Matou Shinji and the Broken Chains (HP/FSN CYOA)

[Skull Leader]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

So I agree that sliding into Fleur's open seat would be a bad idea. And while I am not complete interested in Fay and Anthony but I have a couple of reasons for my choice. First, Shinji is going to already take flak for his later actions of supporting Fleur so a small showing of sitting with Hogwarts students might be useful. And second, Fay and Anthony are some of the only surviving Ourea members left and now would be a good time to talk with them to keep the group functioning this year. Because there is likely very little time to do this later.

[apsalar]

Isn't Shinji not Ourea anymore? I mean, the group might still be important, but didn't he resign? Why is it his responsibility to keep the group running?

[Nephirin]

[ ] At an open seat across from the Durmstrang Potions Champion

[Skull Leader]

Isn't Shinji not Ourea anymore? I mean, the group might still be important, but didn't he resign? Why is it his responsibility to keep the group running?

He resigned from being a consul, not as the Leader of Ourea. He did his required no win trial last year (unlike Draco) so he is still apart of it.

I admit that Shinji should not be the sole person responsible to get the group running but as the leader of it he needs to make sure it at least does not die completely. Politically the position is too useful for Shinji, as its a tool to influence Hogwarts students for Shinji, to ignore it completely. It can be used for Shinji to show some amount of solidarity for the British to counterbalance the hate that he has/will generated by turning down citizenship. Also if we do not want Hogwarts to break even further down in the fanatical hate direction, then it will be important to have a platform where Shinji can promote tolerance and cooperation from. The Ourea can be that platform but it really needs to overcome the hurdle of the isolation that the banner system creates and to stay alive when so many of its members are dead.

Why not start keeping it alive by sitting with two of the members of the group? It seems worth it to me. Making sure that these two would still like the Ourea to be active, can lead Shinji to get them to help keep it together so that Shinji can focus on the more important matter of surviving this year.

To me the chance of keeping Ourea together is worth more then learning a bit about the Durmstrang champion.

[Malgos]

Sit with the Ourea people.

[alfheimwanderer]

I'll be on #fatehg to chat, as per usual. Its beena long week.

Will get a chapter out tomorrow!

[Omida]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

[LeMagicien]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

So I agree that sliding into Fleur's open seat would be a bad idea. And while I am not complete interested in Fay and Anthony but I have a couple of reasons for my choice. First, Shinji is going to already take flak for his later actions of supporting Fleur so a small showing of sitting with Hogwarts students might be useful. And second, Fay and Anthony are some of the only surviving Ourea members left and now would be a good time to talk with them to keep the group functioning this year. Because there is likely very little time to do this later.

Fair enough point. Certainly more useful than sitting next to waifu Rachelle because reasons.

I'll switch. Keeping the Ourea alive does seem to be a wise move. This time,

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

[Skull Leader]

Fair enough point. Certainly more useful than sitting next to waifu Rachelle because reasons.

I could be wrong here, but the Rachelle that is the waifu-like one is Rachelle Lestrange, Champion of Beauxbaton. The choice to sit with is Rachelle of Durmstrang which is far more outgoing character that from what Alf has talked about so far is very far from being a Waifu.

[LeMagicien]

I could be wrong here, but the Rachelle that is the waifu-like one is Rachelle Lestrange, Champion of Beauxbaton. The choice to sit with is Rachelle of Durmstrang which is far more outgoing character that from what Alf has talked about so far is very far from being a Waifu.

Woops! Wrong Rachelle. Thanks for that, Skull Leader. Much as I would love the opportunity to sit with Ms. Sondrol, that's mostly me projecting my love for WomenWhoDeserveBetter tall redheads Pyrrha Nikos her archetype, so it's rather impulsive. Still, I do much agree we're better set playing to Hogwarts and the Ourea with all of the drama plot future events.

I suspect that plot point Alf mentioned about their names being similar might be similar to this mix-up of mine.

[mr_Trickster]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

[saki]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

[Kuroyuki]

[x] At an open seat across from the Durmstrang Potions Champion

[neophyte]

[X] Between Fay Dunbar and Anthony Goldstein

Ourea. Duty first, waifus - later.

[alfheimwanderer]

[x] TIED at time of Writing - I'll have him sit across from the Durmstrang Champion, and next to Fay Dunbar.

---

Chapter 25. Mirror, Mirror

In the twilight, four powder-blue carriages the size of large houses hurtled through a fog of arctic frost, with the carriages and the white elephant-sized forms of the fifty-two Abraxan horses that drew them all but invisible against the white washed-out surroundings. The journey from the Pyrénées to the Arctic Circle had been a long one, yet the wings of the Abraxans still beat a fierce rhythm as they sped forward, pulling the carriages onward into the featureless expanse of white.

‘A set of coordinates provided to us by Ministry of Norway,’ thought a slim figure peering out of the window of her compartment with cold silver eyes, trying to catch some sign of what was around them. ‘I wonder if there’s actually anything out here, or if zis is all a vaste of time.’ She sniffed indignantly at the thought. ‘More of a vaste of time, zat is, as I ‘ave little interest in going to Durmstrang at all. If Madame Maxine had not insisted on a show of unity, I would not ‘ave agreed to go at all!’

But the Headmistress had, and so Rachelle Perrot Lestrange, the ever-tempestuous Potions Champion of Beauxbatons, had agreed to be accompany the rest of her school’s delegation to the opening ceremonies of a Tournament she wasn’t eligible to compete in – on the conditions that she would not have to share her compartment with anyone else, and that the honor guard traditionally assigned to representatives of the school could be dispensed with, stipulations to which the half-giantess had agreed.

‘I would say it was out of respect, but I know better,’ the girl thought, shaking her head as she patted the weapon she wore at her hip – a silver-grey rapier. An heirloom of her fallen family, the delicate blade was as sharp and brilliant as it had been the day it had been forged. A dangerous and beautiful implement of war – and still rather effective today, even discounting the slot in the hilt in which her pear and thestral hair wand could be inserted, allowing her to cast spells through it, or the mechanism built into the hilt that allowed easier use of potions in combat.

But that was no surprise, as Deuillegivre had once been the blade of an alchemist – the chosen sidearm of the First Director of the Centre of Alchemical Studies, in fact. The blade of her ancestor, who had once worked with the great Nicholas Flamel, it was the last thing she had of her family after they died in a potions accident when she was very young, and now that she was Potions Champion, she could carry it openly.

