The Great Hall was, as usual, a spectacle of noise and appetite. Hundreds of students were gathered for the evening meal, the air thick with the aroma of roast lamb and baked potatoes. At Echo's table—the one everyone else kept a respectful distance from—dinner was a low-key, semi-chaotic affair. Echo was dissecting a roasted chicken leg with surgical precision, his hair a placid, uninterested black. Frank was trying to teach Amos the complicated hand movements for a cheer that involved a spoon, while Alice and Lily were attempting to have a serious conversation about their N.E.W.T. requirements over the din. Severus was quietly eating a bowl of soup, occasionally shooting daggers at James Potter, who was attempting to set his own cutlery on fire at the Gryffindor table.
Suddenly, a massive, gold-rimmed GONG echoed through the hall, silencing the clatter of silverware and the roar of conversation instantly. Every head in the Great Hall turned toward the High Table. Albus Dumbledore had risen from his seat, his magenta robes shimmering in the candlelight. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table, his expression grave.
"My dear students," Dumbledore's voice boomed, magically amplified to carry over the heavy silence. "I have an important, and perhaps unusual, announcement to make this evening."
The room held its breath. Frank stopped his hand movements mid-chop. Lily's pen hovered over her parchment. Echo slowly set his chicken leg down.
"Recently," Dumbledore continued, his blue eyes sweeping the crowd, a familiar twinkle conspicuously absent, "a call was placed to the French Ministry of Magic. Specifically, to their own Department of Magical Creatures, the Département de Maîtrise des Créatures."
A low, confused murmur immediately swept through the student body.
Echo frowned, leaning toward Severus. "What does that mean?" he whispered, his hair turning a questioning, sunny yellow. "D.M.C.? Why are we talking about the French Ministry?"
Severus didn't even look up from his soup. "The Department of Monster Control," he explained flatly, his voice barely audible above the rising student chatter. "They are, essentially, the French version of the Aurors, but their mandate focuses exclusively on hunting and neutralizing dangerous sentient magical beings—werewolves, vampires, dark entities. Individuals in hiding, mostly amongst other witches and wizards."
Echo's stomach dropped. The cheerful yellow in his hair vanished, replaced by a cold, stark white. He scanned the hall, his eyes immediately darting to the Gryffindor table. He found him instantly. Remus Lupin sat bolt upright, his face white as chalk, his eyes wide and fixed on Dumbledore. Remus had clearly drawn the same conclusion as Echo and Severus. His terror was palpable, a cold wave of dread radiating even across the room. Echo felt a chilling wave of protective fury rise in his chest.
Dumbledore raised a hand, cutting through the murmuring with gentle authority. "The content of this anonymous call," he stated, his voice now dangerously soft, "alleged the presence of a dangerous creature—a hidden monster, if you will—currently residing on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Specifically, the call mentioned a suspected werewolf was roaming the grounds."
The hall exploded. Students began shouting, questions flying across the tables.
"A monster?"
"A werewolf?"
"Another one, again?"
Dumbledore waited, his face unmoving, until the noise subsided slightly. "The French Ministry," he continued, "has a strict protocol for such claims, regardless of the source. They have chosen to take this call very seriously. As such, they have dispatched a senior investigator to our school." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "This investigator," Dumbledore announced, "will be staying with us for the next four weeks to conduct a thorough, private investigation of the castle and the grounds. It is imperative, for the safety and reputation of Hogwarts, that you grant him every courtesy."
Dumbledore then turned to the back doors of the Great Hall. "I would ask that you extend a warm Hogwarts welcome to Monsieur Valérian Dubois."
A few students managed a hesitant, awkward round of applause as a figure stepped into the hall. Monsieur Dubois did not look like a professional monster hunter. He was slight of build, impeccably dressed in a tailored, sky-blue velvet suit that looked wildly out of place in a medieval castle. His sandy hair was swept back neatly, and he wore a pair of small, almost effeminate spectacles perched on a delicate nose. He looked more like a particularly fashionable librarian than a member of the D.M.C. He walked with a light, almost springy step toward the High Table.
He ascended the steps to the podium, offering Dumbledore a quick, almost dismissive nod. He then turned to the assembled students, adjusting his spectacles.
"Bonsoir, mes amis," he began, his voice surprisingly rich, carrying a thick, velvety French accent that made even the simplest words sound like a romantic proposition. "I am Valérian Dubois. My apologies for the interruption to your lovely dinner."
He placed his hands on the podium, his long, slender fingers laced together. "Professor Dumbledore is correct. I am here on a professional matter of the most serious nature. The French Ministry takes the safety of its citizens—and indeed, all citizens of the magical world—very seriously, especially during an event such as the Triwizard tournament. If there is a threat to be found here, I assure you, I will find it."
He let a faint, charming smile touch his lips. "I understand my presence may cause some petit consternation. Please, do not fret. You will barely notice me. I promise to be as unobtrusive as possible. Think of me as a ghost in the hall," he concluded, his smile widening, "but with far less moaning."
A few students let out nervous, relieved titters.
"I thank you for your understanding," Dubois finished, offering a small, polite bow. He stepped away from the podium and took the seat Dumbledore offered him at the High Table, settling into his chair as if he belonged there.
As the hall slowly resumed its low, terrified murmur, Echo stared at the man, his fork clenched tightly in his hand. The initial panic in his hair had solidified into a cold, dangerous blend of black and deep, molten red.
"Remus," Echo muttered, his eyes still on the Gryffindor table. "He is in extreme danger."
Severus nodded once, the only confirmation necessary.
"I need to talk to him," Echo stated, standing up from the table.
"Now?" Lily asked, worried.
Echo didn't answer. He simply looked at the table of terrified Marauders, then at the French hunter who was now casually sipping wine, and strode toward the Gryffindor table with a look of grim determination.
Echo walked with a purpose that brooked no argument, his movements fluid despite the small entourage he carried. Shimmer, sensing the shift in his master's mood, had fully materialized on Echo's shoulder, its small, ape-like face set in a look of fierce, if worried, concentration. Sniffles, still tucked into the deep pocket of Echo's robes, remained a comforting, heavy lump, occasionally shifting against the warmth of the stolen Galleons. Nugget, normally riding under the cloak, had been set down. The Cockatrice walked with an irritable, jerky step, its snake head occasionally hissing at the feet of passing students, its chicken head bobbing in annoyance.
He stopped directly beside the bench where the four Marauders sat huddled. James, Sirius, and Peter looked up at him with matching expressions of anxiety. Remus, however, didn't look up at all. He was staring fixedly at the tabletop, his breathing shallow and quick. Echo didn't waste time on pleasantries. He leaned down, placing a hand on Remus's shoulder. The heat of his touch was a stark contrast to Remus's icy pallor.
"We're moving," Echo stated, his voice a low, hard command. The black and molten red in his hair seemed to draw the light, giving him a dangerous intensity. "Get up. Now."
Remus flinched at the touch, finally looking up. His eyes were wide, filled with a raw, cornered fear that was painful to see. "Echo, what are you talking about? I can't just—"
"No, I don't mean twelve hours from now, or after dessert," Echo cut him off sharply, tightening his grip. "I mean right now. We need to get out of this echo chamber and think. Somewhere private. Somewhere we can breathe."
James Potter, ever the first to react, scrambled to his feet. "We're coming too," he declared, putting a hand on Remus's other shoulder. Sirius and Peter immediately rose as well, closing ranks around their friend.
Echo barely glanced at them. "Fine," he bit out. "Let's just go."
The five boys and one very visible cockatrice turned as one, heading for the heavy oak doors. They had only taken a few steps when a thick, velvety voice cut through the air.
"Pardon, messieurs." Valérian Dubois was standing by the steps to the High Table, a wine glass still in his hand, looking down at them with an unnervingly charming smile. He hadn't moved from his spot, yet somehow he was blocking their exit.
"Such a sudden departure," Dubois said, his gaze lingering first on Remus's strained face, then sweeping over Echo's intensely colored hair, and finally resting, with clinical curiosity, on Nugget. "Is everything quite bien? You seem to be in such a great hurry."
Echo stopped, a professional, bland smile snapping onto his face—a mask perfected from years of dealing with nosy officials. He turned to face the hunter, his tone saccharine and polite.
"Apologies, Monsieur Dubois," Echo said, his voice carrying just enough to sound apologetic, but not enough to draw further attention. "My friend, Remus, here, gets a bit spooked by news like this. It's the atmosphere, you understand. All the shouting and talk of monsters. We're just taking him to a quiet corner of the castle—the library, perhaps—to help him calm down."
He gestured vaguely at Remus, whose forced stillness only made him look guiltier. Echo then offered a short, curt nod and turned away.
"A library, oui?" Dubois murmured, not moving an inch. His light eyes were sharp, probing. "That is... very considerate of you. I hope he finds some peace."
"He will," Echo assured him, giving a final, sharp smile before turning his back on the High Table. He strode forward, marching his silent entourage out of the Great Hall and through the heavy doors. As the doors swung shut behind them, Echo muttered just loud enough for the group to hear, "Nosy French bastard."
The comment earned a weak, grateful snort from Sirius and a momentary lightening of Remus's tension.
