SUMMARY: A boy's entire family is wiped out by an old enemy. His memories are erased and he lives on, cursed. Forced into a new environment, without family and friends, he must survive the remainder of his fifth year, alone, while death looms closer than he knows.

DEBRIEF: This is the story of my unique character thrust into the Harry Potter storyline during the middle of the fifth year (he is the same age as the main characters). Eventually the main storyline of the Harry Potter series will alter, but not greatly, because of my character, due to the influence he will have on Draco Malfoy; basically, Draco will eventually become good instead of being torn between both good and evil.

Author's Note: This is only the first novel-length story I plan to write; there will be sequels continuing to at least the end of seventh year.

WARNING: Contains homosexually explicit, but not limited to, content. If gay isn't your thing, kindly move on or widen your horizons and have a good read, the choice is yours.


Happy Christmas

Claudine Villefranc was a quiet woman by common standing. She kept to herself and expected the same of others. Her silvered hair was ever in a tight bun upon her squat head, her knickers were always pressed, her shoes were always polished, and not a spot of makeup was ever seen on her wrinkled face. She did not like people. She never married. Once upon a time she dated a man for a number of years, but, as rumor would have it, when he had supposedly suggested moving in together, she left him without word or reason. She did not keep in touch with her two sisters nor their brood or her many cousins. No, she did not like people; she preferred her three tabby cats in lieu of people. The quiet company of Monsieur Blanc, Mademoiselle Rouge, and Madame Rose suited Claudine Villefranc just fine.

The single-story square house on the corner of Belle Rue had belonged to Ms. Villefranc for as long as any residents of the lane's cul-de-sac could remember. To them, it had always been there with its red brick walls choked by vines, dull violet door and matching shutters, both of which were said to be painted to be deceivingly inviting. Over the years, many newcomer neighbors had shown up on her doorstep after falling victim to her effortless portrayal of a sweet old widow that spent her days reading with her cats. Each time she gleefully spat their half-finished introductions back into their faces with a fine howdy-do, but only after snatching their house-warming gifts. After awhile, the few other permanent residents of Belle Rue took it upon themselves to sternly warn any new neighbors away from Ms. Villefranc's humbly deceiving cottage.

Since then, her schemes had been put to rest and Ms. Villefranc was rarely seen from then on. Though, people have caught glimpses of her on her bi-weekly trips to the local market or when she took her evening strolls about their quaint neighborhood. For them, it was like sighting Big Foot or Nessie. As she was a fit older woman, people guessed that these walks were the key to her good health. On the night of Christmas day, 1996, Claudine Villefranc allowed the world to see her on one such occasion—her very own little Christmas gift to all. Bundled in her self-knitted winter garb, she bid her slumbering cats behave, and, closing the door without a sound, Ms. Villefranc stepped out into the falling snow.

As she reached the sidewalk at the end of her driveway, the house in the center of the Belle Rue cul-de-sac captured her gaze, like it did the year before this one and the year before that. Its white-washed canvas was splattered with reds and greens, twined with tinsel and speckled with holly, and adorned with fresh wreathes of pine, bow-tied with red ribbon. Alive with silhouettes that bustled to-and-fro behind drawn curtains, the pillared manor of the Beaufort family was a shining beacon of Christmas spirit and holiday cheer. Ms. Villefranc despised the Beaufort Christmas and their bedazzled home, which did little to bring cheer to her shriveled holiday spirit. Every year, Christmas brought the entire Beaufort clan to clutter her street with their whatcha-ma-sports cars and their whose-it-what's-its SUVs. Sixteen years ago today, Christmas at the Beaufort home became a family-wide tradition to celebrate Christmas and the birth of Gregoire and Corinne Beaufort's only child. Claudine Villefranc chewed her tongue vigorously at the thought.

Ms. Villefranc did not like Christmas; it reminded her of the family she chose not to acknowledge. Since 1980, her dislike of Christmas because of the Beauforts grew steadily as the years dragged on. To the audience of snowflakes that whirled about her she whispered misfortune on the Beauforts. Lost in her mutterings, Ms. Villefranc noticed, a moment too late, the silhouette that had appeared behind the cerulean, satin curtains of the manor's great bay window that faced the street. The old woman sucked in her breath through clenched teeth as the curtains were thrown wide, casting a pool of light onto the lane.

