A Different Kind of War

By: Ajjaxx

The world was seldom just; few people knew this better than Harry Potter.
He returns to Hogwarts for his sixth year, a mentor withers, a darkness rises
and at the centre of it all, an engaged witch. Harry must reconcile the
demands of the war while the weight of an unfair world bears down upon
him.

Status: abandoned

Published: 2020-07-05

Updated: 2021-10-16

Words: 234093

Chapters: 22

Rated: Fiction M - Language: English - Genre: Romance/Drama -

Characters: [Harry P., Fleur D.] Albus D. - Reviews: 487 - Favs: 1,222 -
Follows: 1,599

Original source: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13634783/1/A-Different-

Kind-of-War

Exported with the assistance of FicHub.net

A Different Kind of War
Introduction
Newfound Beauty
Tentative Alliances
Of Counsel Unheeded
Hard Truths
Fleeting Normalcy
Of Blood and Wine
Innocence Burning
The Tempest
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Darkness Arising
Of Socialites and Sorrows
The Longest Night
Visions and Vows
For These Hearts Awakened
A War Within
Dead Ink
Old Wounds
Survival Misnomer
Casual Affair
The Curse
Moral Imperative
Dancing Infinities
Newfound Beauty
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Newfound Beauty

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: This story is a remaster of my first story, under the same name.

I've decided to delete and repost it, to include some of the newer
skills I've accumulated over the months I've been writing. I hope to
craft a better romance, better dialogue and a more complex story.

This story was inspired by Sophrosyne's Half Blood Romantic, which

I can easily cite as one of my all-time favourites. So if you notice
similarities, it was always my intention to pay homage to the fic that
got me into writing.

Be sure to review as it helps me grow as a writer!

Enjoy and stay safe!

Harry Potter dreamt an old dream.

At first, he thought it could have been Sirius.

It was a familiar mirage, bolstered by a voice he once knew, but one
so peripheral he couldn't put a name to the call. He tried to return its
attempts to hail him, though to little avail, his voice stilling as it met
his lips.

Fitful slumber had greeted him like an old friend for an age. Harry
knew well enough it would soon come to a close. Irrespective of the
voice's owner, the ending remained forever the same.

The voice seemed to almost coalesce into something more

discernible, turning decidedly feminine. At first, his mind turned to
thoughts of his mother, of screams and emerald flashes.

"Be quiet! You'll wake him!" A voice whispered harshly, breaking

through the dull mirage of slumber.

"I'm being quieter than you are!" A voice responded to the other, a
more masculine tone who despite his saying otherwise, was quite
loud.

"You're going to wake him if you keep it up!" A third voice interjected.
"Now shut up!"

"Too late." A groggy Harry replied quietly, seeing a trio of blurred

figures surrounding him.

"Harry!" The three voices cried in an ill-imitation of unison that only

served to disorientate him further as he tried to emerge from his
state of slumber.

There was a brief moment of disorientation before the familiarities of

his surroundings became apparent. The smell of bacon and
breakfast heavy in the air, the warm sunlight peeking brightly through
threadbare curtains and the dull background noise of high-octane
family life.

He really did love the Burrow.

He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, pushing them on
his face. Ron, Ginny and Hermione sat at the end of the bed. He
barely had enough time to ensure his glasses sat properly before his
vision was obfuscated by a curtain of brown hair, then replaced by a
similar curtain of red then finally, a rough pat on his shoulder.

"So, why are you all waiting at the end of my bed?" He asked
concerned as. "Isn't there, you know, something better to be doing?"

"We're not so much waiting for you," Ginny explained with darkened
features, "More like getting out from under the thumb of Phlegm. "
Ginny spat the final word with enough vitriol that had Harry reeling in
confusion.

Phlegm? Harry wondered as that word seemed to be an agitator that

launched the trio into bickering.

"She's not that bad." Ron defended whoever ' Phlegm' was with a
fair amount of vehemence, "You haven't given her a chance!"

"You're telling me you've given her a chance beyond staring?" Ginny

snorted "You're only defending her because she's gorgeous, and you
drool all over her!" The ginger-haired girl bit back angrily.

"I do not drool!" Ron refuted, "Now you're just being a prat for the
sake of it."

"You do so!"

"There was a bit of drool," Hermione confirmed with a nod of her

head.

"Who's Phlegm?" Harry tried to ask but was drowned out. It seemed
they'd all but forgotten about him, united together and against one
another in their hatred.

Not the warmest welcome I've ever received.

They didn't answer him, but a low whine from the floorboards in the
hallway seemed to draw them from their argument.

"Here we go." Ginny sighed, exhaling a sharp, hot breath from her
nose in what he could only assume was anger.

A knock at the door broke them from their argument entirely.

"'Harry?" An accented voice called out inquisitively.

Another familiar voice.

Ginny turned red as the person entered the doorway. To put it simply,
she was the most beautiful woman Harry had ever seen.

And he had seen her many times before.

It was Fleur Delacour.

Her angelic features were accentuated by her silver hair being put in
a bun, with two elegant wisps framing her face and the room seemed
almost airless by her entering it. She peered at him through ocean
blue eyes inquisitively and whether, by virtue of her beauty or her
sudden appearance, he found he couldn't formulate a sentence to
greet her. An action that did not go unnoticed by Ginny nor
Hermione.

She glided over, with a tray of breakfast in hand, before floating it

over to Harry's prone form in the bed.

"Fleur?" Harry said bewildered, finally managing to convert his shock

to words, "What are you doing here?"

"Why delivering your breakfast, of course. Unless, of course, you

believe a Veela would be in your room for another reason, no?" She
teased, arching an elegant eyebrow in faux-suggestion.

Fleur's sudden appearance seemed to make Ginny turn a darker

shade of red in her anger, her fist clutching the comforter that Harry
was under tightly. Which may have gone unnoticed by Harry if his leg
wasn't in her clutches alongside the quilt.

"We were having a private conversation Fleur," Ginny said unkindly,

though it did not appear that she was perturbed by Ginny's harsh
tone, merely offering a smile in return. "We'd very much like if you
left us for the moment."

"Very well." She said politely, with an undertone of something akin to

a terseness of her own, "I see where I am not required." She turned
to Harry. "It was great to see you again, Harry, I hope we can catch
up more, enjoy your breakfast." She closed the door quietly behind
her and left, her descent audible as her feet collided with squeaky
floorboards.

"See she just barges in here." Ginny snarled. "Doesn't even knock,
we could've been talking about anything!"

"She did knock!" Ron continued, taking the position of Fleur's only
defender in earnest.

"No, she didn't!" Ginny retorted hotly, "Stop defending her!"

"I don't know why you seem so bloody intent on hating her, she's
perfectly fine!"

"I suppose it helps when you imagine her naked every time!" Ginny
spat. Ron blushed a bright crimson at the accusation, making Harry
think the jab wasn't all that far from the truth.

"Ron, she's vain and cruel," Hermione added into the mix in Ginny's
support.

That was enough to confuse Harry. Ginny had, for as long as he'd
known her, always been passionate and hotheaded, a trait that
seemed to be uniquely Weasley if Ron was any barometer. But
Hermione was more reserved, less prone to making her feelings
known. Fleur must've done something to offend her. Though her
support of Ginny seemed to still the argument, now it was just a
tentative detente between the trio as they stared at each other.

"She's not that bad." Harry tried, "Go easy on her."

Ron gestured a hand towards him. "See, even Harry agrees."

"He doesn't know her." Ginny refuted, "He hasn't seen what she's
like."

I do, He wanted to say, I have. But the words stilled on his lips,
neither Ginny nor Hermione looked particularly amicable to listen to
anything he had to say.

Reason can't reach a heart unwilling, I suppose

Hermione put a hand on her hip and stared intently at Ron. "What
about when she hexed George?"

"They made the showerhead spray mud." The ginger-haired boy

deadpanned.

Hermione made to speak but was cut off by Ginny, who seemed in
fine form to spout her hatred.

"And she got them so good that they couldn't walk straight for two
hours afterwards. Your own brothers."

What is going on?

"If I could hex them that good, I would." Ron pointed out, "You would
do the same too."

"They're my brothers." She scoffed but said no more.

"You stuffed their pillows with sheep shit when you were nine."

She waved her hand as if his point didn't count, "I had my reasons."
"What did you call her breakfast the other day? Trollop?"

I'm sure she says far worse outside of breakfast. Whatever could be
said about Ginny Weasley, none could say her temper wasn't
dangerous.

Ginny made to retort yet again, the argument had quickly devolved
into solely Ron and Ginny trading age-old blows. As good as Ron
and Hermione were at arguing, the youngest two Weasleys always
had a penchant for it. This time, Hermione cut Ginny off in a rare
display for the morning.

"Anyway," Hermione broke through the tension, "How'd it go with the

Headmaster? Mrs Weasley said you came in with him late last
night."

Harry took a moment to weigh his response, it was made amply

clear to him last night the importance of discretion, but he supposed
if he obliged them a little they'd be less inclined to think he was
hiding something.

"He wanted my help, he needed to interview a candidate for a

vacancy at Hogwarts," Harry explained, though wisely decided to
keep the more delicate details out of his explanation.

"Why'd he need you?" Ron queried bluntly, "Don't get me wrong,

mate, you're good and all, but I don't see you being much help
there."

"I wasn't really," Harry admitted candidly, exacerbated by a shrug.

"But Professor Dumbledore said he knew my parents, he thought
that if the Professor met me, he might want to start teaching again."

"Again?" Hermione interjected this time, "He's taught before, at

Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, that's the impression I got," Harry said, turning his attention to
the girl who looked eager at the knowledge. "Taught for a good while
too by the looks of him."

"What was his name?" Hermione probed eagerly.

"Slughorn, I think." He said, trying to recall the name of the portly

man although quite a bit had happened since then. "He was older, a
bit uh… plump too."

"Doesn't sound familiar," Ron said although he doubted Ron would

know him even if he was famous. His knowledge rarely strayed
outside of the pages of Quidditch Weekly and the Prophet.

If it isn't Gwenog Jones or the Chudley Cannons, we've lost him .

"If he hasn't got silver hair and an arse, Ron won't care enough to
know it." Ginny spat and abruptly left, clearly the conversation didn't
interest her any longer.

