Marie-Antoinette

Chapter One: Adieux and exile

"I can't believe you're leaving me all alone here," Aimée whined for the umpteenth time. "What happened that's so important you need to go to England in the middle of the term, anyway?"

"Yeah, I've been wondering as well," piped up Mélanie, another one of my dorm mates who was writing a Transfiguration essay, lying on her stomach on the carpet. "Nothing ever happens to you, and suddenly you're off to see Tinville in the middle of a lesson, you receive loads of letters, and next thing we know you're leaving to spend a whole week in London. London!" she sighed dreamily.

I paused in the act of slamming the lid of my suitcase shut. I wasn't to take my trunk with me at once -- it would have looked too suspicious, according to Tinville.

"I told the pair of you at least a thousand times," I said patiently. "That's a bit of a secret."

Aimée scoffed. "I'm your best friend, and you're keeping things from me?"

"That's not my decision," I said wearily.

I sat on my bed next to Aimée, who was sprawled across it, her childlike face hidden behind a romance novel. I doubted she was actually reading it: she hadn't turned a page for the past half an hour.

"Look," I said gently, hesitantly laying my hand on her wrist. "I hate having to keep things from you, but I don't have a choice. As soon as I'm at London, I'll write a letter explaining everything. Okay?"

Aimée shrugged and pretended to be very absorbed in her novel. I bit my lip. For the first time since my conversation with Lestrange, I felt on the verge of tears. I was leaving the following morning, which meant I was enjoying my last moments with my best friend -- and she was angry at me.

Mélanie, who had been counting the lines in her essay under her breath, suddenly exclaimed:

"Ninety-seven lines! I can't believe it! Why does this freak want one hundred and fifty lines, anyway? He's so going to make fun of me again... 'Well, Mademoiselle Dinat, we had a little writer's cramp, didn't we? The third in a week? You should train your hand more. What about writing a few lines for me tonight at eight o' clock?'" she put on a grotesque grimace as she imitated our Transfiguration teacher's nasal voice. "Oh, what the hell, I'll write a conclusion, it should do the trick."

"You already wrote one," I pointed out mechanically.

"I don't see the problem," said Mélanie with mild surprise. "A conclusion is already pointless in itself. You're just repeating all over again what you already explained over three sodding pages. So why not repeating myself once more? Jamais deux sans trois!"

She contemplated her essay with a thoughtful expression for a few seconds.

"Oh, I'm too tired, I'll do it tomorrow morning," she decided brusquely. "Now I'm hungry. Time to get down to the kitchens!"

And with that announcement, she got to her feet and stepped over her essay, still spread on the carpet, in order to get to the door.

The door slammed shut behind Mélanie. Aimée's face was still hidden behind her book.

"Aimée?" I said tentatively.

She stayed silent and unmoving for ten long, painful seconds.

Then suddenly she threw her book aside and flung her arms around me, drawing me in a fierce hug that took me completely unawares. I didn't really know how to react at first; I had never liked being hugged tightly, except by my boyfriend Olivier, and even then I'd rather be alone with him. It made me uncomfortable. But I was moved by Aimée's spontaneous embrace, and after a slight hesitation I awkwardly hugged her back.

"I don't want to lose you," she whispered in my ear, in a strangled voice. "And don't tell me you're only leaving for a week. I saw how you've been acting since Maxime pulled you out of History of Magic last week. You keep looking all around you, as if you wanted to enjoy the time you're spending in that castle as much as possible; you're being nice to everybody -- even to that bitch Alice Brocard, who can't stand you because you've got a nobiliary particle in your name..."

"I didn't expect you to be fooled," I murmured back, smiling as I held her tightly. "We've known each other for far too long. I'm leaving for good, that's true, and I'll miss you, Maxime, Beauxbâtons, and even Alice."

I gently pulled away and looked into her tear-filled, honey-coloured eyes. "Though you won't ever hear me saying I'll miss that excuse for a human being we have for a Headmaster," I added.

She chuckled appreciatively as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Ah well," she sighed, "we can always owl each other."

"Every week," I agreed, my face breaking into a wide grin.

