The carriage door opened, and Barre Garcia stepped out into the anonymity of a Parisian side street.
The news had reached him less than an hour ago: Sean and Fleur were alive. Safe. And his world had collapsed.
He was the scion of a declining pure-blood family, a name that still held some weight in the older circles of French magical society. His path had been set: a respectable tenure at Beauxbatons, followed by a comfortable position at the Ministry of Magic, courtesy of lingering family connections. But the quiet, ruthless wars waged between the ancient families had consumed his own. In a matter of months, his family was ruined, their vaults empty, their influence gone. All that remained was a rambling, empty manor, a pittance of gold, and a mother whose mind had fractured under the strain.
It was on a desperate night, huddled in a slum on the outskirts of Paris, that the envoy from the British Bulstrode family had found him. The offer was a lifeline in a sea of despair. Without hesitation, Barre had pledged his loyalty.
For years, Borell Bulstrode's gold had been his salvation. It paid for his tuition, his books, and a qualified caretaker for his mother, freeing him from all worldly concerns. But a month ago, his mother had passed away, severing his last tie to his old life. And it was then that Borell had made his first request.
Barre had agreed without a second thought. The plan had been so simple, so elegant. He had ingratiated himself with the stern but fair Professor Morpangsang, earning his trust until he was a natural choice to assist with the visiting Hogwarts student. He had gotten close to Sean and befriended Fleur. He would use her, an unwitting accomplice, to activate the cursed Portkey that would deliver them both to Malo. With Sean and Fleur dead, all suspicion would fall on her, and he would be free, his debt paid.
But the imbecile Malo, the so-called dark wizard, had failed. He hadn't killed a single person. And now, Barre was forced to enact Plan B: abandon everything and flee to South Africa. When the dust settled, he would re-emerge in Britain, a new face in Borell's service.
He pulled his collar up, hurrying through the darkening streets toward the address Borell had provided. As long as he could reach the Portkey, he would be safe. No one would ever find him.
In just under half an hour, he found it: an abandoned tenement in a forgotten corner of the city. He whispered an Unlocking Charm, the rusty door groaning open, and began the long, panting climb to the top floor. At this moment, he bitterly regretted not taking Apparition a year early. The inconvenience was maddening.
On the seventh floor, he paused, leaning against a grimy wall to catch his breath. In the center of a dust-choked room sat his salvation: a shabby plaster head sculpture, the kind Muggles used for drawing lessons. It didn't matter what it was. All that mattered was that it was his ticket to a new life.
He stepped forward and, without hesitation, laid his hand upon it.
The familiar, gut-wrenching lurch of a Portkey seized him, pulling him forward into a vortex of swirling color. A smile of pure relief spread across his face. He was safe. No Aurors, no interrogations, no prison. Though the French magical prisons were a world away from the horrors of Azkaban, the thought of any cage was terrifying. He was free.
THUD.
The sickening lurch ended, his feet slamming onto a solid wooden floor. The plaster head fell beside him with a dull crack. He was about to turn, to take in the sights of his new home, when a calm, polite voice spoke from directly behind him.
"Mr. Garcia. The Young Master is waiting for you."
Barre froze, the blood draining from his face. He knew that voice. It belonged to Aldrich, Sean's impeccable butler. And there was only one "Young Master."
How? The question screamed in his mind. How did he know? How did he move so fast? And why in Merlin's name did the Portkey Borell provided lead me here?
Denial gave way to panicked survival. He spun, his wand flying into his hand, an incantation already forming on his lips.
He never finished it.
A silent flash of red light crossed the small room. Barre felt his wand leap from his grasp as an invisible force slammed into his chest, throwing him back against the wall. He slid to the floor, the air knocked from his lungs, and watched as his wand traced a graceful arc through the air and landed neatly in Aldrich's outstretched hand.
The Disarming Charm. Cast silently. Effortlessly.
The realisation hit Barre with the force of a physical blow. This was not a butler. This was a battle-mage, an Auror in servant's robes.
Aldrich pointed Barre's own wand at him. The gentle, deferential smile was still on his face, but now, it held no warmth. It was a mask of cold, professional menace that chilled Barre to his very bones.
"Please, Mr. Garcia."
Barre looked at the wand, then at the smile, and knew he had no choice. He slowly, painfully, climbed to his feet. Under Aldrich's silent guidance, he was led into an adjoining room.
Sean was sitting calmly on a plush armchair that had clearly been transfigured from a pile of rubble. Jensen stood beside him, poised and alert, ready to intercept any attack.
"Barre," Sean began, his voice quiet, devoid of anger, which was somehow worse. "I considered you a friend. Fleur considered you her friend. You betrayed us. You wanted us to die."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Barre's.
"Why?"
Barre's lips were pressed into a thin, white line. He said nothing.
Sean sighed, a sound of deep disappointment. "Very well. If you won't tell me, I'll see for myself. Memories, after all, don't lie. But first," he said, his voice hardening slightly, "I want to have one last, fair duel with you. Consider it a final courtesy... for the friendship you threw away."
(End of Chapter)
***
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