Despite the distance, it was painfully obvious that the woman at the window was undeniably beautiful. Wavy tresses of dark amber fell just short of her full breasts and her snowy silk dress contrasted wonderfully against her sun-kissed skin. The silver-clasped black leather belt that rested just below where her bellybutton would be hugged the dress to her elegant form.

The woman in the window waved.

With a dignified huff, and a toss of her scarf over her shoulder, Ms. Villefranc shuffled into the night, her chin pointed high in the air.

"Mon cher, why must you persist to bozzer ze old oiseau wis your kindness, hmm?" Said Gregoire Beaufort to his wife, whom scowled in response, as he came beside her and placed a hand on her hip while the other tucked an auburn strand behind a pink-fleshed ear. "She only wishes ze peace and quiet zat we do not give 'er."

As the man finished his now-apparent joke, Corrine Beaufort's cheeks bubbled with contained laughter until she no longer could contain it, and then turned away from the window to kiss the man she loved.

"Especially—zis—time—of—year," Mr. Beaufort blurted between the kisses the woman planted on his lips.

Ceasing her onslaught of kisses, Mrs. Beaufort slid her arms across her tall husband's broad back and rested her head against his strong chest and sighed, "Perhaps you are right, m'amour," she remarked as they swayed gently in place, "Zo, it is a shame she always chooses to spend ze holidays alone."

Lifting her chin between thumb and index finger, Mr. Beaufort looked into his wife's eyes, still as lustrous and as deep a blue as they were twenty years before, "Then we shall invite her over for ze holidays next year!" the man declared with a smile, "And not just for Christmas, but all ze holidays; we will turn zat batty oiseau into a happy peacock in no time, mon cher, you have my word."

Mrs. Beaufort grinned and squeezed her husband tight and kissed him once more. Mr. Beaufort returned the embrace two fold, picking her up as he leaned back, eliciting a surprised giggle from the woman.

Setting her down, he held Mrs. Beaufort at arm's length and said, "Now, enough wiz zis nonsense, hmm? Come, it is almost time for ze cutting of ze cake," he said as he led her away from the window, "And we should do it before I have to 'cut ze cheese,' eh?"

The woman let out a fit of laughter at the lewd joke and playfully slapped her husband on the shoulder as they made their way into the kitchen from the foyer. Mr. Beaufort went to the refrigerator as Mrs. Beaufort reached into a few drawers and brought out paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware, all holiday themed, and set them in stacks on the counter-top. Pulled from a solitary shelf in the refrigerator, came a magnificent cake of crafted of sinewy, white pastry cream. Its surface was elaborately decorated with sugar cream fleur-de-lis of blue, green, and white, edible dove miniatures on each corner, each in their own unique, life-like pose. In the center of its surface were gold and silver cream letters that spelled out,

Bon Anniversaire , Camille !

After receiving a nod from her husband, Corrine slipped out a thin wooden rod that had been tucked into her belt and held its tip to her throat, "Everybody," she spoke; her voice filled the manor effortlessly. "It is zat time again!" Lowering her wand, Corrine waved it the stacks of ware and utensils before replacing it in her belt and facing Mr. Beaufort, who still held the cake out in front of him.

"I cannot believe he is sixteen, Gregoire," she spoke as tears rimmed her eyes, "He is growing too fast!" The plates, napkins, and plastic ware danced on the air in single file into the dining room where they set themselves neatly into place along the extensive table that seated fourteen. Mrs. Beaufort crossed her arms, leaned back against the counter, lowering her head.

"Ah, m'amour, dry your eyes and quiet your fears, for he is not so old as of yet, eh? He is not yet so old to spread his wings and fly for himself," the man spoke softly as he approached his wife and turned sideways to kiss her cheek. "We are still ze wind zat keeps him soaring, no?" Mr. Beaufort asked, barely a whisper, as his eyes searched to capture her gaze.

When she lifted her eyes to meet his, she smiled, sniffed, and patted the tears with a sleeve before nodding. "I am foolish," she chuckled, "What would I do wis out you, m'amour?"

Mr. Beaufort grinned knowingly, "Mon cher, not even I know ze answer to zat question." He leaned in once more to kiss her fully on the lips, "I only know for certain zat I will always love you, Corrine," he said, inches from her face.

The woman kissed him and smiled wide, "Moi aussi, m'amour, you always know just what to say; always ze charmer."

Mr. Beaufort chuckled and shrugged and wrapped his arms around his wife.