"And I'll come to see you for the holidays," she went on, her face lightening up as it always did whenever she started to make plans. "We'll spend Christmas and Easter together. And right after I've graduated, I'll go and permanently settle at London, so that you're not alone in that country..."

I laughed at the disgusted expression that had twisted her facial features when she had said "that country".

"What's wrong with Great Britain?"

She rolled her eyes as if my question was stupid, then swiftly got to her feet. Standing on my bed with her arms spread wide, she roared with a fake Gascon accent:

"All right! If that's what you want, let us leave our bones in that wretched country, where it's always cold, where a fine weather is more like fog, fog like rain, and rain like deluge; where the sun looks like the moon, and the moon like a white cheese. After all, dying there or anywhere else, since we have to die anyway, who cares!"

And she put the finishing touches to her little act by taking off an imaginary feathery hat and bowing in a broad and martial gesture.

"Alexandre Dumas?" I asked, still laughing, and impressed by Aimée's flawless recitation.

"The one and only," grinned Aimée as she plopped herself down on the bed again. "Twenty Years Later, second book of the Musketeers trilogy."

We talked for at least two hours, about Maxime, Tinville, Beauxbâtons, our classmates, Aimée's books, anything but my departure. I felt safe and warm, chatting and laughing with Aimée -- the most sensitive, caring, childish and romantic girl I had ever known. My last hours as a schoolgirl...

Mélanie came back with her arms overloaded with all sorts of food, from roasted chicken to chocolate éclairs. That girl was always eating the strangest things -- and in the most disgusting way, I might add. The mere sight was making me feel faintly sick.

"Want some, Toine?" she asked through a mouthful of éclair, the result being a rather impressive spitting of crumbs.

"No thanks, Mélanie," Aimée answered for me. "Actually it would be great if you just -- ate that somewhere else. Preferably far away from here."

"Ooh, yeah, I for'ot, I faw y'r boyffffend," Mélanie went on after cramming another éclair in her mouth, obviously totally unfazed by Aimée's comment. Aimée emitted a disgusted noise and hid behind her book again.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," I said.

Mélanie swallowed hard and obligingly repeated:

"I saw your boyfriend on the third floor, in the Battlefield Hall. Said he wanted to talk to you before you leave tomorrow."

Aimée slowly lowered her book and gazed at me with wide, horrified eyes. I was speechless myself. I had avoided thinking about Olivier lately; the mere thought of having to say goodbye to him was making things ten times worse. But I had to see him. I had to tell him I wasn't leaving only for a week. I couldn't just write him a letter afterwards, telling him I was getting married...

I stood up.

"I'll be back soon," I said in a toneless voice.

Aimée nodded, looking very apprehensive now. "I'll wait for you," she whispered.

"Be careful on your way down," Mélanie called as I walked out. "Maxime and the prefects are patrolling!"

I waved to thank her and left.

The large corridor was deserted; the gracious, curvy women lazily stretched in the immense classical paintings lining the wall lifted their head in a doleful gesture, watching as I ran past them in my blue dressing gown. One of them, a nymph who was dipping her feet in a greenish pond, shot at me idly:

"You're going to be all hot and sweaty if you go on like that!"

I smiled at her automatically and addressed her with a non-committal wave of the hand, before leaving the Naiad Corridor and turning left into the Battlefield Hall.

The Battlefield Hall was a huge, high-ceilinged room, with one wall pierced with five wide and high windows through which one could see the whole grounds of Beauxbâtons. On the opposite wall hung a single painting that took up all the room available. The painting showed hundreds of knights, horses and standards, in a colourful and oddly harmonious jumble. Swords were drawn, spears were pointed at the enemies' throats, arrows flew high in the blue sky and the wind swept the standards around.

I stayed rooted to the spot, transfixed by this formidable sight. It wasn't everyday the students passing by this painting could witness an actual battle; usually the two armies faced each other, threatening but unmoving, or the knights were merely sitting and talking in their camp while a few generals mounted on beautiful horses parleyed in the middle of the windswept battlefield. It was only my third battle, and I was in my final year.

"Impressive, isn't it?" a voice murmured behind me.

