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Disclaimer: Harry Potter, The Marauders, Hogwarts and anything else associated with it does NOT belong to us, that incredible distinction belongs to J.K Rowling.

A/N: Hiya One and All and welcome to this humble little fan fiction specially penned by LovelyMioneWeasley, a_shooting_star and Misty_Rey. An amazing idea by Lindsey a.k.a LMW, this story has grown into something beyond even what we initially thought. Different from anything the three of us have ever written, we have pulled our respective talents together to create a story unlike many you’ve seen on HPFF. This chapter was written by all three of us and we hope you have as much fun reading this as we had writing it. Enjoy and drop us a review on your way out! ;)

The night couldn’t have portrayed his mood anymore perfectly; the sky a deep grey, the air humid and dingy with the overbearing trees swaying and restless despite the lack of wind. The kind of weather that most certainly predicted a storm and it was a most uncharacteristic night for the middle of July. The wind whistled through the fireplace as a lone man travelled through what could only be described as a confusing, spinning world. He knew exactly where he was going, exactly what he had to do. He came crashing through a fireplace into all too familiar territory and taking a deep breath, he composed himself.

“Show yourself?!” A deep voice bellowed. He scrambled up to see a wand pointed towards his heart and he almost panicked, breathing out sharply as the wand was lowered. The sight of that wand brought back too many memories for his liking. “Oh.” There was a pregnant silence as he smoothed down his robes and ran a hand through his hair, betraying his nerves. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. It’s not like you to leave your country when it is in far greater need of you than I am.”

“Don’t play the fool, Albus,” he began slowly, “You knew I would be coming today. You know that I need your help.” As he approached the desk of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, he kept his voice low and his tone urgent. “Can you honestly say that you didn’t think I would be coming today?”

“Cyril, I had hoped that you would at least leave it a day after your Head Knight was killed before leaving your country alone.” The disdain in Dumbledore’s tone was extremely visible and Cyril twitched, swallowing deeply as feelings of guilt ran through him. All he could tell himself was that he was doing it for the good of his country. “How is his family?”

“Distraught, naturally,” Cyril answered quietly, staring at the floor as memories flooded through him. “They can't understand, anymore than I can, exactly why he was killed. I keep telling them that he was so noble, so brave trying to protect our country... my country... but they don't seem to care. My country is so scared, Albus, Curran was the rock that held our country, our people together.”

“He was a wonderful man.” Cyril looked up as Dumbledore answered, imploring him to listen. “He loved Taro as you do.” He walked away, facing the window into the dreary night and Cyril just watched him, knowing that he couldn't rush Albus. “That is what Lord Voldemort does though...” Cyril flinched at the sound of his name. “Oh you're a King, Cyril, I think that you can hear his name without cowering.” Dumbledore's comments struck him deep and Cyril was filled with shame.

“You were right, Cyril, I do know why you are here.” The Headmaster turned back to face Cyril, a trace of weariness in his face. “Cyril, you and I both know that it is far too risky for me to accept counsel with you.”

“There’s no-one else, Albus.” It was with a pleading tone that Cyril continued, the desperation showing through every ounce of his being. “My country, my family, my children are at risk. The ministry can do nothing, for my country is no longer a part of yours. You are my only hope.”

“At this precise point in time, Cyril, there is absolutely nothing I can do for your country. I’m sorry. I would be placing everything in danger,” Dumbledore paused for a moment as the man opposite sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands. “I may be able to help with your children though.”

“How?” Cyril snapped, jumping up to face Dumbledore straight ahead. A picture of his three children filled his mind and how they had looked when he had broke the news to them. The day that they had found out that the man who they had known since the day they were born had been murdered. “Please, how?”

“I can accept one child, Olympe will be able to take another and Boris would take your third. If they are spread around the globe then it’ll be difficult for Voldemort –,” Cyril winced at this point, the sound of his name sending another shiver down his spine and Dumbledore just shook his head, “– for Voldemort to track them down. Besides all three schools have excellent security, first class some may say.”

