“Deniel,” the boy answered. “Deniel Thomas.”

“And what are you charged with, Deniel?”

The boy shuddered, his unkempt hair falling in his face. “Aiding and abetting the Death Eaters,” he whispered, “in c-conspiracy to coerce and in-intimidate civilians -”

“- by means including but not limited to murder and destruction of property with the intent of inciting mass hysteria. Serious charges,” said Coste gravely. “Why then, are you being held in the Conciergerie rather than in Azkaban Prison where you rightfully belong?”

At the name of the prison, Deniel’s shoulders began to shake. “Th-they told me that, if I cooperated, the court might reduce my s-sentence. I am to testify in the court again next week, Monsieur.”

Coste’s hum was thoughtful. The boy could be no older than fifteen; he would not last two days in Azkaban.

“And so,” said Coste, his voice like silk, “you agreed to cooperate. You told the Aurors all you had learned of a Death Eater plot to attack the Palais Brongniart.”

“I overheard the one called Martin talking about it.” Deniel drew a shaky breath. “He wanted it to be a m-massacre. I couldn't let that happen.”

The Auror tipped his head. “Then it will distress you to learn that the Death Eaters were forewarned, and knew the Aurors would be there to meet them. An officer, name of DePaul, was killed along with many bystanders.”

Deniel’s face went, if it were possible, paler still. “I did not know,” he said. “Monsieur, please understand, I never wanted this.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Coste said softly.

“I didn’t want to join them,” Deniel explained, tears welling in his eyes. “But my little sister is ill, and my parents cannot afford the hospital bills. The Death Eaters promised her treatment if I helped - I didn’t have any choice.”

The Auror nodded in understanding, moving around the chair again to stand at Deniel’s side and lay a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Sniffling, Deniel replied, “M’sieur l’Inspecteur Coste.”

“Ah,” said the man with Coste’s shape and Coste’s voice. “That is an easy mistake to make.” He withdrew a flask from inside his robes and took a drink, the repugnant potion within causing him to spit in disgust.

Replacing the flask, the man went on, “But I am afraid you are misinformed.” Then he smiled, and the smile did not look like M. Coste at all. “My name is Vidocq. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

Deniel’s eyes bugged in their sockets.

Vidocq’s hand tightened briefly on his shoulder, then pulled away. “You see, it is an unfortunate position you have put me in,” he said. “The one I answer to does not take betrayal lightly. And he is most displeased that Martin and his compatriots are now in jail. The Dark Lord expects to see some punishment.”

Finding his voice, Deniel gasped, “Please - please, I will do anything -”

“A nice sentiment,” Vidocq said without sympathy. “But too late.”

Raising his wand, he waved it at the door to the rear of the chamber. It opened noiselessly, admitting a gust of freezing air which rolled like a fog across the floor. Ice crystals crept up the mirrored walls, and in his chair, Deniel shivered.

“It is not enough that I merely kill you,” Vidocq said quietly. “An example must be made in order to remind the rest of what will happen to those who oppose our cause. Understand, it’s nothing personal. I really couldn’t care less one way of the other.”

Gesturing at the boy, Vidocq looked at the dementor entering through the doorway and said, “He’s all yours.”

Deniel looked over his shoulder and screamed, a single piercing note which was cut off a moment later as he went rigid, caught in the creature’s power. Quietly, Vidocq cast his patronus at his feet, but the dementor was entirely focused on its prey. The wizard was not worried; the interrogation chamber was spelled to be soundproof, and anyway, the prisoner would not be making any sound at all for much longer.

Hovering inches above the slate floor, the dementor glided forward. Its shriveled hands reached out hungrily until Deniel quaked where he sat, but even the urge to struggle against his bonds left him as the creature filled his head with paralyzing despair.

“Please,” the boy whispered. “Please...”

But dementors were creatures without any capacity for kindness or mercy, and this one did not hesitate as it bore down upon its victim. Wrapping its hands around the boy’s throat, Deniel choked and fought for breath, tears freezing to his cheeks as they squeezed out from under his eyelashes. Then the dementor seemed nearly to caress his jaw, and Deniel had no chance to scream a second time as the dementor clamped its gaping hole of a face over the boy’s open mouth.

The Dementor’s Kiss was spoken of with much fear and dread, but how many of those who gossiped in hushed tones knew what it truly entailed? Vidocq wondered this as he watched; the slight curl of his lip was the only sign he was affected by the sight at all. Deniel had gone limp, incapable of resisting any further the great evil overtaking him. Dementors were said to devour the human soul, leaving the body behind as nothing but a shell. Vidocq was not even certain he believed in the existence of a soul, but there could be no doubt that the Dementor’s Kiss was an effective means of execution, and it seemed he could see the light leaving the boy’s eyes.

The room grew colder yet as the creature fed, the malaise of despair growing stronger and stronger. Vidocq kept his grackle Patronus close, and the darkness did not touch him.

When it was over, the dementor rose back into the air, a faceless hunger wrapped in its tattered black robes. It looked at Vidocq expectantly.

Pointing at the chamber’s back door, Vidocq said, “Wait for me in there. I will be gone five minutes, ten at the most. Whatever you do, stay put - if you are caught, you will be returned to guard Azkaban where you must share fresh meat with the others of your kind. Wait, and do not attack any who pass in the hall - you will have your fill of Auror souls soon enough.”

The dementor tipped its head, seeming to consider the Death Eater’s words, before it turned and floated back from whence it came. It did not speak; Vidocq was fairly certain the creatures were incapable of speech, though if the opposite were true, he had no desire to find out. The door shut quietly behind it, and he was left alone with what remained of Deniel.

Stepping closer to the chair, Vidocq crouched. The boy’s eyes were vacant and unseeing; he breathed very slowly, but did not react in the slightest when Vidocq waved a hand in front of his face, nor even when the wizard slapped him across the cheek.

Satisfied, Vidocq stood again. He adjusted his navy robes and pointed his hornbeam at the spot between Deniel’s eyebrows. “Avada kedavra,” he said calmly, and with a burst of green light, there was nothing left of Deniel at all.

Then Vidocq tucked his wand away, ran his fingers through his hair, and once more adopted the carefully constructed facade of M. le Inspecteur Mathis Coste.

When he breezed back into the corridor, it was to find Javert waiting impatiently outside.

“Well?” the Secrétaire snapped, Satki and Merle standing behind him. “You weren’t in there very long, what did he say?”

Coste bowed his head, shaking it sadly. “I asked him some questions, but the poor bastard killed himself before he could answer.”

“What?!” Pushing Coste out of the way, Javert stood thunderstruck in the doorway, looking at the dead body of Deniel Thomas. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” replied Coste heavily. “But it looks like we were set up - the Death Eaters must have been planning this from the start. We would do well to take any future information volunteered by prisoners with a grain of salt.”

Spinning on his heel, Javert motioned for the others to follow after him as he stalked angrily down the corridor towards the Auror Offices.

As the Secrétaire disappeared from view, Vidocq reached for his wand. He needed to remove the dementor from the premises immediately, before it could be discovered.

Then, just before he was out of sight, Vidocq overheard Javert swear loudly.

“God dammit!”

Vidocq smiled. Even this little misstep was proving to be a blessing in disguise. Everything was falling into place.

May 24th, 1996
Javert

“Gather ‘round, everyone.”

Javert had ordered an extra table be brought up to his office for the meeting, and now he stood over it staring down at the large map of France unrolled across its wooden surface. The Aurors did as they were told, pressing in around the perimeter of the table, and Javert looked them over briefly. Coste, Satki, Chevallier, Merle, Lapointe, Proulx - his entire team had cleared their schedules for this. On the opposite end of the table was Chabouillet, looking at the map with a small frown.

“Thank you all for coming,” Javert began. “I know everyone is very busy.”

The murmurs of polite response could not hide the fact that every one of them had circles under their eyes, and Javert sighed inwardly. This assignment would only put more pressure on their already-strained reserves, but it had to be done. He could not rest easy until they had checked.

“The Death Eaters have grown ever more extreme since February,” the Secrétaire continued. “They realize we do not have the officers to drive them out, just enough that they may make fools of us. Every day, their ranks swell as people are driven to them by bias and by fear. If we allow this to continue, we will be overrun.”

He tapped the map with his finger. “As of yet, we do not know the location of the enemy’s base of operations. The brunt of the assault appears to be centered on Paris, but smaller cities and towns are beginning to see their own share of trouble as well.”

Across the map, pinpricks of green light started to glow upon every confirmed site of a Death Eater attack. Paris was plainly the epicenter, but verdant arms spiraled off the capital city like those of a malicious galaxy.

“We don’t know where their base of operations is,” Javert repeated, “but I have a hunch. I want a team of volunteers to reconnaissance - only to reconnaissance, mind - and learn what they can.”

“Where are we going?” Satki asked, bending over to look more closely at the map.

Javert met her eyes. “The Château de Lestrange.”

At that, the Aurors began to mutter amongst themselves.

Satki frowned. “You think they would choose somewhere so obvious?”

Javert squinted and tapped his thumb to his chin, studying the Loire Valley where it was inked in on the curling parchment. “Hiding in plain sight,” he replied quietly. “After all, it is obvious. We are sure to think to check there. But,” he added, tracing a glowing line around the valley with his wand, “it is also defensible, under many layers of enchantment, and remote, concealed in the forests of the river basin. Moreover, it is the stronghold of the Lestrange family, full of ancient and Dark magics. It has been a breeding ground for war against our government before, and it could be so again.”

“If I may,” Coste cut in.

Javert nodded curtly.

The Auror directed his next words to his subordinates. “I would just like to remind the room that our sources indicate the Lestranges are in Britain. I doubt very much they would let a disorganized rabble of lesser wizards make use of their family home in their absence.”

“Our sources know as little as we do,” Javert snapped. “They ‘believe’ the Lestranges are in Britain, yes, but can they prove it? No-one has seen any sign of them since their escape - they could be anywhere. And were I in Bellatrix’s place...”

Javert’s fingernails dug into his palm as he recalled the manor house and its dungeons below. “...I would return to the château. After all -” He smiled sardonically. “Home is the first place people think of going.”

On the other side of the table, Chabouillet pursed his lips. “A hunch hardly constitutes a lead,” he said. “And I dislike removing more of our Aurors from their work in Paris.”

“I agree,” said Javert. “But the alternative is to wait, allowing the enemy to pillage and destroy, until such time as they give themselves away. Are we willing to make that sacrifice?”

“I’ll do it,” said Satki, looking between Javert and the Préfet. “I’ll take my team, and we will investigate. It should only take a few days,” she went on, addressing Chabouillet. “If the manor is unoccupied, then that much should be obvious. And if the Death Eaters have taken up residency there, we can learn their numbers, their leadership -”

She was interrupted by a knock at the office door.

As one the assembly turned to look. Javert glowered, his fingers hesitating over the pocket where his wand was stowed.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened with a creak to reveal two Aurors Third Class, supporting between them a young man who was visibly struggling.

“ - go of me!” he growled, then froze as he realized the door was open.

“This boy says he has an appointment with you, Monsieur le Secrétaire,” said the first Auror. “He claims it is urgent.”

“More urgent than finding and unmasking the Death Eaters?” Chabouillet asked incredulously, coming up to stand behind Javert. For his part, Javert was still staring, his brow furrowed as he looked at the dark haired youth in the doorway.

“Jacques,” he said mechanically. “Forgive me, my schedule appears to have been double-booked.”

Jacques Marie’s eyes widened slightly, and then he shrugged off his Auror accompaniment with a look which said quite plainly, I told you so.

“You know this young man?” inquired Chabouillet.

“Forgive me, Monsieur le Préfet,” Javert went on. “I shall have to take this. Though,” he added meaningfully, “I am sure it will not take long.”

Jacques gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

“Very well,” Chabouillet said, though he gave Javert a curious look as he withdrew. “Use my office, it is unoccupied.”

“Monsieur.” Javert bowed in thanks and stepped away, grabbing Jacques by the elbow as he entered the hallway.

Dismissing the two Aurors with a nod of his head, the Secrétaire steered Thérèse’s son down the hall, not saying a word until they reached the Préfet’s office. Only when they were ensconced inside, the door firmly shut, did Javert release his grip and break the silence.

“I have been untruthful to my superior officer on your behalf,” he began, “so this had indeed better be urgent.”

“Oh, it be.”

Jacques took a deep breath, standing tall and unintimidated in Javert’s presence. His curls were nearly black, falling into his face, and as Javert took the measure of the boy, he noticed a patchy stubble across the boy’s chin and a certain hollowing of his cheeks. Whatever was troubling him, it had been going on for some time.

“I know you be busy, so I’ll cut straight to the point.” For a moment, Jacques looked pained. “My mother be missin’.”

Javert startled.

“She’s been gone... by the Gods, two months now,” Jacques continued, shaking his head. “My brother and I, we thought we could find her and put an end to this on our own, and we been tryin’ - we have! - but she’s vanished.”

“You must be mistaken,” Javert stated. “Thérèse is away on holiday, she writes to Jean every other week.”

Jacques gaped at him in astonishment. “What?”

“Yes,” said the Secrétaire. “According to the letters, she’s gone to the Pyrenees for her health.”

“No, no, no,” the boy protested, shaking his head. “Our apartment was torn apart - they took her, Monsieur, the ones who follow You-Know-Who.”

“I am telling you, you are mistaken,” Javert replied, his patience wearing thin under the pressures of his station. “Your mother is a good friend of Jean’s, and I daresay a... a friend of my own for that matter. You think Jean would not know her handwriting?”

“Why would she write you and not her sons?”

Jacques looked so distressed that Javert took a small degree of pity on him.

“Perhaps the owl got lost en route,” he said. “It does happen. In any case, Missing Persons is not my immediate division. I would advise you to speak with Monsieur Beaupre on the second floor - he can help you to file a report.”

“I don’t want to be filin’ a report,” Jacques retorted, “I want your help findin’ my mother!”

“And I do not have the time.” Javert’s jaw tightened. “Do you realize who you are talking to? I am responsible for overseeing the entire campaign against the Death Eaters, who even now are doubtless seeking the destruction of our government, our people, our very civilization. I agreed to hear you out because I like you, boy, but realize that I do not have the means to help every Parisian to knock on my door, least of all right now.”

Jacques continued to stare at him, dumbfounded, and Javert sighed, holding open the office door. “If you want to file a report, Beaupre is the man to talk to. But I advise you to send an owl first - I’m sure your mother is just fine.”

The young man took his leave, but not before stopping and turning to look Javert in the eye.

“I’m beginnin’ to see what Garrett meant,” he said. “You only care about us when it be convenient. I can see myself out,” he added as Javert made to reply. “I’d hate to be wastin’ more of your precious time.”

Javert scowled as the boy left. Of all the nerve... he thought. Perhaps he would write Thérèse himself and inform her of how disrespectful her boys had become in her absence.

With the dull pounding of a headache growing in his temples, Javert made his way back to his own office. The sound of conversation was abruptly cut off as he opened the door, which left him to wonder what - or whom - the others had been talking about.

“Ah,” said Chabouillet. “Javert. Good. Your... ‘guest’ got what he needed?”

Javert rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What he needed was a different department,” he said, “or perhaps counseling. My apologies for the interruption, Monsieur le Préfet.”

Chabouillet waved this away, though the younger Aurors exchanged glances which only served to increase Javert’s aggravation.

“Where were we?” he asked short of temper, returning to stand at the head of the table.

“Satki will lead her team to the Château de Lestrange,” Chabouillet told him. “We can spare her if we only send a skeleton crew in support. Meanwhile, we will continue our defense of the city and its people.”

Inspecteur Coste raised his hand, leaning forward as he interjected, “I still say my team should be the one dispatched for this assignment, Monsieur.”

“No.” The Préfet’s tone was uncompromising. “As Inspecteur, your duty is here, Coste. Should anything come of this investigation, perhaps, but until then Satki will go.”

Coste did not look pleased as Chabouillet turned to look at the other Auror First Class. Satki held her head high. “We can be in and out of there in a week,” she said. “All we need is a location.”

Javert focused on the map. He remembered well the manor house concealed deep in the forest, cut off from civilization and from the surveillance of the wizarding government which might have had cause to question what went on there. Then there was the Muggle town which lay in its shadow; its name escaped Javert now, but that hardly mattered.

The Secrétaire’s eyes narrowed, concentrating on the inky blots of terrain. Deliberately, he tapped the parchment with the tip of his wand; a curious sensation passed over him, an involuntary shiver as though he had stepped through a ghost, but then the moment passed and a larger green dot began to glow on the map’s surface, far south of the River Loire.

“You will find the manor on the outskirts of town, cloaked behind a barrier of enchantments,” Javert said, lifting his head. “Go carefully, and should it come to a fight, flee rather than be captured.” He did not say aloud that should anyone be caught, there were not officers enough to rescue them; he did not have to.

It was a grim company which filed out of the Secrétaire’s office. Satki carried the map rolled up under one arm, giving instructions to the others on how to perform in her absence. The last to leave was Coste, and he turned and nodded once to Javert before shutting the door. Javert inclined his head, already thinking. The Palais Brongniart had shown plainly that there was weakness in their defenses. If they did not put an end to the Death Eaters now, the Aurors would swiftly be outmatched.

They could not afford another disaster.

Éponine

The hidden door on the Rue Cujas flew open as Éponine jabbed her wand in its direction. Slinking through the alleyway, her feet moved as quickly as her tumultuous thoughts. She clipped down the private stair of the Café Musain to alight on the landing at the bottom. For just a moment, the girl paused to wipe her eyes on the back of her sleeve. Éponine’s cheek still smarted where her father had struck her, though the mark faded almost at once. What did not fade was the memory of their argument, or the ultimatum which was set. She had spit at Thénardier’s feet in protest, and that was when he hit her.

Sniffing, swallowing back tears, Éponine scowled and turned the knob before her. The basement door opened onto the back room of the Musain, already humming with the sounds of a meeting in progress. The Amis de l’ABC sat in their usual circle around the table, and any hopes Éponine had of entering unnoticed were dashed as Enjolras turned around to face her.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said Enjolras. “Good, I am glad you could make it. What we are discussing will affect you as well.”

Éponine kept her expression carefully neutral as she made her way to her seat.

“As I was saying,” Enjolras went on, “we know the enemy are gaining traction in the second and third arrondissements...”

Éponine stopped listening as she took her place. She had caught a glimpse of Cosette across the table with Marius, a sight which stung all the more following the argument. The reason for Thénardier’s ire was obvious - Vidocq was not pleased by their lack of progress. The Dark wizard had threatened Thénardier, and Thénardier threatened her in turn, his red face and cold voice barely masking his own fear.

There was talk of repercussions if Vidocq did not get the information he wanted. Éponine pictured the bag tucked under her bed, half-packed with her meager belongings in preparation for flight. She could run if she had to, though she knew no life but in Paris; even Montfermeil was distant to her now. It would also mean leaving Azelma behind, and there was no telling what would become of her sister in her absence - Éponine shied away from that train of thought before it could take hold. She was not about to lose her composure in front of the others.

The sound of her name brought Éponine back to the present.

“- any luck with the pawn shop you volunteered to monitor?” Enjolras was asking.

Only then did Éponine remember her fence, and how she once had spoken of seeing a Death Eater within the confines of that establishment. She had not returned since.

“Nothing to report,” the girl replied, crossing her arms. “Haven’t seen any Death Eaters in or around the place.” It was technically not a lie - if the Death Eaters had returned, she certainly had not been there to see it.

“Hmm.” Enjolras tapped his fingers upon the table. “Curious. And yet they advance elsewhere across the city. Ever since the attack on the Palais Brongniart -”

“This is the same speech you gave last week,” Grantaire piped up from the back, sounding even more surly than usual. “Or have you run out of your fabled inspiration?”

“Perhaps,” said Enjolras testily, “it is simply difficult to proceed when it is clear that someone from within our organization is passing information to the enemy!”

A low murmur went around the room, people shifting uncomfortably as unspoken accusations mounted. Any one of them could be a spy; any one of them, except for that Éponine alone knew the truth.

She looked down as Enjolras continued, “We were betrayed. The Death Eaters knew the Aurors would be there, but more than that, they anticipated our presence as well. Bellatrix Lestrange does not emerge from hiding for a few outnumbered Aurors!”

“You think that madwoman can be controlled?” Grantaire sniped back. “I doubt Voldemort himself can keep a leash on her. The truth is that you aren’t omniscient - you don’t have any more clue what she was doing there than the rest of us!”

By the embarrassed looks on the others’ faces, Éponine received the impression that this was not a new argument, merely a continuation of an already-discomforting schism in their ranks. Enjolras’ expression was frosty, but Prouvaire put his hand up before their leader could say anything further.

“I don’t believe that anyone here would betray us,” the young man declared. “Everyone has put their lives on the line to be a part of this. We should not fight amongst ourselves - it is just what the Death Eaters would want.”

“I agree,” Cosette spoke up, rising to look at their congregation. Éponine’s fingernails dug into her skin as her arms tightened across her chest. “We have all risked much to join in this fight because we believe resistance is the only choice. It may cost me my career, but what use is being an Auror if I am forbidden from doing what I know to be right? I doubt the intentions of no-one in this room.”

Marius took Cosette by the arm, guiding her back to her seat as Enjolras said, “A noble sentiment, and one I wish I could wholeheartedly support. But with the exception of a few top Aurors, no-one knew of the enemy’s plans other than those in this room. I do not think Monsieur le Secrétaire leaked word of his own secret operation to the Death Eaters, do you?”

“Then who?” demanded Bahorel. “Who here would turn on us?”

Éponine swallowed, and it was only years of practice which allowed her to hide her nerves beneath indifference. If they denounced her now, she would have nowhere left to go; out of sight of the others, she slowly reached for her wand.

From his corner, Grantaire said, “Oh, I don’t think it’s any state secret who he suspects.”

“Well, you must admit there are some peculiarities,” retorted Enjolras.

Courfeyrac turned to look between the two of them, aghast. “Grantaire? Enjolras, you cannot possibly believe -”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Grimacing, Enjolras turned to the other man. “Bellatrix caught us unawares. What is the probability of her stumbling across our route by chance? For that matter, you were tortured, as was I. As for Grantaire -”

“My arm was broken,” Grantaire interjected. “But as usual that counts for nothing.”

“Combeferre mended your arm in an instant,” Enjolras snapped. “Meanwhile, Courfeyrac -”

“I’ve told you, I am fine,” Courfeyrac said gently, though the lingering shadows around his eyes betrayed a recent spate of sleepless nights. “This has been hard on everyone, but I don’t see what -”

“No,” said Grantaire, getting to his feet. “I get how it is.” He circled the table, a hectic flush climbing his neck as his thick brows furrowed. He came to a stop at Enjolras’ side. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio’ - but then, you already knew that.”

Enjolras looked at him levelly. “There is nothing you stand for, nothing you believe in.”

“Wrong.” Grantaire returned his look frankly. “There was one thing.”

He said nothing further, not even turning to look at the rest as he took his leave of the café and allowed the back door to swing shut behind him.

There was a long silence, everyone staring down at their lap or the tabletop. Éponine followed suit, though far from the dismay of the others, she felt only a singular relief that no-one had so much as looked her way throughout that entire exchange. The girl sighed, suddenly drained by the effort of playing both sides.

It was Marius who spoke first. “So what do we do now?”

Enjolras inhaled slowly through his nose. When he raised his head his face was set as though nothing had happened, a determined light kindling in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “we press the one advantage we possess.”

“And what is that?” Combeferre asked, folding his hands on the table.

Enjolras stared up at the newspaper clipping on the wall. “Bellatrix,” he said.

“Bellatrix?”

Nodding, Enjolras faced the assembly and explained, “It may be that Courfeyrac and I are the only two in Paris to have seen the Lestranges or Gisquet. If we are not, then at least we are the only two who have lived to tell the tale. The Aurors, at least, do not yet know Bellatrix is here - it does not suit Voldemort’s plans for his most trusted servants to give themselves away until he is ready to move. That information gives us power.”

“We are certain the Aurors remain ignorant?” Combeferre asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“I would have heard had anything happened to the contrary,” replied Cosette. “My uncle may have suspended me for a few weeks, but I am not without information.”

Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre, but his words were addressed to the room at large. “Bellatrix may still be within the city limits. Exposing her would buy us time, but there is more to it than that. Whether the Lestranges remain with Gisquet in Paris or not, they are bound to have an intermediary - someone less important to the Dark Lord, but important enough that the other Death Eaters obey them.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “This intermediary is a linchpin,” he said. “Controlling Voldemort’s lower servants so his favorites can keep to the shadows.”

“If nothing else,” Enjolras said, “the individual, singular or plural, will possess valuable insight into the Death Eaters’ intentions. But they may also provide a direct line to the location of Bellatrix herself and the others of the inner circle.”

The discussion continued, but Éponine once again lost track of the talk. Courfeyrac’s ‘intermediary’ could only be one man; if the Amis found out about Vidocq, it was only a matter of time until they learned of his contract with Thénardier, and by extension, Éponine. They would all hate her then, even Marius, and there would be no softness left in his eyes when he looked at her.

She needed a solutio, but what? Éponine had always known herself to be resourceful, why now was she at a loss for what to do?

“- and do not forget about below ground,” Cosette was saying. “There are a thousand places to hide in the sewers.”

“Very good,” replied Enjolras. “Marius, why don’t you and your fiancée take that assignment? I believe Gavroche has drawn a map.”

Éponine sucked in a breath. The sewers! That would take them too close, too close by far to the Death Eaters’ tunnels. She rubbed her palms against her jeans, her father’s face looming again in her mind. What might he do if he thought she had double crossed him?

As the Amis gathered together their assignments, Éponine found herself trembling. No matter which way she turned, the noose drew tighter.

“Éponine?”

Startled, the girl jumped, but it was only Marius looking at her curiously. The others were standing, gathering their belongings to head out into the street.

“Are you quite well?” Marius inquired. “You’ve looked faraway all afternoon.”

“Oh.” Fumbling for words, Éponine replied, “My little sister is ill. I’ve just been wondering how she is doing, that’s all.”

Marius’ eyebrows pinched in concern. “Is it serious?” he asked. “Can I help? I think I have... a few Galleons...”

He began to fish through his pockets, but Éponine, flustered, waved her hands. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “Just a cold. But I’ll make her some soup when I get home.”

“Would you like to walk with me?”

If Éponine had not been blushing before, she certainly was now. She turned away before Marius could see, bending over to pick up her satchel from the floor.

“Walk with you?” she repeated, straightening.

“With us,” said Marius brightly, gesturing at Cosette where she stood still speaking with Enjolras. “I want to take Cosette home first, if it isn’t too much trouble, but we can head back to the Gorbeau House from there. We’re neighbors, after all.”

Éponine almost refused on principle. To walk with Marius alone was a dream come true, just to talk with him and snort at his terrible puns and perhaps, if she were lucky, hold his hand for a moment. With Cosette around, he would be nothing but devoted to her.

That was when the way out presented itself in a flash of light.