The sound of footsteps began to echo throughout the manor as the rest of the Beauforts realized it was time for cake. The antique chandelier above the dining table quivered as four pairs of feet bounded down two flights of stairs from the nursery above. Creaks from the cherry paneled floors of the lounge forewarned the arrival of the grandparents. The approach of laughter and merriment from the billiard room announced the coming of Mr. Beaufort's two younger brothers and their wives. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort walked the short distance into dining room, where Mr. Beaufort centered the caked on the table and then awaited their family's arrival.

"Zoot alors!" Mrs. Beaufort gasped after a moment, "Ze candles! We forgot ze birzday candles!" In a flash, she drew her wand and aimed it toward the kitchen, "Accio candles!" The sound of drawers and cabinets flinging open filled the kitchen. A swarm of candles of all shapes and sizes rounded the kitchen wall and flew at their summoner whom then spoke, "Immobulus," suspending them in mid-air before her. Mrs. Beaufort plucked the sixteen similar candles she desired then waved her wand, causing the remaining candles to float back into their respective containers.

"Well done, mon cher!" Mr. Beaufort congratulated as Mrs. Beaufort set the candles around the letters on the cake, which she finished not a moment too soon as the Beauforts filed into the dining room, each as delighted as the last.

First into the dining room were Mr. Beaufort's parents, Gregoire Beaufort senior and his wife Adeline, followed by Mrs. Beaufort's parents, Edmond and Françoise Hallett. Behind them came Mr. Beaufort's brothers Henri, with his wife, Julien, and Maximilien, with his wife of one year, Nathalie. Squeezing between their parents and aunt and uncle, came the three children of Henri and Julien: Avril, Nadia, and Maxence, of ages fourteen, eleven, and nine. After the extended family took their place on the other side of the dining table, as was tradition, the light of the chandelier bulbs dimmed with a whisper from Mrs. Beaufort and the candles upon the cake lit with another.

Taking his cue to enter, Camille Beaufort entered the room. His eyes, so much like his mother's, twinkled with the dance of the candle flames and his bright smile reflected their soft light. For the occasion, Camille took his place beside his mother and father as he always did. Their proud smiles and glassy eyes welcomed his approach. His parents both placed a hand on the shoulder nearest them as he took his place, as they always did. With a hard kiss atop his head from his mother and a wink from his father, Camille knew this birthday would be one to remember.

When all was as it should be, Mr. Beaufort began the song, "Un, deux, trois!" Everyone chimed in, "Bon An—," a loud knock at the front door interrupted the song.

"Ah, Sacré Bleu! Who could zat be at zis hour?" Mrs. Beaufort swore as she left the dining room, her stride full of the wrath only mothers were capable of evoking.

She turned the knob and yanked the door forcefully open and, upon seeing who stood on her doorstep, choked on the prepared insult that pressed against her teeth. Mrs. Beaufort dared not move, not even to scrunch her nose at the pervasive stench that brought tears to her eyes.

A pale, emaciated woman, dressed in no more than dirty rags that waved in the wind, held a charred wand to Mrs. Beaufort's gut. The woman's hair, what was left of it, was no more than a collection of oily, unwashed ringlets that hung from her scalp, like miniatures of the rags wrapped about her skeletal figure. The reek of human defecation and natural pheromones clung to her as surely as her rags.

"Happy Christmas," the woman wheezed, her thin, cracked lips curled smugly, "Sister."

A flash of ochre filled the foyer; its light flirted with that of the dining room.

"Corrine?" Mr. Beaufort called sternly, fishing his wand from a deep pocket of his tan trousers as he took a few steps toward the foyer. Camille watched his father approach the hall that led to the foyer from the dining room. The rest of the family kept as still as the chairs in front of them, their eyes following Mr. Beaufort as they waited for Mrs. Beaufort to respond. Mr. Beaufort reached the mouth of the hall and took a step back as if slapped; his face contorted into a mix of disbelief, fear, and rage.

"No! Stupefy!" Mr. Beaufort shouted and thrust his wand in front of him, expelling a jet of ruby light. A crash sounded in the hall and glass shattered. A soft mumbling reached Camille's ears from the hall, followed suit by a jet of cream-colored light that sunk into Mr. Beaufort's chest. Eyes wide, he collapsed onto the floor, his wand rolling out from under him. A slender figure, silhouetted by the lighting, appeared immediately to stand just before Mr. Beaufort's body. The adults scrambled for their wands and the children cried out. Camille stood unmoving; his eyes wide and locked on the figure standing over his prone father.