They walked quickly, bypassing the main staircases and heading for a less-traveled side corridor on the third floor—a small, deserted antechamber Echo often used for private study. Once they were well clear of the Great Hall's sounds and the possibility of immediate surveillance, Echo stopped.
He immediately turned to Shimmer. "Shimmer. Go. Invisible. Keep a wide perimeter on this area. If anyone—anyone—approaches, you make noise. Loud noise. Got it?"
The Demiguise gave a quick, sharp, two-fingered salute, its silvery coat shimmered, and it vanished into the air, its presence gone completely. The moment Shimmer left, the tension that the presence of an enemy had held back flooded the small group. Peter Pettigrew, his face shining with sweat and fear, grabbed the front of Echo's robes.
"Echo!" Peter squeaked, his voice choked with panic. "Remus is so fucked! This is the French Ministry! They don't mess around! They'll find him! He's fucked!"
Remus Lupin, his face pale and eyes glistening with unshed tears, looked completely broken, as if Peter's words were the final nail in his coffin. James put a protective arm around him, his own face dark with impotent rage and fear.
Echo reacted instantly. He seized Peter's collar and hauled him forward, his hand shooting out to deliver a quick, sharp slap across Peter's cheek. Slap. Slap. Slap.
"Get a hold of yourself, Pettigrew!" Echo snapped, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Panic is a luxury we don't have! We've been through this song and dance before—with Snape, with the Ministry, with every self-righteous idiot who thinks they know better, including the git Malfoy! We just have to adjust our footwork!"
He gave Peter a final shake, then shoved him back into the arms of James. Echo turned to Remus, his expression softening only slightly.
"Echo, stop being a grandstanding git for two seconds!" Sirius snapped, his voice sharp with the edge of panic. He pushed a trembling Peter away and stepped forward, his eyes burning with genuine alarm. "This isn't about 'adjusting our footwork' or telling a few convenient lies! This is the real deal! That man is a monster hunter, not some Ministry pen-pusher like Umbridge or Barty! He'll sniff Remus out in days if we don't take precautions, and you know it!"
Sirius ran a hand through his perpetually messy black hair, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "The full moon just passed. He'll wait until the next one. He'll find out about the Shrieking Shack. He'll find the Wolfsbane Potions. And he'll find whoever makes them, which is you! You heard what he said, Echo! He'll be a ghost—unobtrusive! He's not going to storm the halls with a badge; he's going to observe, he's going to listen, and he's going to find the truth!"
Remus, who had been listening in stricken silence, let out a choked, terrified sound. His eyes, already wide, darted around the small, windowless antechamber as if the walls were closing in.
"Oh, God!" Remus gasped, his breathing turning ragged. He stumbled backward, knocking over a discarded suit of armor with a hollow clank. "The potions! He'll find the potions! I have to dump them! Now! Before he searches the dorm!" He spun on his heel, his mind clearly unable to process anything beyond immediate, self-destructive action. "I have to dump them in the toilet! I have to get rid of the evidence!"
"Remus, wait—" James began, reaching out a hand, but it was too late. Remus wrenched himself free, his frantic scramble overriding all sense of logic, and bolted out of the antechamber, his desperate footsteps echoing down the deserted corridor.
Echo watched him go, a cold, hard fury settling over his features. The molten red in his hair flared, hot and intense, against the black. He turned his head slowly to face Sirius, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"Smooth words, Black," Echo said, his voice quiet, lethal, and absolutely devoid of heat. "Next time, just tell Remus to kill himself instead of inducing a panic attack. It would be faster."
Sirius froze. The anger, the fear, and the panic drained from his face, replaced by a look of profound, sickening regret. He looked down at the floor, his shoulders slumping. "I... I didn't mean to freak him out that badly," Sirius mumbled, the words heavy with self-loathing. "I just... I was scared, Echo. I just wanted you to take it seriously."
"I am serious," Echo stated, his gaze unyielding. "But panic is for the victim. We are not victims. We are going after him. Now." He turned to James. "You two go find Remus. Stop him before he pours a year's worth of Wolfsbane down a pipe. Tell him to pull himself together. Tell him I said we are not beaten yet."
James nodded, fear giving way to a grim determination. He grabbed a still-shaking Peter, and the two of them hurried after Remus.
Echo watched them go, then turned to Nugget, who was still standing irritably by his feet. "Come on, chicken," he muttered, his hair settling into a cold, dangerous slate-gray. The slate-gray of Echo's hair was the color of a coming storm. He wasn't panicked; he was focused, his mind already churning through contingencies. This wasn't a game of Quidditch or a childish prank; this was a professional hitman from a powerful foreign Ministry, and his target was one of Echo's few real friends. The reality was harsh: the French Department of Magical Creatures was feared worldwide for its ruthlessness, and it operated under different rules from the relatively soft British Ministry.
"Nugget," Echo said softly, pulling the Cockatrice close and stroking its snake head. "I need you to listen."
He pulled the vial of Wolfsbane Potion—a small, cloudy blue phial—from an inner pocket of his robes. This was not Remus's personal supply; this was the one Echo always kept on him, the single, extra dose he'd brewed just in case of an emergency, a small insurance policy.
"You know the Shrieking Shack," Echo instructed, his voice low and precise, tinged with a faint, commanding purple that the creature instantly recognized. "I need you to take this. Fly straight there. Hide it in the usual place, under the loose floorboard in the main room. Do not let anything stop you. Do not let anyone see you. Do you understand?" Nugget's snake head nodded once, sharply, a sign of understanding and obedience. Its chicken head let out a single, worried, but determined cluck. Echo carefully tucked the vial under the Cockatrice's wing, pinning it against its warm, scaly body.
"Good," Echo murmured. "Now, go."
Nugget didn't hesitate. With a low screech and a heavy flap of its leathery wings, the Cockatrice sprang into the air, vanishing through a high, unbarred window in the corridor, a dark, fast shape silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky. Getting the bulk of Remus's supply out of the castle was the first priority. Remus wouldn't dump his emergency supply, but the hunter would definitely be looking for it. Nugget could get it to safety faster and more secretly than any of them. Echo took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. He felt a faint, insistent ping of distress from Shimmer, a soundless alarm only Echo could hear, telling him that the perimeter was being tested. Already? Echo thought, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The man was fast.
He turned and strode back out into the main corridor, his slate-gray hair now threaded with a single, sharp line of crimson—the color of surgical intent.
Echo walked quickly but silently, his boots barely whispering on the stone floor. He didn't need Shimmer to track the Marauders; the faint, lingering scent of panic and expensive Wolfsbane Potion was all the trail he needed. He found the familiar portrait of the Fat Lady, whose garish pink dress seemed to mock the current danger. He didn't even have to give the password. As he approached, the portrait swung open, and James and Peter came stumbling out, wrestling a distraught-looking Remus between them. They hadn't seen Echo, as their focus was entirely on their friend.
"No, Remus!" James hissed, trying to steer him back inside. "Just wait a second! Echo said he has a plan!"
"No plan is fast enough, James!" Remus choked out, his voice hoarse. "He's going to find the supply! I have to destroy it!"
Echo seized the opportunity, slipping past the Fat Lady and into the warm, cluttered Gryffindor common room. The room was mostly deserted, with only a few students left, doing homework or whispering in low tones after witnessing the scene in the Great Hall. He didn't bother looking for them there. He went straight for the boys' staircase, taking the steps two at a time, heading for the dorm Remus shared with his friends. The scent of panic led him, not to the dorm, but to the small, shared bathroom just down the hall. The door was ajar. Echo pushed it open.
The scene was exactly what he had feared. Remus was hunched over a toilet, dry-heaving violently, his body wracked by the emotional and physical violation of pouring away his only lifeline. James was kneeling beside him, his face pale with concern, his hand rubbing Remus's back in long, slow circles. Sirius stood off to the side, leaning against the cold tile wall, his hands buried deep in his perpetually messy hair, his shoulders slumped in a posture of complete self-recrimination over his earlier outburst. Peter, meanwhile, was carefully picking up the last of the small, empty potion bottles scattered on the floor, his face still slick with sweat.
The air was thick with the faint, metallic scent of regret, fear, and the lingering, almost medicinal smell of the Wolfsbane Potion. Echo didn't need to ask. The half-dozen small, cloudy-blue vials scattered on the floor—bottles that should have been full of a month's worth of life-sustaining magic—were stark proof of Remus's desperate, self-destructive decision. Echo's slate-gray hair, threaded with crimson, cooled instantly to a dull, heartbroken indigo. He simply stood in the doorway for a long, heavy moment.
"I see I came too late," Echo said, his voice quiet, flat, and hollow.
James looked up, his eyes bloodshot with worry and frustration. He shook his head slowly. "No, you came just in time," he corrected, his voice a strained whisper. "We were down the hall. He beat us by maybe ten seconds. We couldn't stop him. He's stronger than he looks when he's focused on self-preservation."
"Come on," Echo countered, stepping fully into the small, humid room. He looked at the three Marauders. "There were three of you. Peter, I understand, sure. But you're the star Quidditch player, James. And Sirius has a six-pack."
Echo walked over to Sirius, who was still leaning against the wall in self-pity. With a quick, playful movement, Echo reached out and flicked the bottom of Sirius's shirt upward, exposing a flash of toned abdomen.