I spun around to find myself face to face with Olivier, my boyfriend for three weeks now. He was smiling down at me from the top of his tall, broad-shouldered frame, his grey-green eyes fixed on my face, displaying his usual kindness -- and something else I couldn't place.

"Hi," I said, circling his head with my arms and briefly leaning my forehead against his cheek. "I haven't seen you in a long time."

"And you were going to leave tomorrow without saying goodbye?"

I could hear the grin in his voice. I would never do that, and he knew it. I wasn't a complicated girl, and he had learnt everything about me very quickly when we first became friends, about a year ago. According to Aimée, he had been in love with me from the moment he had first laid eyes on me - I highly doubted that - and he had needed a year to summon enough courage to ask me out. She also said we were the cutest couple in Beauxbâtons; and she added most of the time that she was full of admiration for me, for having "a guy so infuriatingly even-tempered" for a boyfriend.

My face darkened as I realised I soon wouldn't be allowed to think about him as my boyfriend again.

"What's wrong, Marie-Antoinette?" Olivier asked with concern, pulling me out of my reverie. He always used my full first name -- contrary to Aimée, who was resolutely calling me 'Toine', or even worse 'Toinette'.

I shook my head, stepping out of his embrace. "We have to stop all this," I said.

"All what?" A puzzled expression had replaced the soft tenderness in his eyes.

"I can't be with you anymore." I was speaking in a very low voice, so that he wouldn't hear the tears that were already altering it.

He blinked, trying to take in what I had just said.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked slowly, his eyes full of incomprehension and confusion.

"No, it's not you," I said quickly. "It's -- I'm leaving for good tomorrow. I won't come back from London. That's not my decision, I have to. I'm engaged."

The last word reverberated in the room and echoed on the walls. It was the first time I had said it aloud, and somehow the thing seemed so much more real... I felt like a trap was closing upon me. I turned away from him to wipe my eyes with my sleeve, but his hand clenched on my forearm and wheeled me around so that I was facing him again.

"You're engaged?" he repeated blankly. "To whom?"

I shook my head, shutting my eyes tightly for a second as a name rang in my ears - the same name that had haunted my days and my nights for a week now.

"Never mind that," I answered. I couldn't bring myself to say his name aloud. "I should never have told you, it was supposed to be a secret... But I could hardly leave without giving you an explanation, could I? And I didn't want to explain it later in a letter."

His grip on my arm relaxed and the light in his eyes seemed to go off.

"You - I - That's not..." he stammered. He looked as if he was struggling to get a grip on himself.

"I'm glad you told me now, rather than in a letter," he said more calmly, though his voice was strangely hoarse and his eyes distraught, as if he wasn't really aware of what he was saying. "God, I would never have thought..."

He didn't finish his sentence and just helplessly shook his head. There was a lump in my throat and tears were threatening to spill out of my eyes again. I blinked them back.

"I guess you should leave me now, then," he finally said in a low voice. "You don't want to be caught and told off for your last night here."

I nodded. "I wish we could have spent more time together," I managed to whisper through a constricted throat.

Olivier and I were in two different Clans -- there were three Clans at Beauxbâtons, named after the three magical tribes that had signed a treaty of peace in the place where the castle now stood; he was a Franc, and I was a Celt. We didn't have the same lessons at the same times.

He sighed. "Well, regrets are hardly useful now, are they?" he said, sounding bitter for the first time. "I obviously wish so, too. But we can't, so it's no use torturing ourselves with wishes and regrets!"

I started and reflexively pulled my hand out of his, shocked and a little scared by his uncharacteristically harsh tone. He was repeatedly blinking, too, as he breathed deeply in an attempt to calm down. He finally met my eyes again.

"You should go, Marie-Antoinette," he murmured, his voice tired and defeated. "You'll only hurt the pair of us further by lingering here."

I bit my lip and turned on my heel, not trusting myself to say another word. I had only taken two steps towards the door when his hand came to rest on my shoulder; I froze, surprised by the unexpected contact, and he gently spun me around again. I didn't have the time to see what was coming - suddenly he was kissing me. His kiss was soft and warm, tender and hesitant. I sighed as I leant into him, forgetting everything, everyone, merely enjoying the softness of his lips against mine.