“I’d love to,” Éponine said instead.

Éponine

It was much later by the time Éponine and Marius arrived alone on the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. Éponine was laughing at a story of Marius’ time spent living with Courfeyrac as his slightly erratic roommate, though she sobered somewhat at the sight of the dingy tenement house.

“Well, I guess this is me,” she said, pointing her thumb awkwardly at No. 4.

“I suppose so,” Marius replied. He looked as though he wanted to say something more, and for a moment, Éponine almost reconsidered what she meant to do.

Then the young man shrugged a goodbye, and he disappeared up the steps to No. 6. Éponine’s feet carried her up her own stairs more slowly.

Walking Cosette home had been torture, made all the worse for the fact that Cosette insisted upon being so nice to her. That she had never once recognized Éponine from their dimly-remembered shared past, nor even batted an eye at her alias, was undoubtedly the reason. No-one could be a Thénardier and be well-liked.

The trio had eventually reached a familiar tree-lined street, and this time Éponine was permitted to follow the pair up the path to the front door of No. 55. From inside the gate, she could just make out the faint shimmer in the air of protective enchantments surrounding the property in a giant bubble. Charms of concealment, she thought. Just one more piece of evidence to confirm her hunch was correct. Someone lived here who did not want to be found.

No sooner did Cosette knock than the door opened, and Éponine beheld again the white-haired gentleman she had caught a glimpse of before.

“Cosette,” he said warmly, and Éponine felt another pang of jealousy lance her heart. “I was not expecting you for at least an hour.”

“We finished early,” the girl explained, stepping inside. From what little of it she could glean through the doorway, Éponine decided the house was quite as beautiful as she had imagined.

“Are you staying for tea?” M. Valjean asked of Marius, holding the door open.

Marius glanced at Éponine. “Er, actually, I was planning to walk my friend home,” he replied.

For the first time, Valjean seemed to notice Éponine lurking on the corner of the stoop. His eyes widened slightly.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I did not see you there. You are welcome for tea as well, if you like.”

Éponine flushed. Did everyone in Cosette’s family put on the same airs of generosity?

“Thank you,” she said, remembering at the last moment, “Monsieur. But I had best be getting home.”

“Mademoiselle Jondrette lives in the unit next to mine,” Marius explained. “We, er, ran into her at the café.”

Éponine tried to feel less giddy at being addressed ‘Mademoiselle’, and without even a trace of irony.

“Be careful,” Cosette’s father warned as he waved them farewell. “The streets aren’t as safe as they once were.”

That was earlier.

Now, Éponine muddled over the kindly old man. Who was he to invite her to tea? She was a stranger to him, and anyway she wasn’t a beggar, nor was she delivering one of her father’s infamous letters. The rich, she decided, were a strange breed.

It would have been easier if he had been rude to her, or disdainful, or even had he not spoken to her at all. But as she pushed her way inside the Gorbeau House, Éponine knew she had found a worthy distraction. Cosette would be far too busy cleaning up a mess to poke her nose into any sewer tunnels by the time Thénardier was done dealing with her father.

She stepped inside the house, and there was Thénardier himself, sitting at the card table with a beer can in hand. As she entered, he looked up and snarled.

“I thought I told you not to come back here without news,” he spat. “Cheeky little -”

“Who says I don’t have news?” Éponine interrupted. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Have you really?” Thénardier narrowed his eyes. “This has better be good.”

“Oh, it is,” said Éponine. “That man you’re looking for? I think I’ve found him.”

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 1996
Cosette

It was a quiet morning in the house on the Rue Plumet. Cosette sat at the kitchen table, her cup of coffee growing colder by the minute as she skimmed aimlessly over the newspaper. Her father had left half an hour prior for the garden center after preparing the flower beds, each of them raked and readied for new summer plants. Toussaint was also absent, out on a run for groceries. Outside the window, a light patter of rain fell from a grey sky upon the parched grass.

Cosette sighed, her lips puckering slightly with a listless boredom. She had been reinstalled in her position at the Palais de Justice the Monday before, but was only permitted to make half-days of her schedule for another week. Javert stood adamant in his decision to punish her, and no amount of reasoning or pleading would sway him to the contrary. Conversation between them was in short supply, and what little of it there was insisted upon being stilted and awkward.

The single concession Javert had allowed Cosette was agreeing to keep quiet around her father; if Papa found out she had been at the Palais Brongniart, there existed a good chance he would never let her out of his sight again. So far as her father knew, she was simply taking some paid time off.

The morning edition of Le Oracle told her nothing new; the Death Eaters were on the prowl with no end to their campaign of terror in sight. When she realized she had read the same headline three times and absorbed none of it, Cosette dropped the paper and picked up a book instead. She supposed her father must have left it out on the table to read. It was one of hers, the girl realized, running a thumb down the worn spine. The book was an old children’s fable; she had thought it long since lost. Where could it have come from?

Her curious musings were interrupted by a knock at the front door. Setting Le chêne et le roseau aside, Cosette rose from her chair and peered cautiously down the hallway. Her father possessed a key and had no need to knock. The same was true of Toussaint. Perhaps it was Marius, though he usually sent an owl ahead rather than turn up unannounced. In way of other visitors, No. 55 had very few.

Creeping on tiptoe, Cosette moved toward the antechamber, her fingers tending in the direction of the wand stowed in the pocket of her robes. To the left of the front door was a sidelite, the view through which was somewhat obscured by a gauzy shade. Cosette peered through the glass and caught a glimpse of familiar, mouse-brown hair. At that, her vague sense of dis-ease turned to one of surprise.

She opened the front door a crack.

“Thérèse?” Cosette asked.

“Good day, my dear!” Thérèse’s honey-warm tones met her ears, and Cosette pushed the door open wider. “It’s good to be seein’ you.”

Cosette cocked her head, looking out at the woman standing on the stoop. She was a few inches shorter than Cosette herself, with a wild mane of curls held back by a chiffon scarf. She wore one of her customary crocheted shawls, and her golden eyes were merry and full of light. It certainly appeared to be Thérèse.

“I thought you were traveling,” Cosette said. “When did you get back?”

“Ah, just this morning.” Thérèse winked. “It be a long flight on a broomstick, I can be tellin’ you that much! My backside won’t be the same for a week.”

Cosette gestured at the antechamber. “Papa went out, but would you like to come in and sit down? I can put some tea on.”

“I may take you up on that,” Thérèse replied. “Sitting do sound like a good thing just now.”

She started towards the opening, only for Cosette to move awkwardly and block the doorway.

“Er,” the girl said, placing her hand on the back of her neck, “I hate even to ask, but... would it be too much trouble if we went over the pass-phrases?” She shrugged apologetically. “Uncle Javert is a stickler for it, and he is angry with me already. I shouldn’t like to upset him further.”

Thérèse laughed. “Ah, that Javert. He be a right piece of work, don’t he? Well then,” she said without further ado, “what gift did Mademoiselle be givin’ me last Christmas?”

Cosette hummed as she thought. “Two skeins of mooncalf wool,” she said. “Though Papa and Javert were there for the holiday as well, and it’s really supposed to be a question that only I could answer -”

Thérèse waved this away. “Oh, Cosette,” she said. “I know perfectly well that be you in there, and you know just as well that I be me. Your Uncle’s a great man, but you can’t be denyin’ he’s a good bit paranoid.”

In spite of herself, Cosette laughed. “Well, you’re right about that,” she replied. “Alright, have a seat at the table, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“That’s a good girl,” Thérèse murmured as she followed Cosette inside.

Cosette paused long enough to latch the door firmly shut, the part of her which was still upset with Javert pleased by that small act of rebellion. Heading for the kitchen, she quashed her sixth sense which quietly suggested that it was unwise to make exceptions, and that perhaps Javert did not insist upon taking precautions without good reason.

Earlier
Vidocq

The distant drip of water was the only sound in a vast, breathless silence. It was the silence of the Sublime, the one which descended in anticipation of the plunge. Vidocq was almost shaking with excitement, an excitement he had to fight to contain lest it cause him to slip and err. After months - no, years - of waiting, the moment had arrived at last. Finally, his pawns were positioned across the board and it was time to set them each into motion.

The woman lay slumped in the corner, spelled rings of iron circling her hands and feet. There she slumbered uneasily, her expression shifting and contorting even in her unconscious state. Whatever dreams troubled her, she did not rouse but murmured inaudibly as Vidocq bent down and plucked a single hair from her head. He needed no more than that; he would not have to play the part of this creature for long.

Dropping the hair into the flask at his waist, Vidocq turned to look out through the bars of the cell in which he stood. On the other side were gathered the Patron-Minette, cloaked and hooded. Each man among them exhibited the same cold bloodlust, fueled by the promise of vengeance and profit. Vidocq emerged through the cell door, and Thénardier snapped to attention where he stood at the fore.

“We are yours to command, Monsieur,” he said.

Vidocq ran his thumb along the shaft of his wand. “When we arrive, you will surround the house. I will keep our guest distracted while Babet breaks down the wards over the place. As soon as you are ready, give the signal and close in.”

“And if the mark should try to Disapparate?”

“I’ll see to that,” Vidocq replied.

Thénardier smiled craftily. “Then what are we waiting for?”

It was a capital question; Vidocq had had his fill of waiting.

“Follow me,” he said.

Vidocq gestured to the others and then took a step forward, the immense pressure of the void surrounding him for just a moment as the caves disappeared. Then the pressure receded, and Vidocq found himself standing on a quiet cobblestone street, his hired men appearing around him with quiet pops in the air.

Before him was a gate, and behind the gate a garden, and behind the garden a house. The lights were on inside, shining warmly through the windows. Vidocq gestured again, pointing around the back, and the others slunk off to do as they were told.

Once he was alone, Vidocq reached for the flask at his hip. Their timing was perfect; Thénardier had confirmed as much himself mere minutes ago. All which remained was to gain the trust of the house’s single occupant, left alone by her caretakers, and the potion in his hand would make that child’s play. Taking a long drink, Vidocq advanced upon the gate.

Presently
Cosette

Setting two teacups down on the table, Cosette took the chair opposite and looked at Thérèse with great interest.

“How were the Pyrenees?” she asked. “I haven’t been down to that part of the country since I graduated.”

“Ah, well,” Thérèse smiled. “You know how it be. Beautiful as ever.”

“Oh, I would love to see mountains again.” Cosette sighed and lifted her drink to her lips. “I should talk to Papa about vacationing down there sometime.”

“And where be your Papa?” Thérèse asked keenly. “Will he be gettin’ back soon?”

Cosette waved her applewood wand, and the sugar bowl floated over from the cabinet above the stove. Setting the wand on the table beside her, she spooned sugar into her cup and replied, “He’s gone over to Truffaut for some new seedlings, and ought to be back within the hour. I am sure he will be very glad to see you.”

“Indeed.” Thérèse nodded at the refrigerator. “I don’t suppose you could be addin’ a little milk to my tea?”

“Of course, Auntie!” Standing at once, Cosette went around to fetch the milk, saying, “Would you rather cream? We have both.”

“Whichever be quickest.”

The bangles on Thérèse’s wrist jangled as Cosette peered into the refrigerator. The girl returned a moment later, pitcher in hand, but just as she was about to pour a dollop of cream into the woman’s cup, Cosette frowned. She was almost certain she had left her wand on the tabletop, but it wasn’t there.

Still frowning slightly, Cosette handed over the pitcher and patted down her robes. Thérèse watched her idly.

“Lost something, dearie?”

It was not in her pockets, nor behind her ear. Cosette looked under her chair as well, but the floor was bare.

“Have you seen what I did with my wand?”

Thérèse rose from her chair. “Don’t worry, you won’t be needing it.”

Cosette checked her pockets again. “Yes, but I would rather -” She paused. “That’s a rather odd thing to say, Auntie.”

She turned to look at Thérèse and startled, for the loup garou’s canine eyes had turned from gold to a very human grey-green.

“What happened to your eyes?” Cosette asked. At the back of her mind, an alarm bell was sounding incessantly.

“The better to see you with, my dear,” Thérèse grinned.

That was when the window over the sink imploded, blowing shards of glass across the kitchen. Cosette cried out, covering her head with her arms, as a flurry of darkly robed bodies flew in through the opening. They pressed in close around her, grabbing at her robes and sending a hail of poorly aimed jinxes into the fray.

Cosette felt a surge of panic go flooding through her; how had these men broken through her father’s wards? A wild burst of frightened, wandless magic rolled out of her, uncontrollable without her applewood to guide it, and the glass faces of the cabinets shattered as the lights flickered and flared eerily. Her attackers did not even seem to notice.

Cosette lashed out with knees and elbows, but there were too many of them, and she was unarmed. Resolving to never disobey Javert again if she survived this, the girl summoned her courage and socked the nearest figure right in the nose. There was a crunch and a howl of pain, and Cosette experienced a moment’s satisfaction. Then one of them got a wand pressed hard against the small of her back, and Cosette froze.

They would kill her without a thought. That one realization played over and over again in her head. She saw now that she had been tricked; these must be the Death Eaters, seeking revenge for her work at the Place de la Bourse. Cosette could only be grateful that her father was not home, nor her Uncle, lest they be hurt.

Panting, Cosette hung in the Dark wizard’s grip as her hands were bound behind her back and a musclebound arm snaked across her throat. It was a struggle to breathe as she faced out toward the table, where stood the person who had posed as her Aunt.

Thérèse’s features slipped slowly from the intruder’s form until a man stood in her place. Cosette struggled to recognize him, but his face was not one she knew. As she watched, her stomach twisting with fear, the man stalked forward to address the others.

“Thénardier,” the wizard snapped, “leave the note as we discussed. The rest of you -” He glowered. “- get this feisty little minx into the caves, and mind she doesn’t get away. I don’t doubt that she’s cleverer than the lot of you combined.”

Finally, he turned to face Cosette herself. “Cooperate,” he said, “and I won’t hurt a hair on your pretty head. Try anything -” He tipped her chin up to look at him with the end of a twisted, bone-colored wand. “- and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Take her,” he added, and the arm across Cosette’s windpipe tightened.

The girl scarcely had time to gasp before the comforting sights and smells of her home were ripped away, the world descending into a crushing darkness. The same darkness fell over her heart as well, and in that moment Cosette wondered if she would ever see her family again.

Javert

The Secrétaire was bent over his desk, focusing on his administrative duties in the midst of everything else, when the door to his office opened without so much as a knock first.

“Javert, have I got a bone to pick with you.”

Javert lifted his head. “Satki,” he said incredulously. “When did you get back?”

“Good question - about how long does it take to ride the lift from the Gallery up to this floor?” She looked at him dryly as she came forward, graceful as ever in her navy uniform and gold hoop earrings.

Javert stood, his mouth thinning as he assessed the Auror’s bearing. He could tell from her manner that something was wrong, though what it was he could not guess.

“Go on, then, Satki,” he said. “Are the Death Eaters occupying the Château de Lestrange, or have I sent you on a wild goose chase?”

“Funny you should mention that.” Javert saw then that Satki carried under her arm the map of France, and she unfurled it across his desk to point at the section depicting the Loire Valley.

“I took my crew to investigate the château,” began Satki. “We followed your instructions to the letter, but there was no sign of the manor house anywhere.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “I did tell you it was enchanted.”

“You did.” Satki crossed her arms at the implicit criticism. “But that is not what I meant. Magic leaves traces, traces which can be detected if one knows where to look. I would have found the château if it had been there to find, but I tell you it was not. What we found instead was a large town full of Muggles, and no sign of Death Eaters anywhere.”

“What?” A deep crease appeared between Javert’s brows as he stared between the Auror and the map. “The Muggle town was a small one - it could hardly even be called a town!”

Satki looked at him levelly. “Well, then, one of two things has happened,” she said. “Either the town has grown improbably large since you were last there, or you sent us to the wrong place.”

“Impossible,” snapped Javert. “And if I thought you were being short with me, I would remind you that I remain your superior officer.”

“Then where is it?” Satki challenged, ignoring his warning. “Show me the spot on the map.”

Javert stuck his thumb on a hill to the north of the river. “Here.”

“Interesting,” said Satki, “since you first told me the manor was here.” She indicated a spot on the southern end of the valley.

“What?” Javert scowled. “I never said that.”

“A whole room full of witnesses will tell you otherwise, including Monsieur le Préfet.” Satki gazed at him in exasperation. “You could have just admitted you didn’t know where it was and saved me the trouble of going. There must be a record someplace or other I can look up.”

“No,” said Javert, gazing blankly at the inky contours of countryside. “No, I do know. I was there, Satki! So how the hell was I mistaken?”

Javert racked his brain for any landmark or sign which might jog his memory of the manor house’s location, but to no success. His recollections felt twisted, slippery just to the point that he could not quite grasp them. Surely that was not right? What was going on?

It was only when he asked himself that question that Javert arrived at an understanding.

“Of course,” he said, his head rolling back against the chair. “The damn wizards have made the château Unplottable. We’d have more luck trying to find an invisibility cloak in the dark than pinning that place on a map.”

Satki’s eyes widened. “Unplottable?” She appeared to consider the notion. “It would certainly explain a lot. You just may be right about that, in which case -”

“- in which case, someone is definitely using the château for their own purposes,” Javert finished grimly. “Doubtless they will have added other protections as well.”

He groaned in frustration, leaning forward against the edge of the desk. “I need that manor found, Satki. Whether it is the Death Eaters occupying it or not, there are few legitimate reasons to hide a place with such a spell.”

Satki’s jaw tightened, the lines of her face thrown into greater relief than usual. “But how are we meant to find it, then?”

“If I knew, I would tell you,” Javert said peevishly. “As you so aptly put it, magic leaves traces which can be detected, so go detect it. Do what you must. Tell only those assigned to your team. The more people who know what you are doing, the greater the chances of the Death Eaters hearing what we are up to.”

“Affirmative.”

Satki collected the map and prepared to leave. She had not gotten far, however, when she looked back over her shoulder.

“Why do they do this, the Death Eaters?” she asked. “What’s in it for them?”

Javert heaved a breath. His answer, when it came, was pensive. “Certainly there are those who are coerced,” he said slowly. “Whose families or livelihoods are threatened if they do not comply. Poverty drives others.” Valjean would approve of that answer, he thought, and a humorless smile tugged at his lips.

“I used to think men could not change their ways.” His words were quiet, and for a moment Javert spoke more to himself than to Satki. “One was either an upstanding citizen or a villain, there was no in-between. Perhaps I know better now. Men can learn from their mistakes, if they choose to.”

“But making that choice -” he went on, his volume increasing as he met the Auror’s eyes, “that is the crucial thing. And there are those among the Death Eaters who will remain villains all their lives, simply because they choose to be. They enjoy the suffering of others too much to be otherwise. And if they get anything out of this, then it is nothing more or less than the opportunity to destroy with impunity that which does not bend to their will, all while feeling no guilt or shame for their behavior. Did you speak to him, Satki?” Javert asked suddenly.

The woman frowned. “Speak to who?”

“Gisquet, before he was sentenced.” When Satki shook her head the negative, Javert hummed and stared into space. “It was strange. So much of what he had to say I may even have agreed with once, but to hear it in such lofty, superior tones, as though everyone else were mere dirt under his feet - it threw into the light all the ways I myself had been mistaken. These are not people that can be reasoned with,” he concluded.

“It’s exhausting,” Satki murmured. “For every step we take forward, we take two back.”

“Officer,” said Javert, “go home.” Satki looked at him sharply, but the Secrétaire waved a hand. “You have just returned from traveling,” he explained. “And the current setback is unlikely to be solved this afternoon. Go home, get some rest.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Satki bowed her head and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Leaning again on his hand, Javert lifted his quill and returned to his paperwork, but his mind would not settle. At every turn he found obstacles, at every answer he found more questions. All of them led him back to the same thought: were the Death Eaters’ attacks senseless? And if not, what was the larger picture? What was he missing?

Though the knock which came on his door at two o’clock was scheduled, it still caused the Secrétaire to jump. How had it grown so late already, he wondered.

“Come in,” he said, setting his parchment to the side.

From the hallway entered Arthur Proulx, hefting an entire box of files.

“Proulx,” said Javert, sitting up. “Where is Cosette?”

“I haven’t seen her yet,” the Auror replied. “But I thought you would want the report of our findings.”

“Very well, then.” The Secrétaire folded his hands. “What have you found out?”

Proulx nodded at the box in his arms. “These are the statements from all the recent victims of the Patron-Minette. It is worth pointing out that several weeks have passed since there have been any confirmed robberies to their name - it is possible they have gone to ground.”

“Possible, but unlikely.” Javert shook his head. “More probably, they have been using the disorder caused by the Death Eaters to steal unreported. Continue.”

“As near as we can figure, there is a commonality between all the incidents. It seems that, in the week leading up to a theft, each of these wealthy personages were visited by a girl bearing a letter. The names and stories are inconsistent - sometimes she is the daughter of a playwright, or of a retired general or some such - but always she is asking for money on the behalf of her father.”

“Names and identities are easily assumed,” said Javert. “Likely these are all the same person.”

“That was our conclusion.” Proulx cleared his throat. “It seems that this young woman often asks to wait inside while the victim reads the letter. We believe this to be when she makes note of the dwelling’s defenses, with the intent of reporting the specifics back to the Patron-Minette.”

Avidly, Javert asked, “Do we possess copies of these letters?”

“One.” Proulx withdrew a file folder from the box and held it aloft. “The other victims claim not to have them any longer. It could be that they recognized the missive for the scam it was, or they were too embarrassed to admit they were duped.”

“Well, a single letter is one clue more than zero.” Javert frowned at the parchment in his subordinate’s hands. “Run every analysis in the books. If we can trace that to its sender, we may yet learn who is behind this.”

Proulx bowed. “Yes, Monsieur,” he said. “Most of the statements seem to agree that the young woman is dark-haired, and no older than your Cosette. A few report the visit of a younger girl - could be a disguise, could be an accomplice.”

“Good work.” Settling back in his chair, Javert considered the facts. “The letter is one lead. The girl is another. Have Cosette help you review the all reports filed within the last three months. Look for any suspect fitting the girl’s description, named or unnamed.”

The Secrétaire smiled, and Proulx reflected that whoever this girl was, he was grateful not to be in her shoes. “Identifying her and the letter writer is now your top priority. Instruct Cosette to come and see me, I will need to go through some details with her.”

“Er.” Proulx colored and scratched at his nose. “Your pardon, Monsieur, but as I told you, I have yet to run into her. I don’t think she’s come in today.”

Javert’s brow furrowed. “That does not follow,” he said. “She was due to arrive here at noon - what do you mean she has not come in?”

Noon
Valjean

A light sprinkle of rain was still falling when Valjean appeared seemingly out of nowhere at the foot of the gate, having forgone his usual preference for walking what with the sheer volume of plants he carried in his arms. Javert would chide him later for getting carried away, but Valjean simply could not have left the wilting hydrangeas behind, not when he knew he could nurse them back to health. The daisies were Cosette’s favorite, and for Javert he had bought aster flowers. Then there was a seedling vine, little more than a twig now, but which would grow tall up the backside of the house. It was a night-blooming variety, and in the light of the moon its white flowers would unfurl to the size of dinner plates, glowing in luminous cascades.

It made him smile just to think of it.

Trudging up the walk, barely able to see through the foliage, Valjean felt for his key. He had to set his acquisitions down on the stoop in order to open the door, and then he wiped the mud from his boots and the water from his eyes as he stepped into the antechamber.

Humming a tune to himself, Valjean peeled off his dampened overcoat and hung it on the rack.

“Cosette?” he called. “Come look what I found!”

She would love the vine, of that he was certain. There wasn’t a thing like it in the garden.

“Cosette?” he said again.

Valjean checked his watch; it was two minutes past noon. Cosette had likely Disapparated already for work. Unlacing his boots, Valjean easily brushed aside his disappointment. He would simply have to show her later that evening.

Resolving to start work on the hydrangea right away, Valjean nevertheless decided he ought to eat first, or else Toussaint was bound to fuss when she returned. As he headed down the hall for the kitchen, Valjean thought he caught a whiff of fresh air. Had Cosette left a window open in the rain?

He poked his head through the doorway. The sight which greeted him was sufficient to leave Valjean speechless with horror. Rooted in place, he could only gape helplessly at the terrible tableau within.

The window was not open; it was destroyed. Pieces of glass littered the floor in an ominous fractal mosaic, and Valjean’s breath came hard and fast in his chest as he gazed upon it. He knew what had happened. Even without looking, he knew.

Cosette was gone.

All over were signs of an altercation, but moreover he knew it by the dreadful shadow eclipsing his heart. Someone had taken her, but who, and for what purpose?

There was only one obvious answer. Valjean pushed down the taste of bile which rose in his throat as he thought of his own capture and Javert’s at the hands of the Death Eaters. Had they come for the Secrétaire and found Cosette instead? Or perhaps it was not the Death Eaters at all, but some other villains she had crossed in the course of her investigations. He had always known his daughter to have chosen a dangerous line of work, and here was the proof. What if she were hurt? What if she were -

Valjean produced a strangled whimper, and only then did another detail of the scene pierce his foggy paralysis. The kitchen table appeared hastily abandoned, the chairs left pushed out of place, and two tea cups sat cold and unfinished on their saucers. What he now perceived, however, was the presence of a piece of parchment lying in the center of the table, upon which was the dark, slanted scrawl of handwriting.

Fighting against the leaden weight settling into his limbs, Valjean crossed the floor. His fingers shook as he reached for the paper, raising it to eye level to read in the grey light. He scanned what he discovered to be a letter of sorts, and the words printed there chilled his blood.

He had scarcely reached the letter’s end when Valjean, overcome by despair, sank to his knees. The parchment slid to the floor before him, but he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, Valjean buried his head in his hands, wetness smearing across his cheeks.

Valjean did not know how long he knelt on the floor, torn between weeping and praying, only that it seemed to last for ages. Eventually, his tears petered out into an empty hollowness, and he was left with a singular thought: he had failed Cosette. He would have given his life for hers, but that meant nothing now. He was too late.

Chapter Text

June 3rd, 1996
Éponine

Éponine could not say for what reason there was a crowd gathered in the front room of their apartment, she only knew that the small unit had gone from quiet and still to suddenly ringing with the sound of many voices. The girl slouched with her head propped up against the bedroom wall, resting on her cot where it was spread across the thinning carpet. Azelma rocked back and forth on her heels beside her. They shared a hand mirror between the two of them, each taking turns to peer into the plastic compact and style their hair.

“What do you suppose is going on out there?” Azelma asked, looking over at the closed door  with a perturbed air.

“Dunno,” said Éponine, and she squinted at her reflection as she tucked a dark lock behind her ear. “But I can hear ‘Parnasse, so I’m not budging -”

“‘Ponine!”

Her father’s voice shouted from the living room, and Éponine shut her eyes.

“Fuck me,” she muttered. “Here,” she added, handing Azelma the mirror. “You can have your turn now.”

“You’re going out there with all o’ them?” Azelma bit her lip, looking worriedly up at her older sister as she stood.