Her peers at Beauxbatons thought of it as barbaric, a remnant of a less civilized age, when wizards worked alongside – sometimes even served – those without magic, a time when might alone made right, and the darker arts were a necessity.

She, in turn, found their position absurd, given that many of them wished to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a barbaric contest of death that belonged in the distant past and had no place in the modern world.

After all, a true Alchemist might walk with death, but one would not actively seek it.

Rachelle’s smile was brittle as she looked upon the blank expanse outside the window of her private compartment, noting the silence in which the world was wrapped.

‘Something is hidden nearby. Zis fog…is not entirely natural…’

At first glance, those who saw her wouldn’t think of the Potions Champion of Beauxbatons as an especially dangerous individual, given her appearance as a waif-like girl whose skin was soft and milky-white, whose silver-coloured eyes seemed curious and wondering of the world, and whose finely textured hair shone as if sprinkled with gold dust. Her garments, elegant navy dress of satin chased with silver filigree, and a navy cape lined in silver fur, which seemed more at home in a royal court than a battlefield, reinforced this, with most who were unfamiliar with her past likely considering the rapier she bore a ceremonial weapon at best.

But then, they would be wrong, for Miss Lestrange was perhaps the best exemplar of the axioms that the most beautiful flowers were often the most deadly.

Indeed, to the thousands of students who called the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic home, an encounter with Miss Lestrange was not a cause for celebration but terror, given the events of the previous year, events that had ended in the deaths of dozens of her peers, including the four oldest and most powerful members of the Council of Wands – the elected student government of Beauxbatons – as well as Anton Duvais, the French Minister’s only child, who had been the presumptive appointee for the position of next Etoile.

The last alone would have been cause enough for scandal, and not just because Anton had been the Minister’s son, but because the Etoile, beyond being the head of the Council, was supposed to serve as a representative of the Academy and a living example of the virtues it espoused, with any actions taken against him or her seen as an attack on Beauxbatons as a whole.

No one knew the full story of what had happened between them, as the relevant files had been sealed after the conclusion of the official investigation, but what was known was that all those who had stood in her way had met with grim and grisly fates, and that when questioned about her involvement in their deaths, she showed no remorse whatsoever, revealing that beneath the innocence implied by her sweet voice and gentle appearance, there lurked a sense of ruthless practicality, unfettered by anything as pedestrian as human morality.

It was a rather tragic tale, really, though perhaps inevitable once the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship had been opened to all the official institutions of learning registered with the International Confederation of Wizards.

After all, given the lingering influence of Flamel and his rather sizeable endowment (which had funded the construction of the Castle and most of the existing grounds), the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic had become the premier institution in Western Europe for instruction in Potions and Alchemy, with students flocking there from Spain, Portugal, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg and more for a chance to study with masters of the field. One might have expected the fact that French was the primary language of instruction to be a deterrent, especially as translation spells unfortunately did not exist, but those who went there considered it a small price to pay for the knowledge they gained – and the job prospects it opened up.

French was the language spoken by most wizarding alchemists in Europe, after all, given that the Founder and First Director of the Centre for Alchemical Studies in Egypt had been a Frenchman himself, and a Beauxbatons alumnus, no less. Every Director since then had likewise been a graduate of fair Beauxbatons, save for one, an alumna of Koldovstoretz, and even she had needed to learn French.

Even with that though, jobs at the Centre were few and far in between, and so most young potioneers with any talent whatsoever sought something to distinguish themselves from their peers to increase their chances of being noticed, whether it was a spot on the Council to demonstrate leadership abilities, a Quidditch captaincy to demonstrate the superior spatial awareness and strategy, or something else entirely.

The announcement of the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship, effectively becoming the World Potions Competition however, and the opportunity that would be granted to whoever became Beauxbatons’ champion, had fanned the flames of already fierce rivalries, with simmering conflicts erupting into a wave of sabotage, harassment, and abuses of authority that had nearly torn the school apart.

Both the faculty and the Council of Wands had tried to suppress this unrest before things became worse, but in the end, they had been unable to restore order. But then, when two of the four leaders of the task force assigned to suppress the incidents were themselves secretly involved in them, one would not expect such a thing to be overly effective.

Those leaders had wanted the position of Champion for themselves, given the prestige the title bore, the privileges of the rank of Champion, and the chance to compete on the world stage, perks that, for once, eclipsed even those of the Etoile.

And so, they had systematically attempted to eliminate their competition, offering bribes, using threats of bodily or academic harm, seducing the acquaintances or friends of competitors into becoming their agents, and worse. Potions – and cauldrons – were sabotaged in ways that were nigh-undetectable, to devastating effect. Ingredients and personal recipes were stolen or destroyed. Prospective competitors fell ill with mysterious ailments.

A few unfortunates even suffered accidents in which their labs were destroyed, with no memory of what exactly had happened.

None of these had been enough to dissuade Rachelle Lestrange, however, as her desire to become Champion was not rooted in something as shallow as wishing to stand out to prospective employers, as much of a coup as the position would have been. Rachelle had sworn upon her parents’ memory that she would become the greatest alchemist that had ever lived, surpassing her honored ancestor, creating a legacy that would eclipse the memory of late Nicholas Flamel himself.

In the face of persecution and hardship, the girl had persevered, focusing on her Craft and refusing to give up – or even pretend to do so – refusing to give up, despite several “accidents” that landed her in the infirmary, a few poisoning attempts, a destroyed lab, and more than one attempt at more…direct intervention to cripple her as a competitor.

As a descendant of the First Director, whose parents had worked for the Centre before they died, the Lestrange girl was considered a threat that had to be eliminated at all costs, and as others began to drop out of the contest, the efforts of the corrupt task force began to focus on her – only to find there were few levers that could be employed to influence her.

She had no power base to dismantle, no friends to seduce and suborn. She did not value wealth, power, prestige, romance or any of the usual things someone her age usually did. She had no fear of the Council or the staff, as she knew she had done nothing wrong – certainly she had not played the intimidation games others had or done anything untoward to her competitors – and wasn’t interested in some lesser position that others could arrange for her.