"Silencio Imperitum. Immobulutum Maxima." The figure whispered.

The pandemonium that ensued within the dining room ended as quickly as it began.

Camille tried to turn to see his family, but his limbs would not respond nor would his lips answer his will to call out to them. The figure pointed what he assumed was a wand at his father, its tip glowed with a bulb of indigo and he watched as his father stood and came to stand at his left side, his eyes alight with the same color as the wand tip. Footsteps sounded from the hall of the foyer; his mother, her eyes echoes of his father's, entered the dining room and stood on his right.

"Now," the figure wheezed, in a voice tinged with twisted amusement and satisfaction, "As you were." It waved its wand.

Camille heard the shuffle of his family, then silence. His body turned about of its own accord and saw that his family was standing as they had the moment before they had begun to sing. Their forms were awash in pale candlelight, eerie and still, like a black and white portrait. He felt his mother's left hand fall on his shoulder, his father's right hand on the other. He sensed their eyes on his face. He could not feel the warmth from their hands.

A hideous cackle filled the room that chilled his blood and rattled his bones. Camille wanted to close his eyes, but his body was still not his own. There was nothing he could do, but watch.


Camille looked on as a multicolored whirlpool of luminance sheathed the ceiling. The dimmed bulbs of the chandelier burst; a melody of shattering glass echoed in and about the manor. Every manner of light was extinguished as if sucked into the whirlpool that had slowly begun to descend. Camille's vision blurred with tears, his eyes searing as the radiant luminance blinded and engulfed him. A cold burning sensation pierced and wrapped about his entire spine. The figure howled its blood-curdling cackle. The world went dark.

Claudine Villefranc peeped from behind the old maple tree at the end of her driveway and waited. Minutes prior, she had pointed a poor beggar woman in the Beauforts' direction, having asked, in the sorriest of ways, if there was a generous family living near that would spare her a loaf of bread and a blanket. Ms. Villefranc was at first appalled and disgruntled by the beggar, even more so disgruntled with herself when she made the realization that she considered the Beauforts as generous and giving. Then, watching the beggar walk up to Beaufort's drive, decided what a wondrous opportunity this was; how off-put the beggar would make them! And, any discomfort to the Beauforts was a boon to her, so, she sent the beggar on her way with false well-wishings and an even more false, "Happy Christmas."

The old woman watched the beggar pound on the Beaufort's door and almost laughed aloud. When she saw the wretched Mrs. Beaufort answer the door, her dentures nearly flew from her mouth. And then something happened that she did not understand. A flesh-colored light swallowed up the Beaufort porch and the next thing she saw was Corrine Beaufort sprawled on the family's foyer floor, the beggar standing over her. Claudine Villefranc clapped a hand to her mouth and ducked behind the tree. Her old heart hammered against her ribcage and numbed her bosom. Something was wrong, that much she understood.

When next she summoned the courage to look, the beggar was gone, Mrs. Beaufort was still upon the floor, and another flash of ochre light filled the manor. Ms. Villefranc did not duck away, but found herself looking for the beggar, trying to catch a glimpse of her silhouette through the curtained windows. Her search ended abruptly for something horrid occurred; Mrs. Beaufort's body picked itself up and walked back into the foyer. Moments later, every Christmas light bulb strapped to the manor burst into a spray of light and colored glass and every light within the home flicked out. Then all of a sudden, a bright light shone from all the windows of the manor, its hues that of a rainbow, had it been mixed in a pot and dumped out. Then, the manor was dark. The pure quiet of winter stole over Belle Rue once more and nothing moved, but snow and the trees so much like skeletal arms clawing at the grey sky beyond their reach.

After what seemed like an eternity had passed, long enough so that a nest of snow had formed atop Claudine Villefranc's knit cap, the beggar woman emerged from the agape door of the Beaufort home and stood, facing the lane. Ms. Villefranc watched the woman take a step forward, turn on her heels, and vanish with a CRACK. The old woman cried out in fear, sending the nest on her head onto her face. She batted away violently, thinking it some demon sent on her by the beggar, the murderer. When she had cleared what she discovered was snow from her face, her dentures were no where to be found, her lip was bleeding, and she felt a welt forming beneath her right eye. Surveying she was alone, she shuffled backward a few meters, her eyes darting left and right, then turned and sprinted to her home, opened the door, bolted it shut, gathered her cats up, and barricaded them all in the master bedroom.

