Not Dead Yet

1992 June

The train left Hogwarts on June 20, its red and black, polished exterior gleaming as it slid into the King's Cross station. A week had passed since the death of Nicholas Flamel, and Alana had been far from idle. She had followed up on the leads Farrell had given her, his memory blessedly unscathed by his death. The Curse of Providence, Jamal Amir, Qatar; all of these words now held meaning to her. They also made her more aware of the stone in her possession.

It hadn't been destroyed.

Either Perenelle had lied, or Nicholas Flamel had been keeping secrets.

There was only one way to find out, so she packed her belongings and ordered a plane ticket to Doha International Airport, Qatar. Muggle travel was an unpleasant experience but one more convenient for where she was headed, the Qatari Bazaar.

Her suitcase was deceptively light, extended inside and filled with gear. The galleons, she'd been forced to sell her belongings to gain, and had parted with a large portion of her acquisitions from Romania to fund her trip. She was keenly aware that she would need to take some jobs that holiday if she wanted to avoid bankruptcy. Her accounts weren't in deficit yet, but her spending in that past year didn't inspire confidence.

Galleons were an internationally recognised currency in the magical world, containing gold as they did. Alana would have liked to have some jewels to bargain with but had no such fortune.

Anyone who was anyone knew of the fearsome reputation of the Qatari Bazaar. Qatar was home to the largest international black market in the world, welcoming any and all magical creatures. Knockturn Alley could never hope to compare to the city that was the Bazaar. Politicians, businessmen and entrepreneurs thrived in even its dustiest streets. Fortune and reputation were the trade of the city. That said, the place was naturally a vipers den for outlaws. Slave traders, human traffickers, assassins, thieves, rapists, and fraudsters alike. If it had a name, the market would have it.

Magically, Qatar was a mafia state. That is to say, the government was tied with organised crime. The sprawling city was split into districts, each protected and monitored by some criminal body or vicious family. A few areas were exceptions to this rule, but they were few and far between. For all its apparent dangers, the city was not without order. As long as one kept their head down and their weapons close at hand, the market was perfectly safe. As the phrase went; out of sight, out of mind.

When the lithe witch finally caught her first glimpse of the city, she had to pause a moment to take it all in. She had half expected a concrete jungle like New York City but with magic. She was extremely glad she was wrong. The city was a labyrinth, a sprawling mass of earthen rectangles, domes, triangles, and other strange shapes that slid together like the pieces of a puzzle. The streets varied depending on where one looked from broad cobblestone roads to narrow paths of beaten-down earth. Surrounding the districts was a network of wards, shifting and expanding as though they were the lungs of a living beast. They left the air heady with magic and made Alana's fingers tingle delightfully in the heat of the morning sun.

She could easily see why so many chose to never leave the place.

The streets were teeming with life, early as it was. Stalls were popped up on every available street corner, and the main square was packed with shaded stands advertising their wares. Alana poked around curiously, attracting a few suspicious looks from stallholders who had grown accustomed to thieves. Witches, wizards and all manner of other species passed her as she explored.

A large red and gold tent caught her eye, and she entered the store to find the inside magically expanded. The woman minding the shop was on her before she could so much as examine its wares. Speaking in rapid Arabic, the owner dug sharp fingernails in her arms and gestured towards the ceiling - and what a ceiling it was. Silks and rugs were dr.a.p.ed across metal poles, their intricate patterns fully displayed for her admiration. There were thousands of them in silver, gold, blood red, and all manner of colours. Each bore a uniquely patterned border with tassels twitching in each corner in the heat. Alana was sure her face was awestruck but couldn't tell with the polyjuice potion having relaxed her muscles. She had never seen flying carpets before.

After coming to the realisation that flying carpets were expensive and not allowed in the city, she reluctantly dragged herself away. There were some other owners that managed to lure her in, she would shamefully admit. Although, in her defence, they were far more experienced in their jobs than ordinary salesmen. A brightly dressed shaman painting terracotta dolls and clay golems had her transfixed for some time. Then there was the barefoot, tattooed florist with snakes for hair and ivy growing under her skin. Ritual daggers and an ancient-looking tome on earth magics passed under her nose, but she restrained herself. The only thing worse than being on a budget was being on a self-imposed budget. She would probably cry over her losses later.

Shopping aside, Alana made considerable progress in her investigation of the city. She did have priorities and a purpose to her visit, after all. The polyjuiced witch made friends in three taverns before settling down in an inn for the evening. The next day, she repeated the routine. The names Perenelle Flamel and Jamal Amir floated in the back of her head as she avoided the shadows lurking in quiet alleyways. It wouldn't do to get lost in a place like this.

She got her first tip three days into her visit. A young faun by the name of Giles let slip the name Amir after a rough night of entertaining at the nearby brothel. It was the name of a water demon in control of one of the city districts closest to the Persian Gulf. The locals called him Šeytān Ìl-bahār", Arabic for "devil of the sea". He had a monopoly on the pearl trade in Qatar, and an impressive number of connections in the mineral market. He rarely went out, except to conduct business and even then, not without a fully-armed guard. Perenelle certainly knew how to pick a difficult target.

