HP: Man of Archives

Of course, an attack on the minister was bound to have a significant impact on the country's political situation. But matters worsened because Amel had carried out a large-scale purge of his opponents. This left the political field open for newcomers—individuals who had never been involved in high-level politics before. Seizing the opportunity, Delacour quickly brought them under his control, ensuring they followed his orders without question. No one had any real freedom.

Naturally, people began to wonder why, in a single night, not only politicians but also journalists had vanished. Questions arose, but Delacour had a trick up his sleeve. With a mere flick of his fingers, he "pulled a rabbit out of a hat"—accusing King Otto VI of orchestrating an internal destabilization campaign and supporting terrorists.

All the opposition members and journalists Amel had personally eliminated were swiftly branded as criminals and terrorists. The Supreme Court of France readily accepted this narrative, officially declaring them enemies of the state.

My primary concern, however, was securing a safe place for those I had rescued—mostly small children and a few women. The Risotto Hotel wasn't particularly crowded, but with the arrival of the people I had saved, it now felt almost bustling. They all knew each other to some extent, so introductions were unnecessary. I wasn't particularly interested in their next steps, but I didn't want this experience to leave a lasting scar on them.

"Ladies," I addressed the women. They had sent their children to their rooms, waiting for me to speak. "I see that some have chosen to leave. That's their decision."

Indeed, I noticed that a few of the gathered women were missing. I had anticipated this—after all, I had made no threats to keep them here. They were free to go. Fine.

"As you've probably gathered from the newspapers, the situation in France is... tense."

The women exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting a mix of emotions—shock, disbelief, perhaps even resignation. It was as if they were still struggling to process how their lives had unraveled so quickly. Each of them had witnessed their husbands die, some in front of their children. Many would never be able to forgive Amel for the devastation he had inflicted upon them.

Let him deal with that on his own. My role is simply to give them a chance to survive. Whether they take it or not isn't my concern. It's their choice, their lives.

"So, here's the deal," I continued. "You have two options. First, you can relocate to Corsica. Very soon, there will be a shift in power there, but you'll be able to settle in. The second option—you'll receive another hundred galleons from me and a one-way ticket out of France. The choice is yours."

A hand went up.

"Yes, go ahead," I said with a nod.

"Can we stay here?" one of the rescued women asked. "Many of us don't want to leave behind relatives who are still in France."

"That's up to you," I replied. "But if you stay, you won't receive the money, and the offer to move to Corsica will no longer be on the table. I advise you to think carefully."

"Will we have time to decide?" Teresa, the first woman I had saved, asked.

"I can give you an hour," I told them. "I'll be back then, and I hope by that time, you'll have made up your minds."

Leaving the hotel, I made my way to a restaurant in the magical part of Paris, which had only recently completed renovations. After the demon attack, the place had been nearly destroyed. Magic had restored it to its former state, but the owner wasn't satisfied. From what I'd heard, he believed that after the magical repairs, his establishment had lost its "soul."

I ordered a light mint tea and settled in to wait. No one bothered me or attempted to start a conversation. Even the waiters—who undoubtedly knew who I was—displayed remarkable self-restraint. Though, judging by their expressions, they were itching to approach me, to ask something, maybe even to chat. I didn't blame them. If I were in their place, I'd probably feel the same way. So, if anyone had gathered the courage to speak to me, I would have answered.

But in the end, no one did. Oh well.

When I returned to the hotel, I immediately noticed that the number of women had dwindled to three. One of them was Teresa, along with her daughter. The second was a young woman named Anna, and the third was an elderly lady named Gertrude. The last one, I must say, didn't exactly have the most French-sounding name.

"Well then," I said simply. "It looks like you're the only ones who have made a decision. So, may I hear what you've chosen?"

"Yes," Teresa spoke up. "I'll speak for all of us. We're going to Corsica."

"May I ask why?" I inquired.

