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"You do not look convinced." Remarked René de Ségur.
"Every expert I spoke with was unable to tell me why there were too little flames after the explosion. And the goblins had a ward against such crystals. It was old, but it was working at their last inspection three months ago."
"And the second explanation?"
"A wizard having elemental capabilities. A fire affinity to be precise. The problem with this theory is that having this type of power does not make you invincible, and there were thousands of goblins inside the fortress. That a wizard managed to eliminate all of them, make an asteroid-sized crater and escape is ...not very likely."
"There is no wizard or witch having manifested this ability in the last fifty years in Europe, and it is one truly difficult to hide and master." The minister closed his eyes, before reopening them, a light of resistance in them.
"All right. Do what you can Armand to reorganise our military forces. In the mean time, I'm going to talk with the opposition. This disaster offers us an opportunity to purge the pure-blood supremacists and get rid of their incompetence. I'm going to seize it. This disaster stems from the Goblin Liaison Office: I don't care if Charles de Male Foi has his cousin half-dead at the hospital; this time he is going to be fired. He and his cronies have flirted with treason for too long, it's time they learn to do their job honestly or go to prison."
"Do you think Hélène de Broglie and the rest of the opposition are going to let you dismiss the man? He was one of their go-between when they wanted unofficial talks."
"I think so." The Minister let a nasty smile show on his face. "Dumbledore's speech at the ICW Assembly of Geneva managed to put them into a white rage." Delacour shivered internally at the image, as Hélène de Broglie was a Lady in terms of power, and being near her had surely been not pleasant.
"The Supreme Mugwump made himself an enemy this day."
"He made an enemy of every French this day." Corrected the Minister. "Given the dark rumours circulating about the direction taken by Hogwarts and the rest of the British Isles under his rule, I was surprised at his willingness to treat our country like dirt. But I will not forget it. France will not forget it. And if there's a justice in this world, Dumbledore's comments about our 'inexcusable neglect of France's most critical wards' will come to bite him back. He deserves no less."
"Well," said philosophically Armand Delacour. "What did you expect from the man who intervened against Grindelwald only when half of Europe was burnt to ashes?"
21 July 1992, Manoir des Anges, France
The young girl contemplated a long time her home manor. She knew the portkey in her hand, a small bronze trinket, had a limited time to activate, but...this was her home. It was the last time for many months she would see it.
The white marble, the warm sun, the joyous song of the birds were going to be sorely missed. More than ever, she wished there wasn't a way to stay.
But it was impossible.
Her father was in a hospital, with no Healer able to say when he would regain consciousness. Her mother had died years ago. All the cousins and relatives had refused to take her, like she had suddenly caught all the diseases in the world. Even the Board of Beauxbatons, greatest and supposedly impartial Magical School of France, had refused to admit her in their ranks.
Her long blonde hair flowing in the air, the young girl tightened her fist. She would come back. The list of humiliations her so-called family had reaped on her head had been endless, and being forced to study in a foreign country was just the most recent.
Lyre de Male-Foi contemplated a last time the splendid towers of the Manoir des Anges before grabbing her trunk, speaking the activation password and disappearing into a whirlwind of magic.
23 July 1992, MacDougal Manor, Ireland
Morag MacDougal breathed a long sigh as her three cousins walked away from the ancestral circle of stones, regretting once more the tradition of absolute honesty in this magical place.
Admitting to her close family, and the young MacDougal family was very close with her cousins, that she had made no friends of any sort in her Hogwarts year...it had not been one of her proudest moments. But it was the cold truth. Hogwarts had never felt like the Irish home she loved, and the end of the year exams had destroyed what little friendship they were among the first-years of Ravenclaw House.
The Gryffindors had some right to call the Ravens bookworms and know-it-alls. It was one of the rare Lions valid remarks, but it did not make it less true. And in the end for what? Of the four Houses, there were about one of two really studying like they should and trying to win the House Cup loyally. The last Feast had showed how the hard work was valued.
About as much as the Old Ways.
Magic was declining, half of the students were a shame for wizardry and witchcraft.
If it had been possible, Morag would have transferred to another school. Impossible of course, and not just because she would have to admit to her parents everything.
No, it was not the solution. Exiting Hogwarts would leave a serious mark upon her name when the time came to enter the Wizengamot. And perhaps there was a possibility to make friends in other Houses.
Stranger things had happened. Once in a time, they were competent DADA Professors...
25 July 1992, Somewhere in the French Alps
Alexandra Victoria Potter watched the sun setting on the mountains in a crepuscular colour. So high in altitude, the sky and the panorama were breathtaking, far more spectacular than everywhere else she had formerly been.