Henri Potère, Saviour of New France

Author notes: This is an AU fic. That is, it is not set in the exact same Potterverse as the HP books. It is what HP might be like if it had happened in late 17th century French Quebec. The characters are the same as in the book, but their names have been slightly changed to fit with the languages used by the French colonists and the Iroquois Indians.

The main ships in this story will be Harry/Hermione, Ron/Luna, and Draco/Ginny. However, they do not all start up together. My job as an author is to get them together, after a lot of interesting adventures.

The majority of this action will take place in what now is Quebec, Ontario, and upper New York State. If you want to see where everything is, look the place names up on a map. During the time of the fic, it’s mostly wilderness with a few European settlements.

Chapter One – Une Mission Dangereuse (A Dangerous Mission)

“Mon dieu, Ronald. Keep your head down. Your hair can be seen for miles.”

The freckled coureur de bois smiled at his best friend. “I thought, Henri, that was what you wanted. You did say we couldn’t hold out in Montréal forever, without bringing the Sieur sans un nom down our own heads, so you’d face him out here.”

Henri frowned. “Stop calling him that, Ronald. Only cowards call him that, and you are no coward.”

Ronald winced, but did not disagree. “All right. I thought the purpose of this mission was lure the Sieur Vol de Mort into a confrontation.”

“And so it is, mon ami, but not yet.”

Ronald digested that bit of information for a while, before speaking again. “What are we waiting for, Henri?”

“An old friend. From my days among the Iroquois.”

“Ahh. I hope your old friend brings food. I am so hungry I could eat a great blue heron, and you know how tough those are.”

Henri was privately wearied of his friend’s griping, but he had not the heart to tell him so. He knew his friend only spoke so to hide his fear and sorrow. Ronald had left behind in Montréal the girl he loved, Lunette Bienamour. That was hard enough, but not the worst of it. If this mission of theirs failed, Lunette would be in the path of the Iroquois, doomed to death or a life of slavery.

Henri knew all about slavery. As a child of one year old, the rogue Iroquois warrior who called himself the Sieur Vol de Mort had raided his parents’ small farm outside Trois Rivieres. His parents Jacques and Lise Potère had died that night, but when the Dark Sieur went to kill Henri, the thatched roof of the cottage, which Sieur Vol de Mort had lit on fire to terrorize the people, fell on him, burning him so badly that it was thought he must have died. Few knew that Vol de Mort somehow had crawled away from the scene and survived.

Henri was rescued from the burning cottage by a friend of his parents, Hagride, the blacksmith of Trois-Rivières. Hagride had wanted to bring Henri up as his own, but scarcely was the boy safe than M. Dumbledore, the Intendant of New France, rejected the idea. Lise Potère had been of the Iroquois, though married to a Frenchman. Her family still lived. Henri must go to them.

This decision caused an uproar in the colony. The Iroquois were savages; how could the child of a pureblooded son of France be given to their care? But M. Dumbledore stayed his course. Henri had discovered later that the Intendant had reasons for this decision, reasons that needed to be kept private. Otherwise, he would have hated M. Dumbledore, for those years with his mother’s family were undoubtedly the worst of his life.

The Iroquois were not all bad. Some of them were noble people, better than most of the Québec establishment, for a fact. But Lise’s family were not of this sort. They still despised Lise for leaving them, Jacques for taking Lise away, and Henri for reminding them of it all. Henri spent ten years as a virtual slave in their longhouse. His aunt Petuniseh spoke not one kind word to him in all those years, and his cousin Dudliathas bullied him mercilessly. Yet, under their unkind care, he had learnt to be tough, a trait that now stood him well.

“A livre for your thoughts?” Ronald’s voice interrupted his reverie.

“I am thinking of the days before I came to the citadel of Québec.”

“Good thoughts, or bad?”

“Mostly bad. Still, there were good times. Sometimes, my mother’s family left me behind during a hunt. During the hunt, there were only a few people left in the village. The old, the sick, the very young. While they were gone, I dared to play with the other children. Only then. I particularly remember this one girl I played with. She was my special friend. I wonder what happened to her?”

“Died in childbed, likely enough,” answered Ronald. “You know how early their girls are married. If she’s alive, she probably has four or five children. So stop thinking romantic thoughts about your old sweetheart.”

“You’re heartless, Ronald.”

“It’s the only way to live out here in the wilderness. If you cared too much, you would die of grief. What was her name?”

“Hermioniah.”

“Odd name. Not a bad one, but odd. When did you last see her?”

“When I was seven, her father the shaman was driven out from our tribe by my uncle.”

“Ahh. Well, a word of advice, Henri. Do not mention this to Ginevre. Ever.”

“Of course not!” Henri laughed, thinking of Ronald’s sister, to whom he was affianced. “Ginevre’s eyes would turn as green as mine to hear I ever thought of another girl.”

“Exactement. She is a trifle unreasonable, isn’t she? Though, she’ll make you a perfect wife,” Ronald added quickly.

“Yes.”

Henri was happy with the arrangement that had been made for him with Ginevre. The girl was beautiful, with fiery red hair and brown eyes the colour of beaver pelt. She would be a capable wife and mother, just as her mother before her had been. He could hardly thank the Véslées enough for taking him into their family as a son and giving him their most prized daughter. Nevertheless, he was glad he wouldn’t be marrying till after this mission. He needed time to get used to the idea of being a married man.

“When will you and Lunette marry?” he asked Ronald, to distract him from the topic of Ginevre.

“As soon as she agrees to give up her heretic beliefs,” replied Ronald. “I can’t marry a Huguenot. It would not be allowed.”

“Are you sure she will give up her religion?” asked Henri skeptically.

“Certainement. She loves me, doesn’t she?”

“Some people, Ronald, prefer their principles to their lovers. I have never seen Lunette compromise about her beliefs.”

“Just watch when I get back.”

Henri decided not to press the issue. Ronald could be quite stubborn. Perhaps it’d be best to let him find out for himself.

“Where is your friend?” said Ronald, after a long silence. “It’s very uncomfortable lying in the brush here, and I am…”

“Hungry. Yes, I know.”

“Your friend could not come. He sent me instead.” They both jumped at the voice. Turning around, they stared at the person behind them.

She was an Iroquois woman, about their age, dressed in brightly beaded animal skins and moccasins. Her dark hair was long, thick and tangled, and she had the disheveled look of anyone who has long been in the wild without the comforts of civilized life. But if she was not a beauty, she had about her an almost enchanting air of determination, and the sharpest eyes the two had ever seen.

“How come we didn’t hear you creeping up on us?” demanded Ronald, but Henri’s mouth had fallen open.

“Hermioniah! Is that you?”

Author notes: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Stay tuned for the next, in which Henri will get reacquainted with his old friend, and his mission will be explained.

Chapter Two: Henri avec les Iroquois (Harry among the Iroquois)

For a second that felt like an eternity, Henri thought he had been mistaken. The woman said nothing. Then…

“Henri! Thank the Great Spirit! It is you!”

Henri knew he was grinning like a madman. He didn’t care. Hermioniah didn’t seem to either. She flung her buckskin clad arms around him in that impetuous manner he remembered so well from their childhood. “I didn’t know it would be you, Henri. Damayaga only told me I’d meet men named Potère and Véslée.”

“I am Potère. Henri Potère. And this is my friend Ronald Véslée.”

Ronald stuck out his hand. “How do you do, mademoiselle?”

Hermioniah turned to him. “You are welcome to our country, Ronald Véslée.” She did not take his hand. They did not shake hands among the Iroquois. Henri would have to tell Ronald that later, since Ronald looked a bit annoyed at what he probably perceived as a snub.

“Merci,” said Ronald.

Hermioniah bowed and then went back to Henri. “But Henri, what have you been doing all these years? You must tell me!”

“Well…”

“What I am saying? Not here, of course. You must tell your tale after you are fed and comfortable in my father’s house. It is only a short paddle from here. My canoe is just down the bank.”

The birchbark canoe lay half out of the water upon the bank. Designs had been painted in red upon the bark, designs Henri remembered well, the symbols of his mother’s people.

“Did you paint the canoe?” asked Ronald. “It’s beautiful.”

Hermoniah laughed. “Painted them and built the canoe.”

Ronald stared at her. “All by yourself? I mean, forgive me, but I never thought this was woman’s work.”

“What is woman’s work then?”

“To spin and weave, to mind the children, milk the cows…” his voice trailed off, probably realizing that there were no cows in the wilderness for anyone to milk. “The women of my family are no strangers to hard work, mademoiselle, but they leave boat-building to us men.”

“Do they?” said Hermioniah in what Henri recognized as dangerous tones. “How civilized of them.” Then her face relaxed. “I will be honest. I am considered exceptional among my own people, as well as yours. Most women do not undertake the things I do.”

Henri laughed. “I remember. My aunt would scold your parents for not bringing you up properly.”

“What an awful woman she was. My father now blesses the day he was turned away from that village.”

“Is he well?”

“He and my mother are still in the summer of their lives,” Hermioniah answered to Henri’s relief. There were so many hazards in the life the Iroquois lead. A few years earlier, there had been a smallpox epidemic which had killed untold numbers of people. He had worried about her and her family, hearing of it. Now it seemed they had all survived without harm.

“I had thought you might be dead,” he explained. “Or married.”

The smile left Hermioniah’s face. “I was to be married, Henri. To the son of an Algonquin chief. He died of the smallpox a fortnight before we were to be wed. I vowed on his death never to take a husband.”

Hermioniah said these words with the impassivity which characterized her people’s approach to sorrow. Behind the composed face, Henri could sense the strength of her grief. She had loved this man, then. Curiousity overwhelmed him, but he knew how well her people valued their privacy. He resolved not to ask any further questions.

Ronald, however, babbled his sympathy. Hermioniah must have grown impatient with these condolences, for she at last interrupted him, “And do you have a wife, Ronald Véslée?”

“No,” Ronald replied quickly, rather too quickly for Henri’s taste. “And you may call me Ronald, you know. I am the last of my family yet unattached. My brothers are all married, save for Charles who is a priest. And my sister Ginevre is engaged to marry Henri here.”

Henri had only a second to wonder why Ronald had not mentioned Lunette before he was distracted from that question by Ronald’s mention of Ginevre. He blushed guiltily at her name, though there was nothing wrong about mentioning his future wife, was there?

Hermioniah had turned to Henri, her face as expressionless as before. “I wish you happiness, my friend,” she said simply.

“Thank you,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. There was no reason for her not to congratulate him. Ronald had been right in calling her a childhood sweetheart. He could – with a deal of embarrassment – remember his seven-year-old self trying to kiss her, and being pushed into a puddle for his pains. Yet that incident hardly bound them for life. She honoured the memory of a dead lover, and he had won the hand of the loveliest girl in New France. Friends do not grudge each other love. He forced a smile and began to tell her of Ginevre.

* * * * *

The people of Hermioniah’s village had turned out in full force to greet the Frenchmen. As a people, the Iroquois were – to put it gently – not so friendly to the French, who pushed ever further into their territory and aided their traditional enemies in wars against them. However, on a personal level, there were friendships between individual Iroquois and Frenchmen. Sometimes even more than friendship, as Henri’s parents had proved. In this case, Damayaga, a highly respected elder and warrior of the village had vouched for the friendliness of Potère and Véslée, and Damayaga’s word was law among those who knew him.

No sooner had Henri and Ronald waded to shore from the canoe than the older man embraced them like sons. “You are the very image of your father,” he told Henri. It was a greeting that Henri was accustomed to from his father’s old acquaintances. Twenty years earlier, Damayaga had guided Jacques Potère down these rivers and lakes into the heart of Iroquois territory, where he had met Henri’s mother. As a child, Henri had not known this, or known that the great warrior who visited his village from time to time was watching over him for M. Dumbledore. All this he had only discovered a couple of years ago. He had a thousand questions for Damayaga, but they would have to wait. For the moment, the order of the day appeared to be celebration. The villagers swarmed around him, asking questions about New France and his journey here. They were particularly interested in the colour of Ronald’s hair. Those Frenchmen they had seen before had obviously not been redheads.

Inside the longhouse were the preparations for a feast. Henri and Ronald coughed and spluttered a good deal as they made their way down the smoke-filled long inner corridor of the great house. From experience, Henri knew that they would soon get used to the atmosphere, but it was a great shock to the system after weeks spent outside in the fresh air.

“No proper ventilation,” whispered Ronald. “And what do you suppose they’ll give us to eat?”

They came at last to the small booth where Hermioniah’s parents dwelled. They looked in very good health, though Henri ruefully noted that Hermioniah’s father was not nearly so tall as memory made him. Both her parents were ecstatic to see him again. They wanted to hear all his life’s story immediately, but Damayaga prevailed on them to wait till after the feast.

The feast did not live up to Ronald’s standards, but Henri was used to the food of the Iroquois and tucked into the roasted meat and maize with pleasure. His appetite, brought on by days of strenuous journeying on small rations, delighted the women who’d prepared the meal. He was quickly becoming very popular. Ronald, on the other hand, was earning quite a few glares by the way he poked at his food as if it were poisonous.

When everyone had eaten their fill, pipes were taken out and passed around. Henri was no smoker, but took a ceremonial puff without complaint. The pipe was a symbol of peace, and he wanted everyone to be assured of their peaceful intentions.