"Knowing my late husband as well as I did, I can say with absolute certainty that his plan to involve Otto will succeed," Teresa began. "For the most part, he was a shrewd politician, and he had dirt on various prominent figures across Europe. He had some on Otto VI as well—though not much. I didn't know he had been planning a coup with his associates, and until now, I believed Otto's influence would be purely political. But at this point… I think Paris is in for another upheaval."

"My husband also mentioned that you, Timothy Jody, were granted Corsica for your personal use by the minister. Now that I better understand your capabilities, I have no doubt that any resistance will be crushed and the island will fall under your control. Beyond that, if war does break out here, I want my daughter to grow up far away from the horrors that could unfold."

"Well said," I replied with a nod, accepting her reasoning.

"And I'd also like to add that Otto likely won't be the only one interested in influencing France's politics," she sighed. "I don't know who else might get involved, but I do believe someone will manage to cause trouble for Delacour."

"I see." I mulled over her words for a few seconds. "Any idea which political force that might be?"

"It's hard to say," Teresa admitted, shaking her head. "I wasn't privy to my husband's plans."

"And do you both agree with her?" I asked the other two women.

"Yes," Gertrude said with a nod. "Corsica is a wonderful place to spend the rest of my old age in warmth."

Anna simply nodded without saying a word. She was quiet in general. Well, whatever. I was sure she wouldn't cause any trouble. Since these three were the only ones who had chosen to stay, they were the only ones I would be helping.

"Well then," I exhaled. "Head to Corsica. Here's a thousand galleons for all of you."

I handed them a pouch of money, which they accepted with enthusiasm—though their faces remained unreadable.

"When you arrive in Corsica, you'll meet my assistant, Maria. She'll help you settle in for the first few days."

"Thank you very much," Teresa said with a nod. By silent agreement, she had taken on the role of the group's treasurer. Not that I cared who managed the money or how they spent it. If they wasted it and never made it to Corsica, well, that would be a different conversation. But something told me they weren't the type to make foolish decisions.

"You're free to go, then," I said. "Our next meeting will be in Corsica."

"So be it," Teresa agreed. The other women simply nodded.

With a bit of flair, I swirled my cloak around me and vanished. I didn't teleport—I simply made myself invisible and inaudible.

"What should we do next?" Anna finally asked.

"What do you mean?" Gertrude drawled. "We're going to Corsica. Should be simple enough."

"Or maybe we could just, you know…" Anna suggested, making a hand gesture that clearly implied running away.

"Are you stupid?" Gertrude snapped, her tone sharp. "Or do you really think that if we take his money and run, he won't find us?"

"Europe is big," Anna muttered hesitantly.

"We might be able to hide from any other wizard… even with a child. But Timothy Jody is definitely not just any wizard," Gertrude exhaled, now a bit calmer. "He'd track us down in no time and strangle us like it was nothing."

"Alright, alright!" Anna relented.

"Better not even try," Teresa concluded. "I think Corsica will be a much safer option."

After leaving them to their discussion, I returned to the school. Naturally, the events in France had a noticeable impact on the students. Many of them either knew the key figures involved or were somehow connected to the situation. It was rare for anyone to remain completely neutral, and of course, this affected the school's social dynamics.

Even before Delacour became Minister of Magic, France's political situation had been intriguing. His rise to power wiped out the ruling party's leadership, leaving it in disarray. Then came the Ministry purges, which eliminated members of the so-called old guard.

Interestingly, the opposition that formed against the ruling party wasn't even Delacour's own faction—the one he had brought to power. That was precisely why they refused to let him rule unchallenged. But with my help, they were swiftly crushed—thanks to their foolish decision to resort to violence.

The removal of key leaders fractured both the opposition and the former ruling party. Different factions emerged, each scrambling to blame the others for past failures. This division trickled down to the students of Beauxbatons, who began reflecting their parents' political allegiances in school.

The division into interest groups was becoming more and more apparent, along with a rise in conflicts among the students themselves. I find it hard to compare this to past events, but from what I see—last year and this year feel like two completely different worlds. It didn't even matter that students belonged to different houses; instances of bullying were becoming increasingly obvious. And that, I didn't like at all.