Sirius jumped, his eyes wide with surprise, and he quickly pushed his shirt back down, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Hey now!" he protested, his panic momentarily eclipsed by embarrassment. "Not the time or place to get handsy, Echo!"
Echo gave a small, humorless smirk, the indigo in his hair softening only slightly. "You wish, Black. But now that I think about it... Adrenaline makes the weakest the strongest in a room. And the most self-destructive."
He dismissed the boys with a look and walked over to Remus. The teen had finally stopped dry-heaving, but he was breathing in shallow, hitching gasps. Echo reached out and carefully pulled a clean, cotton cloth from his inner robe—a surprisingly soft rag he kept for polishing his potion equipment—and dipped a corner in the cold water running from the tap. He knelt beside James, who gratefully relinquished his space. Echo gently took the cloth and began to wipe the tears, sweat, and residue from Remus's face, eyes, and mouth. Remus leaned into the cool, gentle touch, his breathing evening out as he clung to the momentary peace.
"Why, Remus?" Echo asked gently, his voice soft enough to be a whisper, yet firm enough to demand an answer. The indigo in his hair spoke of both sorrow and deep disappointment. "Why did you do that? We could have hidden the bottles. Now I'm going to have to make more. And making them is hard enough without the baguette-fondler floating around, watching our every move."
Remus finally looked up at Echo, his eyes swimming. A fresh wave of tears tracked paths through the grime and sweat on his face. He let out a ragged, agonizing sob, the sound tearing from his chest.
"I wasn't thinking, Echo!" he choked out, his voice thick with misery and self-loathing. "I just... I panicked, and I knew what they'd do! They'd find me! They'd put me on the Register, or worse! They'd drag me away, lock me up, or just... kill me!" He collapsed, burying his face in his hands, his body shaking with the force of his terror. "I can't go through that! I can't be found out! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Echo!"
Before anyone could move, Sirius was there. He reached over Remus, pulling him back against his own chest and wrapping his arms around him in a tight, protective hug. Remus leaned into the embrace, his sobs muffled against Sirius's robes. Echo didn't pull away. He held Remus's face gently in his hands, tilting it up so their eyes could meet, forcing the werewolf to look past his fear and see the steady, unwavering resolve in Echo's own gaze. The indigo in Echo's hair had settled into a compassionate, quiet purple.
"Hey," Echo murmured, his voice soft, an anchor in the rising storm of Remus's panic. "Look at me. It's going to be fine. We're going to get through this." He used the soft cloth to gently wipe the last of the tears from Remus's cheeks. "You are not going on any register, and no French idiot is going to touch you. Not while we breathe. Do you understand?" He gave Remus's cheek a final, gentle pat. "But you have to trust us, Remus. We just have to be smart. And being smart means one thing."
James, who had been listening with grim determination, slammed his hand onto the toilet tank, a hard, echoing thud.
"Sabotage the hunter at every turn," James stated, his eyes blazing with fierce resolve. "Make his life a living hell. Make him regret ever setting foot in this castle."
Echo looked at James, a small, wry smile touching the corner of his lips. The purple in his hair instantly flashed to a triumphant, electric blue. "I was going to say murder, but let's do your thing before mine," Echo conceded, nodding in approval. "Sabotage it is. We make him so miserable and so confused that he packs up and leaves before the next full moon."
The other three Marauders—James, Sirius, and Peter—all looked up, their fear momentarily eclipsed by the promise of action and the irresistible draw of a complex, high-stakes prank.
"We're in," Sirius declared, his voice ringing with renewed enthusiasm. The thought of actively fighting back against the perceived threat, rather than passively waiting for doom, was like a shot of adrenaline. "Give us the details. What's the plan?"
Echo stood up, his posture shifting from gentle caregiver to tactical commander. The electric blue in his hair deepened, becoming a complex, calculating sapphire.
"First, we need to assess the threat. This isn't Filch or a few house-elves. This is a trained professional. He'll be looking for tracks, for behavioral changes, for associations. We need to do two things simultaneously: eliminate all evidence and create a massive distraction, a complete smokescreen."
He turned to the Marauders, his eyes glittering. "James and Sirius, your job is the distraction. The bigger, the better. You need to make this castle look like a certified madhouse. He's looking for one monster, Remus. We're going to make him think Hogwarts is infested with them."
James's grin was immediate and predatory. "Oh, this is going to be fun. What kind of monster?"
"I don't care," Echo said dismissively. "The more ridiculous, the less likely he is to focus on a werewolf. Give him something that screams 'local problem,' something Dumbledore is definitely covering up. Maybe a poltergeist in the dungeon that's actually a house-elf with a drinking problem. Or a recurring case of spontaneous transfiguration in the library—turn all the books into rabbits, then back into books, then into something else. Keep it moving. Keep him guessing. Every time he thinks he's found a lead, it needs to turn into a dead end, or better yet, something completely absurd."
Sirius snapped his fingers. "A disappearing portrait of a highly offensive French poodle. He'll have to investigate it for 'international relations'."
"Perfect," Echo nodded. "Just make sure it's untraceable back to you. Use low-level magic, nothing fancy. We need to confuse him, not catch his eye with power."
He then turned to Peter, who was still looking slightly green but trying to appear useful. "Peter, you are the eyes and ears. Use your rat form. Shadow Dubois. Where does he go? Who does he talk to? What does he eat? Does he have a habit? A secret vice? Report everything back to me. Every time he leaves a room, you're the first one in. We need his schedule, his preferences, his weaknesses."
Peter actually stood a little straighter. "I... I can do that. I'm good at hiding."
"Excellent. Now for the evidence," Echo said, his gaze settling back on Remus. The teen was watching them, his eyes wide with a combination of fear and dawning hope. "Remus, I need you to think. Is there anything else? A hidden journal? An old family keepsake? Anything that links you directly to the condition?"
Remus shook his head, then paused. "The only thing... my books. I have a lot of books on historical lycanthropy. And the Wolfsbane—the smell is faintly on my cloak. It's the only thing that won't go away."
Echo immediately turned to James. "Burn the books. Not here. Transfigure them into something mundane and durable—a few extra bricks in a castle wall, maybe—then Transfigure them back and burn them off-site." He paused, considering the smell. "And Remus, you need to change your scent. Get some strong cologne. Something overpowering. Or, better yet, drench your robes in something naturally strong. Get Hagrid to give you some of that blast-ended skrewt residue. It smells terrible, but it'll mask anything else."
"The cloak," Sirius interjected, rubbing his chin. "I'll handle the cloak. It needs a special kind of cleaning. I know a spell. A deep, chemical-level cleaning."
Echo nodded, satisfied. "Good. Finally, my job." The sapphire in his hair shifted, turning into a rich, deep violet—the color of intense magical concentration. "I'm going to add my own flair to the chaos with my magical creatures, while also secretly collecting the ingredients for more wolfsbane potions and crafting them in secret. Even if Frenchie does leave before the month is up, we can't have you running wild."
Echo finished laying out the plans, the sapphire focus of his hair deepening to an almost blackish-blue. He glanced at the empty bottles on the floor, the sight a sharp reminder of the real threat hanging over them.
"All of this is tactical, for the immediate crisis," Echo said, his voice flat. "But what I'd like to really know is who sent that anonymous report. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind and my size 6 shoe."
Peter, emboldened by the action plan, nodded vigorously. "Yeah. There aren't too many people who have a reason to make that kind of report. Dumbledore and Minerva?"
"They know and help him," James immediately countered, pointing at Remus. "They're the whole reason the Shrieking Shack and Whomping Willowares are even a thing, and the potions room is stocked with Wolfsbane ingredients. They'd never turn him in."
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Malfoy is another, but Echo says he only had a hunch, no concrete proof, when he tried his BS two years ago."
Echo confirmed with a slow shake of his head. "Malfoy is a bully, not an investigator. He wants to see Remus suffer, not quietly removed by the French Ministry. And besides," he added, the violet in his hair momentarily turning a questioning indigo. "This guy was sent from the French Ministry, not the British. So who is—"
Echo stopped speaking abruptly. The intense focus drained from his eyes, replaced by a wide, unnervingly blank look. He stared at the tiles on the wall, his head tilted slightly, his face a mask of silent shock. The vibrant sapphire and indigo of his hair went completely still, settling into a cold, flat silver. He looked through them, past them, his gaze fixed on something none of them could see. The other boys stared at him. The brief sense of momentum they had built dissipated instantly, replaced by a fresh wave of anxiety.
"Echo?" Remus asked, his voice small and shaky. "Are you alright?"
Echo blinked slowly, then turned his head, his eyes settling on the group. In a small, almost inaudible voice, he whispered, "Delacour."
The boys exchanged confused glances.
"Lucian?" James asked, still slightly mystified.
"You're fellow champion in the tournament, Echo," Peter supplied, still clutching the empty vials.
Sirius frowned. "The pretty dude from Beauxbatons? What's he got to do with—"
Remus gasped, the sound sharp and sudden. His face, already pale, lost the last vestiges of color. "That time... in the Shack."
James turned to Remus. "What time? What are you talking about?"
Echo looked at Remus, his face grave. "You didn't tell them, did you?"
Remus rubbed the back of his head with a hand that was visibly trembling. "It... it slipped my mind. I just... forgot to mention it."