“I gotta, don’t I?” When Azelma continued to look uncertain, Éponine reached down and ruffled the girl’s hair. “It’ll be fine. Dad’s probably just got an errand for me to run. You finish up - you can play with my makeup if you want.”

Smiling at Azelma with more aplomb than she felt, Éponine teased open the door and stared down the long hallway. Light shone from the other end, and the sound of voices grew louder through the crack. There would be trouble if she ignored Thénardier’s summons, so Éponine carefully locked the door behind her and strode down the corridor.

As she approached, it became clearer what was going on. Her father stood in the middle of the front room, along with the principal members of the Patron-Minette. Vidocq, Éponine realized, was reclined on their sofa with a beer. Something about the sight set her teeth on edge.

Montparnasse noticed her first.

“‘Ponine,” he said, grinning broadly. “You did good, doll.”

Éponine grimaced. “Don’t call me ‘doll’,” she snapped. “Or I’ll hex your pretty face.”

Montparnasse just laughed. “It’s so cute when you get riled up.”

Refusing to acknowledge such a condescending statement, Éponine walked right up to her father. “Yes?” she asked, hoping desperately that it would turn out to be an errand, and that she would be allowed to leave the premises.

Thénardier grinned, a mouthful of bad teeth showing that even magic could not fix. “Kick back and enjoy the party,” he instructed. “After all, some of this was your doing. You’re playing in the big leagues now, girl.”

Éponine looked around at the festivities, from the platter of likely-stolen sweetmeats on the table to Babet and Gueulemer cracking open drinks. She did not linger too long on the masked figure in the corner; Éponine did not think she wanted to know any more about what Claquesous looked like than was absolutely necessary.

“So it went well, then?” she asked. “You, er, got what you needed?”

Thénardier’s expression was monstrous as he replied, “The first phase went off without a hitch! We’ll have that old jailbird right where we want him, now.”

Éponine tried to look pleased, despite the way her stomach was tying itself into knots. “Well, a guy like him deserves it.”

“Damn straight he does!” For a moment, her father’s good humor was replaced by the cold anger that could make him so terrifying. “Lounging about in the lap of luxury, talentless hack that he is, and meanwhile the likes of us are barely scraping by! He goes so far as schmoozing up to the Aurors to keep himself out of trouble - that Jean Valjean makes me sick!”

A chorus of agreement went up from the others, and Éponine nodded dutifully. If nothing else, she reasoned, her father’s attempts at blackmail should throw Cosette off their scent.

From the back of the room came Vidocq’s voice. “Well said,” he declared, and everyone turned to face him as he stood from his place on the sofa. Éponine tucked her hands into her pockets.

“You have all proven your loyalty,” Vidocq went on, his manner very much that of a performer or a stage magician reveling in the success of his favorite act. “I have made a report of our progress to Gisquet, and he is suitably impressed. In light of these developments, the Dark Lord has decided to bestow a great honor upon each of you.”

He waved his wand, muttering a spell under his breath, and a white mist poured out from the tip to take on the shape of a bird.

“Go,” said Vidocq. “Tell Gisquet it is time.”

The Patronus disappeared, and the room waited with bated breath for what felt like an eternity. It was actually a matter mere of minutes before there was a bang, and the room went black as it filled with noxious smoke.

As the air cleared, Éponine peered around to see what had caused such a thing, and the sight which greeted her was enough to warrant a step backwards. She was not the only one affected; murmurs of shock went up from the others as well. Standing across the room was not only the infamous Dark wizard, Henri Gisquet, but also Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange.

These were not wizards to be trifled with. They belonged to the innermost circle of the Dark Lord himself, and Éponine thought that she would rather run far away and be a coward forever than accept whatever deal with the devil this trio was offering. Even so, a single word revolved at the back of her mind: disposable. Gisquet needed her even less than did Vidocq. Éponine could not afford to insult him; she valued her life too much for that.

Gisquet gestured at the floor in front of him, and the Patron-Minette assembled themselves into an unspeaking line; whether as of officers reporting for inspection or as of the condemned facing a firing squad, it was difficult to say. The Death Eater was no less imposing in person than on the posters; his short grey hair was slicked back, and though his form was shrouded by robes, the corded lines standing out on the back of his hands suggested that he harbored no small strength.

“Who am I to honor first?” Gisquet asked softly.

The others exchanged glances. Montparnasse was the first to reply.

“We work on Thénardier’s payroll,” the dandy said, pointing at Éponine’s father.

“Ah,” said Thénardier smoothly, “but the men here answer first to Monsieur ‘Parnasse.”

They were afraid, Éponine realized. The likelihood was equally great as not that Gisquet’s notion of ‘honor’ was to slaughter each of them where they stood, lest they reveal to anyone what they knew about the Death Eaters’ machinations. If it came to that, Éponine decided, she would Apparate to the bedroom just long enough to fetch Azelma and then flee. At the fore of the room, the Lestranges observed the proceedings silently, their eyes glittering.

“Thénardier,” said Gisquet. “Step forward.”

Éponine did not think she imagined the gleam of sweat on her father’s brow as he approached.

“Roll up your sleeve,” Gisquet continued.

For once in his life, Thénardier obeyed without passing comment, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirtsleeve to push it above his elbow. Gisquet raised his holly wand, touching the end to the inside of Thénardier’s forearm. For a moment, Gisquet’s brow furrowed, and then Thénardier swore loudly. Éponine edged farther down the line in alarm, but whatever the wizard had done, it did not seem to have unduly incapacitated her father.

Cringing liked a wounded dog, Thénardier clutched his arm pitifully to his chest. When he looked down a moment later, however, he began to laugh through his pain.

“I would like to see the look on old Bamatabois’ face now,” he chortled roughly. “That rat’ll come around here looking for another cut off my profits, but one look at the Dark Mark and he’ll be running for the hills!”

The Dark Mark! Éponine’s hands tightened against her side. This was worse than she thought; once that insignia was branded on her skin, there was no escaping this life she led, not ever. Yet if she refused...

Gisquet moved down the line to Claquesous, who rolled back his sleeve to reveal a Mark already vivid and red on his skin. Gisquet merely smirked and moved along.

Next in line was Montparnasse, who hissed and flinched as the spell spread up his arm. Babet’s skin was also revealed to display the Mark, which led Gisquet to Gueulemer. Gueulemer did not so much as grunt as his flesh was burned red. He examined the evil symbol with a critical eye, flexing his bicep.

Éponine was the last. Gisquet turned towards her, and the girl steeled herself.

“You are very young, aren’t you?” the wizard said, looking her over consideringly. “Yet Vidocq tells me that you have been instrumental to several of our recent successes. Perhaps I would be wrong to dismiss you so quickly.”

Her mind racing, Éponine searched for a suitable response. This was her chance to make up some excuse, to write off her part in this charade. Glancing around, she spotted her father now recovered from. He watched her expectantly, and all at once Éponine felt very weary. Without speaking, she hiked up the sleeve of her robe and extended her arm.

The polished wood of Gisquet’s wand dimpled her slight musculature, and Éponine held herself in check. It was difficult; her outstretched hand wanted very much to tremble.

Gisquet uttered no incantation, the complex spell too delicate for spoken words, but that did not prevent Éponine from feeling it as the Dark magic took hold. It began as a pinch where the holly rod touched her, and then it seemed that her entire forearm seared with heat as the Dark Lord’s Mark chiseled its way into her skin. It was rightly called a brand, for it burned like a hot coal, yet at the same time the feeling was as of ice, a prickling ache which sank deep into her bones. Perhaps she cried out; she could not be sure.

When it was over, Gisquet took a step back without hardly sparing a glance for his audience. He addressed Vidocq, saying, “Begin with the next phase at once. I will contact you soon. In the meantime, keep to the plan. It has served us well so far.”

Then Gisquet turned around, and Bellatrix chuckled nastily as the three Death Eaters Disapparated with a thunderclap.

In the aftermath their departure, the atmosphere changed dramatically from the celebratory mood of before. Vidocq began speaking to the others, dishing out his instructions in low, urgent tones. Éponine caught only a few words, most having to do with a ransom. Deciding that she was better off ignorant to the nature of their discussion, the girl slipped away as soon as her father’s back was turned.

In the span of time it took to walk slowly back to the bedroom, Éponine allowed her sleeve to fall limply into place, concealing from view the symbol which even now continued to throb. Putting a hand on the doorknob, the girl muttered, “ Alohomora ,” and pushed her way inside. At her entrance, Azelma looked up, her expression piqued with worry.

“‘Ponine!” she said. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” said Éponine, hanging her head to hide her face. “Fine.” Reaching the cot, she nudged her sister with her foot and added, “Scoot, I’m tired.”

Azelma continued to regard Éponine with concern, but she got up obediently and moved to her own cot on the other side of the room.

Laying down in order to feign sleep, Éponine drew the covers up over her head. Then she whispered, “Lumos,” and held her glowing wand over her arm.

Standing out amid her freckles was a long vermilion scar. It took the shape of a human skull, its jaw wide and gaping, with a serpent slithering out through the void. The form was unmistakable, and for all that it was red now, she knew well enough that it would burn black when the Dark Lord summoned his servants to his side. She was no better than a slave; if she were ever to desert, death would be the worst price she paid only if she were very fortunate.

“Nox,” said Éponine shakily. She curled further into her blankets, only to have to stop so as to wipe her stinging eyes.

She did not know how long she cried, just that by the time she finished, the room had grown dark around her with twilight. What would it take, she wondered, to finally be free of this life?

Javert

“She was due to arrive here at noon - what do you mean she has not come in?”

Proulx scratched at his head, looking anywhere but at the Secrétaire’s face as he tried to avoid the brunt of his superior’s consternation. “That is all the more I know, Monsieur.”

“Arthur -” Javert started and then stopped. The Auror’s words sent a prickle down his spine, a warning that in all of this, there was something he had forgotten. Perhaps if Cosette’s record of attendance had been anything less than exemplary, he would not be so uneasy; irascible, yes, but not uneasy. And yet...

Javert stood. “Excuse me,” he said. “There is someplace I need to be.”

And with no further explanation or instruction, Javert tore out of his office for the lift like a bat out of Hell.

The lift moved too slowly for his liking, and the Gallery was crowded and difficult to navigate, but Javert pushed his way through the throng blindly until he reached an empty corner. Then he shoved his hand into his pocket for his wand and Disapparated.

Reappearing on the front step of No. 55, Javert found himself standing amidst half the contents of the garden center. Evidently, Valjean had been unable to control himself. The sight furnished the scene with a reassuring element of normalcy, and the corner of Javert’s mouth lifted as he noticed an aster plant between the daisies, rainwater beading up on its silky leaves.

It was all the conflict of late which had him so tightly wound, he reasoned. If not for the Death Eaters, Cosette’s tardiness would elicit from him chastisement, not this foolhardy panic. Moreover, there was the fact that any number of excuses could justify her absenteeism; perhaps Cosette had come down with a cold and the owl got lost on the way to the Palais with an explanatory note. Chouette was ancient for a bird of her kind, and it was surely only a matter of time before such a thing became a regular occurrence.

Javert knew there was every likelihood that even now, Proulx was gossiping about his strange behavior with the others. Well, let them talk. It was not as though it would be entirely unwarranted, for Javert knew very well that his behavior was peculiar. And still, the more logical his reasoning, the less Javert found himself believing any of it.

Fixing the doorknob with a fearsome glare, the Secrétaire twisted it and pushed his way inside. The first clue that something was wrong came from the absence of any faint resistance when he stepped over the threshold, as of spiderwebs ghosting across his face. What had happened to their wards that they were not probing and testing him as he entered?

The second clue was that it was too quiet.

Wetting his lips, Javert eyed the deserted entryway. He ignored his baser instinct to call out for anyone home, and instead drew his wand without scarcely a whisper of fabric. Wordlessly, he focused on a spell: Homenum revelio.

Tense, the Secrétaire waited for the magic to do its work. After a moment, two greenish mirages were projected over his field of vision; one appeared to be huddled in the kitchen, while the other was hurrying in his direction. Javert released the spell but kept his wand raised, just as Toussaint turned the corner in front of him.

The woman came to a standstill, her eyes wide and frightened. In her hand she carried a cast iron skillet, which she held like a weapon in the absence of a wand. All of Javert’s worst suspicions were confirmed at once.

“W-what d-d-did you last s-say to me in the gar-garden shed?” asked Toussaint, her stammer growing more pronounced with her distress.

Javert exhaled slowly, dropping his wand to his side. “That should anything happen to me, there exists a box of reports in the attic which should be hidden beneath the hollow board in the shed floor,” he answered, his low voice solemn.

Toussaint let her arm fall, and the skillet clattered noisily to the floor. “Oh, Monsieur,” she said tearfully. “Th-thank God it is you.”

“What has happened?” Javert asked, his blood running cold at the unconcealed relief in the woman’s face. “Where is Jean?”

“The kitchen,” said Toussaint, drawing a folded handkerchief from within her robes and dabbing at her eyes. “He is unhurt,” she added, seeing the look on Javert’s face. “But...” She waved her hand vaguely, unable to finish, and Javert hastened past her, stricken by everything that ‘but’ implied.

The Secrétaire passed the salon and the dining room at a run, sliding around the bottom of the stairs to come to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

At first glance, Javert’s eyes absorbed only the most trifling details of the scene; the sparkling edges of a glass shard; light bulbs overblown and useless in their sockets; the scuff left by a boot heel on the floor. It was the fragmented, disorienting observations of fear rather than the discerning analysis of the officer, and Javert cursed the sudden onset of emotion which clouded his judgement. Then he spotted where Jean knelt on the floor beside the table, and the sheet of parchment which lay before him. Javert’s observations resolved themselves immediately into a single painful conclusion as he understood.

Taking long strides across the flagstones, Javert approached where his partner sat curled in upon himself. Jean gave no sign he had noticed, not even when the man stopped in front of him.

“Jean,” said Javert.

For a long moment, Valjean did not move. Then he raised his head slowly, revealing his face red and stained with tear tracts.

“They took her,” he whispered, the man’s tone barely audible. “They took -” Valjean stopped, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as his whole body shook with crying.

Hands clenched into fists, Javert crouched and pinched the letter on the ground between thumb and forefinger, rising again to read it.

“Cosette...” Valjean said in a plaintive murmur, scarcely even seeming to register Javert’s actions.

The letter was of simple and plain writ, scraggly print letters scratched out with a dull quill pen. It read thusly:

To the father of the household,

First, permit me to assure you that your daughter is safe. No harm shall come to her whilst in my care, provided of course that the conditions outlined herein are met. Second, understand that despite the above assurances, our demands are to be taken seriously. Perhaps you have heard of the Patron-Minette? Know that this charming band of cutthroats and murderers will be keeping an eye on Mlle. Valjean throughout the course of her stay.

Our demands are as follows: that before a week has passed, Monsieur shall present himself at noon inside the warehouse on the Rue Curial - you will know the right one. You are to bring with you a sum of two-hundred thousand Galleons in exchange for the girl. As a sign that you are prepared to comply with these demands, you will draw a rune on the garden wall the night before you intend to meet at the drop-off. Remember, past a week, I cannot guarantee the girl’s safety.

Given the circumstances, I doubt it is possible for you to avoid involving the Aurors. Therefore, know this - the Secrétaire may investigate to his heart’s content, for I am confident his efforts will fail. But should he or any other Auror attempt to ambush us at the drop-off, it will cost your daughter her life.

You have one week.

- Thénardier

Javert read the ransom note through several times, feeling himself grow angrier with every line. It was not enough that their home had been invaded, nor that Cosette was kidnapped, her condition was uncertain. The final insult to injury was that it was Thénardier who was responsible - Thénardier, aided by the thrice-damned Patron-Minette!

It had been years, but Javert still remembered the slimy innkeeper and his conviction that the man belonged to a criminal sort. Now it seemed that dusty hunch was proven correct. On the surface, the letter may have been all business, but it was not enough to conceal the author’s derision, nor his calculated threats. This attack was personal - Thénardier, it seemed, had not forgotten them, either.

A soft moan attracted Javert’s eyes downward. Valjean’s head was buried in his hands; he had yet to move from his position on the floor.

“Jean.” Javert placed the ransom note deliberately upon the table as his partner turned his head a slight degree towards him. “We will get her back,” he promised, offering Valjean his arm.

Valjean stared at the proffered hand for a moment before clasping it. Pulling him to his feet, Javert then made to draw Valjean closer, only to hesitate as the man hunched his shoulders.

“I saw her just this morning,” Valjean whispered. “All was well.”

At that, guilt twinged in Javert’s stomach. He had not seen Cosette that morning; instead, he had left early for the office without making any attempt to thaw their icy standoff. He pushed the thought from his mind. This was a time for action, not for dwelling on what he could not change. That would come later.

“The kidnappers must have known that she was alone in the house,” Javert said. “Thénardier would not have been so bold, otherwise.”

Valjean drew a short breath. “I suppose they have been watching.” Turning his back on Javert, he fingered the curling edge of the ransom note. “And so they will continue, until I put the rune on the wall.”

“Jean,” Javert said again, his voice very serious. “You know you cannot pay them the money.”

Valjean did not look at him as he answered. “My fortune means nothing to me. They can have it for all I care - I just want my little girl back.” His voice broke on the last word.

Javert shook his head vehemently, taking hold of Valjean’s arm. “You do not understand,” he said. “If you pay the ransom, it will not free Cosette. The kidnappers will simply continue to hold her hostage and make another demand. They will bleed your coffers dry, and once that has happened, they will have no reason to keep her alive.”

At that, Valjean’s expression crumpled. “Then what am I to do?” he asked, desperation written in every line of his face. “I cannot sit and do nothing!”

“That is precisely what you must do!” Javert put his hands firmly on the man’s shoulders, turning Valjean to face him. “Listen to me - Thénardier is trying to force you into making a hasty decision. Nothing could be more dangerous to Cosette than that. You must wait, and play for time.”

Valjean began to interrupt, but Javert silenced him with a look, continuing, “Thénardier underestimates my abilities, and the abilities of Beaupre’s office. We will investigate, we will haggle, and we will get Cosette back safely. Leave this matter to the Aurors.”

Looking as though he very much wished to argue, Valjean bit his lip and pulled away.

“You may try,” he said softly. “I will pray for your success. But in the meantime, you should not stay here.”

Javert’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“It is too dangerous.” Valjean sighed, running a hand through his white curls. “I shall remain, in case the kidnappers should send another letter, but you and Toussaint will be safer elsewhere. There is the apartment on the Rue de l’Homme Armé - please go, for my sake.”

The Secrétaire huffed a disbelieving breath. “You must be out of your mind,” he began, “if you think I would leave you here alone. Send Toussaint if you wish, but I - I will be staying put.”

“But Javert -”

“Listen!” Valjean flinched at the sharpness of his tone, and immediately Javert regretted it. “Forgive me,” said Javert more quietly. “I did not mean to shout. But it is imperative that you understand - I will never risk anything happening to you.”

Valjean gazed at him, his wide, anxious eyes softening at that admission. Embarrassed, Javert dropped his head.

“I told you once that I could not understand what you were renting that other property for,” the Secrétaire said. “That it was a waste of your money to spend it on a bolt hole on the opposite end of the city. But as usual, it seems you have proven me wrong. If one of us is to go, then I would have it be you. I will be safe enough - I spend most of my day at the Palais already. But you - if you are alone, who is to say the Patron-Minette will not return to torment you in kind?”

Valjean’s voice turned hard as he answered, “Thénardier is a bigger fool than I’d take him for if he would show his face here after abducting my daughter.” His hand squeezed the air as though it wanted nothing more than to wring the man’s neck. “I refuse to leave this house - think of Cosette! If Thénardier believes me to have fled, there is no telling what ends he might resort to.”

Javert’s mouth thinned, lips pressing tight together as he swallowed back his disapproval. If there were any point on which Valjean was utterly immovable, it was his daughter; arguing with him would be like trying to shift the Rock of Gibraltar with naught but his bare hands.

“Besides,” Valjean continued, turning to face him at last, “Cosette is resourceful - suppose that she escapes? She will come home, and I would not chance being anywhere but here to meet her.”

A wry smile crossed Javert’s face in spite of himself. “Well, she is your daughter. I would have to be simple to disregard escape as one of the prospective outcomes.”

Shaking, and not entirely from his subdued amusement, Valjean laid his head against Javert’s shoulder, standing close enough that their breathing gradually matched pace.

“You swear to rescue her?” Valjean asked, wrapping his arms around Javert’s middle.

“Beaupre knows his work,” Javert replied. “And I will oversee the investigation myself. Cosette will be safe. Just remember what I told you.”

Heaving another deep sigh, Valjean was silent for a time before he said, “There is one silver lining in all of this.”

Javert looked down at him in surprise. “Oh?”

His shaking had not entirely subsided, and Javert rested a single hand on Valjean’s back as his partner explained, “Thénardier will keep his word not to hurt her, at least if he wants me to pay his ransom. We are fortunate it is he we are dealing with here, and not the Death Eaters.”

That possibility had not yet occurred to the Secrétaire, and he shuddered. “You are right,” he said. “That would have been a grave turn of events indeed.”

Cosette

She was swimming in darkness, straining to keep herself afloat. A deep sleep, too deep for thought or memory had claimed her, and now she struggled back towards the distant surface of wakefulness. Cosette was certain it was important that she wake up, though the reason existed just outside of her reach. It would have been far easier to become one with the blackness, to sleep forever and a day rather than face whatever had done this to her.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Cosette returned to herself. Through her closed eyelids, she perceived the distant flicker of torchlight, while underneath her was a rough stone slab. It was very cold.

She was gathering the strength to open her eyes when Cosette was met by a sudden resistance. She froze, feeling a malevolent intelligence slip inside her thoughts where it pinned her down like a sparrow beneath a hawk. Its invisible stare seemed to pierce her very soul, and what will she had to fight slipped away like water through her fingers.

The darkness around her turned to quicksand, and it swallowed her whole.

She was three years old again. Prior to that moment, Cosette did not think she could have summoned to mind more than the barest shade of her mother’s face, but there was Fantine in a radiant halo of sunlight, marred only by the redness of her eyes and the tears running down her face as she knelt before Cosette.

“You must stay here, my treasure,” said her mother.

Cosette looked about at the yard, muddy with spring rain, and the structure behind it. The ramshackle establishment was an inn, though the girl did not know it yet.

“No,” said Cosette, her voice very small.

Fantine began to rise. “It is only for a short while. I promise, I will come for you soon.”

“Mama,” the girl pleaded. “Mama!” Tears sprang into her eyes, but it was no use - her mother was leaving.

The woman who had until that point composed Cosette’s entire world pressed a handful of coins into the palm of a wizard by the door, and then she turned toward the street. Chasing after her, Cosette cried again, “Mama!” while the two little girls who were to be her new sisters looked on disdainfully from the swing.

Fantine clutched her bags close to her chest and held out her wand arm. There was a loud bang, and a bus appeared out of nowhere in the street. A few more meager coins exchanged hands, and then Fantine boarded. She cast a single glance back over her shoulder, her eyes full of sorrow.

As the bus took her mother away, Cosette wept openly. She could not have articulated why, but it felt like her entire universe was on the brink of crumbling around her.

From behind her, the wizard said, “You played that mouse-trap quite nicely with your two little ones.”

“Without even suspecting it,” a woman replied.

For some reason, the woman’s voice made Cosette start to tremble.

In the next memory, she was older, in spirit if not much in body. The round plumpness of childhood was gone, leaving her lean and too-thin. Her hair was matted and unbrushed, and her clothes were hardly worthy of the title. There were bruises and sores across her arms and back, but Cosette dared not complain. To complain only meant more beatings, and besides, there was work to be done: floors to sweep, tables to wipe, linens to fold. Her mother was dead; that much Cosette knew beyond the shadow of a doubt.

In the tavern, a customer brayed that his horse was unwatered. The woman known only as the Mme. Thénardier stalked forward with a bucket and her wand, a sharp order on her tongue and a hex to follow if she were not obeyed swiftly enough.

Cosette grabbed hold of the bucket, eyeing the darkness outside uncertainly. There were werewolves in the woods, or so the townspeople whispered. Werewolves, and devils, and who knew what else. A small protest rose in her throat, which turned into a whimper as a Stinging Jinx struck her shoulder.

Wearily, Cosette trudged with the bucket toward the door. Watching her from a table in the back were two pairs of eyes belonging to two little girls adorned in fine toiletry and with a snack cake each in hand. Neither one made any move to dissuade their mother from throwing the third member of their company out into the night.

Cosette pulled open the door and gazed into the black forest, feeling an echoing despair open in her chest.

This was not right, Cosette thought dimly. Her story did not end there. What had happened to staunch the flow of anguish, to turn her waking nightmare into the daydream which she was certain had followed?

If only she could remember... Yet the more she fought to bring one happy memory to mind, the harder her thoughts were to grasp. It was as though she were running blind, chasing after someone always one step ahead.

“But Uncle -”

“No!” Javert slammed his hand down on the desk. “I warned you before that there would be consequences for your behavior. This kind of insubordination cannot - will not - be tolerated!”

“But one month...” Cosette said weakly. “What am I to tell Proulx and the others?”

“The truth.” Javert glared at her crossly. “That you took it upon yourself to disrupt a classified operation to suit your own sense of heroism. I ought to have a word with Marius’ grandfather as well, that boy displays a serious lack of judgement -”

“You wouldn’t!” Cosette exclaimed, horrified. “You know what Gillenormand is like - a bigger Pureblood supremacist there never was -”

“And?” Her uncle’s expression did not change. “He has a right to know what his grandson is getting mixed up in.”

Now Cosette was also angry; she felt it burning under the surface of her skin, where it mingled with her sadness and betrayal. “What right?” she said scathingly. “Any rights he had, he gave up when he all but threw Marius out of his house!”

Javert pointed a finger accusingly at her. “You and your fiancé are meddling with forces you know nothing about! If you were captured, you would be fortunate to be killed quickly, but that is not how the Death Eaters operate. They would break you apart with potions and spells until you were left gibbering.”

Cosette faltered, her uncle’s words painting an unpleasant picture in her head.

But Javert was not through. “And if they should learn who you are - if they should realize you share my household, they would use you to get to me. Understand, Cosette. The Death Eaters must never discover your existence. You put not only myself, but our entire government in danger! Not to mention your father - it would destroy him to lose you.”

Bitterly, Cosette said, “I only wanted to help.”

Before Javert could respond, she turned and fled the room, the door slamming shut behind. It was the last real conversation they had.

He was right, Cosette realized. Javert was right, and look where it landed her.

Beauxbatons was a château of wide galleries and sweeping staircases. The corridors were lined with glass and mirrors to reflect the light as yellow sun streamed in through the many tall windows. It was a beautiful school, full of grandeur and history, and that was what made it such an incongruous backdrop to the scene which met Cosette’s eyes as she came around a bend one afternoon.