That's exactly why I decided to address the issue head-on.

"Friends," I began, speaking during dinner. Immediately, all eyes turned to me. "I want to talk to you about something very important."

I scanned the students' faces, reading a wide range of emotions—everything from keen interest to simmering resentment. The former came from those whose wizarding families had recently gained power. The latter belonged to their opposition—the remnants of the old guard.

"This concerns your own lives and your understanding of what is right and what is wrong. Of course, dueling isn't always a good thing—it can lead to injuries or worse. But sometimes, it's the only way to resolve a conflict. If that were all you were doing—settling disputes through duels—that would be one thing. But that's not what I see happening."

I let my words settle, allowing the room's tension to thicken.

"No. I see and hear that some of you have begun embracing ideas that are completely unacceptable for Beauxbatons. I want you to remember that here, in this school, you are students first—and only then, an extension of your parents' politics."

Many of the students didn't believe me in the slightest. They knew full well who had played a role in sending some of their parents' acquaintances to their deaths. But I continued.

"And if any of you think you can keep going down this path, you're gravely mistaken," I said, my tone steady.

There was no need to raise my voice. No need to shout or use flashy magic tricks. No… they listened to me without all that—because they knew I could make their lives a living hell. And right now, not a single department head or Ministry official would dare reprimand me for the way I ran things here.

"So, I suggest you take a moment to reflect on your own behavior."

A soft murmur spread through the students, but I paid it no attention. It didn't interest me.

"And now, enjoy your meal."

Food appeared on the tables. The students began eating, casting wary glances in my direction. Meanwhile, I maintained the illusion of watching each and every one of them. A little mental magic and a touch of illusion made it seem as though my gaze was fixed on each student individually.

The professors quickly caught on to what I was doing, but they had no intention of saying anything.

After my speech, the students started behaving differently. Whether they had genuinely decided to change their behavior or simply felt the weight of my ever-present gaze, I couldn't tell.

About a week later, I received an official letter from Minister Delacour—an invitation to sign a document appointing me as the permanent headmaster of Beauxbatons. In English, this was called "tenure." From that point on, my goal was to delegate all administrative work, leaving me free to sign papers, accept accolades, and focus on magical research.

Everything would be handled formally. The signing would take place before dozens of witnesses, including journalists from multiple countries—not just France.

After replying with my acceptance, I began preparing for the event.

***

The main conference hall of the French Ministry of Magic buzzed with electric anticipation. The enchanted ceilings, adorned with scenes from France's magical history, loomed high above the gathered crowd, while the polished wooden floor reflected the subtle rustling of feet.

Journalists from various countries were scattered throughout the room, their Quick-Quotes Quills poised, cameras ready to flash. Everyone knew why they were here—events like this were rare. Then again, some might argue that moments deemed historic had been unfolding far too often in Europe lately.

Timothy Jody, soon to be officially appointed as the permanent Headmaster of the renowned Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, stood at the center of the room. A tall man with a composed expression, he carried himself with an air of quiet magical authority. His robes, embroidered with Beauxbatons' insignia, caught the attention of many—particularly those well-versed in magical fabrics, who were especially intrigued by the material.

Beside him stood Amel Delacour, the Prime Minister of France—the man who had taken control of the country after a terrorist attack claimed the lives of many of its leading figures, only to uncover yet another conspiracy. Many, having indulged in the tearful tales spun by tabloid newspapers, sympathized with him. His simple dark blue robe also drew considerable attention from the magical community. It was common for the attire of prominent figures to quickly gain popularity among ordinary wizards.

Amel gestured toward a red table at the center of the room, where a single document lay. The magical ink shimmered beneath the artificial glow of enchanted lanterns floating overhead. This was the contract for the position of permanent Headmaster of Beauxbatons.

