Harry hadn't planned on going to France.
Not even a little.
From the beginning, the plan had been clean and sensible—Jason, Charles, and Cassia would handle France, dig through Felix Gachet's past, and uncover whoever had paid for his death. Harry would remain in Britain, manage the investigation at Zeus Hotel, and keep the Serpent Court coordinated.
That plan lasted exactly one evening.
They were seated in one of the quieter lounges of Slytherin Castle when Jason casually brought it up, as if he were suggesting an afternoon walk.
"You know," Jason said, swirling a glass of firewhisky, "France isn't just ministries and dead paper trails."
Harry didn't look up from the ledger he was reviewing. "I'm not going."
Jason smiled. The kind of smile that meant he already knew he was winning.
"It has vineyards," Jason continued. "Historic architecture. Pre-Roman wards older than Hogwarts. And food so good it should be illegal."
Harry's quill slowed.
"And," Jason added lightly, "you've never left Britain without running from something or bleeding afterward."
That did it.
Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
For a boy who had spent half his childhood locked in a cupboard under the stairs, the idea of travel—real travel—still carried a dangerous allure. He'd seen Italy. Felt the sun on ancient stone. Walked streets that weren't trying to crush him.
France wasn't going to be battlefield.
France was… France.
Cassia, who had been quietly watching the exchange, smirked. "You don't even have to work," she said. "You and I can explore. Let Jason and Charles do the dirty digging."
Jason raised his glass. "I am deeply offended by how accurate that is."
Harry closed his eyes.
A moment later, a familiar chime echoed softly in his mind.
Harry sighed.
"…Fine," he said at last. "But I'm not interrogating anyone. And if this turns into another life and death situation, I'm blaming you."
Jason grinned broadly. "Sure."
For all that Harry had been hesitant about leaving Britain, it turned out he was the most restless of them all once the journey actually began.
The Knight Bus was exactly as he remembered it—lurching, screeching, and violently unconcerned with human comfort. Its triple-decker interior rattled like a box of cursed bones as it hurtled through the countryside, squeezing between hedges, stone walls, and sleeping Muggle cars with reckless abandon.
Harry sat by the window, fingers gripping the seat as the scenery blurred into streaks of darkness.
It was a long journey.
Even by magical standards.
Strangers filled the bus—witches half-asleep, a snoring wizard clutching a cage of puffskeins, a pair of foreign travelers whispering in rapid French. With so many unknown ears around them, Harry, Cassia, Jason, and Charles spoke little. Words were dangerous when walls listened.
Still, Harry couldn't help the quiet thrill building in his chest.
When the Knight Bus finally screeched to a halt, Harry nearly staggered as he stepped down onto solid ground.
Dover.
The air smelled of salt and wind, sharp and clean. White cliffs loomed faintly in the distance, ghostly under the moonlight. And as Harry's eyes swept the harbor, one thing became immediately clear.
"There's nothing here," he muttered.
Jason frowned, scanning the area with a curse-breaker's instincts. "No wards. No detection grids."
Cassia's expression darkened. "Not even an auror."
Dover was completely wizard-free.
For a location so close to continental Europe—so close to France—it should have been crawling with Ministry personnel. Detection wards. Anti-smuggling enchantments. Auror patrols.
Instead, there was nothing.
Harry felt a faint chill crawl up his spine.
"This place should be locked down," he said quietly. "If someone wanted to move people or artifacts in and out of Britain without permission… this would be the perfect gap."
Jason snorted softly. "British Ministry efficiency at its finest."
Harry remembered stories he'd heard from guests at Zeus Hotel—foreign wizards speaking casually about slipping into Britain through Dover, taking a ferry from Calais as if borders were suggestions rather than laws.
Getting in was easy.
Getting out was another matter entirely.
He knew that much.
The French Ministry of Magic was nothing like Britain's. Near Calais, magical patrols were constant. Wards layered on wards. Detection charms woven into the very air. Illegal crossings were met with swift detainment—or worse.
Which was why, when they boarded the small ferry bound for Calais, none of them expected this to be simple.
The boat was modest, creaking softly as it cut through the dark waters of the Channel. A handful of passengers huddled on deck, cloaks drawn tight against the cold wind.
Harry leaned against the railing, watching moonlight ripple across the sea.
For a brief moment, a translucent window flickered at the edge of his vision.
[Area Status: Channel Crossing]
[Border Zone: High Surveillance (Destination)]
[Illegal Entry Risk: Moderate]
[Stealth & Compliance Recommended]
Harry dismissed it with a thought, jaw tightening.
"So," Cassia said quietly, stepping beside him. "Still excited?"
He glanced back toward the shrinking outline of Britain, then toward the unseen shores of France.
"Yes," he admitted. "But not for the reasons I thought."
The ferry rocked gently carrying them away from familiar ground and into a country where Felix Gachet's secrets were buried beneath bureaucracy, forged identities, and blood.
Harry felt it then—that familiar tightening in his chest.