There, pinned against the wall between two statues of rampant gryphons stood Enjolras. He held his chin high, his expression defiant, as he stared down the three young men in their Terminale year who had him surrounded. The corridor was full of students, but none seemed inclined to intervene in the brewing altercation, each one hurrying past with their faces turned away.

Cosette frowned, creeping closer.

“- blood traitor like you,” one of Enjolras’ assailants was saying. “I think it’s about time we reminded this embarrassment to our house what happens to those who renounce the Old Ways, what do you say, boys?”

A low chuckle rippled around the group. Before they could make good on their threat, however, Cosette drew her wand.

“Stupefy,” she said. “Rictusempra! Incendio!”

Chaos erupted as two of the young men fell over, one laughing hysterically and the other unconscious, while the third frantically stamped out the flames consuming his robes. It was enough of a distraction that Enjolras, meeting Cosette’s eyes once and nodding, was able to slip away unharassed.

She should have realized her actions would have consequences.

It was not until later that night, as she was walking alone back to her dortoir, that they caught up with her.

Turning a corner brought Cosette face to face with two of the boys, Louis and Gabriel. She spun around, intending to run, only to see their ringleader, Antoine, closing in behind her. The hallway was deserted. Cosette gripped her wand tightly, opening her mouth to call for help.

“Expelliarmus,” said Antoine, sending her applewood flying. “Petrificus totalus,” he added, and Cosette’s arms snapped tight to her sides as she went rigid. Unable to move or to speak, the girl tipped slowly backwards until she fell, her head striking the floor with a resounding thud. Stars danced before her eyes, but that was nothing compared to the realization that she was helpless.

“Thought to make fools of us, did you, witch?” Antoine sneered. “Your friend is a blood traitor - he deserves what he’s got coming to him for hanging around nasty little Mudbloods like you.”

Cosette felt her eyes pooling with tears but she refused to let them fall. She struggled against her magical bonds, to no avail.

“Awfully bold for a fourth year,” Louis commented, bending over her helpless form. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”

If Cosette could have spat in his face, she would have.

“Deal with it quickly,” said Antoine. “I don’t want to be caught hanging around here if any professors come along.”

Gabriel smirked, locking eyes with Louis. Then he raised his heeled boot and brought it down hard on Cosette’s side.

The assault lasted minutes, but to Cosette it felt like hours as each punch and kick fell. She was almost grateful she could make no sound, as it prevented her from giving any sign she was in pain. Nevertheless, her limbs and chest were battered, and she could feel the cruel bruises blossoming beneath her robes. The urge to vomit was overwhelming, but she resisted; in her paralyzed state, she would surely suffocate.

When she was certain she could take no more, and her ribs felt as though they would cave under one more blow, Antoine said, “Alright, enough.”

At their leader’s word, his lackeys stepped back.

“Learned your lesson yet?” asked Antoine. “I advise you don’t forget it.”

Then he too raised his leg high, and brought his foot smashing down on Cosette’s face. There was a tremendous crack, and tears slid from her eyes at last as Cosette’s nose broke. She could not see when they left, but she heard the echoes of their laughter lingering long after they were gone.

How much time would it take for the spell to wear off? Cosette did not know. It could be hours before anyone thought to look for her. Blood congealed on her face, mingling with salt water.

Her entire body hurt. Did she have enough Murtlap Essence in her potions kit to heal all her injuries? Cosette tried to focus on the practicals; if she did not, she would lose her composure altogether.

Footsteps sounded down the hall. Panic flashed through her - had the boys returned for more?

A familiar voice hissed “Enjolras! Over here!”

Then Joly’s face appeared in her periphery. He looked as white as a sheet in the lamplight as he looked her over.

“Finite incantatem,” said Joly, and at once, the stiffness in Cosette’s limbs loosened. “Careful,” he added as the girl began to sit up. “Mind your head.”

Pushing herself upright, Cosette almost dropped back to the floor as her body protested. Her hair fell in her face; it concealed the tears still streaming down her cheeks, so she allowed it to stay.

Feet stopped before her, and she heard Enjolras’ speak quietly. “I fear this is my fault, Mademoiselle,” he said. “This would not have happened if you had not come to my aid earlier.”

Cosette drew a shuddering breath. “People like that... cannot be allowed to win. It isn’t right.” Her voice sounded funny; she supposed it was the break in her nose.

“Here,” said Joly. “Episkey.”

There was a crunch and Cosette let out a yelp as the cartilage popped back into place.

“Thanks,” she muttered ruefully.

“What are you going to do?” asked Enjolras.

“Do?”

“It’s like you said,” Joly explained seriously. “We can’t let them win. You’ve gotta tell someone, ‘Sette. I’ll go see Madame Brodeur with you if you want.”

Cosette shook her head emphatically. “I can’t,” she said. “And you can’t, either. Promise you won’t tell, either of you.”

Enjolras crouched in front of her. “You don’t trust the professors to take your side?”

Again, Cosette shook her head. “They’ll send an owl home. Papa will find out what happened.”

“And that’s bad?” asked Joly, puzzled.

Cosette nodded. “He’s so afraid of everything and he never says why. If Papa hears about this, he’ll pull me out of school and I won’t come back.”

“But we can’t let them get away with it!” said Joly, scandalized.

“We won’t,” Cosette promised. “But Papa can never find out.”

Enjolras helped her silently to her feet, and Cosette’s ribcage screamed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and it came away streaked with red.

Her last thought was of her father’s face, and that was when Cosette at last clawed herself awake, gasping.

“Papa!”

Cosette blinked. She was laying on her side, drenched in a cold sweat and shivering as though she were feverish. A roiling nausea churned her stomach, and her eyes felt too hot. Foremost in Cosette’s mind was her father, who looked perpetually worried but who was also good and kind beyond words. She wondered if it was that light which roused her from the darkness of her dreams.

Attempting to get her bearings, Cosette rolled over. Immediately, she stopped still; she was in a  dungeon of some sort carved out of solid rock, but it was not the bars across her prison which gave her pause so much as the six dreadful figures hovering just on the other side.

Dementors, she realized, attracted to her cell like flies to honey, or rotten flesh. The creatures gazed at her as one from beneath their hoods, their faceless presence exuding a numbing horror that left one with the desire to do nothing except curl into a ball and surrender. Their attentions were lessened, however, by an arrogant voice speaking on the other side.

“- other prisoners to look after, too,” said the voice. It was familiar to Cosette, though she was unable to place why. “Go on, shove off.”

Reluctantly, the dementors drifted away from the cell door, and some of Cosette’s despair lessened with them.

“Well, well, awake are we?”

Cosette squinted at the man stepping into the view through the bars. He was silhouetted by a distant torch, and Cosette could not make out his face. His voice, however, remained familiar, and niggled on the edge of her memory.

“Don’t think you can get away with trying anything,” the wizard warned. “We don’t need you all in one piece to collect the ransom. I think your father would be happy just to get you back alive , don’t you?” The wizard laughed an unpleasant, nasally laugh. “‘Course, he’s not getting you back at all, but he doesn’t need to know that, does he?”

In the span of several seconds, Cosette had arrived at a number of revelations. The first came at the word ‘ransom’. So she was being held hostage to extort her father? Cosette did not understand what that would accomplish, for though they lived happily, they lived simply. It was not the bourgeois lifestyle Marius was accustomed to. The second was that she did know that voice; it had lurked as an undertone at the edges of her subconscious, and now she could give it a name.

“Thénardier,” the girl whispered.

“Eh? What’s that?” Thénardier looked at Cosette shrewdly. “Remember me, do you? I remember you alright - nothing impressive if you ask me, but it’s amazing what people are willing to pay on your behalf. First your no-good mother, and now your conman of a father. I wonder, do you know him at all?”

Then Thénardier laughed again, a deep and throaty chuckle that reverberated in the air as he walked away.

Cosette cast her eyes once more around her cell; it was bare, featureless rock, without even a mat upon which to lay her head. Crawling to the farthest corner from the door, Cosette drew her knees to her chest and huddled against the wall. Seeing her old guardian like a ghost of the past brought on another wave of painful memories, ones she had gone to long lengths to forget.

Shivering, cold and frightened, Cosette tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her robe and dropped her chin to her chest.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Javert.”

At that, a fresh wave of tears threatened to inundate her, and Cosette squeezed her eyes shut. Was it her destiny to be forever separated from those she loved?

Chapter Text

June 5th, 1996
Marius

Narrowing his eyes, Marius studied the high casement windows of No. 55 the Rue Plumet. He succeeded at picking out the linen drapes which concealed the view of Cosette’s boudoir from the street, but there was no light on inside. This settled him. Marius pushed open the gate and strode with determined steps up to the front door, where he scarcely even paused before rapping sharply on the brass knocker.

Long moments passed. When eventually the door opened from the inside, it was M. Valjean who peered out through the crack. Greyish circles sagged below his eyes, his entire bearing suggestive of some great stress taking its toll on him. He seemed to startle when he perceived Marius, and the young man took notice of the way Valjean’s English oak wand loosened in his grip, as though he had come to the door expecting someone else.

“Ah, Marius.” Valjean’s voice issued from the entryway in a papery whisper. “I am sorry, but this is a bad time right now.”

He began to close the door, but Marius stepped forward, putting his hand on the frame.

“I was only wondering,” the young man interjected, “whether Cosette were alright? I sent her an owl the day before last, and have had no response.”

Valjean paused. “Ah,” he said again. There was a beat as Marius looked at him and Valjean gazed at his shoes. Then Valjean replied, “She is... as well as can be expected. Forgive me, but as I mentioned, this is a bad time.”

“Is she ill?” Marius demanded.

“No, she is not ill.”

All the more perplexed than before, Marius made to follow Valjean inside. “May I see her?”

Valjean stopped him, barring the way politely but firmly with his arm. “Not today,” he said. “She will write you when she is able.”

“But Monsieur -” Marius began, only for Valjean to abruptly shut the door and put an end to their conversation. An instant later, Marius heard the unmistakable sound of the bolt sliding.

If Marius had been concerned before, now he was growing frantic. His fiancée would not answer his messages, and her father seemed content to leave him unenlightened as to whatever new conspiracy plagued them. If illness were not the cause, then why should Cosette refuse to see him? And what else should make her father appear exhausted to the point of collapse? Marius bowed his head as he retraced his steps to the street, thinking hard.

Pausing at the gate, the boy was then struck by a certain idea. He reached above his head as high as he could, and Marius grabbed onto the garden wall to hoist himself upwards. It took a few tries, including one false start where he nearly lost his sweater to a rosebush, but between footholds in the brick and the vines growing over it, Marius was at last able to clamber atop the wall and look more clearly through the bedroom windows.

What he saw was not encouraging. There was no sign of life whatsoever from Cosette’s quarters. As for the other front window, Marius was reasonably sure it belonged to Javert, who would be working at the Palais. That was just as well; Marius doubted whether M. le Secrétaire would have anything polite to say about the climbing antics of his niece’s betrothed.

“Marius!”

A voice from the street made Marius jump. He turned around to see Éponine looking up at him, standing with her arms crossed. At once, Marius squatted and let himself drop carefully from the height of the wall, landing on his feet outside the garden.

“‘Ponine,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Éponine shrugged her shoulders shamelessly. “I saw you leave and wondered where you were going. I decided to find out.”

Marius nodded back towards the house. “Something is going on,” he said. “I think Cosette might be in trouble.”

Éponine’s eyes widened slightly, and then she asked in a cautious sort of voice, “Why do you say that?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Marius explained, “Two nights ago, I sent her an owl about the meeting of the Amis next week. Usually she responds right away, so I was beginning to worry.” He took a deep breath through his nose. “I just thought I could see whether or not she were well. But her father...” Marius shook his head. “He was behaving very strangely. He said Cosette was not ill, but that I could not see her, and I do not think she is in her room - in fact, I do not believe she is in the house at all!”

Throughout the course of this rant, Éponine had stared him, her expression becoming more and more puzzled the longer he went on. As he finished, the girl asked, “And you think it was because of your fiancée that the old man was acting strange?”

Exasperated, Marius pushed his bangs back from his face and said, “Well, what else can it be? I am certain something must have happened to her. Why else would he refuse to tell me what is going on?”

Éponine looked away. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Would you want... I mean, I can’t make promises,” she amended hastily. “But maybe I could dig around a little?”

Marius turned to her, a sudden hope leaping in his chest. “Oh, would you?” He paused. “If it is that she does not wish to see me, then I will honor that, though it wounds me to think such a thing could be possible. But I cannot live like this thinking she may be in some danger.”

Éponine smiled at him, a little sadly, he thought. “‘Course. Anything for you, M’sieur Marius.”

Javert

“And you are certain these are all the reports we have on the matter?”

Javert sat rigidly at his desk, fixing the two wizards across the table from him with a piercing glare.

Arthur Proulx nodded. “I checked three times, Monsieur. This is everything.”

“Good.” The Secrétaire turned to M. Beaupre. “The Préfet has approved the transfer of Arthur’s files  to your department. They contain all of the data from the most recent investigations into the doings of the Patron-Minette, who we now suspect are being led by a wizard called Thénardier. They are the self-identified kidnappers - use whatever means you must to bring this to an end. This case is now the top priority of the Missing Persons division.”

Beaupre accepted the box of files from Proulx, but raised a slim eyebrow at Javert. “Have you not considered what people might say, if it were to come out that the Secrétaire was using the Aurors to fight his private battles? We do have other cases. Some would call prioritizing this one an abuse of power.”

Proulx paled and edged towards the other end of the desk before Javert could think he agreed with such a bold accusation. Javert, for his part, leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.

“Let me put it this way,” he said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Even were Mademoiselle Valjean not family to me, this would remain an issue of national security. As an Auror, she is privy to classified information which, if the kidnapper is smart, he will find means to exploit, either for the purposes of blackmail or to sell to a third party. I think everyone in this room would agree that the worst thing which could happen right now is for one of our Aurors to end up the captive of the Death Eaters.”

The smugness faded from Beaupre’s face as Javert continued, “But as Cosette is family to me, allow me to make one thing clear - you will find her and you will bring her back safely, or else I will personally see to it that you are demoted to a rank so low the thought of you will only enter someone’s mind when they need a janitor to unjinx a Regurgitating Toilet.”

Swallowing, Beaupre ducked his head. “Yes, Monsieur.”

“And I?” asked Proulx. “What can I do to help?”

Javert passed a hand over his face. “Continue as you have been,” he said. “Jean Valjean is simply your newest victim to interview. Send him an owl with the list of questions Cosette developed. Perhaps there is some detail he didn’t think significant enough to mention to me.”

The Auror frowned slightly. “Would it not make more sense to ask him to come in to the office?”

Javert hesitated. It would undoubtedly be easier for Proulx to discern whether Valjean had seen anything of importance if he spoke with the man in person. And yet, despite all the years which had passed, Valjean still had a certain aversion to the Palais and the goings-on there. Javert would spare him that if he could.

“Not yet,” the Secrétaire decided. “See what he has to say first. If it comes down to it... I’ll talk to him about coming in myself.”

Proulx gave a short bow of acquiescence and made ready to leave. Before he got far, however, Beaupre interrupted.

“I will want to speak with him, too,” announced the Directeur of Missing Persons. “And I need it to be in person,” he added pointedly.

Javert glowered. “I won’t have you harassing him with unnecessary questions.”

“Do you want your ‘niece’ back or not?” Beaupre met his eyes. “Then let me do my damn job.”

He turned and passed Proulx, striding out the door into the hallway without another word. Proulx gave Javert an apologetic look before following suit. The Auror made it as far as the door before he stopped, apologizing and maneuvering around a newcomer. Javert frowned, recognizing Mathis Coste in the doorway.

“Inspecteur,” said Javert, standing. “Tell me you, at least, have some good news.”

Coste dipped his head perfunctorily. “I wish it were otherwise,” he said, “but the answer is no. Three more Muggle towns were attacked by Death Eaters last night. Casualties are still being tallied, but current projections put the number at no fewer than twenty.”

“Damn!” Javert ground his teeth, staring at the high ceiling. “What are we doing wrong, Mathis?” he asked. “How do we prevent this happening?”

The Inspecteur moved closer to the desk. “With all due respect, Monsieur,” he began, “I have expressed my doubts regarding the loyalties of some members of our office. For instance, it concerns me that Satki -”

Javert wheeled around to face him. “I would trust Satki with my life,” he said. “And so once would have you.”

The look Coste gave him was mild. “I only mean that it is not impossible we have a breach of confidence somewhere within our upper ranks. How else do the Death Eaters continue to get two moves ahead of us? Someone must be passing information from the inside.”

The Secrétaire drummed his fingers on his desk. “And what would you have me do?” he asked.

Coste inclined his head meaningfully. “I have said before that it would be a simple enough matter to test the loyalties of the others - Veritaserum would out a traitor in a matter of minutes.”

“No.” Javert shook his head. “That is one extreme I will not go to - it would only inspire doubt and pit us against one another. I cannot force anyone to comply, yet what would it suggest about those who decline to participate? Their reasons may be their own, but we would be unable to trust them. No, Coste, we must find another way to do this.”

The Auror nodded deferentially. “As you say. Oh, I meant to tell you - Monsieur le Préfet is in his office, and would like a word.”

Javert startled. “The Préfet?”

“He did not tell me what it was about.” Coste lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between the two of us, he did not look well.”

“I see.” Javert compiled the papers on his desk. “I will go speak with him presently. Keep me informed of your progress, Inspecteur.”

Coste bowed. “Always, Monsieur.”

No sooner had he dismissed Coste than Javert stepped out into the hall, feeling faintly nonplussed. Chabouillet, unwell and wanting to see him? He supposed it must have to do with the Death Eaters; perhaps the Préfet was still overworking himself. Straightening his robes, Javert strode down the hall and rapped smartly beside the plaque which read in gold curlicues, Monsieur le Préfet Chabouillet .

His patron’s voice called out, “Enter,” and Javert pushed open the heavy oak door.

The Préfet was standing in front of his bookshelves, surveying the numerous titles gathered together there. A low fire guttered and popped in the hearth behind his desk; it was the only source of light in the room, and Javert had to squint as he was suddenly blinded after the well-lit corridor.

“Ah, Javert,” said Chabouillet. “Your pardon.” He gave a wave of his wand, and the lamps brightened.

“Surely Monsieur cannot read by firelight alone,” Javert commented.

“True enough,” Chabouillet replied. “I cannot.” With that cryptic response, he added, “What can I do for you?”

“Er.” Javert frowned. “Inspecteur Coste said you wished to see me.”

“Did he?” Chabouillet ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes distant even as he faced his subordinate. “I can’t say that I recall.”

More perturbed than before, Javert clasped his hands behind his back and looked consideringly his patron. “You seem troubled, Monsieur. Is there anything I can do to assist? I would like,” he clarified, “to help.”

The Préfet paused midway to returning to the bookcase. “Thank you,” he said. “But no. Or at least, not yet. I feel sure I must do this myself.”

So there was something , Javert thought. Aloud, he asked, “Would it be presumptuous of me to inquire what, exactly, you are doing?”

Chabouillet issued a long, slow sigh. “Coste put you up to this, didn’t he? I suppose he must think me half-mad already.” Returning to his books, the Préfet explained, “I intend to break Gisquet’s Memory Charms. There - now you may coddle me and say I should go home until I can sleep off this bout of insanity.”

Javert opened and shut his mouth, choking back a reaction disturbingly like the one Chabouillet had only just described. Instead he stood quietly for a moment, observing as his patron thumbed through book after book before replacing it, dissatisfied, upon its respective shelf. He looked tired, Javert decided, and he looked unusually determined, but he did not appear to be unsound of mind.

“If I may speak plainly?” inquired the Secrétaire. Chabouillet gave a curt nod, and so he continued, “I do not believe that to be a good idea. Memory Charms are dangerous - even Healers often find them too difficult to break safely. The backlash can be disastrous. What makes you so certain you must do this?”

Chabouillet sighed, weighing a volume in his hands. “It is happening already,” he said quietly. “On its own.” Javert took a step closer, and Chabouillet explained, “No enchantment lasts forever. Recently, I have begun to suspect that the slow decay of time coupled with the present... circumstances are wearing these chains thin. I have had some very strange dreams of late.”

“Dreams, Monsieur?”

“Fragments of memory.” Chabouillet frowned. “Or so I have guessed. It concerns me,” he continued, “that I do not know what other spells or safeguards Gisquet may have thought to put into place. I could pose a liability to you all without ever being aware of it - Dark magic has an unfortunate tendency to linger.”

Javert hummed. Now that it was explained to him, he thought he understood the Préfet’s logic. Were he in that position, he guessed he would do the same. But neither could Javert condone such reckless behavior, not when the most likely outcome would put Chabouillet in a hospital ward for the rest of his life.

Eventually, he responded, “At least say you will consult a Healer’s advice. They may have techniques for navigating the threads of so potent a Charm.”

Chabouillet looked up with a start. Plainly, he had expected Javert to try and stop him. The Secrétaire would be lying if he said the thought was far from his mind, but he knew his place still, and more than that, he empathized with his superior’s plight. Gisquet had much to answer for.

“I will be sure to do that,” said Chabouillet, his eyes softening as he gazed at Javert. Javert was struck by a sudden pang of emotion, for the expression was not one of a superior regarding a subordinate but that of one looking upon a friend.

Then Chabouillet strode over to his desk. Changing the subject entirely, he set down his book and looked back at Javert. “Your own investigation - what have you learned?”

The Secrétaire bowed his head. “The Death Eaters remain at unpredictable, Monsieur,” he said. “The number of attacks has increased again over the past few days, and -”

Chabouillet held up his hand. “Thank you,” said the Préfet, “but that is not the investigation I was referring to. Cosette?”

“Ah.” Javert swallowed around the sudden tightening of his throat. “With your approval, Beaupre now has copies of the records pertaining to Montparnasse and his crew. He knows the stakes, I do not doubt he will do his best. And Proulx has his own instructions, he is reaching out to Je- to Valjean as we speak.”

“Taking it hard, is he? Valjean, I mean.”

“We both are,” Javert murmured, only to grow hot under the collar as the Préfet’s expression turned a little too discerning.

There was a beat, and then Chabouillet looked away. “Well,” he said finally, “she is a good Auror. I hope you find her soon. Speak up if there is anything I can do.”

Javert was voicing his thanks when the office door flew open with a bang and Arthur Proulx half-fell through the opening, red in the face.

“Begging... your pardon, Monsieur le Préfet,” he panted, hanging onto the door frame for support. “M’sieur l’Secrétaire...” He held up a folded sheet of parchment. “You need to read this.”

Javert was halfway there before he remembered his manners. He began to ask his patron’s permission to depart, but Chabouillet was already waving him out the door.

“Go on,” said the Préfet. “We will reconvene another time.”

Nodding once, Javert did not quite snatch the paper from the Auror’s fingers as he stepped past and into the hall.

Their passage through the hallway scarcely even registered, too full were his thoughts, and before a moment had passed Javert was pushing open the door to his own office. A loud hoot greeted him, and the Secrétaire startled, raising his head to see a charcoal grey barn owl standing on top of his paperwork. The bird’s feathers were growing patchy in a few places, but her yellow eyes were bright and piercing.

“Chouette?” Javert asked incredulously, and the owl fluffed out her feathers in response, looking pleased with herself. The Secrétaire glanced down at the parchment in his hand, then back at Proulx. “There was something, then? Something Jean did not tell me?”

Proulx nodded. “So it would seem, Monsieur. And I think you should read it straight away.”

Javert clenched his fingers until they stopped shaking, then prised open the letter. He was met with a page full of tiny, careful handwriting that he recognized at once. Each character was written with painstaking precision, and Javert was momentarily struck by the fact that Valjean had come to have an education much later in life than Javert had.

“Monsieur?”

Proulx interrupted his thoughts, looking at him curiously, and Javert shook himself. With greater purpose, he read:

Dear Arthur,

Thank you very much for the well-wishes. I am afraid I haven’t been sleeping, but Javert has been good about preparing dinner so long as he is home. I will certainly let you know if there is anything you can do.

With regards to your first question, no, I myself did not see the kidnappers, nor did our housekeeper. I am certain Thénardier deliberately waited until Cosette was alone to strike. The wards were obviously disturbed, but by what method neither Javert nor I could hazard a guess. I have not bothered with replacing them; if Thénardier could break through the enchantments once, there is nothing to stop him doing it again. Should anyone in your department wish to have a look, they are welcome to do so.

Now as for your second question, I can tell you a little more. As it happens, I try to give where I can to those less fortunate, and feel sure I would remember it if a girl had come with a letter requesting financial assistance. I have spoken with Toussaint as well, and she confirms that no-one of the sort has been about the house. We are very secluded, Monsieur, and out of the way of most wizarding folk. It is possible that Cosette could have spoken to such a person, but if so she did not say anything of it to me.

With all that being said, I am forced to relay one additional piece of information. I do not doubt this is unrelated, and I hesitate to waste your time or to drag innocent parties into this mess, but as Cosette’s life is at stake I cannot keep any possible lead to myself, no matter how slight.

I did once see a girl girl fitting the description you gave come to our door, but she was accompanied by my daughter and her fiancé, Marius Pontmercy. Marius described the girl as a friend, so you can see why I hardly even think to mention it. Still, if you wished to speak with him, you will find him appearing as a court-appointed lawyer in the délit courts most afternoons.

If I can help with this investigation in any other capacity, please tell me at once. I can only hope it is not in vain.

Sincere regards,
Jean Valjean

The name was only half intelligible, a tear-stain blotting out the latter end of it into a blue smudge. Javert stared at the note, thunderstruck.

Through gritted teeth, the Secrétaire said, “If Pontmercy is in the building, have him in my office in five minutes.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “And if he isn’t, have him in my office in ten.”

“Right away, Monsieur.”

Javert breathed out heavily, shutting his eyes and pacing behind his desk. If all along Pontmercy had known the kidnapper’s accomplice... No, it was too convenient. Or was it? The number of possibilities, of plots and counterplots, made his head spin. Finally taking a seat again, the Secrétaire waited with poor patience.

When five minutes on the dot had gone by, the door opened to reveal M. Proulx leading an agitated-looking Marius Pontmercy.

The moment he saw him, the boy brushed off his Auror accompaniment and began to stammer, “Javert - er, Monsieur Javert - er, Monsieur le Secrétaire, what is going on? I was representing a client when this officer accosted me -”

“Thank you, Proulx,” Javert interrupted. “You may go.”

The Auror Second Class bowed and withdrew, though not without first giving Marius a shove forward.

Javert pointed at the chair before his desk. In a tone which brooked no argument, he said, “Sit.”

Marius sat.

“Monsieur Pontmercy...” Javert pronounced the surname with a slight curl of the lip, though he succeeded in avoiding outright disrespect. “Thank you for coming. I have a few questions for you concerning an ongoing investigation.”

At once, Marius was sitting forward, alert. “Is this to do with Cosette? I haven’t heard a thing from her in almost a week! Tell me what is going on, Monsieur, please.”