"Mention what?" Sirius demanded, stepping forward, his voice a mixture of frustration and alarm.
Echo sighed, running a weary hand through his silver hair. "A few months back, when you three got detention like a couple of dunderheads, I was keeping Remus company during a full moon. Lucian found the Shack, no doubt following me. I had to make him think I was the werewolf by using my beast magic to take the aspects of a wolf. Then, when Lucian ran screaming into the Great Hall, I popped up looking normal and making Lucian look crazy. I assumed he would've thought he would take it as nothing more than a magical disturbance or a moment of stress-induced hysteria, but I guess not."
Peter wrung his hands, his eyes darting frantically between Echo and Remus. "But... but why would he do that?" he whispered, the earlier confidence draining away. "Why would Lucian get Remus killed? I mean, he's a champion, he's supposed to be noble or something!"
Echo let out a humorless, almost silent snort. The cold silver in his hair wavered, a flicker of something dangerously amused replacing it. "Slow down, Peter," Echo said, his voice flat. "Lucian doesn't know it's Remus. For all he knows, I'm still the werewolf, the one who terrorized him that night in the Shack. He saw me—or a reasonable facsimile of me—and he saw the aftermath. He just thinks I'm the dangerous creature Dumbledore is covering up, and he can't prove it because I popped up looking like a choir boy ten minutes later."
Echo shook his head slowly, the silver of his hair settling into a dismissive slate-gray. "Lucian is an idiot, absolutely. A vain, self-absorbed fool who thinks his hair is a national treasure. But he's not cruel. He's probably genuinely worried that there's an unchecked, violent Dark creature—me—lurking in the school. He probably went to the French Ministry because he thought Dumbledore was protecting me, which, let's be honest, he is. Lucian just wants the 'monster' removed before the next task or something bad happens."
He looked at Remus, whose eyes were still fixed on him with a kind of desperate hope. "It still doesn't make this situation any better. His 'concern' is actively putting my best friend's life at risk. And that, Peter, is unforgivable." Echo stood up fully, his posture radiating intent. The slate-gray in his hair turned back to a determined, bright sapphire. "I'm going to go have a word with him."
"Echo, wait!" James shouted, scrambling to his feet as his fear instantly boiled over into alarm. "Don't do anything irrational! You'll just give him more proof! You can't just go up to the French champion and threaten him—it's the middle of the tournament!"
Echo was already walking toward the door, not breaking his stride. He looked over his shoulder at James, his sapphire hair blazing with defiance.
"Irrational," Echo called back, his voice echoing slightly in the small, tiled room, "is my middle name!"
And with that, he was gone, leaving the four Marauders staring at the empty doorway, a fresh wave of panic washing over the Gryffindor common room.
He marched with the same grim purpose, his sapphire-colored hair blazing with cold intent, back toward the Great Hall. By the time he reached the oak doors, the evening meal was over, and the last wave of students was spilling out into the corridor. He cut through the stragglers, his smaller frame an advantage as he ducked and weaved through the crowd. Students instinctively gave him a wide berth, the intensity of his magical aura—or perhaps just the memory of the Bloody Baron's terror—ensuring that no one got close enough to impede his progress.
He scanned the faces, ignoring the departing Hogwarts students, focusing instead on the elegant, sky-blue robes of the Beauxbatons contingent. He found them instantly: a cluster of students marching in perfect, synchronized step, their movements balletic and precise, already heading back toward the main entrance and the carriages waiting outside on the lawn. Leading the column was the formidable figure of Madame Maxime, her immense height dominating the corridor, her regal, severe expression. Directly behind her was Lucian Delacour, his perfectly sculpted, blonde hair catching the torchlight, his posture radiating a smug, self-satisfied confidence.
Echo lowered his head and cut straight across the main hall, ignoring the confused glances. He moved like a ferret through a flock of pigeons, utilizing the gap of personal space everyone afforded him. He reached Madame Maxime just as she stepped past the threshold. The giant headmistress stopped, her eyes traveling down, down, until they rested on the small boy standing barely higher than her knee. She opened her mouth, likely to issue a formal, if chilly, greeting to the Hogwarts champion.
But Echo didn't offer her the chance. His eyes were locked over her shoulder, fixed on Lucian's face. The sapphire in his hair deepened to an intense, near-black blue, a color of lethal, repressed fury.
"You," Echo stated, his voice quiet, controlled, and sharp enough to cut glass. "We need to talk. Now."
Lucian, who had been completely oblivious, looked down, his perfect smile faltering as he recognized the source of the interruption. He waved a dismissive, elegant hand. "Ah, Echo. Can this not wait?" Lucian sighed, his voice dripping with mild annoyance. "We have a scheduled retreat. And my hair is quite immaculate, I would rather not—"
Before he could finish the sentence, Echo shot his hand up. It was a movement so quick and unexpected that Lucian didn't even have time to flinch. Echo's fingers clamped around the end of Lucian's nose, pulling him forward and down with a surprising, vicious tug.
"No," Echo said flatly, his eyes never leaving the champion's startled, wide gaze. "It cannot wait." He gave a sharp, final yank. Lucian let out a muffled yelp as he was violently pulled out of the formation, his perfectly synchronized march dissolving into a clumsy stumble. Echo didn't even look at the Beauxbatons headmistress. He simply spoke to Lucian with chilling finality. "I'll return this when I'm done with it."
Then, with Lucian still stumbling slightly, Echo dragged the taller boy backward, pulling him by the nose in a surprisingly effective, humiliating grip, maneuvering them both toward a secluded alcove near a suit of armor.
The entire Beauxbatons formation ground to an immediate, shocked halt. The other students began to murmur, their whispered French phrases filling the corridor. They knew the rules: Echo didn't pull stunts unless the target had crossed a serious line. The sudden, physical nature of his action told them everything they needed to know: Lucian had earned it.
The commotion immediately caught the attention of the remaining Beauxbatons students, particularly the Veela who were bringing up the rear. Empusa, the most observant, especially when it came to Echo, narrowed her eyes. She recognized the chilling, focused rage in Echo's posture. This wasn't about the tournament or some casual insult; this was serious. With a flick of her cloak that was as swift and elegant as a disappearing act, Empusa detached herself from her sisters and slipped away unnoticed, melting into the shadows of the corridor. She followed the trail Echo was carving, eager to see the destruction he was about to unleash.
Echo dragged Lucian by the nose, pulling the taller boy deeper into the secluded alcove. The sapphire-blue of his hair was now so dark it looked black, shot through with veins of pure, molten crimson that pulsed with his fury. Empusa, cloaked in the shadow of a nearby pillar, watched the scene unfold with rapt, dark interest. Echo finally shoved Lucian against the cold stone wall of the alcove and let go of his nose. Lucian, disoriented and terrified, stumbled, his perfect hair momentarily mussed. He looked like a startled, cornered rabbit.
"I don't know what I did to anger you!" Lucian squeaked, his voice high and thin, completely devoid of its usual cultured suavity. He pressed himself flat against the wall, trying to make himself smaller. "But I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, so please don't hurt me or chop me up into pieces and feed me to your beasts!"
Echo, who was fully displaying his anger—his stance coiled, his eyes narrowed, the crimson and near-black blue of his hair a terrifying display of raw magic—stopped dead in his tracks. His entire posture shifted from lethal fury to shocked confusion.
"What?" Echo asked, his voice losing its dangerous edge and becoming genuinely perplexed. The crimson in his hair momentarily vanished, leaving a stormy, confused indigo. "Who told you that?"
Lucian's breath hitched, and he opened his mouth to answer, but Echo instantly dismissed the thought. The confusion was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the original, focused rage.
"Never mind," Echo snapped, taking a threatening step forward. The indigo vanished, and the crimson flooded back, overpowering the black. "I know it was you, Frenchie."
Lucian blinked, bewildered and still shaking. "What?"
"I know it was you who made that anonymous call to the French Ministry and got that monster hunter sent here!" Echo yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls. His anger grew with every word, and he failed to keep it in check. The magical aura radiating off him was heavy and oppressive, making the air in the alcove feel thick and hard to breathe.
Lucian's fear intensified. He nodded frantically, his eyes darting toward the floor. "I-it was me, yes!" he stammered. "But it was for the safety of all!"
"SAFETY MY ASS!" Echo roared, the sudden blast of sound and fury nearly knocking the taller boy off his feet.
Echo seized the front of Lucian's robes with a hand that shook slightly, not from fear, but from the effort of containing his rage. He hauled the taller boy forward, closing the distance between them until their noses nearly touched. The molten crimson and black in Echo's hair seemed to coil and writhe, mirroring the beast magic that was threatening to burst forth.
"I thought we made this clear the first time around!" Echo growled, the sound low in his throat, a deep, animalistic note that Lucian felt more than heard. "You came screaming about a werewolf, thinking it was me! There is no werewolf in Hogwarts, never has been, never will be! You suffered from a psychological lapse, remember?"
Lucian gulped, his eyes wide and pleading. "I-I know!" he stammered, frantically trying to regain some composure. "I thought about it! I thought about it for a long time. But the more I did, the more I thought it wasn't just me breaking for a moment! That night... the fear... it was too real. So, I called the hunter for security! Just to put my mind at ease! Why are you so angry about this?"
Echo's mind, spinning with fury, suddenly seized on Lucian's last words. Why is he so angry about this?