"Merlin," Ron swore, "When will she give up?"

Harry might've had an answer, had he truly known what was actually
going on. Instead, he thought it best to escape the situation entirely.

Harry swung his legs out of bed, careful not to kick any of his bed's
sudden occupants or disturb the tray that sat with him. "Well if you're
done bickering and digging into my life, I'd prefer to eat downstairs."

Harry was too tired to change the night before, so he supposed his
clothes would have to suffice for the moment. They made their way
down the stairs, gingerly in Harry's case with the tray in hand.

They made their way into the kitchen where the other plates had
been set. Mr Weasley had to go to work, so the only other occupants
were Fleur, who was gingerly sipping her tea and Mrs Weasley, who
was weaving charms to clean her pots and pans.

"Hello again, Harry," The French witch said, looking up from her
steaming cup.
"Hey, Fleur." He greeted, this time more prepared for her presence
and this time, he did not fail to structure his sentence. Though he
could hear a 'harrumph' from what he assumed was Ginny to the
rear at his friendly greeting.

"So what are you doing at the Burrow?" He thought it might make
more sense to ask her, rather than Ron, Ginny or Hermione, who all
seemed fairly staunch in their defence or contempt of the French
witch.

"I thought they would've told you?" She seemed, if nothing else,
offended. "I've been engaged to Bill for some months now. I'm
staying to acclimate to my new family." She added with an odd
undertone, one that may have implied she had more wicked
thoughts about her new family.

"Your English has improved," Harry commented offhandedly.

"Thank you, Harry," She said sincerely, though unable to pronounce

his name with a fluidity that would suggest that English was her first
language, "My job demanded such of me, it's good to hear I wasn't
remiss in my effort."

"Job?" He probed, "Last I heard you were working for Gringotts."

"Fleur was forced to quit her job at Gringotts because of her

relationship with Bill." Ginny was quick to chime in before the Veela
could respond, though she seemed to feign innocence on the matter.
Still, her facade seemed weak if nothing else, there was certainly
more than a bit of vitriol in her words.

"Not forced, per se," Fleur refuted, annoyance marring her angelic
features, "But Goblin's don't look favourably upon my kind, to begin
with. They also see relationships between employees as a security
hazard, one they seldom allow. I decided to take my leave before
anything untoward happened." She said like she'd explained it a
thousand times.
Ginny smirked viciously, knowing that she had irked Fleur
successfully. It seemed there was a gap in the armour plates of Fleur
Delacour, one that Ginny appeared to have located and had taken
much pleasure in stabbing into it. The rest of the tables' occupants
chose wisely to avoid the tension between the two.

Harry began to eat his breakfast, as did the rest of those sitting at
the table. "So what are you going to do now?" Harry asked after
swallowing a mouthful of bacon. "Have you got a plan for work in
England?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," She professed, it appeared it was her

chance to return the vicious smile that was levelled at her not too
long ago. "Headmaster Dumbledore has offered me a post at
Hogwarts."

"Really?" Harry said incredulously, not that he had anything against

Fleur, but she seemed rather young to become a Professor. "I didn't
know there were any vacancies that you could fill."

From the look on her face, she appeared to take umbrage at the
insinuation that she wasn't capable, as unfound as the implication
was. Her lips shifted to one side in a sort of frown.

"I can't go into too many details," She began, "But suffice to say, with
your Dark Lord returning the Headmaster fears that with the number
of impressionable students within the walls of Hogwarts, that there
might be attempts to infiltrate the castle to attack or coax the
inhabitants from the walls."

"So you're… helping Dumbledore to stop that?" He asked, confused

at what she was implying.

"Not him personally," She shook her head, "The wards cover too
much ground for him to act as a surveyor of them constantly, that's
where my role lies, I shall endeavour to ensure the integrity of the
wards around Hogwarts and update them where possible."
"You know a lot about wards then, I take it?" Harry questioned,
wanting to confess that he'd had a lesson about wards himself from
the man in question.

"In my humble opinion," She began, although it was made

abundantly clear quickly that it was anything but, "I'd say I know
more about wards then many of the Curse Breakers at Gringotts."

Harry was starting to reply but was cut off from a snort by Ginny, who
tried very poorly to disguise it as an odd-sounding cough.

"I guess it was an easy choice then," Harry said neutrally, not really
wanting to play into Fleur's ego.

"I suppose so," She replied with equal neutrality, "He thought I was
better suited in helping where it counted, as opposed to wasting
away in the Deserts of Egypt and the wetlands of Asia under the
scornful gaze of spiteful creatures." She finished angrily, and it
became clear that whatever validation she assured herself of during
the conversation was irrevocably destroyed at the mention of
Goblins who by her indication, weren't very good to her.

Sensing she wasn't exactly amicable about the topic, he let it drop
for fear of angering her more. They returned to eating though Harry
could still see Fleur's mere presence enraged Ginny.

Harry returned to his breakfast as the conversation tapered off into a

disquieting silence and soon descended further into poorly
concealed glares. Thankfully, whatever hostilities may have arisen
from the Burrow's occupants were halted as the fluttering of wings,
and loud hooting was heard from outside the window.

There was a flock of owls, ranging from brown to snow-white like

Hedwig flying directly into the Burrow.

"That's a lot of owls," Ron commented offhandedly, chewing carefully

on a piece of bacon he'd liberated from Harry's plate. "You order
something, mum?"
"No, why's that?" The Weasley matriarch asked from her position at
the counter, she peered her head around the corner and took notice
of the flock of mail-carrying birds. "OWLs."

Ron didn't seem to get it. "Well, of course, they're owls, what other
bird carries mail?"

Harry quickly chimed in. "I've seen a toucan do it once."

"Bet that was good."

Hermione huffed, getting panicked. "No! Our tests! What if I've

failed? I knew I didn't write enough on the History of Magic exam, I
might've got one of Gamp's laws wrong too."

Her worrying had a profound effect on the other two. "Blimey

Hermione," Ron exclaimed. "Have some mercy on a bloke, if you
failed, how do you think we went?" He said gesturing between
himself and Harry.

"Sod off git, I passed everything, even Divination," Harry said with an
air of confidence that made Ron chuckle. Harry would be lying if he
said the anxiety of his marks wasn't gnawing at his stomach, but he
certainly masked it better than Hermione.

Hermione continued her frantic dialogue "I'm sure History of Magic

will go over well."

"Was Omgot's Rebellion in 1312 or 1322?"

"1312." Harry decided.

"Well," Ron said with a decidedly jovial tone, "I thought it was 1444,
so that might not help my essay."

"It was 1235," Hermione corrected absentmindedly, still watching as

the owls became larger in the sky.

" Shite," Harry swore under his breath and Ron snorted.
I suppose we're in the same boat now.

Though Harry wasn't too anxious about his marks, there was a
remnant of fear that lingered in the back of his mind, a concern yet to
be lain to rest that seemed almost mocking. The harsh crooning of
owls, talons laden with letters, flying through the window did little the
assuage his fears.

The owls deposited their contents after their descent through the
open window, Molly caught them and began distributing them to the
children. The other two were noticeably apprehensive about opening
theirs, Harry resolved that he'd take the leap first, deciding it could
hardly be worse than what was to come.

But, while there were three Ministry bearing letters that fell into Mrs
Weasley's hand, there were also quite a few that didn't carry their
seal. Instead, a bunch of motley coloured enveloped with a variety of
neat and messy scrawls. Hermione shot him an inquisitive glance,
although he didn't want to open them at the table, unsure of what
they may contain.

He broke the Ministry of Magic seal on the back and peeled the
parchment out of confines.

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS

Passing Grade | Failing Grades

Outstanding ( O ) Poor ( P )

Exceeds Expectations ( E ) Dreadful ( D )

Acceptable ( A ) Troll ( T )

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy A

Care of Magical Creatures E

Charms O

Defense Against the Dark Arts O

Divination D

Herbology A

History of Magic D

Potions E

Transfiguration O

Seven O.W.L's.

The marks were more than ample, thoroughly surprising Harry as he

reread the words on the page to ensure he had not deceived him so.
While Ron and Hermione continued their own frantic observations of
their year's work, his eyes lingered towards the bottom of the page.

Potions E

I've failed .

He knew the implications of not receiving an outstanding well

enough, the same concern that refused to be stifled was given new
life. Sulking on matters so trivial as school marks made him feel like
a child, and yet, Hermione's own tirade of school marks and studying
felt unbearable. With a muttered excuse he found his feet dragging
him up the staircase with soft footfalls.

An action that went unnoticed in the haze of future prospects - to all

but one.

Harry found his way to the room and sat carelessly against the bed,
as if the strength had been sapped from him. He'd always wanted to
be an Auror, and now due to Snape's draconian demands, his dream
had been slashed before it could even begin. It left him inexplicably
empty. Part of him simply just wanted the job to strengthen the
connection between him and his father, who Sirius had told him
wanted to be an Auror himself.

Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. Harry assured himself lightly, though

the pain that lingered within his breast wouldn't be abated by words
alone.

He gently folded his scores back into the envelope they arrived in
and fished one of the other letters from the pile he'd accumulated,
there was maybe ten in total, this one was a light brown and was
scribbled with a shaky scrawl on the front.

Harry Potter

The Boy Who Lived

That's not necessarily a good start, He mused, before breaking the

adhesive seal on the back and fishing out the piece of parchment.

Harry Potter,

I lost my husband in the First War and you ended that one. Now, my
children grow up with the Dark Lord as a threat again.

You're the chosen one, you have to kill him,

Please.

It was succinct, blunt and unsigned. Harry peered over the ink once
more before putting the parchment down and sighing. He didn't want
to open the following letters, but it was almost like a grim
compulsion, he broke the seal of each letter and read the contents
carefully, hoping it would only be a one-off.

Some demanded that he give his life to destroy the Dark Lord, others
were more passive, thanking him for defeating him the first time but
quite firmly relying on him that it was his job to do it again. With each
seal he opened and every letter he read found the weight on his
shoulders growing heavier and the tickling sensation in his throat
growing stronger.

The wards of Privet Drive seemed to be enough to drive away from

the owls, but now, they swarmed. He supposed, at the very least, it
was somewhat better than the waves of state-sponsored
propaganda and contempt from last year, but not by much.