France wasn't just a destination.
It was a threshold.
And once they crossed it, there would be no turning back without answers.
The wind off the Channel grew colder as the ferry pushed forward, its engines humming steadily beneath Harry's feet. Ahead, through the thinning mist, faint lights began to appear on the horizon—Calais.
France.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
That was close enough.
He lifted his wand casually, the motion hidden by the angle of his body and the press of other passengers leaning over the rail. His magic spread outward in a smooth, practiced wave, sinking into the deck, the railings, the mast, and the very air above the ferry.
A Notice-Me-Not Charm, layered, reinforced, and widened far beyond what most adult wizards would dare attempt.
The effect was immediate and subtle.
Muggles blinked, frowned, and then lost interest in the upper deck entirely. Conversations drifted. People turned away, suddenly convinced there was nothing worth looking at here. Even the crew passed by without so much as a glance.
Harry exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he said under his breath. "We don't dock."
Cassia stiffened slightly. "French Ministry?"
Harry nodded. "Calais is crawling with them. If we step foot there officially, someone will notice."
Jason's lips curled into a sharp smile. "Then we do it your way."
Harry didn't answer. He simply raised his hand.
The magic responded instantly.
The space above them twisted—not violently, but beautifully. The air folded in on itself, stretching into a vast, spiraling aperture of darkness and blue light. Runes flared briefly along its edges, ancient and elegant, before stabilizing into a massive Astral Gate suspended directly over the deck.
The portal did not roar or crackle.
A slow, inexorable pull radiated from its center, like the tide answering the moon.
One by one, the members of the Serpent Court stepped forward without hesitation.
Cassia went first, gripping her coat as the force lifted her cleanly off the deck, her form stretching into light before vanishing upward.
Charles followed, then Jason, each of them swallowed whole by the gate with practiced calm.
Harry lingered for half a heartbeat, casting one last glance toward the distant lights of Calais—toward borders, ministries, and rules that no longer held him.
Then the pull claimed him.
The world inverted.
There was no sensation of falling—only the feeling of being drawn, as if reality itself had decided he belonged somewhere else. Stars and shadow blurred together, and then—
They emerged.
Not on a dock.
Not near a city.
But on a quiet stretch of countryside far from Calais, where the night air smelled of grass and damp earth instead of salt and bureaucracy. The Astral Gate collapsed silently above them, sealing itself as if it had never existed.
Harry straightened, heart steady.
Behind them, Britain and its borders.
Ahead of them, France—and the answers they had come for.
"Welcome to the continent," Jason said softly.
Harry allowed himself a small smile.
The moment they were safely away from Calais, the Serpent Court split exactly as planned.
Not with whispered urgency.
But with the quiet efficiency of people who trusted one another completely.
Paris welcomed Harry like a dream.
The city was alive—lights reflecting off the Seine, music drifting through narrow streets, cafés glowing warmly even late into the evening. For the first time since leaving Britain, Harry felt the weight on his shoulders ease just a little.
Cassia noticed immediately.
"You're smiling," she said, adjusting the strap of her bag as they crossed a crowded bridge.
Harry blinked, then huffed softly. "Am I?"
"You are," she replied, amused. "Try not to look like you're planning a heist while sightseeing."
He grinned at that, genuine and unguarded.
They moved like ordinary tourists.
They climbed the Eiffel Tower at dusk, Cassia insisting on photographs while Harry pretended to complain but never actually resisted. They wandered through the Louvre—not rushing, not hunting secrets—just walking, listening, observing.
Yet even then, the system hummed quietly at the edge of Harry's awareness.
[Passive Skill: Observe — Active]
[Hidden enchantments detected: Minimal]
[Threat Level: Low]
France felt… different.
More modern than Britain's wizarding world. Wizards blended seamlessly with Muggles here, magic woven subtly into architecture rather than screamed through tradition. Harry cataloged it all silently, not because he had to—but because he wanted to understand.
At night, they ate.
Real food.
Rich sauces.
Warm bread.
Cheese that Cassia swore was "worth committing crimes for."
Harry listened more than he spoke, letting Cassia fill the silence with stories from her ward creation training days, from mistakes she'd learned from the hard way.
Across the city, Jason and Charles followed a very different road.
Their destination was a narrow street tucked between forgotten buildings—old stone, iron balconies, and windows that watched without being seen.
Charles stopped before a discreet door marked only by a faded sigil.
"This is it," he said quietly.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Your friend lives here?"
"Works here," Charles corrected. "Lives somewhere nobody knows."
He knocked—not once, not twice, but three times in an uneven rhythm.
The door opened a fraction.
A single sharp eye studied them.
"Charles," a voice said slowly. "You look like trouble."
Charles smiled faintly. "Always have been, Lucien."
The door opened fully.
Lucien Moreau was everything Felix Gachet had pretended to be—and more. A wizard who dealt in information, magical paper trails, forged identities, and things that shouldn't exist.
His gaze flicked to Jason. "And this one?"