Then Damayaga stood up and told the whole story of Henri’s parents, of his close encounter with death as a baby, and how he had been brought up among the Iroquois. The listeners nodded. Many had already heard the tale, most probably, but Damayaga told it well, and after a brave warrior these people admired no one more than a good storyteller.

At last, it was Henri’s turn to speak. He cleared his throat and tried to remember the grand style of their speeches. “The intendant Dumbledore, he who sheltered the people of New France like a father, took me from my mother’s family so that I might learn the ways of my father’s people,” he told the assembly. “I have learnt much in all these years away from the wilderness, but I have not forgotten all that I learnt among the sons of the forest.”

Ronald rolled his eyes. Henri pretended not to notice.

“I have an enemy. He is like me, half of your blood, half of the blood of the Frenchmen. Unlike me, he denies his Iroquois blood. He calls himself by a French name, the Sieur Vol de Mort, though is father was Iroquois. He seeks to rule the French colony, and then to destroy the Iroquois. I am here to stop him from doing this. Will you aid me?”

There was no doubt in their answer. They all swore their assistance. For the first time since Dumbledore’s death, Henri and Ronald were not alone in their quest. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Henri poured out his thanks.

Snuggled among warm furs that night, the two boys discussed the day’s events.

“These people aren’t too bad,” pronounced Ronald, careful to whisper. “Georges and Wilfred had me half-convinced they would burn us at the stake.

“They are a terror to their enemies, Ronald, not to their friends.”

“And that Hermioniah. She’s rather pretty, you know. If she were washed up…”

“Don’t even think about it, Ronald.”

End Notes:

Damayaga is an OC, though if he existed in JKR’s Potterverse he’d be among the many surprising people Dumbledore has recruited to the cause. In watching Harry’s childhood in the wilderness, he performed the same function as Mrs. Figg.

As for Hermioniah’s dead fiancé, he was somewhat like Viktor Krum. Only he’s dead now, so we’ll only hear about him, not meet him.

Chapter Three: Ginevre et le Dragon (Ginny and the Dragon)

Ginevre Véslée re-adjusted her white cap to show her flaming red hair at best advantage. She didn’t expect to meet any handsome young men today, but if she did, she would be ready for them.

The house was in an uproar today. Her mother and her sister-in-law, Fleur, had decided it was cleaning day. They took this task very seriously. While Ginevre was by no means a friend to squalor, she failed to see why this dingy little log house needed that amount of scrubbing.

Le Bureau, her father had nicknamed the house. He had been an official of the king for many years, and the house was also full of papers that needed his attention. Today, these had been put away in chests, to keep them out of the way of the mops and dusters.

“Ginevre,” said Fleur, interrupting the girl’s thoughts. “Could you be a dear and bring the men their luncheon? We’d rather not have them messing up the house.”

Ginevre nodded. It was exactly what she wished to do. Her brother Guillaume had married Fleur Delacour less than a month before, and Fleur was already the plague of her existence. Unlike Ginevre and her siblings, who had been born here in New France, Fleur came from the old country. She’d been born and raised in the city of Rouen. On the death of her parents, the nuns there had arranged for Fleur to be sent to the colony, like so many other girls, since there were not enough women in New France. This background made Fleur insufferable. She claimed to be an expert on French fashion and manners, even though she had been a penniless orphan back in Rouen. “That is not how it is done in France,” she would always be saying. Ginevre wished very hard that Henri would return soon and deliver her from this horror of a sister-in-law.

Her father and Guillaume were clearing the stumps from what would be a new field in the spring. It was hard work, and they really needed another pair of hands. But the Véslée boys were scattered this autumn. Charles was now Père Charles, a curé in Trois-Rivières. The twins, Wilfred and Georges, had refused to stay on the land, and instead were making their fortunes in Quebec city. Tools, watches, toys. Those two could make them all. Percivale was also in the city, but did not deign to notice his “disgraceful” brothers. Percivale was one of the governor’s soldiers, though his time was spent more in flattering the governor than in fighting.

And Ronald was off risking his life at the side of her future husband. She crossed herself rapidly at the thought. God keep them both safe from harm.

Anyway, they needed help in the upper field, and the obvious solution was for her to help out. She would show them that an education at the nunnery in Quebec city had not spoiled her for hard work. She was as strong as an ox.

Thus marshalling her plans, she nearly missed the noise behind the bushes. Nearly, but not quite. She stopped and listened. There it was again. Unmistakably a groan.

An Iroquois waiting to ambush an unsuspecting maiden? No, of course not. The Iroquois were never so unstealthlike. Without any more hesitation, she put down her basket and waded into the brush.

She had not far to go before she came on the originator of the noises. There was a small hollow among the bushes and there lay a man in tattered but fashionable clothes, a wide-brimmed black felt hat drawn over his face.

“Are you all right?” asked Ginevre. There was no answer. The man wasn’t dead – she’d heard him groaning – but he now lay entirely still.

She pushed back the bushes further, knelt down beside him, and pulled back the hat.

Grey eyes met hers. A mass of silvery blond hair was revealed.

“Malfoy!” she hissed.

Jean ‘le Dragon’ de Malfoy was an old acquaintance of Ginevre’s. She had hated him practically all her life. His father, Lucien de Malfoy, was old nobility, who had come to the colony some twenty years before as a military officer. His mother, Narcisse de Nigelle, belonged to the oldest family in New France. Jean, their only child, had inherited from these illustrious parents money, power, good looks, and treachery. He had got his nickname ‘le Dragon’ in school on account of his fiery rhetoric. Malfoy never lost a chance to declare his loathing for ‘les sauvages.’ He believed that every Indian should be exterminated. Naturally, he had become the sworn enemy of Henri Potère, and of all Henri’s friends.

Lucien de Malfoy was now in prison, awaiting execution as a traitor, after an attempt to bring the Sieur Vol de Mort to power. His son was a wanted man, hunted across the colony for his part in the murder of the Intendant, M. Dumbledore.

And here he was, fallen into Ginevre’s hands. How unfortunate for him.

“Well, Malfoy,” she said, her eyes fixed on the bloodied bandage about his middle. “This is the end for you.”

His grey eyes showed no sign of emotion as he replied, “Is it, Véslée? Are you going to finish me off right here, or will you let others get their hands dirty?”

“Do you think I’d miss the opportunity to see you publicly executed?”

“Seems a waste of rope to hang a dying man.”

A thought suddenly came into Ginevre’s mind. “Where is the Englishman Snape?” she asked.

“He left me here.” Malfoy closed his eyes. “Ma chère Ginevre, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think I’ll live out the day.”

She opened her mouth to scoff, but then took a closer look at his pinched, pale face, and realized he was speaking the truth.

This was a worrisome development. He had to live to face trial. He had to be made to give evidence about Snape and the other followers of Vol de Mort. The obvious solution would be to run now to the upper field and tell her father and brother of his presence. Yet, she hesitated.

Her family detested Malfoy. If she told them he was here, might they not kill him immediately, so that he might have no chance to escape his richly deserved death. The more she thought of it, the more convincing it seemed to her.

“Well, Véslée, what are you going to do?” asked Malfoy.

“I’m going to save your life, you louse. Not because I like you but because I want to see you in good health to be interrogated and hanged.”

A shadow of a smirk crept across his face. “I suppose that’s the best I can expect.”

End Notes: Draco/Ginny is so much fun to write. So much tension in their chemistry. However, next chapter is not about them, but the trio, who will be learning native magic and secrets about Henri’s past.

Author’s Notes: So far it might have appeared that this AU doesn’t have any magic in it. This is not the case. However, the magic it has is quite limited, and different in nature from the magic in the HP books. It will all be explained in this chapter.

Chapter Four: Les révélations (Revelations)

“Now that we are alone, we can speak more freely,” said Damayaga.

Ronald and Hermioniah stared at him in surprise, but Henri nodded. “Yes, let us do that.”

The four of them were seated on a rocky outcrop which jutted into the river. It was a perfect place to hold a private conversation, their voices muffled by the sound of the rushing water. It was also a perfect place to fish, and Hermioniah, never one to waste an opportunity, was laying out her hooks and lines and explaining their use to Ronald.

Damayaga had not invited Hermioniah along, but she had come anyway, and no one had objected.

“Now is the time to speak of orenda,” said Damayaga.

Hermioniah’s eyes widened. Ronald looked confused. “What’s that?” he asked.

“We’d call it sorcery, Ronald,” Henri explained. “It’s…”

But Ronald cut him off. “Sorcery! But the Church forbids sorcery, Henri! It’s fraternizing with the devil!” He crossed himself, as though the very word might bring evil down upon him.

Hermioniah shook her head. “You French. You’ve never bothered to understand orenda. Orenda is good magic. It comes from Manitou.”

“Manitou is your name for the devil?”

Everyone except Ronald began to laugh. When Henri had recovered sufficiently, he explained. “Ronald, Manitou is their word for God.”

“Yes,” agreed Damayaga. “God. The Great Spirit. Manitou. The creator gave to each thing he made certain powers. This is orenda.”

“Are you sure, Henri, this is right?” asked Ronald.

“Yes, Ronald. M. Dumbledore approved of this, and you know well how he would not use evil means to win victory.”

“He was a noble man, the Intendant,” said Damayaga. “The world is poorer for his loss.”

“I don’t understand, though,” Ronald continued. “If the Iroquois have magic, why do they always lose their wars against us?”

“We do not!” snapped Hermioniah.

“Yes, you do. You may win a few victories, but our mastery of this land continues to grow, no matter how much you try to destroy us!”

“Peace, Ronald,” said Damayaga. “You should learn that we do not all wish to destroy the French. The time is coming when we must live together as brothers, or die as enemies. Your mother knew that, Henri.”

“Yes,” said Henri. “I wish I’d known her. Everyone tells me she was a wonderful woman.”

Damayaga nodded. “Half the men of her tribe were in love with her. But she gave her heart to no one, until your father came here. At first, he annoyed her – she thought he was arrogant – but he won her heart eventually.”

“Well, he was French,” said Ronald. Hermioniah glared at him.

“For a while, I thought she might return the feelings of the Englishman,” mused Damayaga. “But I was wrong. Her feelings for him were only pity.”

“What Englishman?” said Henri. He had no idea now what Damayaga was talking about, but felt horribly uncomfortable none the less. No sane man wishes to hear much of his parents’ love lives.

“The Englishman Snape,” replied Damayaga. “He who is now a servant of Vol de Mort.”

“He was in love with Henri’s mother?” exclaimed Ronald in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Mon dieu, that’s sickening!” said Ronald.

“I think it’s a tragic story,” said Hermioniah. “To lose his love to his enemy.”

“You don’t know Snape, Hermioniah. If you knew Snape, you’d be just as revolted. Wouldn’t she, Henri?”

Henri made no reply. He was remembering all his encounters with Snape now, seeing them in a new light. That loathing obsession Snape showed him from their very first meeting must have stemmed from seeing the features of the woman he loved mixed with those of his worst enemy. And all those times when Snape had saved his life… even that last dreadful night when Snape had just killed Dumbledore, but left Henri alone. Had Snape spared his life for his mother’s sake?

“That is all a long time ago now,” said Damayaga. “We must take thought for today. I will answer your question, Ronald. Orenda is not used to fight. Orenda heals and protects, never hurts and kills. So it is no use to the warrior in battle. But Vol de Mort has twisted orenda for his own evil purposes.”

Henri dismissed his speculations and wearily turned his attention back to the conversation. “Yes,” he said. “Dumbledore told me. Vol de Mort’s powers are not supernatural. He cannot use sorcery to kill us. But he has split his own soul, Ronald, into seven parts. Each part he has hidden away somewhere, and thus orenda protects his life. We must find each piece of his soul and destroy it.”

“C’est impossible!” blurted Ronald.

“It will be very difficult,” conceded Hermioniah. “Where does one begin looking for seven soul pieces?”

“Five,” said Henri. “Two have already been destroyed. One was in that book Lucien de Malfoy gave your sister, Ronald.” He turned to Damayaga. “The book drove Ginevre mad, so that she tried to kill people. When we destroyed the book, she was well again. It seemed a miracle.”

“That is one,” said Hermioniah. “What of the other one?”

“The night Vol de Mort killed my parents. He had one piece of his soul left in him. He burned to death that night, or rather he should have burnt to death. The soul within him perished. But he had the other hidden ones, so he lived on.”

“Do we have any idea where to begin?” asked Ronald. “Or are we just going to wander about the woods at random?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Henri. “I came here for advice, for Damayaga’s help.”

“And I will attempt to give it to you,” said Damayaga. “I shall meditate on this matter.”

“There was one thing,” said Henri. “The night Dumbledore died, we were trying to retrieve a locket in which Vol de Mort had placed one of the soul pieces. However, it was already gone. There was a note left behind, addressed to Vol de Mort. The author said he hoped that Vol de Mort would soon be destroyed, and he was going to destroy the locket to help do that. It was signed with these initials: R.A.N.”

“R.A.N,” repeated Damayaga thoughtfully.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

Damayaga shook his head. “No, it does not bring anything to mind. I shall think on this as well.” Rising from his seat, he bowed, and then walked off into the wood, apparently in deep reflection.

“He will find guidance for you,” Hermioniah assured them. “He always does.”

“Ah,” said Ronald. “I can see we’re in good hands. Old man’s quite as crazy as Dumbledore.” With a broad grin, he went back to fishing.

End Notes: Next chapter is back to Malfoy and Ginevre. We’ll see his infamous charm at work on the pretty red-head.

I really like reviews. It’d be great if you could leave one.

