"Everything I said... It's not true. I was just playing a game, that's all.
"I know. And that's a loss. © Sherlock
***Once upon a time, her name was Jacqueline. It seems like a different life now. Jacqueline de Tréfle-Pique, to be precise. Now, after years of wandering in cold England, her childhood nickname has become ingrained in the hardened soul of a young girl.
Sparrow — that's what her mother called her when she was still alive. Perhaps it was the last thing that connected the half-veiled girl from an ancient ducal family to her past. A past that included a carefree childhood, a loving family, studies at Beauxbaton, obsessive tutors, and the perpetually gloomy bodyguard René Bonchar, a mercenary from France. Her father, who was aiming for the position of Minister of Magic, bought out his contract from the goblins and put him in charge of protecting his only daughter. He did the same with several other bodyguards, who appeared alongside him and his wife. But this did not help against several star mercenaries who, on one fateful evening, somehow found themselves on the family estate.
In one evening, Jacqueline lost everything. Flashes of spells took the lives of her maids, and only the persistent presence of her loyal bodyguard prevented her from being killed as well. In just a couple of minutes, a spell of immobilisation struck the desperately struggling girl, and then the burning estate began to recede from her eyes at the speed of a good racing broom.
Jacqueline hated him for it. At the same time, she was terrified that the silent bald mage would leave her alone, considering his contract fulfilled. But he stayed. In constant relocation, he taught her to disguise herself, hide, and survive. He told her about what had finally shattered the rose-coloured glasses she had worn for seventeen years of life in high society.
No names — only nicknames. No attachments — only business interests. And always be on guard. After all, the bounty hunters sent after the survivor never slept. The contract was for her dead body. Such was the farewell message from her father's "political opponents," who, as it turned out, had a side that was far from humane beneath the mask of a loving father and ideal husband. Politics and loud slogans are just the tip of the iceberg in the never-ending struggle between the powerful. A struggle in which her father had lost.
The mercenary's savings ran out very quickly. The last of their money was spent on passage to another part of Europe. Jacqueline, of course, still had some jewellery, but even that could not be sold for more than the price of scrap metal. Otherwise, the trail would inevitably lead back to her.
They had to work. The best thing René knew how to do was guard or kill. Not the best qualities for a peaceful life, but for fugitives with a couple of galleons in their pockets, it depended on how you looked at it.
Security and murder were dirty work. Bandits of all shapes and sizes, robbery and smuggling, drugs and other unpleasant things. Bonchar did his best to protect the girl from the worst of it, but even what Jacqueline saw during her two years of wandering was enough to gradually harden her soul. Fortunately, she was excellent at bodyguard work, her mentor taught her well, and her heritage as the heiress of an ancient magical family, unadulterated by the fiery Veil blood, turned yesterday's student into a powerful mage. She was particularly good at curses. Like the one she had secretly cast on a vile slime that had decided to have some fun with a captive she-wolf. It would have been interesting to see his helpless attempts to do something to the helpless girl with his rotten... ahem. But even that wasn't enough.
The first thing Jacqueline felt when she woke up was cold. She also felt the attentive gaze of the inhuman eyes of an old house elf, who was shamelessly staring at the bound captive. Jacqueline realised immediately that she was bound. An unknown spell prevented her from moving any part of her body except her head. A moment later, the elf disappeared with a soft crack.
"Jacqueline," she heard the voice of her loyal bodyguard to her right as she tried to look around. But turning to get a better look at him proved to be quite a challenge.
"Bon, are you here?" Jacqueline was relieved to see the silhouette of the mercenary, who, just like her, was sitting on an iron chair, bound with black straps coming out of the armrests for good measure.
"As you can see," he replied, nodding wearily. He wasn't wearing a mask, and now she could see the clean-shaven, angular face of a man in his forties, his turbulent life leaving its mark on him. A huge scar on his forehead formed a sharp angle pointing down towards his face, a short vertical scar crossed his right eyebrow and another one on his upper lip. There was a jagged burn mark on his chin and a small scar on his left cheek.
The picture was completed by a torn ear and what appeared to be a missing foot. René had acquired almost all of these before he came to work for her father. Jacqueline, of course, tried to find out where these terrible marks came from, but he always joked that he had once accidentally encountered a Muggle car and it had turned out to be stronger than him. However, now he looked quite presentable, although he was not wearing his own clothes... wait a minute...
"Mordred!" Jacqueline strained her eyes and saw a white shirt she didn't recognise instead of his usual blouse.
"What happened?" the mercenary replied tensely.
"My clothes!" Jacqueline's indignation knew no bounds. Made to order, from acromantula silk with all the charms, her outfit had cost a pretty penny. Almost as much as they were supposed to get for protecting that damn Richard's cargo. "That bastard stripped me!"
Jacqueline was ready to continue her outburst, but her mood was dampened by the hoarse, muffled laughter of the bound Rene.
"What's so funny?" the girl continued.
"Nothing, really... We're sitting in the basement of an obviously dark wizard from an ancient family, chained up in magic suppressors after trying to kill him, and all you care about is where your rags are?" Bonchar said with a weary smile. "I don't think you'll ever change..."
"Get lost," Jacqueline replied good-naturedly, smiling as well. "I see you've got some new scars."
"Yeah, I do," the man grunted, trying to assess the scar on his lip with his tongue. "Strange that my leg doesn't hurt. The wound should have opened up when it was split..."
"Because you don't have one. Just like you don't have a brain," the Veela snapped. "You should have listened to that asshole and left while he was offering. Why did you attack him?
"Because, you idiot, they don't leave any witnesses alive. He would have attacked us if we had tried to leave. At least we had a chance..."
"No, you didn't," interrupted a cold voice coming from somewhere behind the door that had opened silently. The tall figure of Sirius Black blocked the light from the doorway, casting a long black shadow that seemed to have a life of its own as it flickered. Jacqueline thought she saw those same bone-chilling, terrifying black tentacles flash in the depths of the shadow. However, there were other reasons to be afraid.
At the sight of the dark mage, Rene immediately froze and began to stare intently at the newcomer, who had now dropped all pretence. And he did not like what he saw. He had seen that face before. It was slightly different, emaciated, with a wolfish grin and mad eyes staring out from a "Wanted" poster. The face of the last heir to the Black family, who were not known for their mercy on the battlefield or their humane treatment of their enemies. Falling into the hands of a hereditary dark mage who had recently escaped from prison, let's just say, smelled like a bad turn of events. Very bad. So bad that the man put all his feigned bravado and nervous jokes aside, feverishly trying to come up with a way... no, not to escape. He didn't even hope for that. Only to exchange a painless death for his useless ward, whom the Grim Reaper had finally caught up with, no matter how much he delayed the moment. What a pity that nothing came to mind yet... Meanwhile, Black waved his hand and conjured an elegant chair out of thin air, sat down in front of them, and stared at their pale faces.
They spent several seconds in ringing silence, examining each other, until the silence was broken by a cheerful voice.
"Well, shall we talk?
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970