With the lesser interventions failing to grind down her determination, her opponents had resorted to more drastic measures, and when they had…

…well, it was not for nothing that some called her la Belladonna, la belle dame sans merci, or l’Étoile Noire de L'Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons.

‘Perhaps it was fortunate that my keen sense of smell kept me uninterested in the usual social niceties …’ she mused. Her well-developed olfactory abilities were a godsend when searching for potions ingredients, identifying the state of a potion, or other such, but in the crowded environs of Beauxbatons, where nearly everyone wore some kind of cologne or perfume in an attempt to seem more attractive and alluring, it was very much a liability.

Still, without spending time in the company of others beyond what was required due to meals and classes, she had been able to develop her skill at a prodigious rate, as well as creating some caches of ingredients, and securing a safe space or two, in case things ever came to a head.

And come to a head they had, with the first attack coming when she was working in the school potions lab afterhours, refining the highly advanced – and highly toxic – Baneberry Potion into a more deadly form. Silently, her assailants had struck, though they hadn’t managed to drop her with their initial strike, with the cauldron being knocked to the ground by an errant spell-beam, the impact causing the hazardous contents to boil over and be released into the air as a fine spray.

Having consumed a bezoar, Rachelle was largely unaffected, save for minor first-degree burns, but her assailants, which she subdued in their moment of surprise, were not so fortunate, and by the time everything was over, they had been beyond anyone’s help, their lungs eaten away from within.

The second group that had come after her had been a bit more cautious, as they had heard rumors of what had happened before, and so had chosen instead to break into what they believed to be one of her hidden labs, located in what was officially an unused classroom. They had entered warily, checking quickly for anything that might resemble a trap, but had found nothing but an assortment of equipment, ingredients, and paraphernalia appropriate for an advanced potioneer.

In that room, they’d found a number of vials of advanced potions, as well as a bubbling pot filled with a liquid like molten gold, with droplets leaping like goldfish above the surface of the cauldron. In front of that vessel, they’d frozen, as there was only one potion with those characteristics: Felix Felicis, one of the most difficult to brew in all of the western world.

Under normal circumstances, their standard operating procedure would have been to vanish any potions there, taking or destroying the equipment, but the presence of Felix complicated matters, and fractured the group’s unity. After all, if one of them was to present a vial of liquid luck to the Alchemist of Beauxbatons at the end of the year, it would all but guarantee their appointment as Potions Champion.

The treasure before them divided them against one another, and the group fell to squabbling, turning on one another, as none would settle for a lesser prize when the temptation of everything they had ever sought lay before them.

One by one, they fell, with the last one standing triumphantly seizing the cauldron for himself, an act which resulted in a devastating blast that ended his life – and those of his fallen comrades, charring their bodies – and everything else organic into the room – into a thin layer of white ash. Sadly for them, the potion was highly unstable before completion, with sudden shocks or improper movements leading to rather…disastrous outcomes.

Outcomes such as tremendous explosions as liquid glory was transformed into all-consuming flame, and consumed other sources of magic and power to stay alive, growing more powerful with each source consumed. Had there been only one in the room, perhaps he or she would have lived through the accident, albeit rather disfigured. As it was, however…there were no survivors.

In the end, there had only been one more attempt on her – this one effort between two rival factions, as neither was willing to take any chances where Miss Lestrange was concerned, given the deaths she had already caused.

The group of twenty-odd students cornered her on the roof of the Academy, blocking the stairwells and leaving no avenue of escape as they quickly disarmed her and forced her to her knees, binding her arms and legs with magical ropes so she could not fight back.

“Mademoiselle Lestrange,” the leader of the group had intoned as he stepped forward, a handsome youth with wavy dark hair, green eyes, and a smile that might seem charming under other circumstances. “You’ve caused us all quite a bit of trouble.”

“And what trouble would that be, Duvais?” Rachelle had asked quietly, her expression wintry as she regarded the Etoile-apparent. “I’ve simply been brewing my potions. I don’t have the time or inclination to be bothered by the death of insects.”

Anton’s response had been to slap her, leaving an angry red mark on her cheek.

“You…you…”

“Chienne? Salope? Fille de pute?” she offered dryly, her eyes seeming to look over all of them as she judged them unworthy of life. “Connasse dégénérée?”

“Mm, oui,” the son of the Minister had agreed to the last. “Tu et ta famille, c'est une famille de dégénérés!”

“Va te faire enculer, Anton,” Rachelle had said dispassionately.

Enraged, the young man had hit her with a wordless Body-Bind, paralyzing her, only to drop his wand in very next moment, as Anton Duvais, the Etoile-apparent of Beauxbatons collapsed like a puppet with severed strings, his body convulsing as flecks of white froth issued from his mouth and his skin grew pale.

Her attackers had stood by in shock, wondering what the hell had happened to Anton, but they didn’t have long to wonder, as seconds later, they joined him as control of their bodies was stolen from them, and they too, collapsed. As they writhed and thrashed in their death throes, Rachelle had paid them no mind, simply waiting for the paralysis to wear off, at which point she vanished the ropes that bound her and getting to her feet, her gaze cool and indifferent as she surveyed the slowly cooling corpses on the ground around her.

“It’s a pity, really,” she had said to herself, her voice almost gentle. “But I suppose there is no true cure for stupidity. Except death, that is.”

She took her time looking them over, studying the effects of the highly concentrated poison whose vial had fallen from her fingers and shattered during the confrontation, as she had no way of saving any of them – not that she would, even if she had been carrying additional bezoars or antidotes at the time.

And when she was brought before a committee of the Judiciary to explain her involvement in the death of over three dozen students, including the four most powerful Councilors and the Etoile-apparent, her words had been simple:

“The second was an accident of course. I could not have known they would break into my lab and improperly handle a volatile potion,” she had testified in a calm, melodious voice, the gentle smile on her innocent-seeming face quite at odds to the thoroughly documented destruction she’d left in her wake. “As for the Minister’s son and his compatriots, I did not kill them. I simply didn’t save them.”

After all, since they had been the ones who had attacked her, there was no reason she needed to warn them of a threat to their lives.

She provided her memories of the incident in question, revealing that she had taken a bezoar before both of the attacks on her person, and that she had in no way been involved with the explosion that had taken the lives of the raid on her lab.

“Felix Felicis is a terribly difficult potion to make,” she had remarked. “Incompetence in handling it, or severe agitation of a brew in progress could easily lead to destruction on such a scale.”