And then it was suddenly over. He leant his forehead against mine, his hand holding my face as his thumb stroked my cheek.

"I couldn't let you go without having kissed you at least once," he whispered in my ear. "Now I can tell you goodbye. Take care of yourself..."

And he turned away from me and strode across Battlefield Hall, until he reached a small door pretending to be a section of the wall, and he disappeared in the passageway beyond.

***

I never knew how I managed to get back to the dormitory. Aimée was kneeling on my bed when I arrived, waiting for me, just as she had promised. I joined her on the bed, kicked off my slippers and got rid of my dressing gown, before sliding under the sheets. Aimée moved to make room for me.

"How did it go?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"As fine as a breaking up can go, I guess," I answered, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Aimée took my hand in hers and squeezed it hard. After a few silent minutes, she bid me goodnight and got to her feet. I distractedly listened as she fumbled with her drawers and got into her bed; when the ruffling of sheets stopped I pointed my wand at the candle-filled chandelier and the candles went off with a slight hissing sound.

I then turned on my stomach and buried my head in my pillow, muffling the sobs that were now shaking my whole body. It was the first time I had cried since my visit to Tinville's office, the 16^th of October. Crying was pointless, but I would allow myself one last night to cry - one last night to mourn for my lost childhood.

***

I hardly remember anything of the trip to Paris, where I was to meet Mr. Lestrange. I remember the warm and stuffy darkness of a Beauxbâtons carriage, pulled by four winged horses. I remember Madame Maxime's large opal-covered hand, gently patting my shoulder from time to time. I remember a patch of pale, watery-blue sky visible through a square window. I remember the soft fragrance diffused by a little bag made of colourful material, full of dried lavender; a small gift from Aimée.

I don't recall thinking of anything or anyone in particular. I gazed into space, my face dry and my usual placid expression hiding the dark emptiness I felt. I may have slept the whole time for all I know.

The carriage abruptly began to go down, startling me out of my stupor.

"We're going to land," Madame Maxime murmured in my ear. "Any time now. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes," I replied, in a voice that didn't sound much like my own.

Madame Maxime huffed. "You ought to be admired, then," she grumbled. "I have never heard of such a ridiculous arrangement. Now I'm no longer your teacher, I can guiltlessly tell you I'm convinced that Monsieur Tinville's fear of losing his position as Headmaster of Beauxbâtons made him lose the very few neurons he was born with! Arranged marriages! Was that Lestrange informed that this was the twentieth century?"

I smiled faintly at this, but my heart had sunk in my chest when she had said she was no longer my teacher.

"I wish I could still be your pupil," I ventured timidly, looking up at her handsome face with hesitation.

She looked back at me, her large dark eyes full with such sorrow that a lump came in my throat and my eyes started to sting.

"My dear child," she said, and her voice quavered on the last word. "I won't be anybody's teacher, you know. Monsieur Tinville has made it clear he doesn't wish me to teach in his school anymore. So I am leaving as well."

She sighed, causing my hair to flutter around my face. Her voice recovered some of the usual vigour and determination I was used to hearing as she went on:

"It's not so bad, really. I couldn't stand taking any order from that half-dwarf anyway. I'm just worried about what may become of my pupils. I shudder to think about the supply Tinville will dig up to replace me. Poor children!"

I blinked hard and swallowed to get rid of the painful lump in my throat. The Academy of Beauxbâtons without Madame Maxime... It was unimaginable. I wouldn't have been surprised if the school soon crumbled to ash since she wasn't there to support it anymore, since her tall silhouette was never to be seen again, pacing up and down the corridors, bestowing in her wake quiet and tidiness. My whole world was, in fact, collapsing before my very eyes.

The hooves of the horses hit a stone surface with a noise like thunder; the carriage ran on a smooth floor for a few meters before coming to a halt, the high wheels wailing as the Braking Spells went off.

The carriage gave a final lurch before stopping completely. The fragrance of lavender came suddenly to my nostrils, much stronger than before, and I became aware I was squeezing the little bag so hard my knuckles were white. I stuffed the bag in my pocket with a trembling hand; at the same time, the door opened with a grating noise and the sunlight flowed in the dark carriage, dazzling me.