Javert’s mouth thinned. He disliked Marius for a number of reasons, the first and foremost being the boy’s propensity to blather on. One would imagine that in the courtroom he expected to be paid by the word.

“I did not call you here to bandy words about Cosette.” The Secrétaire’s frown deepened in the lines around his mouth. “There is other work I could be doing, some of which does in fact concern the safety of your fiancée. I have questions to ask, and then you will be on your way.”

Marius’ expression darkened with every word but he did not speak again as Javert lifted a quill and dipped it in a pot of ink. Beside his hand, Chouette snapped her beak at the feather pen before starting to preen herself.

“Now,” said Javert, fixing the lawyer with a severe look. “I understand that you have a... female friend of around Cosette’s age. This young woman would have short, dark hair and be close to your height in stature.”

Marius stared at him. “Who?” he asked.

The Secrétaire’s mouth puckered with distaste. “I do not have a name,” he said. “If I did, I would bring the girl in here myself and question her. I am told,” he went on, “that she once met Jean at the door with you and Cosette, and that you yourself described her as ‘a friend’.”

Throughout the course of that speech, Marius’ expression had gone from confused to a dim sort of understanding to wariness. Now he said carefully, “This girl... is she a witness, or a suspect?”

“A suspect,” Javert said shortly. “Which is why I would advise you to tell me now anything you may think that you know.”

“What is she accused of?” Marius’ posture straightened, his eyes kindling with a stubborn light, and Javert sighed inwardly. He really hated lawyers.

“To date, the girl in question is - at minimum - an accomplice to breaking and entering, extortion, battery and assault, and kidnapping.” Javert rattled the offenses off on his fingers, glaring from across the desk. “Is that enough information for you?”

Marius’ forehead creased. “That... sounds very serious,” he said. “What are the odds that I would just happen to know your suspect? There must be hundreds of girls in Paris with short, dark hair.”

“Yes,” said Javert evenly. “But only one of them has shown up on our doorstep.”

“And that’s another thing,” continued Marius. “Why should that count as evidence? Has something happened to Cosette? I think I have a right to know if -”

“You are evading the question,” said the Secrétaire. “Who is the girl, and where do I find her?”

Marius’ shoulders slumped. “Jondrette is her name,” he said, and Javert got the impression that the information was volunteered reluctantly. Then the boy added, “But I don’t know her all that well. She’s more of an acquaintance, really. I couldn’t say where she lives.” From the shifting of his eyes, Javert felt certain that Marius was lying.

“Jondrette,” Javert repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully. “Well, it may yet be enough to go on.” The Baron’s cheeks turned a shade greyer, and Javert wondered with increasing suspicion who this girl was, and why Marius was so keen on protecting her.

“You do know,” the Secrétaire went on, “that telling falsehoods to the authorities can have unpleasant consequences?”

Marius still betrayed a certain pallor, but his voice was even as he replied, “I know my rights, Monsieur, thank you.”

“Perhaps we should try this a different way,” the Secrétaire said then. “Does the word ‘Thénardier’ mean anything to you?”

Marius went very still. In a too-casual tone, he asked, “Where did you hear that name?”

Javert arched an eyebrow. “You know it, then?”

Tipping his head slightly to one side, Marius said, “I have heard the name once, in a rather singular context. I find it difficult to believe that it could be connected.”

“Thénardier,” the Secrétaire pronounced, “is the worst sort of scoundrel. He is the one directly responsible for many of the recent disappearances and robberies you will have seen in the papers. In what context could you possibly have heard his name mentioned?”

Javert did not breathe a word of the wizard’s history with Cosette, though the image of a squalid inn and a starving little girl was seared into his memory. Marius was not entirely a fool; there were questions he might think to ask of Cosette’s parentage that Javert was not prepared to answer.

“A scoundrel?” Marius shook his head. “Then the Thénardier I know is not your man. I am sorry, Monsieur, but I truly cannot be of help.”

Javert looked at him skeptically. “It is not a common surname,” he said.

Hesitating a moment, Marius finally nodded and made the concession, “I will grant you, it is a strange coincidence. But even were they the same man, I doubt what I know would be of help to you.”

“You see,” the boy continued, looking at Javert with an earnestness he had not before possessed, “my father was a Muggle, but he loved my mother dearly. Grandfather never forgave him for it. And when they married...” He sighed. “Just as my father was introduced to our world, so was he introduced to its dangers. During the last war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he was attacked by a marauding band of Death Eaters. He could have died, and he would have, too, had not a man named Thénardier saved his life.”

Marius met Javert’s eyes. “I did not know my father. Gillenormand exiled him from our family when mother died. We met only when he was already on his deathbed, but that was the story he told me. You see why I cannot believe that your suspect and my father’s savior are one and the same?”

Javert turned his quill between his fingers, at something of a loss. In this, at least, the boy appeared to be truthful, yet what was there to say to such a bizarre anecdote?

Eventually, he set his pen down. “I think I have taken enough of your time for one afternoon,” Javert said. “If you remember anything else, let me know at once.”

The Pontmercy boy nodded cautiously and got to his feet.

“You will tell me about Cosette sooner or later,” Marius said. “You must. Good day, Javert.”

The Secrétaire watched the boy’s tawny head as it disappeared through the door and into the hall. That one, he decided, was going to present a problem. They could not keep Cosette’s abduction from him indefinitely, and when he learned what had come to pass, he would want to meddle. Javert grimaced, cleaning the nib of his pen and. He could not imagine a worse negotiator than Marius Pontmercy.

Glancing down at his notes, Javert bit out a groan. He could not burden Valjean with his thoughts, not when his partner was already grieving his own loss, but the weight of his responsibility was suffocating. Cosette, Chabouillet, whatever scheme the Death Eaters were planning next... it was too much. Javert felt drained, more so than he could ever remember in his life.

He put his head down on the desk, intending just to rest for a moment. That was where Merle found him three hours later, deep in a restless sleep.

June 8th, 1996 
Valjean

It was the fifth day. Every hour that passed found Valjean pacing without aim or direction in some lonely corner of the house. Toussaint, despite her fervent insistence to the contrary, had been sent with a bag of her belongings to the rowhouse Valjean rented on the Rue de l’Homme Armé. It was strange having her gone; Valjean had not realized the stability she provided until it was no longer there.

Without Javert’s anchoring presence, No. 55 was an empty shell, filled with a silence that would have been more fitting in a funeral parlor. Valjean flitted from room to room, more ghost than man. He felt trapped; though he had promised Javert he would stay put, every instinct cried out for him to go search until he found Cosette and could bring her home.

In order to occupy himself, Valjean tended to the chores. He swept all the floors twice. He dusted every surface until there was not a speck of grime left to be found anywhere. When that failed to distract him, Valjean picked up a dozen books only to set each back down within minutes of opening the first page. It was all Valjean could do to keep moving, for if he stopped for even a moment, he would find tears running again down his face. Food held no appeal for him; indeed, the very thought of eating made him sick.  

It was close to midday when Valjean stepped out of doors to water the flowers. There was a collection of brightly colored pots on the front stoop, which would go dry in the hot sun if they were not looked after. With him, he took his green plastic watering can, and also his wand. The price of being careless was too high to do otherwise.

On the stoop, Cosette’s daisies bobbed their heads in the breeze, and Valjean swallowed. Quickly, he poured water over the delicate plants until the soil was damp and the wilting leaves perked back to fullness. It was only when Valjean turned to go back inside, however, that he noticed an envelope stuck to the face of the door.

His hands as he gently removed the envelope from its place were unsteady. There was no name or writing on the paper, merely a red puddle of wax on the back to seal it. Valjean gazed at that lump of wax apprehensively. An owl could not have delivered the envelope without an address; someone had stuck it to the door personally.

Sliding a finger under the edge of the back flap, Valjean slit open the paper carefully. Inside was no letter nor note of any kind. Instead, there was only a single lock of blonde hair.

There was a time for which Valjean could do nothing but stare. Then, coming rapidly to a decision, he disappeared inside the house only to reemerge a moment later wearing his overcoat and stuffing the envelope into his pocket. He held his wand tightly, and Disapparated.

It was some time before he returned, weary and dragging the slight phantom of a limp. When he did, Valjean held under his arm a locked chest that an observer would feel quite certain he had not brought with him before. He carried it through the house into the yard at the rear, and from there into the tool shed.

A loose board in the shed floor revealed a compartment lined with cedar wood. It was just large enough for a chest of the size Valjean had procured, and he stowed it away must as though it had been made for such a purpose. As he did so, there came the distinctive clinking sound of coins tumbling together.

Sliding the board carefully back into place, Valjean stood and brushed the dust from his knees. It would keep, he thought, for a few more days. Then he would be unable to wait on Javert any longer, if Cosette were to be saved.

The envelope weighed in his pocket like a stone.

Chapter Text

June 9th, 1996
Cosette

Slipping in and out of consciousness, the cell was a blurry mirage in a black, tumultuous ocean. Cosette huddled in the corner as far back from the barred door as she could, though not far enough to escape the evil influence of that place. Her dreams were dark and twisted, full of looming figures and the crack of a switch that left bruises on her arms and legs. In her waking moments, Cosette shivered, for the air was like an icebox and she had been left without her robes to sit in the trousers and thin blouse she wore beneath. Also noticeably absent was her wand, though that could hardly be counted as a surprise.

She could feel herself growing weaker; hunger became her constant companion, a sharp pinch in her stomach such as Cosette had all but forgotten. A tin bowl sat just inside the door, which as near as she could figure was supplied once a day with bread. A pitcher of water was also left beside it. The water, she quickly learned, had to be drunk immediately lest the aura of the dementors freeze it solid.

On the sixth day of her captivity, Cosette woke from one nightmare into another, her limbs heavy and hopeless. As she sat up groggily to brush the hair from her face, her fingertips found a strange thing and paused, exploring with a tentative caution. A lock of hair which had the tendency to always be falling in her eyes was cut short, shorn straight across as if by a Severing Charm. Cosette tugged at the remaining strands uncertainly. Human hair was rarely put to good use in the magical world. She did not want to think on what pain hers might bring.

The muffled sound of voices drew her from her reverie. It was coming from the tunnel outside, but distantly, and she could not make out the words. Cosette rolled onto her stomach, crawling across the floor to the opening. Outside, a dementor glided silently by, and she shuddered and stopped until it had passed.

Closer now to the noise’s source, Cosette pressed her face against the iron bars and peered out. She had taken a few appraising looks in the last several days, such that she was familiar with the high barrel vault of the tunnel and the mineral stalactites growing down from the ceiling. There was a wizard keeping watch to the right of her prison, but he was well-occupied, concentrating on the tomcat Patronus at his feet, and he paid her little mind. Across the tunnel was an opening into another cell like hers; the interior was too dark to make out, but Cosette was certain she had seen movement stirring within at one time or another.

Similar cells seemed to pockmark the walls up and down the length of the passage, too far away to be seen clearly. Cosette wondered how many others were imprisoned there like her. She was fearful of learning the answer. In position now, she closed her eyes and strained her ears to listen.

The first voice, Cosette came to recognize as Vidocq’s. The other, lower and more difficult to catch, was new to her.

“- tired of waiting,” said Vidocq, his tone waspish and unwilling to be reasoned with. Since her imprisonment began, Cosette had learned to be wary of him in such moods, for though her wit and tongue were quick, his spiteful retribution was quicker. “How long do I have to play the part of the kowtowing fool, or do you intend to string me along with empty promises forever?”

“Not forever,” the other man replied. Cosette could see neither of them; they had to be standing around the bend of the tunnel wall, their voices echoing off the limestone despite their best efforts to the contrary. “Thénardier’s deadline is tomorrow. You said yourself the Auror’s investigation is going nowhere - the old man will crack under the pressure, I am certain of it. If he does not, well then, we have the girl. There are other measures we can resort to.”

“Even so.” Vidocq’s voice became a growl. “Even so. Every day I have to see his smug face and pretend not to care - oh, it’s easy for you, you’re not in the thick of it, but meanwhile I have to run around like his personal lapdog, always wearing that itchy uniform, and -”

“Be silent.” The words were a coldly spoken order. “I have waited for this too long to have you throwing a wrench into my plans now. Play your part, or if you can no longer be of use to me, then you may petition the Dark Lord for a release from service. I trust you know how that will be received.”

“But Gisquet -”

“No.” There came the sound of pacing, footsteps ringing off the stone. “Do you recall what happened the last time? I suffered - I suffered in Azkaban,” the speaker hissed. “And all because the Aurors banded together and rose against me. If not for that, Javert could never have stopped us. The Aurors must fail, do you understand? They must be utterly destroyed. Then and only then can we reveal ourselves, for who shall defend the people when their leaders have fallen?”

“I still say that it’s...”

The voices faded with the footsteps up the passageway, and Cosette could no longer hear what was said. Slinking back to her corner before another dementor came along, Cosette curled into a ball and thought about what she had learned.

The name she overheard circled in her head like a vulture. Vidocq was unknown to her prior to his arrival in her home and the subsequent kidnapping, but ‘Gisquet’ could only mean one man. And if the once-Préfet, now-Death Eater, were involved in the whole wretched affair, matters began to look far more sinister.

Cosette put her head down and tightened her arms around her knees. What did they want of her? What did they want of her family? And how, she asked herself, how could she have been so foolish as not to recognize danger when it came knocking at her door?

There was nothing for it now but to wait. Help would come, she had to believe that. And if it did not, well, then perhaps there was some means of escape she had yet to try. Nevertheless, Cosette prayed that Javert found her soon. She had the terrible feeling that time was running out for them all.

Éponine

Trudging through the gutter, sidestepping bikes and honking automobiles, Éponine progressed slowly down the Rue Cujas.

On the sidewalk, Muggles moved in and out of shops and restaurants. There was laughter and chatter among them, but it was not enough to disguise the strain on each passing face; all the misinformation and propaganda in the world could not blind the non-magical community to the fact that bad things were happening all over Paris. Every day, the Death Eaters made some new advance in their campaign for power, and every night, Éponine listened to her father’s grandiose tales of the lives they would lead when they dominated wizard and Muggle-kind alike. It was enough to make anyone sick.

She was in no hurry to reach the café. It would arouse suspicion if she missed a meeting, yet Éponine could not shake the idea that the safest place for anyone bearing a Dark Mark was as far away from Enjolras as possible; what would they do, she wondered, if they found out how she had betrayed them?

More than that, there was the promise she had given Marius, that she would look into his fiancée’s curious disappearance. Éponine had forgotten all about it, until that very morning when her father slunk off yet again to locations unknown with Montparnasse and the others in tow.

Where were they going? Had they got the money they wanted from M. Valjean or not? And if they hadn’t... Éponine could guess what would happen next. She had seen enough of Thénardier’s schemes to know the lengths he would go to when there was a profit to be made.

Pausing outside the alleyway, Éponine looked carefully left and right. When she perceived that no-one was watching her, she ducked into the narrow passageway leading to the back of the Musain, only to run straight into Marius.

“Hey!” Éponine stumbled back in surprise. “I mean, you’re running late, too, huh?”

Marius, who had caught himself on the door, now looked up. “It’s Cosette,” he said, sounding weary and - Éponine was distressed to see - a little bit frightened. “I still have heard nothing from her. I asked around, inquiring whether anyone had any clue what happened, but -” He shook his head. “- nobody seems to know.” At that thought, his eyes widened and he looked at Éponine with renewed interest. “I don’t suppose that you -”

Quickly, Éponine shook her head. “Sorry, M’sieur, but no.” Marius then looked so crestfallen that she added, “But I’ll keep digging. Someone must know something.”

“I suppose.” Marius sighed, pulling the door open. “I was hoping Enjolras might be willing to step in. This must involve the Death Eaters - What other explanation can there be? - so he should consider it the business of the Amis.”

Unseen by Marius, Éponine grimaced. Though she doubted how much use the Amis would be in their grand crusade against the Death Eaters, there were members of their company who had the potential to be annoyingly observant if Marius persuaded them to his cause. She followed him down the stairs, hearing the hubbub on the other side of the door at the bottom, which only grew louder as Marius pulled it open.

“Marius!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. Peeking around Marius’ shoulder, Éponine saw Enjolras and his full accompaniment of friends gathered around the table. Courfeyrac was beckoning the two of them over. “Come and look at - What, no Cosette?”

“Nice to see you, too,” muttered Éponine.

“She’s gone,” Marius said heavily. “Missing. I am sure of it. That is why I was late - I have been investigating.”

They had half the room’s attention now, and Éponine tried to make herself inconspicuous as Enjolras said, “Sit, Marius, and explain.”

Taking her customary place at the table, Éponine listened as Marius began to tell his story.

“I have written Cosette a dozen owls, she has not responded. I have gone to her home - her father answers the door and says she is not ill but will not see me. I have gone a week without word, and it is maddening!”

Courfeyrac chuckled. “Sounds like a lover’s quarrel to me,” he said, nudging Joly with his elbow.

“Do not make light, Courfeyrac,” Marius rejoined him. Éponine flinched; she did not think she had ever heard Marius angry before. “Cosette is not one of your flippant grisettes. We have quarreled over nothing! I adore her, there is no reason to argue.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “Surely her father would tell you if something had happened?”

Marius’ expression turned grim. “Cosette’s father will speak of nothing to me. Neither for that matter will Javert. They both know what is going on, yet refuse to let me have any part in it. No, we must do this ourselves.”

“Do what?” Enjolras demanded. “Drop everything we have been working for, everything Cosette has been working for, in order to learn why she has not returned your owls?”

“She is an Auror!” Unable to sit still, Marius rose and paced behind his chair. “She has fought Death Eaters with us! She is an obvious target, and now she vanishes without explanation and you do not see that as cause for concern? But I forgot,” Marius added bitterly. “It is the cause that matters, not the people fighting for it.”

An angry flush colored Enjolras’ face. Opening his mouth to speak, he blurted, “Cosette is my friend.”

The admission seemed to surprise him. For a moment Enjolras paused, frowning again. Then he went on, “I have no wish for any member of our company to go missing.” His eyes gave a telltale flicker to the empty table in the corner of the room; no-one had heard from Grantaire since he stormed out after his argument with Enjolras.

“But understand, Marius, there is little we can do without information. You say your own investigations have turned up nothing, and the only ones who may know anything are being uncooperative.” Enjolras spread his hands. “Our own efforts against the Death Eaters may yet provide more details, if in fact they are involved. Otherwise, I do not see what else can be done at present.”

At last, Marius sat back in his chair, though he looked far from satisfied. Sinking into himself, he stared moodily at nothing in the center of the table. Éponine swallowed a dozen useless platitudes, and she too looked down at the tabletop.

As discussion sprung up again, more subdued than before, the topic returned to the Death Eaters and what was to be done about them. It was apparent that more than one member of their company had gotten into a scrap with the Dark wizards; most were sporting minor injuries, and in the back the two brothers, Jean and Jacques, looked to be covered in scrapes and bruises. They spoke not a word, merely watched the proceedings with glittering eyes.

Under her sleeve, Éponine felt the faint pulse of the Mark on her arm. It was an ever-present reminder that she was not one of them, no matter how much Éponine may have wished to be. She was in danger so long as there was any chance of the Amis learning what she was. Would they kill her for spying? Turn her in to the Aurors? Interrogate her like Vidocq?

It seemed almost impossible that the fabric of her sleeve was sufficient to hide the Mark’s vile power. Surely, she thought, surely they must know. The longer the meeting went, the stronger the feeling grew, until Éponine could not hear a word anyone said over the racing of her heart. When the others at last began to gather their belongings, Éponine got to her feet and all but ran for the exit. She had made a mistake, thinking she should come here. It was better for everyone if she just stayed away.

She was up the stairs and halfway down the alley when Éponine was stopped by the sound of someone calling her name. Pausing long enough to look behind her, she beheld Marius chasing up the stairs after her.

Had it been anyone else Éponine might have continued to run, but at the sight of Marius’ face, some of the instinct for flight left her. She waited for him to catch up, still looking as preoccupied as he had in the back room of the Musain.

“You thought that was ridiculous, too?” asked Marius when he had reached her side. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, his expression gloomy.

Éponine was silent, continuing to look at him.

“Cosette is gone - and Enjolras says there is nothing we can do? I cannot believe that. I will not.”

Marius kicked a small stone, sending it clattering, before looking up at Éponine in earnest. “You promised you would help,” he said. “Is that still so?”

Éponine tipped her head noncommittally, a gesture which Marius nevertheless took as a ‘yes’.

“Thank you,” the boy said. “It seems you are the only one who will.”

As Éponine fumbled for a response, Marius resumed, “I am glad you came today. I have a warning to give you, actually.”

Éponine looked at him in surprise. “A warning?” Her nose wrinkled at the thought.

Marius nodded. “I was in court the other day when I was given an official summons by Cosette’s uncle, the Secrétaire. He asked a lot of strange questions, some of them about you.”

“Me?” Éponine said sharply.

Seeing the panic in her eyes, Marius explained, “He did not know who you were. But Monsieur Valjean remembered you from that day I walked you home. Somehow, Javert thinks you are connected to a case he is investigating.”

“What sort of case?” Éponine asked quietly.

Marius hesitated. “It sounded very bad,” he said. “Kidnapping, robbery, assault... I did not tell him I knew where you lived,” he said hurriedly, “but I thought you should be told.”

Forcing her voice steady, Éponine replied, “Yes. Thank you, M’sieur.”

As they went their separate ways, Éponine gazed down at her feet. The news that Javert was onto her somehow had shaken what little confidence she had left. Add to that Marius’ insinuation that kidnapping was involved, and Éponine grew increasingly certain of what had become of Cosette. The question now was what she would do about it. A part of her insisted that there was nothing to do; interfering with her father’s plans was a good way to get herself killed, or worse.

Marius’ face swam back into her memory, pleading her help. How long did she think she could lie to him? And there was no denying the pit of nausea which lodged itself in the pit of her stomach whenever she allowed herself to consider what she might be responsible for.

These things and more Éponine pondered in the long walk back to the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. She needed to know first what she was up against, she decided. And then... she would see.

Valjean

Valjean stared up at the gates before him, the ample gilt ironwork glittering gold in the sunlight. They were three times his own height, and still they were dwarfed by the massive complex they opened onto. The Palais de Justice cast a long shadow over the cour d’honneur; Valjean licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. Then he straightened, rolled back his shoulders, and strode up the long walk to the front steps.

In the shade of the portico, Valjean took his wand from his pocket. Checking discreetly that no Muggles were about, he tapped it upon the center door and turned the knob with a soft creak. It swung inside with barely a whisper to reveal a Gallery which was, at mid-morning, nearly empty.

Valjean stopped just inside the threshold, his eyes sweeping from the polished stone floors to the vaulted ceiling above. He had been here but rarely since his pardon was granted, his future returned to him by the court. The sight brought back a mingled rush of emotions, most of which left him with an unsettled feeling in his stomach. His palms were sweaty.

Wiping his hands on his robes, Valjean traversed the empty floor to the lift, wincing at the way each footstep echoed in the great chamber. He pressed the down button repeatedly until the gates opened; the lift, at least, did not leave him feeling so exposed. Only once he was safely ensconced inside did he release the breath he was holding.

As the car descended, Valjean worked to regain some sense of composure. He was here to help Cosette, he reminded himself, at an Auror’s invitation no less. Moreover, he knew Arthur. Arthur Proulx was a pleasant fellow, not quite so young as when Valjean first met him, but no less friendly for it. He was an easy man to talk to.

The car settled with a clang, and as the doors opened, a voice intoned, “Lower level one.” Stepping off the lift, Valjean felt a shiver run through him despite his carefully-reconstructed calm. He stood at one end of a long passageway, the stone darker and rougher than in the fine halls above. Torches hung from the wall to the left, while to the right, the stone vanished into an arched opening with steps leading down to the dungeon below and its rows of holding cells.

At the very opposite end of the passage was a door which Valjean knew led to the mirrored interrogation rooms. He was suddenly grateful Javert had told him to meet Arthur in his cubicle; the alternatives were enough to make him vaguely queasy.

Valjean’s eyes next flickered to the wall at his left. There were a number of doorways spread between the torches; it was the first of these he wanted. Forcing himself for the upteenth time to relax, Valjean took measured steps into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

At once, half a dozen heads swiveled in his direction. Most returned to what they were doing, but out of the first cubicle emerged a navy-robed Auror with brown hair cropped short.

“Jean, you’re here. It’s good to see you,” he said.

“Arthur,” Valjean replied.

“Please, come in and sit.”

Valjean followed him into the cubicle, seating himself on a stool which felt too small for his bulk. Then Proulx turned to him, a pile of papers and a quill in his hands, and for the next hour Valjean found himself very politely interrogated on everything he could remember of the days leading up to Cosette’s disappearance.

“And have you had any further communications from the kidnappers?” Proulx asked finally.

Valjean wavered. “Only one. Yesterday.” He withdrew an envelope from his pocket, handing it over wordlessly.

The Auror raised an eyebrow at him, but when he peered inside to find a coiled lock of hair, his face paled. “I see,” he said.

“Javert doesn’t know,” said Valjean. “I could not bring myself to tell him.”

“You do realize,” Proulx replied, meeting his eyes, “that this was sent deliberately to frighten you into doing what they want?”

“We are out of time,” Valjean murmured. “The deadline for the ransom is tomorrow - if they do not get the money -”

“They would have to be completely obtuse to do your daughter harm,” the Auror interjected. “She is the only hope they have of getting any money at all. What should happen now is that they will be more willing to negotiate, when they see that you aren’t a pushover.”

“I suppose you are probably right,” Valjean said without feeling.

Changing tactics, Proulx nodded across the room. “That is her desk, over there. Did you want to...?”

“May I?” Valjean rose to his feet, hands clenching in the front of his robes.

“Of course.” Proulx led him down the aisle separating the rows of desks to a felted grey cube near the rear corner.

As he drew within sight of the petite workstation, Valjean’s steps faltered. The desk was so imprinted with Cosette that it made his chest ache; there was her cardigan draped over the back of her chair; there was her neat handwriting recording dates and meetings in every box of her calendar; there was the Moly plant Valjean had given her as a congratulatory gift when she was granted her position as Auror Third Class.

Tears pricked at his eyes before he knew to stop them. All Valjean could do was gaze on helplessly. His little girl... His angel... Proulx laid a comforting hand on his arm, but Valjean still could not look away. There was nothing he would not do to have Cosette home safe.

Reaching out, Valjean cupped one of the delicate white flowers in his hand. It separated easily from its stem, lighter than air and as fragile as a feather. His fingers curled over it, slipping back into his coat pocket like a talisman.

“Jean Valjean?” inquired a voice behind him.

At the sound of his name, Valjean looked over to behold a shortish man with a trim beard and Auror’s uniform, though there was a curious insignia embroidered on his breast the likes of which Valjean had not seen before.

“Monsieur?” he replied. Proulx turned as well, a thin line forming of his mouth.

“Paul Beaupre,” the Auror introduced himself. “Directeur of Missing Persons. I was just informed that you were here.”