"Family," Charles said.
That was enough.
Inside, the air smelled of old parchment and spell ink. Runes crawled lazily along the walls, reacting to their presence. Lucien gestured them toward a table littered with files, crystal memory slivers, and half-burned documents.
"You're not here for tea," Lucien said flatly. "So start talking."
Jason didn't waste time.
"We're looking for Felix Gachet."
Lucien's fingers stilled.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back.
"That name," he said, "hasn't been used in months."
Charles's eyes sharpened. "You know him."
"I knew of him," Lucien corrected. "A clerk. Small man. The kind that looks over his shoulder even when alone."
Jason folded his arms. "Why run?"
Lucien's lips thinned. "Because someone paid him. A lot. And when money like that changes hands, people start disappearing."
Charles exchanged a look with Jason.
This was bigger than they'd thought.
And somewhere in France, Harry Potter was smiling under city lights—completely unaware that the game had just escalated.
They reunited in a small Muggle hotel on the outskirts of Paris, the kind of place that smelled faintly of detergent and old carpets, where magic lay quiet and unnoticed beneath layers of normalcy. It was intentional. No wards humming in the walls, no enchanted listeners, no Ministry eyes. Just a rented conference room, a round table, and four people who carried too many secrets between them.
Harry was already there with Cassia when Jason and Charles arrived.
Harry looked… relaxed, at least by his standards. The last two days of sightseeing had put a little color back into his face, though the sharpness in his eyes never truly faded. Cassia leaned against the table, arms crossed, expression calm but alert.
Jason didn't bother with pleasantries.
"We found him," he said, pulling out a thin folder and dropping it onto the table. "Or rather—we found who he really was."
Harry straightened immediately.
Charles nodded. "French wizard. Mid-level employee. Worked in the Floo Network Regulation Department."
That made Harry's brows knit together.
"The Floo Department," he repeated. "So he had access."
"Exactly," Jason said grimly. "Access, authority, and just enough clearance to make things… disappear for a few minutes at a time."
Cassia exhaled slowly. "Closed networks. Delayed responses. Misrouted connections."
Harry's mind clicked into place.
"He wasn't a fighter," Harry said quietly. "He was logistics."
Charles slid a photograph across the table—grainy, taken from a distance. A modest wizarding office building in France. Nothing remarkable.
"Felix was approached by someone involved in long-term illegal operations," Charles continued. "Smuggling, artifact theft, black ritual components. The kind of work that needs silence when it happens."
Jason took over. "They paid him to temporarily disable or reroute several Floo access points during a planned hit. Just long enough for an attack to happen without immediate Ministry response."
Harry's jaw tightened. "And he took the money."
"Yes," Jason said. "A lot of money."
Cassia frowned. "But he didn't do the job."
"No," Charles said softly. "He panicked."
The room fell quiet.
Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the table.
"So he took the payment," he said, "and then vanished."
"Changed his name. Forged documents. Came to Britain," Jason said. "Tried to change his magical signature entirely."
"And the attack still happened," Harry said.
Jason nodded. "Without the Floo closures."
Cassia's expression darkened. "Which means it went loud."
"Very loud," Charles confirmed. "Aurors. Hit Wizards. Emergency responders. The manor was stormed mid-operation."
Jason's voice dropped. "In the chaos… the man who hired Felix lost his brother."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment.
That explained everything.
"And the attacker?" Harry asked.
"Captured," Jason said. "Alive. Imprisoned."
Cassia stiffened. "So his men are loose."
"Yes," Charles said. "And furious."
Jason nodded once. "Felix broke an underworld contract. Took the gold and ran. That kind of betrayal doesn't get forgiven."
Cassia folded her arms tighter. "So they hunted him."
Harry exhaled slowly.
"And killed him in my hotel," he said.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Jason met his gaze. "Yes."
Harry asked calmly "What was his name?"
Charles exhaled. "Julien Dubois."
The name carried no menace on its own.
Cassia frowned. "Dubois?" she asked. "As in the Ministry donor?"
"Yes," Jason said quietly. "That Dubois."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "Explain."
"Julien Dobois is well known across France and parts of Western Europe," Charles said. "Philanthropist. Patron of magical restoration projects. A frequent guest at Ministry gatherings. He funds scholarships, donates to healer wards, and sponsors historical preservation."
"A good man," Cassia said flatly.
"A convincing one," Jason corrected.
Harry's fingers tapped once against the table. "So the mask was perfect."
"Too perfect," Charles agreed. " But it turned out behind the image, Dubois ran several illegal operations—artifact redistribution, smuggling, circulation of cursed items. He never touched anything himself. He paid others to do it and kept his name clean."
Jason studied him. "And what now?"
Harry stood.
"Now Julien Dubois's name matters to us," he said. "And so do the people still acting in his shadow."
A silent notification flickered before his eyes.
[Quest Update]
Attacker Identified: Julien Dubois
Motive Confirmed
Status: Ongoing
Harry dismissed it.
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