"Results that bad Harry?" A voice called from the door. The beautiful
visage of Fleur Delacour peered down at him as she floated in the
room. He was quick to act and shoved the pile of letters beneath his
pillow as inconspicuously as possible. An action that didn't go
unnoticed by the French witch and caused a fair amount of sound,
she frowned but didn't draw any further attention to it.

"No.." He said, cursing himself, he really was a neophyte at lying and

it was clear she thought similar. "Nothing really."

"What's wrong then?" She questioned, taking a seat beside Harry on

the bed.

"I just didn't get the grade I needed," Harry said succinctly, though
that certainly was the lesser of his worries at the moment. "Silly of
me really, there's a war going on and all."

"It's not silly." Fleur assured him, "Not if you cared about it."

He merely remained silent.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" Fleur prompted, taking his
silence as challengable reluctance.

He weighed the benefits of keeping his silence, but in the end, her
scrutiny seemed too much and he acquiesced.

"I…" He struggled to find eloquent words, "I wanted to be an Auror,

you see, but with these." He waved the letter that seemed heavier
than it had any right to be, "I didn't make the cut."
"You failed?" She guessed.

"I got our second-highest mark; Exceeds Expectations," Harry

explained.

"It's not the result you hoped for, I take it?"

"Without an Outstanding, Snape won't allow me to continue potions."

Harry continued, "Without potions, I can't meet the requirements to
become an Auror."

"Does becoming an Auror mean that much to you?" Fleur posed, her
head cocked to the side, her eyes glimmering with query in the
sunlight.

Does it? Harry wondered.

His introspection yielded little and in return, Harry merely shrugged.

"My Godfather told me it was a family tradition," Harry said, "Maybe I

just wanted to be closer to them and help some people along the
way - as I said, it's silly."

"My Papa desperately wanted to be an artist before he found his

job." Fleur began, a story with the intent to ease his woes. "The only
bump in his plan is that he could not paint at all. You could throw the
easel at the canvas and you'd have a better painting. So he pursued
a different passion and he wouldn't change it for the world. He
always told me that sometimes, different paths often lead to the
same destination, maybe it'll take time but I'm sure you'll find that
path."

This seemed to lift Harry's spirit a little bit. "Thank you Fleur, that
means a lot to me."

"They'd be a fool if they didn't take you regardless, you've

accomplished feats that Wizards thrice your age couldn't boast. You
were an admirable competitor." Fleur stood up from the bed, offering
her hand to him. He took it, noticing absentmindedly how impossibly
soft they were and she helped him to get up.

This truly wasn't the Fleur he remembered.

He'd seen more of what he initially thought would be typical of the

French witch at the Weasley's table. Egotistical and haughty and yet,
here she was, comforting someone who she barely had interacted
with prior. Perhaps saving her sister and winning the tournament was
enough to garner the respect of the witch.

Or perhaps, he thought, she's grown up.

"While imparting some of my sage wisdom is a benefit of my

presence, that's not why I'm here."

"The calling of a higher purpose I suppose?" Harry jested.

"Hardly." She snorted, "Your book lists came soon after your results
and Molly wishes to visit the Alley quickly. Apparently, there are fears
that Diagon Alley might become too unsafe to visit soon."

"Thanks, I'll be down in a second," Harry confirmed, as she walked

from the room. He stood from the bed and sent a sideways glance to
the conspicuous lump the letters formed in the pillow above them.

He gathered some clean clothes before ducking in for a quick

shower. He came down the stairs a few minutes later, wand in his
pocket and feeling somewhat refreshed. It was a lot cooler at the
Burrow then it was at Surrey, another reason to detest the latter and
praise the former.

Mrs Weasley was dispensing floo powder to everyone present, she

gave Harry a pinch. "I hope you don't mind dear, Professor
Dumbledore gave Bill a copy of your key so he could withdraw some
money for you. People are losing confidence in Gringotts you see,
quick to jump ship."
"Not at all, Mrs Weasley." He flashed her a reassuring smile. He took
his position as second after Fleur. When it was his turn he stepped
up to the mark, throwing the powder at his feet and yelling.

"Diagon Alley!"

His eyes glowed with emerald flames that rose from the fireplace,
suffocating pressure followed before he spiralled upwards.

Harry took a running step from the floo, stumbling as his feet hit the
hard ground of the Leaky Cauldron. He took a moment to observe
his surroundings. He could seldom remember a time where the
popular and boisterous pub was this desolate. The lack of people
caught him off guard, enough so that he forgot to move from the
space he currently occupied, Ron, who came out of the Floo next
had no way to halt his advance, crashing into Harry and knocking
them both to the ground.

Ron groaned while rolling around, "Blimey mate, could've done the
decent thing and move out of the way." He croaked, nursing his sore
elbow.

In the process of the pair rising, the remainder of their entourage

made their way through the Floo network, most wore bemused
smiles until Mrs Weasley made her way through last. She took one
look at the prone pair before launching into harsh whispers, careful
not to interrupt the few people in the pub.

"Boys!" She whispered hoarsely "Get up, quickly now!"

Her wish was soon granted as the pair finished dusting off their
clothes to the few amused patrons before setting off to the rear of
the pub.

On their trek there, they crossed the bar. Tom, the bartender, looked
as old as ever, his cheeks had hollowed out and his friendly
demeanour was shedded. He locked eyes with Harry for a moment
hopeful for conversation as they passed the bar. Knowing it was
unlikely, he offered a small smile but nothing else. Harry was used to
a cacophony of mixed greetings and cheers from patrons drunk and
sober alike. But the sudden silence spoke volumes about the psyche
of Wizarding Britain. It had shifted polarity in an instance, from
raucous cries that the Dark Lord's return was nonsense to a grim
realisation of the dangers ahead.

Once they made it to the rear of the building, Mrs Weasley drew her
wand. Tapping the predetermined series on the bricks before

Not unlike the pub, the Alley was as desolate as he'd ever seen it.
Many shops had forgone their storefronts; instead, they boarded
windows and nailed 'CLOSED' signs to the door.

Glittering shopfronts displaying spell books, potion ingredients and

cauldrons were abandoned in favour of towering, sombre signs filled
with security advice from the Ministry of Magic. The facade of hope
really did die a quick death after Voldemort's return was formally
announced, one needn't look any further than Diagon Alley for
evidence of that.

The Weasleys, Hermione, Harry and Fleur walked the length of the
Alley in silence. Too busy taking in the solemn scenery to engage in
idle chatter. Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour had been
boarded up, even Ollivander had abandoned his shop. Poorly made
wooden stalls lined some of the newly made vacancies, he could
hear the calls from the Leaky Cauldron.

' Chimaera Heartstring, twelve sickles an ounce!' A gnarled woman

yelled, ' Dragon caviar, clams and cockles!' Another cried, their
voices illuminating the surprisingly dull alley.

Halfway down the length of the Alley, Molly called the party to halt.
"Alright," she called quietly, "We need to be quick here. We need to
wait for Bill to finish retrieving Harry's money. Once we have that, we
can head to buy new robes and books. Once we've got-"
"Molly," Fleur interjected to the Weasley Matriarch's evident dismay,
"Why don't I escort Harry to Gringotts? That way you can start your
shopping while we wait for Bill."

"I'm not too sure about tha-" Molly began again to get cut off by Fleur
again.

"We're both Triwizard Competitors and more than capable, we shall

be fine. We'll be much quicker this way." She said, "The less time we
spend here the better, no?"

Harry remained silent for fear of garnering the anger of one side or
the other, though the pair seemed to be staring at each other intently.
Fleur's tone seemed to allow no room for resistance, yet Mrs
Weasley wasn't cowed so easily.

Mrs Weasley seemed to mull over the words, clearly in search of any
excuse, any glaring flaw to deny her request. Eventually, she was
forced to acquiesce when she clearly couldn't find any apparent
reason to stop them from going."

"Fine." She said somewhat reluctantly, "But be back here quickly."

Fleur dashed a dazzling smile that signified her victory before Molly
ushered the others to Flourish and Blotts, Fleur looked at Harry
before walking off towards Gringotts.

Harry had to take a few quick steps to catch up before the two of
them made their way through the sparsely populated Alley. Through
their journey, they passed a seedy-looking man trying to sell some
product or another, above him was a derelict sign that read,

AMULETS FOR SALE

EFFECTIVE AGAINST DEMENTORS, INFERI AND

WEREWOLVES.

When Fleur walked past he leered at her hungrily.

"An amulet for you madam?" He called lecherously to her, "To
protect your pretty neck from danger?"

Harry felt a bubble of rage form within him. People were more
concerned about profiting on the war with false trinkets than helping
others, greed was all too common in magical Britain it seemed. The
man continued to leer at them as Harry peered at his haphazard
stall, his display of wares displayed brightly, as if there was
something to be proud about.

Fleur merely ignored him with nary a second glance but looked back
to Harry to ensure he was still with her.

"So, how are you faring with the Weasleys?" He asked lightly, an
attempt to break through the monotonous silence of their journey to
Gringotts.

"Would you like the truth?" Fleur asked, now facing ahead once
more.

"Why would you lie?" Harry's brow furrowed.

Fleur snorted in response, "They hate me." She said succinctly.

"No, they do-" Harry began, but didn't get far.

Fleur laughed bitterly. "You need not lie, Harry, I'm not a child to be
coddled."

"I'm not sure they hate you," Harry tried to amend his statement
neutrally, "Do you know why they feel so strongly about you?"

"Could you care to wager?" She said sourly, "Ginerva and Molly hate
me for similar reasons. I'm taking away their favourite brother and
their firstborn son, they think I've enchanted him rather than form any
connection with them. I expected them to dislike me at first sight, but
I was blindsided by their contempt." She flashed Harry a sly smile,
"Though, I could think of a few reasons Ginerva has gotten so
enthusiastic in her efforts to slight me."

Harry sent her a questioning look, she merely shook her head as if
the situation amused her.

"So, Hermione dislikes you too, I take it?" Harry queried, despite
having seen evidence of such only that morning.

"She was explaining some Charms theory to Ronald, homework

maybe. As my area of expertise, I merely corrected some of her
statements and she took umbrage to my assistance. Her disbelief
was evident, so I allowed her a glimpse of firsthand evidence of my
claim."