“Forgive me,” said Valjean, “but I was under the impression that Arthur was heading the investigation...?”

Beaupre interrupted him. “Our investigations are related, but distinct.” With a severe look, he added, “Monsieur le Secrétaire himself gave me the assignment. Strange, then, that he did not mention you to me.”

“Well, I am here now,” Valjean offered. “Anything I can do to help, I will.”

The Auror gave a sharp nod. “Very well, then. My office is down the hall.”

Without waiting to see whether Valjean were following, Beaupre turned and left. In his absence, Proulx spoke lowly. “Watch yourself with that one. Beaupre is part of the old crowd - he does not think well of anyone with a record, regardless of the reasons behind it.”

Valjean snorted softly. “Well,” he replied, “that is nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Thank you for the warning.”

As Valjean made to go after the Directeur, Proulx spoke up behind him.

“Jean.”

Valjean looked over his shoulder; the Auror was watching him sympathetically.

“I am sorry for what has befallen your family,” Proulx said.

Throat suddenly tight, Valjean nodded. “Thank you, Arthur,” he replied. He could feel the Auror’s eyes trailing after him as he took his leave.

Beaupre’s office was down the hall from that of Magical Law Enforcement. Valjean was met with an oak door of the sort that were ubiquitous throughout the Palais, imposing and fit with heavy bronze hardware.

Pushing his way inside, Valjean found himself standing in a space of the same rough stone as the corridor outside. A plush carpet deadened all sound, even the crackle of the fireplace. In the back corner was a soft sette with a matching armchair, a low table astride them, but the front of the office was dominated by a solid desk in the same wood as the door. It was there that Beaupre sat, and as Valjean shut the door quietly behind him the Auror gestured at the chair placed before it.

With mounting trepidation, Valjean sat. Too many memories of sitting across a desk from an Auror crowded his thoughts, but he kept his face carefully blank. Beaupre did not need to know that his attempts at intimidation were working.

The Directeur opened a thick file on his desk and began to page through it. “Jean Valjean,” he said slowly. “Born and raised in Faverolles. Orphaned at a young age and left to bring up your sister, Jeanne. Her whereabouts are currently unknown.”

“Correct,” Valjean said tersely.

“It says here your... great-grandmother was a giantess.” Beaupre raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

“Hmph.” Turning another page, Beaupre asked, “You have no blood relation to Cosette?”

Valjean crossed one leg over the other. “She is my legally adopted daughter.”

“And her previous guardian, a Monsieur Thénardier, is the very same man responsible for her abduction now. Very strange, don’t you think?”

Beginning to grow impatient, Valjean replied, “Not as I see it. Thénardier has always been motivated by money.”

“Has he?” Beaupre’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps you have had other dealings with this character, or the gang known as the Patron-Minette? If the ransom note is to be believed, they now appear to work for Thénardier, and I understand they are always looking to recruit criminal types.”

Valjean kept his expression calm; he knew when he was being baited. “I have had no dealings with Thénardier since adopting Cosette fifteen years ago. As for the Patron-Minette, I know no more than the little Javert has shared with me about his work.”

Beaupre narrowed his eyes, plainly irritated by the lack of reaction. “Would you say that the Secrétaire discusses his work with you often?”

“As I recall,” Valjean said evenly, “the purpose of this investigation was to find my daughter, who is missing. Or was I misinformed?”

Beaupre gazed at him without speaking. Finally, he jotted something down on a notepad and said, “Not at all, Monsieur. I am simply looking to understand the context. Now -” He turned to a new page in his notebook. “- why don’t you describe Cosette’s schedule as it usually was in the days leading up to her disappearance?”

For what felt like ages, Valjean was questioned and cross-examined on every point from where his daughter went to who she met with and for how long. Beaupre also asked a number of questions regarding Cosette’s upbringing at Thénardier’s inn, though there Valjean’s own knowledge was admittedly scant. Many things Arthur had asked already, but Beaupre would not accept this as an answer.  By the time they reached the subject of family friends, Valjean was coming to realize that his reserves of patience were not entirely infinite, and he could scarcely refrain from snapping in response when Beaupre made a disbelieving remark at the length of the list.

“I fear I am rather reserved,” Valjean said instead, controlling himself. “Neither Javert nor I have ever much cared for the company of others. We keep to ourselves, with a few exceptions.” He nodded at the parchment in Beaupre’s hands.

There was a turn to Beaupre’s mouth as he said, “A loup garou and a handful of Aurors. Strange company for an ex-con.”

Valjean had arrived at his wits’ end. He opened his mouth, an angry retort on his lips, when a creak issued from the doorway behind him.

“Ah, Paul, here you are,” said a cool voice. “Jean,” the voice carried on.

Standing in the doorway, Valjean saw none other than Javert himself looking stonily at the other Auror.

“Proulx informed me that you were conducting a little interview. Nothing too strenuous, I trust?” He gazed at Beaupre in what was clearly a challenge.

Glancing between the two of them, Valjean cleared his throat. “Not at all,” he answered. Beaupre looked over at him incredulously, but Valjean continued, “Monsieur Beaupre was simply being thorough. He knows how important Cosette’s safety is to us both.”

Beaupre’s nostrils whitened then with barely concealed indignation, a fact which Javert seemed to notice, but he did not remark upon it. Instead, Javert turned to Valjean.

“If you are done here, I would like a word in my office.”

Valjean met Beaupre’s eyes. “Yes,” he said evenly. “We’re done.”

Rising, Valjean followed Javert into the hall without looking back.

Once they were boarded on the lift and out of earshot, Javert exhaled. “Beaupre is a pig,” he said. “But he is good at his job.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Valjean, looking vacantly at the gates.

“This is precisely why I did not ask him to speak to you. I knew he would be intolerable,” Javert continued. The anger simmering below the surface of his speech made Valjean suddenly weary.

“It is done, Javert,” he replied. “Will he be able to bring our daughter home tomorrow?”

Javert paused in stepping off the lift, a strange countenance crossing his face. “Our...” His hand grasped at nothing. “Come into my office,” he said rather than reply. Inexplicably nervous, Valjean did as he was told, accompanying his partner down the hall to the room marked as Javert’s own.

Passing inside after him like a shadow, Valjean latched the door and turned to find Javert standing very close.

“Truly, are you alright?” Javert asked.

Valjean gave him a half-smile. “Not really,” he admitted. “But then, what else is new lately?”

Snorting, Javert said, “I will admit I am impressed. I had expected to have to talk you out of a dozen harebrained schemes to rescue Cosette by now, any one of which would be more likely to result in your death than actually succeed.”

Valjean’s smile slipped. Javert could not know the plan already coming together in his head for he would surely disapprove, yet it was the only means Valjean could think of to guarantee his child’s safety. Whether or not it would cost him his life was another matter, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

Javert studied him, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. “You do know better than to involve yourself in this investigation, do you not? It is just that this is usually the point where you decide to do something foolhardy, so you can see why I must ask.”

Valjean thought of the funds stashed under the floor of the shed, and hoped his face did not betray him.

“I believe your officers are doing the very best they can,” he said, which was not precisely a lie. It wasn’t that he did not trust Javert, after all, it was that he did not trust Thénardier. Proulx may have felt certain that a new opportunity for negotiation was forthcoming, but he could not know Thénardier like Valjean did. Thénardier only understood one thing, and that was the weight of gold in his palm.

Before Valjean had to find some other subject to comment upon, Javert leaned against the edge of his desk, taking Valjean’s larger hands in his.

“You ought to Floo your way home,” he said, gesturing at the fireplace behind him. “It will be quieter than going down to the Gallery to Disapparate.”

“Thank you,” murmured Valjean. “I’ve missed you,” he continued, reaching up to touch his partner’s face. “You are never home anymore.”

Javert pulled him closer until Valjean could smell snuff and ink and just a trace of aftershave. “Incorrect,” the Secrétaire said quietly back, touching their foreheads together. “I have been home every night this week. The fact that you retire to bed at a decent hour is hardly my fault.” His lips quirked in the impression of a smile before he sighed. “And yet, I understand what you mean. I cannot wait for the day this is all over.”

Valjean nuzzled a strand of Javert’s hair aside, tipping his face closer until their lips touched. Meeting his partner’s gaze, Valjean allowed the chaste kiss to linger as Javert hummed in approval. More telling was the way the Auror’s fingers tightened slightly in the folds of Valjean’s plain black robes, unwilling to let go. It was affection, whether Javert could admit as much or not.

At last, Javert turned his head aside enough to say, “You could stay. I could summon another chair, and you could read. No-one would think anything of it.”

Valjean huffed fondly. “You just want to keep an eye on me,” he said. “If I am foolhardy, then you are overprotective.”

“No more so than you are,” Javert muttered. Under his breath, he added, “And I do miss your company.”

Valjean kissed him again, on the cheek this time. “Another day,” he said. “I promised Toussaint I would go visit her. She is anxious to return to the house.”

His partner nodded. “Take the Floo to the Rue de l'Homme Armé, then.”

“I will.” Valjean hesitated, and then he said, “Javert, you do know I love you?”

The Secrétaire’s forehead creased, worry and suspicion warring for control of his expression. “Why are you talking like that?” he asked. “Jean, is something going on?”

Forcing a smile, Valjean responded, “I just wanted you to know.”

Javert stared at him. Then at last, his shoulders fell.

“I know,” he said, pulling Valjean close again until his face was pressed to Javert’s neck, and he could feel the pounding of his heart. “I know.”

Valjean

It was late when finally Valjean returned home. No. 55 waited for him empty and dark, Javert not yet having returned from the Palais. Valjean carried with him a loaf of bread; it seemed that in her deportation to the Rue de l’Homme Armé, Toussaint has taken to baking more than she could eat. He took it inside to the kitchen, and then Valjean made a few other arrangements.

First, he went to the shed and retrieved the box from under the loose floorboard. Then he climbed the stairs surreptitiously to Javert’s study, where he found the ransom note among the many papers on the man’s desk. Returning to where he had left the box by the hearth, Valjean counted every coin by firelight until he was certain there was not so much as one Knut missing.

Rising, Valjean drew his English oak wand from his pocket, running his fingers over the smooth contours of the lion’s head carved in the handle. He took a deep breath, and then walked with slow determination down the hall and out the door into the front yard.

He cast his gaze around. No-one was about, or if they were, they had concealed themselves well. Valjean’s path took him down the front walk and through the gate. There he paused, pointing his wand at the brick wall.

Streaming a fine beam of white light, Valjean inscribed a glowing rune in the clay. It was written ᚺ, and as he lowered his wand it remained as a beacon in the darkening night. With this done, Valjean turned his back to the street and plodded slowly up to the house. His mind was made up; he knew what he had to do.

Chapter Text

June 10th, 1996
Valjean

The Rue Curial was a long, twisted street that ended unspectacularly in the middle of a shoddy rail yard. Hedging the road on one side was a wall of stacked stone, which separated a dozen parked cars from the warehouse complex beyond. Valjean stood before that wall, frowning.

The uneven, dirty rock was covered all over with spray paint and rude words, but that was not what held the man’s attention. Rather, it was the grate above his head, which had below it a shape appearing to outline the edges of a door. It was nearly seamless with the wall, so much so that he had not at first been certain whether it was there. As Valjean looked, however, he perceived in the place of a keyhole the carving of a small sigil, nearly invisible amidst the wash of graffiti.

Valjean’s wand rested against his heart, tucked within the inner pocket of his robes. Now he took it slowly between his fingers, turning it around as he considered the symbol on the wall. The sigil was not one he recognized and it had a strange energy about it, one which made the hairs on the back of his neck itch. Thoughtfully, Valjean pointed his wand at it.

For an instant, the sigil flared white, and then nothing. Valjean grimaced; well, it was a criminal hideaway after all. It should have been obvious from the first what was required.

Pressing the tip of the English oak rod to his palm, Valjean drew it across the callused skin until it split open and a line of red welled up from the wound. Then he dragged his hand across the stone, leaving a rust-colored smear upon the symbol in the mortar.

The blood offering must have satisfied the spell, for there was a loud thunk followed by the scrape of stone grinding upon itself as the door opened. Valjean cast a glance around him, then stepped through warily. His fingers brushed against the leather purse at his waist, as if to reassure himself it was still there.  

Inside the wall was a small yard of gravel and scraggly weeds which ended at the rear facade of an abandoned entrepôt. The decrepit structure stood twice as tall as it was wide, and appeared completely abandoned. Panes of clerestory glass near the roofline were broken and splintered; there were no windows at all further down.

Opposite of Valjean was a second door, this one made of steel. It did not look as though it had been used in a long time. Nevertheless, Valjean could not escape the feeling he was being watched. Heels crunching on the gravel, Valjean skirted an open sewer drain and walked resolutely up to the back door. He had come this far; there was no sense in turning back now.

Just as he was about to try the handle, the door gave a creak from within. Then it swung open of its own volition, revealing an interior which after the June sunlight seemed very dark indeed. A few dust motes glinted in midair.

Valjean had no reservations now that he was being watched. Thénardier and his men may have fashioned themselves unseeable to the naked eye, but Valjean felt certain they would reveal themselves when there was a ransom to be had. Steadying himself with thoughts of Cosette, Valjean stepped up and over the threshold.

Inside, the entrepôt was dimly lit, though as Valjean’s eyes adjusted he found it was not so dark as he had initially feared. Nevertheless, he kept his wand close at hand as he scanned the vast, empty space. Above him, a narrow steel mezzanine wrapped the warehouse perimeter, which was intended perhaps to allow for the servicing of the chains and bits of metal hung from the ceiling. A single ray of sunlight fell through a hole in the roof.

When he approached the center of the concrete floor, Valjean held his head high and raised his voice. “You can see I have upheld my part of the bargain. Have you?”

There was a stretch of silence, and Valjean almost began to wonder whether he had misjudged the situation after all when Thénardier dropped from the mezzanine to land before him.

“Ah, Monsieur, you came. Good, good.” The wizard looked him over. “Though your purse looks a trifle small to hold the sum we requested, more’s the pity.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Valjean replied flatly. “Where is my daughter?”

Thénardier clicked his fingers. At the sound, half a dozen wizards appeared out from behind a stack of crates. In the center stood a figure wearing a blindfold, her hands tied behind her back.

“Cosette.” The name came out hoarse, but at the sound of her father’s voice, the girl turned her head.

“Papa? Papa, is that you?”

“Fear not, my treasure,” said Valjean, trembling slightly at the sight of her. “I have come to bring you home.”

Thénardier sneered. “A nice sentiment,” he said, “but let us see the money first.”

“Of course.” Reaching into the pouch he carried, Valjean fished about. The leather purse must have been much deeper on the inside than it first appeared, for soon his arm was buried up to the elbow.

Then with a grunt, Valjean pulled free the bank’s chest and set it on the ground before him. The latch clicked and the lid opened, revealing to all those present the gleam of gold within.

“The money,” Valjean added unnecessarily.

Thénardier’s eyes glinted with greed. “Send the girl over,” he commanded.

“Wait.” Valjean pursed his lips. “I am not as naïve as some would believe. You think I do not realize this could be a man of yours in disguise as my daughter? I will ask her a question first, and once I am satisfied you do not intend to deceive me, then you may have your gold.”

Thénardier glowered. “Very well.”

Valjean turned to Cosette, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice as he asked, “What did you name the first doll I ever gave you?”

The wizard guarding her prodded Cosette with his wand, and the girl raised her head.

“Catherine,” she replied.

Valjean breathed a sigh of relief, both at her answer and because there was no trace of fear in Cosette’s voice. He prayed her experience had not been too taxing. Looking back at Thénardier, he bowed his head.

“It is as you have said. The money is yours. I will step back, and you will send Cosette over. Then we may each go our separate ways, and you will never see us again.”

Thénardier scoffed. “Bold of you, thinking to negotiate with us when Boulatruelle’s got his wand at your girl’s throat.” But his eyes, fixed on the chest, betrayed him. Thénardier would not risk losing his precious gold.

Valjean stepped five paces away from the box on the floor. Then he beckoned Cosette to him, and Boulatruelle released his grip on her, giving the girl a shove forward between the shoulders.

Cosette stumbled, caught herself, and continued walking. Though she was blindfolded, her steps did not veer from their course.

“That’s it,” said Valjean. “Just follow the sound of my voice, dear.”

Putting one foot carefully in front of the other, Cosette crossed the bare concrete floor unimpeded. Valjean watched Thénardier’s men like a hawk in case they should attempt to double-cross him, but they were still as statues along the rear wall.

The girl passed the ransom chest, and Valjean did not dare breathe in case he should wake and this moment prove to be no more than a dream. Then Cosette neared him, and Valjean caught his daughter in his arms, pulling her tight to his chest.

“Are you hurt?” he murmured against her hair.

“I’m alright, Papa,” Cosette replied.

Carefully, Valjean untied the rough material covering her face and turned her chin up to look at him. There was a vacancy to Cosette’s expression which was troubling; perhaps some enchantment lingered on her still. Eyeing Thénardier suspiciously, Valjean patted down his pockets until his fingers found in his coat the dried, crumbling petals of a Moly flower.

“Here,” he said, raising the flower to his daughter’s lips. “Eat.”

Obediently, Cosette ate. Behind him, Valjean was conscious of Thénardier greedily counting through the stacks of Galleons, but all his concern was for his daughter as her face changed. At first she looked at him glassy-eyed and impassive, but as she chewed and swallowed, Cosette shook her head as if to brush aside an annoying insect, a crease appearing above her nose. The dazedness faded slowly, and then Cosette simply looked confused as she turned to survey her surroundings.

“Your hands,” said Valjean, bending forward to untie them, and only then did Cosette seem to entirely register his presence.

“Papa?” she asked. “Papa, what are you doing here?”

Valjean patted her gently on the shoulder. “I am rescuing you, of course. Come, my dear, we’re going home.”

“No.” Cosette shook her head. “Papa, you do not understand. You weren’t supposed to come here, this is a -”

“How touching,” interrupted a voice from behind them.

Valjean froze. The voice was familiar to him, and the memories it stirred were not pleasant ones. Without pausing to finish untying Cosette, he grabbed her by the arm and Disapparated. Or at least, such was Valjean’s intention. Instead, the air seemed to crush in his lungs and his stomach heaved as the warehouse failed to vanish before his eyes. Gasping for breath, Valjean was forced to release his hold on the magic before he was sick all over the pavement. What was the matter with him?

Turning slowly, Valjean found the doorway blocked by the newcomer; he was a tall, thin wizard with grey-blond hair and a beard that obscured his mouth. His appearance struck a chord, but Valjean could not place why until the man spoke again.

“Disapparition will not save you this time, Valjean,” the wizard said, and the smirk twitching his lips filled Valjean with a terrible dread.

“Vidocq.” In that moment of recognition, Valjean realized he had been tricked. “Cosette, stand behind me.”

“You always were too noble for your own good,” Vidocq sneered. “Gisquet regrets he cannot be here for this, but alas, the Dark Lord’s wishes have called him elsewhere. Never mind, we’ll get along well enough on our own, won’t we?”

He clicked his fingers, and a wall of flames sprang up from the ground around the perimeter of the warehouse, circling them inside. It did not lick the walls, but Valjean did not doubt that it would burn any flesh unlucky enough to get in its path. The situation was spiraling rapidly out of his control; what was more, Cosette was wandless.

Coming to a decision, he placed a hand on Cosette’s shoulder. “Crouch and stay low,” Valjean said. “And whatever happens, if you have the chance to run, take it.”

“Papa...” The girl’s eyes were wide and afraid, but Valjean gave her a reassuring smile and she sank to the floor, huddling close to his feet where a Shield Charm would cover them both.

“You do not have to do this, Vidocq,” said Valjean, looking back at the Dark wizard. “You can choose another path for yourself.”

Vidocq’s eyes flashed as he growled, “Preach your sermons while you can, old man.”

His robes swirled around his feet as Vidocq raised his wand, and Valjean was distracted momentarily by the awareness that the material was navy rather than black - why should that be so unsettling to him? Then all his attention was occupied as Vidocq hurled an electric blue curse straight at his chest.

“Protego,” Valjean returned, and grunted as the charge detonated against the rippling Shield of energy emanating from his wand. At his feet, Cosette tugged on the hem of his robe.

“Papa,” she began. “There is something you should know.”

Thénardier’s men had begun to close in behind them, and Valjean was forced to cast another Shield Charm to fend off a hex from the other direction. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he glanced down at Cosette and nodded.

“That man,” she said, inclining her head at Vidocq, “is a Death Eater.”

For a moment, Valjean went motionless. “I know,” he said finally. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m alright,” Cosette replied, echoing her words from before. “But Papa, he has some plan -”

Valjean staggered forward as a Stinging Jinx hit him in the shoulder, a blistering pain swelling up in his skin. “Protego,” he said through gritted teeth. “Stupefy,” he added, and was satisfied with the thud of a body hitting the floor.

Vidocq snarled. “Do you want your money or not?” he spat at Thénardier. “Get him!”

Bolstered by the wizard’s words, spells started to fall fast and thick across Valjean’s tiny patch of land. Some he was able to deflect easily, but others proved more perilous. A particularly strong Blasting Curse missed him only barely, singeing the edge of his sleeve. He needed to get Cosette out of there.

At a break in the onslaught, Valjean pointed his wand at the ring of fire. “Aguamenti!”

A spout of water erupted outwards, smothering a patch of flames. “Go,” said Valjean, helping Cosette to her feet even as he blocked another incoming hex.

Cosette looked as though she were fighting back tears, but she did not argue. As her father Stunned another of Thénardier’s men, she took off running for the exit.

“Not today, Valjean,” exclaimed Vidocq. He waved his wand, and the fire roared back to life with a vengeance. Cosette stopped in her tracks, looking for a way out and finding none.

Valjean paused. “Cosette,” he began, “come back -”

“Incarcerous,” said Vidocq, and Cosette cried out as a length of rope twined around her legs, catching her off balance. She tripped, landing heavily on the concrete, and Valjean could only watch in horror as Vidocq strode over to stand above his daughter.

“Drop your wand,” Vidocq ordered. “Unless you care to test my patience.”

Valjean could not move. He would protect Cosette at any cost, but the thought of being captured again by Vidocq of all people was dizzying.

“I’m waiting.”

Vidocq pointed his weapon down at Cosette’s limp figure, and Valjean found his decision was made for him. He dropped his wand with a clatter.

“Good.”

Vidocq made a swiping motion, and Valjean doubled over as the spell slammed into him like a blow to the gut. Gasping for breath, he fell onto his knees, looking up in time to see Vidocq step over Cosette and approach.

“You really were a fool to come here today, Jean Valjean,” he said quietly. He raised Valjean’s chin with the tip of his wand, a crooked instrument which at these close quarters Valjean could see was of hornbeam make. “But it was inevitable, really - I have your daughter, so I have you. And now that I have you, I have Javert as well.”

He laughed, a quiet, nasty sound. “Do you think the Secrétaire will put up a fight, or will he turn himself in when he hears what I’ve done with you?”

With that sobering question, Vidocq turned to Thénardier. “Get these two into the cells. Stun this one,” he added, nudging Valjean with his foot, “but mind how you do it. Spells have a tendency to roll off of him.”

The last thing Valjean saw was Vidocq take a drink out of whatever flask hung at his hip. Then half a dozen spells hit him between the shoulders, and he slumped forward, unconscious.

Javert

Work at the Palais moved at an outrageous pace, made all the more trying by the fact that Javert also had the investigation into Cosette’s disappearance to manage. It progressed at a snail’s pace despite his efforts to the contrary, and though Javert would not admit as much aloud, in the privacy of his own thoughts there was a persistent, nagging fear that they would fail to find her in time.

“- And we have confirmed that the name ‘Jondrette’ does appear on at least one of the letters received by a victim of Thénardier’s racket, but so far we have been unable to trace it to its source,” Proulx was saying. “It does not show up on any documentation that I can find, so my only conclusion is that it must be an alias.”

“Probably belonging to Thénardier himself.” Javert sighed, pinching his nose as a stabbing migraine reminded him violently of its presence. “Very well. See what the FDMC can turn up - we have to trace that letter somehow.”

“But Monsieur, the Wiz-Techs have already gone over it with every spell in the book.” Proulx hesitated, then continued, “I do not see what good it would do -”

“You do not have to see, just tell them to do it!”

There was a silence, and then the Secrétaire lowered his head again into his hands.

“Apologies. It was... unjustified to lose my temper.” He sighed deeply. “But you see, this case is -!”

He cut himself off before the words could come spilling from his tongue; how it was his fault Cosette had been at home that day and not safe at the office; how his last words to her had been a reprimand; how Valjean looked as though he had aged years in the last week; how somewhere in the world Gisquet was free of Azkaban, aware of who put him there.

It was like suffocating, only suffocating was at least merciful enough to come to an end. This Javert did not know how he could stand, the constant threat of an axe hanging over his head. It made him wonder how Valjean lived with it all those years, forever looking over his shoulder, never able to let down his guard lest the worst should happen.

Proulx was looking at him like he wanted to ask, and for a moment Javert fancied that he could speak to him as a confidant. But Proulx was his subordinate, a professional to be kept at a distance, and anyway the thought of actually confessing any of what was on his mind only made Javert feel more ill. Before the Auror could say a word, Javert cleared his throat.

“Just have the Forensic unit do what they can,” he said gruffly. “Perhaps call in a Magizoologist. Their methods are unconventional, but they have a particular skill for tracking.”

Recognizing he was dismissed, Proulx nodded and stood. “Yes, Monsieur.” Concern flashed across the officer’s face before he could conceal it. “If you would ever like to get a drink one night, after hours...” He trailed off when Javert only stared at him. “I’ll let the Inspecteur know you’re ready for him,” he said instead, turning toward the door.

Proulx's hand was on the knob when the Secrétaire spoke. “See him in. And... not this week.”

It was not a refusal, and Javert saw the start of surprise in Proulx’s shoulders. Then the Auror pushed his way into the hall and there was a low exchange of voices. A moment more, and Inspecteur Coste’s face appeared in the doorway.

“Monsieur,” Coste nodded. There was a slight spring in his step as he entered, and Javert’s heart leapt at the thought of finally hearing some good news.

“Mathis.” Javert got to his feet. “What’s the word?”

“I believe we are closing in on the Death Eaters,” Coste said with satisfaction. “We received an anonymous tip - more of them than usual appear to be convening in the nineteenth arrondissement. At last, we may have a clue into where they are headquartering themselves.”

Javert clasped his hands, all his other concerns fueling the manic fire in his head. “Excellent. I want the watch doubled with systematic reconnaissance. Every street, every alley, every alehouse - I want it all searched and crossed off the map until we have them pinned down.”

A slight smile curled the corner of Coste’s mouth. “Of course, Monsieur,” he said. “Permission to reassign Lapointe’s team?”

“Granted.” Javert crossed his arms and gazed down at the papers splayed over his desk. “What are they planning?” he muttered. “What do they want?”

Coste raised his shoulders slightly. “Who can say?”