“Felix…?” Madame Maxine had inquired, taken aback by the comment. “You…were brewing zat potion…? But zat is…”

“Indeed,” Rachelle had answered, withdrawing a vial of the golden substance from her powder-blue robes. “This comes from a second cauldron I was brewing, just in case any mishaps occurred.”

Somewhat skeptical of the claim, the Alchemist of Beauxbatons came forward to inspect the item, though he almost dropped it in shock as he saw that it was indeed liquid luck.

“This…!”

“I can show you the lab, if you desire,” Rachelle had suggested. “Unless you have more questions for me?”

There had been some, but in the end, she had been cleared of any wrongdoing in the whole sordid affair, with the Chief Justice of France ordering the incident sealed, given the embarrassment that could result if it were known that the son of the Minister had abused his position at Beauxbatons and had died attempting to assault a young girl.

That didn’t stop the rumors though, especially when she was appointed Potions Champion of Beauxbatons, with every other potioneer among the student body who might have had enough skill to challenge her disqualified due to no longer being alive.

Back in the present, the girl’s eyes widened as something massive loomed out of the fog: the crag of a massive iceberg, with the shimmering surface of a gateway set into it.

‘A hidden gateway?’ she mused, taking in the view as the carriages rushed towards the crag and the portal within it. ‘I didn’t know Norway ‘ad one.’

It made sense though, given that a gateway built into an iceberg could be moved about, and more easily hidden than something in the open.

They drew closer, closer, closer still – and then they were through, with the white expanse of nothingness that had surrounded them replaced by a beautiful night sky, where streaks of colour and light painted the heavens themselves with vibrance.

‘Merveilleux…’

---

Back at the Durmstrang Institute, the Council’s preparations had been completed, with the Commanders of the Host proceeding outside to join the members of their Banners outside.

There, the rank and file of Wolf, Serpent, and Raven had been arranged to line the paths leading to Durmstrang, with an honor guard deployed both at the demarcated landing zone for Beauxbatons, and at the arrival platform that had been erected for the Hogwarts Express in six-man deep formations.

Against the white snow, their uniforms of red, green, and gold were visible, with their metal-capped staves of ebony stark reminders of the violence they were capable of as they stood patiently, looking to their year-captains – who bore the standards of their Banners – for direction.

Igor Karkaroff, the thin, wiry Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute, wrapped in silver furs, felt a sense of pride swell within his breast as he stood atop the high walls of the castle, looking out over the assembled Banners and the assembled military might they represented. Even in the arctic cold, it warmed his heart to think about the sheer strength gathered here: thousands of students, each trained in the arts of war from the moment they arrived at Durmstrang.

With the concentration of forces below, he could conquer a nation, over-run the defenses of any fortress, defeat any single magical foe…that was, if the very discipline that allowed them to safely use the Dark Arts also meant they wouldn’t be a party to any wars of aggression. That way led disaster…

‘Much as Grindelwald showed. Or the foolishness I was involved in over decade ago,’ he thought. It was true enough that he had been a Death Eater – a servant of Lord Voldemort – years ago, when his hair had still been dark and full, but that had only been because wished to learn more of the Dark Arts from the supremely skilled wizard.

As one who had been Raven and Serpent both in his time at Durmstrang, Karkaroff had been a man of ambition, a man who hungered for the secrets of forgotten lore, desiring the strength that individuals like the Founder – or even Gellert Grindelwald – had possessed. Of course, he knew the temptations of power, and that might by itself did not make right, but in aid of a cause, might could only help, something which few enough seemed to understand.

Not even Albus Dumbledore.

Once, Igor, like most of Europe, had seen Dumbledore as a hero for opposing – and stopping Grindelwald and ending the dark wizard’s reign of terror, but in time, he had come believe otherwise, as he’d seen how little had been done in the man’s tenure as head of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Albus Dumbledore could have changed the world. He could have led an untouched Britain in helping to rebuild a shattered Continent. He could have brought the British people more fully into the community of magical nations. At the very least, he could have implemented educational reforms at Hogwarts, so that the youth of Britain were more aware of what happened in other nations – that they would care about the suffering in places like the Continent, instead of just dismissing it as something happening somewhere else, as they had done in the Grindelwald conflict.

But the man had done none of this. Instead, he had allowed the status quo to continue, leaving the Continent to recover on its own, refusing to involve himself in the workings of his own country, doing little to bring reform as Hogwarts’ Headmaster.

It was as if Dumbledore was somehow afraid, a mouse paralyzed by the hoot of an owl, hoping that he held perfectly still, did nothing at all, the predator would go away.

At least, that was how Igor had seen things, though he didn’t have any idea what could possibly be a threat to the wizard who had slain Grindelwald, save maybe his own strength, and the idea of someone being afraid of their own power was nigh ridiculous in his mind.

So, Karkaroff had removed Dumbledore from his mind as a role model, and had looked for others who could teach him, who could help him become strong.

What he found was a practitioner of the Dark Arts named Tom Marvolo Riddle – a man who styled himself a Lord and believed in the purity of might, an Englishman who dared to travel and learn what the world had the world to offer. The man had offered Igor – a talented young wizard – a place at his side, and the alumnus of Durmstrang had accepted.

At the time, he believed that he was one of Riddle’s partners in changing the world through might, starting with a hopelessly corrupt Britain, whose people needed to be reminded that there was evil in the world, and that if they refused to stand against it, they might as well be perpetrating it. In exchange for his aid, the Dark Lord – no, Riddle had taught him much, showing him rituals and spells long forgotten, helping him improve his facility with the arts of the mind.

The people he met – people like Severus Snape, an ambitious half-blood who was bullied by the aristocratic elite of Britain for his desire to make something of himself, or Antonin Dolohov, the only other Russian among Riddle’s followers – had only reinforced his view that what they were doing was right and proper.

They offered him friendship, identity, respect, security. They offered him an ideology to follow and the promise that they were helping to save the world from itself, starting with a Britain that had already damned itself by its inaction.

One who knew power, Tom had explained, would use it to benefit those who did not. Granted, in the service of the greater good, innocent people would sometimes be hurt, but one could not create a revolution without some degree of unease, and with Britain so complacent, that unease had to be created.

A small evil, for the purpose of good.

