That Christmas break, Cassian and Bathsheda left the castle, portkeying straight into France. On the outskirts of the country, the hills rolled out ahead, covered with frost. Pines stood tall, frost sparking on the needles.

Flamel Manor was hidden behind them.

You didn’t see it until it let you. Carved from pale stone and too many centuries, settled inside a natural basin of silver trees and sleeping wildflowers. Unicorns drank from the stream. Two phoenixes perched on an open beam, their tails trailing smoke and gold. A Niffler bolted under the hedge, clutching a watch. Thestrals kept to the treeline. Cassian grinned, but Bathsheda sighed beside him.

“Don’t,” she muttered.

Cassian tilted his head. “What, me?”

She pointed a finger at him without looking. “You.”

Cassian groaned. His attempts to teach Thestrals Norse grammar had been sabotaged again!

They crossed the outer garden path. A pair of bluebell vines reached for Cassian’s wrist. He let them wrap, then brushed them off. When they reached the main arch, the door swung open.

Apolline Delacour stood waiting.

She smiled and pulled Bathsheda into a hug. Then she turned to Cassian, eyes scanning the beard.

“Beard adds a charm.”

Cassian gave her a look. “Finally, you accept I’m charming. Took you long enough.”

Apolline sniffed. “It’s the beard. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He grinned. “I’ll take the win.”

From behind, a blur of curls launched off the flagstones. Cassian barely caught her.

“Gods, alright, easy, gremlin, you weigh a ton…”

Gabrielle clung to him. He patted her head. “Liar! I weigh nothing.”

“Heh. Missed me that much?”

She nodded without letting go. “Last time I saw you, you were on a deathbed.”

Cassian pulled a face. “Bit dramatic, aren’t we?”

“You were pale and covered in blood.”

“I was relaxing.”

She stuck out her tongue. He stuck his out back.

Fleur stepped into the hall behind them, smiling bright. “Welcome.”

She gave Bathsheda a proper hug, then Cassian a quick one. He stepped back, giving her a once-over.

“All grown up. Look at you.”

Fleur laughed.

“How are the studies?” Bathsheda asked.

Fleur brightened. “Amazing. I should thank you for recommending me to Master Goshawk. She said she wasn’t planning to take another apprentice after Selena, but since it was you and Grandpa Nicolas who wrote… she gave me a chance.”

Cassian made a face. “Mostly Nicolas, probably.”

“Still counts,” Fleur said.

Cassian threw Gabrielle over his shoulder with all the grace of a sack of flour. She shrieked like he’d just kidnapped a crown princess, kicking her legs and smacking his back with both fists. He ignored every bit of it, grinning and strolled down the hall.

Fleur sighed behind them. Apolline followed. They passed under the main arch. The stone glimmered faint gold, runes tucked into every corner, flickering softly under the charm-light. Cassian eyed the nearest wall.

“Either this place is sentient,” he said, “or someone’s got a serious thing for ambient scriptwork.”

Bathsheda made a quiet sound beside him, approval, maybe. Her gaze was already tracking along the ceiling mouldings, following the repeating patterns above the beams.

The corridor curved slowly, opening wider as they went. Somewhere deeper in, someone was cooking. They could hear a pan scraping across metal, the slow sound of something frying, the faint hiss of magic being stirred into batter. Butter and something sweet was in the air already.

Gabrielle finally wriggled enough to get her head up.

“You’ll drop me!”

“Not if I don’t care,” Cassian replied, spinning a slow half-circle just to make her squeal.

She slapped his back again. “Wicked!”

Bathsheda arched a brow at him. “Is this your idea of diplomacy?”

“Technically, I’ve done worse,” he said with a laugh, dropping her with a thud.

She kicked his shin. He stepped neatly out of range.

Bathsheda finally turned from the wall. “This place has too much magic in the stone. You can feel it humming.”

Cassian nodded. “Centuries of work.”

Apolline smiled faintly. “Master Nicolas updates them every time he makes a breakthrough.”

Fleur walked ahead. “We’ve set up rooms for you both in the east wing. The garden’s right below. The pond freezes over at night, reflecting the moonlight. It is absolutely magical.”

Cassian hummed. “I’ll be offended if this place doesn’t try to eat me at least once.”

Gabrielle muttered, “I hope it does.”

Cassian snickered, “Eh, if not, I might tickle you until it does.”

She ran off screaming. Cassian whistled, following with others.

Nicolas and Perenelle were sat at the centre of the long table, heads bowed together over some kind of puzzle laid out in runes and flat metal discs. The moment Cassian stepped into the room, they both looked up. Then Perenelle laughed.

“You’re early.”

Cassian dropped into the nearest chair. “A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to. Baths is early though.”

Perenelle rolled her eyes. “It’s good to see you upright.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been upright for months now. Rude.”

Bathsheda took the seat beside him, already sliding her gloves off, brushing a bit of frost from her sleeve.

Across from Perenelle, a woman sat calmly. Long silver-blonde hair hung straight over one shoulder, almost to her waist. Veela, full-blooded.

Cassian gave her a polite nod. “Madame Delacour.”

Vivienne smiled. “Thank you for helping my Fleur last year. And don’t be too polite. I’m a servant to Master and Madame Flamel.”