Chapter Five: Le commencement d’une seduction (The start of a seduction)

Three days ago, if anyone had told Ginevre she would soon be spooning broth down Malfoy’s throat, she would have called them an idiot. Of course, that’s exactly what Malfoy was calling her now.

“I can use a spoon myself, you idiot,” he protested. “I’ve got over that fever.”

“No you haven’t,” she replied calmly. “Lie still, and let me take care of you. I know a lot more about these things than you do.”

Malfoy scowled, but allowed her to finish feeding him. He was making an amazing recovery, given he’d been on the verge of death when she’d found him. Currently, she was hiding him in a small cave, known only to her and Ronald, who was far away and no danger.

When she had finished feeding him his broth, he utterly astonished her by saying, “You’re a good cook, Ginevre. Merci.”

“You’re welcome.” She was curious. “How were you surviving till I found you?”

“Not well.”

“Why did Snape leave you?”

“Because he is an Englishman, and faithless, as they all are.”

There was a rich irony in Malfoy, whose name meant ill faith, lecturing on that point. Ginevre told him so. Malfoy shook his head.

“I’ve always kept faith, Ginevre. With my family. You may think what you like of my father, but he is my father, and I owe my loyalty to him.”

Ginevre frowned. “No, Malfoy. You owe your loyalty first to the king and the king’s officials who enforce his laws.”

“Fah. You’re a Vèslèe. I know full well you’d oppose any royal official who thwarted your ambitions. That’s why your brother Percivale’s disowned your family. He is a loyalist. You’re only loyal when it suits you. You obeyed M. Dumbledore, but you pay no attention to the orders of Governor de Scrimmejeur.” Malfoy broke into laughter.

“De Scrimmejeur, Malfoy, commands the military. I am not a soldier.”

He stopped laughing suddenly. “I am sorry to hear that. You may need to defend yourself before the end. Can you fire a gun, Ginevre?”

“Of course. One never knows when one a gun may come in handy.”

“A true daughter of New France. The women of this region are scandalously hardy and unrefined,” he said, smirking.

“Malfoy! I am saving your life! Show a little gratitude for once!”

“I believe you are only delaying my death. But I am grateful, Ginevre. I’ll take my last desperate chances wherever I can get them.”

“I’m not letting you escape!” Ginevre snarled. “You killed Dumbledore!”

Malfoy’s composure crumbled. “I did not!” he retorted.

“You were going to,” said Ginevre.

“But I didn’t.”

“You were afraid of blood. Snape had to finish the job for you. Is that why he left you here to die, you worthless…”

“Shut up, Vèslèe. Just shut up!”

It really seemed to upset him. She was amazed. Somehow, Ginevre had imagined him and Snape sitting around a fire chuckling about how they had killed the Intendant. And now, here Malfoy was, his face pale at the mention of Dumbledore’s name.

“It’s easy for you, Ginevre,” Malfoy continued, hissing through clenched teeth. “You’ve never had to choose between your parents and your country. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You had a chance, Malfoy. Henri told me. Dumbledore offered you and your parents protection if you’d leave le Sieur sans un nom.”

“I’m not naïve. There is no safety from him. Only those who join with him will survive the war.”

“No. You’re the one who’s naïve. Don’t you see that his followers are the first to be destroyed? What about Bartholomé de la Croix? Was he rewarded for his loyal service to Vol de Mort? No. What of Professeur Quirelle? What of your father? Do you call waiting in prison for execution a fitting reward for the faithful? Is that what you wish to happen to you?”

“I thought you had already decided it would, Ginevre.”

Ginevre gasped. He was right, the beast. There was no point in lecturing him about his future actions. He was going to die. No matter if he repented, his young life was over.

“I wish I knew why Dumbledore wanted to save you,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“Perhaps the Intendant believed in second chances.”

“I don’t believe you’ve changed, Malfoy,” said Ginevre bitterly.

“I haven’t tried to persuade you that I have. It would be quite useless. You are quite certain that there is no villainy on earth of which I am not capable. May I beg a favour of you, though? Have you heard any news of my mother?”

Ginevre nodded. “They say she is ill, and stays in her own house, not even going to the church on Sundays.”

“Ahh.” Malfoy’s face stiffened, as though he was seeking to hide his feelings. “And have you heard of my betrothed?”

Ginevre snorted. “Have you not heard? It’s the talk of the colony!”

“No, I have not heard! Has anything happened to Pensée?”

“Your beautiful and accomplished Marie-Pensée Parqueson eloped to New York with that Italian scoundrel, Blaise Zabini. Apparently, she saw no future with a fugitive traitor.”

A long silence followed. “I suppose it is for the best,” said Malfoy at last. “I am not in a fit state to marry.”

“Did you love her?” demanded Ginevre.

“She was very pleasing. I would have made her an affectionate husband enough.” He gave her a sharp look. “On that score, are you still to marry Potère?”

“Of course, Malfoy. As soon as he is back from his latest journey. I’ve loved him as long as I’ve known him. We’ll live a happy life together.” She took pleasure in rubbing in her and Henri’s happiness.

“But does he love you?”

“He is very fond of me. I know I’m not his grand passion, but he’s attracted to me. And time will only increase his love.”

“Or wear it away. Take care, Ginevre. A marriage of convenience might suit Potère. He can keep you pregnant with his heirs and take his real pleasure outside your bed. But such a marriage would be a living hell for you.”

“How dare you suggest Henri would…” Ginevre was exasperated with the man before her, in no small part because his words had the ring of truth. Henri didn’t love her as she loved him. She accepted that. Or she had till now. “Love is not about pleasure, Malfoy! It’s about duty!”

Malfoy laughed. “Don’t tell me those blood red lips were made for duty, Ginevre. Or that lithe little body of yours. Potère is a fool not to adore you.”

“Don’t speak to me that way,” said Ginevre. Her heart was racing.

“Pourquoi, Ginevre? I am only stating the facts.”

“You are a devil in human form, Malfoy. No gentleman would speak to a maiden of… of these things.”

Malfoy laughed again. “You’ve a great deal to learn, haven’t you?”

Ginevre flushed scarlet. “Not from you!”

“Calm yourself. I’ve no designs on your virtue. And even if I had, I’m the one lying helpless at your mercy, am I not?”

Swift as lightning, Ginevre’s hand came down across his face. “I pray you learn respect,” she said, withdrawing her hand. A red blotched marked his cheek where she had struck.

Once more, his grey eyes were indecipherable. “As you wish, mademoiselle.”

End Notes:

Will Ginevre fall prey to Malfoy’s charms? Well, this is a D/G fic. Of course, it’s also H/Hr, so the next chapter will be back to those two and Ronald, who have some serious work ahead of them finding the pieces of Vol de Mort’s soul.

If you didn’t catch it, Bartholomé de la Croix is my conversion of Barty Crouch’s name, since Crouch came from the word ‘cross,’ which is ‘croix’ in French. All other conversions should be fairly obvious.

Chapter Six: Hermioniah Tient Une Idée (Hermione has an idea)

Hermioniah and Ronald were bickering again. Since they had come together, they’d spent every morning bickering. It seemed to be the way they responded to stress, relieving their feelings by shouting at each other. Henri wished they would stop. He was beginning to get a head-ache.

“Ronald, apologize for calling Hermioniah an ignorant savage,” he said, after he judged things had gone too far.

“She called me an idiot pale-face.”

“I am trying to think,” said Henri in strained tones. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” the two said in unison.

“Five soul-pieces,” continued Henri. “And no clue where they are.”

Hermioniah shook her head. “Let’s think about this logically. You said yourself that Vol de Mort has put them in significant places. What is significant to him? That’s where we need to begin.”

Henri nodded. “The locket was significant to him. It belonged to Charlemagne, the great king of the Franks and Vol de Mort’s ancestor.”

“Le sieur sans un nom is descended from Charlemagne?” broke in Ronald. “Mon dieu!”

“On his mother’s side,” said Henri. “His mother was of an old, though impoverished, family. She ran off with an Iroquois warrior, to the horror of the colony.”

“Why?” asked Hermioniah, a sardonic smile on her lips. “Are our men that horrible?”

“It’s just not done,” answered Ronald. “It’s acceptable for a Frenchman to take an Indian wife, but a Frenchwoman degrading herself to the level of their squaws, it’s not done.”

“I see. Your women exist on a higher level than I do,” snapped Hermioniah.

Ronald’s face was bright red. “That’s not what I meant! I merely meant that this isn’t a fit life for any woman. You’re too smart to be wasted here either, Hermioniah.”

“I like to think that I’m not entirely wasted,” she replied dryly. She turned to Henri. “We must begin with that locket then. Are you certain you can’t think of a person with the initials R.A.N?”

Henri nodded dully. “No one comes to mind, no matter how much I try. R.A.N. was an enemy of Vol de Mort, obviously, but also someone who had once followed him, I think.”

“Perhaps Snape’s real name is R.A.N. and he switched sides back then and wrote that note. Then he switched sides again and helped Vol de Mort,” suggested Ronald.

“That’s a silly idea,” said Hermioniah bluntly. “If Snape switched sides again, he’d have got rid of the note, wouldn’t he have?”

“It’s better than nothing,” said Ronald. “I don’t know. Maybe Narcisse de Malfoy put it there. R.A.N. would mean ‘something something Narcisse.”

“That’s worst than your last idea, Ronald,” commented Henri.

“Who is Narcisse?” asked Hermioniah.

“She’s one of Vol de Mort’s followers,” Henri explained. “Her whole family were part of his conspiracy, except for her sister Andromède and my godfather Cyrille de Nigelle.”

“Nigelle?” said Hermioniah. “That begins with an ‘N’.”

Henri’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re right…. Cyrille’s brother. Sacré bleu, I am in the wrong place!”

“What?” asked Ronald.

“R.A.N. is Regnier de Nigelle. I bet you anything his middle name began with an ‘A’. And the locket… the place to search for it is in the Nigelle house, back in Quebec city.” Henri’s face was suffused with excitement.

“We came all the way out here for nothing?” said Ronald.

“You met me,” said Hermioniah. “And I was the one who solved the riddle for you.”

“Hermioniah, I owe you so much,” said Henri, leaping to his feet. “How can I ever repay you?”

“You could take me along on your quest,” said Hermioniah. “I want to go with you and see these soul-pieces destroyed. Don’t worry. My parents will be all right without me. They are honoured people in this village. I have no duty here. No husband or children to tend for. I am free to swear myself as your companion on this journey.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” objected Henri.

“I can use the bow or the knife with skill. I can paddle the wildest rivers. I know the secret paths of the woods. I speak the languages of these lands. I can track a man who’s passed through the bush hours before me. I don’t like to brag, Henri, but I think I know how to protect myself.”

“Do take her,” put in Ronald. “She can help protect us.”

Henri smiled. “Hermioniah, will you do us the honour of accompanying us on our mission to defeat Vol de Mort?”

“Gladly. I shall not leave your side while you still need me, Henri.”

Her eyes were shining, and she… Ginevre, he reminded himself fiercely. You’re to marry Ginevre. Hermioniah is off limits to you, even if she was attracted to you, which she isn’t. She’s still in love with her dead warrior.

“Merci, Hermioniah,” he said aloud.

A few minutes later, Hermioniah had excused herself to go break the news to her parents. Ronald stared after her wistfully.

“Henri,” he said, after a while. “I think I’m in love with that woman.”

Henri’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but couldn’t find his voice.

“Henri, are you listening? I said that I’m falling in love with Hermioniah.”

“That’s… that’s a bad idea,” Henri croaked.

“Pourquoi?”

“Because she’s sworn never to love again. Besides, what about Lunette?”

“Lunette is a Huguenot. It’d never work out.”

“Hermioniah is a pagan, Ronald! That’s a good deal further away than a Huguenot.”

Ronald shook his head. “She can be baptized, Henri. Just as your mother was. I’ve been talking to Hermioniah and what she tells me of her people’s beliefs, they’re not very different than ours, really. I mean, well, they are, but you can see similarities. She was very interested when I told her about the Faith.”

“Even if Hermioniah were to become a Christian, she still wouldn’t fall in love with you, Ronald,” said Henri. “You’re being an idiot.”

“Henri, you have Ginevre. Allow me a little romance.”

Ginevre. Right, he must think about Ginevre. Ronald’s doomed infatuation with Hermioniah was not his problem. “I’m sorry, Ronald,” he said.

“I know you’re cranky away from her.”

“Away from whom? Oh, Ginevre. Yes. I’ll be seeing her soon again, though, now we’re turning back.”

“Perhaps you can marry her as soon as we’re home,” suggested Ronald. “I know you don’t want to leave her a widow, Henri, but would that be worse for her than never to have had you at all? Why don’t you seize the day and enjoy whatever time you can together?”

A week ago, Henri would have found this argument persuasive. Now, he felt a duty to agree, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll ask your father about it,” he replied to Ronald. “Now I need to be alone. To think.”

He thought mostly of Hermioniah as he walked along the lonely shore of the river. She must never know of his feelings for her. It would only upset her to have disturbed a friend’s life so. Ginevre must not know either. She didn’t deserve the anguish of knowing her beloved husband loved another. In time he would forget Hermioniah and marriage and children would teach him a passionate love for Ginevre.

End Notes:

And meanwhile, Ginevre is not exactly being the faithful fiancée at home. But that’s next chapter.