As they approached the table, Apolline Delacour appeared seemingly out of nowhere. A collective gasp swept through the hall. A Veela in the prime of her power, she was breathtaking—enchanting, seductive, utterly mesmerizing. This was the effect of an experienced Veela at the height of her allure.

Timothy and Amel took their seats at the table. Apolline presented a silver tray adorned with intricate magical designs, upon which rested two eagle-feather quills, traditionally used for signing such official documents.

Amel signed first. Once his signature was in place, he retrieved the Ministry's seal—a mark that transformed contracts of this level into something far more than mere parchment with scribbles. Then, Timothy added his own signature. The moment he completed the final stroke and set the quill aside, camera flashes erupted across the hall. Journalists scrambled to capture every detail—by tomorrow, this would be front-page news across the world.

A wave of applause filled the hall, drowning out all other sound. But, of course, such excitement could not last forever. The two wizards made their way toward one of the podiums, set up specifically for this occasion.

"Dear wizards of the European magical community," Amel began, drawing everyone's attention. "Friends. Today, we gather to mark a new chapter in our magical history. You already know him, but allow me to once again introduce Timothy Jody, the new permanent Headmaster of Beauxbatons. As you know, he holds two Masteries—in Transfiguration and Charms. Beyond that, he is renowned for his immense magical power and extraordinary potential, both of which he proved during the Battle of Paris. Let us give another warm welcome to our new Headmaster."

Applause erupted once more. Amel nodded and stepped aside, giving Timothy the floor. Behind the new Headmaster, banners bearing the symbols of Beauxbatons' houses unfurled, accompanied by a grand flag of the academy itself.

The hall quickly fell silent, save for the occasional camera flash—though no one paid it much mind.

"Ahem." Timothy cleared his throat, a pleased smile crossing his face. "First and foremost, I would like to thank each and every one of you for being here today to witness this significant event. A great deal has happened in the past few years, as you all well know and understand. I would like to take a moment to honor Olympé Maxime, who fell at the hands of the terrorists that summoned demons. She was a shining example for any young witch or wizard."

Naturally, not everyone appreciated such words, but they had no choice but to keep their thoughts to themselves.

"In addition, I would like to thank Minister Delacour, my students, and the many good people who have supported me and continue to do so on this journey. As the new, official, and permanent Headmaster, I assure you that Beauxbatons graduates will achieve outstanding results by the end of their studies."

This final statement carried the weight of a promise, stirring a notable reaction from the audience.

"I am confident that Monsieur Delacour and I will build a brilliant magical future together. And once again—thank you all for your support."

Then came the time for questions from journalists, who were particularly eager to learn about future plans. Naturally, the answers they received were vague and not especially revealing. Some of the questions weren't groundbreaking either, but that could be blamed on the fact that not every journalist knew how to ask the right ones.

Finally, the reception began. Few journalists left early—after all, it wasn't every day they had the chance to attend an event where the most influential figures in the magical world were enjoying themselves. For young reporters, this was an opportunity to catch a story by the tail and make a name for themselves.

Everything was going smoothly—until a goblin in full battle armor walked into the hall.

The music cut off mid-note. Conversations ceased. The silence that followed was deafening.

"How may I assist you, monsieur?" one of the event organizers asked respectfully. A goblin appearing in full battle armor was certainly not part of the evening's plans.

"I am an envoy to the French Minister of Magic from the Council of Clans," the goblin announced in flawless French, without a hint of the usual goblin accent.

"Yes," Delacour said, stepping forward. "Shall we move to a private room to discuss important matters?"

But the goblin ignored the minister's words.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat. "The Council of Clans has decided to completely withdraw from France. As of this announcement, the accounts of all French wizards have been seized to cover the financial losses incurred during the terrorist attack."

"What?!" Amel gasped in shock. "The goblins have decided to leave France?!"

***

The news that the goblins were leaving France and seizing the funds of French wizards spread through the hall like wildfire. No one had expected such an announcement. The instincts of seasoned journalists kicked in instantly—their quills scratched feverishly across parchment, and cameras clicked, capturing every moment.