Moments later, a cacophony of CRACKs sounded from the cul-de-sac. Despite herself, Ms. Villefranc peeked between the short curtains of the small square window of the room and spied thirteen figures that were standing in the lane. Each was stranger than the last; a mix of different colored cloaks and strange hats, no beards and too much beards, tall and short, fat and thin, women and men both; the list went on. She watched them approach the Beaufort home. It was all too much for Claudine Villefranc; she fainted, crumpling to the floor where she had been standing.

The leader was taller than the rest, standing almost a meter taller than some and half that much wider than most. Her features were large and wide yet defined, strong and intimidating yet gentle, and her orb-like eyes were full of kindness. The woman was dressed in a black, rabbit fur-lined, satin cloak, its hem brushing the ground, buckled leather boots that stopped below her knees, and a ruffled crimson blouse that barely held in her ample bosom. Her long, eloquent fingers were bedecked with rings of various metals, sizes and shapes, and around her neck she wore a loose opal chain, its length reaching to nestle in the cranny of her bosom. Styled in a voluminous bob, her hair was of the deepest mahogany, and, despite the weather, it held its shape perfectly. Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, her stride both graceful and full of purpose, made her way toward the lightless manor before her, her dozen comrades close behind.

Madame Maxime drew her wand from inside her cloak, its length a quarter size of her arm. The dozen figures behind her mimicked her action, drawing a diversity of wands from pockets both seen and unseen.

The half-giantess stopped before stepping onto the porch and turned about, "Arrêtez. Alain, Vivien; regarde la rue et la maison. Maintenant, ze rest of you, suivez moi."

Two of the figures stopped and stood guard outside the manor, while Madame Maxime led the rest into the manor.

"Madame, we cannot take ze risk of you being 'armed; allow me to lead ze way, I beg you," a thickly accented man insisted as they stepped past the open door and into the cold foyer. Its cherry-paneled floor was alive with wispy snowdrifts.

"I don't zink zat will be necessaire, Baudouin; I fear zat we are too late and that zey are all dead by 'er hand." Madame Maxime remarked grimly over her shoulder to the man closest to her as she lifted her wand skyward, "Homenum Revelio."

Her wand flared with a faint white light and was tugged forward slightly by the magic; there was life within the home, somewhere beyond.

"Lumos." Madame Maxime's wand tip lit with a bulb of pale azure light, bathing the white walls of the room in a ghostly iridescent glow, throwing eleven drawn shadows upon their surface. "Allez, viens. Someone is yet alive."

The eleven men and women filtered into the manor, wand tips alight. Baudouin LeCraine, the leading auror, split his nine fellow aurors into groups of three and sent them to search the house, top to bottom. The men and women of the Ministère de Magie de la Français were as skilled and determined as Madame Maxime was grand, and set off immediately. Soon, the manor was polluted by echoes of footsteps and the creak of floorboards.

The Headmistress wasted no time and cleared the foyer shortly with her lengthy stride, stepping over a fallen portrait and its glass fram that was strewn about it, and entered the kitchen, snowdrifts billowing in her wake. With Baudouin in tow, they concluded swiftly that the kitchen was of no interest and continued onward. As she crossed the threshold into the dining room, Madame Maxime stopped in her tracks with a gasp and clapped her free hand to her mouth, her dark eyes going wide with horror. Baudouin squeezed past her through the doorway and muttered, "Par Dieu," as he bore witness to a scene he knew he would never forget.

Before them, a man, woman, and child stood facing the long, dark-stained oaken dining table that was set with holiday plastic and paper ware and utensils. The child stood between the man and woman whom both had a hand resting on the shoulder nearest them. Across the table was an assortment of figures: three children of different ages, two female and one male, four seniors, two male and two female, and four adults, two male and two female. They appeared frozen in time; their eyes were open and unblinking, their gleeful expressions remained plastered on their faces, and their bodies remained unmoving. The children held onto their parents, the wives leaned against their husbands, the husbands nudged one another; all movement perpetually locked in a moment of time.

Strangely, all of their skin seemed to gleam from the wandlight, reflect it even. The Headmistress composed herself and after a moment she inched forward and tapped her wand on the shoulder of the man nearest her. The sound that greeted her wand was not what she expected and it sickened her. It was unnatural, like the clatter that was made when setting a teacup down upon its saucer.

"Baudouin," Madame Maxime hissed and indicated the fourteen figures with her wand, "Zey are all porcelaine!"