Chapter Seven: La Coeur A Ses Raisons (The Heart Has Its Reasons)

“Do sit down, Ginevre. It’s wearying just to watch you,” drawled Malfoy.

Ginevre gave him a small smile, but went on tidying the cozy little cave where she was sheltering Malfoy. The last few days had been eye-opening for her. She was discovering the real Jean ‘le Dragon’ de Malfoy, and he was very different than his public self. For one thing, Malfoy had moral qualms. He was uneasy about his place in Vol de Mort’s following. He awkwardly told her about how much the thought of killing scared him.

“I thought it’d be easy,” he said. “I thought I’d go up that tower and kill the Intendant without a thought. But when I got there, I found I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it.”

“That’s your conscience speaking, my boy,” said Ginevre cheerfully. “Treasure it.” She was privately wondering now whether to turn him in to the king’s officials after all. If he were turning over a new leaf, no purpose would be served by his death but revenge. And vengeance, as Ginevre now reminded herself, was a sin.

“If you were to leave New France and start a new life,” she said carefully, sweeping up the dust on the floor of the cave. “Where would you go?”

“Why are you asking?” said Malfoy, his grey eyes looking amused.

“I am trying to form a proper idea of your character. You vex me considerably, Malfoy. At times, you show a flash of virtue, but you’re also arrogant, deceitful, unjust, malicious, and annoying.”

“Mon dieu, Ginevre. You make me out to be a monster!”

“You also take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“I’ll try not to, if you’d like. Now, do sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

Ginevre flopped down where she stood.

He wagged his finger at her. “Beside me, Ginevre. So we may talk.”

“You know very well the impropriety of that suggestion,” she snapped back.

“I won’t to report you to the village priest, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I see no other witnesses.”

Ginevre gave him a small smile. “All right, Monsieur Malfoy. But you had better have something worthwhile to say.”

“I do,” he said, making room on the bed of leaves and moss for her to sit. “Suppose I decided to mend my ways? Would you then turn me over to the king’s officials?”

“It would depend if I could be certain you had mended your ways,” she replied slowly.

“Ah, I see. Tell me, Ginevre, what could I do to convince you of my change of heart?”

Ginevre screwed up her brow. Nothing came to mind. And yet, there must be something.

“Very well, let me help you out of this dilemma. Would the old Malfoy have done this?” He suddenly pulled her to him, kissing her lips with frightening passion. “Well, Ginevre?”

She stayed stock still in his arms, her heart beating like a tom-tom. Unable to say a word, unable to move.

“In the old days, I would have laughed to think I might come to love a Véslée,” he said silkily. “And yet here we are.”

“It is a pity you love me,” she forced herself to say. “For I love Henri.”

“Love me instead,” he commanded her. “I’m so much more interesting.”

“You are a devil in man’s form.”

“So much more interesting,” he repeated, and kissed her again. This time, she returned the kiss, surprising herself.

“I have wealth in New York,” he continued quietly. “I have only to get there, and all will be well. With you at my side, that is. If you’re not mine, I do not think I would care to live.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Malfoy! I have already signed the marriage contract. My parents would never approve you as my husband.”

“I don’t propose to tell them,” he said, his grey eyes strangely bright. “Give me your hand, Ginevre. And all the rest of your delightful body and soul. We will go away to the English colonies and never bother with these wars again.”

“How do I know you shall keep your promise?”

“You know in your heart that I am yours. Does your heart lie?”

“I must go away and think on this,” she began weakly. “I must…” She faltered, and said nothing more of leaving.

End Notes:

And so is Ginevre’s virtue conquered. Dreadful behaviour on her part, but what woman could withstand Malfoy? She should watch out. He may not be so honest in his recent change of heart.

For some unknown reason, my last chapter attracted a couple of flamers, who told me my story was crap and it belonged on ff.net, not Portkey. It’s all right if people don’t like my fic. I know it won’t be to everyone’s taste. But why do they think they’re smarter than the Portkey mods, who accepted my fic, and other reviewers who like it? I think they’re ticked off that this is an AU, because their outrage seemed directed at me twisting the Potterverse. But other reviewers in the past have been ticked off that this isn’t really accurate historical fiction, with real French names rather than Potterverse variants. Eh, it’s meant to be fun, not a history lesson. Do you think movies like Last of the Mohicans, Gladiator, or Braveheart are accurate? Well, they aren’t. And neither is this story a realistic treatment of French Canadian history and naming practices.

Chapter Eight: Les Doleurs de L’Amour (The Sorrows of Love)

Somehow, Henri had expected Damayaga to accompany them in their quest. The old warrior had brushed away the suggestion, however. “You three have among you all the knowledge and experience you require for this task,” he told them. “I am needed elsewhere. Once you have found and destroyed the locket, your work will still only be beginning. I shall be searching for the other soul-pieces, but also I must be here to watch for the movements of Vol de Mort and his servants against our people.”

“I understand,” said Henri regretfully.

“But I shall send messengers when I may. We will meet sooner than you expect, I believe. In the meanwhile, trust each other. Vol de Mort has always drawn his power from dissension and distrust among those who should be friends. If you quarrel overmuch,” – he looked pointedly at Ronald and Hermioniah, - “You may end up aiding him.”

“Bien, we won’t,” said Ronald impatiently. “Hermioniah, where are the sleeping furs? You said you’d be packing them.”

“You must be dreaming again. I was very clear that you would take care of that. I’ve been cleaning our firearms.”

Ronald groaned. “I didn’t give you permission to touch my musket. No one touches my musket but me, understand?”

“Oh, is that why it looked like something you found in a dung heap?” shot back Hermioniah.

Henri rolled his eyes. He had not remembered Hermioniah as so quarrelsome. But of course she’d not met Ronald Véslée back then. Ronald and Hermioniah were excellent people in their own right, friends he could not live without, but together… they caused him such a head-ache. Ronald was the more annoying of the two, since he seemed to bicker as a form of courtship. He was still infatuated with Hermioniah, and had told Henri that she looked most lovely when her cheeks were red with exasperation.

Well, Ronald and Hermioniah would get past the fighting in time, if they ever became lovers, Henri supposed. He didn’t quite like the idea of that somehow. They just didn’t seem right together. But, aside from that irrational gut feeling, he had to admit that theirs would be a suitable coupling. The Véslées were not the sort to scorn Hermioniah for her blood. After all, they’d all but adopted Henri into their family, even though his mother had been Iroquois. On the contrary, they’d be thrilled that Ronald had finally found a wife and could settle down.

And with Henri’s upcoming marriage to Ginevere, Ronald marrying Hermioniah would make Hermioniah his sister-in-law. Then Ronald and Hermioniah would be living just down the river from him and Ginevre. He would see Hermioniah all the time.

But would that be a good thing when his stomach somehow tightened and his heartbeat quickened every time Hermioniah looked his way?

“What are you dreaming of, Henri?” a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Hermioniah, who’d crept softly up behind him. “Dreaming of Ronald’s sister?”

“Ahh… yes, yes I was,” he stammered. He turned to see her, and his heart leapt up into his throat, then down again. She had unbraided her hair, letting it fall down to her waist in long, rippling, dark tresses. Not only was she exquisitely lovely, but she seemed entirely unconscious of the effect she was having on him. The beauties of New France who put so much work into maintaining their artificial looks paled in comparison.

“You… you look nice with your hair down,” he managed.

She smiled. “It’s not very practical, though. I’m cutting some of it off for the journey, then rebraiding it. But I’m glad it pleases you.”

Inspiration suddenly struck him. “Here,” he said, looking wildly around the glade. “Wait a moment. Aha, there it is.” He stooped down to pluck a blue bell-like flower from the moss. “For your hair,” he explained, presenting the flower. “Let me put this in place.”

Her eyes sparkled and she bowed her head towards him.

Nestled in her hair, the blue of the flower took on a most amazing radiance. He was unable to speak. She misinterpreted his silence and scrunched up her forehead.

“What’s wrong, Henri? Does it look silly?” she asked, her hand ready to pluck it from her hair.

“Silly? No, by all the saints! You are the loveliest woman I have ever met, Hermioniah.”

“Do not flatter me,” she said, laughing.

“And the one with the most wit,” he added.

“What of Ginevre?” she asked.

The wave of joy that had overtaken him washed away, to be replaced by a cold, dark feeling. “Why yes,” he said slowly. “Other than Ginevre, I mean.”

“That’s as should be,” said Herrmioniah seriously. “A man should love his wife beyond all others.”

“I do,” said Henri, and knew in that moment what a lie that was, that he was fallen under Hermioniah’s spell, and he didn’t even wish to escape. And yet, he had promised Ginevre his hand. Such a promise was sacred. He said nothing and let Hermioniah go, though every inch of him yearned to embrace her.

Sitting by himself in the moss, he reflected on the future before him. To see Hermioniah every day from now would be torture. But he needed her by his side in this quested. Needed her badly. He would have to learn then to surpress his feelings, guard himself from letting her know what was in his heart. And then, when he was reunited with Ginevre, would he forget Hermioniah in Ginevre’s arms?

It did seem the best course. He determined to marry Ginevre as soon as he returned to her family’s house.

His resolution was only hardened by the discovery he made walking back to the village to consult some more with Damayaga. Among the birch, where they presumably thought no one could see them, he caught a glimpse of Ronald and Hermioniah, his arms twined around her body, their lips united in a long, passionate kiss.

End Notes: I’m sorry to torture you like this, dear readers. Well, actually I’m not, because you know very well this story won’t end up One Big Happy Véslée Family. To quote a favourite song of mine by Sixpence None the Richer,

But tension is to be loved

When it is like a passing note

To a beautiful, beautiful chord.

Next chapter will see the trio set out on their quest and Henri will explain more of the things he’s learnt about Vol de Mort.

Author’s Note: This chapter is going to explain Vol de Mort’s personal history, which includes roaming all over the world. It’s not important to know all the place names and people mentioned. They’re just to flesh out his travels.

Chapter Nine: L’histoire de Monsieur Vol de Mort (Voldemort’s story)

Henri did not speak to Ronald and Hermioniah of the scene he’d witnessed before they’d set out on their journey. And neither did they mention it to him. To his relief, they kept their hands to their paddles. No more embraces, not even much conversation. Paddling was hard work. To keep their spirits and tempo up they sang an old Courer de Bois song that Hermioniah quickly picked up. Damayaga had taught her a great deal of French, and with all this opportunity for practice, her command of the language was improving every day. It would soon be difficult to believe that French wasn’t her native tongue. It seemed Henri had not overestimated her keen wit.

Around the fire that first night of their journey, Henri decided it was time to tell them in full all he had learnt from Dumbledore before the Intendant’s death. His friends were after all prepared to risk their lives for his sake. They deserved to know everything.

Briefly he sketched out Vol de Mort’s origins, how his rebellious mother had fled into the wilderness to escape her family’s beatings. There she had taken up with an Iroquois warrior, lying to him about her wealth and importance, but the connection had not lasted long. The rights and wrongs of the situation were difficult to know. Both parents were dead now, the mother in childbirth, the father murdered by his own son in revenge for the mother’s death.

“The Jesuit fathers found him among the Iroquois,” continued Henri. “Even then he showed nothing but loathing for those who had raised him. He was obviously partly of French descent, so they felt duty bound to take him back to Quebec as he desired. He was educated here, made powerful allies, and began his plot to take over New France.”

“By taking to the warpath,” finished Ronald.

Henri smiled crookedly. “Non. Not at first, Ronald. He first demanded that the Intendant give him an appointment.”

“Sacré Bleu, Henri! Do you mean to tell me that Monsieur de Vol de Mort attempted to obtain a position in the administration of New France?”

“Indeed he did, and would have succeeded, if Monsieur de Dumbledore had not stopped him. The intendant in his very last talk explained to me that it was he himself who refused the Sieur this place, when he came to visit him in Quebec, after Vol de Mort came back from his long years in the mother country.”

“What had he been doing until then?” asked Hermioniah, who was listening attentively, her eyes bright with interest.

“Before he came back here to New France? Ah, that is a long story. After he left for France at the age of eighteen, it seems he took up his mother’s name, but little is known of him in that period. You see, he reached la Belle Patrie, then he disappeared almost without trace. The Intendant heard that he had joined the Levant Company, that trades with the Turkish Empire, where one of his mother’s few surviving relatives still had a position of influence.

When Monsieur de Dumbledore heard of him again, it seemed he had travelled far in the eastern lands and learned many strange and evil things in secret circles of Constantinople. Some say he spied for the Grand Vizier. He may have had other business, too. It was during this time that he acquired the locket where he put one part of his soul, the one that belonged to Charlemagne. That he stole from a monastery in Jerusalem.”

Ronald’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “So the Intendant believed that was his real reason in going to France? To steal that one locket?”

“It was only one of his reasons, Ronald. The intendant himself did not claim to know all of what Monsieur de Vol de Mort achieved for himself in this time, but it seems that his plans required a great deal of wealth. There was a famous pasha, one Ibrahim Bey, who had amassed great wealth and booty in war, and was one of the heroes of Constantinople, until someone poisoned the Grand Vizier’s mind against him. But when the Sultan decided he must be garrotted, it turned out that his great collection of treasures and ancient heirlooms had somehow already mysteriously vanished. He had lately been a frequent companion of the future Sieur de Vol de Mort. When Vol de Mort left the employment of the Compagnie de Levant it appears that he had already gathered several millions of livres at least, from his secret dealings with the Turk. Some of this wealth he used to purchase the ruins of all that was left of the old seigneurie of Vol de Mort, the former home of his mother’s family. After that he could drop his old name completely, and call himself Monsieur de Vol de Mort!”