To be honest, even I hadn't anticipated such a move from the goblins.

"Additionally," the goblin continued, "the accounts of all foreign wizards currently residing in France will also be confiscated." He was looking directly at me as he said it. His expression remained utterly calm—he was confident that the wizards wouldn't dare act against him. He was just a messenger, and by tradition, messengers were not to be harmed.

"I see," I nodded. No one could find the words to respond—everyone was too stunned by the sudden turn of events.

"Messenger," Amel spoke in a measured tone. "Relay my question to the Council of Clans… why are they doing this?"

"I will deliver your message," the goblin nodded. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for now," Amel replied. I could feel his frustration—his entire mood had shifted in an instant. Just one piece of news was enough to ruin the evening and overshadow his moment of triumph. If he could, I was sure he'd strangle the goblin right then and there.

Could the goblins be the force Teresa had hinted at when Amel killed her husband? Entirely possible. And if that was the case, then France was facing serious financial trouble. Because bank vaults didn't just store gold—they held ancient artifacts, relics, books, and treasures accumulated over centuries, even millennia. This could impact goblin banking in other countries as well, or they might simply freeze all withdrawals for a few weeks—just long enough for the initial panic to settle.

The goblin messenger nodded sharply, turned on his heel, and strode away, the steel of his armor clanking with every step. Even after he had disappeared, the echo of his measured footsteps lingered in the air. His exit was nothing if not dramatic.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Amel addressed the guests. "Due to the current circumstances, we will have to end the celebration earlier than planned. Tomorrow at ten in the morning, there will be a press conference where you will learn about the Ministry's next steps."

Then he turned to me and quietly said,

"We need to discuss what just happened."

I nodded and followed him into one of the VIP rooms designated for private meetings. Meanwhile, Delacour was issuing orders to his aides and sending out Patronuses, urgently summoning the Ministry for an emergency meeting. He was going to have a long night ahead of him.

The room we entered was nothing special—no elaborate magical enchantments, no rare artifacts. Just a simple space with a table, a few chairs, a small cabinet, and a window offering a decent view of the starry sky.

Amel entered, visibly irritated. With him was the head of the Gendarmerie, who also didn't seem particularly pleased. Apolline was present as well, though she likely wouldn't be adding much to the conversation.

"What the hell was that from the goblins?" Amel asked, his frustration spilling into the empty space. Of course, he wasn't expecting an answer—neither I nor his chief enforcer knew anything about it. "Hrmph…"

"We need to prepare for the worst-case scenario," the Gendarme muttered. "Because if we don't take a hard stance, people will start asking questions."

"That's not the real problem," Amel exhaled, sinking into a chair. "The problem is that other political forces on the continent will have their own interests in this situation. For example, I asked you to look into Otto VI."

The Gendarme shot me a quick glance, as if silently asking whether I needed to be hearing this conversation at all.

"You can speak freely," Amel waved a hand.

"The informants say Otto VI has started actively gathering French wizards who fled to other countries, trying to win them over with various gifts and incentives," the Gendarme began. "Of course, this doesn't guarantee he plans to interfere in France, but the chances aren't small. Besides that, I've heard Corsica is also shaping up to become a problem in the near future."

"Not our problem," Amel chuckled. "That'll be Timothy's problem."

I didn't comment on that. What was there to say, really? I just stayed quiet and waited for them to finally ask the most important question.

"Alright, Timothy," Amel turned to me. "Are you in?"

"Yeah, I'm in," I nodded. "You don't have to worry about that."

"Excellent!"

Amel was clearly pleased that I was still on his side. Apolline, on the other hand, looked concerned. She understood just how dangerous the situation was—and how badly things could spiral if something went wrong. And something definitely could go wrong.

"Timothy, I need you ready to assist the moment I call for you," Amel said. "We'll discuss your price later. Alright?"