He realized, with a sickening jolt, how this looked. He, the supposed innocent, cornered the foreign champion and, flying into a blind, unhinged rage the moment the hunter's name was mentioned. Once Lucian calmed down enough, he'd rationalize that his memories—of a dark, wolfish Echo—had some weight, and this violent reaction was only proof of his guilt. His display of protective fury was counterproductive to the entire plan. The molten crimson in Echo's hair evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, hard, self-loathing slate gray. He forced his facial muscles to relax into a wide, horribly painful smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Angry?" Echo asked, his voice suddenly bright and unnaturally cheerful. He released Lucian's robes and held up his index finger, which he'd quickly Transfigured to look swollen and purple. "Oh, I'm not angry at all! I just slammed this finger earlier between the door frame, and I'm in horrifying pain! It's agony! Truly wretched! I just needed to vent my physical anguish, you understand. You happened to be the closest target. My apologies!"
Lucian stared at the purple, bulbous finger, then at Echo's manic, strained smile. His brow furrowed in confusion, but his terror began to recede, replaced by simple bewilderment.
"Oh," Lucian said flatly.
"Right!" Echo chirped, letting the fake smile drop slightly. "So, since we've established all this, and since I'm in too much 'horrifying pain' to deal with the inevitable paperwork, please just tell the monster hunter to go away. Tell him it was a false alarm. Tell him it was a house-elf with a drinking problem. Something believable."
Lucian shook his head, his own voice regaining some of its haughty tenor now that he wasn't facing immediate bodily harm. "I can't, Echo. You don't understand how the D.M.C. works. Once they get a message, they don't leave until they're sure there is nothing or until they kill the monster. No in-between. Dubois will not leave until his month is up or until he has delivered a body. It is a matter of professional pride."
Echo stared at him, the slate gray of his hair deepening to an enraged, absolute black. He felt the cold truth of the situation—he was trapped in a high-stakes, time-sensitive game of hide-and-seek, and the clock was ticking down to the next full moon.
"Right," Echo whispered, the sound a low hiss. He reached out one last time and shoved Lucian roughly back against the stone wall.
Echo didn't say another word. He simply spun on his heel and marched out of the alcove, leaving Lucian Delacour to smooth his mussed robes and stare after him. His hair was a chaotic vortex of furious, molten black. He didn't see the dark shadow detach itself from the pillar as he stomped away.
Echo stalked through the deserted third-floor corridor, his steps heavy and echoing on the flagstones. His hair was a pulsating, chaotic mass of black and molten crimson, the internal battle for control raging within him. He was furious at Lucian, terrified for Remus, and utterly disgusted with his own momentary lapse of control. He knew the alcove incident had only solidified Lucian's paranoid certainty. He needed to be alone. He needed to lock down the beast magic before it did any more damage.
He slipped into a small, shadowed recess near a forgotten trophy case, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He leaned his head against the cold stone, taking deep, shuddering breaths, forcing the violent colors in his hair to recede. Control, he commanded himself mentally. Control. This is not the time for the beast to play. The crimson slowly bled out, leaving a deep, agonizing black, the color of contained power. He was so focused on wrestling with his internal storm that he didn't hear the slight shift in the shadows. He didn't notice the almost imperceptible scent of rosewater and a faint, metallic trace of the rare, highly concentrated love potion she had recently applied.
"A difficult conversation, mon cœur?"
Echo flinched violently, snapping his head up. The deep black in his hair instantly flared back to a startled, frustrated crimson-and-black. His hand instinctively went to his inner robe, ready to draw his wand or Sniffles.
Empusa stood before him, having stepped out of the pillar's shadow. She was devastatingly beautiful, her face perfectly composed, her presence radiating a soft, focused concern that seemed utterly genuine. His frantic heart hammered against his ribs. He stared at her, ready to unleash the full force of his annoyance for being disturbed. But as his eyes fixed on her, something unexpected happened. The frantic, molten crimson in his hair died.
It was an abrupt, complete surrender. The black remained, but it was no longer a sign of struggling control; it was placid, quiet. His frantic pulse slowed, his shoulders dropping from their high, defensive tension. It was as if she were a soothing, invisible balm poured directly onto his open magical wound. The oppressive magical energy around him dissipated, replaced by a strange, effortless calm.
Empusa watched the visible change in his magical aura—the instantaneous extinguishing of his powerful, dark rage—and a subtle, private triumph flared deep within her inhumanly cold eyes. It works, she thought, a current of fierce, proprietary satisfaction coursing through her. The love potion works, and it works fast. She had suspected his deep, well-guarded core would be vulnerable to a targeted magical influence, but the speed of his submission to her presence was exhilarating.
She glided forward, her movement utterly graceful, and reached out. "You look distressed, chéri," she said, her voice a low, throaty purr of concern. She didn't ask what was wrong; she simply wrapped both of her long, slender arms around one of his, leaning her body gently against his side.
Echo let out a visible, ragged shudder at the sudden physical contact. It was the shock of the cold stone wall being replaced by a warm, soft woman, and he felt a completely unwelcome flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks. The peaceful black of his hair was now flecked with confused, shy streaks of a pale, hesitant rose-pink. He wanted to pull away. He should pull away. He was not a touchy person. But the contact felt unnervingly, intensely good. It was the only part of his body that wasn't screaming with adrenaline or rage.
"Tell me," Empusa whispered, tightening her hold, her head tilting to rest lightly on his shoulder. "Tell Empusa what has happened to cause such a beautiful creature to suffer so."
Echo inhaled sharply, his mind racing. He was acutely aware of the warmth of her body, the soft press of her robes against his, and the delicate, intoxicating scent of rosewater that made his head pleasantly fuzzy. He felt strangely and utterly at ease with her. It wasn't just the obvious, raw magical allure of the Veela—he'd fought that before. This was different. This was a deep, unearned sense of trust. It was almost like the connection he shared with Skate, that strange, unspoken magical resonance that bypassed conscious thought and went straight to the core of his being. It felt safe. It felt right. And because it felt so right, the truth was suddenly dangerously close to escaping him.
Remus is a werewolf, and the hunter will kill him. The thought formed clearly in his mind, ready to be spoken.
Echo felt a terrifying moment of clarity pierce through the potion-induced haze, and he violently slammed the mental door on that truth. He couldn't betray Remus, even to this strange, beautiful girl who was making the world stop spinning. He settled on a half-truth, a carefully constructed distraction.
"It's... " It's the monster hunter," Echo admitted, leaning his head back against the cold wall. "Dubois. Lucian is convinced there's a dangerous creature here, and he called the French Ministry. The man won't leave until he finds a body. And if he finds the wrong person..." Echo paused, his voice low and tight with real distress. "If he finds the wrong person, someone innocent, someone who is definitely not a monster... he'll hurt them. He'll kill them. We have to get him to leave before the next full moon—before the end of the month."
Empusa looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and believable. She seemed to consider his distress for a moment. She didn't press for details, didn't ask why this innocent person was so close to being mistaken for a monster, or why the Champion of Hogwarts couldn't simply clear up the confusion with the French Ministry. She simply accepted the premise.
She nodded slowly, a fierce determination replacing the soft concern on her face. "Of course, mon amour," she said, her voice rich with a solemn promise. "If someone is unjustly accused and their life is in danger, we must help them." She squeezed his arm. "I will help you. We will get this hunter to leave."
Echo stared at her, surprised. The rose-pink in his hair immediately brightened, warring with the placid black. "Really?" he asked, a genuine smile—the first one since the announcement—spreading across his face.
Empusa met his gaze, her eyes never wavering. "Of course," she repeated, her tone soft and earnest. "You are someone very special to me, Echo. Your troubles are my troubles."
That did it. The last vestiges of his fear and fury were chased away by the pure, unadulterated relief of having an ally in his corner. An unbelievably capable, highly attractive ally, no less. Echo let go of the wall and turned slightly, wrapping his free arm around her in a tight, grateful hug.
"Thank you, Empusa!" he exclaimed, the sound brimming with genuine happiness. "Thank you so much!"
Empusa's arms instantly tightened around him, pulling him fully against her. Her inner magical core, normally a calm, glacial field of pure Veela power, fluttered like a trapped bird. The man of my dreams, she thought, a possessive, triumphant joy swelling in her chest. He is mine. He is becoming mine. The potion's hold was absolute. He trusted her, relied on her, and his gratitude was hers to keep. She had him. And now, she had a target. A hunter who stood between her love and her beloved's peace of mind.
Empusa looked over Echo's shoulder, a chillingly predatory smile touching her lips, a look Echo, wrapped in his rose-colored bubble of affection, did not see.
Monsieur Dubois, she thought, the idea cold and sharp in her mind. You have a difficult month ahead.
Echo felt lighter than he had in hours, the knot of tension in his chest finally easing. Empusa's sudden, fierce declaration of support had been exactly what his panicked, overwhelmed mind had desperately needed. The cold fury was gone, replaced by a warm sense of security. He quickly walked back toward the boys' dorm, his stride purposeful. The Beauxbatons champion was no longer his primary concern; the hunt was on, and now he had an asset. He found the four Marauders huddled back in their dorm room, the mood still grim. Remus was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking small and defeated, while James, Sirius, and Peter were pacing a well-worn circle in the middle of the carpet, their faces etched with anxiety.