Satisfied that Perenelle wouldn't be able to kill her target without her noticing, Alana was finally able to relax her investigation. Rushing such delicate matters was a sure way to attract unwanted attention.

The next day, she went looking for a job.

Now, don't get her wrong, money is very much an object to her, but that was not the reason for her search. Perenelle wanted someone dead, someone very powerful, and someone who would undoubtedly have enemies in Qatar. As they say, 'the enemy of an enemy is a friend'. Perenelle would need resources, if not allies, to get close to Amir.

Following a suggestion from one tavern keeper's son, she moved out of the central shopping district and east towards Bedlam. No really, that was the district's name, courtesy of the Orien'bedlam family.

The main feature of the district became obvious to anyone who looked at it. An oval amphitheatre about the size of most modern stadiums was the district's epicentre. Without the silencing wards built into the structure, Alana was sure she would have heard the screams of contestants and spectators from the other side of the city. As it was, all she heard was the mutterings of the crowd waiting to enter the building. Tickets were pricey, but she was eager to see what sort of fighters they had. It would also, hopefully, give her some indication of where the money was in Qatar. Gambling on fights was half of the amphitheatre's appeal after all.

When she did get in, she was greeted with the sight of an alligator headed man swinging a decapitated head around by its hair. Blood was smeared across the male's humanoid c.h.e.s.t, and it dripped down to his loincloth. The grin that cut through Alana's features scared even herself. A few minutes after, she realised with some disappointment that the head was only a fleshy mask and not the real thing.

The crowds in the stands were rowdy as one would expect with such entertainment. The betting counters weren't any better, and she had to shove a few less-abled bodies out of her way to get a comfortable spot to observe it and the arena. The theatre had ample rows of stands for spectators. Below them were sectioned areas, the top being an upper lounge reserved for restaurants and kiosks, and the ones below holding lounges, offices and shops respectively.

A shofar was blown, the small horn's sound magnified with the aid of magic. A new round of battles would soon begin. Alana watched, transfixed as the arena floor shifted. The originally water-filled battlefield was drained to reveal a sandy desert. From the western corner, she could see grass sprouting from the earth. They spread like a wave across the surface until it was a sea of green. Soon after, the short seedlings lengthened into yellow hard grass, the type native to tropical Africa.

Iron gates set into the arena walls were lifted to reveal the next competitors to step into the arena. A large chimaera revealed itself first. It was the size of a small car with a bull's head, a lion's torso, bat-like wings, and a curved scorpion tale. An acromantula crawled out of another gate, and another released a Macedonian balverine. The last held a small boy and a woman, both slaves judging from the scars on their wrists.

Interest piqued, Alana leaned forward to watch the massacre unfold.

The balverine was the first to realise it wasn't alone. It lifted its doglike muzzle to the air and inhaled the scent from where it stood hunched on grey, leather-skinned hind legs. It moved on all fours, its sinewy body leaping with precision made for hunting in dense forests, not open plains, but it still found its prey. A howl was the only warning before it threw itself onto the chimaera. There was an unholy screech from the chimaera before it was twisting to pin the balverine. It brought its heavy paws down but not before the balverine tore its own poisoned nails across its side. A cut from a balverine was fatal to humans but did nothing to halt the chimaera's assault.

On the other side of the arena, the acromantula was attempting to scale the arena walls. The giant spider was cursing humanity in English as he did this, which made it particularly difficult to take him seriously. The rings of wards outlining the top of the walls made climbing them a pointless endeavour as the spider soon discovered. The woman was moving towards the spider, the boy squirming in her grasp.

"Enjoying yourself?" A roguish voice interrupted Alana's observation. Her head twisted sideways to find the speaker. It was a scarred, brown-haired wizard with coal eyes and a dragonhide jacket.

"Raoul," She greeted, half surprised and half suspicious to see the man. He gave her a grin like a cat that got the cream.

"Thought that was you, little bird. Those polyjuice potions don't do much when you're magical auras out," He explained with a nod to her disguise.

"I'll start worrying when I meet someone other than you who can recognise a person on magical aura alone," She muttered. She masked her surprise with her annoyance. Physical auras she could understand, they were all unfailingly unique, but the only difference she saw in magical auras were core alignments and preferred magical practices. If Raoul could truly differentiate them, he was a freak of nature as far as she was concerned. Raoul was eyeing her speculatively, and she arched an eyebrow in question.

"You still haven't answered my question," He smirked, no doubt sensing her surprise. Call it a sixth sense, or else the man was really just that good.

Alana turned her gaze back to the scene in consideration. The seven-year-old boy was ripping into the throat of the woman with his b.a.r.e teeth. Blood was spilling out of the wound like a drinking fountain. The female, screaming, attempted to throw the child to the acromantula.

"It's rather entertaining," She commented lightly.