"Is it possible you may have… you know, been a bit impolite in your
explanation?" He tried to be diplomatic for the sake of remaining
impartial. He'd known Fleur for the latter half of their fourth year,
though she'd almost certainly grown with time as he'd already seen,
the witch that once was no doubt lingered beneath the surface.

Fleur pondered for a brief moment as they approached Gringotts,

"It's a possibility, but my intention was only to assist - not slight. If
she misconstrued such as an attack on her intelligence, perhaps she
truly is petty."

"Hermione has always been sensitive about her intelligence." He

admitted candidly, "I imagine she thought you were rude to her.
She's great though, I think you'd like her quite a bit."

He could see the similarities between the pair. But whereas

Hermione gathers knowledge for the sake of having it, Fleur hoarded
knowledge to keep an edge. To form another witty comment or
deduction. Both had an incredible grasp over magical theory, Harry
thought they were more similar than either cared to admit.

"Perhaps, still she strikes me as the fickle sort. She's passionate

about her studies, that much cannot be denied. But she learns for
the sake of validation as if by being the smartest of her age, she is
finally complete. I know the type, they'll remain by your side until you
exceed them. To them, knowledge is power. When deprived of what
they hold so dear - their superiority, they'll flee for safer ground."

Harry couldn't help but let anger seep into his voice at Fleur's
insinuation. "I don't know where your sudden in-depth analysis of my
friends has emerged from, but don't you think maybe you're allowing
your own experiences cloud your judgement?"

Fleur did not look amused, she shot Harry a condescending look.
"Don't be naive - don't tell me you don't know what that's like. To be
shunned for being better? I don't intend to make her seem a monster
in your eyes, but I think you know precisely what I mean. Errant
glares and hushed whispers, the scrutiny of your achievements?"

And to Harry's chagrin, he did know what she spoke of well enough.

Though he had seen how Fleur acted too, saw her interact with her
fellow delegates during his fourth year. Despite her sayings
otherwise, Harry truly did think he was tarring Hermione with a brush
she was experienced in wielding.

"Knowledge is powerful, though only when wielded correctly." Fleur

finished, "It's not a tool for validation."

Oddly enough, Harry seemed to think Fleur had been guilty of that
vice more than once.

Harry was desperate to deviate from the current line of questioning.

"Don't you think there's a simplicity to it? Some beauty from knowing
about the world around you? That there might be something more to
knowledge than its use?"

She pondered it, if only for a split second. "Knowledge only has
value in its applicability. Is there a use for learning four spells that
enact the exact same reaction when only one is needed? Idle praise
for having a wealth of useless knowledge is no true praise, I'd much
rather know what needs to be known, rather than learn it all."

Harry reiterated his prior point. "But isn't there an aspect of beauty in
being able to understand what's around you? Can't you appreciate
the simplicity of just, I don't know… knowing something solely
because it's interesting?"

"Does beauty not always serve some purpose?" She retorted,

though didn't bother making eye contact with him.

"Not always."

She hasn't got less vain.

Fleur gave an offhand murmur of disagreement before they entered

Gringotts. The security presence was overwhelming, armoured
goblins carrying an array of weapons. They patrolled the atrium in
burnished bronze armour, pushing through the crowd and searching
random customers. It appeared the Goblins were undoubtedly taking
the threat seriously.

Bill was waiting off in the corner, discussing something with a goblin,
adorned in shining green armour that stood out in the sea of copper
and brown. Once he noticed Fleur out of the corner of his eye, he
made a quick excuse before dashing over and kissing her.

He reached behind him and pulled out a bag of galleons. "There you
are Harry," he said passing the bag over, "It's taking hours for people
to receive their money. People are losing confidence in the bank.
Thankfully, the Goblin who runs the carts was interested in
something we found in Egypt. It was far easier this way."

Bill turned around, his ponytail swinging behind him, across the bank
was a wizard getting particularly rowdy with the Goblin Teller, Bill
turned back looking apologetic.
"I've got to deal with this." Bill explained. "The Goblin's have been
charging exorbitant

Bill gave Fleur another kiss before flashing Harry a quick smile.

With the brief conversation and display of affection finished, they

promptly left the bank. Burnished bronze doors parting for them as
they made their exit, flanked by another series of resplendently
armoured goblins guarding the entrance with a keen eye.

Harry turned to Fleur as their feet returned to the paved cobbles of

Diagon Alley. "You know, I've never really talked to Bill much."

"He's always liked you. You saved Ginevra that alone is enough. But
he admires those that are skilled. Coming from such a home, he
values the depth of one's abilities greatly over status. He once
confessed to me he was surprised you were friends with the Twin's
and Ron."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I suppose you'll have to ask him at some point, won't you?" She
said non-committedly. "I imagine you'll get time to talk to him in the
near future."

When they exited the bank, the Alley had filled out a bit more but
nothing compared to what it once was, they hadn't made it far from
Gringotts before they ran into a duo Harry sorely hoped he wouldn't
see again.

Draco and Narcissa Malfoy.

"Ah, Potter!" Draco said snidely, looking at Fleur. "Upgraded since

your hound got put down? Replaced him with a filthy half breed,
though a sight better than degenerate Lupin at least."

Just my luck.
Harry's hand twitched to his wand, the action didn't go unnoticed by
Narcissa.

"Mister Potter, who'd of thought that you'd stray so far from

Dumbledore's protection? What, with the dire outcome of your last
outing, I'd have imagined you have learnt the value of not leaving his
sight." She enunciated each syllable with a faux-politeness,
highlighted by a sickly sweet smile that made him feel rotten.

That same rudimentary Occlumency he'd picked up from his lessons

with Snape hadn't been exercised enough to temper a full rage only
ever the beginnings of his anger which had long since passed. The
mental exercises, the calming techniques and even the breathing
patterns had been forgone in favour of a simmering rage that built
within his core.

Harry searched around mockingly, "It doesn't appear Dumbledore is

here, so why don't you try something, Malfoy?" He spat and for just a
moment, Draco looked like he might. A brief flash of courage
flickered across grey eyes and his face bristled, muscles clenching in
his jaw.

He could get revenge for his father if he tried, Harry thought, it did
not seem a stretch to assume like a spell was soon to come.

"I dare you Malfoy." Harry taunted, sending his name from his lips,
coated with vitriol. "Give me just one reason to stick you next to that
bastard father of yours in Azkaban."

That was all the provocation Draco needed, the straw that finally
broke the camel's back. Draco's hand flew to his Hawthorn wand,
drawing it from the pocket of his robes. Narcissa, to her credit,
foresaw the outcome of such a showing and reached to still Draco's
arm mid-draw.

Fleur, however, had been quicker than the lot. Her wand was raised
and the tip dug into the meat of Draco's cheek - if his Mother's
cautious arm had not been deterrent enough, the wand tip that dug
into the meat of his cheek clearly was.

"Need a bodyguard Potter?" Draco spat, cocking his head to relieve

some of the pressure of the rosewood shaft that had found a home
levelled at his face. "Have you told her what happened to the last
one?"

Fleur pushed her wand into his cheek as a response. The same
glimmer of courage was replaced with apprehension and Harry felt
emboldened for having seen it.

Harry knew within himself he was searching for an excuse to strike -

to lash out at anyone who he thought deserved it.

That was a thought that scared him more than he cared to admit.

"Not just a pretty face, no?" Fleur said with an artificial cheeriness,
though Harry didn't think the 'Half Breed' comment slipped her
notice.

"Come Draco," His mother urged her eyes widening slightly at the
drawn wands, "I imagine Potter shall be seeing his godfather far
sooner then I'll be seeing your father." The pair began to retreat
towards the bank, walking backwards slowly, not taking their eyes off
the pair. Once they'd walked what they deemed a suitable distance,
Narcissa shot a final glare before turning her back.

Harry was about to call at their backs but Narcissa stopped and beat
him to it.

She turned around, pretending to straighten ruffled robes, "Oh,

Mister Potter, I shouldn't forget. My sister told me to send her
regards alongside an apology, she couldn't be here herself although
she so desperately wanted to."

"Tell her to send them in person." He bit back, his anger growing.
"I'm sure I could see her along."
She gave a short, grating laugh, almost reminiscent of one he heard
all those nights ago. "Oh, I imagine you'll be seeing her soon
enough."

Harry fought within himself not to curse her, Fleur saw his internal
conflict and placed a hand on his, pushing his wand down. It took a
moment for him to calm himself as he watched their figures grow
smaller. He gave Fleur a brief look before stowing his wand away in
his robe pocket with more force than strictly necessary.

They stayed there for a moment, silent, before Fleur's curiosity got
the better of her.

"I was unaware there was such animosity between you and your
schoolmates?"

"There's not. Not really, anyway, just a choice few." Harry said, "I
would have thought Bill would mention it, the papers wouldn't stop
talking about it."

"Bill rarely discusses anything about his 'second job'." She said,
being unable to stop what he presumed was disdain from leaking
into her voice. "Though if you're talking about the media's view on
the Ministry, you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who hasn't heard
about it."

She looked unsure when she discussed his involvement in the

Order. It was easily caught on a face that's features were always
confident, at least as long as he'd known her.

"Our raid on the Ministry got his father caught, that much was in the
Daily Prophet. The fact that he and the rest of the inner circle failed
against school kids? That'll warrant punishment from Voldemort I'd
reckon. They want their revenge. All of them." He explained, "That
means their kids will want revenge as much as them. They think that
maybe by hurting me, Voldemort might go easy on their parents.
They'll get in groups when they think they're hard enough to have a
crack, it's not the first time."
"Here I thought your courting of danger was limited to Dragons,
lakes and mazes."

"Add Pureblood fanaticism, Dark Lords and assorted monsters to

that list."

"Quite a list," She said, "Are you sure you wish to boast?"

"Might look good on a résumé somewhere."

"So assorted monsters?" He turned to look at her, "I gather that

makes for quite a tale."

"All rather boring, honestly."

"I'd still like to hear it."

"Perhaps one day," He said, his voice had an edge he tried to hide,
born from trying not to relive such memories, "But not today."

She looked like she wanted to press for more information but chose
wisely to refrain from pushing the subject.