“Who indeed.” Javert drummed his fingers on the desktop, thinking. The nineteenth arrondissement...

The Inspecteur cleared his throat. “By the way - we’ve had a report come in that I thought you might want to hear about.”

“Something bad, I suppose?” Javert snorted. “Very well, what is it?”

Coste was now watching him with a strangely intent look. “Rumor has it that Vidocq has been spotted in Paris.”

If Javert had been holding something, he would have dropped it. As it was, his stomach felt to have fallen through his shoes. “Vidocq?” the Secrétaire repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. “You are sure it was him, and not some other rat bastard?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Coste replied, “As I said, it is only rumor, but I thought you would want to know. Last I heard, there was an unsettled score between you and he after Gisquet was convicted.”

“That would be an understatement.” Javert stared at the door without seeing it. “I need to go home,” he murmured. Then more loudly, “If you will excuse me, Inspecteur, I should see to it that Jean hears this latest as well.”

Coste looked at him quizzically. “If I may, Monsieur, it is barely noon. Surely this could be contained in a letter?”

Javert’s bark of laughter was full of scorn for his own reaction. When had he become so easily spooked? Valjean would chide him for going home now, not in the least because he could instead be searching for Cosette. A letter would have to suffice, and the weird, fluttery feeling in his chest would go ignored.

“It will do,” he assented. “I need to lay off the coffee.”

In the end, Javert found himself asking Chabouillet to borrow Roi, for his own Chouette was at the house. The Préfet asked for no explanations and Javert provided none, which is how he wound up in the Palais owlery handing an envelope over to a regal horned owl, the sort who looked as though he could remove a finger as easily as ruffle his feathers. It intimidated some of Chabouillet’s younger clerks, though Javert himself was unbothered.

He held out the envelope, smooth parchment sealed with navy wax, and the bird clamped it in his beak. Then with a shake of wings wider than Javert’s chest, Roi flew from his perch and glided out the window, circling above the walls of the Sainte-Chapelle before disappearing into the city.

With a sigh, Javert paced the floor, determined to wait for Valjean’s reply before returning to his desk. The owlery was a tower at the rear of the complex, cool grey walls a temperate backdrop to the gentle hooting and piercing eyes of its occupants. The main thing, Javert thought, was to watch where one stepped. The mess on the flagstones was atrocious.

Roi was gone a long time. Javert checked his pocket watch periodically, his scowl deepening as the minutes went by with no sign of the owl on the horizon. What could be taking so long? Valjean was no faster a writer than Javert was a reader but surely he had not elected to compose a novel in response.

When just over a quarter past the noon hour had chimed out across the city, the Secrétaire spotted a brown smudge over the Seine winging its way closer. Leaning out the window, Javert extended his arm and Roi landed heavily, talons digging into the Auror’s greatcoat. The bird held a letter in his beak which Javert took promptly, only for his breath to catch in his chest.

The letter was addressed to Jean Valjean, not to Javert. And sure enough, when Javert turned over the envelope, he found his own seal marking the back, a circle of stars pressed into the wax. It was unopened. And if it were unopened, Roi had been unable to deliver it. It did not make sense; even were Valjean not at home, even had he gone out to the market, even were he on the other end of France, the owl should have had no difficulty in locating him to pass along Javert’s message. The only conclusion Javert could draw was...

Javert did not waste another second finishing the thought. Stuffing the envelope in his pocket, he ran down the stairs from the owlery, taking the steps two at a time. People turned to stare as he barreled past, but there was one thing and one thing only on his mind; as Javert sprinted for the Gallery, he fished through his pockets for his wand. His fingers closed over the scar in the shaft as he came skidding to a halt on the Gallery floor, and then the chamber dissolved into the blackness of the void.

When the Rue Plumet swam into focus around him, Javert’s immediate thought was that he must have Splinched himself. How else to explain the pain lancing through his chest? But no, he decided as he gazed dully at the house, it was not that he had left any part of himself behind, it was that his heart was gripped by a powerful terror, one which constricted its hold on him at the sight of the front porch.

The gate opened at his touch, and Javert traveled up the walk as if in a dream. He barely registered each fall of his boots on the path, transfixed by the door and the sheet of parchment affixed to it.

Arriving at the stoop, Javert braced his hand against the side of the house as with the other he tore the page from the door. In the grey sunlight, he read:

Javert,

Fear not, Jean Valjean is in good company. But if you ever want to see him or the girl again, you will come to the last warehouse on the Rue Curial and you will come alone and unarmed. Take as long as you like to make a decision, I am in no hurry. However, I am sure that despite your lack of imagination, you can guess how I shall be amusing myself in the meantime - I may have forever, but how long do you suppose Valjean will last in our care?

Affectionately yours,
Vidocq

Javert’s vision blurred and for a moment he could see nothing as tears of rage and despair gathered under his eyelids. The letter crumpled in his fist, which Javert beat against the wall until his knuckles were bruised and sore. First Cosette taken, now Valjean - he had yet to search the house, but in his bones Javert knew it to be true. Nothing could have stopped Roi from delivering the letter, not unless Valjean were incapacitated or otherwise under some charm of concealment the likes of which even an owl’s eyes could not see through.

Wringing his bruised hand, Javert collapsed against the wall and looked dismally at the garden. What now? Logic told him he could not very well comply with the letter’s wishes, not unless he decided he had a death wish, but neither could he abandon Valjean to whatever fate he would suffer in Vidocq’s clutches. Vidocq - how long had he been involved in the kidnappings? The letter mentioned Cosette, which could only imply one thing: Thénardier did not act alone. And if Vidocq were involved, it was only a small mental leap to presume that Gisquet was as well; they were treading in very dangerous waters.

Javert shut his eyes, the tears threatening to spill over. Was this how Valjean felt when Cosette disappeared, like his soul was going to shudder along all its old fault lines and crack open? The thought gave him pause, for Valjean loved Cosette more than life itself. He loved her - and if that feeling of his chest splitting apart at the notion of Valjean hurt, frightened, bleeding were love, then Javert supposed he was in love with Valjean after all; loved him but had never told him, and now might never have the chance.

No, Javert did not accept that. He could not. Lurching back to his feet, the Secrétaire unlocked the front door with a tap of his wand and pushed his way inside, eyes sweeping the antechamber for any sign of a struggle. He found none.

Javert searched each room of the house with a methodical precision that would have put the other Aurors to shame, but it still came to naught. No. 55 was utterly absent of any clue to what had happened to Valjean; there was not so much as a cushion out of place. It was only when he returned to the antechamber that Javert discovered this was not entirely true. Valjean’s overcoat was missing from the rack, and his shoes were not on the mat.

Cursing himself for not realizing this sooner, Javert glared at the empty place on the hall tree, wondering if Valjean had gone out after all. Sudden understanding struck him then, suspicion turning almost instantly to certainty as he dashed out of doors to confirm what he already guessed.

There, just outside the gate, was the faint imprint of a glowing rune on the garden wall. He had missed it before, almost invisible as it was in the daylight. Everything became clear all at once. Valjean had done just as Javert told him not to; he had met with Thénardier, probably paying the ransom in the process, and had found himself faced with Death Eaters instead of his daughter.

If Javert could have been angry, it might have been easier. Instead, he was angry only with himself. He should have foreseen this. Valjean’s placating avowals that he would wait for the investigation were suspicious enough in their own right, and then his behavior yesterday... Yes, Javert should have seen this coming. Jean Valjean had always been prone to acting rashly where his family were concerned.

He would return to the Palais, Javert decided. He would summon Proulx’s team and search the warehouse, though he doubted whether Vidocq was fool enough to keep his hostages at the same drop-off point. After that... Javert did not know what he would do.

Taking hold of his hornbeam, Javert turned it over in his palm, gazing down at the greenish scar which started at the handle and ran the length of the wand. It was rougher under his fingertips than the rest of the bone-colored wood, and it never failed to give him pause. Valjean has been there when it shattered in his grip, and Valjean had been there when it miraculously healed itself. Now that Valjean was gone, Javert half-expected to see it broken again, but the hornbeam was unchanged.

Speaking aloud, Javert murmured, “I did everything right this time. So why...?”

The Secrétaire closed his eyes, squeezing the wand tighter. Valjean had rescued him from the Death Eaters before; it was only right that Javert do the same. And if Vidocq hurt one silver hair on Valjean’s head, Javert swore he would rip Vidocq apart with his bare hand. Then he Disapparated, and the house on the Rue Plumet stood empty and alone.

Éponine

It was not particularly difficult to tail Thénardier, though Éponine could scarcely believe her own daring; if she were caught, it would take more than a little quick thinking to explain herself.

The notion had come to her in the early hours of the dawn as she watched her father down yet another draught of beer, the amber bottle fated to join its emptied fellows on the floor. Thénardier was a man who could drink all day without feeling the effects, but the purse on the table was sufficiently distracting and so it was that he paid no mind to Éponine where she sat watchfully in the corner.

Thénardier muttered to himself words which Éponine suspected held more weight than she knew, unaware as he was that he was being observed.

“Damn knot-heads, the lot of them. As if it isn’t my money, as if it weren’t my idea all along. Vidocq would be bored to tears with his Auror by now if it wasn’t for me. Whose idea was it to use the girl, huh?”

He took another drink and continued to mutter feverishly.

“Split it, says I. Sixty-forty, on account of it was my plan. But oh no, Gueulemer can’t be content with that, gets ‘em all arguing. And Vidocq - ‘Best leave the chest here, can’t have you killing each other, and it might come in handy’ - Bullshit, that’s what I say.”

He grunted and counted moodily through the coins in his purse.

The movement of a shadow announced the arrival of Montparnasse.

“Morning, boss,” said the dandy, stepping into the light with a sardonic smile. “The boys are changing the guard, and they’re asking for you.”

“Bunch of soggy dish cloths.” Thénardier got to his feet, grumbling, and waved Montparnasse away. “Can’t let a man spend a morning in repose, eh?” Vanishing the stray bottles, the man continued, “You get on over there. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Montparnasse withdrew, disappearing as silently as he had emerged from thin air. As Thénardier groused under his breath, curses and insults dropping from his mouth like a litany, Éponine crept closer. Her father was oblivious to her presence, and nor did he notice as Éponine wrapped her fingers in the back of his damask robe. Then Thénardier Disapparated, and Éponine was pulled along with him.

When they came to a stop, the asphyxiating pressure loosened but the darkness did not dissipate. The air was moist and cool, and Éponine perceived they were underground. Releasing her hold on the material, Éponine squinted into the blackness.

“Lumos.”

The dark was lit up with a bluish light, and Éponine recognized the tunnel around her as belonging to the old part of the sewer; even the Patron-Minette seldom ventured down here. Crusty brick walls arched over her head, covered in slime and mildew and other things Éponine did not care to name. She cared even less to identify the shapes scurrying out of the pool of light; perhaps they were only rats, but perhaps they were not.

As Thénardier started along the path, holding his wand aloft, Éponine tiptoed silently after. Even so, she feared her breathing was too loud; once or twice, Thénardier stopped as though he had heard something.

What was she doing this for, risking her neck? Was it for Marius? Was it to satisfy her own curiosity? Surely it was not any lingering compunction that she may have had a hand in Cosette’s disappearance. Éponine knew nothing but that her father was going somewhere he shouldn’t. She chewed on her lip in consternation.

The tunnel twisted and turned and Éponine had to stay ten steps behind lest her father notice he was being followed, but it was not difficult to listen for the echoes of his footfalls. All at once, however, the sounds were cut off.

Turning the corner, Éponine peered around cautiously, but her father was nowhere in sight. The passage continued on straight ahead without any branches down which to change course, and she doubted whether she would lose track of the wand light in the darkness. Had he Disapparated? But if so, why come down here at all? Unless he knew he was being followed...

Éponine glanced suspiciously around her, half expecting an acromantula or other beast to come sneaking upon her, but there was nothing.

Another possibility occurred to her then, and Éponine glared at the wall. It was difficult to tell with the roughness of the stone, but it was more than possible a hidden door existed, one which she was unlikely to find without knowing the secret of the enchantment hiding it from view.

Puzzled, the girl turned back the way she had come. What was hidden down here? Éponine did not know, but she was going to find out.

Chapter Text

June 11th, 1996
Valjean

Fluttering eyelashes brushed against Valjean’s cheekbones as he shivered. An icy presence had crept into his chest, coiling around his heart like a serpent and chilling him to the core. It muddled his senses, confused his thoughts, and filled his joints with a dull, pulsing ache. Where his palms rested on the floor, the skin was red and numb with cold.

Eventually, his eyes opened blearily, and Valjean took in the sight of his surroundings as though he were underwater. Wavering near his feet were a row of fixed iron bars walling him into his cave-like cell. On the other side, dementors hovered in a black cloud, their grasping hands reaching between the bars as they studied him. The rattling of their breathing was the only sound.

Letting his head fall back to the floor, Valjean shuddered. It was a nightmare, he told himself. He still had them sometimes. In a minute, Javert would notice his labored breathing and would wake him just as he always did. Then Valjean would curl against Javert’s chest until the shaking abated, Javert holding him close without word or judgement.

Time passed, and Valjean did not wake. His memories of Javert gradually took on a darker cast and it became harder and harder to recall that feeling of comfort and security his partner provided. Instead, images flickered through his mind of handcuffs, of ropes binding his limbs and biting into his skin, of a courtroom declaring him dangerous and fit only to be put down like an animal. Unable to exert any control over his own thoughts, Valjean’s face contorted, a pained whimper rising in his throat.

Javert’s visage appeared before him, snarling like a tiger as he seized Valjean by the wrist in a fearsome grip. The next moment, the image changed to Cosette as she was the day Valjean first saw her: too thin, too quiet, the bruises on her legs and arms livid against her paleness. She cringed away, and Valjean felt his heart break.

Then he was gazing again upon Javert, only this time Valjean realized with a pang of dread that the man was bleeding, crimson trickling from a blow to the head. It stood out in stark relief against his richer complexion, turned ashen by pain. Valjean reached out - he could help, as he always helped when Javert came home injured - but he could not touch him, and the memory of his partner was whisked away again before he could latch onto it.

Distantly, Valjean was aware of the dementors watching him still, and it occurred to him with a thrill of horror that he was not dreaming after all. His hand inched toward the pocket stitched to the inside of his robes, but there was no English oak rod beneath his fingers. Helpless in the creatures’ thrall, Valjean heard the echo of his own voice cry, “Cowards!” and he closed his eyes against the memory he realized now he would be forced to relive.

“Incarcerous!”

Valjean recalled little of the moments immediately before or after; his thoughts were too afixed on Javert, the man’s eyes dark and wet with tears of agony as Bellatrix exerted the cruelty of her nature. The bluff had taken, however, and the Lestranges abandoned Javert as easily as a child does a broken plaything, turning instead to this strange convict-wizard who claimed to know more than he ought. Valjean did not resist as he was compelled at wandpoint to climb the stairs out of their cellar prison; why should he, when it was his intention to offer himself up as a distraction?

Only when he reached the Grande Salon did Valjean wonder if he had made a mistake. The fireplace threw great shadows across the cavernous hall, and Valjean could not escape the sensation of unseen eyes watching his every move. The manor was surely still full of Death Eaters.

Coming to a stop on the fine Persian rug, Valjean turned to face his captors. He was wary; it occurred to him that this was the same spot where Javert had first succumbed to the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix handled her walnut wand as one might a knife, turning it over in her fingers as she considered him.

“Everte statum,” she pronounced, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.

At her words, Valjean felt himself picked up by an invisible force. For a moment he was suspended in midair, and then he was thrown forcibly back to the ground. There was no catching himself with his arms lashed to his sides; the back of his head struck the floor, and he saw spots as his vision blurred.

When the world came back into focus, Bellatrix was standing over him wearing an unsympathetic pout.

“This one,” she said, “will require a bit of persuasion to loosen his tongue.”

Behind her, Rudolphus reached into the folds of his robes. “The Inspecteur has already seen to that,” he replied, beckoning at the shadows with his opposite hand. Gazing down at Valjean, he added, “We will find out soon enough whether you have lied to us. And if you have...”

He allowed the warning to linger as Vidocq stepped out of the darkness, still dressed in his Death Eaters’ garb but maskless in the eerie firelight. From his pocket, Rudolphus drew a crystal phial filled with clear potion, and Valjean blanched as he realized just how desperate his position was.

Handing the stoppered bottle over, M. Lestrange turned to Vidocq and said, “Administer our guest with this. And Eugène - sparingly this time. Remember that the potion takes a full lunar phase to brew, and it is just as effective in smaller doses. There is no need to be wasteful.”

Vidocq clasped the phial between his fingers. He crossed to where Valjean lay on his back and crouched, looking him over appraisingly. Valjean clenched his jaw shut tight, though it felt fruitless to do so. And yet, if the Truth Serum so much as touched his tongue, he would be forced to divulge that his story was fabricated, that the only ones who knew of the Death Eaters’ ploy were himself and Javert, and that to keep their secret safe Bellatrix need only kill them both...

Valjean was conscious of a bead of sweat running down his temple as Vidocq bent closer to grasp him by the jaw. Fingernails digging into his skin, Vidocq worked to force his mouth open, but Valjean refused to cooperate. Between the two of them, he was the stronger, and a minute passed in this silent contest of wills before Vidocq released him in disgust.

Leaning forward, Vidocq stopped a hair’s breadth from Valjean’s ear. Valjean nearly recoiled at the feeling of the man’s hot breath on his face.

“Either you drink this,” Vidocq whispered, “or I stroll down to the cellar and see what it takes to make your Auror choke on his own entrails.”

Valjean stiffened. Not Javert. The Inspecteur had suffered so much already, yet Valjean knew the Lestranges had only scratched the surface of their repertoire; there were spells the government preferred to pretend did not exist, ones too Dark to merely be called Unforgivable, and Valjean did not doubt the Death Eaters could make good on Vidocq’s threat.

Slowly, Valjean relaxed his jaw. It was not as though he had a choice; he refused to bring Javert to harm. And that was how Valjean allowed Vidocq to dribble three drops of Veritaserum past his trembling lips.

The potion flooded his senses like a drug. Valjean’s fists balled at his sides even as his mind went blissfully blank. He could not give into it; their lives depended on his resisting. At a signal from Vidocq, Bellatrix stepped forward holding her wand as though it were a whip. Now he would be questioned, and it was obvious what would happen if the answers were not to Bellatrix’s liking. He grit his teeth, and that was the last Valjean remembered before cold and despair dragged him deeper into unconsciousness.

When Valjean again came to, his mind was clearer. The air was so cold that it hurt to breathe, but he took a deep breath anyway as he hauled himself into a sitting position. From the color of the stone and past precedent, he could guess where he was. It was not a happy truth, so the dementors could not steal it from his mind; of course Vidocq would retreat to the shelter of the catacombs once more.

Rubbing his hands vigorously up and down his arms, Valjean took the measure of his surroundings. He was caged in a cell not eight feet across which was cut into the limestone wall of a longer grotto. The dim light revealed an absence of cloaked dementors on the other side of the bars; doubtless this was why he had awoken.

Moving forward cautiously on his hands and knees, Valjean then sat and rested his forehead against the bars. His eyes swept up and down the tunnel passage outside.

“Cosette?” he called out. “Cosette!”

There was no answer save from a wizard whom Valjean recognized vaguely as one of Thénardier’s lot, standing guard a stone’s throw away down the tunnel.

“Quiet,” the man growled, “or I’ll shut your mouth for you.”

Valjean shrank back, squinting across the tunnel to the cell on the other side. It appeared to be empty, but the gloom played tricks on his vision and it was impossible to be sure. One thing he was certain of: Cosette’s kidnapping had been a trap set for him. And now that he was taken, Javert would be lured in the same way. But Javert was clever and accustomed to dealing with criminal plots; perhaps he would be wise where Valjean was not and refuse to come.

Though he knew it was pointless, Valjean patted himself down for his wand. When it turned up absent, it could hardly be counted as a surprise, but the confirmation only made his spirits sink further. He was defenseless, Cosette was not responding, and at any moment Vidocq might turn the corner to find him awake. His fingers constricted around the bars.

An old, restless need for escape rose in him, long-sleeping but never dead. With a grunt, Valjean pushed and pulled at the iron, getting to his feet if only to find more leverage. Once, he had pried apart spokes of a similar nature with his bare hands, but these stubbornly declined to give way, not even when he set his shoulder to the bars and pulled with all his strength.

Panting, Valjean at last released his hold, flexing his fingers where the frigid metal had turned them angry and stiff. Perhaps it would be possible to squeeze between them, he thought. He would have to mind his head did not get stuck...

“They won’t bend.”

The voice came from just outside his periphery, and Valjean twitched violently in surprise. Turning to look, he beheld Vidocq standing in the shadow of the tunnel wall, watching him through slitted eyes.

“You are a funny little man, aren’t you?” Vidocq continued. He approached, regarding Valjean thoughtfully as he came to a stop right on the other side of the bars. “What makes you so special, anyway? What have you got that I don’t?”

Reaching through an opening, Vidocq grabbed hold of Valjean’s collar and tugged him forward against the iron rods. Valjean’s breath came in shallow pants but he did not resist, despite that he could have torn himself from Vidocq’s grip easily. Better not to provoke him, he thought. Better to be made a fool of than learn what other thoughts Vidocq had of revenge.

Vidocq tipped his head, looking Valjean over consideringly. “A con who did time in Azkaban does the government one single favor and suddenly you’re everybody’s favorite. Meanwhile I worked in the Palais for years, toiling day in and day out like those damned Aurors wanted, and for what? To be spit on and distrusted. No-one but Gisquet saw my potential.”

Valjean kept his mouth shut, the feeling of Vidocq’s hand at his throat stilling any dry remark which might otherwise have slipped out. The Death Eater clenched his wand in his other hand, shaking slightly with barely suppressed anger, and Valjean wished more than ever for the return of his own lion-headed wand. It would not solve his dilemma, but neither would he be entirely at Vidocq’s mercy.

As though to emphasize the point, Valjean’s train of thought was interrupted by a tingle down his spine. In the tunnel, a slow-rolling pall of fog spread across the floor, flowing around Vidocq’s feet and reaching white tendrils between the bars. Valjean inched back as Vidocq released him. He adjusted his collar, looking up just in time to see a trio of dementors converge on his cell. In the same moment, the glowing shape of a bird fell from Vidocq’s wand, dispersing the fog with the beats of its diaphanous wings.

A contemplative look came over Vidocq’s face. ”You are little more than a hindrance alive,” he said. “And I am sure these would only be too happy to have you,” he added with a careless wave toward the dementors. Valjean shivered; the wraiths stared at him like the three Fates, sensing his fear despite not having even a single eye to share amongst them. All Vidocq need do was give the word and they would fall upon him like wolves, tearing his soul from his throat to devour. A creeping paralysis spread through his veins, rooting him to the spot.

“On the other hand,” Vidocq continued softly, “that would put an end to the fun so soon, and I was rather enjoying myself. Besides - I think I’d prefer if Monsieur le Secrétaire were here to watch, wouldn’t you?”

Whatever horror Valjean felt at that was subsumed under the hopelessness the dementors brought, but then Vidocq withdrew a key from his robes. In a moment, the cell door stood gaping open. Poised for flight, Valjean stared between freedom and his captor, the instinct to flee warring with the logic that he was damned if he tried.

“Out,” said Vidocq. “We’re going for a walk.”

If he ran, how far would he make it before a dementor overtook him? “Why?” asked Valjean aloud.

Vidocq’s expression soured, his only answer to raise his wand aimed for Valjean’s chest. He could refuse, Valjean thought, but an open door was not an opportunity to squander. Silently, he walked forward.

Seen from outside of his cell, it became apparent that the tunnel continued in both directions until it bent in a fashion Valjean could not see around. There was no telling how long it went on, how deep in the underbelly of the Catacombes Vidocq had trapped him. He also could see clearly now for the first time into the other barred chambers, and as Vidocq prodded him in the back to move, Valjean saw in the cage next to his own a figure asleep on the stone floor, blonde tresses falling in tangled strands in front of her face.

“Cosette,” he said in amazement. All along she had been so close; yet Vidocq prodded him again impatiently and he could only move on.

Their path led them beyond the cell block to an untamed portion of the grotto. Just before the torchlight ended, the path forward falling into an abyss deeper than the blackest night, Vidocq stopped them. There was a crevice in the rock which led to an adjoining cave, and Vidocq shoved Valjean unceremoniously inside.

Catching himself before he could fall, Valjean raised his head only to freeze like a deer caught in the glare of headlights as he took in his surroundings. A protest rose in his throat but emerged only as a small, cringing sound. This new chamber was perhaps a mere six meters across, a table with an oil lamp shoved against one side, but that was not what had captured Valjean’s attention. Pounded into the limestone wall was a row of dangling chains, fitted at the bottom with manacles. At that height, they would pull a man’s arms above his head, leaving him to stand on tiptoe or give his weight to the chains.

The roar of saltwater waves filled his ears, and Valjean was utterly incapable of moving. His knees felt wobbly, like they had turned unexpectedly to jelly. It took Vidocq grabbing him again by the cuff and dragging him forward, offering insults all the while, for Valjean to stumble towards this latest test of his sanity. He could feel a cold sweat beading on the back of his neck as his shoulders hit stone, and Valjean gazed longingly back at the exit.

He could twist out of Vidocq’s grip, he thought. Overpower him, take the keys, get Cosette and run. But where would he run to? the sensible portion of himself asked. He had no wand, and the dementors were surely still hovering in the tunnel outside. They would be on him in an instant. Even were they not, where could he go? Into the blackness of the Catacombes?

He tried to envision it, if only to ignore the clink of chains and the cold iron at his wrist as Vidocq fumbled with the restraints. If he followed the path, if he escaped into the darkness, then what? He would be lost in the labyrinth, without light or wand to guide him. He would wander in circles, and that was the best which might befall him. There were monsters in the tunnels, or so it was said, awful creeping things that could not tolerate the light of day, things which would take gladly whatever food happened to run blindly past their nest. Even so, Valjean was starting to think that was a risk he could be willing to accept.

It was at that moment that Vidocq pointed sharply with his wand, and Valjean’s free arm was yanked irresistibly upwards. The second chain reached inexorably for him, the shackles snapping shut over his wrist like a pair of steel jaws. He could not move, except to sway slightly backward and forward on the balls of his feet.

Even as he tasted bile, Valjean struggled not to lose his head. He had not worn manacles of this sort since Azkaban; handcuffs, yes, and those were a terrible enough weight of their own, but they could not compare to the heaviness of chains, not only on the body but on the soul. It occurred to him that the shackles he now wore would match exactly the scars already circling his wrists, and Valjean felt his composure bow under the pressure.

It occurred to him that Vidocq was speaking.

“- talk privately. After all,” the wizard went on, dropping his voice to a low murmur, “I don’t like Thénardier and I certainly don’t trust him. Something else we have in common, eh, Valjean?”

Valjean said nothing, focusing on keeping his balance.

