Hey guys, Happy here. This isn't a true update, unfortunately—I've been away from this story for a few months, and now I need to get back in the swing of things. So, while this isn't another chapter, it is an update of a sort.

It's an interlude. There are likely to be several of these as the story goes on.


Anyway, since last chapter I actually introduced an OC, I figured that for this interlude I would explore their point of view and past.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Harry Potter? Certainly not. Katekyo Hitman Reborn? No. I do own Cyrille Delacroix and the plot though. Don't steal, please.

Interlude 1—Cyrille

Cyrille had had a relatively normal childhood. He had grown up in a middle-class, mixed-blood magical family, being raised by his half-blood mother and muggleborn father. He had attended Beauxbatons, gotten good grades, had average magical prowess, and graduated with five OWLs and four NEWTs. He had been perfectly ordinary, and perfectly happy to remain so for the rest of his life. And he had.

At least, until he met Océane Omdahl.

He had been rather foolish that night, and had gone out drinking, thinking to perhaps pick up a companion for the night later on. He had failed, and had stumbled drunkenly out of the bar into an alleyway, promptly vomiting into one of the piles of garbage on the sides of the alley.

He had gone to a seedier part of town, looking for cheap drink and cheaper girls. Unfortunately, he had been detained by a group of thugs in an attempted mugging. This was when someone intervened, right when he was about to be beaten to a bloody pulp. To his drunken mind, the sight of a petite woman with silvery blonde hair beating the crap out of his would-be muggers was the closest to heaven he'd gotten so far in his life. He stumbled forward, the woman steadying him and asking him something that sounded like 'Are you alright?'.

Of course, being the suave and charming man he was, he promptly passed out before even opening his mouth.

When Cyrille came to, he woke to a soft bed and caramel colored walls. Sitting up slowly, he groaned in agony as his hangover from the night before made itself known. Luckily, the room was relatively dim, dark curtains concealing the window. He flopped back and contemplated remaining in the soft, warm, comfortable bed for the rest of the day; that is, until he recalled the events of the previous night.

With a groan he hauled himself out of the bed and stumbled around for his clothes before finally just taking a white button-down shirt and black slacks from the closet. After looking around for his wand, he opened the door tentatively, poking his head out.

An old, stern-looking man dressed in expensive looking black pants, vest, and white button-down walked past before noting his presence and turning.

"Ah, good, you're up." He said, gray mustache twitching as he spoke. "Breakfast will be ready soon, and the Lady wishes for you to join her. If you are dressed, I will lead you down to the dining room." Cyrille had stared for a moment, taking in the bald head, gray mustache and closed eyes before nodding and stepping out of the room. The—butler? Chauffer? Servant?—led him through the house, taking Cyrille past grandly arching windows spilling sunlight onto rich mahogany floors, down elegant stair cases, and through a vast hall that the man said was the foyer.

When Cyrille asked the man who he was, and where he, Cyrille, was, the man simply replied with: "I am Arkwright, head of the household, and the Lady's personal servant. As for where you are, you are at the Lady's household in Paris, France."

Finally, Arkwright led him through a large hall and into a smaller room. Cyrille's eyes locked onto the pale woman from the night previous. He sat carefully in the chair the Arkwright pulled out for him, chewing his lip.

"So, you are the man I saved last night." It was not so much a question as a statement of fact. "Tell me, what is your name?"

Cyrille blinked twice, before realizing what she had asked and replying.

"Cyrille, Lady. Cyrille Celacroix," he said timidly, ducking his head as her intense eyes met his own, dull gray ones. She pursed her lips and nodded, eyes narrowing.

"Why were you in that alley last night?" the question was sudden, and Cyrille flinched at the sharp snap of her voice.

"Er, I had gone out drinking and was drunk, Lady,"

"That's not what I asked."

Cyrille floundered. This was obviously important, for her to be asking so sharply, but how did one explain that there was no particular reason that he was there? That he had simply stumbled into the alleyway by chance with his mind addled by drink?


Cyrille shrugged helplessly. Teal eyes closed and she nodded as several servants entered, placing dishes in front of them and along the table. When the steaming food was revealed, Cyrille heard his stomach growl. The Lady linked her hands together and rested her chin on them, staring at Cyrille through narrowed eyes.

"Very well then. After you have eaten, Arkwright will take you to your home." Cyrille jumped, staring wide eyed at the Lady. Her lips twitched into a smirk. "And in return for my saving your wallet and your life, I have two favors of any kind that I can call in at any time."

Nodding, Cyrille ate dazedly. When he had finished, Arkwright entered the room and Cyrille stood. Just as he was about to leave the room, the Lady spoke up.

"Oh, and you might want this," Cyrille turned, and caught the thin piece of wood that she tossed at him. He looked down at it and blinked. It was his wand, the dark wood gleaming in the light. She smirked at him and her eyes glittered. "Wouldn't want you to be without your wand, now would we?"

It was only later that Cyrille would wonder just how a muggle—because he certainly hadn't felt any magic around her—had known what his wand truly was.

Little did he know, but his Fate was now irreversibly linked with that of the Lady's, and the Organization she served.

The Vongola Famiglia.


So. That was the first interlude. A look into Cyrille's past and how he entered the Vongola. And a look into who heads the Paris—and by extension, all of France—branch of Vongola. Now, since I didn't really describe either of them in detail, here are Cyrille and Océane's profiles.

Name: Cyrille Delacroix

Nationality: French

Height: 5'8"

Description: Thin; face has sharp, almost bird-like features with high cheek bones and a long nose. Hair is light brown and usually neatly trimmed, but can become disheveled easily. Eyes are dull blue, no sight problems.

Wand: Cherry wood with phoenix feather core. Swishy.

Blood Status: Half-blood


Name: Océane Omdahl

Nationality: French

Height: 4'7"

Description: Round, heart shaped face. Eyes are a clear teal and hair is silvery-blonde and falls down to her mid-back. No sight problems.

Blood Status: Unknown (assumed Muggle)


Now, for quick translations of the names:

Océane—comes from the French word for ocean. Pronounced o-say-AHN.

Omdahl—Norwegian surname denoting one who come from any number of farms called either Åmdal or Omdal, meaning 'Elm valley'.

Arkwright—from Middle English arc meaning 'chest, bin' and wright meaning 'maker, craftsman'.

Ja ne, Minna-san!

~Happy Camper27