They began their journey to Madam Malkin's. It seemed odd to try

and start a conversation after the almost violent confrontation just
minutes prior, but Harry thought it was worth a shot irrespective.

"So how is Gabrielle?"

The thought of her little sister brought a smile to her face. "She's still
enamoured with her hero." She broke into a giggle at the memory.
"She still runs about the house some time, pretending to be spirited
away by the handsome Harry Potter."

"I am quite handsome." He agreed but noticed her wistful tone. "I
take it you miss her a lot?"

She smiled wistfully. "It has been some time, I miss her dearly."
"Is she having fun at Beauxbatons?" He asked, merely attempting to
be conversational.

"Hmm," She agreed mischievously, "I must ask Harry, is your interest
in my sister purely conversational or perhaps she has the admirer
and not the inverse?"

"Purely conversational." He agreed quickly, a tint of red-tinged his

cheeks, his anger lost in favour of embarrassment.

"I'll be sure to include that your answer in my next letter, she'll be

delighted, I'm sure."

Harry didn't bother replying, and Fleur merely let out a laugh. It was
the first genuine laugh he'd heard from her, any other time he
might've heard it seemed to pale in comparison. It was melodic, a
sound that pleasantly tickled his ears and seemed to endear him to
the idea of drawing more from the platinum hair woman. He was
unsure of how to respond to the noise, but couldn't help the smile
that automatically crossed his features, even as they crossed the
threshold into Madam Malkin's.

After a rather uneventful series of fittings and floating measuring

tape attacks, Harry had only two destinations: Flourish and Blotts
and Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. After Fleur concluded idly
browsing the assorted fabrics, they moved to the bookstore.

There was no sign of the rest of the Weasleys or Hermione in the

store, Harry deduced they must have already gone to Fred and
George's shop. Harry began to pick up his school books. Fleur
decided she'd need some texts to consult on her work in the wards.

Once Harry had filled his basket, he began browsing the store. There
was little of interest to him, outside of school texts, there wasn't a
whole lot that filled the shelves of Flourish and Blotts, sappy
romance novels and egregious fiction seemed to be the majority of
the product left.
He found Fleur mulling over a pair of books in the corner, they both
looked archaic. Leather tombs with engraved writing on the exterior,
he peered over her shoulder at the title of the one she had decided
to keep.

' Omnibus Protegat '.

Fleur jumped at his presence, she'd been deep in thought. She

sighed before she placed the book back.

She rubbed her face gently. "They've got nothing I need, mostly
school books. Not really spell books for those out of school,
especially the degree of esoterica I'm searching for. Don't they have
anywhere else with books?"

Harry snorted "Nowhere worth looking." He thought briefly of

Obscurus Books, further down the Alley, although if he was critical of
Flourish and Blotts, he'd have to admit, the other store was utterly
useless. Unless of course Fleur was suddenly inclined to purchase
the many works of Newt Scamander and little else. For a shop that
prided themselves on obscurity, they were anything but.

She fell back into her routine of searching through the shelves of
books.

"So Harry, if I'm to improve the wards, I'll need to know some of the
secrets of the castle. I think as a student of Hogwarts and the
second-best Triwizard Competitor, I think you'd be poised to offer me
some invaluable assistance."

Harry had to cock an eyebrow at that one. "Second best? I distinctly

remember a trophy engraved with my name. Or am I
misremembering?" He finished with a cheeky tone.

Fleur gave a short chortle, another melodious sound. "I think you'll
find Monsieur Potter." She mocked, "That I am not the same girl that
fought in that tournament."
Harry caught her eyes for a split second. "Nor am I the same boy."

"No, I very much doubt that you are." She flashed a quick smile, "A
bit taller, perhaps."

She had a point, they were about equal in height where he was quite
a bit shorter than her those years ago. But where he still was
growing, her upwards ascent seemed to have stilled.

"More powerful too." He boasted.

She browsed the store a little more, adding Potent Shields: An Art of
Safeguarding and Defensive Transfiguration, Volume 4 to his basket
as he was relegated to carry the burden. "Some of the wards
surrounding the castle are over a millennia-old, I'll need something a
bit more dated."

They slowly drifted towards the counter, having paid for their
respective orders, they left the shop and began down the Alley.

That was when Harry spotted a most peculiar sight.

Draco Malfoy, sans his mother and looking particularly nervous, was
heading towards the obscured entryway to Knockturn Alley. Things
weren't adding up, Draco wouldn't stray by himself without good
reason. His family wasn't very well-liked and walking lurking around
in the depths of Knockturn Alley was dangerous, even for supporters
of the Dark Lord.

He walked down the street with a facade of confidence that didn't

really hold up against scrutiny. Sometime in the interim, he'd donned
a heavy cloak and kept nonchalantly looking over his shoulder,
though his nonchalance was feigned. His strides were too lengthy,
his walk too quick - he clearly didn't want to be seen. Harry could
make out a dark wand tip peeking from his robes, clearly gripped
tightly. He carried a coin purse in his other, with another cursory
glance over his shoulder, he donned his cloak and disappeared into
the labyrinth of Knockturn Alley.
The sensation returned as it had the night before, although different.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention and his stomach
felt like a large ball of dread had been placed in it. He couldn't
interpret the meaning, he resolved to ask Dumbledore about the
sensation. The strange feeling was disconcerting, he'd never felt like
this.

Everything was telling him to pursue Draco. He went to dart off

before Fleur reached out, grabbing his hand in a tight grip, fearful of
her 'charge' fleeing. She looked at him questioningly, she clearly
hadn't seen him.

"That was Draco Malfoy," He whispered harshly. "Heading to

Knockturn Alley, alone. We need to follow him."

She still wasn't sure, "Why?" she asked succinctly.

"Because Knockturn Alley is a haven for Dark Wizards," He argued,

"If he's venturing there, alone to boot, there's a reason for it."

Fleur had to laugh at that one. "I thought you had more tact, Harry?
He's a child and not a particularly remarkable one at that if my
memory is correct. Chances are he's pawning some object to pay for
his school books if the reports on the Malfoy Family assets being
seized were true."

"He had a coin purse," Harry argued again, "Malfoy isn't stupid
enough to leave without money and if he's going down there, there's
more than a significant chance it's on Voldemort's Orders.

Fleur had enough of dancing around the point. "Say that he is, what
exactly do you think that'll accomplish? You want to barge into an
alley filled with 'Dark Wizards' as you put it. You know if you barge in,
I'll have to follow you. Between a Veela and the 'Chosen One',
neither of us will be able to avoid detection for long. Then wherever
he's going will be on high alert, you'll foil their plans for the day. But
you'll catch no one. They'll conduct their business in future knowing
you're aware of them, it'll be done with greater secrecy and that's
when they get more dangerous. When they must race the clock to
avoid discovery."

"But-" He tried to interject but was quickly cut off with quick words
and a stern glare.

"Put it this way Harry, if Draco Malfoy does have a mission, it'll be at
Hogwarts, under the eye of Dumbledore. Do you really think one of
the most powerful wizards alive wouldn't know of such a threat? But
if you charge in after him, they'll just become more unpredictable. A
dangerous trait for a dark wizard."

Harry remained silent.

"You may catch a single rodent, but of what consequence is that

when the pack is smarter for it?"

Harry had to concede defeat, the feeling in his stomach lessened.

But didn't disappear, he was stuck wondering if by listening to Fleur's
advice he'd made more problems, or solved them.

"Shall we track down the rest of the Weasley Clan then?" She asked
though clearly didn't expect any other answer outside of affirmation.
She set off down the street at a quick pace and Harry was forced to
do an awkward little walk-jog amalgamation to close the distance.

As they edged closer to the store, they could hear the raucous
noises from within, above the storefront, an animated statue of a
wizard with a top hat danced a happy jig before tipping his hat and
changing to a leprechaun, then to a bright 'W'.

The joke store, in contrast to the Alley, was packed. The aisles were
only small given the amount of product the twins had ladened the
store with, but they were brimming with bright faces, mostly children
from Hogwarts.

Their centrepiece stood tall in the centre of the store, at its apex. It
was emblazoned with the 'WWW' logo and halfway to the ground, it
displayed their most recent product.

FORGET YOU-KNOW-WHO!

YOU SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT

YOU-NO-POO

THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION

THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION

Harry couldn't help but let out a hearty chuckle at their boldness,
Fleur, on the other hand, had a look of shock on her face.

"They're going to get themselves killed if this is what they're going to

start making." She said sourly, peering at the sign with a frown.

Harry's face morphed into a broad smile. "I think it's brilliant, we'll all
need a good laugh before this is over."

As they tried to walk into the shop, their advance was halted by two
cracks to their rear.

Harry turned quickly as Fred and George grabbed his shoulders,

Fleur took a step back in surprise.

"Harry our most benevolent benefactor and Mademoiselle Delacour!"

started Fred.

"What brings our partner and our brother's lovely fiancé to our
humble establishment of jokes and whims?" George said
dramatically.

Fleur shot him an odd look at the word partner but said nothing,
Harry turned around and embraced each of the twins.

"This place is amazing! I can't believe you got it up and running so

quickly." Harry said, looking around at what clearly was a fair amount
of work done in a relatively short amount of time.

"Ah my dear Harry!" they said in unison, "It couldn't have been made
possible without your generous contribution to the noble fund of
Gred and Forge industries."

"As our silent partner," Fred added, "We'd like to show you some of
our more 'interesting' products."

The twins whisked him away, dragging him by both of his arms. Fleur
followed them at a more sedated pace, weaving through the stunned
looks of the shop's patrons.

"Here!" George announced when they arrived at a display cabinet

across the store, he gestured towards the stamped tag that ran
across the front of the case.

"Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder?" Harry queried, even Fleur

looked interested, given her lack of interest in the joke shop, it
seemed like an impressive feat for the Twins to manage.

"That's right my friend! Throw this down and you've got a guaranteed
cloud of darkness at least ten feet wide." Fred reached into a little
silk bag, procuring what looked like some form of ashen powder from
the confines. He clicked his fingers with the sand-like substance
between them exploded into a cloud of black smoke that obscured
his vision enough that the Weasley twin simply vanished from view.

This caught Harry's attention. "Where did you get this stuff from?" He
asked incredulously, "This is amazing!"

