Chapter 72 Across the Channel

Her parents had known better than to ask what it was that was consuming her, literally from the inside out. They had seen the medical reports; they knew what she had lost. The Veela within her would probably never forgive him, but then, the witch within her would never forget, never stop loving him. Attempts to reconcile the two had proven to be... difficult. She had broken the bond of The Veela that had bound them as a couple. The half bond, given that he was not of her kind or blood. But that was Veela's bond. Her heart still yearned for him, and still wanted to be with him. Not here. Not at home in the south of France.

She went through the motions of living, but she was not really there. She needed him, more than she wanted to admit. When they had first met, almost two years before, she had seen just a little boy. That was what everyone had seen: The Boy Who Lived, walking the length of the Great Hall of Hogwarts to pointed fingers and whispers of hatred, disgust, and jealousy. He was on the cusp of manhood when she first met him because he didn't want the fame and everything else that came with it.

He was no child. He had never been one. The pain had marred his childhood, she knew that. Tragedy had taken what little was left of his childhood from him, nearly taken his ability to love as well. What had happened to him in that place, that godforsaken graveyard had taken a boy and made a man of him. It had done something great, but for all the wrong reasons. It had nearly killed what was so quintessentially human, and Veela: The ability to love.

She'd nurtured that gentle spark and made it a flame that burned with heat and passion that rivaled Fyndfire. She'd done too well perhaps: It had burned them both. She stared out from the window, across the garden. A part of her knew where he would be, right this very moment. He would either be on the Hogwarts express alongside his Legion, or already in Hogsmeade, or Hogwarts.

She had followed the news of the struggle in England. She had read the newspapers. All of them. Used the contacts she still had "in-country" to learn a great deal more: Gringotts, specifically Griphook, had kindly shared a great deal of information. She had celebrated the Legion's success at Grimmauld Place, as she had their rescue in Northumbria. She had lit a candle for each fallen Legionnaire and said a prayer for each of them. Those candles would never stop burning. They were a reminder, one that she needed constantly of the choice she had made.

Everyone who knew Harry knew that he didn't want the fame, could have done without the fortune. How does one walk tall when you are famous for the murder of your parents and the accidental defeat of one of the greatest Dark Lords to ever stalk the shadows of the British Isles? She knew that he would have taken the loss of so many under his... leadership badly. She did not have to be close to him to feel his pain.

She admired him, everything she knew could not change that fact: The way he had befriended her, the way he had saved her sister from the Black Lake. The way he had charged into the maze, and somehow, despite what had happened in that graveyard, returned with the wand of Cedric Diggory, her boyfriend for only a few short months at the time, and perhaps most devastatingly of all: The mortal remains of his love. She had believed him from that very moment. The man who wanted none of his fame, none of the fortune, could not have concocted such a tale if his life had depended upon it.

Her parents, of course, had been somewhat divided as to how to handle her. Her mother, being a Veela herself, knew of the situation her daughter was in, but there was nothing that she could do. Time and perhaps a new love, or the return of the old, would be the best way to remedy the situation. But that remained out of reach for as long as her daughter pined for him. Her father, of course, had wanted to take a more direct approach, and simply kill one Harry Potter for what her daughter had endured because of him. It was the father in him speaking, and it had taken quite a few hours to convince him of two things: Killing Harry Potter would probably send Fleur into the dreaded Veela Death Spiral. Secondly, if what Fleur had told them was true, it was more than likely that Harry Potter would kill him first.

Gabrielle Delacour should have been at school. But she was half Veela like her sister and had chosen to stay at her sisters' side. It worked: Fleur tutored her sister and their mother helped. For some hours of the day at least, Fleur was the witch that they all remembered, the witch who had been a contender in the Triwizard Tournament, the witch who had called Harry Potter "mon amour" not so long ago.

The three Delacour women were taking a break from the morning's lesson about transfiguration when Appoline Delacour felt a shimmer in the wards. She frowned. It was a little early for Jean Pierre to be home for lunch. "Mama?" asked Gabrielle, "What is it?"

There was more than one presence coming up the path to their home. Something was not right. She drew her wand from the folds of her robes, "Fleur, stay here, and protect Gabrielle." She had barely left the room when a tremendous crack rang out, followed seconds later by the remains of the front door that went skidding down the hallway.