The door burst open, and Echo strode in, his hair a mixture of placid black and confident, focused bronze. He was closely followed by Empusa, who paused elegantly in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in a look of fierce, protective determination. The boys immediately stopped pacing, their heads snapping up.
"Echo!" James exclaimed, rushing forward. "What did you do? Did you find him? Did you—" He paused, looking past Echo at the stunning, severe-looking Veela who was now blocking the doorway. "And who is... that?"
"First things first, Potter," Echo interrupted, holding up a hand. "Did I do anything irrational? Yes, I did. Was it necessary? Absolutely. Did I admit to anything? No, I managed to spin it all into a tale about a horribly injured finger." Echo's gaze snapped back to James, his bronze hair flickering near his idiocy, who has netted them an inside informant.
Echo stepped aside, gesturing grandly to Empusa, who offered the boys a small, elegant, and entirely unreadable wave.
Peter gasped, clutching the front of his shirt. "Echo! Did you—did you tell her that Remus—"
Echo cut him off with a sharp, lightning-fast slash of his index finger across his throat, his face a mask of immediate, panicked warning.
Peter's eyes went wide, and he immediately scrambled for the safe word. "—is having a bad day! A really bad day! Full of... emotional strife!"
Echo nodded slowly, the bronze in his hair cooling into a satisfied slate-gray. "Yes, Peter, emotional strife. It's what happens when you're a handsome young man caught up in international school politics." He gave Empusa a lingering, incredibly obvious wink, making it abundantly clear he had told her something, but that she was helping on a need-to-know, partially misinformed basis. "Empusa is now on our side. Think of her as our early warning system and a massive, walking distraction."
Empusa gave the Marauders a sharp nod that clearly said, My intentions are pure, my loyalty is to Echo, and I will destroy you if you breathe a word that complicates either of those two facts.
James stared at Empusa, then back at Echo, his jaw slightly slack. "Okay. Well, that's... certainly a development. The champion's girl is helping us, and he has no idea. Brilliant, actually. So, what's the other good news? You mentioned good news, plural."
Echo's face broke into a sharp, mischievous grin, and the slate-gray in his hair turned to a sparkling, excited gold. "Oh, that? Just a little insurance policy," Echo announced casually. "I figured if Dubois did manage to corner us and we needed a scapegoat for all the chaos you two are about to create, it should be someone who is both completely untraceable and untouchable."
As if on cue, the floorboards near Remus's bed began to ripple and bubble like disturbed water. With a loud, echoing POP, a massive, grinning poltergeist floated up through the wood, hovering above the beds with his customary maniacal glee. It was Peeves.
Sirius stared at the floating menace, his eyes wide. "Seriously, Echo? Peeves?"
"Peeves is chaos personified, Black," Echo said, his tone utterly serious. "And we are about to bring a lot of it to this castle over the next month. Plus, he has the added benefit of being both completely insane and intimately aware of the castle's secret passages. He already knows about Remus's little condition, and he likes our taste in pranks, so he's on board." Echo turned back to his stunned friends. "Besides, what's the monster hunter going to do? Shoot the poltergeist with a silver bullet? Shove a crucifix in his ghostly face? Oh, the power of Christ compels you."
Peeves let out a high-pitched, gleeful shriek of laughter, tumbling in the air. "It wouldn't work!" he cackled, holding his sides. "I'm an atheist! Ha!"
James looked up at the poltergeist, then back at Echo. "I feel like that's a contradiction."
Echo threw his hands up, ending the discussion with a dismissive shrug. "That's enough of questions, boys. The plan is in motion, the pieces are in place, and the clock is ticking." He looked at the four bewildered faces, his gold hair shimmering with pure excitement. "Now, who is ready to cause some chaos?"
The first week of the anti-Dubois campaign was a blur of frantic, low-level chaos. James and Sirius, energized by the clear, high-stakes objective, threw themselves into the distraction phase with manic dedication. Their initial attempts were classic Marauder maneuvers, refined with Echo's dark, analytical twist.
Phase One: The Absurdity Bomb
The House-Elf Uprising
On the first day, the chaos began subtly. Dumbledore's breakfast goblet was found inexplicably filled with sparkling, cherry-flavored soda instead of water. Then, a pair of house-elf boots appeared to spontaneously Apparate onto Professor Cleen's head mid-lecture, followed by a tiny, high-pitched, inebriated voice slurring, "The wee-wine is better at Durmstrang!" The effect was an immediate, low-grade panic among the staff that a hostile, magically talented house-elf was at large.
Valérian Dubois, however, merely watched the spectacle from his seat at the High Table, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. When Cleen burst into the Great Hall demanding an investigation, Dubois raised a perfectly manicured hand.
"Ah, Professor," he purred, his voice smooth. "A simple matter of transfiguration, perhaps using a temporary charm to animate the boots? Amateur, but amusing." He took a slow sip of his wine. "Hardly the work of a dangerous creature. Merely childish pranks. Continue, please."
He dismissed the entire incident with a languid wave.
The Disappearing Poodle and the Enchanted Armor
On the third day, the boys escalated. Sirius successfully enacted the vanishing French poodle portrait, replacing a tapestry of a medieval witch with a kitschy painting of a small, mustachioed poodle wearing a tiny blue beret that kept shifting position. Meanwhile, James charmed every suit of armor on the fifth floor to march in lockstep and sing a highly questionable rendition of a popular Muggle pop song, complete with choreographed dance moves. Dubois was found, several hours later, standing patiently in the middle of the singing armor procession. He wasn't tracking the poodle; he was simply leaning against the wall, reading a French novel. As the armor marched past him, one suit stopped and saluted him. Dubois merely sighed and pointed a slender, elegant wand at the breastplate.
"Finite Incantatem," he murmured.
The armor instantly ceased moving and singing, clattering into a heap of motionless metal. Dubois stepped over the pile and continued reading his book as if nothing had happened. Later that evening, he was observed in the abandoned corridor where the poodle portrait had been sighted, simply tapping his fingers on the wall. The poodle immediately re-materialized with a whimper, apparently having been hidden in an interdimensional pocket.
"Charming," Dubois sniffed, running a finger along the frame. "But again, easily traceable, simple counter-charm. Next, perhaps a real monster?"
The Spontaneous Transfiguration and Peeves's Power Play
On day five, the boys were getting desperate. Echo authorized a full-scale assault. In the library, hundreds of books spontaneously sprouted tiny, quacking wings and began flying around, landing in the students' soup bowls. At the same time, Peeves—now on the official 'anti-hunter' payroll—launched a one-man attack on the third floor, levitating every single desk and chair and using them to construct a giant, structurally unsound shrine dedicated to the concept of 'chaos.'
Peter, shadowing Dubois, reported that the hunter didn't even go to the library. He simply stood in the entrance hall, listening to the commotion, then walked straight to the third floor. Peter watched in stunned silence as Dubois did not engage Peeves. Instead, he simply pulled out a small, silver whistle and blew a single, piercing, high-frequency note. Peeves, who had been cackling on top of his desk-shrine, suddenly clapped his hands over his spectral ears with a howl of pain and vanished, dropping the entire construction in a cacophony of splintered wood and shattered pottery. The castle staff had never found a way to stop Peeves that quickly.
Dubois tucked the whistle back into his sky-blue suit pocket. He looked around the silent, messy corridor, a shadow of annoyance crossing his face.
"Honestly," he sighed to the empty air. "Such an exhausting lack of creativity."
While the Marauders handled the chaos, Remus was fighting his own battle. The anxiety of having a literal monster hunter in the same castle was a constant, physical strain. After the incident in the bathroom, Remus began to cling to Echo with the desperate, quiet intensity of a frightened animal. He sat next to Echo at every meal, even when his own friends were present. He walked with him between classes, his shoulder brushing Echo's, his presence a silent plea for reassurance. Echo, for his part, accepted the proximity without complaint, understanding the primal need for protection. He would often pat Remus's arm or briefly run a hand through his hair, a gesture that immediately calmed the werewolf.
The Marauders joked that Remus had turned into a giant, nervous puppy, always hovering near his tiny, protective owner. And the dynamic was clear: Remus was the oversized dog being guarded by a much smaller, but infinitely more vicious one. This was especially true when Valérian Dubois was nearby.
On Day Six, the boys ran into Dubois in the courtyard. The hunter was sketching a rather detailed diagram of an oak tree in a small leather-bound notebook.
Remus immediately tensed, his shoulders hunching up to his ears, his body going rigid. Echo, who had been chatting idly, instantly transitioned into his battle-ready persona. He squared his shoulders, the flat black of his hair taking on a faint, almost imperceptible gleam of pure, controlled power.
Echo did not break stride. He kept Remus firmly by his side and walked directly past Dubois. As they drew even, Echo turned his head, a wide, blindingly cheerful smile snapping onto his face. He lifted a hand and gave a little, innocent wave.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Dubois! Lovely weather for a bit of tree drawing, oui?" Echo chirped, his voice light and utterly devoid of malice.
Remus, following Echo's lead, managed a strained, jerky movement that was supposed to be a cool nod but looked more like a spasm. He tried to force a relaxed, indifferent look onto his face, but his eyes were wide, darting from Echo's smile to the hunter's face, ready to bolt.
