AN: I wrote this some years ago. This is a possible beginning or prologue for a longer story, however I never did anything to it. So I am posting it as a Challenge: anyone who wants to take this prologue and run with it is welcome. I would like to be involved in the process but at the very least I'd like to know where the finished product is so I can read it. I would prefer there not be any chan and that there be a happy ending; I'm sappy like that.


The bar was dark, lit only by the weak sconces on the walls that provided more of a glow than actual light. A fireplace at one end provided heat but hid the drinkers in shadow. When Dorea entered the oppressing heat hit her first. It was followed swiftly by the crushing smell of alcohol and sweat caused by the unwashed bodies as they grouped together along the walls and at tables too close together. She sneered at them and made her way carefully to the bar, her wand a comforting weight on her forearm. She cast a translation spell for the area as she entered.

"What'll it be love," asked the barkeep in deep accented German, his eyes ran over her black dress taking in the bun on her head with small ringlets of dark hair escaping to tickle on her neck. Then he took in the low collar and tight waist line of her dress made of fine black fabric. He lifted an incredulous eyebrow and said, "You lost lady?" She turned away from his eyes, resisting the urge to pull up her collar. She was a Black and would not be pressured by this lowly muggle. She was here for necessity and no other reason. Of course there was no reason she had to do this sober.

"Scotch." She sneered at his lifted eyebrow and he shrugged and slammed a glass on the table, sloshing the drink into it with little to no finesse. She hissed as a little splashed on her wrist.

"Watch yourself you foul little man," She told him almost absently in her native English and took the glass with two precarious fingers. Smelling it, she assured herself there were no potions and poured a generous mouthful down her throat. She knew from experience that tasting this particular drink was a bad idea.

Leaning backwards on the bar she perused the place, taking in the eyes of the men who looked interested and ignoring the dirty women whose eyes held contempt and jealousy.

She'd selected this bar for the age of its patrons and location far away from her beloved England. No one could ever know she'd been here. Deep in a shadow to her right sat a man who was watching her with interest but also intelligence. She decided to start there and took her glass to his table.

The seat was dirty and covered in shiny wet stains of unknown origin but Dorea Black was a strong, fierce woman and sat anyway. She leaned back in the chair and made herself comfortable. "Hello lovely, you're quite far from home I think," the man said lazily in English. She smiled and quite liked the look of him. He had the long locks of dark hair and pale skin her family line favored but his eyes were a fierce green with flakes of glowing amber that glinted in the glowing firelight. He had a strong forehead and though his beard was unkempt it added to his rough look. His eyes were deep and full of old wounds. Briefly she thought she could smell blood but then he grinned and Dorea decided she was mistaken.

"Perhaps," she told him and finished her drink.

"What could bring one such as yourself so far I wonder." He smirked, showing a bit of white teeth. His accent was strange, old with slurred vowels and she knew English was not his first language.

"I'm on a mission," She said and he leaned forward.

"Are you? How marvelous." His eyes, when focused, were so intense Dorea was taken aback. But she regrouped and focused on her plan.

"Yes, I'm looking for someone." He leaned away, his body closing up a little and she quickly said, "Someone special, someone who can do something for me, give me something I need."

When she said need, Dorea ran her hand sensually from her stomach down under the table and watched his eyes burn. She bit her lip under the intensity of his gaze.

"Is that so," he whispered.

She was actually getting a little uncomfortable under this kind of attention from a man not her husband. She shoved Charles from her mind. This was for him, for his legacy and he must never know.

"If we are to go on a quest dear one, we should at least know what to call one another." The man said finishing his drink.

"I'm Anthea," Dorea lied, "and you?"

"Lucian," he said with a grin. "Perhaps we can discuss this adventure at a more private venue." She nodded and he stood and casually assisted her out of her chair. His hands were almost unnaturally warm but Dorea assumed it must be her nerves.

As they left the bar Dorea sneered at the barkeep who winked at them.

"I must tell you dear one," Lucian said as he led her out, "Your fake name is unusual but do you mind if I call you Sonja, you do look so much like someone I knew once."


When Dorea returned to England it was to a loving husband who would never know of the curse her family placed on him to protect their family purity, nor that the son she bore contained Potter blood only after she completed the adoption ritual and added Charles to the boy's DNA. She told no one of her night with Lucian and only prayed to the gods in thanks when James was born human instead of whatever inhuman monster she suspected Lucian was.

AN: I'd really appreciate any comments, thoughts, questions, or encouragement.