Fleur was suddenly alongside her mother, wand raised. The first person through the door wore long black robes and silver masks that hid all of their faces, except for the mouth. She recognized that mask, and she froze. Humans have always had a primitive, almost primal fear of the dark, instilled into them during the earliest days of cavemen, who would huddle together around their campfires for warmth and protection. It was a similar, almost primal fear reaction to the silver mask. The sickly amber-colored eyes bored into her and she froze.

The Death Eater raised a wand in its hand, "Avada Kedevra!"

The shriek and the bolt of death snapped her reverie, as she pulled her mother backward a step, moving them both out of the line of fire - for the moment. The curse exploded, blackening the wall where it struck. Apolline Delacour stared in amazement as her daughter attacked.

Chained blasting curses followed by cutting charms leaped from her wand. Fleur was pleased to see that she had not lost any of her skill: The Death Eater went down, minus an arm and leg. Her follow-up curse finished him off. "Where's papa?" she asked.

"I felt him," said her mother quietly, "He was with them." She was trembling, almost uncontrollably. Fleur recognized the signs: She had seen them in herself before, after the death of Cedric. "He... I cannot... feel him, anymore." Fleur sent another volley towards the front door. Her mother nodded, leaning back against the wall to support herself as the loss of her soul mate struck with devastating force. Appoline Delacour felt a shift in the magic around them, a feeling of power and control attaching itself to her mind. The wards, what was left of them, were now in her control. That only confirmed what she feared: Her husband was slain.

"We need to go," said Fleur quietly, nodding back towards Gabrielle, and the fireplace. Their only exit, if they could reach it without getting killed.

"Non," said her mother quietly, "You, need to go. Both of you. Take Gabrielle and go." She drew her wand, "Accio!" she called. There was the sound of shattering wood, a pair of trunks flew down the stairs, railroading to Death Eaters before they came to a halt next to her. They shrank until they fit in the palm of her hand, like miniatures for a child's dollhouse, "Everything you will need," said Apolline Delacour, "You both need." She seemed amused, but neither of her daughters was fooled: They could see the pain in her eyes and soul. "You call Harry Potter, your love. Papa and I," she took a breath and gestured towards the front parlor of their home, "planned for the worst."

"Mama, non!" protested Fleur. She knew what her mother was planning, "You cannot..." Both witches ducked as another killing curse smashed into the wall.

"I must!" replied her mother, "It is not only to avenge your father but to make sure that my children escape, that our bloodline lives!" together, the two witches had reduced much of the hallway and front door of their home to a broken ruin. Though they continued to argue for several minutes there was no changing Appoline's mind, "I have lost virtually everything today. At least I can ensure that my children survive." She pushed the shrunken trunks into Fleur's pocket, and hugged them both for a moment, "Je t'aime, mes enfants."

She charged, killing two Death Eaters with as many curses, and then diving behind cover. "Go!" she screamed.

"Not without mama!" it was Gabrielle, her cry cutting through the carnage and chaos of the moment, "Not without mama!" She struggled but Fleur had her arm in a vice-like grip, and dragged her backward, away from their mother, past the dining room, towards the kitchen where they could escape.

Dragging a protesting Gabrielle, Fleur bought a shield to bear deflecting several curses back at their casters. She continued to summon objects and conjure shields against the incoming tide of spells. She did not hesitate, killing two Death Eaters who were supposed to be guarding the rear of the building. She cautiously peeked out the door that lead to the gardens and immediately ducked back in as a volley of curses shattered the door and its frame.

A quick repair charm had the door back in place. A locking charm and a few other charms she'd learned from Gringotts would let the simple wooden door stand up to some abuse. She crossed the flagstone kitchen floor in four strides and grabbed the small green pot from the mantle over the fireplace. Fleur threw a fistful of Floo powder, only for the flames to sputter and extinguish. "Merde!" gathering Gabrielle in her arms, she flickered for a moment and reappeared. No Floo. No apparition. They were trapped.

She risked a glance back down the corridor they had just traveled. Apoline had fallen back under the press of the enemy, sheltering in the dining room now, trading spells with yet another Death Eater. Focusing her magic she raised her wand, "Exuro is pessum!"

The flame was hard to control, it warred with her for its freedom, but with a shrill scream, she mastered it. It took form, sat back upon its haunches, and lunged forward. It swept past her mother, who simply stared in amazement as the flaming wolf broke apart, seven tendrils of flame launching out to a separate Death Eater.