Dubois looked up, his expression unreadable, a charming, neutral smile on his lips. "Bonjour, monsieur," he replied smoothly, giving a small, polite nod. His eyes flickered over Remus, then lingered for a moment on Echo, a momentary spark of curiosity in his gaze before he returned to his diagram. "A beautiful specimen of flora. Highly unusual."
Echo let the smile hold for another two seconds, then turned and kept walking, pulling Remus along. They walked for about ten yards before Echo abruptly stopped and spun on his heel, his eyes locking onto Dubois's back. The transformation was instantaneous. A look of sheer, cold fury replaced the dazzling smile. The black in Echo's hair pulsed with a blinding, molten red, and his eyes narrowed to murderous slits. The magical energy radiating off him was a palpable, silent roar of protective rage, a glare so intense it felt capable of physically scorching the hunter's spine.
*You touch him,* Echo thought, focusing the full, dark weight of his power on the unsuspecting figure. *You even look at him wrong, and I will dissolve your blood and use your fancy blue suit as a napkin.*
Remus, meanwhile, having released the need for composure, slumped against Echo's side, letting out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a balloon deflating. "God, Echo," Remus whispered, his face still pale. "He knew. I swear he knew. He was looking right at me."
"He knows nothing," Echo hissed, his eyes still burning into Dubois. The intense focus on the hunter was all that kept the beast's magic contained, channeling the rage outward instead of letting it consume him. "He knows only that he's an annoyance. And that annoyance is about to become a serious problem for him."
Echo held the murderous gaze until Dubois neatly snapped his notebook shut and turned to walk toward the castle. Only when the hunter's elegant back was turned did Echo finally let the power recede. The crimson in his hair vanished, leaving a cold, hard, slate-gray determination.
The Mid-Week Assessment
By Day Seven, the boys were gathered back in the Gryffindor dorm. The mood was somber. Empty potion vials still sat on Remus's bedside table, a silent reminder of the stakes.
"We're failing," James muttered, running a frustrated hand through his already messy hair. "We threw everything at him. House-elves, enchanted armor, Peeves, spontaneous combustion... and he treats it like a light afternoon stroll. He's not just competent, he's bored."
"He's an expert," Severus Snape drawled, having been begrudgingly brought in for the strategy session. He was standing by the door, arms crossed, looking thoroughly disgusted. "He is used to finding creatures that actively want to murder him. A singing suit of armor does not present a threat. He is looking for patterns, for guilt, for slip-ups. And you lot are giving him circus acts."
Echo, who was meticulously sharpening the tip of his quill with a bone-handled knife, finally looked up. His hair was a contemplative, focused violet.
"Severus is right," Echo conceded. "The 'Absurdity Bomb' phase is over. It worked to establish the baseline—that Hogwarts is crazy—but it hasn't deterred him. He knows we are children, and he treats our chaos accordingly." He tapped the knife on the table. "The problem isn't that he's too good at finding a monster. The problem is that he's too good at disproving the monsters we're feeding him." He turned to the group, his eyes glinting with a dangerous new plan. "We have to up the ante. The second week is not about distracting him; it's about discrediting him. We need to make him look like a hysterical idiot in front of the one person who can send him home: Dumbledore. And we need to make him think he is under a direct, targeted attack."
"How?" Sirius asked, leaning forward, his eyes alight with newfound excitement.
"We stop with the funny," Echo stated, his voice quiet and lethal. "And we start with the terrifying. We need to feed him evidence of a creature so dangerous, so powerful, and so Dark that Dumbledore will have no choice but to step in and send him away under the guise of 'protection,' because the situation is 'out of the D.M.C.'s jurisdiction.'" He paused, a dark, manipulative smile stretching his lips. The violet in his hair deepened to a cold, triumphant obsidian. "We give him a monster that only I can control. And we make that monster—a creature of pure, sentient shadow, one that hunts by soul energy—focus exclusively on Monsieur Valérian Dubois."
The gold of Echo's hair had settled into the determined, deep obsidian of his planning phase. He strode down the third-floor corridor, his palpable sense of focused energy surrounded by his small army. James and Sirius walked slightly ahead, locked in a fierce, whispered debate about the best way to craft a 'sentient shadow.' Peter scurried behind them, clinging nervously to the tail end of the group. Remus was glued to Echo's side, his presence a silent plea for reassurance that only added to Echo's protective fury. Severus, having delivered his tactical advice, had wisely departed to avoid any unnecessary association.
"The key is the illusion of power," Echo was saying, his voice low and intense. "We need the attacks to be surgical. No more messes. We want to feed Dubois tiny, undeniable proof that an entity beyond his skill set is targeting him personally. Tonight, Sirius, you use the Shadow Transfigure charm on his pillow to leave a burn mark shaped like a soul, and tomorrow, James, you make his soup look like it's eating itself."
"But how do we make the shadow seem sentient?" Sirius muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I can burn a shape into fabric, but I can't make it smell like malice."
"That's where I come in," Echo replied, a dangerous glint in his eye. "I'll hit it with a controlled burst of my own magic—a signature I've developed, a faint, dark echo of my power. It'll be just enough for his professional instruments to detect, but too subtle for him to trace back to me without sounding paranoid."
They rounded a corner near a large, ornate marble fountain.
"We need a big hit, though," James insisted. "Something to push him over the edge. Maybe we could—"
WHOOSH!
A sleek, elegant figure suddenly sprang out from behind the fountain, moving with terrifying, professional speed. It was Valérian Dubois. He moved like a striking snake, his face a mask of fierce concentration. He held a small, glass atomizer in his hand, and before anyone could react, he squeezed the bulb. A fine, invisible mist shot out, striking Echo directly in the face.
Remus let out a strangled yelp and physically recoiled, yanking James and Peter backward in a terrified scramble. Sirius, momentarily stunned, fell backward against the wall.
Echo, however, did not jump back. He simply stopped dead in his tracks, his hands flying to his face. A blood-curdling, unhinged scream tore from his throat, a sound so raw and pure with agony that it echoed down the silent corridor. Echo staggered backward, clawing blindly at his eyes, the obsidian in his hair instantly exploding into a chaotic, thrashing vortex of horrified, blinding white and molten, desperate crimson. He fell to his knees, his body wracked by violent tremors.
Dubois, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of a man whose hunch had just been vindicated, approached the fallen boy, the atomizer still clutched in his hand. "Ah, ha! I knew it!" Dubois exclaimed, his velvety French accent replaced by a hard, professional snap. "You are the werewolf! I knew Dumbledore was hiding something beneath the boy's bizarre magical abilities!"
Sirius, recovering from his shock, rushed forward, his wand half-raised. "What the hell is he talking about?! What did you spray him with?!"
Dubois merely smiled, a cold, clinical expression. "A simple solution, monsieur. A concentrated, alchemically-enhanced silver nitrate. It burns a werewolf's skin on contact, especially around the eyes and mucous membranes. Look at his reaction. His agony is proof!" He gestured to the writhing boy on the floor. "A simple test of elimination!"
Echo, still screaming, his voice ragged and wet, peeled his hands away from his face. Tears streamed from his eyes, not just from pain, but from the sheer volume of liquid. "My eyes!" Echo shrieked, his voice bubbling with snot and tears. "They burn like a thousand suns! Or! Or seeing Hagrid in his springtime collection! I can't see! I can't see anything!"
James, who had shoved Remus and Peter behind the fountain for cover, stepped out, his face a mask of pure, murderous rage. "You absolute psychopath! He's reacting like this because you sprayed a chemical irritant straight into his eyes! You sprayed him with freaking poison, you bastard!"
Dubois blinked, the triumphant certainty momentarily faltering. He looked down at the screaming boy, then back at the atomizer. "D-darn," he muttered, his voice sinking to a frustrated whisper. "I really thought he was the one. The behavior, the protective streak, the dark magic... everything pointed to him!"
Echo, still blind and in screaming agony, suddenly stopped shaking. The writhing white and crimson in his hair solidified, replaced by a cold, absolute black—the color of lethal focus. He used one arm to push himself up, staggering blindly to his feet.
He was still weeping copiously, the tears washing the chemical from his eyes, but his mouth twisted into a snarl of terrifying, desperate fury. He lunged forward, moving with the terrifying, unthinking speed of a cornered animal.
WHOOMPH!
Echo slammed bodily into Dubois. The small hunter let out a high-pitched cry of surprise. Echo's hands, moving blindly but with unnatural strength, clamped onto the man's elegant blue velvet suit. He hauled Dubois close, his face contorted with pain and rage, his streaming eyes less than an inch from the man's.
"If you can't think slow..." Echo screamed, his voice thick with burning liquid, his hair an oppressive, pure black. "THINK FAST!"
With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline-fueled power, Echo shoved Dubois away from him with every ounce of strength he possessed. The hunter flew backward, losing his balance, his arms windmilling in the air. He didn't just fall; he went over the low, three-foot marble railing of the third-floor corridor.
A sudden, sharp scream ripped from Dubois's throat, fading rapidly as he plummeted. Echo, his strength spent, immediately collapsed to his knees, his hands flying back to his eyes, rubbing them raw in an effort to soothe the chemical burn.