Madame Maxime seized my arm and gently pulled on it. I obediently got up, gripping my suitcase, and stepped out of the carriage.

An otherworldly sight greeted me. I was standing on what looked like the square, flat stone roof of a monument, at least fifty meters above the ground, in the middle of an immense square. From the monument descended broad avenues, forming a sort of star of which I was the centre.

"La Place de l'Etoile," said Madame Maxime as an answer to my puzzled look.

My eyes widened.

"Does that mean we landed on top of the Arc de Triomphe?" I asked, not daring to believe my eyes. "In the middle of Paris? What if we're seen by Muggles?"

"There are no Muggles in Europe anymore, Mademoiselle de Syrnac," drawled a horribly familiar voice behind me. "The Dark Lord took care of that."

I wheeled around and found myself face to face with Rodolphus Lestrange. Beside him stood a man I knew from seeing his picture in the newspaper: he was Lionel Draconnier, the French Minister for Magic, who had been elected only two weeks ago.

"Mademoiselle," said the French Minister with a smile. "I'm very happy to meet the young lady who has the privilege to seal the alliance between our Ministry and the Ministry of Great Britain."

I answered some platitude, a mechanic smile on my lips as I smoothed down my blue robes - a nervous habit. While I was talking to the French Minister, I could feel Lestrange's eyes on me, following every gesture of my hands, every word forming on my lips. I was foolish enough to hazard a glance in his direction, and his eyes met mine.

His gaze chilled my blood. His irises were grey-green, a shade that strongly reminded me of Olivier's eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Lestrange's eyes were narrowed and piercing, and the smile that crept up his face when he caught me looking at him, instead of lightening up his aristocratic features, seemed to darken them even more. There was something carnivorous about that smile.

I had never known fear before that moment. I had known anxiety, apprehension, and dread sometimes. But that day, standing on top of the Arc de Triomphe in the centre of the star formed by the convergent avenues of Paris, I knew fear - the fear that encases the heart in a coating of ice and leaves you trembling and paralyzed, unable to move, unable to think. I was terrified by that man.

And the worst was that he knew it.

I had long forgotten what the Minister was babbling about, when Lestrange lazily cut across him.

"We should be going, Draconnier, I don't want to spend more time than necessary on top of that Muggle-built thing. Miss de Syrnac," he added, and his brisk voice softened to a sickly honeyed tone when he turned to look at me, "I'm going to send your suitcase to your hotel, then we'll be Apparating. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

As Lestrange bent over my suitcase, I turned to Madame Maxime. But I didn't even have the time to open my mouth to say goodbye - in a flash of light my suitcase had disappeared, and suddenly I could feel Lestrange's breath on my neck. A second later he had grabbed my arm.

"I'm guiding you," he whispered in my ear; I shuddered, horrified to find him so close to me. A second before Lestrange made me Apparate, I met Madame Maxime's eyes - and I knew, from the worried expression that fleetingly passed across her face, that she had seen the fear in my eyes.

Iron bands enclosed around my body, squeezing it tightly until I couldn't breathe, and Paris disappeared as I was forced into oppressing darkness. Then there was a loud crack and the darkness was abruptly lifted to be replaced by a dazzling light. I swayed a little, dazed by my inexperienced Apparition, but I quickly regained my composure when I felt Lestrange's grip tightening on my arm. I had to bite back a cry of pain; I would surely get a bruise.

Lestrange was already dragging me along; we had Apparated in the middle of a large and sumptuous reception hall, heavily decorated with gildings and crimson velvet hangings. Wizards and witches richly dressed in robes of all colours, embroidered with silver or gold, were coming and going with expressions of self-importance. My uniform of blue silk looked very humble, almost poor, in that display of riches.

Lestrange stopped in front of a reception desk just as luxuriously decorated as the rest of the hall. A witch, wearing black robes with a silver braid at the collar and sleeves, was nervously consulting a huge leather-bound register and didn't look up until Lestrange slammed his fist onto her desk. She jumped in shock and went paper-white at the sight of us.