Igor had seen that this was true enough, given that this was the philosophy all those in power used – even the Ministries, and that fear and inaction had cost the Continent far more than anything he could do, so he had agreed with Tom’s ideas.

They, the Knights of Walpurgis, would topple the corrupt Ministry of Britain, and doing so, would begin to fix the ignorance and suffering in the world.

Some days, Igor wondered where it had all gone wrong.

It had begun with some of his fellow Knights and Lieutenants exceeding their orders out of misplaced zeal, being too free with the Dark Arts – using them carelessly against a civilian population when there was no need. He had reprimanded his fellows, reminding him that there was a time and a place for these things, but the Dark Lord…Tom, had set aside the draconian punishments he had ordered, as “their hearts had been in the right place.”

There had been more than a decade of these small incidents, a period of time when the Knights rebranded themselves as Death Eaters – those who would conquer death itself – donning black hoods and masks with snake-like eye slits to cover their faces. Looking back, he could see perfectly well that the change had been to inspire fear, so the populace would see those who attacked them not as fellow wizards, but as faceless, remorseless servants of the Dark who the Ministry could not identify, much less stop.

In that time, Igor had begun to feel that he had learned all Tom was willing to teach, and was becoming more jaded both the behavior of others in the organization, as they seemed to enjoy the necessary evil they committed too much, and about any prospects for true change. Out of respect for the man who had taught him so much, he had arranged to meet with Voldemort in private, only for what had been meant as a private meeting to instead be a ceremony in which the inner circle – the oldest and most trusted of the Death Eaters, were branded with the Dark Mark, with the Dark Lord announcing an escalation of their activities.

From that time forward, there was no escape – no hope for escape – not when his every move could be tracked by Tom, when his fellows watched him – watched each other – for any sign of betrayal. No hope that was, until he was captured by the Ministry, with Lord Voldemort meeting his end at the hands of a powerless boy shortly thereafter.

Hearing the news from Alastor Moody’s mouth had made Igor laugh at absurdity of it all, given that Tom was the most powerful wizard he’d ever met, for him to be undone by a mere child was…almost unbelievable. He hadn’t believed it at first, thinking it was a lie – until he noticed that the Dark Mark had faded, and for the first time in a long time, there was hope for him.

To save himself, he had betrayed the other Death Eaters, though one could wonder if giving up their names was really betrayal, given that he long since ceased to feel loyalty to any of them – or even to Tom, who he feared more than anything else. Curiously, Auror Moody had seemed disgusted at his actions, something Karkaroff hadn’t understood.

The Auror wanted information about the other Death Eaters, right? So why, when the law enforcement official got it, did he look at Igor as if Igor should have shown more loyalty to his watchers? But perhaps he shouldn’t have wondered. After all, Moody was himself a monster, a servant of a corrupt society who had wrought a terrible slaughter among the Death Eaters, and a bully, besides.

Still, Moody had kept his end of the bargain, and instead of being imprisoned, Igor was simply ejected from Britain as persona non grata. For some years, he cast about aimlessly, not knowing what to do with himself, until the post of Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute opened up. At first, he hadn’t wanted to even think about becoming a teacher, given that he had once looked down on Dumbledore for choosing to remain a teacher instead of making something of himself, but as time went on, he realized how limited his options were.

No Ministry wanted him as an employee, given the possible scandal involved with his unfortunate past, and he knew little enough about how to survive in the world except through combat. He was a criminal, a veteran, a terrorist and more – someone who wasn’t even sure who or what he was anymore after the fall of Lord Voldemort and the collapse of what had essentially been the cult the Dark Wizard had established.

So he had applied for the position of Headmaster at his alma mater, and surprisingly, had been chosen to lead the school. Not because he was the fiercest of warriors, or because he was the luckiest, not because he was the smartest of the applicants, or the most loyal – but because he understood the dynamics of power and fear, and how might without discipline and honor were meaningless.

Headmaster Karkaroff shook his grey and weary head, as his hair was ruffled by a cool arctic breeze.

Soon the delegations from Beauxbatons and Hogwarts would arrive, with their students coming to this frozen land at the end of the world for the first time.

He wondered how they would react – especially Britain, in the wake of a tragedy far greater than anything he’d participated in as a Death Eater, which Banners the foreigners would choose to join, and of course, how the Tri-Wizard Tournament would turn out.

‘I wonder if by the end, they will understand…’

“Headmaster Karkaroff?” a voice called from behind him, with Igor turning to see a statuesque redhead almost two meters in height who moved with a sense of absolute confidence and poise, clad a black robe trimmed with gold that marked her as a member of Raven Banner’s command staff, though where her superior wore a chain of office and a medallion, she wore the coat of arms of Durmstrang in silver against a golden cauldron.

“Champion Sondrol,” the Headmaster greeted, raising an eyebrow. “I take it preparations for the Feast of Welcome are complete?”

“They are, Headmaster,” Lieutenant Rachelle Sondrol of the Banner of the Raven replied, inclining her head respectfully. “Everything is in place, and the Council of the Host has finished its meeting as well, with the Commanders having joined their subordinates.”

“Very good, Champion Sondrol,” Igor grunted. “And Lieutenants Krum and Morgenstern?”

“Lieutenant Krum and the honor guard he commands stand ready to greet those from Beauxbatons, while Lieutenant Morgenstern will be handling the greeting of Hogwarts,” the Champion informed him, her green eyes reflecting light of the aurorae above. “It was felt that it would be…unwise for Lieutenant Krum to welcome the British school, given the recent…pleasantness, sir.”

“A wise choice,” Headmaster Karkaroff said approvingly. “I am glad my trust in you and the Council is not misplaced.”

“We will endeavor not to disappoint you, sir.”

“See that you don’t,” the Headmaster intoned. “Durmstrang may be a harsh place, and I harsher still, but history and the long memory of man is the harshest of all.” Igor shook his head, feeling quite old as he looked on one so young, yet who already bore such responsibility. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw twin lights flash into existence, as the Norway portal – hidden in the nearby lake some called Ymir’s well, flared into existence, with enormous horses surging forth from it and rising into the sky, and the Hogwarts Express steamed through the standalone portal the British had commissioned. “Well then, Champion Sondrol, I do believe it is time for you to retrieve the Long Banner. We shall meet our fellows in the Hall of Welcome, yes?”