Ronald laughed. “Which gave him his right to be called ‘de’, as though he’d been gentleborn. He is such a snob, Henri!”

“That is what Monsieur de Dumledore said! Nor did he stop with that. Being an ambitious Frenchman, he wished to be of the noblesse as well!”

“Like his mother, the descendant of Charlemagne?”

“Exactement. At first he hoped to purchase the position of ‘secretaire du roi’, which gives automatic hereditary nobility to anyone willing to pay for it, but since that was slow to achieve and is said to cost hundreds of thousands of livres, it seems that Monsieur de Vol de Mort took a short cut instead. When our king was short of funds, in the last war against the accursed English, he sent his governors sealed envelopes with letters patent of nobility, to sell to whoever wished to buy them. It seems that Monsieur de Vol de Mort threatened one of these governors into giving him one of these letters, free of charge, and writing his name in to be ennobled.”

“But didn’t the king’s servants notice that they received no gold Louis for this letter patent of nobility?” asked Ronald. Hermioniah looked confused.

“Unfortunately not. Monsieur de Dumbledore explained to me just how it works in la Belle Patrie! When the governor has made sufficient money in bribes, he would send the required gold to Versailles, and would say that he had just sold the letter. But I believe he met with an ‘accident’ first, and the gold from the letter he was believed to have sold was naturally required from his heirs. In the meantime Monsieur de Voldemort decided he did not have the time to obtain permission to elevate his seigneurie into a comté, and so he took another short cut, and just ‘called’ himself le Comte de Vol de Mort – without any justification whatever!”

“Then his title of nobility’s false?”

“It’s undoubtedly false! At present, at least. The Intendant feared that Monsieur de Vol de Mort has many friends still at Versailles, with the ear of ministers close to our king, that in time may make the title official! Not that anyone here in New France even now dares to deny it!”

“Or to say it, even, Henri!”

A look of understanding came over Hermioniah’s face. “I understand! That is an old belief among us, that if one says the name of such an adept in evil magic, he can hear you, and you will draw his attention upon you.”

“I’ve heard that too,” admitted Ronald. “I do not believe it. Not any longer.”

“No, it is a superstition,” agreed Henri. “The real danger is to fear his name but still, very few in New France will even dare to mention his name. Even your family, Ronald, cannot let go of that old fear, and merely call him the Sieur sans un Nom, instead of Monsieur de Vol de Mort!”

Ronald bit his lip. “It is not easy, Henri,” he said after a while. “Not even for me, though I speak his name for your sake. But you shall never convince Ginevre. She will not pronounce that name for anything. She hasn’t the courage of a man. Or of Hermioniah,” he added quickly, seeing the look on her face. He turned to Hermioniah. “You’re not like most women. You’re almost an honourary man.”

“No one shall ever call you a flatterer,” snapped Hermioniah, but did not pursue the subject.

In peace, they lay back in their furs and watched the stars. Presently, they fell asleep.

Author’s Notes: Thank you for all the reviews. I really appreciate them. I’m having lots of fun writing this. A friend who knows a lot about French history gave me the ideas for Vol de Mort’s backstory here.

Anyway, next chapter is Ginevre again. Well, not only Ginevre, also the rather pompous Captain Percivale Véslée.

Author’s Notes: For an idea of what Percivale is wearing in this chapter, check these old French military uniforms. Ginevre would be dressed like the girl on the top side of this.

Chapter Ten: Le Capitaine et le Gouverneur (The Captain and the Governor)

The good nuns of the Québec convent Ginevre had been educated in had often warned of men’s lust and the need to keep oneself pure from the sins of the flesh. They had not made the marriage bed seem very attractive, although they agreed that girls such as Ginevre were lawfully bound to submit to their husbands. So that first night, Ginevre had been all aquiver and in fear, although unable to resist his tender advances. She’d cried tears for the loss of her innocence . Malfoy had only laughed at her, and reminded her gently that as his future wife, she’d no need to be a maiden anymore. That thought consoled her, and truly, she was so much in love that all her knowledge of right from wrong had deserted her. The only thing right in this world was to be with him.

Since then, he had taught her a great deal more about love. She blushed to think of it, sitting in her father’s house and stitching away at a pair of moccasins. Surely her parents would notice the change in her manner soon, catch the guilty look in her eyes, the way she started at every sound, the perpetual flush of her cheeks, and the dizzy joy she felt radiated from her each time she’d been with Malfoy. But no, they carried on unsuspecting, unaware of her deception.

There was something else to think of, of course. Ginevre had never been under any illusions when it came to the common origin of all humans. She knew very well they chanced the begetting of a child. But as they were to be married, it did not worry her. She would be away to New York long before her parents could find out. She half-wished in fact to be with child already. A son would be the greatest gift she could give her lover.

And so, the time passed in mingled bliss and fear. Aside from tending to Malfoy, there was much to keep Ginevre busy about the farm. Her father had hired the brothers Crevet as labourers, but they were glad enough of her help. They both wanted to hear everything she knew about their hero, Henri, of course, and she’d humoured them, wondering all the time how she could have worshipped Henri the way she once had.

She was milking a cow in the pasture one morning when she caught the sounds of voices on the river, a large party of people coming upstream, it sounded. She froze in panic. Could it be Henri returning already? Then her common sense kicked in. It was not possible that Henri could accomplish his mission so rapidly. It had to be someone else entirely.

Re-adjusting her cap, she finished milking as soon as possible, then ran down to the house to see who had arrived.

She stopped short at the edge of the clearing, staring in horror. There, by the door of their small wooden house stood the Governor of New France himself, de Scrimmejeur. His soldiers were unloading the canoes of his flotilla down by the shore. And in the circle of officers surrounding de Scrimmejeur was her own brother, Captain Percivale Véslée.

She had not a moment to collect her wits before Scrimmejeur spotted her. “Mademoiselle Véslée,” he called out.

There was nothing to do but go on. She mustered all her courage for this interview. What if he was here to search the area? No, she must not think of that.

She dropped a courtesy to the governor. He surprised her greatly by formally kissing her hand in return. That the governor should bestow such an honour proved he wanted something from her family. News of Henri, perhaps.

Ginevre’s parents at the door looked flustered. “You will honour our small house by eating with us?” managed Madame Véslée.

“With great pleasure, Madame,” replied de Scrimmejeur. He turned to Percivale. “Captain Véslée, you are at liberty to visit with your family, of course.”

Percivale bowed, “Thank you, my lord.” He turned to Ginevre and extended his arm. Awkwardly, she took it, and let him escort her into the house behind her parents and the governor. Neither brother nor sister spoke.

Guillaume was away hunting, so Fleur was the only other member of the family present. She rose gracefully from the chair where she was sewing to greet the governor, showing off her sweet, gentle smile that men found so irresistible. Scrimmejeur did not seem much affected by her serene blonde beauty, however. His eyes continued to rest on Ginevre, who could feel her cheeks burning under that gaze.

“I must extend my congratulations to you over your daughter’s betrothal to Henri Potère,” the governor said to Ginevre’s father. “A most suitable alliance. And,” he said, turning to Ginevre, “one with every prospect of happiness for the parties involved.”

Ginevre smiled nervously.

“I had hoped to meet here with Potère, actually. Is he not in these parts?” asked the governor.

Monsieur Véslée shook his head. “No, my lord. He has been gone this past month with my son Ronald. Further up the river, I believe. He said he was going to meet an old friend.”

“An old friend?” asked Scrimmejeur politely.

“That is all he would say,” replied Ginevre’s father. “I am soon to be his father-in-law but I am not his close advisor.”

“I see. Mademoiselle, perhaps he spoke of his plans with you?”

“He didn’t,” said Ginevre truthfully. Henri had been very careful not to let anyone know exactly where he was bound. He had only told them that he must leave, and that he would, God willing, return to them before the snow fell.

“Captain Véslée,” said the governor. “Perhaps you and your sister would care to walk outside while I speak with your parents.”

Ah, he wished to interrogate her parents then.

“Shall I accompany them?” asked Fleur.

“That will not be necessary,” Scrimmejeur replied.

Suddenly, Ginevre realized the real plan. The governor wished for Percivale to take her aside and get the truth from her. Ingenious, but unfortunately for the governor, there was no love lost between her and her brother.

Percivale cleared his throat once they were outside. “Shall we walk along the river, Ginevre?” he asked. He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he stared at the path ahead.

“If you wish,” replied Ginevre, with equal stiltedness.

They walked on a little together in silence. Ginevre was forcibly reminded of the old days, when she and her brothers had ran up and down this path together all the time, all still friends.

“I’ve some things to speak to you of,” he said presently.

“You mean,” said Ginevre, “de Scrimmejeur has asked you to question me.”

”More than that, Ginevre. Truly. If you believe that I abandoned any concern for you in entering the King’s service, well then…” he shrugged. “It is simply not true.”

“And that is why you told our poor father you would never darken his door again?” demanded Ginevre. “Because you love us?”

“Pray do not twist my words, Ginevre. Our Lord himself said that a man cannot serve two masters. I am an officer of the King, whose person here is represented by the Governor. I may not disregard his orders.”

“A fine excuse,” Ginevre replied bitterly. “One that’s brought you the favour of two governors. Is the exchange to your liking? Your honour for their patronage?”

Percivale’s face flushed a deep scarlet. “If you were a man,” he hissed, “I would demand you take back those words or prove them on the field of honour.

“But I’m a weak girl and may say what I like,” Ginevre interrupted. “It was unforgivable of you not even to send our parents word of your daughter’s birth. Did Pénélope approve of that?”

“I have already explained why I could not…”

“You did not want to come, Percivale. You need not pretend you did for the governor’s sake.”

For a second, he seemed to pause, as if taking a decision. “Very well,” he said calmly. “I did not wish to come. But now that I have come, I see I have neglected my duty towards my family. I should have been more persistent, should have tried harder to make you all see reason…”

“You pompous…”

“No, listen, Ginevre! That is finished. But now… now you are in danger. All of you. You know this farm lies in the path of Le Sieur Sans Un Nom and his savages…”

“Whom you’d protested were dead.”

“Bien, Ginevre. I was wrong. I admit it.”

She stared at him in amazement. “Is this an apology?” she asked.

“I do not regret following my commander’s orders, even if he was wrong.”

“I thought it was too much to suspect any genuine remorse on your part.” She turned to leave, sick to her stomach of the conversation.

“Listen, Ginevre!” He caught her wrist deftly, then grabbing her other arm, pinned her where she stood. “You may leave, but listen to what I have to say first.”

She glared at him, but he continued on. “I don’t want to see you dead, Ginevre. Your scalp taken to adorn a savage’s belt. Or worse, a slave among these barbarians. Do you know what they do to captives? Do you, Ginevre?”

“Of course I know, Percivale. I’m not an idiot!”

“Well, then, if you stay here, there is a good chance that will be your fate. De Scrimmejeur is leading an expedition against the Iroquois, but they are slippery as eels, clever as fiends, and cruel as the ice of winter. You and my parents must come to my house in Québec. Or if they’re too stubborn to leave this forsaken patch of earth, you alone. Pénélope would welcome you, you know that. And you would not need to tolerate my presence, since I am off to the wars.”

For a moment, she was tempted. Then she remembered Malfoy. She would be away in New York and safe before any attack. But perhaps her parents…

She looked Percivale unflinchingly in the eyes. “I see. I shall try to convince our parents to accept your offer. Only because I do not wish them to come to harm either.”

He let go of her. “Merci. Do you really not know where Henri and Ronald have gone?”

“Why should I? It was better no one knew.”

“I’m afraid you are speaking the truth. The governor will not like to hear this.” He was frowning.

“He will have to live with it. Are you trespassing long upon our hospitality, my dear brother?”

He shook his head. “Not more than another hour. We will strike the villages of the Iroquois before they even know we are coming.”

“And then what shall you do?”

“Burn them to the ground and kill every savage we find.”

Author’s Notes: Next chapter is back to the trio. As you can see, they’re going to have a lot of problems, including saving Hermioniah’s people from the overzealous Governor.

Chapter Eleven: Hermioniah, l'héroïne (Hermione the heroine)

“Wake up, you two. There’s someone on the river.”

Hermioniah’s urgent voice woke Henri from his troubled sleep. Beside him Ronald was rubbing his eyes, “Did we sleep too late?” he asked.

“Shush,” said Hermioniah, but nodded to his question. “There is a large party coming up the river. I can hear them,” she continued in a whisper.

“Who?” Henri asked.

“I’m not that gifted in my hearing,” she replied with a impish smile. “But come watch the river with me. They won’t see our canoe. We’ve hid it well enough.”

Ronald groaned as he rolled out of his furs, but a couple of minutes later, the three of them were crouched in the undergrowth along a bluff overlooking the river and watching a flotilla of canoes coming upstream.

“Mon dieu,” breathed Ronald. “The governor’s own flag.”

“A war party,” said Hermioniah dully. “They are on their way to make war on my people.”

Henri flinched, but did not attempt to deny this. There was no other reason for such an expedition in force. “Do you think we should show ourselves?” he asked Ronald.

Ronald shook his head. “Scrimmejeur would want us to come with him. And they’d treat Hermioniah as a captive.”

Henri turned back to the girl herself. “Should we try to warn your tribe? Somehow?”

