Orli jolted awake to a tremendous grinding sound—the kind that set your teeth on edge, like massive hinges scraping across rusted metal. Her eyes snapped open as the ship began to slow.
The seawater around them gradually cleared from murky depths to crystalline blue. A quick flick of her wand confirmed exactly one hour had passed. Beside her, Snape had already risen, his black robes settling around him like shadows given form.
Through the porthole, seawater receded like a retreating tide, sinking below the ship's hull in a dark line. They surfaced into brilliant daylight—still morning, the sun painting everything gold. In the distance, Orli glimpsed sandy beaches dotted with seagulls and the white triangles of distant sails dancing on the horizon.
A series of crisp metallic clicks echoed through their cabin as locks disengaged one by one. Orli pushed open the door to find the corridor beyond flooded with ankle-deep seawater. Tiny crabs scuttled frantically into shadowy corners while abandoned shells opened and closed in futile rhythm, releasing streams of silvery bubbles.
She followed Snape up to the deck, then carefully down a weathered wooden gangplank to the dock. One moment her feet touched the precarious, salt-slicked wood—the next, as she stepped onto solid concrete, the plank simply vanished into thin air.
Orli spun around, finding only a rust-streaked iron gate where the massive wizarding ferry had been. The ship had melted away like morning mist, leaving no trace of its existence.
Perhaps it's already diving back to the depths, she thought, turning to absorb her new surroundings.
They stood in the heart of a bustling French Muggle port. Tourists flooded the waterfront—a river of sunglasses, straw hats, and clicking cameras. French mingled with English and a dozen other European languages in the salt-tinged air. The streets overflowed with vendors hawking everything from fresh seafood to gaudy souvenirs, their stalls creating a maze of competing scents—briny fish, exotic spices, and the particular mustiness of cheap trinkets.
A nearby cruise ship continued disgorging passengers. A tour guide brandishing a small flag herded his charges while walking backward, directly into Orli's path. His heel came down hard on her foot.
"Merde! Pardonnez-moi, I—"
The Muggle's apology died on his lips as he turned. Before him stood two figures that belonged in no tourist brochure—a tall, severe man wrapped in black robes despite the summer heat, and a striking young woman similarly dressed in flowing fabric that seemed to shimmer with its own light.
Street performers? Religious pilgrims?
Before the thought could fully form, light flashed across his vision. The next moment, his mind went perfectly blank, the encounter erased as if it had never happened.
Dozens of kilometers inland, in a cobblestoned square outside a weathered tavern, Orli and Snape materialized from the crushing sensation of Apparition. Snape's wand remained drawn—he'd just cast Obliviate with the casual efficiency of long practice.
"Are you injured?" Snape asked, his dark eyes scanning her face.
"I'm fine." Orli shook her head, though her foot still throbbed. Only then did Snape release his grip on her wrist, his fingers leaving phantom warmth on her skin.
She forced herself to focus on their surroundings rather than the lingering sensation.
"Where are we?"
"Locronan," Snape replied, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of a plan executed flawlessly. "A French wizarding village in the northwest. Not far from our landing point."
"Like Hogsmeade?" Orli peered toward the mouth of their alley as a young couple strolled past, hand in hand. Both wore elegant silver-blue robes reminiscent of Beauxbatons uniforms, the silk-like fabric catching the afternoon light with each step.
"Similar enough," Snape confirmed, though something in his tone suggested this place held secrets Hogsmeade never could.
Author's Note: Locronan is indeed a real village in northwestern France, once a medieval center for textile production—particularly the canvas used for sailing ships. The town features a stunning 15th-century Gothic church dedicated to Saint Ronan, and its granite houses display the ornate dormer windows and slate roofs characteristic of Breton architecture. The nearby Manoir de Moëllien, dating from the 17th century, has been reimagined here as the more grandiose Gaillard Manor.
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