“As you say, sir.”

---

As she disembarked from the last of the Beauxbatons carriages to touch down on solid ground, behind Madame Maxine, the honored Headmistress of Beauxbatons, and Fleur Delacour, the current Etoile, Rachelle Perrot Lestrange could help but smile as she felt the fresh, cold air on her face – and as she saw the part-Veela pull her powder-blue muffler tighter about her face.

The young blonde was herself rather comfortable, but then, the set of dress robes, cloak and boots she wore had been specifically tailored to her specifications and enchanted for warmth and comfort, given the uncertain nature of the Potions Competition and its demands, while her peers wore only the standard uniform of Beauxbatons – a powder-blue set of dress (or robes), cape, and hat that certainly looked stylish, but didn’t do much to protect the wearer from the elements.

‘I’m glad Fleur was picked as Etoile, as meeting her will be a fine test for the young men of Durmstrang, …’ she thought to herself, as she watched the black-clad figure of Viktor Krum approach, trailed by two dozen students in crimson robes. ‘Though I suppose if anyone had resistance to a Veela’s charm, Viktor Krum would, given that he has been around them more than most…’

Given that Krum was the Seeker of the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team, and that Bulgaria had brought Veela as mascots before, he no doubt had trained to resist their aura, so it wasn’t his lack of reaction that interested her, but rather that of the crimson-clad honor guards.

‘They are maintaining their discipline in the face of Fleur’s aura. Curious.’

An aura that was expanding and growing stronger due to Fleur’s discomfort with her surroundings, no less, though her face betrayed no sign of it, as befitted an Etoile.

Slowly, the parties came to a halt, only paces from one another, with Viktor Krum bowing to them and doffing his cap, with Madame Maxine nodding and Fleur curtseying, even as Rachelle heard those behind her sigh.

“Greetings, honored wizards and witches of Beauxbatons,” Krum was saying as he straightened. “I am Viktor Krum, Lieutenant of the Banner of Wolves, and on behalf of Headmaster Karkaroff and the Banners of the Host, I welcome you to Durmstrang.”

The honor guard seemed to underline his words with two sharp cracks of their staves upon the ground.

“Merci, Lieutenant,” Madame Maxine noted, gesturing for Fleur and Rachelle to step forward. When the part-Veela did so, the headmistress introduced her. “Lieutenant, zis is Fleur Delacour, Etoile of Beauxbatons.”

“Enchanté, lieutenant,” Fleur Delacour replied, her long sheet of silvery blonde hair fluttering in the wind as she looked upon the Quidditch star with her deep blue eyes and nodded.

After Anton’s…unfortunate demise, Rachelle supposed that it was only natural that the part-Veela was chosen as Beauxbatons’ special representative. After all, Fleur had a significant power base at the Academy, given that she was not only ravishingly beautiful, charming, and rather graceful, but had an allure who could make men weak in the knees with a smile or glance.

Males wanted her, as did some of the girls at Beauxbatons, while most simply wanted to be her, a living example of the virtues espoused by the Academy. The Potions Champion herself fell into neither category, though she did tolerate the girl better than some of her peers, mostly since Fleur did not necessarily try to manipulate people – and she didn’t bother with perfume.

‘A pity her reign will be so short, as I don’t imagine being Etoile will matter much ‘ere.’

“And zis,” the half-giantess said, as Rachelle herself stepped forward, “is Rachelle Perrot Lestrange, ze Potions Champion of Beauxbatons.”

“A pleasure, lieutenant,” Rachelle answered, curtseying to the young man, who bowed in turn. She found it interesting even in the face of Delacour’s allure, his eyes were not fixed on the half-veela, nor on the half-giantess that was Beauxbatons’ headmistress, but on the rapier she wore at her hip.

“The pleasure is mine, Champion,” Krum commented deferentially. “Rachelle, you say? You and Champion Sondrol have a name in common then.”

“Oh?”

Before she could ask more though, Madame Maxine interjected, with the half-giantess frowning as she she noticed the absence of a certain individual. “Ze Headmaster vill not be meeting us himself, Lieutenant?”

“He and Champion Sondrol will meet you in the Hall of Welcome, Madame Headmistress,” Krum answered the half-giantess, his dark eyes taking note of the shivering students behind her. “As the environs of Durmstrang are not as kind or beautiful as those of Beauxbatons, he thought it best if his formal greetings were to occur within the castle.”

That, and with Hogwarts arriving at the same time as the French school, it simply would not do for diplomatic purposes if the Headmaster – or Champion Sondrol – acting in her capacity as a representative of the Ministry of Norway & Durmstrang, were to meet with one, instead of the other.

“I see,” the Headmistress noted coolly. “Very well, Lieutenant. Guide us, if you will.”

Nodding once more, the Lieutenant of the Banner of Wolves proceeded to do so, with the honor guard spacing themselves out and taking charge of the columns from the other carriages.

As they walked, passing hundreds of students arrayed in the colors of the various Banners, all standing at attention, Lieutenant Krum quietly explained what would happen that evening, with the official greeting followed by the Choosing, with each student visiting Durmstrang entering the Chamber of Selection and determining which pillar of strength they aligned with most, after which climate appropriate uniforms would be issued.

‘My compatriots will be happy, though I don’t know if some of ze sillier girls are swooning at Krum’s voice, or at the thought of warm clothes. ‘ow terrible.’

It was an interesting thought to divide a school into different factions officially though, as opposed to the unofficial factions that had existed even in Beauxbatons’ supposedly united student body. Idly, as she noted the chattering of teeth wondered if soon, Rachelle wondered if her classmates would soon be adding comments about the dark Etoile being literally cold blooded to the exaggerated tales that had sprung up regarding the events of the previous year.

“Champion Lestrange,” Krum intoned as he walked, as Rachelle stepped forward, having fallen a little behind Fleur and Madame Maxine again. Truly, it was something of a curse to be so short and to have to walk besides a giantess! “A question, if you would?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?” she replied, surprised he had called out to her, not to the others. “What can I do for you?”

“Your rapier,” the Bulgarian said quietly. The Potions Champion of Beauxbatons just looked at him, bidding him say more, so with a sigh, he did. “Durmstrang trains its students in melee combat, using staves, which is why one is part of our dress uniform. Your rapier though…”

“Ah. An heirloom of my family,” Rachelle answered simply. “I carry it as my sidearm, by my right as Champion.”