Hermioniah took a deep breath. “I… I wish that we could, but it would be impossible to get past your governor’s party, I think, and we are on an urgent mission. Damayaga is watching for trouble already. He would not want us to turn back.” She bit her lip, looking as though she were about to weep but would not let herself.

Henri was dumbstruck at her courage. Without thinking, he slipped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s likely the governor won’t even go near their village. They’ll retreat into the wilderness, if the worst comes to pass.”

“And face the winter there,” said Ron bleakly.

“They’re a hardy people,” Henri replied with vehemence. “They know how to survive.”

“I would rather not speak anymore of this,” said Hermioniah suddenly. “It does no good to imagine these dangers when there’s nothing I can do to prevent them. We need to be on our way.”

“Yes,” agreed Ronald. “Henri, you’ll have to let go of her so we can do that.”

Henri’s face turned a deep crimson. Quickly, he pulled his hand back from Hermioniah. Hermioniah didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment, however. She got to her feet and went back towards their campsite to pack their things up.

Ronald stared after her for a few seconds, then turned to Henri, a serious look on his face. “I know you didn’t mean anything by touching her, Henri,” he said awkwardly, “but you shouldn’t do that.”

“Ginevre,” said Henri.

“Yes, and… Hermioniah’s going to be my wife. I don’t like to see any other man touch her.”

Henri gasped. “Your wife? When was this decided?”

“The night before we left her village,” said Ronald, his eyes gleaming. “She was crying when I met her coming back to the village from the woods. I don’t know why. Perhaps she was sorry to leave her family. But I caught her then in my arms and kissed her and I told her of my love for her. And she agreed to marry me.”

Henri’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. “Why did you not tell me?” he demanded.

“Hermioniah said she needed some time to become accustomed to the idea before we told anyone. But, Henri, are you happy for us?”

Henri said nothing for a second, then he forced himself to smile. “Indeed I am. I offer you my deepest congratulations, Ronald!”

“I am not certain how my family will take the news,” mused Ronald. “Marrying a savage…”

“My mother was a ‘savage,’ Henri reminded him. “And your family has welcomed me into their midst.”

Ronald brightened at these words. “Yes, I really should not worry. You are right. Percivale will probably disapprove, but Percivale disapproves of everything. And Ginevre will be happy to gain a sister.”

“Ronald, Henri!” Hermioniah shouted from the campsite. “Hurry!”

Paddling hard down the St. Lawrence River, Henri had plenty of time to reflect on the situation in which he now found himself. He could not continue so close to Hermioniah, unable to express his desire. Perhaps he should leave New France entirely, sail away to the land of his father’s birth with Ginevre at his side, and there forget all about Hermioniah. Ginevre would like to go to France, wouldn’t she?

But then, it was very likely he would die at Vol de Mort’s hands, and all these worries would come to nothing.

They came to the Island of Montréal late in the day. “Civilization at last!” cried Ronald at the sight of the town. “You’ve never seen anything like this before, have you, Hermioniah?”

“It is very large,” conceded Hermioniah. “But I have seen the English settlements in New York, Ronald.”

“Oh,” said Ronald, disappointed. “But you’ve never seen anything like Québec, I’ll wager.”

“I look forward to seeing it then,” said Hermioniah graciously.

The guards on the Island called out to them to put in, as Henri had expected. Citizens and visitors to Montréal crowded around as their canoe came into shore. It was not every day that an Iroquois canoe made an appearance here. However, someone recognized Henri as he climbed out of the canoe and suspicion was turned to celebration. Henri Potère, the legendary hero, had returned from the wilderness! People crowded around him, asking him questions of his quest and offering to buy him a mug of beer.

“Are you returning to the Véslées’ farm?” asked Michel Cornier, whom Henri knew from school.

Henri shook his head. “No, we must continue to Québec toute suite.

Cornier looked disappointed, but his face changed as he caught sight of Hermioniah beside Ronald. “Who is that?” he said, staring at her as though he was not sure of his own eyes.

“Her name is Hermioniah. She is the daughter of an ally of New France,” Henri assured him.

“Véslée has good taste. I assume she’s Véslée’s? You’d not bring another woman so near your Ginevre.”

“Hermioniah is her own woman,” said Henri stiffly. “She came with us as a guide and friend, not as a paramour.”

Cornier grinned. “So you say. But tell Véslée if he tires of her, there are plenty of men including me wouldn’t mind taking her on.”

“Shut your filthy mouth, Cornier!” Henri snapped. Before the man could react, he turned to the crowd. “You’ve made sure we’re not a war party! We will be on our way again!”

Over protests, they launched their canoe again. “Did you hear what that man said?” Henri whispered to Hermioniah as they settled in their places.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “Do not worry. I am not shocked. There are always men like that. They think only with their groin. But no more. If Ronald heard, he would insist on going back and beating the man, non? And that would delay us.”

Henri nodded. “What are you two talking about?” called out Ronald from the back of the canoe.

“I was asking how far it is to Québec,” said Hermioniah, which satisfied Ronald.

At their campsite that night, Ronald was the first to fall asleep. Hermioniah and Henri, on the other hand, stayed up late talking, exchanging in detail the stories of their lives since they’d been parted in childhood. “You have had all the adventures,” remarked Hermioniah, smiling.

Henri shook his head. “Your people’s daily life is an adventure. Or so you’ll find people here think. You’ll be a celebrity in Québec, I must warn you.”

“Do you think I might change the French view of my people then? Some of us want peace, you know, but no one here seems to realize that.”

Henri pondered the question. “It will be difficult to change hearts, but if you have patience…”

“I long for peace. I would do anything for it.”

In a flash, he understood. “Even marry Ronald?” he asked quietly.

She stared at him. “How did you know?” she asked.

“He told me. You believe that a marriage to a Frenchman would be beneficial to your tribe, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t it?” she asked back.

“Yes, I think it would.”

“Do not think that I do not love and respect Ronald,” she said quickly. “I cannot return the passion he has for me, but he is a good man.”

“I know that. He is my best friend. But, Hermioniah, does he know that you do not feel the same way about him as he does about you?”

“No,” she admitted, and glanced over to where Ronald lay sleeping. “Don’t tell him, Henri. It would hurt him. Besides, I am not so cold as to find his embraces unpleasant. So, please, say nothing.”

Henri battled with himself for a second then answered, “I promise I will not tell him. But Hermioniah, where did you learn to be so heroic?”

“You know very well where. The same place you learned. The Forest asks nothing less of her children.”

Wrapped in admiration and grief, Henri finally fell asleep.

Author’s Note: Nasty situation, huh?

The trio arrive at Québec next chapter and look for the locket. And Hermioniah saves the day, then gets in trouble for doing so.

Chapter Twelve: L’accusation (The Accusation)

Québec did impress Hermioniah. As a matter of fact, it still impressed Henri. The citadel upon the hill overlooking the river. The church of Notre Dame ringing for Vespers. The busy docks and marketplace. A bit of France in the midst of the wilderness.

“Master Henri!” Waiting on the beach along the river was Henri’s servant Daubé. He had a huge grin on his dark face as he took hold of the bow of the canoe and helped pull it up on the sand. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” said Daubé. “Then Monsieur Tonquet came riding in and said you had been seen just outside the city. He’s gone to fetch Lupin.”

“Exactly the man I want to see,” replied Henri. “Daubé, this is Hermioniah, an ally in our battle against Le Sieur Sans Un Nom. Hermioniah, this is Daubé, a servant in my house and a good friend.”

Daubé bowed. “I was the slave of a follower of Le Sieur Sans Un Nom. Master Henri won my freedom from him when he was only twelve years of age.”

“Yes, Henri is a hero,” said Ronald impatiently, “in case you didn’t know that already. Daubé, is there any chance of a good dinner when we get to Henri’s house? I’m famished.”

“Everything is ready for you. Dinner… and baths.”

Ronald sighed happily. “Daubé, you are a hero.”

Henri’s coach was on hand, and as he sunk into the luxurious cushions, Henri marveled at how he’d survived the discomforts of the wilderness for so long. Hermioniah was examining the cushions with a rapt expression on her face.

“You have many belongings,” she stated at last.

“Henri’s rich as Croesus,” said Ronald. “He was wealthy enough in the first place – his father’s family had done well in the fur trade – but he also inherited the house and money of his godfather, Cyrille de Nigelle.”

“So we are going to the house where we hope to find the locket?” Hermioniah asked.

“Yes,” said Henri. “Perhaps we might find it this very evening, if le bon Dieu wills it.”

“First we eat,” warned Ronald. “I’m not scrambling about until I’m properly fed and cleansed. Hermioniah, I suppose you’ve never had a hot bath…”

She raised her eyebrow. “Explain.”

“If Tonquet’s there, she can show you everything,” said Henri quickly. It was hardly proper for Ronald to teach Hermioniah about bathing, even if they were betrothed.

“Tonquet? I thought you spoke of Tonquet as a man,” said Hermioniah, puzzled.

“Ah, yes. We had better explain that to you. Tonquet is actually Dora Tonks. Her father, Theodore Tonks, is an English merchant in Boston. Her mother, though, is Andromède de Nigelle, my godfather’s cousin and the sister of Narcisse and Isabelle de Nigelle. Andromède left her family behind and never looked back, but her daughter Dora longed for adventure. So she left Boston, where everyone knew her, dressed as a man, and came to New France as Isidore Tonquet, an assistant to the Intendant. Dumbledore knew her secret, of course, and helped her carry out the plan. He was like that, always encouraging people to make the most of their talents…” Henri trailed off, suddenly remembering how alone he was now, since his mentor’s death.

“Very few people know she’s a woman,” said Ronald. “You, me, Henri, Daubé, Remy Lupin, a few others. My family, of course. And you mustn’t call her anything but Tonquet. She doesn’t like the name ‘Dora.’”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Hermioniah. “I already admire her for her courage.”

Tonquet and Lupin had just ridden up together when they arrived at the de Nigelle house. As Henri had hoped, Tonquet immediately took Hermioniah under her wing, and whisked her off to be cleaned up and briefed on whatever it was that a woman in New France should know.

Remy Lupin had embraced both Ronald and Henri and was now smiling at Ronald’s boasts of heroism on their adventure, as they sat about the kitchen waiting for the water for washing up to finish heating. The water for Hermioniah had already been taken upstairs by Daubé.

“There’s not a day goes by but someone asks me if I know where you are,” said Lupin, after they’d finished their tale. “You’re more famous than ever here. But there’s very little else to tell you. It’s been very quiet here, except for Flêcher’s unfortunate burglary of the Bishop’s residence.”

“He WHAT?” splurted out Ronald.

Lupin nodded. “Very unwise of him. He’s probably going to be sent back to France in the Spring. Right now he’s cooling off his heels in a cell.”

“Poor man,” said Ronald, his sympathy sounding somewhat less than heart-felt. “So, how have Wilfred and Georges been bearing up with us gone?”

“Piling up gold, the two of them. What with their contraptions. The clockwork mouse is especially popular with their customers. Give your friends a jump, that sort of thing.”

Henri smiled. “Now, about that locket,” he began. And stopped, interrupted by a frantic banging on the door.

Daubé came running down the stairs and then, taking a second to compose himself, opened the door. A young woman, wearing the white cap and neat, drab clothes of a servant, was there, breathing rather heavily, as if she’d been running. Henri had never seen her before.

“Is Captain Véslée’s brother really here?” she demanded.

Ronald pushed by Daubé. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

“Madame Véslée’s been asking for you since she heard you were come,” the maidservant explained.

“Tell Pénélope that her husband would not approve of his family visiting his house behind his back,” said Ronald scornfully.

“You don’t understand. She wants to see you because she is… dying.” The maidservant burst into tears.

“Dying?” asked Ronald sharply.

“Yes,” the woman sobbed. “She’s been in labour for almost two days now, and the doctors say there’s no hope, that she won’t be able to deliver this child. She’s barely conscious of us, and the priest has given her Extreme Unction, but when she heard your name mentioned, she insisted on seeing you.”

Henri felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He had known Pénélope Claireau in the old days, well, only three years ago, really. Percivale Véslée had courted her, and though Henri had no idea what the lively Mademoiselle Claireau had seen in Ronald’s stuffy brother, she’d returned his affections. In fact, the last time Henri had seen her was at her wedding. Since then, she’d had one child, a daughter. It was rumoured Percivale had been very disappointed it had not been a son And now she was dying?

“We’ll come immediately,” said Ronald, and Henri nodded. They were just about to run out the door after the maidservant, when Tonquet and Hermioniah came down the stairs. Hermioniah was washed and wearing a lovely blue dress that Tonquet had apparently produced. Ronald’s mouth fell open at the sight.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered.

“Only now that I’m dressed like a Frenchwoman?” asked Hermioniah, frowned.

“No, you’re always beautiful,” stammered Ronald. “But Hermioniah, we have to go. Lupin will explain it to you.”

“Pénélope is near death in childbirth,” Henri said to Tonquet, then turned to leave.

“Wait!” said Hermioniah, and ran after them.

She caught up with them a little down the street. Ronald turned on her. “For Heaven’s sake, Hermioniah, go back to the house!”

“You’re going to a childbirth, Ronald. Have you ever even seen a woman giving birth? Because I have. In fact, I’ve helped my mother assist on every birth in our village for most of the years I can remember. I know what to do. I could save this woman’s life.”

Ronald grumbled, but they kept running. “The doctor here has studied at school,” he told her as they went along. “What can you know that he doesn’t?”