“Are you certain that is wise? Won’t it be better if they all remain together, therefore ensuring they protect one another?” Cyril questioned apprehensively. He tried hard to compose himself and while the perspiration was starting to cease, his anxiety transferred to his feet. Unable to keep still, he started pacing, almost intent on creating a trench in the office.

“They’re merely children, Cyril, we mustn’t forget that.” Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes scrutinized the large imposing man warily, a sudden thought popping into his head. “There is something you aren’t telling me,” he said cautiously.

Cyril halted his steps at these words, merely grimacing and averted his eyes to the portraits of the past headmasters of Hogwarts, most of who were contently snoozing. Him cracking his knuckles was the only visible sign that he was disturbed by the wizard’s words.

“Cyril, I cannot guarantee your family’s safety unless you give me the facts in their entirety,” Dumbledore asserted firmly, his determined face fixed on Cyril.
Really, even a grown adult, a king at that, can behave like one of his students.

Cyril sighed in defeat and still unwilling to face him, he relented, “It’s my eldest, my heir apparent. I worry about her the most out of all my children. Her magical abilities are the weakest and I fear that she will be an easy target for this – this mad man!” His fist clenched with anger as he uttered those last words.

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured, his face softening somewhat as his mind whirred with thought. “Then her place will be here, at Hogwarts.” He walked to his desk and with a flick of his wand, three parchments materialized as well as a large, handsome peacock feather quill. With the scratching of quill on parchment, Cyril went over to Dumbledore and read what had so far been jot down.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded when he saw what was on the parchment, “Why aren’t their names carrying the esteemed name of Taro?!” His face reddened with indignation as he awaited an explanation.

“My friend, do you really expect them to carry their real names? That will only endanger them even more than necessary,” Dumbledore calmly reasoned, “More than a few of our students are wise beyond their years and might figure out our ruse, thus granting the children unpleasant attention. This is ultimately the best solution. Now go home to your country, Cyril. You have left them helpless long enough.” Dumbledore turned his eyes to the window in his office and their gentle blue eyes gazed at the cloudy sky. He only wished for this menace to be gone, but he knew better, even if the Ministry didn’t.

“Thank you, Albus,” Cyril murmured to Dumbledore's back before climbing back through the fireplace to home. As he stumbled from the royal fireplace, his long robes dragged the ash across the floor. As the king regained his composure, a servant swept through and cleaned the floor immediately.

“Cyril, oh Cyril!” a female voice called as heels clattered against the white marble floors of the palace. Cyril turned to come face to face with his wife. “Cyril, what happened with Albus?” his wife demanded, her voice dropping to a low whisper. Her frantic blue eyes searched his tired, calm brown ones before she immediately relaxed. “Our children, Cyril, what is to be done about our children?” she asked frantically.

“They are to be spilt up among the three schools, Gloria: Adelaide to Hogwarts, Aurelia to Beauxbatons, and Spencer to Durmstrang. It was all Albus could do for us,” Cyril explained quietly. Gloria fell into her husband's arms and he held her tightly.

“What is to become of our country, Cyril?” Cyril pulled away from his wife.

“That is unknown for now, my dear. But what you must know is that our children will be safe. My country, their safety, is a situation left for tomorrow. Now, go to bed, my dear queen and dream sweet dreams of safety for our loved ones and our country,” Cyril decreed. Gloria nodded before quickly leaving the room. As soon as she left, Cyril lost his proud composure. He sat down on one of the blood red chairs that adorned their private living room. His brow was furrowed from thinking much too hard, but he couldn't help it - his country, his culture stood at a telling crossroads. His mind wandered back to earlier today to how his best knight and best strategist had been killed in an instant as a message to the king.

This evil man -Voldemort- was coming and he was coming strong with an army to frighten the world. His own army now stood terrified and unsure of what they were to do. His men would fight and die for their country, but what would happen if they lost all their subjects, the people of Taro? There would be nothing left of the ancient kingdom, no one to hold up their traditions and arts. Cyril stood; his eyes alight with a new burning fire. He wouldn't give up now; he'd find a way to save his people, his children, and his country – even if it was the last thing he'd ever do.

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