Krum looked at her for a moment, but nodded.

“And I do not seek to challenge that right,” he said diplomatically. It was not his place to challenge a Champion of another school… “So long as you do not give me cause.”

“That, I will not.”

Krum just grunted.

---

From a stage in the Hall of Welcome, Headmaster Karkaroff looked out upon the hosts of Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, with a scattering of his own students present, the rest having proceeded further inside to attend to other duties.

Orbs of light floated above them, casting a dappled illumination on the chamber, revealing the powder-blue masses of the French school led by Madame Maxine, who towered over the figures at her side – one a part veela from the allure he could feel even from a distance, and the other a cloaked blonde figure in navy chased with silver. Those of the British school, on the other hand, wore robes of pure black, and were led by the half-goblin Headmaster Flitwick, who was dwarfed by the five figures flanking him, with these clad in protective robes of grey, with hoods reminiscent of birds of prey, accented with belts of red.

One of the cloaked figures was no doubt the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, the one who had defeated Voldemort all those years ago, but the identity of the others he couldn’t even begin to guess, though one of them was glaring at Lieutenant Krum, who had moved to join the Commanders and his fellow Lieutenants on the stage behind the Headmaster.

‘Troublesome, but not unexpected.’

With that in mind, Karkaroff took a deep breath and spoke.

“Welcome and well met, comrades from distant France and Britain,” he said, glancing over the crowd. “It is an impressive sight – an unprecedented sight – to see so many visitors in these halls, assembled together in the name of peace and celebration.”

He met the eyes of both his fellow Headmasters and nodded.

“We are gathered here tonight to commemorate the revival of the Tri-Wizard Tournament – to see history in the making, and to remember the events that have transpired in the past – that have become our histories. No doubt, you all know the history of the Tri-Wizard Tournament as a contest between Champions, as a celebration of bravery and skill, but tonight I tell you that it is about more than that. It is an opportunity for you to live among us – and for us to live with you – learning from one another, sharing our cultures, growing as people and as wizards.”

It seemed he had caught the attention of one of the grey-clad youths of Hogwarts with this statement, though why it was, he couldn’t begin to imagine.

“For the duration of the Tournament, there will be no students solely of Hogwarts, no students solely of Beauxbatons. You will not be strangers among us, but comrades in our Banners, working beside us, training beside us, learning and living beside us as Wolf, Serpent, or Raven. You will learn the skills to survive in these frozen lands, in the heat of battle, and in the world outside, just as we will seek to learn of your traditions and what it is you value most. In accordance with this, your Headmasters will join me in regulating disciplinary issues as a triumvirate – just as we will judge the Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

He gestured for the part-goblin Headmaster of Hogwarts and the half-giantess of Beauxbatons to join him on stage, which they did, turning to look at the surprised crowd.

“But that is my piece. To speak about what it means to be a Champion, I can think of no one more suitable than one who is already a Champion – who represents the entirety of Durmstrang,” Karkaroff intoned, as he stepped back, along with the other Headteachers. “Champion Sondrol, if you would grace us with a word?”

The statuesque redhead stepped forward, the light of the orbs floating above glinting from her flame-coloured hair and the gold trim of her robes, making her seem like some hero of legend as she looked out upon the crowds, with two people in particular paying very close attention to her.

“Thank you, Headmaster Karkaroff,” Rachelle Sondrol began, finding her gaze drawn by a motion in the corner of her eye, as the petite figure standing before the students of Beauxbatons doffed her hood, revealing the face of a young woman whose features were framed by finely textured golden hair, as had one of the grey cloaked figures standing before the students of Hogwarts, revealing the features of an easterner and hair so black it was almost blue. “As Champion of Durmstrang, I would like to welcome you as well, with a special welcome to my peers as Champions, who no doubt know what I am about to say.”

There were murmurs from the crowd at this, as a number of faces turned questioningly toward the two who had revealed their faces, with Lieutenant Sondrol finding the race of the Hogwarts Champion curious, since she knew the British preferred their own.

‘How unusual…’

But that was something for another time.

“We speak of glory for the victor of the Tournament. Of Eternal Glory and Honor in triumph, but I say to you that there is honor in even being chosen as a Champion, chosen as the very best of your school and country, to represent your peers in the eyes of the world itself,” she continued, her words commanding the attention of the crowd. “But even then, it is about more than the self. Yes, there is honor for the one so chosen, but there is also honor for one’s family, one’s ancestors, one’s school and one’s people, as none of us could become champions without the support and guidance of those who have stood beside us, whether they number among the living, or have passed into memory. If we stand tall, it is because something drive us – something pulls us forward – and others have inspired us, given us the courage and conviction that we can be not only the best of who we are, but more than we ever imagined.”

Her figure almost seemed to glow in the dim light as she spoke, her husky contralto filled with passion.

“By this time tomorrow, there will be three more Champions among us – three chosen by the Goblet of Fire as most worthy to compete in the trials of the Tournament to come. They will stand on the field alone, testing their wits, skill, and strength against each other and the challenges this land has to offer, seeking to survive, seeking to excel and be acknowledged as one of the greatest young wizards or witches in a generation. Seeking to be crowned as sole Champion of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

“For those of you who wish to be a Champion, remember this – that the Goblet will only choose the most worthy – and that if you are chosen, there will be no second chances. To be a Champion is a commitment to give everything of yourself, to live as a paragon of virtue above all, whether in victory or defeat, in life or in death. My friends – my future comrades – know this: that there is great glory in victory, but glory even in passing, so long as we have done our part. For even in passing, we achieve immortality, becoming infinite in distance and unbound by flesh, our souls released to join the ones we honor in the memories of the past, living eternally so long as we are remembered by the ones whose lives we have touched. Thank you.”

As the Champion of Durmstrang finished speaking, there was silence, as no one knew exactly how to respond to what she’d said, until one lone figure – the Potions Champion of Beauxbatons – began to clap, joined shortly thereafter by the Potions Champion of Hogwarts, and a number of others.

---

After that came the Choosing, in which each of the assembled students chose a Banner under whose authority they’d fall, with Rachelle Lestrange choosing to join the Banner of Ravens and was granted a black robe, chased with golden traceries, with the coat of arms of Beauxbatons emblazoned in silver against a golden cauldron at her breast, which she wore over her dress, with her cloak thrown over her arm.