"Fine," I agreed—for now. Sure, the smart move would've been to push for as many guarantees as possible, but that would have felt like a betrayal on my part. A damaged reputation with the Minister wasn't something I wanted right now. Not because it would directly affect me, but because it would strain my relationship with Fleur—and that was something I wanted to avoid. I liked things between us exactly as they were.

I stood up from my chair and said,

"If you need to talk, you know where to find me. I'm heading back to the school—I need to prepare the professors."

"Alright," Amel nodded.

Apolline decided to walk me to the exit.

"Timothy," she began, "I don't know if you've noticed, but Amel has changed lately…"

"Changed?" I glanced at her. "How so? I haven't sensed any magical emanations that would suggest anything unusual."

"No." She waved a hand dismissively. "I know he's the real Amel… but he's different—how he behaves, how he interacts with people. It's hard to explain unless you've lived with him for years. Ever since that attack—the night you both left to deal with the problem—he's been… different. What happened that night after the attack?"

"He never told you?" I asked, surprised.

"No," she shook her head.

"Afterward, we went to eliminate everyone involved in the attack," I told her. "Didn't it ever seem odd to you that most of his opponents just… disappeared?"

"Amel said they fled the country," she replied. "And I'm guessing now that was a lie… What really happened?"

"It was simple," I answered bluntly. "I broke through their defenses and captured them. Amel executed them—personally. And if I hadn't stepped in, every single one of his enemies would have met the same fate."

It was clear Apolline hadn't expected that answer. I couldn't say what kind of response she'd been hoping for… but whatever. Let her think what she wanted, however she wanted. I told her how it happened—albeit briefly—and it was up to her to make of it what she would.

"Alright," she exhaled. A flicker of fear appeared in her eyes—subtle but unmistakable. "When you go to Corsica… would you be able to take me and my family in if things go wrong?"

That question carried layers of meaning. The most obvious—and probably the most accurate—was that she was looking for a safe place in case the country descended into chaos. But beyond that… who exactly did she mean by her family? Fleur, Gabrielle, and Amel? Or was Amel excluded from that? A complicated and delicate matter.

"If the need arises, the doors of my home will always be open to you and your family," I answered simply.

"Thank you."

***

Andrey Bolshanov sat in his less-than-comfortable chair. In front of him was a mirror… staring back was a disfigured face, covered in scars and the lingering traces of curses. Some wounds had long since healed, while others remained as inflamed sores—marks that repelled both him and anyone who looked at him.

Pressing what remained of his lips into a thin, harsh line, he felt a trickle of blood seep from one of the deeper scars. He wiped it away with a special cloth, exhaled, and tried to relax. Touching his wand to the wound, he managed to dull the pain slightly, but it was nowhere near enough to make the scars fade.

That last battle—the one where he became the sole survivor of the Bolshanov bloodline—had been his most brutal. In that same fight, the last remaining wizards of the lesser Menshanov branch were wiped out, breaking their line of succession entirely. The Bolshanov legacy had burned away with them.

He remembered how it all started. Somehow, rival families of similar influence had uncovered the truth—who had been responsible for certain dark, murky affairs. By then, it was too late to stop anything. A massive conflict erupted, and it wasn't about to end anytime soon. It became a war on three fronts—until yet another faction joined in, eager to loot whatever remained of the crumbling noble houses.

The battles were ruthless, bloody, and devastating. No one intended to let their enemies escape. With every clash, the number of blood feuds grew. Andrey had been too consumed by the chaos of war, the endless cycle of death, and his desperate attempts to save his family to see what was truly happening. By the time he realized, half the old wizarding bloodlines had simply ceased to exist. Some had fled to the New World. Others had turned to dark magic, determined to drag as many enemies as possible into the abyss with them. Those who remained had been so thoroughly bled dry that in some families, only two or three out of twenty wizards were left alive. Curses, poison, ambushes, betrayals—none of it brought anyone satisfaction.

It wasn't until a curse forced him out of the fighting that he finally had time to think—to find the one truly responsible for everything.

Then, one morning, he read a newspaper headline:

Timothy Jody Appointed Headmaster of Beauxbatons

And in that moment, something clicked.