“Orenda,” said Hermioniah simply. “You’ve forgotten that I’ve been trained in the use of the healing powers.”

The doctor was leaving the house when they arrived at its front door. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he excused himself when he recognized Ronald. “And I have an urgent call elsewhere. Madame Pommefret is watching over her.”

Madame Pommefret was the most respected nurse and midwife in the town of Québec. Some people in fact thought better of her than of any doctor. She’d set Henri’s arm once, and it had healed perfectly.

A sad smile appeared on the good woman’s face when they entered. “You’ve come in time,” she said quietly. “Just in time.” She turned towards the bed. “Madame Véslée, Ronald is here.”

Pénélope was lying against two pillows, her face streaked with sweat and her hair a tangle all about her. Hermioniah knelt down beside the bed and took her hand. Madame Pommefret stared.

“Who is this savage?” Madame Pommefret demanded of Henri.

“My name is Hermioniah.” She was speaking to Pénélope, rather than the midwife. She gazed into Pénélope’s frightened eyes, trying to calm the woman. “I’m here to help you. Breathe deeply.”

Pénélope shuddered. “I’ve tried!” she cried out in anguish. “I’ve pushed and I’ve pushed, and I just can’t! It’s going to start again soon, and it’ll kill me this time! I know.”

“This time, you’ll have me to guide you,” said Hermioniah soothingly, and Pénélope seemed to calm down a little.

“Tell Ronald he must make peace with Percivale,” she whispered. “For my daughter’s sake. She’ll need a family now she’s losing her mother.”

Tears trickled down Ronald’s face. Then suddenly Pénélope screamed. The contractions were beginning again.

“Let go of her,” Madame Pommefret ordered Hermioniah, then tried to pull her away from the bedside.

Hermioniah didn’t even look up. “Please remove this woman, Ronald and Henri,” she ordered.

They only hesitated for a moment, then they dragged Madame Pommefret out of the room, kicking and protesting

Five minutes later, Pénélope’s cries were joined by another sound. The fierce angry tones of an infant.

“You may come in now,” called Hermioniah, and letting go of Madame Pommefret, they ran to the door.

Pénélope lay peacefully upon the bed and Hermioniah was holding a squirming red baby boy in her arms. A triumphant smile was on her face.

“How?” demanded Madame Pommefret, putting her arms out for the child.

“She did… something magic,” piped out the maidservant, who’d remained in the room. “Said heathen words.”

“Orenda,” said Hermioniah, once again. “The mother and child will be all right. I promise you.”

Ronald flung his arms around her, and without thought for the opinions of the onlookers, kissed her.

A little while later, they were all in the kitchen, joined by Lupin and Tonquet, and discussing the events of the night, when there was a hammering on the door.

Tonquet went to open it. Her eyebrows rose at the sight of soldiers at the door. Captain Daulaishe was at their head.

“Monsieur Tonquet.” He bowed. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I have been informed that there is an Iroquois witch in this house.”

Henri gasped.

“I have had a report from the maidservant of Captain Véslée that this savage practiced her witchcraft upon the captain’s wife. You must hand the woman over to us, so that she may be examined by the authorities.”

Author’s Notes: Yes, I’m ending this chapter on a bit of a cliffhanger. Hermioniah is in trouble. Can Henri and Ronald get her out of it?

But next chapter is back to Ginevre, who has her own troubles, and you’ll finally meet Lunette Bienamour, who’s blissfully unaware that Ronald has dumped her. I hope I’ll be able to write it relatively quickly and get back to Hermioniah’s predicament.

Chapter Thirteen: Mal Foie (Bad Faith)

Denis Crevet brought the news from Trois Rivières. Jean Bienamour had been arrested as a Huguenot. Mild-mannered, harmless Monsieur Bienamour. When Ginevre’s father had heard this, he had set off for Trois Rivières immediately with Guillaume at his side.

She confided the news in Malfoy that night.

“The Huguenots are idiots,” he replied. “So horribly stubborn about their beliefs. Why can’t they just pretend to go along with the Church?”

“They’re true to their faith,” she began, but he interrupted her.

“What good will that be to Bienamour when he’s sent to the galleys?” he demanded. “Life is precious, Ginevre. It shouldn’t be thrown away for insubstantial things like faith or honour.”

Ginevre frowned. “You haven’t had a proper moral upbringing,” she generously concluded at last. “It’s not your fault.”

His face broke into an amused grin. “Merci, Ginevre. You are too kind.”

When Ginevre’s father and brother returned, it was with bad news. They had not been able to free Bienamour. In fact, the governor himself had given the orders for his arrest, when he had passed through on his way to war. They had, however, been able to secure the release of Bienamour’s daughter, Lunette, and had brought her back with them to Le Bureau.

Lunette had always been a good friend of Ginevre’s, as well as Ronald’s sweetheart. Ginevre was overjoyed to see her, however tragic the reason for her visit.

Lunette was a great deal calmer in the circumstances than Ginevre could have been. She lost no time in telling Ginevre the gossip of Trois Rivières. According to Lunette, the governor was not actually gone to fight the Iroquois, or even Le Sieur Sans Un Nom. Lunette was stubborn in the belief that there was a hidden city of gold up the northern rivers, and de Scrimmejeur had found clues to where it was.

“Are you worried about your father?” Ginevre asked her, uninterested in these speculations.

Lunette wrinkled her brow. “I suppose he is not in a very good situation, but God watches over him. I am praying very hard.”

“You think your prayers will bring a miracle?”

“Would that be so strange, Ginevre? God has done much greater wonders than that.” She paused. “And perhaps the governor only really wants him arrested so no one will find out about the city of gold from him. My father was the one who told me about it, you see.”

Ginevre shook her head, but did not try to rob Lunette of this hope.

“Have you heard at all from Ronald?” asked Lunette.

“No. Not at all. Nor from Henri. But we did not expect to. They should still be in the wilderness.”

“Ah….”

Ginevre was suddenly emboldened to ask, “Are you… do you love my brother, Lunette?”

Lunette sighed. “Yes,” she said simply. “He asked me for my hand once,” she continued. “But he would not agree that I keep my own faith. I have hoped he would change his mind. I cannot betray my God in that way.”

Ginevre was surprised. She had not known Ronald had actually courted Lunette, only that they seemed attracted to each other.

“I did still let him kiss me when he left,” Lunette said wistfully. “And promised him I would wait for him, if he ever changed his mind.”

“He must,” said Ginevre vehemently. “There is no one in the world I would rather have as a sister than you!” Then she remembered that she would soon be gone far away from her family, and shivered.

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Lunette, a smile playing about her lips.

“Some time away from you, dreaming of your charms, should bring him to his senses,” Ginevre assured her.

That night, Ginevre waited until the others were asleep before sneaking out of the house and to the cave where Malfoy was hid. She was surprised to find him not lying in his make-shift bed but packing.

“Are you making things ready for our departure already?” she asked him.

He jumped at the sound of her voice, then turning around, flashed his enchanting smile at her. “Certainly, Ginevre. Sit down on the bedding and I will tell you my plans.”

She sat down, smiling back. She was not ready for what happened next, unable to react as Malfoy pushed her on her back and, taking a piece of rope, tied her hands.

“Jean, what are you doing?” she cried in fear.

“I’m binding your hands and feet so you cannot move,” said Malfoy, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I thank you, Ginevre, for nursing me back to health and for your… company, but I must bid you Adieu now.”

“But you…”

“Lied to you, Mademoiselle. Did you expect otherwise from Le Dragon? Did you really think I got that nickname by refraining from ruthlessness? I needed your aid. I needed you to keep quiet about me. I did what was necessary to obtain that.”

“You said you would marry me!”

“Marry a Véslée? Mon dieu! I am of the noblesse. How naïve of you to think I would stoop to your level. When my Lord rules this colony, I will be at his right hand. I could have any fine lady I choose.”

Ginevre had turned white. “You have destroyed me,” she said, her voice broken. “How could you have done this to me, when I loved you?”

“I did what was necessary, silly girl. Also, I must admit the idea of seducing Potère’s innocent young bride was very appealing. I’ve made him hurt for what he did to my father. Will he want you now, do you think?”

“But Jean, I think I am with child!”

Her agonized cry seemed to cut him. He flinched, and stared at her, as if uncertainty had suddenly touched him. But only for a moment.

“I don’t think Potère will like that,” he said, his smile returning.

“It’ll be your child,” she pleaded with him. “If you don’t care for me, think of our child.”

His lips curled in a laugh of derision. “I’ve no interest in your little bastard, Mademoiselle Véslée. And I am tired of your crying.” Taking a piece of cloth, he gagged her mouth.

“There,” he said, stepping back from where she lay in misery. “I would like to see your family’s faces when they find you here. I wonder what you will tell them. But I must go, sweet Ginevre. My Lord awaits me.”

Without a backward glance, he picked up his pack and left her there lying alone.

Author’s notes: I am cruel to my characters. And this isn’t a sappy D/G fic where Malfoy is redeemed overnight. He’s a Death Eater after all. Ginevre was mad to trust him. And yet, their story is not over, whatever Malfoy may say or think now.

Next chapter will be about Hermioniah and the accusation of witchcraft against her.

Chapter Fourteen: Hermioniah, la Sorcière? (Hermioniah, the witch?)

“Witchcraft,” groaned Ronald. “They’ve got her locked up as a witch.”

Georges patted his back. “Cheer up, mon frère. We’ll sort them out, won’t we, Wilfred?”

Wilfred nodded. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”

They were outside the prison, waiting for the officials to arrive and consider Hermioniah’s case. The Véslée twins, Georges and Wilfred, had just arrived, having heard the news. Their presence had considerably lifted Henri’s spirits. Georges and Wilfred had that effect on people.

“A servant’s testimony shouldn’t be worth much against the testimony of several prominent citizens,” agreed Tonquet brightly.

“You are assuming that Hermioniah will deny she used magic,” said Ronald bitterly. “I don’t think she’s that sort of person. I don’t think she will lie to them. Even to save her life.”

“She really can do magic?” asked Georges, sounding impressed. “I’d thought they were making that up. What can she do?”

“Heal people,” said Henri. “Only that. It’s not witchcraft. It has nothing to do with being in league with the devil.”

“I believe I see an avenue of argument open to us,” said Lupin quietly. Everyone turned to him.

“Yes?” asked Henri.

“It seems to me that Hermioniah’s powers to heal could be seen as a gift from God, not as the work of the devil.”

“Well, of course!” interrupted Ronald.

“Bear with me,” Lupin continued. “Our problem is to convince the authorities, particularly, I might point out, the Bishop himself. We must argue that what Hermioniah did for Pénélope was not witchcraft, but a miracle, much like the ones at Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“But there it is Ste. Anne who is supposed to have worked the miracles,” objected Henri. “No one is going to believe Hermioniah is a saint. She’s not even a Christian!”

“Ah, yes. There’s the point. It might be a very good idea for her to request baptism. Immediately.”

Ronald screwed up his face. “You know,” he said thoughtfully. “That might work. She told me that she would be willing to become a Christian. She said that our Mother Church’s beliefs did not conflict with hers.” He saw Tonquet raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s true!” he said quickly. “But she thinks so. She believes in God, anyway. Calls him Manitou. But she would be baptized. And… and… she said she’d marry me.”

Georges began to laugh. “Aha! You’re in love! Congratulations, Ronald!”

“I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful hen-pecked husband,” agreed Wilfred, slapping Ronald on the back.

“I thought you were courting Lunette Bienamour,” said Tonquet suspiciously.

“It… didn’t work out,” Ronald explained. “She’s a heretic, and.. well, I love Hermioniah now.”

“Would you enter into a marriage contract with her, then?” asked Lupin. “Today?”

“Ah… yes,” said Ronald. “But why the rush?”

“If you were officially betrothed, her position would be a lot more stable,” Lupin explained. “She would have an official place in our society. No longer an unconnected savage, but the future wife of Ronald Véslée. You needn’t marry till you’re ready, of course,” he added quickly. “But the contract has almost the force of marriage, you know.”

“It’s not easily breakable,” said Georges, beaming. “You’re trapped, now, Ronald! A married man!”

“It is not a trap,” Ronald replied testily. “Should I tell Catherine you called marriage a trap?”

Catherine was Georges’s wife. Before Georges could answer back, the door of the prison opened. The jailer was at hand.

“You may see the prisoner now,” he announced. “If you’ll leave your weapons here.”

It turned out that the twins had quite a lot of weapons on their persons. A sword each, several daggers, a few pistols. Henri suspected they had come armed for a siege of the prison if necessary. The jailer made no comment, though, and let them in once he was certain they’d been entirely divested of their arsenal.

Hermioniah leapt up from the small bench in her cell when she saw them. “I knew you’d come, Henri!” she cried. “And you too, Ronald.”

Ushered into the cell, Lupin explained the plan to her, once the jailer had left them alone.

She stared at him. “A miracle?” Her voice was skeptical.

“Who gave you your power?” asked Lupin gently.

“It’s not my power,” she said sharply. “Orenda flows from everything there is. It is the creating, healing force of the world.”

“And the world, everything that there is, was created by?” pressed Lupin.

“By the creator. He whom we call Manitou.”

“So, therefore, what you did for Madame Véslée was ultimately done by God. You were only his chosen vessel. You can tell the Bishop that, can’t you?”

“I suppose that I could,” she said wonderingly.