"The Tuesday Hunt only usually involves slaves and beats. I think you'll enjoy the afternoon fighting pits much more. Betting is usually a lot higher on such events, and the fighters earn a significant amount. There is a registration fee for those without membership, but should you feel inclined to partake…"

Alana fixed her darkened eyes on the man. She could smell the ulterior motive like blood from a wounded prey. "Of what interest is such a thing to you?" She questioned.

"Consider it a business favour. I need a puppet to dance for me."

The witch arched her back before settling down. "We split the gains 80:20 by contract. If I feel uncomfortable, I'm backing out, puppet or not." Her tone was cold and clinical.

"You, back out? Seems that school of yours has managed to expand your vocabulary," He crowed mockingly.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not suicidal before you believe me, old man?"

1992 June

The fighting pits were indeed a more interesting event than the Tuesday Hunt. She was decked out for combat with the silhouette of a crow marked into an armband. Raoul's calling card in international waters had always amused her. He was Corvus Corone, the Crow of Europe. It made the nickname he had once given her make much more sense. He had a thing for birdwatching.

He signed Alana up under his own name, eliminating any worries she might have had with people coming after her. Sparrow was significantly less experienced and well known internationally than a lot of Raoul's other contacts. Her connection to Raoul would be unknown and difficult to guess, so it was extremely likely she'd be recognised. She would be observed as an insignificant pawn and nothing more. It. If she was a little too fast with her blade, people would admire her skill or envy Raoul, but overall, would be more likely to try and buy her off than outright murder her. That suited her needs just fine.

Her polyjuice wore off after an hour, and she switched to a full black mask with one-way runes, a purchase made by Raoul after she agreed. Under it, she wore her usual Sparrow half mask for its heat control and air filtering charms. Charmed clothing was allowed so long as the charms weren't combative. The first portion of fights was restricted to a single, nonmagical weapon only. Alana was given a numbered card and shuffled into a cavernous waiting room set below the amphitheatre itself.

Her first fight was with an oni. Oni were a race of Japanese yōkai, not to be confused with trolls and ogres despite the similarities in their appearance. The one she faced was two metres tall with bright red skin and six horns growing from its head. Its body was a hulking mass of muscle with a full head of white hair, pointed ears and glowing orange eyes. To say the iron kanabo club it gripped was unintimidating would be a lie.

She won eventually by wearing him down. She dodged and rolled, weaving between the great strikes of the club to slide a single silver blade against its taut skin. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have cut, but the silver was of good quality, highly conductive, and she possessed enough control to direct her magic into the tool. When the oni fell, he was bleeding from multiple lacerations across his stomach, c.h.e.s.t, arms, and even legs. The sight of scarlet blood on vivid red was peculiar, more so when the stains showed clearly again the tiger pelt loincloth.

Her next match was against a minotaur with a rather ferocious temper. The third was against a golem. She hadn't realised they were legitimate contestants, but upon reflection, it made odd sense. They were technically living as spirits encased in earth. They may not have had a magical core of their own, but they were still able to function in their shell after being summoned and bound to it. The golem she fought looked like an iron robot, obviously built with combat in mind.

Once the battle began, she dropped in a crouch to examine the creation. It had no such inclination to wait and went straight for an attack. Its fits dug a deep hole into the ground where she once was. She kicked it squarely in the c.h.e.s.t, but that proved to be ineffective. The strengthening runes built into its metal skin were a blatant flaunting of the loophole in the rules regarding combative magic on clothes. She found the runes to be an eyesore. Channelling her magic into her left palm, she switched to her martial arts form easily and twisted through the golem's attacks. As soon as she saw the opening, she let her palm move, hitting it straight in the c.h.e.s.t with a burst of magic that scrambled its rune systems for the moment it took for her to redirect her magic and rip her knife through its c.h.e.s.t.

The metal gave way under her blade until it met resistance. A molten core, the seal binding the spirit to the object sent the magic in her dagger reeling back into her c.h.e.s.t, and she coughed blood. The golem was moving again and had wrapped its arms around her body in an attempt to crush her. She growled and summoned Aquarius with her hand still in the golem. He materialised at her hand and let out a wave of stored magic twice as much as what she had been able to put in her knife. It tore through the protections on the golems seal and exposed it to her knife. One mark of imperfection on the seal and the golem slumped. Aquarius was unsummoned, and she removed her hand from the metal body with a wince. There was a ragged cut down her arm where it had pressed against the edge of the metal. She was sure a rib was broken as well but was otherwise unscathed.

She was healed by a child, a very small child with b.a.r.e feet, silver eyes and a crown laurel woven into his golden hair. Raoul looked faintly amused as she unabashedly gazed in wonder at the boy. He couldn't have been older than eight, yet he'd healed her cut seamlessly and far quicker than any healer she'd seen. She wondered if he was an acquisition of Raoul's, another 'Sparrow' he'd locked his eyes on in some backwater village. Then, she heard the man call the boy 'Dove' and had to restrain her hysterical laughter. The world was a strange place without Raoul in it.