Perenelle let out a soft sigh. “Ignore her. She’s a dear friend.”

Vivienne dipped her head, didn’t argue.

Next to her sat a man Cassian hadn’t met but could’ve guessed from the jawline alone, same as Fleur’s. His hair was darker, streaked at the temples with iron grey, and his eyes were sharp.

Armand Delacour. Head of the French DMLE. And yes. He took Apolline’s last name.

The man gave a nod.

Cassian returned it.

They settled for dinner soon. Plates were passed. Wine appeared. Someone laughed at something Gabrielle whispered, then promptly shushed her when she tried to repeat it louder.

Nicolas lifted his glass halfway. “We finished the footpath across the globe. Added a few more routes as well. Antarctica, too. Just in case.”

Cassian paused mid-bite. Gave an impressed hum. “You’re quick. I thought China would bog it down for at least half a year.”

Nicolas shook his head. “After a few weeks, it was clear Marauder wouldn’t show. He was never brave. Clever, yes. Careful. Once he realised we were involved, he would’ve vanished.”

Cassian nodded. That tracked.

Perenelle glanced at Cassian. “And you? How was your summer?”

He shrugged casually. “Walked a few ancient forests. Found what’s left of some Druidic networks. Some dead ends, a few nasty curses, one very offended bog spirit. An ancient spirit gave me a kill order.”

He took a sip. “Still no magic. But lately…”

He turned his wrist, fingers twitching over the stem of his glass. “I can feel it again.”

Nicolas didn’t blink. “I noticed.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Did I spark?”

“Something like that,” Nicolas said with a chuckle.

The conversation drifted after that. A ward Nicolas was still annoyed about from the seventies. Armand’s adventures, and the increasing crime rate in France. Gabrielle arguing with Fleur over whether a phoenix could get drunk.

She leaned across the table and caught Fleur’s face in both hands, thumbs pressing into her cheeks. “They have incredible regenerative powers,” she said, dead serious. “Alcohol is basically poison to the liver. So phoenixes can regenerate out of drunkenness.”

Fleur stared at her, unimpressed. “They don’t regenerate instantly.”

Gabrielle shook her head hard enough to rattle Fleur’s hair. “Their tears cure basilisk poison. Basilisk. That’s death in liquid form. There is no world where wine wins.”

Fleur pulled back, rubbing her jaw. “That doesn’t mean they can’t feel it.”

Gabrielle crossed her arms. “Impossible.”

Fleur huffed through her nose, long-suffering. “You’ve never actually seen one drink.”

“I don’t need to,” Gabrielle said. “Logic.”

Cassian, halfway through his wine, paused. “I’m fascinated by the peer-reviewed study you’re about to publish.”

Gabrielle turned on him. “You’ve met phoenixes. Tell her.”

He considered it, then shrugged. “I’ve seen one steal brandy and set a curtain on fire. Interpret that how you like.”

Fleur shot him a look. “That answers nothing.”

“Correct,” he said. “That’s how research works.”

Gabrielle huffed, still unconvinced, and reached for the bread basket biting with too much force.

***

After dinner, they drifted into the study. Nicolas took the chair by the desk, Perenelle settled opposite, and Cassian dropped into the nearest seat. Bathsheda stayed standing, leaning against the bookcase.

Cassian broke the quiet first.

“Alright,” he said. “What’ve you found? Any clue where the Crawlers were heading?”

Nicolas lifted a hand. A world model bloomed into the air between them. Spinning slowly. Continents outlined in faint gold.

He tapped it and Australia lit up. Then he drew an arrow. North-west.

“So far,” Nicolas said, “we’ve got two working ideas.”

The arrow split.

One curved back and landed on Britain.

The other crossed the map and settled over Greece.

Perenelle tilted her head. “The first is Britain. We assumed direction mattered. But the more we tracked it, the less confident we became.”

Nicolas nodded. “The sites in other countries showed movement as well. No Crawler sightings, but the same pattern.”

Cassian watched the model turn. “So Britain’s not certain.”

“No,” Nicolas said. “But it’s plausible.”

Perenelle took over. “They may have felt your spellwork. Since it is the same spell. Expecting… kin maybe.”

Cassian let out a breath through his nose. “Lovely thought.”

He looked back at the globe, brows drawing. “And Greece.”

Nicolas’s hand stilled. He rubbed at his wrist.

“This one’s worse,” he said. “A few years ago, something happened there. Big enough that I removed my own memories. And everyone else’s.”

Bathsheda straightened slightly.

“That alone narrows the list,” Nicolas went on. “Whatever it was, it hit hard. Hard enough that none of us trusted ourselves to remember it.”

Perenelle’s mouth pressed thin. “Except Cassian.”

Cassian nodded. “Yeah.”

Nicolas sighed. “Night Crawlers consume everything. Wards. Runes. Memory. Emotion. They strip a place down to bare magic. If they’re moving toward Greece…”

He didn’t finish.

“They may be trying to eat the constraints,” Perenelle said instead. “Whatever’s holding that site shut. Whatever we locked away.”

“To free it,” Nicolas added.

(Check Here)

Detected presence in the room. Cold spots everywhere. No visible entity. Definitely a lurker. Salt ineffective.

—

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