"Did he break his neck?" Echo gasped, his voice broken and pleading, his eyes still tightly squeezed shut. "Please! Tell me he broke his neck!"
Peter, trembling violently, crept to the edge of the railing and peered over the side. He gulped, then looked back at his still-suffering friend.
"N-n-nope," Peter whispered, his voice shaky. "He... he used a quiet Spongify charm on the floor right before he hit. He's fine. He's just... swearing in French and looking up."
Echo let out a guttural sound of frustrated misery, still aggressively rubbing his stinging, burning eyes. He stretched out a hand, blindly reaching toward the group.
"Give me Nugget!" Echo commanded, his voice raw. "Quickly! Drop him on his head!"
Sirius, though still reeling from the shock of the attack, the silver nitrate test, and the near-fatal fall, moved instantly. He reached into Echo's robes, felt for the warm, scaly legs, and pulled the Cockatrice out. He handed the creature to James, who, with an expression of intense confusion, held Nugget by his neck.
James looked from the still-weeping Echo to the wide-eyed, startled Cockatrice. "You want me to drop the chicken-lizard on Dubois' head?"
"Yes!" Echo screamed.
Peter squeaked, finally finding his voice. "B-but Echo! Won't—won't Nugget kill him? Isn't his glare lethal?"
Echo, still hunched over and aggressively rubbing his eyes, let out a noise that was half-gasp, half-grunt. "Hopefully!" he choked out, the word thick with pain and desperation.
James took a deep breath, looked at the perfectly good Cockatrice in his hands, then looked over the railing at the small, furious figure of the hunter on the floor below. He closed his eyes, mumbled a quick, silent prayer, and dropped Nugget over the side. The fall was about forty feet. Nugget, the creature who could kill with a look, shrieked in surprise as he plummeted toward the ground.
Valérian Dubois, who had been dusting off his expensive suit and looking up with a look of murderous, bewildered rage, saw the scaly, snake-headed creature falling toward him. He didn't even flinch. With the casual flick of his wrist, a wordless, silent spell shot from his wand.
Thwack!
The spell struck Nugget mid-air. The Cockatrice went instantly limp, his scaly body hitting the flagstones with a dull, heavy thud.
James lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Uhhhh..."
Echo stopped rubbing his eyes, though he kept them shut tight. The obsidian black of his hair had not budged. "Don't tell me," he said, his voice flat, exhausted, and devoid of all hope.
James didn't say anything more. He just nodded slowly, uselessly, knowing Echo couldn't see him. "Yeah," he confirmed, his voice a low, defeated murmur. "He's way better than we thought."
The absolute black in Echo's hair suddenly fractured. It didn't turn to a new color of rage or fear; it simply dissolved, becoming a dull, miserable grey. A low, pathetic wail escaped his lips.
"Oh, God," Echo whispered, the sound thick with tears and the burning sensation of the silver nitrate. He began to cry, the tears now flowing freely, not from the chemical, but from sheer, self-pitying despair. "Oh, please. Please bring me to Madam Pomfrey right now." He scrubbed his face one last time, then lowered his voice to a desperate, shaky whisper. "Before I summon something bigger and hungrier, and it eats the entire fifth year."
Sirius and James exchanged a look, their fear of the hunter momentarily eclipsed by the sight of their usually terrifying, supremely confident friend reduced to a sobbing, sightless wreck.
James moved instantly, grabbing one of Echo's arms. Sirius took the other.
"C'mon, Echo," James said gently. "Let's get those eyes washed out."
They hauled the weeping, stumbling boy away from the railing and began the long, miserable walk down the stairs toward the hospital wing, leaving a perfectly pristine, chemically-resistant monster hunter on the ground floor, and one very still, very unconscious Cockatrice lying beside him.
Later that day, the late afternoon sun was beginning to cast long, orange shadows across the Hogwarts grounds. Valérian Dubois stood stiffly in the corridor outside the Hospital Wing, looking remarkably composed given his earlier free-fall and chemical setback. However, his tailored sky-blue suit was now conspicuously rumpled, and a small, fresh scrape adorned the side of his aristocratic nose—the only visible signs of his recent misadventure. He was facing Professor Minerva McGonagall, who stood before him like an unyielding granite statue, her expression a terrifying blend of icy fury and professional outrage. She wore a stern, emerald-green dressing gown over her clothes, a clear sign that she had left her post at the High Table the moment the news of the incident reached her.
Guard duty had been assigned, and Sirius Black leaned casually against the large oak doors of the Hospital Wing, his arms crossed, a look of weary amusement mixed with genuine concern on his face. Sitting patiently at his feet was Nugget. The Cockatrice was thankfully awake, though subdued. He looked slightly irritated and was currently cleaning his feathers with a fastidious, almost anxious fervor, occasionally casting a brief, contemptuous hiss at Dubois.
Minerva addressed the hunter, her voice dangerously quiet, each word clipped and sharp.
"Monsieur Valérian Dubois," she began, using his full name like a verdict. "I will be concise. You are here to investigate a threat. You are not here to assault students with what is essentially highly concentrated pepper spray."
Dubois adjusted his spectacles, attempting to regain his professional composure. "Professor, with all due respect, I was merely employing standard D.M.C. investigative protocol. The substance, a silver nitrate solution, is designed to elicit a very specific, painful, but non-lethal reaction from a creature of lycanthropic nature. The fact that the boy reacted with such intensity suggests only one thing: he is either highly sensitive to chemical irritants—"
"Or," McGonagall cut in, her eyes narrowing, "you sprayed a highly irritating chemical directly into the face of a short, startled fourteen-year-old boy. The only reason you targeted his eyes and mucous membranes, Monsieur Dubois, is that his height prevented you from hitting his chest. I am quite sure that your organization has falsely accused a great many innocent folk when your operatives ended up spraying them in the face."
Dubois sighed, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face. "I assure you, Professor, that is not the case. However, I will endeavor to be more careful in the future."
"Oh, you will be careful," McGonagall said, leaning forward slightly, her posture radiating threat. "Because this, Monsieur Dubois, is the first and last student you will spray. Regardless of the efficacy of your bizarre methods, this is not the French countryside. This is a school."
The hunter tried to rationalize. "But Professor, this is one of the most direct and reliable methods of establishing the truth! I simply need to recalibrate my notes and observations, and then I can proceed—"
McGonagall raised a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. Her eyes were twin points of glacial discipline. "This is your first and final warning, Monsieur Dubois. Unless you can provide Headmaster Dumbledore or me with one hundred percent pure, factual, undeniable evidence that a student in this castle is a werewolf, you will take no further action whatsoever against anyone. If you step out of line, you will be thrown off Hogwarts grounds before your rent is due. Is that crystal clear?"
Dubois bowed slightly, the motion stiff. "Crystal, Professor."
Sirius, who had been listening with rapt attention, pushed himself off the doorframe. He looked at the hunter, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"And a word of advice from someone who actually knows the boy, Monsieur," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "You may not want to be around Echo for a little while. At least until he cools off."
Dubois scoffed, running a hand dismissively over his mussed hair. "Why would I be scared of him? The boy looks like his brain is made of cupcakes and unicorns."
Sirius let out a low, humorless chuff of laughter. "Sure. If the cupcakes were made of spiders, and the unicorns ate human flesh."
The hunter frowned, bewildered. "What do you mean by that?"
Sirius didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached back and opened the heavy oak door of the Hospital Wing just enough for a single, terrifying stream of sound to escape.
Echo's voice, still raw and thick with unspent fury, bellowed from inside the ward: "—and when my vision returns, and I get my hands on that French bastard, I'm going to rip him a new one! And when I rip it open, I'm going to shove in a large, rabid, and angry—"
Sirius slammed the door shut, cutting off the rest of the violent threat. He turned back to Dubois, his eyes twinkling. "You were saying?" Sirius asked politely.
Dubois visibly stiffened, running a hand over his clean-shaven jaw and adjusting his impeccably straight collar. He offered a small, stiff bow.
"Oui, Monsieur Black. I see your point. Most... informative. I shall ensure my next steps are measured." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, his pace rapid and his posture radiating suppressed fury and wounded pride.
As the French hunter's figure disappeared down the corridor, Sirius let out a long, slow breath of relief and turned to McGonagall, a genuine smile of gratitude replacing his smirk. "Professor, thank you," Sirius said, pushing himself off the door. "Seriously. You laid down the law."
McGonagall softened slightly, the severe lines around her mouth easing. "You are welcome, Mr. Black. I hate to say it, but I'm glad this happened now. All we have to do is wait for him to make one more slip-up, and then we can remove him from the Hogwarts grounds for good reason." Her gaze hardened as she looked directly at Sirius, her tone dropping to a low, serious warning. "And whatever you all decide to do to the hunter to make him leave, please don't make too much of a mess or cause any unnecessary damage or, heaven forbid, death."
Sirius ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. "Professor, I can't make any promises about the mess or the damages. We're Gryffindors, after all. But as for the death, you may want to go talk to Echo about that. He's so angry, he's ready to fight a dragon with nothing but a spoon."
Minerva sighed, running a hand across her brow in a rare gesture of complete weariness. "That, Mr. Black, is the part I'm most scared of. I know how easily Echo can let himself get out of hand when he's overly excited or, as in this case, livid. See that you keep him in check."