She turned and ran, their screams echoing in her ears as the flame punched into their chests and began to burn them alive from within. She stumbled, twice, and was nearly taken off her feet by a third curse. Fleur ran forward, grabbing her mother under the arms, dragging her backward as the Fyndfire finished its grizzly task and turned its attention upon more of the Death Eaters storming through the house.

"They have wards up, and there is no escape."

"You have a means of escape," coughed her mother. She was bleeding, badly. "Call the Potter Elves… If the Death Eaters missed something in their wards, the elves will find it." She coughed and swallowed painfully.

"He would not have overlooked something so simple!" It was strange, to hear them arguing about such things - her love life in point of fact - while Fleur sidestepped two maroon-colored curses, and fired back with dark purple, bone-breaking curses.

"He would not," agreed Apoline, "Unless on purpose: You told me what he said, that you and your family would always have sanctuary within Potter Manor. Whatever he may be, he is a man of honor!" She held her left arm across her chest, breathing heavily. Only the dark blue, almost purple of her robes hid the true extent of the wound: Her limited knowledge of healing spells had slowed the blood loss, but done little more than that. "He will honor his offer of sanctuary."

"Dobby! Winky!" There was no answer, no pop of apparating house elf. She cursed and cast again, this time obliterating a Death Eater with a blasting curse that turned him to a very fine, bloody mist.

One of the kitchen windows shattered. To her credit, Appoline Delacour blasted the first to try and climb through with a stream of flame. It fell screaming in agony, rolling on the ground where it continued to burn until it finally died an agonizing death, some thirty seconds later. The second trying to breach the kitchen window met Gabrielle Delacour's Reductor curse and flopped dead with most of his chest blown away, hanging in the window.

Their lives were perhaps measured in minutes. Explosions rocked the Delacour home. The Effingus and the Death Eaters themselves were mediocre wizards for the most part - barring a few exceptions such as Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, and several others. Given that three women had held them off for so long it was no surprise that the forces of Lord Voldemort suddenly found themselves coming under attack from the rear.

The French Ministry of Magic had long boasted one of the finest and arguably most militaristic of all Magical Police forces in existence. And small wonder, given their two hundred years of history which had seen more than a dozen major wars. Add to that that Grindelwald had made himself known to the muggle world as "Adolf Hitler" and perpetrated the atrocities and genocide known around the world as the Holocaust, the French Ministry had vowed that they would never bow or be cowed again. They were the only Ministry of Magic that was covertly opposing Voldemort. It was this resistance that had brought the wrath of the Death Eaters upon the magical world of France: The Delacour's were but one of a dozen prominent wizarding families targeted.

The fact that Fleur Delacour had been the lover of Harry James Potter was simply icing on the cake for Voldemort, and the Dark Lord had wondered if it would be worth trying to capture the half Veela, just to torment Potter further. The only reason Voldemort had held off on the scheme was that, if things went according to plan, Harry would already be dead. The Dark Lord knew that the French Ministry would be forced to react to the attacks in the order that they occurred. Indeed, the twelve homes had all been struck within ten minutes of each other, limiting the number of Aurors able to respond to the Delacour attack, number 12 on the target list.

And Voldemort had no shortage of manpower.

The response team of Aurors was a hastily cobbled together force of whoever was left standing and more importantly, capable of fighting after having been stretched in too many directions. As it was, their casualties stood on dozens dead, and hundreds injured, many of whom would be unable to return to duty for several months - if ever.

It was one-sided, but the Aurors had the advantage of surprise, which they used to devastating effect, harvesting the opposition mercilessly as they employed a plethora of magical artifacts, ranging from Fragmentation Orbs and Detonation Spheres to some truly French inventions. "Percez mort" allowed the caster to fire cast anywhere between one and thirty piercing hexes in a matter of seconds. It had allowed the wizarding French to fight alongside their muggle brethren in every major war since the days of Napoleon. The French Aurors, culled the Death Eaters, slaughtering dozens in a mere moment as their wands fanned left to right across the blood-soaked ground that had once been an award-winning garden across Magical Europe.

The Aurors also had the small advantage of knowing what to expect: A merciless foe that would not take prisoners, and expected no quarter in return. One that would enshroud the target building to ensure any witch or wizard trapped within would have no way of escape. "Lancez!"