"Well from Peru of course!" They said together. "If Peruvian stuff
came from China, it'd be called Chinese you see."

Harry looked to the cabinet trying to find a price. "How much do you
sell this stuff for?"
"For Ron? Five galleons a pouch. For you? Free." They announced
again in unison, stuffing a pair of the silk bags into his hand before
he could argue.

"Free? I couldn't take it." He then argued, despite already being

given the product. He tried to shove it back to one of the twins.
"Must've cost you a fortune."

"Too late!" said George, the pair lifting their hands up in surrender
and soon Harry was forced to plunge the bags into his pocket.

"Yep," Added Fred, "We even held a business meeting on it too. You
didn't show up, but we both voted in favour. All partners can take
stock for free."

"Poor partner you are anyways, not showing up to meetings,"

George added. "We'll be sure to reprimand you in the next minutes
we publish."

"Quite harshly too I'm afraid." Fred joined in.

"Sorry," Fleur interjected for the first time in a while "How is Harry a
partner?"

Harry began to look distinctly more uncomfortable.

"Why dear Fleur, he funded our endeavour here! No less than a

thousand galleons!" They spoke together.

"Quite a generous thing too." One of the twins added.

"Lease was quite expensive here." The other one continued, "Not to
mention the cost of products."

This seemed to shock Fleur, her eyes widened slightly but if she was
going to say anything further, she thought against it, only nodding at
their words.
A loud gong was heard throughout the shop and the twins shared a
nervous look. Fred turned to Harry "Feel free to browse the store, we
need to deal with this." With the same infamous crack that heralded
their appearance, signified their goodbye as they whirled from
existence before his eyes.

"So, Partner?" Fleur repeated his title the moment they'd

disappeared.

"I gave them the money I won from the tournament." He said simply.

"Why would you do that?" She said, taken aback by his confession.
Though judging by her face, such a reaction seemed rare.

He gave her an odd look. "Voldemort had returned and the money
was tainted as far as I was concerned. I gave it to my friends who
wanted to make something of themselves plus like I said. After this is
all said and done, the world is going to be short of laughs. I can't
think of anyone better to give them back."

"I still think I would've kept the money."

"I've got a vault full of money, more than I know what to do with it. I
can go without a thousand galleons."

"I still think there are better ways to have spent it than on the Twins
and their endeavours, you could've even invested it with the
Goblins." She frowned. "Far more intelligent avenues to spend your
coins, what with a war around the corner."

"Then one day, I hope you learn the value of friendship over
galleons."

She gave a little noncommittal murmur, "Maybe one day I might."

There wasn't much left to say, they headed to the main staircase, it
was a thin, winding affair that was coloured brightly in an array of
different shades that didn't mesh together in the slightest. Once they
reached the top of the stairs, Ron's distinctive voice could be heard.

"Bloody hell Hermione, I was only joking. I'm sure Harry's fine." He
heard Ron sigh through the shelving.

"What if something happened to him? I'm not exactly confident in

Fleur's ability to protect him!" She argued, loud enough that Fleur
clearly heard what his friend had said.

"I'm sure they'll be fine," Ron said in a defusing tone, an odd

prospect for the second youngest Weasley.

Fleur shot him a sour look and rolled her eyes at the statement, a
look that seemed to echo ' I told you so. ' But he found he couldn't
really sympathise with her all that much, given what she said about
Hermione, this seemed little more than payback to him.

They rounded the corner to see a red-faced Hermione and Ron

attempting to placate her.

"Blimey mate could've used you a bit sooner." He said, surprised at

his appearance.

Hermione looked relieved to see him but also far angrier at Ron and
Fleur's appearance. "I'm going to find Ginny," she said tightly before
storming off.

Fleur decided to chime in too, "I best find Molly and tell her we've
returned unharmed." She also walked away, leaving Ron and Harry
by themselves."

"What happened to Hermione?" Harry questioned.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, one minute we're talking
fine and then she started on how you hadn't returned and how she
was scared because you were with Fleur. I disagreed and well, you
saw where that got us."
Harry snorted before him, and Ron locked eyes. "Mental?"
suggested Ron.

"Mental," Harry confirmed.

"I saw Malfoy in the alley today."

This seemed to shock Ron. "So soon after Daddy Dearest got a new
home? That's bold."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, he and his mum were going to Gringotts, we

ran into them on our way out."

"And?" Ron seemed excited, "Did you curse him?" He asked giddily.

"No," he said to Ron's chagrin. "He and his mum made some
comments about Sirius and Fleur. Fleur stopped me from cursing
them, and they went into Gringotts."

"If I were you I would've cursed the git something good, maybe even
get him a bed in Azkaban next to Daddy," Ron said in equal mixture
joking and malice.

"That's not all though" Harry continued, "Fleur and I went to Flourish
and Blotts afterwards, when we saw Draco, without his mother,
looking particularly nervous heading into Knockturn Alley."

"Did you follow him?"

"No, Fleur convinced me otherwise," Harry admitted.

"Oh." That seemed to confuse Ron. "Not like you to let that go."

"I wouldn't have." Harry said, "I still reckon he's got a mission from
Voldemort, no excuse to be lurking in the daylight otherwise."

"I'm not too sure about that," Ron confessed "I hate him as much as
the next bloke, but using Draco to do his bidding? He'd have to be
pretty desperate to use that ponce, what with Malfoy Senior getting
the boot, he'd have to be mad to use his son."

"Could be that's exactly what he wants us to think." Harry waged. "I'd

guess -"

The 'sensation' came back again, but it was different, dangerous, it

felt close. Harry had been feeling it for a while, at Slughorn's when
they passed the man's alarm wards or when he saw Draco early that
day. Even when he crossed from the gravel path into the Burrow. It
felt like someone was pinching his neck, the tendons and muscles of
his shoulders tightening. His magic screamed a warning and he had
little choice but to heed.

Harry grabbed Ron and pulled him aside. Not a second later, a paper
dragon spitting flame roared down the aisle, scorching the shelves
where Ron and Harry had stood just a moment ago.

At the end of the aisle stood a red-faced Ginny. "I'm so sorry!"

She looked shocked, Harry flashed a reassuring smile, and she

seemed to regain some composure. "Mum… Mum wanted me to tell
you we're going to leave the Alley soon." She said quickly before
darting around the corner.

Both he and Ron followed her down the stairs, after bidding the twins
goodbye they met the remainder of the Weasleys, Hermione and
Fleur at the entrance of the shop. Ginny shot Fleur a dangerous
glare. She merely looked to Harry before rolling her eyes, enraging
Ginny even further.

Once they had all left the joke shop, they retraced their footsteps
back to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was one of the last to enter the
Floo this time. As he grasped the powder, he realised the weight in
the pit of his stomach had never abated, he threw the powder down
and yelled,

"The Burrow!"
But he still couldn't shake that feeling, the gnawing in his stomach
that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of his stomach. Although he
couldn't see through the walls, he still shot a final look towards the
direction of the Alley as green flames overtook his vision as he shot
upwards through the chimney.

Even despite the disorientation of the Floo, that feeling couldn't be

abated.

The feeling that he might've missed something down that Alley.

Tentative Alliances
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Tentative Alliances

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Big thank you to my Beta-Readers, x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid for beta-reading the chapter and saving it from my
own terrible grammar.

Be sure to review, favourite and follow if you enjoy. Mostly the

former, reviews help me grow as a writer and I appreciate them
greatly.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

Harry had awakened early, as he so often did.

The sun was yet to begin its ascent over the horizon, but it was
nearing with every passing second, bathing the landscape with a
purple-orange hued glow that could only be mustered twice a day.

He found if he slept only in short bursts, he could stave off a majority

of the nocturnal terrors that haunted him. But that usually meant
rising early in the morning and resting late at night, a sacrifice, but
not one he couldn't handle.
He would've liked to return to sleep this very morning, if not for the
symphony of snores that echoed from the bed adjacent to his own
and the anguished wailing of the ghoul in the attic as it beat a
clangorous cacophony of screeching sounds onto the pipes above. A
hellish noise that the Weasleys had become accustomed to but one
that dissuaded him from trying to pursue his lost slumber.

Usually, he'd awake and do little more but think.

The letters under his pillow had been relegated to under his bed in a
darkened corner and their ranks only swelled as time went on. He
could swear he'd read each one, although he was conscious of their
effect on him. Reading their words both harsh and kind, tracing his
finger across the indents the quill left, both shallow and deep. But no
matter what the words were shrouded in, be it sickly sweet pleading
or harsh vulgarity, he couldn't escape the hard truth.

It was him, or Voldemort. He knew it well and apparently, so did they.

He made to reach under the bed, there had been some new
additions to the growing pile. He'd passed the daily flurry of owls off
as well-wishers and thankful citizens. A lie that seemed to settle
unnoticed by most, but not all. His hand stilled half-way as a
particularly loud cry from the ghoul rang out.

Perhaps, he mused sadly, I've done enough wallowing in pity.

The new letters would have to wait.

He carefully shifted in his bed so as to not disturb the creaking

springs that comprised the mattress. After all their years together, he
knew little could wake Ron save the smell of bacon or an alarm
charm. Seeing as neither of those eventualities seemed likely at this
moment, he felt fairly confident he wouldn't break from his attempts
to shake the foundations with his snoring.

Groping around aimlessly in the low-light, he secured his glasses

from the worn nightstand and placed them onto his face. There was
little else to do now but listen to the odd noises that rang through
The Burrow. Seeing as that seemed rather dull, he decided to
venture downstairs, perhaps either of the older Weasleys were
awake, perhaps some conversation would take his mind off the
maelstrom of detestable thoughts. He pushed his feet into a ratty
pair of worn slippers that had once belonged to Ron, partially to
dampen his footsteps on the wooden stairs.

He descended the winding steps of the Burrow to the landing

carefully so as to not wake any of its sleeping inhabitants. He
descended the stairs with present vigilance of the creaking steps and
squeaking bannisters that befitted an act far more dangerous than
simply descending the stairs, safely navigating the descent, he found
an unexpected sight at the landing.

Fleur Delacour.