"Mais, you're spell indicated ozerwise, did it not?" Baudouin asked encouragingly, trying to sound hopeful erstwhile processing the reality of what was in front of him: fourteen porcelain figurines that were once very much alive.

Madame Maxime nodded her head and drew in a deep breath, "Oui, in zat you are most correct," she said in a thankful tone, shooting him a slight grin.

The half-giantess approached and prodded the woman figure in front of her wand; the same sharp, hollow noise answered. She shook her head in disgust and disbelief before moving on to the boy between who she presumed to be his parents. This time the impact of her wand was dull, flat, and nearly devoid of noise, as it connected with the actual material of the boy's clothes. She moved closer and placed the back of her hand upon the boy's exposed neck. The flesh was cool on the surface but she felt warmth beneath.

"Zis one, ici! Ze boy is alive!"

Madame Maxime reversed her touch and felt his skin with her palm to be sure and when she was, her elation was evident in the toothy grin with which she regarded Baudouin as he came to stand beside her.

"He's been hit wiz a Full-Body Bind Curse, but he is alive," she said upon further inspection.

"What of ze boy's famile?" Baudouin asked, still grim despite the small fortune.

Madame Maxime pondered the question momentarily before answering, "Shrink zem."

Baudouin blanched, "Excusé moi?"

"In zis state, zey are not but objects, no?"

"Oui, mais—,"

"Shrink zem so zey can be easily transported to ze Ministère in ze care of yourself and your aurors." The woman explained, and then looked at the figurines and added, "Perhaps somezing can yet be done for zem." Though, as she finished, a cloud of doubt settled on her brow.

Baudouin considered the woman's wisdom, looking to the porcelain family, then back to the woman, nodding his accord.

"Very well zen. And as for ze boy; where will 'e go? If she should discover zat he lives…"

Madame Maxime waved her wand and the boys form hovered from beneath his parents' hands and levitated to her side. The witch whispered a multitude of incantations until finally the proper counter-curse was enacted. The boy's rigid form went limp, looking much like a corpse suspended in an invisible sea. Though they did not no why, it was clear that the boy was unconscious.

"I will take ze boy, Camille, if I am not mistaken, to Hogwarts. I will entrust him to ze care of ze Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, until we can sort zis mess out. He will be safe zere."

"Go zen, we will finish zings 'ere. Bon chance, Madame."

"Au revoir, Baudouin. I will see you soon, I am sure."

The man bowed and left the dining room, taking the hall to the foyer.

Madame Maxime watched him go then recalled the spell Dumbledore had taught her earlier in the year for the purpose of immediate communication with himself and the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Thrusting her wand into the air, a silver mist was expelled from her wand. The mist swirled and, after a moment, it coalesced into a substantial form: a silvery ethereal canary flitted where the mist had once been. She spoke to the canary which cocked its head here and there, listening intently. Once the brief message was complete, the Patronus evaporated.

The Headmistress then turned, wrapped an arm around the suspended boy's legs just below his buttocks, and casually draped him over her shoulder. Turning on her heels, Madame Maxime performed a Side-Along Apparation and a moment later she found herself outside the snow-blanketed town of Hogsmeade, near Madam Puddifoot's, where a most peculiar man awaited her. He was a very old man, his beard, long and silver, was tucked into his belt and he was dressed in purple robes. His silver-framed, half-moon spectacles sat at the end of his long crooked nose.

The man clucked his tongue at her arrival.

"Bon soire, Olympe," Albus Dumbledore greeted, grinning warmly up at the woman.

"Salut, Albus. I wish our meeting was under different circumstance," she said apologetically, returning his smile with a weak one of her own. "Zank you for your help in zis. I could not zink of anyone better."

"No trouble, Olympe, no trouble," He extended the crook of his arm, "Now, shall we?"

Upon linking her arm with his, they Disapparated and found themselves within the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Madame Maxime took the unconscious boy and laid him upon the nearest bed, regarding him with eyes full of sorrow and compassion.

"Zis is Camille Beaufort. Take good care of him; 'e 'as no one left."

"You have my word, Olympe, he will be safe, here, at Hogwarts."

This is the first chapter so its purpose is mainly to introduce; the second chapter is much more personal and the story really begins there, but it's necessary to set up a story is it not? As for the M rating, the M type content will come later, so, you'll just have to stick around.

Reviews will always be appreciated, positive or negative, general or constructive. Thanks for reading :]