Vidocq narrowed his eyes. “But I had forgotten - Jean Valjean does not answer questions. Jean Valjean fancies himself a martyr and would rather suffer in silence, isn’t that right?”

The wizard stepped closer. “No-one can be silent forever, not even you. Sooner or later, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?” Valjean croaked.

Vidocq fiddled with his wand. “It is not enough to merely kill Javert. After what he has done, to Gisquet, to me, it is only right that he suffer as we have. You know him - you can tell me his weaknesses, what makes him afraid. And you will, whether you want to or not.”

Valjean took an unsteady breath. “If you knew Javert as I do, you would know he is not one who feels fear.”

“Oh, but that isn’t true, is it?” said Vidocq softly. “I think it frightened him when I snatched the girl out from under his nose. And I think it frightened him when you vanished with her. And,” Vidocq whispered, so close now that Valjean could feel the heat of his skin, “I think that he is not the machine he would have everyone believe. I think he is weak, and you are going to tell me how.”

Though his calves were already complaining with the effort of supporting his weight, Valjean felt a fresh wave of resolve rise in him. There was no threat the Death Eater could make which would persuade him to help destroy Javert. As Vidocq took three paces back, Valjean steeled himself.

“Well?” Vidocq cocked an eyebrow. “Feel like sharing?” When Valjean did not reply, he smirked. “Suit yourself.”

Leveling his wand square with Valjean’s chest, Vidocq said clearly, “Crucio.”

It was not unanticipated; even so, Valjean scarcely had time to draw breath before the curse broke across his chest. His back arched, head striking the stone behind him as a soundless gasp was torn from his mouth. It was like tongues of fire licking his flesh, or blades driving into his skin - but it could be endured.

When the spell ended, Valjean hung limply from the chains, hair falling in his eyes. His nerves burned with lingering twinges of sensation and he was breathing harder, but if Vidocq thought that was all it would take to make him crack the wizard would find himself mistaken.

“What do you think?” Vidocq asked. “Have I improved?”

In his head, Valjean could almost hear Javert’s sarcastic sneer. Improved? he would say, half-snarling, half-laughing. You’d do better to leave Unforgivables to the real Death Eaters. He would spit and taunt and rage like a tiger furious with its confinement, and the image brought the faintest trace of a smile to Valjean’s lips.

For his own part, Valjean could not deny that Vidocq’s skill with the Cruciatus Curse had strengthened since last he was made subject to it. The thought made him strangely sad, that in over a decade the man had learned nothing but how better to hate. Wincing as the chains dug into the tender skin of his forearms, Valjean forced himself back to his feet and met Vidocq’s gaze calmly.

Vidocq was not pleased with the lack of a reaction. “How long will it take,” he hissed, “for you to learn that I won’t be mocked?”

He closed the distance between them, his hand raised threateningly. When Valjean declined to answer, the wizard scowled. Then, quick as a viper, Vidocq backhanded him across the face.

Valjean’s head turned with the blow, cheek blistering, but what left him stunned was not the sting of skin on skin so much as the casualness with which the wizard had resorted to violence. Vidocq did not even appear affected except that the loathing in his expression increased incrementally, and as Valjean eased his aching jaw the man pointed again with his wand.

“You should know better than to fight it,” he stated, the scowl never leaving his features for a moment. “But whether you choose to resist or don’t...” He shrugged. “I’ll still get my satisfaction.”

Vidocq strengthened his grip on his hornbeam, and Valjean could see the Death Eater’s desire to hurt him reflected back in the man’s eyes. “Crucio.”

Valjean bit back a cry as the spell seemed to burn the very marrow of his bones. His eyes stung; he was not as young as he once was, he thought ruefully, and it was too much to hope for that Vidocq’s anger would undermine his concentration. Then Valjean shuddered, and not only because of the curse; how many other poor wretches had suffered in order for the Death Eater to hone his skill?

Sooner than he had expected, Valjean found himself released from the Cruciatus’ grip. Hanging suspended once more from the chains, he sucked in a deep breath and tried to still the shaking of his limbs. His eyes closed, but it did not prevent his hearing the low murmur of voices from across the chamber.

“- you are. I do not think much of these men I have paid you to hire. When I asked Gueulemer where to find you, he merely shrugged and said to find you myself.”

Valjean blinked dazedly, gazing down at the floor. He knew that voice, he thought, like something out of a half-remembered dream.

“You pay them to guard the prisoners, not to babysit me,” Vidocq answered, sounding irritated. “What do you want?”

“To see how your little demonstration is progressing.” There was a beat, and then Valjean’s head jerked up at the sound of his own name.

“Jean Valjean. So here you are.”

Feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been upended over his head, Valjean gazed in shock at the newcomer, the identity of that voice washing over him like the tide. Across the room, the cool grey eyes belonging to Henri Gisquet stared icily back. Gisquet was robed in flowing black garments edged with silver, his grey hair buzzed close to his scalp. Valjean shrank back instinctively; Gisquet exuded all the authority of an Auror with a Death Eater’s malice.

“Vidocq has gone to a great deal of trouble to procure you,” Gisquet went on, though Valjean could scarcely hear the man over the memory of their last meeting - Chabouillet’s wand digging into his throat, holding him hostage as Javert stood defenseless before Gisquet and shielded by no stronger force than a few meters of empty air -

“- if it’s all worth it,” the Dark wizard finished.

Vidocq made a noise in his throat somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “He’ll give in, sooner or later.”

“Will he?” Gisquet did not sound convinced, his eyes never leaving Valjean as he seemed to consider him. “You have made the mistake of thinking so before.”

Now Vidocq scoffed. “No-one can hold up to the Cruciatus Curse indefinitely.”

Gisquet hummed softly, and Valjean’s eyes dropped, a nervous flush spreading over his face as he was scrutinized. “Perhaps,” said Gisquet, “but you may drive him mad before he tells us anything of use, and that would be a waste. The Cruciatus,” he elucidated, “is an instrument of subtlety in adept hands. There is a reason Madame Lestrange requires no other to bend her foes to her will.”

“But,” and here he paused, turning his head slightly to one side, “there is no use in trying to intimidate a man who does not fear pain. Isn’t that right, Jean?”

Once upon a time - and still with greater frequency than he cared to admit - the sound of his given name caused Valjean to start with surprise and a small, tentative joy. This was the first occasion on which its use caused him to wince.

Gesturing with his wand hand, Gisquet concluded, “In these instances, more creativity is required of us. Observe.”

Uncertain of what to expect, Valjean watched Gisquet with apprehension as he made a complicated motion. At first, it seemed to do nothing; then, Valjean staggered back against the flat of the wall in alarm as the limestone floor of the cave appeared to ripple like water.

“I have a certain talent for Transfiguration,” Gisquet said conversationally, addressing him even as the wizard directed the liquid stone with his wand. “The trick is in understanding how two unlike things are in fact the same - ‘how is a raven like a writing desk?’ Have you ever seen a lava flow? It is remarkable, stone moves like a river.”

At his words, the rock beneath Valjean’s feet softened and sank under him only to swell again like a vat of quicksand. It clung to his shoes, to the hem of his trousers, and then with horror Valjean realized that it was crawling its way steadily upwards. Seeping into every nook and cranny, worming its way under his clothes, the rock flowed like water but stuck fast to him. It was no lighter for its fluidity, and before long, Valjean could not lift his feet in the slightest.

When the viscous substance reached his knees, he began to panic in earnest. The spell showed no signs of stopping, and indeed the slight smile on Gisquet’s face suggested quite clearly that it would not stop, that it would continue to scale his torso until Valjean was entirely encased in it. He tried to twist his way free, but to no avail. And then, it rose past his knees and Valjean found his legs to be entirely immobilized.

Surging upwards, the stone slurry climbed high enough to press against his sternum and Valjean ceased to fight. His erratic attempts to pull free stilled in favor of silence, and he swallowed back the tremor which threatened to overwhelm him. Instead, he closed his eyes, bent his head, and issued a silent prayer for strength. Surely this too could be weathered, as he had weathered so many other torments.

The weight of the stone was a physical thing. It dragged him down, trying to sink him in its depths, and his wrists screamed as the cuffs cut more sharply into his skin. At the first touch of the slurry to his throat Valjean flinched, but that was far insufficient to stop it from closing over his shoulders and running up the straining tendons of his neck. Surely Gisquet would have to stop now, Valjean thought. He would suffocate, unless it was the Death Eater’s intent to let him die without first extracting the information he sought. And yet, he thought then as the stone rippled over the curve of his jaw, perhaps Gisquet simply did not care.

Valjean took as deep a breath as the stone covering his chest would allow and sealed his lips together. The cold sludge pressed and prodded against his face, seeking any unguarded opening, and Valjean clenched his teeth all the tighter lest the Transfigured stone pour into his mouth, filling his throat until he choked on it. Then, just as Valjean was becoming certain Gisquet did indeed mean to asphyxiate him, the flow of rock stopped.

Across the chamber, Gisquet lowered his wand and the limestone, which reached like the claw of an animal out the floor to bury him alive in its grasp, solidified into a solid mass once more.

“How is he supposed to talk like that?” Vidocq complained, shooting Gisquet a disparaging glance.

“He does not have to,” Gisquet replied quietly. “This is, after all, no more than a demonstration.”

Meanwhile, Valjean again felt the first stirrings of panic. His chest did not have room to expand; he could take only short, shallow breaths, and despite an errant nerve sending an itch down his leg, he could not move to relieve it. At the same time, his arms had turned frighteningly, deadeningly numb.

As Valjean tried and failed to relieve his weight on the chains, Gisquet continued to speak. “It is a necessary fact that traditional methods are wasted on breaking this man. Fortunately, we are at liberty to exercise a more creative approach. Think how much more the Aurors would accomplish if they were not so craven as to ignore entire branches of magic.”

When Vidocq merely looked puzzled, Gisquet snorted. “Truly I swear your head is vacant. Consider - under the right pressure, even stone can be crushed.”

It was as the man said as much that Valjean felt very distinctly the rock around him move. It was a subtle shift, the first tremor before an earthquake, but then there was a screech and a crack and suddenly the stone pressing against his chest felt more like a mountain. Another grating whine filled his ears, and all his ribs protested as the rock squeezed tighter and tighter around him like the shifting of plates in the earth. Something had to give, quickly, or it would crush him flat -

He heard a snap which was not the rock, and the last thing Valjean saw was his vision exploding into black stars.

When he returned to consciousness, Valjean was lying flat on his back, the stone floor beneath him smoothed once again into its natural contours. Every rise and fall of his chest caused pain to shoot through his sides. With a groan, Valjean tried to push himself upright but was stopped almost at once as the pain multiplied tenfold, searing him with a white-hot agony. He fell back to the ground feeling a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and Valjean was left to wonder exactly how many bones had been broken in that ordeal.

A shadow above him caused Valjean to open his eyes. It was Vidocq; dimly, the idea occurred to Valjean that he wanted nothing to do with that man, but it was not in his power to get away. Before Valjean could think to stop it, Vidocq crouched and shoved a cup of potion at his mouth. He spluttered and choked, but to Valjean’s horror most of it went down as intended. The drink tasted foul and felt worse, burning his throat as though he had instead swallowed very cheap whisky.

“What have you done?” Valjean asked through a fit of coughing. Every twitch of his body jarred his ribcage, and for a moment the blackness danced again in the corners of his eyes.

“It’s Skele-Gro,” Vidocq answered, stomping off out of Valjean’s view. “Damn Gisquet for interfering - I can do these things myself -” There was a string of wild imprecations muttered under the man’s breath and then he returned again, still muttering. “- leaving me to clean up his mess, as if healing fractured ribs is simple -“

Stopping again at Valjean’s side, Vidocq added, “You’ll have Gisquet to thank for the long night ahead of you. Mending bones isn’t pleasant. If I were in your shoes, I’d think about giving up, or else I can’t promise he won’t want do the same again tomorrow.”

There was a pins-and-needles sensation beginning to prickle up and down his abdomen, but Valjean could only think how strange it was that Vidocq should tend to his injuries. For all that he knew it was only so he might be made to sustain more hurt later, in the privacy of his own thoughts Valjean hoped it was a sign that the wizard was not completely, utterly evil.

Valjean shut his eyes, fatigue pressing in on him. There would be no more attempts at escape until the potion knit his ribs back together, and in the meantime the slightest bit of movement caused the bones to move against one another in a way which was surely unhealthy. Stretched out where he lay on the floor, Valjean tried to keep as still as possible.

Vidocq seemed to understand this. A spell lifted him from the floor and Valjean tensed with anticipation, but the magic did no more than to float him along across the chamber and out into the tunnel. Vidocq followed close behind, supervising his return to a cell, and Valjean allowed  his head to tip back as exhaustion claimed him.

Javert

Javert was running out of ideas.

It was not for lack of trying; he had combed the Rue Plumet with every instrument at his disposal, and the Forensic Department of Magical Crime had tested Vidocq’s note so thoroughly the Secrétaire was somewhat surprised it had not disintegrated already. A team of Aurors were sent to comb every warehouse on the Rue Curial, but of course they found nothing. Javert had never truly expected that they would.

Such it was that Javert found himself standing outside an apartment building on the Rue Morand, staring up at the glass and steel windows with a preoccupied air. The pedestrians passing him on the sidewalk gave curious sidelong glances to this tall, imposing man dressed in billowing navy robes, but the Secrétaire did not even notice the consternation caused by his attire. In the end, he heaved a sigh and stepped forward.

The front doors slid open with a hiss and Javert crossed the threshold gingerly. There was a young lady seated at the reception desk rather than the elderly man who usually admitted visitors, and Javert frowned as he hailed her.

“Good day,” he said. “Where is Monsieur Hebert?”

The girl removed her glasses, polishing them on her blouse before returning them to her face. “Monsieur Hebert is taking a leave of absence,” she replied. “Can I help you?”

Javert hesitated. Strictly speaking he was not invited, but Thérèse had an uncanny way of telling when to expect visitors.

“I am here to see Madame Marie,” he said eventually.

The girl, shorter and with pin curls in her hair, pursed her lips but made a mark in the guestbook.

“I can’t say if she’s in,” said the receptionist, “but her son should be home.”

Nodding his thanks, Javert made his way up the stairs. Things had grown desperate indeed if this was where he was turning for help, though in retrospect Javert thought wryly that they had surpassed desperate some time ago. As a matter of policy, the Secrétaire put little stock in Divination; his Muggle mother’s attempts at fortune-telling had never been more than lies thinly veneered by layers of flattery and self-deception, and his impression was that wizard seers were rarely any better.

And yet, Thérèse had a way of Knowing things which she had no right to, things which should have been impossible for a stranger to see, and her tarot cards had made more than one prediction of improbable accuracy. Perhaps she could shed some light on what had become of his partner, or his niece.

Stopping outside of No. 27, Javert raised his fist and rapped firmly on the wooden door. It felt strange to be standing there without Valjean at his side. He buried the feeling as the door opened, revealing not Thérèse but her son Jacques, taller and leaner than his mother. His eyes were brown, human.

“Oh, it’s you.” Jacques’ mouth was a thin line as he regarded the Secrétaire mistrustfully. “What do you want?”

Javert straightened. “I am here to speak with your mother,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at the insolent tone.

Jacques was unimpressed. He gazed silently at Javert for several minutes before pushing the door open wide. “You’d best be comin’ in, then,” he said.

Turning around, the boy disappeared inside and Javert followed after him, only to be brought up short as he caught his first glimpse of the apartment’s interior. The place was in shambles, though if the fine layer of dust covering every surface were any indication, that was no new state of affairs.

Though he would never admit to it aloud, there was a recess of Javert’s thoughts in which Thérèse’s home was a sanctuary, and to see it in such a way was disturbing. It brought to mind his own apartment, once similarly rent apart, but his old rooms had only ever been a place to live, they were not a home. This was the home of a friend, and whatever had happened here set his teeth on edge.

“So,” said Jacques. “I presume you be wantin’ something.”

Unconsciously, Javert’s fingers twitched toward the wand pocket of his robes. “I had a favor to ask of Thérèse,” he answered stiffly.

Jacques laughed with a quiet, mirthless humor that Javert recognized only too well. “Luck to you with that,” said the boy. “Let me know how it goes.”

The bad feeling in Javert’s breast grew, sinking into his stomach like a hot coal. “She is not here.” It was a question, but it emerged a statement. He could see the answer for himself.

Jacques snorted, but Javert could hear the heartbreak in the way he said, “Maman has not been here in... not in a long time.”

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out unbidden. “I did not know.”

“And how do your investigation into the Death Eaters be goin’?” Jacques’ tone was pointed, and Javert recalled his brief appointment with the boy no less than three weeks ago. How quick he had been to dismiss the lad’s concerns; guilt had never been any feeling Javert possessed a use for, and now it ate into him like an acid.

Crossing his arms to his chest, Javert asked, “Did you file no report?”

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. “Tell me, Monsieur, do you think my mother would be standin’ here even if I had?”

Javert thought of his own fruitless investigations. “Perhaps not,” he admitted.

“So.” Jacques swept his hand at the devastation of what used to be his family’s salon. “What can I be doin’ for you, Monsieur? Talk quick, I’m to meet my brother soon.”

At a loss, Javert cast his eyes anywhere but on the young man standing before him. “Forgive me,” he found himself saying. “I had thought... Well. Your mother is not the only one missing. I hoped she might provide me with counsel, but I see now that is impossible. I will go. Please, do not be late to meet J... your brother on my account.”

Abruptly, Javert turned to march out the way he had come in. He was halfway to the door when he was stopped by the sound of Jacques’ voice.

“Do you know why it was Garrett decided to be leavin’ us, Monsieur?”

Javert froze midstep. When a moment had passed in silence, he answered truthfully, “I understand there had been an argument. No more than that.”

“Hmph.” Jacques shook his head. “It seems a waste tellin’ you, but maybe you’ll prove otherwise. Maman and Garrett had a fight that night over our father. Our father be dead, by the way, in case you been wonderin’.”

Javert, already uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, jerked in surprise. That Thérèse Marie lived alone with her three sons was the sum of his knowledge. Why Jacques should now choose to divulge more was incomprehensible to him.

“You see,” Jacques went on, his expression unreadable, “my father was a loup garou as well. Not two days after Jean were born, Papa came walkin’ home from the hospital. On the way, he were set upon by a group of Aurors.”

Javert pulled a face, but he stood rigidly permitting the story to unfold.

“They arrested him, Monsieur, accused him of bein’ a Dark wizard and such. He weren’t ever any such thing, but the Aurors didn’t believe it. Whatever they did to him, he was never the same after that. He wasted away.” Jacques took a breath, the slight hitch in it the only flaw in his careful composure, and Javert felt a curious emotion flood his chest he had no name for.

Here was a boy, he thought, who had grown up shunned by society for the circumstance of his birth, his family looked down upon and his motives questioned. Javert looked at Jacques, and for a moment he saw himself.

“My father died as well,” said Javert. He did not know what else to say - it did not matter that he had likely never been involved in the arrest of M. Marie, he was responsible for enough cases like it - but Jacques’ features softened very slightly.

“Garrett thinks that helpin’ the Death Eaters be the right thing to do,” Jacques said. “That you wizards will never change the way things be done, ‘less someone were to teach you a lesson first. I was startin’ to think maybe he were right about that, but... but the Death Eaters took Maman. How can that be right?”

Alarmed to see tears filling the boy’s eyes, Javert pivoted with indecision, unsure of whether or not to try, in his own inadequate way, to soothe him. Valjean knew better how to handle these things, as did Cosette, but they were gone and Thérèse was gone and there was no-one left to offer any morsel of comfort save Javert himself.

Sighing, Javert crossed the floor to Jacques’ side and set a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry about your mother,” he said. “And I am sorry I did not listen better when you came to me for help. I...” He fumbled for words, thinking again on Valjean’s obvious anguish when Cosette was kidnapped, and how paltry a job he had done of assuaging it.

“I regret it,” Javert said finally. “But I swear to you now I will bring her back. I will bring them all back, no matter what I must do.”

Jacques’ eyebrows pinched. “Who else is missing, Monsieur?” he asked, but Javert did not answer.

“Stay out of trouble,” the Secrétaire warned him. “Your mother would never forgive me if anything were to happen to you, or your brothers.”

“And what will you do?” Jacques demanded as Javert made his way back towards the door.

Stopping with his hand on the knob, Javert looked back over his shoulder and replied, “Something very foolish, no doubt.”

The thought followed him out the door and into the lobby. As he stepped onto the street, Javert looked down at the sidewalk and grimaced. It was due to his own lack of judgement that these tragedies kept occurring, and it was his responsibility to make matters right.

Cosette

Cosette stirred awake to find her mouth dusty and dry. Scooting closer to the pitcher near the door, she peered inside to find the vessel disappointingly empty and resigned herself to discomfort. It was not so bad, she thought, if she ignored the cold and ignored her thirst and ignored her hunger...

For lack of anything else to do, Cosette got to her feet and paced a few circles around the floor of her cell, if only to invigorate her sluggish pulse. She was in the midst of taking another ambulation past the bars when the sound of footsteps outside slowed her to a halt. Furtively, she checked that it was not Thénardier approaching; it was not, but the reality proved to be worse, and Cosette stifled a gasp at the sight which met her eyes.

Floating down the passage on a stretcher made of air was her father, laying still and pale, unresisting. A sickly sheen glistened on his skin in the torchlight, and Cosette felt tears of horror spring to her eyes. What had happened to him?

She soon had her answer, for trailing after her father came Vidocq, who looked almost bored by the proceedings. He did not spare a glance for Cosette as he passed, and soon after Cosette  heard the rattle of a door sliding open. When Vidocq passed her by again, he was alone. Cosette could only surmise her father had been imprisoned much as she had.

When Vidocq was gone and the corridor was empty but for the omnipresent guard, Cosette asked tentatively, “Papa...?”

There was no response. Cosette crouched, sitting with her back to the bars where she could listen carefully for any noise from the neighboring cell. If one came, then it was muffled by the ceaseless drip of water; Cosette hugged her knees to her chest and waited. It was difficult not to lose hope, the image of her father’s diminished features seemingly imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

Time passed. Perhaps it was an hour, perhaps it was more. Then at long last, her patience was rewarded: a quiet grunt, a muffled groan, and then very softly, “Cosette?”

“Papa!” At the sound of her father’s voice, hoarse but steady, Cosette was flooded with relief. “What happened? Are you hurt very badly?”

“I am fine.”

Unconvincing though the words were, it nevertheless heartened the girl to hear a slight, strained smile in his voice at her concern. Even so, Cosette could not forget his pallor, nor his sweat-stained brow. “Are you certain?” she asked, pressing closer to the wall of stone separating them. “I saw it when Vidocq brought you back here - you seemed very ill.”

There was sorrow in the way her father answered, “I wish you had not seen that.” He paused, and then went on, “Vidocq has seen to it that I shall recover. We are of more use to him alive.” The words ‘for now’ were not spoken aloud, but they hung unsaid in the air between them regardless.

Cosette shivered, the feeling of helplessness a familiar but unwelcome one. “I’m afraid,” she murmured. “Papa, will Javert know where to find us?”

Enough time passed in silence that Cosette thought perhaps her father had drifted back to sleep, but eventually there came the response, “I hope that we shall both be long gone from here before Javert should have any need of finding us.”

“They are planning something, the Death Eaters,” Cosette said quietly. “I do not know what Vidocq intends, but I overheard him speaking once of the Aurors, and I worry...”

Her father sighed. “Vidocq was an Auror once,” he said, and Cosette felt a shock go through her at that tiny revelation. “He never forgave them for his lack of success.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Cosette asked, her nose wrinkling at the incongruity, but before her father had the opportunity to answer, there came a new voice from the other side of the tunnel.

“Jean?”

Cosette startled; in the whole of her captivity, she had heard nothing which suggested the other chambers, if indeed they were occupied, contained any prisoner still capable of speech. This voice was wavering and uncertain, and yet in it Cosette thought she heard a timbre she recognized.

“Thérèse?” she asked, blinking at the cell across from her own. It was dark, and difficult to make out more than the dim shapes Cosette had noticed in times past. She could see something moving, however, and soon that something came up to the faint line of torchlight that fell across the barred door.

It was unmistakably Thérèse, though she looked decidedly unwell. The loup garou had never been tall, but this was the first instance in which Cosette thought of her as looking shrunken; her round cheeks were hollow, her curls matted with grime against her scalp.

“Cosette? Do that be you there, little one?” Thérèse’s thin hand closed around a bar, revealing to the light a chain around her wrist which Cosette surmised must be one of many, doubtless to prevent the witch from transforming into a wolf large enough to swallow a wizard whole.

The girl understood then what had come to pass. She had wondered, ever since first waking in her subterranean prison, how Vidocq had performed so precise an impression of the woman Cosette thought of as family. Now it was made plain; Polyjuice Potion, perhaps, or a particularly clever Transfiguration spell. There were bruises visible on what skin the light exposed; Cosette’s chest tightened at the thought of how long Thérèse had been held captive, and at what might have been done to gain her cooperation.

“How did the both of you be comin’ down here?” Thérèse asked, peering over in the senior Valjean’s direction with concern.

“Vidocq,” Valjean answered shortly, and Cosette watched a black look cross Thérèse’s features at that.

Nervous should they be overheard, Cosette glanced at the man taking his shift to guard the cell block. The wizard was drinking something out of a large earthenware jug, and the slight rocking to his stance suggested he was paying little attention to his prisoners. Vidocq, it appeared, had gone elsewhere.

“Thérèse,” her father said lowly, “we must escape this place before matters worsen. I have tried to bend the bars, but there is no give to them - they must be enchanted. Have you seen anything which could -?”

The loup garou was shaking her head. “I’ll be pleadin’ your forgiveness,” she said, “but no. Vidocq’s been keepin’ me drugged most always since I woke up here. I’m thinkin’ he’s afraid I might eat him if my wits come back, and I ain’t sure he be wrong about that. When I heard your voices, at first I thought it were just another dream. My inner eye can’t see nothing, either. It’s one big mess, Jean, I’ll say that much.”

“But surely,” said Cosette, leaning forward, “if we three put our heads together we can come up with something!”

Thérèse smiled a little sadly from across the tunnel but did not reply. It was her father who said, “Thérèse, do you know whether there is anyone else trapped down in these tunnels besides us?”

At that, the woman’s expression turned thoughtful. “I do believe there be one other,” she said. “I’ve often heard Vidocq talking aloud. But who he were addressing I couldn’t say - I’ve never heard them speak a word in answer.”

Cosette frowned. If there were another, then that made four in total to break free of the tunnels. They would have to be exceedingly careful; if Vidocq caught them talking, he could put Silencing Charms on them all, and that would be if the Death Eater were feeling generous. Cosette, for one, preferred to keep her tongue in her mouth.

It grew quiet again as they were each lost in thought, considering their predicament from every angle. Cosette kept her eyes focused on what other cells she could see, in the hopes that the fourth member of their company might make an appearance. She stayed like that for a long time, as the cold and the darkness pressed in around her.