The projectile leaped from its almost crude launching stand and shrieked its way across the lawn. One would have to be excused for mistaking it for a homemade bottle rocket. But then again, that was precisely what it was: A bottle rocket, to deliver a ward buster.

Magical wards can be cast onto buildings of all kinds, and even be cast upon smaller items including clothing or objects as small as a pen. Most homes have wards that are cast into the materials that compose the building as opposed to actual ward stones. This is in part due to the prohibitive cost of the ward stones themselves, which remain a Goblin monopoly. Wizards have never come close to successfully duplicating the magic, but that is in part due to a lack of trying on the part of many, and a lack of funding for those who keep trying.

Few homes and buildings have true ward schemes in place. Most of them tend to be ancient structures where the ward scheme is not an add-on, but is built in the very foundations of the structure. Hogwarts would be one such example. Other examples would be the stately manor homes such as those of the long-established pureblood families like the Malfoys and Lestranges, and of course, Potter Manor where Harry had spent millions to ensure that the protections would be unmatched.

Without proper wardstones, disrupting a scheme of wards is a relatively simple process. At the most basic level, wards are essentially magical energy shields that prevent certain things from occurring. Anti-Apparition wards block the passage of anyone attempting to apparate and so forth. More complicated wards can assess the intent of an individual approaching and react accordingly.

However, all ward schemes, however complicated or simple have a single flaw: They can be drained - a time-consuming process at best - or simply overpowered. Ward Busters fall into the latter, delivering a payload of overcharged magical crystals to overcharge and collapse wards, making them ideal for temporary wards. Needless to say, any ward scheme tied to one or more ward stones could absorb the influx of energy, depending on the capacity of the stone thus strengthening the wards as opposed to breaking them. Hence why ward busters are rarely deployed against heavily fortified targets as the aforementioned examples: The amount of energy required to overpower the wards at Hogwarts would probably be sufficient to power every muggle electronic device in Britain for a week-long nationwide party.

In this case, the Death Eaters wards were meant to be short-term only. They shorted out within seconds of the crystals discharging their magic in a flare of blinding light. Sure enough, the wards collapsed upon themselves with a muted thunderclap. Their attention split, the Death Eaters broke into two groups. The first was still attempting to storm the Delacour home. The second turned, like a cornered wolverine, and lashed out at the Aurors. The grass would one day grow back, but it would not be green. It would grow back a deep burgundy in color, to mark the slaughter which took place there. But that would be years after nearly everyone in this account would be deceased.

The two house elves appeared with a pop, "Ms. Delacour," said Dobby.

"Dobby," replied the witch, "Cover!" the house-elf dropped to its knees, and a single Death Eater rocketed down the passageway, back towards the front door. Hopefully, whatever it collided with would kill it, she thought savagely.

It was perhaps the strangest thing many a Death Eater had ever seen: Witches and House Elves fighting side by side. Those moments of sheer incredulity cost the Death Eaters nearly a dozen of their number as they all stopped and stared, their simple minds quite literally unable to cope with the sight of the two doing battle side by side.

During the briefest of lulls in the fighting, she attempted to apparate, only to find that the wards were back up. She cursed. They should have left the moment both elves had shown up. "The elves," coughed Appoline, "Their magic is different from that of wizards as that of our blood is different from both of theirs. They can take you through the wards!"

"I am not…" the sleep spell was fired at such close range, that there was no avoiding it. There had been no reason to expect it either. Gabrielle slumped over. It would only last a few minutes at most. Enough for them to die or force her eldest daughter to do the right thing and save her sister, "Mother!" she exclaimed, "You put her to… sleep?"

She nodded, "I know the closeness of the bond between you. You would kill, and kill without hesitation to protect her. You have already done so. Now take what you have won! Go!" there was a fire blazing in her eyes, "I will deal with these vermin!"

"Dobby, take Gabrielle," said Fleur softly, "I will go with Winky."

She could understand the pain that was already beginning to eat at her mother. She could understand it because she felt it herself, every day since she had cut herself off from him. She didn't want to say his name, because every time it brought everything back with crystal clarity, and a certain diamond hardness of undeniable fact: She had hurt him, perhaps unimaginably. Now, they were taking a chance, and she was risking more than her own life in this. If he had reconfigured the wards, then there was no doubt that they would reduce them both to the consistency of freshly ground beef.