"Minister!" she squeaked. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were coming, I -"

"Quiet, half-blood!" snarled Lestrange.

The poor girl went from deadly pale to a shade of crimson matching the hangings; she bowed her head in an attitude of humble listening.

"Here is Miss de Syrnac," Lestrange went on coldly. "You will lead her to her room. My brother will be coming shortly to fetch her."

He ignored the receptionist's vague mumbles of consent and turned to me again.

"I want you to shower and put on something nice," he ordered. "In about two hours, you'll meet Mr. Potter at the Ministry. You don't want to look as if you were just out of your classroom."

His scornful gaze trailed down my blue uniform as he said those words. I felt a flush creeping in my cheeks and neck but all I said was:

"Yes sir. You can let go of me now."

He blinked and released my arm. I didn't let a wince of pain alter my features as the blood rushed back to my numb fingers. I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

He merely shrugged, supremely unconcerned, and raised his hand to his hat as a goodbye. I curtseyed in answer; when I looked up again, he had already Disapparated.

I was still staring at the spot he had been a few seconds before, when I heard the receptionist's tearful voice behind me.

"Miss, shall I show you your room?"

***

I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, combing my long light-brown hair; my eyes were closed and I was just savouring the feeling of the silky locks sliding between the teeth of the comb. When I couldn't find a single knot, I gathered my hair with both hands at the back of my head and started making a plait. I finally tied the end of it with an old blue ribbon, so worn out it was white in places. I looked fourteen with my quiet plait hanging down my back. I lifted the plait and placed it round my head, in an old-fashioned hairdo I had always liked in the pictures in my mother's book of fairy tales.

I watched my hair with satisfaction. Not a single hair was escaping the tight plait. Suddenly I looked much older.

There was a knock on the door and when I called "Come in!" it opened very slightly and the half-blood receptionist peered into the room.

"Miss? Mr. Lestrange is downstairs."

My stomach turned and I had to swallow hard to get rid of the lump that had come all of sudden into my throat.

"I'm coming," I said in a would-be detached voice. "Just give me a minute."

The receptionist didn't look happy to have to tell Lestrange's brother to wait, but she withdrew from the room and shut the door nonetheless.

I closed my eyes and leant forwards, resting my forehead on the cool mirror. I was forcing myself to take deep, soothing breaths. I opened my eyes and stared at my hands, which were gripping very tightly the edge of the porcelain sink. I watched them, wanting them to relax; forcing them to relax.

Ten seconds later I was walking down the stairs to meet Mr. Lestrange in the reception hall.

He was impatiently pacing at the bottom of the stairs. He looked a lot like his brother, but his face was strangely lacking in the cold haughtiness the Minister had always shown. When he heard me coming down, he raised his head sharply and scanned me from head to foot with narrowed eyes.

"I thought Rodolphus had told you to put on something nice," he said brusquely. "Not your uniform."

I stiffened immediately. I didn't like being addressed so brutally, but then, I could handle blatant rudeness much better than Rodolphus Lestrange's icy politeness.

"As your brother has kindly pointed out several times," I answered with forced calmness, "my family isn't exactly well-off; this outfit is really the best I have, and if you're not pleased by it I suggest I should -"

"Enough formalities," grunted Lestrange. He seized me roughly by the elbow and dragged me to the main entry of the hotel, at the exact spot where his brother and I had Apparated earlier.

"We're Apparating directly in the Atrium," he barked.

I didn't even bother to nod; he didn't seem to be expecting an answer either, anyway. A moment later, we had both Disapparated.

Crack!

I stumbled as we Apparated in the Atrium. I caught a glimpse of a peacock blue ceiling, constellated with golden symbols, and of a smooth waxed floor made of dark wood, before Lestrange dragged me by the arm - holding tight onto my already bruised flesh - towards golden gates that stood at one end of the gigantic hall.

Beyond the golden gates was a smaller hall, where a dozen grim-faced workers were waiting. They almost cowered in fright at the sight of Lestrange, though many curious glances were also shot in my direction. Lestrange seemed to have noticed that, too, because he growled threateningly at a younger man who was watching me with interest. The man went white and hastily looked away.