She was sat upon the Weasley's lounge, her feet curled up under
her and a worn tome adorning her lap as she haphazardly flicked
through its pages, on the worn coffee table was a saucer and cup, a
spoon spinning in circular rotations at her direction. She lazily spun
her wand like she was orchestrating a symphony, although one that
didn't quite hold her interest.

An odd coexistence had slowly developed between the inhabitants of

the Burrow and Fleur. She'd ignore Ron's staring and occasional
drooling. She'd offer insight into Hermione's reading, though in a
much more sedated and non-hostile manner. She helped Mrs
Weasley in the kitchen and even offered to help Mr Weasley
reconstruct a pen he had found. Though Ginny was reticent to
accept any offer of comradery the French witch extended.

Both he and Fleur had found themselves amidst many discussions

over the weeks that had passed since the day he'd arrived. If
anything, he found her company refreshing. In many ways despite
her disdain for the comparison, she reminded him a lot of Hermione,
if only much more companionable. She'd grown considerably since
they'd last met. She was still vain, bordering on egotistical,
overconfident sometimes but it seemed to work for her. But she was
also witty and cunning, he enjoyed his conversations with her
greatly, even if most of the time she danced around him as he
stumbled over his words and made a fool of himself.

Since ending her time at Gringotts, she was relegated to sulking

around the Burrow, quite bored for the most part. Bill worked most
days, didn't even get back to the Burrow on some days - she was
lonely. She spent most of her spare time perusing old tomes and
books she'd bought from various vendors, plotting what he could
only assume was useful information in a notebook she carried
everywhere.

He stepped lightly on the balls of his feet so as to not catch undue

attention or rouse her from her state of what he imagined was
concentration. Either by virtue of his quietness or her lack of
attention, he escaped her notice while he advanced.

"Fleur?" He whispered quietly as to not scare the platinum-haired

witch, "You're up early."

She looked up at Harry, not disturbed by his presence in the

slightest. Her ocean eyes had dulled considerably and her beautiful
visage was marred by darkened bags under each eye.

"Fleur?" Harry asked gently, taken aback by the sudden change in

her appearance, "Are you alright?"

She looked shocked for a moment, before schooling her features

into a more passive look.

"Fine." She assured him with a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes.

That elicited a frown out of him, he continued forward and took a

seat adjacent to her.

"Are you sure?" He prompted again, as she seemed to feign equal

parts disinterest and nonchalance.
"I'm fine." She assured him again with a false politeness that
would've deterred anyone else from pursuing their line of
questioning.

Not Harry.

She was proud to a fault, but there was no mistaking her current
state, she was worried about something, something she likely wasn't
going to ask anyone for help over, nor talk to anyone. Reminded him
of himself if he was candid.

"What is it?" He probed again, with equal vigour of her previous

statement.

She paused for a brief moment but said nothing.

"What's that?" He queried, unsure of what she was reading.

"This!" She responded equally as vaguely though her voice was ripe
with frustration as she tossed the book in her lap towards the coffee
table, the leather-bound tome careening across the short distance
and only narrowly missing out on the teacup and saucer.

"Alright," He said placatingly as he took notice of the book that had

landed close to him. Defensionem Contra Omnes was inscribed on
the front with fading golden leaf, it looked far too academic for the
likes of him and far too expensive to be tossing around as she had.
"Let's not take our frustration out on the scenery."

He took another glance It took him a moment to decipher the title

with his shallow knowledge of Latin.

"Fleur," He began in a moment of realisation, "If this is about your jo-

" He tried, but was cut off by a nigh irate French Veela.

"When isn't it about my job?" She spat, but seemed to realize he

wasn't the rightful target of her ire. "I don't need to be coddled Harry,
I was hired to be something, something I can't be."
"I'm sure you-" He began again, although a look from her silenced
him.

"I've been told to unravel and enforce wards that were created over a
millennia-old, created by those so proficient in the art that their
names still fill our history books today. As talented as I am, they were
far better." She said wistfully, looking more intently at her swirling
teacup.

The insecurity of her statement endeared her to Harry in a way he

hadn't experienced prior. She was always so confident and witty with
only the rarest of missteps as an indication that she was not always
in control. To see how she reacted to the adversity of her current
duty was an insight into what she was like under her impenetrable
facade. A person, like any else.

"Why don't you get Bill to help you then?" He said as if the answer
was clear, "Or someone you used to work with? even Professor
Dumbledore could help."

"Bill has been recalled to Cairo to help excavate some new tombs,
Ragnok wanted them to ensure there was ample security of the
pyramids but that concluded a while ago, now he's been forced to
linger there." She said with a hostile undertone as she mentioned
what he assumed was a Goblin name, "As for the Headmaster, if he
actually had the time, he would've simply done it himself. No, this is
a task I must do by myself."

"I thought the same thing too once, that I couldn't do what I'd been
told to do." He reminisced, "When I was thrust into teaching
Dumbledore's Army."

"Dumbledore's Army?" She queried, peering up from her tea.

"A Defense Against the Dark Arts group we formed last year to teach
people when Umbridge wouldn't." He explained to the now attentive
witch.
"I never pictured you as a teacher," She said with a half-smile, "That
must've been interesting."

"It was," He confirmed with a full smile, "But that's my point exactly, I
didn't picture myself as a teacher, I didn't ask for it or want it, but I
adapted. Just like you will."

"That sounds oddly like some of my wisdom you're regurgitating,"

She commented dryly.

"Perhaps," Harry said slyly, "I might've heard it somewhere along the
way."

"I don't really appreciate you preaching my own advice." She said
with a little frown.

"I don't appreciate you wallowing in pity," He challenged with a

victorious smirk shining across his features.

She continued frowning, before it suddenly morphed into a small

grin, then a bigger one, then finally, a laugh. The chuckle evolved
into a full-bellied laugh that was as intoxicating as it was infectious
and soon, Harry joined into the cacophonous laughing that rang
through the lower levels of the Burrow. Then silence, but not an
uncomfortable one, born of contemplation rather than awkwardness.

"Perhaps you just need a second set of eyes."

"Why don't you help me properly then?" She offered, her face
lighting up like she just had a great epiphany.

"Pardon me?" Harry responded, confused by her request.

"The way you tell it, you seem to know a lot about the castle. I won't
have time to learn everything that you've learned over six years."
She explained simply. "I could really use that, it'd take some weight
off of my shoulders."
He knew he'd regret explaining some of his more egregious
adventures at Hogwarts. Although he never referred to the details in
specific, it looks like she gleaned enough from him.

"I don't think that's stri-" He tried in an attempt to halt the tirade,
though clearly failed.

"So you were lying?" She countered with a half-smirk.

"No, but -" He tried again, but she soon took the reins of
conversation in hand.

"Think about it," She explained, all vestiges of tiredness had been
long since forgotten in the face of the answer she'd been searching
for. "We've got enough knowledge between the two of us, you claim
to know the castle inside and out and I've got the knowledge to work
on the wards, we're going to need intimate knowledge of both if
we're going to protect Hogwarts."

"I'm not so sure," Harry said, trying to recuse himself from the
situation.

"So you don't want to help me?" She said, arching an elegant
eyebrow. "It'd be about more than just helping me, Harry."

"I didn't say that." He refuted.

"So you will help?" She pushed.

"I didn't say that either." He said, shaking his head.

"Please." She pleaded, her ocean eyes suddenly regaining their

colour in her attempts to bargain.

He was glad the light was low, having a Veela plead for something
wasn't exactly an implication that was lost on any teenage boy. Even
though the situation was devoid of any seduction, he couldn't stop
the reaction it elicited.
"I'll do it." Harry acquiesced, "But I don't know that much about
wards," He offered meekly, not exactly counting Dumbledore's
haphazard lesson as an all-encompassing introduction into the art.

Fleur's eyes brightened up. " Magnifique! " she said, briefly breaking
into French in her excitement.

"Then I," She said with a flourish of her wand, "Shall give you a
lesson."

The leatherbound book came flying to her hands and she moved
over so Harry could see some of the things she had pointed out as
she delved into the esoterica that was protective enchantments.
Speeding through axiom to axiom, how to raise wards, how to drain
them. How each wand core interacted with protective enchantments
and so on and so forth. It certainly wasn't page-turning excitement,
though he listened to her explanations with all the fervour of a
passionate student as her grip on consciousness dwindled.

"So, a Ward Stone is like a battery?" Harry asked tiredly. "So does
that mean-"

He looked up when instead of a response, he heard a strange noise.

Fleur had fallen asleep during the process, they'd been working for
well over an hour and the sun had finally risen, replacing the purple
and orange hue with yellow. She snored softly against the lounge.
Harry put the book she was reading on the table before fetching a
blanket from the other lounge and placing it over Fleur. With little
else to do, he headed back upstairs to see if he could finally capture
the sleep that had done it's best to evade him.

Harry woke up not long after, an owl tapping at the window. Ron
managed to maintain his symphony of loud snores throughout, he
doubted an explosion would rouse him, let alone an owl. He lifted the
latch on the window and the owl flew in, offering it's leg to take the
letter attached. Harry untied the simple knot and retrieved the letter.
Fetching some of Hedwig's owl treats from his trunk, he gave the owl
a few before it flew off.

He turned the letter over in his hands, it had his name simply on the
front. He desperately hoped it wasn't another of those letters.

When he flipped it over, he saw that it had the wax seal of Hogwarts.
Breaking the seal he fished the letter out and began to read it out.

Dear Harry,

There remains a few unpleasant details about the execution of

Sirius' Will. As the neutral party, the Goblins of Gringotts now act as
executors. I shall arrive at the Burrow at noon to retrieve you for the
reading of his final will and testament.

Regards,

A.P.W.B.D

He sat down on his bed. He'd seldom thought of Sirius lately, that
hurt as much as losing him. He'd been so busy lately with everything
on his mind he'd forgotten entirely. He was shifted from the
dimension around him into his own mind. He declared he would no
longer wallow, but the reaction seemed almost second nature.

The smell of bacon wafted through the house slowly, signalling the
start of a new day, one that seemed to wake Ron with all the
efficiency of a hound smelling a kill. He propped himself up in bed
before groggily rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

"Wuzzthat?" The ginger-haired boy mumbled tiredly, desperate to

keep the glaring sunlight peeking from the curtains from his eyes.

"Just some information about Sirius, his will is being read today."
Harry sighed somberly, flashing the envelope at the groggy Weasley.