Timothy Jody was the reason his homeland had turned into a blood-soaked battlefield.

Timothy Jody was responsible for the deaths of his sons, his daughters, his godchildren, his brothers, his parents, and countless other relatives.

Timothy Jody—the very same person he had failed to crush back at the Olympiad.

And when that realization struck, Andrey swore a vow.

He would have his revenge.

His first step was to recover. Then, he would get the remnants of his family to safety—somewhere far from the bloodshed. And after that… the hunt for Jody would begin. He would destroy everything Timothy held dear. Everything he loved. Just as Jody had done to Andrey and so many others.

But fate had other plans.

A treacherous attack—one from an ally, a family that had once obeyed his every command—stabbed him in the back. Bolshanov slaughtered his attackers, but their betrayal had cost him everything. His family was gone. He was now the last Bolshanov.

Andrey felt no guilt. None of this was his fault. He had found the true culprit, and that made life a little easier to bear. He had a purpose now. Because after the last of his family died, there was little else left to keep him alive. No, now he had to do this. He had to do everything to make sure he got his revenge.

A twisted grin crept across his face. As blood trickled down his cheek, he didn't bother to wipe it away. His thoughts spun in circles, fixated on what to do and how to do it.

A soft knock at the door pulled Bolshanov from his thoughts. He tensed immediately, his wand snapping toward the door, ready to annihilate anything that might come through it. Rising to his feet, he tightened his grip and cautiously approached.

"I'm opening it," he called out. His own voice made him wince—it had been damaged by one of the curses as well.

Cracking the door open slightly, he saw a short, slightly stocky man with gray hair and a matching beard. The round, black glasses on his face made it impossible to tell exactly where he was looking.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Hans Rudel, and I believe we may have shared interests," the man said, his voice carrying a faint accent.

"You're German?" Andrey asked, relaxing just a fraction.

"That's irrelevant," Hans replied. "So? Are you going to let me in, or will you leave me standing here?"

"Fine, come in," Andrey nodded, though his mind was racing—there was something familiar about this man. His face, his way of speaking… Where do I know him from?

"You look very familiar to me… from where?"

"Let's leave the past in the past," Hans said as he stepped inside. "I'm here to make you an offer."

"Hm?" Bolshanov raised what was left of his eyebrow, intrigued.

"You see, the world has changed a lot recently… it's become different…"

And then, it clicked.

"I remember now… You're that Corsican who tried to push drugs in Moscow—August Ricor!"

"What happened in the past should stay in the past," the wizard said dismissively. "I've changed—I'm a completely different man now."

"Once a drug dealer, always a drug dealer," Andrey said confidently. "But whatever. I don't care what you do. What's your offer?"

"I don't deal in wizarding drugs anymore," Hans replied. "I still have a few old contacts, but even they gave it up long ago. And as for Muggles… well, who cares about them?"

"Yeah? And your proposal?"

"The current Headmaster of Beauxbatons… Timothy Jody," Hans said.

Andrey immediately tensed, his entire body going rigid.

"I see that caught your interest," Hans drawled. "The new French Minister handed Corsica over to that British bastard for personal use. And, of course, no one's happy about it. We want to make him suffer—so much that he forgets Corsica ever existed. And if he dies in the process, even better. We share the same enemy… I know he's, what's that phrase you people use…?" He snapped his fingers. "Ah! Spat in your porridge, right?"

"Oh no," Andrey growled. "A spit in my porridge, I could forgive… but I want his blood. I want the blood of his family and his friends! He must experience a level of despair he's never even imagined before!"

"See?" Hans smirked. "We already have so much in common."

"What's your plan?" Andrey asked.

"First, you need to go to England. London, to be exact," Hans said. "That's where Timothy's journey began."

"Fine," Andrey nodded. "I'll work with you to destroy that filth… but remember—" He paused. "If I suspect anything, you'll regret it."

"No need to worry about that," Hans nodded.