“And you could ask to be baptized.”

“Yes. I could.”

“And promise before the notary to marry Ronald.”

Hermioniah gave Henri a strange look, but only for a second. “Yes, I will do that. What is a notary, though?”

“A notary keeps records of our official acts,” Ronald explained. “I know about marriage contracts. They’re not difficult to enter. I was a witness to Henri and Ginevre’s contract.”

The jailer returned again. “The governor’s representative is here,” he announced. “And his Excellency the bishop.”

As they filed out of the cell, Henri overheard Lupin whispering to Hermioniah, “You do believe in the Creator, of course, but it might be a good idea not to mention the rituals of your people to the Bishop. Don’t lie, but there are some things better left unsaid. That’s how Lise, Henri’s mother, got along in New France.”

“I understand,” said Hermioniah.

“Henri!” The familiar voice came to him through the bars of another cell. “Henri Potère! You have to get me out of this place!”

“Shut your mouth, Flêcher!” snapped the jailer. “You’re a filthy thief. You can leave decent citizens like Monsieur Potère alone.”

They swept on past the miserable Flêcher.

Waiting for them in the room where cases were heard was one of Henri’s least favourite people in the entire world. Corneille de Fauget, the governor’s representative. Fauget had been governor of New France for six years, and had spent the last two denying that Vol de Mort was alive, and that he had supporters. He had become close friends with Vol de Mort’s greatest supporter, the wealthy and influential Lucien de Malfoy. When Vol de Mort had finally revealed himself, the King and his Secretary of Marine had not been pleased with Fauget, and had sent out Scrimmejeur in his stead. Rather than return to France to face ridicule and the displeasure of the monarch, Fauget had elected to stay in the colony as an advisor to the new governor.

The portly Fauget was now smiling at Henri, his usual grandfatherly smile, as if they had never been enemies, as if the last few years had not happened.

“How wonderful it is to see you, Monsieur Potère,” he said, advancing on Henri. “You and your friends.”

“Even Hermioniah?” asked Henri sharply.

Fauget’s face turned red. “Ah,” he stammered. “We’ll… ah, well… speak of that, won’t we? You’ll all take seats?”

Already seated was the Bishop of New France. Bishop Aulèvendère. He was a stern man, who had always somewhat frightened Henri. But he had been a friend of Dumbledore’s, Henri recalled. Perhaps he would understand.

They began to question Hermioniah.

It quickly became apparent to Henri that Fauget wanted Hermioniah to stay a prisoner. It was not, Henri thought, because Fauget really believed she was a dangerous witch, but because if she were kept a prisoner, the Governor and his aides would have a hold over Henri and Ronald. They would be able to control them. Or so Fauget thought.

The Bishop, on the other hand, seemed determined to judge the rights and wrongs of the situation. Unfortunately, he also took a very serious view of witchcraft. He was pleased by Hermioniah’s request for baptism, but he did not let the matter go there, and continued to cross-examine her about her ‘miracle.’

The terrified maidservant testified that Hermioniah had used a spell on Madame Véslée.

“Do you speak the language of the Iroquois?” asked the Bishop mildly.

“No, your Excellency,” she admitted.

“Then how do you know it was a spell?” Aulèvendère asked her.

“It worked like a spell,” said the maid stubbornly.

The next witness was Madame Pommefret. She was calmed down from the night before, and refused to give an opinion on whether Hermioniah had used witchcraft.

“I do not know much of these matters, Your Excellency,” she insisted.

She did, however, give her opinion that Madame Véslée had been beyond human help before Hermioniah had entered the room. Also that Madame Véslée was now in as good health as any new mother could be expected to be.

“And her child too,” she added. “A fine young boy. He’s being brought to the church today to be baptized.” She turned to Ronald. “Madame Véslée has asked if you would be the godfather.”

There were gasps around the room. Captain Véslée would not be pleased to return from war and find his wife had reconciled with his family.

“She wanted Hermioniah to be the godmother,” Madame Pommefret continued. “But I told her the young woman wasn’t a Christian.”

“Not yet,” replied the Bishop.

Having heard all the evidence, they dismissed Henri and the others, so that they could deliberate over it.

“I believe you made a good impression on the Bishop,” Lupin told Hermioniah.

“But not on the Governor’s man,” said Hermioniah gloomily. “Fauget wants me to be found guilty.”

“Fauget hasn’t as much power as he likes to pretend,” said Tonquet. “Hermioniah, you are lucky to be here, you know. Back home in Boston, they take witchcraft charges a lot more seriously. No, not more seriously, more hysterically. They believe in witchcraft here, of course, but they don’t burn people at the stake with no evidence.”

“Of course not. We’re not English barbarians,” said Ronald.

Tonquet made a face. “We English aren’t all bad, though,” she insisted.

“You’re half-French,” said Ronald generously.

“I’m half de Nigelle! You can’t say that’s a good thing!” she replied teasingly.

Their laughter was broken by the door bursting open and the arrival of a familiar figure, the new Intendant, Alastre Muidet. One look at him assured Henri he was furious.

“What the devil is that fool Fauget up to, Tonquet?” he demanded. “He tried to keep this hearing a secret from me, but Daulaishe came and told me!”

“I did wonder why you weren’t here, sir,” said Tonquet.

“I’ll tell Fauget what I think of him,” said Muidet, striding towards the door. The door opened, however, and the Bishop came out.

“We have decided, Mademoiselle, that you are innocent of the charges made against you,” Aulèvendère informed Hermioniah.

“You damn well better have,” snorted Muidet, and pushed his way through into the other room, in search, no doubt, of his old enemy, de Fauget.

“And now,” said the Bishop. “Shall we proceed to the church? It appears I have some baptisms to perform.”

Author’s Notes: Fauget is Fudge, of course. Bishop Aulèvendère is Ollivander. Muidet is Moody.

The Intendant was the official who ran New France’s government. The governor was the head of the military, and also the representative of the king. In the French provinces, the Intendant ran everything, but in New France, the Governor and Intendant were regularly fighting over who was in charge.

Next chapter: The trio hunt for the locket.

Chapter Fifteen: Le Maison de Malfoy (The House of Malfoy)

Hermioniah was holding the very young Jean-Michel Véslée against her chest and rocking him to sleep. Pénélope had insisted they all visit, now she was up and about again. They had been searching the Nigelle house for the locket Regnier had apparently taken from its cave, but with no luck yet, and a rest was welcome. A short rest, Henri had insisted. They couldn’t lose sight of their goal now. Not with so much at stake.

Pénélope appeared to be very busy, bustling in and out of the kitchen as they talked. She had dismissed the maid who’d accused Hermioniah, and had yet to find a replacement. Not that this would be difficult to do. Percivale had done very well for himself as the confidante of two successive governors. The house was very comfortably furnished, and Pénélope’s gown of the finest quality.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have gone with the Governor’s expedition against the Iroquois,” remarked Pénélope. “They say, Henri, that you know more of Le Sieur Sans Un Nom than any other man.”

Henri shrugged. He was not about to confide in Percivale’s wife.

Hermioniah frowned. “I do not think, Madame Véslée,” she said, with admirable politeness, “that this expedition against my people will harm Vol de Mort. It will only serve to make the Iroquois Confederacy your steadfast enemies.”

“But you come from a peaceful tribe, do you not?” asked Pénélope.

“Do you believe that your soldiers will make such a distinction when they come on our villages?” She shook her head. “Vol de Mort wants our peoples to be at war. It distracts us from his doings.”

“I am not a politician,” said Pénélope hastily.

A thought struck Henri. “You must know everyone in the city,” he ventured.

Pénélope smiled. “Not everyone.”

“And all the..” he was about to say gossip, but corrected himself in time, “news. Have you heard anything of Narcisse de Malfoy lately? Is she still facing down her enemies, now her husband is in prison and her son is a fugitive?”

Pénélope shook her head. “She still stays to herself, in the Malfoy house. I think she would risk violence were she to show herself publicly. People here are still very angry about the Intendant’s death, and it was her son who helped Snape in that murder, after all.”

Henri winced, remembering that terrible night. “I’ve half a mind to call on her,” he continued. Hermioniah and Ronald stared at him.

“But she’s… she’s a Malfoy!” objected Ronald.

“She might try to kill you,” agreed Hermioniah.

“No,” said Henri. “We’ve seen enough of our enemies to know that Vol de Mort wants to kill me himself. He would not take kindly to an underling doing so. I shall be safe enough.”

“You have to take us with you, Henri,” said Ronald earnestly.

“Certainly. You and Hermioniah will have to watch my back. Pénélope, you know where we have gone. If we do not return, alert the authorities, and our friends.”

“May God protect you,” replied Pénélope soberly.

* * * * *

The Malfoy house had been one of the finest in the young colony. But recent events had brought misfortune upon its inhabitants, and it was now in a shocking state of neglect. Several of the windows were smashed, perhaps by rioters after M. Dumbledore had been murdered.

“Perhaps she was forced to sell her remaining slaves,” suggested Ronald, but his suggestion was contradicted immediately, as the door was opened by a young black woman.

“Good morning,” said Henri to her. “We’ve come to see your mistress.”

The woman shook her head. “Madame is not seeing visitors.”

“We’re not ordinary visitors. Tell Madame de Malfoy that Henri Potère wishes to speak with her.”

At the mention of his name, the woman gasped, then ran back into the house.

Hermioniah was frowning. “Are there many slaves in New France?” she asked pointedly.

“Some, but surely you are not surprised. Your people are always taking slaves from other tribes and from our colonies!” Ronald answered.

“We take prisoners in war, but those prisoners we keep eventually become a part of our tribe, adopted members of our own families. You keep slaves like you keep cattle.”

Ronald coloured. “Not all of us do. My family has never owned a slave. We haven’t ever had the money to buy one. And Henri owns a few slaves, you know.”

“I inherited them, Hermioniah,” said Henri quickly. “Most of them I shall set free as soon as I am of age. And they are respected servants, not cattle. I know too well what it is like to be a slave. I was not much better than a slave to my aunt and uncle.”

The Malfoys’ slave returned to the door, interrupting their conversation, but Henri noticed that Hermioniah’s frown had disappeared, and in its place was that look of pity mingled with admiration that he had learnt to recognize instinctively.

“Madame will see you in the parlour,” the woman announced, and ushered them into the house.

“Mon Dieu, what a gloomy place,” whispered Ronald, who was bringing up the rear. “To think Le Dragon used to boast of it to us!”

“It was a much brighter house then,” answered a low woman’s voice from the door to their right. “And it will be so once more, when my husband and son are restored to me. Come in, Monsieur Véslée.”

Cautiously, they entered the room, as though they expected an ambush at any moment. However, the room was occupied by only one slight figure in a fine black gown, sitting on a dusty silk divan.

Narcisse de Malfoy looked up from an open book, her pale face and light gold hair giving her the look of a ghost in this half light. “Yes, I have very good hearing,” she continued. “Welcome, all of you, especially Monsieur Potère. Are you here only to gloat in my misfortune, or do you believe that I might be open to a bribe?”

“I believe that you are afraid for your son,” replied Henri. “If you thought he were safe with Vol de Mort, would you lock yourself in your house like this? You have held up through every crisis imaginable for years, and yet now you are despairing.”

Narcisse’s mouth twisted into a scornful smile. “Do not tell me that you care for my son’s life, Potère. I have too often patched up the wounds you gave him to believe that.”

“I do not care for his life. But you do. Perhaps I could be induced to intervene for his life in exchange for something else.”

Narcisse said nothing, but her eyes grew suddenly luminous.

“You know that I always have kept my word. If you can give me any information as to the whereabouts of Vol de Mort’s soul-pieces, I shall do what I can to save your son’s life.”

Narcisse said nothing for a moment, then shook her head. “If you have nothing more to say, you may leave this house, Monsieur.”

Outside the house, Ronald expressed his disappointment in the results of the visit. “I thought you’d have a better plan than that,” he fumed.

“Patience, Ronald. I did not expect her to respond to my proposal immediately. She will think this over, and if she replies more favourably, will do so where she may not be observed by gossiping servants. I think she is as afraid of her sister Madame Lestrange as we are. We must wait and see.”

“And while we are waiting? What do you suggest we do?”

“I don’t know,” Henri admitted.

“We’ve searched your whole house from top to bottom. The locket can’t be there, surely,” protested Ronald. “It probably never was there. Vol de Mort probably took it back from Regnier de Nigelle when he had him killed.”

“Or it was there and someone has since taken it from the house,” said Hermioniah. “Have there been many people in this house over the years?”

“No,” said Henri. “The Nigelles were recluses after Regnier died, and only those trusted by Dumbledore were allowed to visit after my godfather took possession of the house.”

“None of them were capable of taking the locket from the house?” Hermioniah pressed.

“Certainly not! They were all loyal to the Intendant,” protested Ronald, but Henri interrupted him.

“Mon Dieu, It’s been right under our noses all this time.”

“What has?” snapped Ronald.

“We need to return to the jail and have a conversation with Monsieur Flêcher.”

Author’s Notes: Most people are unaware that slavery existed in both French and British Canada until the 19th century. There were never as many slaves as in the American colonies, but there were some, and a rich family might own a few, like the Malfoys do in this story.

Next chapter will finally see some progress in the trio’s hunt for the locket, and we’ll see if Narcisse de Malfoy will reconsider Henri’s offer.

And yes, I’ve been away all summer not writing. I hope to remedy that over the next while with more new chapters.