stars
The market in the slums of Paris was a living, breathing creature—a chaotic symphony of voices, smells, and movement that pulsed with the rhythm of survival. It sprawled across a narrow square, hemmed in by crumbling buildings whose windows stared down like hollow eyes. The air was thick with the mingling scents of rotting vegetables, unwashed bodies, and the faint, acrid tang of smoke from nearby chimneys. Above it all, the gray sky hung low, as if even the heavens were too weary to rise.
Lily walked through the market with wide eyes, with one hand firmly gripping the crook of Fleamonts elbow and her other hoisting up her skirts so that they did not drag along the grimy cobblestones.
The stalls were little more than rickety wooden tables or blankets spread on the ground, their wares a testament to the desperation of those who sold them. Withered carrots, half-rotten potatoes, and bruised apples were displayed like treasures, their prices haggled over with a fervor that bordered on violence. A woman with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders held up a single fish, its scales dull and eyes clouded, shouting its virtues to anyone who passed. Nearby, a man with a face like cracked leather peddled scraps of cloth, his voice hoarse from hours of bargaining.
“It’s rather sad isn’t it papa?” Lily whispered, glancing up at the grey haired man beside her.
He looked down at her with gentle eyes, “its life, Lilyflower, we cannot assume they are any sadder than we are.”
Lily stared back at him skeptically but she did not say anything further. This was one of the first times her Papa had taken her out into real Paris and she was not going to say anything to upset him and jeopardize one of her rare opportunities for freedom.
Children darted through the crowd like sparrows, their bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. Some carried baskets, others clutched the hands of younger siblings, their eyes wide and wary. Lily watched as a boy no older than ten snatched a loaf of bread from a stall and was grabbed by the vendor before he could get away.
“Stop”
Lily watched in shock as Fleamont detached himself from her arm and hurried towards the vendor and the boy.
“Let him go,” Fleamont said firmly as he reached out towards the small boy who was still struggling to free himself from the vendor's strong grip.
“Now why on earth would I do that?” the vendor replied in astonishment “this boy ‘ere’s just cheeked me and tried ta steal my bread. What makes you think I'm going ta let that slide just because some old man like you ‘as told me to let ‘im go?!?”
“I'll pay for the bread” Fleamont replied, his voice steady. “Hunger makes thieves of us all, let's not punish the boy for needing some food.”
Lily saw the man's resolve slip as he realised that he would get the money for the stolen bread if he cooperated.
“Fine” the vendor agreed roughly. He then leaned down to twist the boys arm and hiss into his face “But don’t let me catch you at it again boy… this gentleman ‘ere won’t be around forever”
The little boy’s face paled but he nodded. The vendor let him go and the boy rubbed his arm where the vendor's grip had just loosened. He then turned to Fleamont and Lily and leaned forward into an out of shape sort of bow before shooting them a mischievous grin and darting off, the loaf of bread held above his head.
Lily giggled as she watched him go and she held out her arm as Fleamont approached her once again.
“Sorry lilyflower,” he apologized as he took her arm in his “I just can’t stand by while children are punished for just trying to survive”
Lily nodded solemnly “it's very admirable papa. I would never hold your selflessness against you.”
Fleamont smiled as he leaned into her before continuing forward through the market.
Lily continued to try to take in all the sounds and smells and scenes of the market before her. Her eyes darted around, trying to memorise all the little trinkets stacked onto the stalls, all the lights in the houses but they eventually snagged on a group of young men and women clustered around a barrel at the edge of the market, perched on a doorstep. They passed a bottle of cheap looking wine between them and laughed loudly and unashamedly. She couldn't look away, they all seemed so joyful and full of life. She longed to join them, to ask their stories, to tell them hers, but she knew, no matter how much she may want that, she would never be able to. Her father would not allow it. So she tore her eyes away from the group and instead focused straight ahead, on a woman who appeared to be attempting to stuff several eggs into the small pocket in her apron without the stall vendor noticing.
Suddenly, a small flurry of activity came through the market. A boy, who looked maybe fifteen or sixteen years old with wild black curls framing his face and freckles dotting his nose, came hurtling through the stalls, cackling with an unabashed laugh as he wove through the stalls and bumped into people as he passed. He kept on glancing behind him as if he were being pursued and though lily looked hard into the crowd that the boy had emerged from, no pursuer revealed themselves so lily had begun to think that the boy was quite mad and turned away but all of a sudden a solid force knocked into Lily’s back and sent her sprawling across the ground.
*** *** ***
James hadn’t been looking where he was going as he chased Regulus through the market square.
He was running full pelt, weaving between the stalls when he had knocked into a completely innocent and random lady and knocked her and himself to the ground.
“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry mademoiselle!” He cried as he picked himself up off the floor. “Here let me give you a hand”
He reached his hand out for her to take without looking up but when he felt the pressure of her hand in his and the enrapturing heat that travelled up his arm originating from the exact point where her fingers lay in his palm, he looked up through his eyelashes at the woman.