She made her way into the Great Hall, where the Commanders and their Lieutenants were already seated at the heads of their respective Banners, her eyes seeking out the Potions Champion of Durmstrang.

As if the other could feel her gaze, the redhead turned, as silver eyes looked into green, and the world seemed to stop for one enchanted moment as the Rachelles found themselves smiling at one another, with the Potions Champion of Durmstrang seemingly pleased by her choice of Banner, even as she was curious about the rapier she wielded.

“Join me,” her eyes seemed to say, and so Rachelle Perrot Lestrange did, moving to sit beside the Raven Lieutenant, for a most enjoyable meal, though frankly, she didn’t really remember what it was she ate, or what she talked about, simply that there was something there that made her curious, and that perhaps, for once in a very long time, it wasn’t so bad spending time with someone else – especially as that person smelled like her, but not – like potions and the wild, life and death.

Rachelle Perrot Lestrange did notice however, that Fleur Delacour, Etoile of Beauxbatons, emerged from the Chamber of Selection dressed in the golden robes of the Banner of Ravens, and moved to sit beside her – no doubt as she was someone familiar, with one of the boys of Hogwarts emerging from the Chamber in a black robe much like her own, choosing not to sit beside Fleur, but across from Champion Sondrol, inclining his head respectfully as the Commander of the Banner smiled.

‘Zat must be the first time a male has chosen not to sit next to – or across from – Fleur, if given the chance,’ she thought to herself, putting a hand to her rapier to let the solidity of it calm her. ‘’ow curious…’

Unnoticed by her, one other formerly grey-cloaked figures made her way to the Banner of Ravens, seating herself at the far end, away from the assembled Champions, while another – a redhead– went to the Banner of Wolves, where he sat across from Viktor Krum, glowering, until he was reprimanded by Commander Terum, with the two remaining notables of Hogwarts – one of them the Boy Who Lived – joining the Banner of Serpents.

---

Choice 69: How appropriate, given that this choice deals with the clusterf*** that is coming that night in the hallway near the Goblet of Fire. Tell me, if you will, which POV would you like to see this altercation from? (choose one)

[ ] Fleur Delacour
[ ] Viktor Krum
[ ] George Weasley
[ ] A Hufflepuff

[apsalar]

I'm inclined to vote [X] Viktor Krum, with the perspective shifting to [X] a Hufflepuff once Krum's unconscious. If that's not an option, then just the Hufflepuff; that seems amusing.

[LeMagicien]

[x] TIED at time of Writing - I'll have him sit across from the Durmstrang Champion, and next to Fay Dunbar. [/I]

Well, I'll be damned, Ms. Sondrol is on our side. Looks like neither choice won in a landslide.

I want to say this is bad, but I'm terribly excited.

For even in passing, we achieve immortality, becoming infinite in distance and unbound by flesh, our souls released to join the ones we honor in the memories of the past, living eternally so long as we are remembered by the ones whose lives we have touched.

Alf, you sly dog, you! What you did there, I see it! And I gotta say, I'm more than pleased. Admittedly, I've never been able to make pterodactyl screeches as well as I did this moment. Also, that moment where Weiss and Pyrrha Rachelle/Rachelle stare at each other, that seemed awfully shippy intimate. My voice is growing rather hoarse.

Jokes aside, Ms. Lestrange's backstory is very compelling, and I find myself attached to her fate and future. A pity we'll only enjoy her company for this year, although I suspect that a character who's had so much effort put into its creation will outlive this year. Perhaps, as the kids say, she will join our squad. Or maybe she'll die a horrible death. Hopefully not, tho.

As for choice 69 (to borrow from a another, *puerile giggle*) I'm going with

[X]A Hufflepuff

Let's face it. The last choice went so far against my impulsive desire for Ms. Sondrol in favor of more rational pursuits. Also, three named choices plus a Hufflepuff? Suspicious.

Guys, I'm being upfront about this now, but y'all better be ready to stop some of my most impulsive decision making this year. I swear I'll do damned best to seduce Ms. Sondrol against every rational, Luna-loving-bone in my body. The chance is just too great.

[Skull Leader]

I have to admit, it was really fun reading both Lestrange's part and Igor's. I rarely see people try to explain his past history in such a logical manner. It ranks up there with the death of Fudge.

as her desire to become Champion was not rooted in something as shallow as wishing to stand out to prospective employers, as much of a coup as the position would have been.

Is that a small jab at Shinji? You can boil down his entire reason for being the champion was to stand out to an prospective employer. Its deeper then that but the statement is still true for his case.

So I can't help but say that the connection at the end with the two Rachelle's is likely Sondrol using one of her abilities on Lestrange. Sondrol became champion in the school of warriors, she has her own bag of tricks. And mental tricks are not completely out of the question.

As for this vote, my gut says that there is only two likely possibilities for the Some Hufflepuff. Either they are an indecent bystander who will do nothing but watch or they are the attacker. Considering that Hufflepuff is the house (at some level) of peer pressure, with their history of going with group thought. And considering that Hogwarts is angry, I think that the Hufflepuff viewpoint will be from the attacker viewpoint.

[X] Fleur Delacour

Mostly because I think that it will be better to get into Fleur head before the attack and see the change of thought when she finds that this year, she might not be safe this year when there is a complete school that hates her for being a "non-human." And then we can watch the change when that schools champion takes it on himself to guard her from his own school.

Its my storyteller point of view but I can get behind the bad person Hufflepuff POV.

[Malgos]

[X] Fleur Delacour

Mostly because I think that it will be better to get into Fleur head before the attack and see the change of thought when she finds that this year, she might not be safe this year when there is a complete school that hates her for being a "non-human." And then we can watch the change when that schools champion takes it on himself to guard her from his own school.

I wanted this to happen in the earlier choice as well, but now I don't really care as it seems the point of view is immediately before the attack happens.

So once again I will cast my vote for George. Maybe one of these days it'll actually happen if I keep voting for him (and his brother).

[neophyte]

[X]A Hufflepuff

Tho i'm a bit confused now. Weren't Flitvick's five honor guards the Stone Cutters? Yet Luna sits at the far end of the table, generously allowing her soulmate to cheat to his heart content with foreign alchemist ladies...