Her eyes never left those of her mother, even as Winky wrapped her hand in Fleur's. Fleur screamed in pain, a moment before she disapparated. Standing behind her was a Death Eater with its wand raised. Apoline killed it with a cone of flame and struggled to her feet. There was only one thing left for her to do. She pointed her wand at the floor, she spoke the long string of Latin with practiced ease and had barely uttered the last syllable when she was blasted off her feet. She flew, wand flying from her outstretched hand. She closed her eyes and braced herself. She had long known that getting blasted off one's feet was nothing compared to the pain that accompanied hitting the ground.

She landed upon her back, and a distant part of her mind registered the near overwhelming pain. Her shoulder was certainly dislocated, her ribs were cracked if not broken - quite possibly shattered to pieces. She lay there, barely able to feel anything at all. She could not even lift her head. She drew upon the last reserves of her strength and managed to turn her head to the side, in time to see the booted feet of a Death Eater an inch from her face.

She struggled to breathe, capable of tasting the blood in the back of her throat. She gagged, coughing blood, sending tendrils of agony shooting through her broken form. She struggled to rise but found that not even an iron will and determination could make shattered bone and broken muscles work. "I'm coming mon amour," she thought quietly as the ground beneath her groaned and fractured.

The cracks in the floor radiated outward from her body, radiating up the walls as the noise of stone crumbling filled the air. Her eyelids slid slowly shut. She could feel the entire house shaking. Some of the Death Eaters yelled in alarm, while several apparated away. Most, simply stood there in slack-jawed incomprehension as the ground gave a mighty creak.

Her final incantation had removed the preservation spells that had actually kept the Delacour Home standing for over a hundred years. Without the magic, the house began to collapse as surely as a house of cards toppling in the slightest of breezes. Appoline Delacour, mother of Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour, wife of the late Jean-Marc Delacour, had breathed her last. She took hold of her husband's outstretched hand and together they set off upon the next great adventure as the house collapsed upon her mortal remains.

Suffice to say that the first of September had not been a good day for much of Wizarding Britain: As it stood, over two-thirds of the Aurors on active duty had been slain, the Hogwarts Express, and Auror Command had been obliterated. The Ministry of Magic had been the target of a series of surgical strikes that had left the Minister for Magic, the Deputy Minister, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement dead in their offices, along with the heads of another half dozen departments including Finance, Magical Transport, Health and Family and Social Services.

The assassinations had been carried out moments before the Ministry itself had been assaulted by the Death Eaters. This was where the vast majority of Auror casualties had been sustained. It has to be said that they fought the Death Eaters to a standstill, confining the horrors of war to the Atrium. There were tales of courage and heroism, and it seemed that new heroes were born in the crucible of combat. The fact of the matter remained: The Ministry had been soundly beaten and had won a pyrrhic victory at best.

Voldemort's master plan had failed to kill Harry Potter, much to his consternation, and not for the first time did the Dark Lord wonder if anything could actually kill him. The Ministry was reeling from the series of punishing blows and near-complete decapitation of its leadership. The stage was nearly set, and it would take some time to move the last of the pieces into place. Patience was a virtue, and it was one Voldemort had in spades when it suited him.

On quite literally the other side of the country, Harry Potter and the Legion stood to watch over the road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts until the carriages had delivered the last of the students to survive the assault upon the Hogwarts Express. It was the first time in memory that students had actually arrived at the castle in time for lunch as opposed to dinner.

They had all learned of the nationwide Death Eater attacks over the course of the morning and early afternoon. As much as Harry had wanted to lead the Legion into battle, cooler heads had prevailed and convinced him, that Hogwarts was certain would feel Voldemort's wrath. They were wrong. There was no attack upon the castle or the village of Hogsmeade. That only meant that Voldemort had something else in mind. The question was what? They had no idea but Dobby's arrival with a short message had shattered Harry's composure, "You're... sure?"

The hose elf stared at Harry, and nodded, "Tis a shock, but your orders stood. I and Winky were able to get them to safety. Fleur was injured but she will recover. She is resting now. Their parents, her father had already passed by the time we were called. Her mother brought the entire house down upon herself and the Death Eaters. No survivors."

"Thank you, Dobby. Dismissed."