Staring at him, he found the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Her almond shaped green eyes shone with an innocent humour, her pale freckled skin glowed with an effervescent beauty, her red hair fell in waves around her face and her smile was blinding.
James’ heart stuttered and his breath hitched.
“Mademoiselle” he swallowed, “forgive me. I didn't mean to -”
“Not a worry” her voice cut him off. Her dazzling smile grew. “A bit of excitement never killed anyone”
James couldn’t breathe properly.
She stayed smiling at him, eyes soft and kind, for what felt like a lifetime before James was jolted from his dream-like state by Regulus’ crying out “Watch out! It’s Dumbledore!”
James stood, stock-still in the aftershock of his trance and he watched as the young woman was whisked away by her father and he watched their backs retreating, breath still shaky as he saw the red haired woman glance over her shoulder and shoot him a small grin as she left.
*** *** ***
Albus walked swiftly into the market square, flanked by his aurors on either side.
The pandemonium of the market was alight as it always was, and he had no doubt that there was some crime of some sort that would need to be resolved here.
Scanning the stalls, Albus’ focus snagged on a very flustered looking bread vendor who seemed to be trying to do all he could to avoid eye contact.
Without hesitation, Albus approached his vendor and began to question him.
Still flustered, the vendor assured him that he had done no wrong and that the only crime that would have occured today was prevented by a benevolent old man who paid for a thief boy’s bread. Skeptical of the story, Albus asked that the vendor point out the man but the vendor claimed that having heard Dumbledore's arrival announcement, the man had swiftly left, with a young red haired woman in tow.
Hearing this, a memory stirred for Albus.
A thief, seemingly benevolent and kind. A man, who had kidnapped a young red haired girl some 9 years ago. A prisoner, who broke parole and ran.
“Could it be?” Albus muttered under his breath. “Could it be that Fleamont is here? Could it be that he was the man in the story? It would make sense, the tale of the helping the boy with the bread would be very fitting considering Fleamonts crime. Why else would the man run?”
*** *** ***
The night sky over Paris was a vast, unyielding expanse, its darkness pierced by the cold, distant light of countless stars. Inspector Dumbledore stood on the Pont au Change, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his gaze fixed on the heavens.
The stars were eternal, unchanging, their positions mapped with precision by the hand of God. They were a reminder of order, of the unshakable laws that governed the universe—laws that men like him were sworn to uphold.
Below him, the Seine flowed silently, its surface reflecting the faint glow of the city’s gas lamps. The water was dark and restless, a mirror of the chaos that churned in the streets of Paris.
But Albus did not see chaos when he looked at the city.
He saw a battlefield, a place where the forces of good and evil clashed in an endless struggle. And he knew his place in that struggle. He was a soldier of justice, a servant of the law, and he would not, could not rest until every criminal was brought to account.
His thoughts turned, as they often did, to Fleamont Potter.
The man was a ghost, a shadow that slipped through the cracks of society, always one step ahead.
Albus’s jaw tightened. Fleamont was more than a criminal; he was an affront to the very order Albus held sacred. A convict who dared to reinvent himself, to rise above his station, to pretend he could escape the judgment of the law.
It was an insult to everything Albus believed in.
He clenched his fists, his gloves creaking softly. Fleamont was out there somewhere, somewhere in Paris, hiding in the slums, perhaps, or masquerading as an honest man.
But Albus would find him. He always did.
The stars above seemed to pulse with a cold, unfeeling light. They were indifferent to the struggles of men, but Albus was not. He felt the weight of his duty like a mantle upon his shoulders, heavy but necessary.
The law was not just a profession for him; it was a calling, a divine mission. He had dedicated his life to it, and he would not falter.
The stars acted as his compass, his guide. They reminded him that there was a right and a wrong, a clear line that separated the just from the unjust. And he would stand on that line, unwavering, until his last breath.
A sudden noise broke his reverie—a shout from the street below, followed by the sound of running footsteps.
Albus's head snapped toward the sound, his instincts sharp and immediate.
He moved with purpose, his boots striking the cobblestones as he descended the bridge and into the maze of narrow streets. The city was alive with shadows, but he was not afraid of the dark. He was the light, the bringer of order, and he would not rest until every shadow was banished.
As he walked, his mind returned to Fleamont. The man was a puzzle, a contradiction. A thief who showed kindness, a convict who inspired loyalty. But Albus would not be swayed by such contradictions., would not be fooled by the man’s act.
The law was clear, and so was his duty.
Fleamont was a criminal, and criminals must be punished.
There was no room for mercy, no place for doubt.
“I know you are out there Fleamont.” Albus said aloud, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “And I will not rest until I catch you”
He would not stop until Fleamont was behind bars, until justice was served. The stars above were his witnesses, their cold light a reminder of the unyielding order he served.
He turned a corner, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.
The hunt was on, and Albus would not rest until his quarry was found. For in the end, he was not just a man; he was an instrument of justice, a servant of the stars. And he would do his duty, no matter the cost.