“It’s part of your probation, Monsieur Krum. Otherwise, le Ministry will never trust you again.”
It had been four years. Four years since Azkaban had finally taken its first Krum having lost out on more than its fair share in the preceding years. The nineteen year old had not been ready but for his sister, he would have done anything in the world. Her eyes still haunted him, assaulted him when he didn’t expect it. Behind his own lids he could hear her screams, see the writhe of her body as she went limp; too exhausted to put up with anymore the man who was supposed to love her afforded her. The Lupins couldn’t save him from what he put him through. The Krums couldn’t save him from what he put him through.
James Reich didn’t open his eyes again. Didn’t flex his fingers or wriggle his toes. He didn’t feel the wind on his face or see the smile of a lover, feel the grace of a woman’s touch. He died in pieces but, unfortunately for him, not quite. The Cruciatus Curse never truly lifted, riddling him further into insanity than the Longbottoms could as much as boast. Sectumsempra ruined every shred of skin. Yet the Healers made him live. He breathed. Perhaps he ate a little through a drip in what was left of his arm. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t hear. He didn’t see. He was a shred of the man he was and that alone, knowing he had to live despite his injuries, satisfied Thierry Eriq Krum enough to go to Azkaban without complaint.
Life, he received. Life for grievous bodily harm, mainly, amongst attempted murder charges, use of the Unforgivables and, most interestingly of all, using spells and methods of torture that made even the sons and daughters of Death Eaters in the Wizengamot shudder. Yet, for good behaviour, for putting up with the Dementors whose aura left him nauseous but no less put off of his meal than he already was, they allowed him parole. He was no danger to the public, the Dept. Of Law and Enforcement ascertained through squinting eyes. Needless to say, the Daily Prophet didn’t agree and Fauve... she still wouldn’t look at him.
“They’ll never trust me, Jeanne.” Thierry muttered, wondering for not the first time why it had to be a solicitor who aided and abetted him, who soothed his worries and, for the best part, treated him like a mother would her son. Where was his own mother? Where was Mira? Where was his father? Where was Elijah? Where was the pretty chit he kept on his arm? Where were the Rookwoods he so treasured? Where was his sister? Where were his brothers? Where was Alice? Where was Fauve? Cepheus? Caelum? Gone.
Jeanne Delacroix was a Parisian through and through. When Elijah had hired her, it hit home just how ostracised Thierry truly was. She wasn’t an English solicitor from the country they’d called home since he’d been a boy. She wasn’t Bulgarian, a testament to Elijah’s trust in his country of birth. She wasn’t a Krum, either, the family of which boasted more than a handful of successful lawyers. No, she was French. She was Parisian. She was old enough to be his mother. A replacement for one, indeed. Thierry hadn’t expected Elijah to stand by him but lord knew, he hadn’t expected to be completely abandoned.
No, that was a surprise.
But probation meant a way out and it was something that his cell-mate across the corridor envied him for. He’d murdered his whole family, allegedly, but after living next to the well-mannered, easy-going soul for four years...Thierry highly doubted it. It was just a very, very good frame up. Probation was something he’d never get and Thierry promised that by hook or by crook, he’d find a way to get something nice into the prison for his friend. Without him, Thierry knew that insanity would have been the best way out. Even without the distress the Dementors caused, the screams still found a way to get to you.
The task was simple enough: work awhile with the children at the new youth centre opening in Diagon Alley and they’d extend is probation, help him get a proper job and maybe, if he in six months time posed no threat at all to any member of the public, they’d reduce his sentence and he’d be released.
Thierry’s fingers brushed over the runic numerical barcode tattooed into the skin beneath his collarbone and he sighed. He knew better than to trust them to keep their word yet despite his cynicism he still found himself stood outside next to Jeanne, his hand lightly grasping her finger as they watched the parents hurry in behind their excited children.
“I can’t do this, Jeanne.” He whispered, his breath grazing her ear. She turned, her hazel eyes glaring forcefully into his before bringing her hand up to light slap at his cheek. Thierry managed a wry, rueful smile for her benefit and she chuckled a little before reaching up to kiss his hurt.
“You can,” she promised him. “I’ll be here, watching. I won’t let anything bad happen, Ted. The Aurors have me in charge of monitoring your progress. Unfortunately for me, that also means you’re in my house for the foreseeable future.”
Thierry winced. “Sorry.”
Jeanne laughed. “It’s fine, my boy. I know you. The only danger you pose to me is interrupting my husband and I when we’d quite like to-”
Thierry made a face. “Don’t even finish that sentence, Jean. I don’t want to even picture it. I get it. You’d take your wand to me.”
Jeanne laughed again and nodded before linking her arm with Thierry’s. “Come on then.”
As they entered, scooped up by the crowd, Thierry felt his head begin to smart and his eyes pull a little as he was assaulted with colour and light and life so fragrant and so flyaway he almost felt like cautioning all of them. But he didn’t. He merely shrunk a little at Jeanne’s side, reassured by the feel of her hand on his lower back. He sighed heavily, his fingers twisting and turning in and out of one another, and looked, despite his misgivings, for Sunny.
Thankfully, Jeanne swept him over in the direction of the redhead and Thierry respectfully tore his hat from his head, not caring about the way his hair mussed, disturbed by the static the action had caused.
“Ms. Dyllan-Thomas!” Jeanne enthused, her accent heavy, an indicator that she herself was not wholly comfortable with the situation at hand. “I trust you are still willing to help the Ministry with ... certain aspects of your old classmate’s ... rehabilitation, I suppose you could say?”