The Legion had proved its worth, and as far as Harry was concerned swelled their ranks with even more students. Almost every student on the Hogwarts Express that autumn day would stand and fight against Voldemort, including the Slytherins who had very nearly shared the fate of the various "half-bloods" and "filth" that were supposed to die. That in itself was a significant occurrence but even more so was the fact that children were the target of the attack. It had galvanized much of the student body: Those that had fought or simply been there knew where they stood now. Those that had not been there were viewed with universal suspicion - not that Harry was concerned. He tapped his ring with his finger and sent a message to his friends. Not even having had a chance to set foot into the castle, he walked down to Hogsmeade and took the Floo home. There were wounded that he had to check on, dead that he needed to see, and someone that he wanted to do a whole lot more than just see.

He had always hoped that one day she would take up his offer, and come back and let them rebuild their life together. He had known that all he ever had was hope. Quite possibly a fool's hope. Now that she was back in his house, however, he knew one thing: Not like this. He had wanted her back. But not like this. It was almost as if Voldermort was trying to push together he mused darkly as he stepped from the fireplace into his home. He braced himself quietly and walked the short distance to the infirmary.

The beds were occupied but a quick count told him that several who should have been there, were not there. Not Fleur and Gabrielle. They were in a private room. Several had died en route, or even "on the table" to co-opt a muggle expression. Though his instincts screamed for him to check on Fleur first, he clamped it down. Given the way she had reacted to his presence the last time they were in the same room together, the last thing he wanted was to occupy a bed in his own infirmary. He scanned the infirmary once more, this time singling out the single witch standing with a chart in her hand, "Excuse me miss," he said quietly.

"What?" she snapped without looking up from her chart.

"I just want to know the numbers,"

"And why should I..." she looked up from her chart and fell silent for a moment, "I'm sorry Mr. ... Commander Potter,"

"That's your first mistake," he interrupted smoothly, "I can understand the pressure you're under, but my name is Harry." In that one sentence, he had defused the tension between them and put her completely at ease with him, "How bad is it?"

She nodded, "Harry, eighteen dead, twenty-six with severe injuries. Forty-nine more walking wounded, and the professors made it." she handed him a slip of parchment and he closed his eyes, holding in the conflicting emotions of grief that another dozen-plus had been slain, and relief that the wounded would fight again. The power of magic in the hands and claws of the best healers the country knew would take care of that. "If you'd have a seat, we can take a look at those for you."

He looked down and noticed for the first time the blood that covered him, "Ah... it's not mine."

"With that much blood," she replied, "Some of it is bound to be yours. Now sit!"

"Yes Ma'am," he said meekly as he collapsed onto the conjured chair and began to strip off his armor. That was the moment the pain hit him, radiating through every muscle, bone, and nerve. His armor had saved him any real injury, but he still needed several doses of different potions to reduce the swelling and bruising as well as replenish some blood loss. It only took several minutes before he was allowed to leave the infirmary.

He crossed the hallway and stood outside the door to what was her room. He knew exactly what he wanted, knew what he wanted to do. But he couldn't bring himself to open the door and confront what lay within. Part of him was scared, what would happen if she left him again. The pain had never really gone away, and it made its presence felt with astounding regularity, at strange and random moments that could shatter a good mood and generally ruin any day. It was the reason why his birthday had been a quiet, somber one where there had been no celebration.

But the woman who had caused him so much pain, yet given him so much love was less than ten feet away. The only thing separating them was a single pane of solid English oak. He knocked quietly, but there was no answer. He knocked again but only tomb-like silence answered, "Aln," he thought.

It had been no small feat of magic that had given life - after a fashion - to the manor house. Indeed, it had taken the Goblins a better part of a year to cast the enchantment. "Harry," the manor itself greeted him politely, "I presume that you wish to know the conditions of the occupants." The fact that Alnwick - Aln for short - had been modeled upon Harry's own personality and had much of the wizard's memory meant that a conversation between the two was akin to a conversation between Harry and Harry. "Fleur and her younger sister are both fast asleep. Her injuries were life-threatening but were downgraded to serious just a short while ago. She's in a medical coma so that her body can heal without the mental trauma of the pain. She will sleep for a few hours yet. Gabrielle is taking the death of her parents hard, and it's a case of physical exhaustion. The mental trauma... will take time to heal."

He nodded and left, making his way across the Manor to an empty room, chosen at random. He slipped into his own room. He didn't even bother removing his boots, and simply collapsed atop his bed, and let the darkness claim him, without even bothering to close the door.