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September, 1927
PÈRE LACHAISE CEMETERY.
That's where the rally is being held, and that is where Circe, Holden, Theseus and many other Aurors head once they find out.
Circe follows Theseus. She gets more unnerved with every passing second, especially after the hours she spent at the French Ministry of Magic. Apparently, it's different for her to deal with distressing situations when she's in them, because it look like when she's only a bystander, she can't keep herself in place, or stop talking in that matter.
She keeps her mouth shut at the moment, though.
Whatever she says, it could only make their situation worse. There is nothing Circe could say that would make anybody feel better about charging into a rally filled with people who despise Aurors. In fact, she understands them very well.
They approach the entrance into the Lestrange tomb, the statue of a raven taunting Circe as a reminder of her failure. She should've looked deeper into the emblem on those black silks that covered the city, yet she didn't. She would have known where the rally was held, she could've helped more.
"It isn't illegal to listen to him! Use minimum force on the crowd. We mustn't be what he says we are!" Theseus commands the group of over fifty Aurors — French or British, Circe isn't sure.
They nod in response, but their expressions say something different. They are nervous and scared, terrified even. Circe would have thought them to be fools if they weren't. Those that aren't scared, Circe wants to bring their egos down a peg. They're about to face possibly over a hundred witches and wizards that hate them, and they want to fight them and take them on willingly.
"Where's the entrance?" Holden asks.
He grips his wand in his hand, keeping it close to him. The wizard keeps a close eye on Circe, too.