We had a lift to ourselves. Lestrange didn't say a word to me as long as the lift kept rising, and I must say I didn't try at all to start a conversation. As soon as the lift stopped with a clatter on Level One, he grabbed my arm again - I was beginning to wonder if they all thought me too dumb to be able to walk on my own - and led me rather unceremoniously along a corridor that was already full of waiting people. Most of them were leaning against the wall, and a heavily pregnant woman had sat on the floor, looking completely exhausted. Lestrange passed by them without sparing them a glance, until he reached the end of the corridor. There, a man in plain black robes was standing guard next to an oak door decorated with complicated carvings. Words were written in golden letters on the oak pane: Rodolphus Lestrange, Minister for Magic.

"She has an appointment with the Minister," Lestrange said gruffly.

The man didn't look impressed at all.

"Oh yes, the little French girl," he said, wrapping me in a careless and rather condescending gaze. "Yeah, the Minister said she would have to wait. He has more important things to do."

Lestrange was astonishingly quick; he dropped my arm and drew his wand from the sheath hanging from his belt in one swift and fluid motion. A second later the wand was pointed under the man's chin.

"And does Rodolphus think," snarled Lestrange, "that I have the time to go and fetch schoolgirls all around London if he doesn't even want to see them? What does he think I am? A bloody babysitter?"

"Put that away, Lestrange," snapped the sentry with impressive calmness. "Nobody's asking you to baby-sit. You can get out of here if you don't want to wait. Now lower your wand before you make a complete fool of yourself."

Lestrange pushed his wand into the man's flesh; but the sentry didn't flinch and they just stared hard at each other for at least thirty seconds. Then Lestrange abruptly put his wand back in its sheath, turned on his heels and strode away without one glance in my direction.

I wasn't going to complain. I had spent the last two minutes massaging my bruised and aching arm but the feeling wasn't back yet in my numb fingers.

"Miss," said the sentinel in a bored voice, "you'll have to wait in the room on your left."

And with a lazy flick of his wand he unlocked a door on the left side of the corridor; I wordlessly opened it and stepped inside, feeling on the back of my neck the envious glares of all those who had been waiting in the corridor, probably for hours, and probably forced to stand there all this time, crammed together like cattle.

The room was small and very gloomy. A candle on a round table displayed a scarce flickering light, barely illuminating the faces of two men sitting on straight-backed chairs and talking quietly. They didn't look up when I came in, and as I wasn't too keen on being looked down upon or laughed at for my 'schoolish' aspect, this suited me perfectly.

I sat on the only chair still available. The hairpins maintaining the plait round my head were painfully pulling on my hair, making me feel as though hundredths of tiny needles were digging in my scalp; I took them off my hair one by one, gathering them in my lap, and I let the plait fall down my back with a sigh of relief.

I suddenly noticed the silence lying over the room - the two men had stopped talking. I cautiously looked up, and wished almost at once that I had kept focusing on the small heap of black hairpins in my lap, for they were watching me with mild surprise. They had on their face that kind of look, typical of grown-ups, that one wears when they find a child playing silly games in the dirt in the middle of a group of adults talking about serious things.

I felt a blush creeping up my neck and cheeks. They were still looking at me, unblinkingly, as if trying to figure out what on earth I was doing here. They were both tall and slim men, quite young, and wealthy if I were to guess from their brand-new, perfectly cut clothes. The thinner had short black hair and glasses, and he was distractedly nibbling his bottom lip as he surveyed me; he looked tired and mournful. His friend was broader in the shoulder and didn't seem quite as sad as the bespectacled man, though he did look serious. His hair was black, too, but it was sleeker and longer. Though none of them wore Rodolphus' Lestrange disdainful scowl, I could tell they were from ancient families. The man with long hair had those delicate and pale features that were a distinguishing sign of aristocratic blood; the man with glasses didn't show such blatant signs of nobility, but he was visibly the sort of man that is used to giving orders, not receiving them.

I abruptly realised we had been staring hard at each other for a whole minute; the air was tense with wariness and the silence was deafening. The situation was growing more embarrassing every second; at last I felt I had to break the silence.

"Hello," I ventured timidly.