This seemed to sober Ron up, if he was going to say anything further
he kept it to himself and merely relegated himself to looking
anywhere but Harry, apparently the roof looked particularly
interesting.

Harry shrugged off the awkward silence that reigned and walked to
his already opened trunk, he fished out more presentable clothes for
breakfast and beyond. Ron did so too and when Harry chose to turn
around, Ron had donned a jersey. It was resplendently orange,
matching hair with two black 'Cs' intertwining, the name HORTON
and the number 1 adorning the back.

"Come on mate, surely it's time to give up on the Cannons." Harry

laughed upon seeing the jersey.

"Oi! Sod off, it's our year I'm telling you!" Ron said indignantly,
spinning around to defend his team in earnest.

"Now you're dreaming," Harry laughed again, "Did you see the
Tornado's defence against Falmouth?"

"Yeah they're alright, so what?" Ron said half-heartedly.

"Yeah, they're alright and the Cannons aren't, that's what." The
raven-haired boy explained like he was talking to a toddler

"Prick." Ron insulted before tossing a pair of socks at Harry. Luckily

with his reflexes as a seeker he quickly returned the sock with equal
force, but Ron had made a conscious effort to practice his skills to
become Keeper and the sock was caught again, but this time held.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Are you two dressed?" Asked Hermione's muffled voice

"Yep." Called Ron back as Harry finished putting his shirt on.

"You two weren't arguing, were you? I could hear it from down the
hall." She said, crossing her arms in a way that reminded Harry of
that same bossy girl he'd befriended all those years ago.
"Not arguing, I was just trying my yearly attempt to convince Ron the
cannons are shite." He said in faux-ignorance.

"Language!" Hermione scolded.

"Yeah, this tosser thinks the Tutshill Tornados are better than the
Chudley Cannons."

"When was the last time you won the league?" Harry shot back.

"1892," Ron said, but followed with a quick defence."But it doesn't

matter, we have our secret weapon!"

"Yeah, Who?" Harry scoffed in disbelief.

"Bailey," Ron said confidently.

Harry let out a forced laugh, "Bailey? He could barely throw the
game let alone a quaffle!"

"Hermione, back me up here, the Cannons are the best." The ginger
boy pleaded.

"Ron, I barely know anything about quidditch and I know the

Cannons are terrible," Hermione said with a shake of her head.

"Merlin, what's a bloke got to do to get some help around here."

"If everyone helped you, there'd be no one left to help the Cannons
would there?." Harry shot back.

Ron threw the pair of socks he'd been holding on to, but Harry
merely dodged this one like he had last.

"Come on Git, let's go get some breakfast before the Cannons lose
the league again."

"Wanker." Ron swore under his breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes but chose not to chastise him as they
headed down the stairwell to the kitchen.

They passed through the lounge room, Fleur had moved from her
position on the settee from earlier that morning, he would wager she
was asleep in her room rather than try and sleep amongst the noise
down here.

The three of them entered the Kitchen together, it was occupied only
by Mr and Mrs Weasley, the former was eating his breakfast quietly
and the latter was waving her wand around the kitchen so the pans
would wash themselves.

"Morning." Mr Weasley said brightly after swallowing a mouthful of

eggs. Mrs Weasley flicked her wand again and plates began to set
themselves on the table.

The trio began to fill their plates, within moments Ron had already
returned for seconds.

"Like a bloody wrecking ball, he is." Harry whispered to Hermione,

who gave a little giggle in return. Ron was oblivious to their joke as
he continued to shovel food into the gaping maw that seemed to
often imitate a mouth.

Soon the morning post came through the window, it landed before
Mr Weasley and he unwrapped it from it's binding, opening to the
front page.

His bright expression was soon replaced by one wrought from

something darker, Ron was uncharacteristically quick to notice.

"What is it, dad?" He asked, swallowing a mouthful of food.

He didn't answer immediately, Mrs Weasley stepped away from the

stove and looked over his shoulder, she gasped and dropped the
utensil she was holding.
Mr Weasley dropped the paper on the table so everyone could see
the front page.

60 MUGGLES DEAD IN CARDIFF DARK WIZARD RAID

In the early hours of the morning, Dark Wizards under the

command of the Dark Lord lead a sortie against the Muggle
suburb of Radyr, west of Cardiff.

After setting the Muggle suburb alight with Fiendfyre, they

proceeded to tear down the wards of the Versant Family, who
were most commonly known for their trade in magical livestock.
After piercing the wards, the forces of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-
Named infiltrated the family's Manor, murdering Idina, 38, Bert,
41 and their only child, Michael, 10.

In one fell swoop, the Dark Lord has cut another tether that
holds our Magical Community together, only through diligence
and strengthening our ties to each other can we survive the
coming storm.

Benjamin MacDougal

Junior Correspondent, Daily Prophet.

"The Versants?" Harry broke the loud silence, "I've never heard of
them."

Mr Weasley rubbed his face tiredly. "I wouldn't have expected you to,
they're a newer family. No ties to any major political faction. They
provided a sizable section of Magical Britain's magical flora. Their
death will cause a lot of problems for the Ministry."

"Cause a lot of problems for the Ministry?" Hermione asked,

confused, trying to steal a glance at the paper.

"Aside from the impact it will have on our ability to make potions for
the healers and Aurors? The next biggest supplier is Wendel
Parkinson, who is an loyal supporter of the Dark Lord. We'll have to
import the goods and that is an expensive endeavour. He likely aims
to have the population buy goods from the Parkinsons. Without the
Malfoys' assets to push their cause, he'll need to find other sources
of income." The older man explained, tossing the paper back onto
the table with a healthy amount of force.

The conversation slowly tapered off after the bad news, minutes
turned into hours and the inhabitants of the Burrow retired to their
own duties. Harry announced he was going to go upstairs to do
something, anything to get out of the sombre atmosphere, and
headed to Ron's room. Mr Weasley headed to the Ministry while Mrs
Weasley cleaned the house. Ginny and Ron were out practising
Quidditch plays, Hermione began reading as always and Fleur
remained asleep.

Harry headed up to his room and got ready for the day. The
Headmaster would arrive at the Burrow within the hour and he didn't
want to be late for the whole affair. He very much hoped it would be
finished quickly, the less time surrounded by the whole affair the
better.

Harry went to his bedside table, retrieving his wand. He looked down
the length of the holly shaft. He hadn't examined his wand in quite
some time. When he thought about it, he realized that he took his
wand very much for granted. It had seen him safely, relatively safely,
through so much adversity and he had never bothered to truly take
care of it as well as he should have.

He rolled the piece of fine craftsmanship around in his hands, it felt

warm, which was an entirely unique sensation. Like there was life
dwelling beneath the surface, an inferno that dwelled within the
feather inside. It wasn't so much scalding as it was a familiar feeling,
like a warm bed.

He fished some equipment from his trunk. A torn, ratty shirt that
Dudley had worn once and destroyed and some elements from his
broom servicing kit, namely the polish. Dipping the cloth in the
pungent, viscous liquid, he began rubbing it onto the smooth surface
of the holly shaft, coating a thin, sheening layer on it.

"When they told me you'd be polishing your wand, I imagined

something much more vulgar." A voice interrupted from the doorway.

Harry forgot to close the door and currently occupying the frame was
none other than Fleur. She looked vastly better than she had in the
morning. He assumed some charms were at work. Though the
colour that rose in his cheeks elicited a laugh from the witch and
seemed to save him from any further comments.

"I see you're finally up." He shot back quickly, perhaps too quickly.

She merely flicked her hair in his direction in an action that was
unquestionably 'Fleur Delacour'.

"May I come in?" She requested lightly.

He gestured her inside the room.

He put his wand and polish aside. She wrinkled her nose at the
pungent smell of the broom polish.

"Have you been drinking Firewhisky?" She asked in disdain, raising

her hand to fan some of the smell away.

He shook his head and merely pointed to the jar of polish with his
vastly better-looking wand.

"I thought you had been up here 'partaking', it smells terrible in here."
She commented, crinkling her nose in further disgust.

"Not a major fan of Firewhisky myself." He admitted candidly.

"Oh tasted it often have you?" She asked slyly, trying to bait him into
further admissions. "I didn't take you for a connoisseur of Alcohol.

He shrugged, "A few times after we won the Quidditch Cup."

"Then as a gift for your assistance with my work, I'll have to
introduce you to some of the finer alcohols that the magical world
has to offer."

He raised an eyebrow at this. "You're an expert I suppose?" He

asked skeptically.

"I'm French, we're masters of all things fine cuisine and otherwise."

"So you've decided to ply me with wine for my services then?"

Fleur was not one to be so easily outwitted. "If that's what it takes to
have a slave under my control, though I wouldn't overestimate your
usefulness, I could just as easily train Ron up."

"Good luck there." Harry waved her off, "I'm sure he'll make
wonderful conversation." She let out a small chuckle but didn't follow
it up.

She noticed his change of attire, specifically that he was wearing his
best clothes.

"Going somewhere?" She inquired.

"Dumbledore is picking me up, We've got to attend the reading of my

Godfather's will."

She looked decidedly more solemn after hearing that.

Harry was going to say something but he had the 'sensation' again.
Like someone had gently ran their fingertips over the back of his
neck, but it was so much more than that. It was like hearing a single
instrument and finding a symphony on closer inspection, it was
indescribable.

Fleur looked at him questioningly, his discomfort becoming apparent.

"Dumbledore's here." Harry said simply, standing up from his

position on the bed, but she merely shot him a questioning glance.
"Call it a lucky feeling." He shrugged, before offering his hand to
hers.

He helped her up from the bed, absently taking note of how

impossibly soft her hands were.

They left the room and headed down the stairs, sure enough, the
Headmaster had arrived and was currently conversing with Mrs
Weasley in the kitchen.

"Good luck, 'Arry." Fleur said before giving him a small smile and
heading back upstairs.

The Professor had traded his usually resplendent, colourful robes for
a dark grey, his right hand still wore the dark glove too. He
concluded his conversation with Mrs Weasley and turned to Harry.

"Harry, my dear boy, we best be on our way, the Goblins dislike

those who fail to remain punctual." The Headmaster spoke promptly,
before beginning his exit.

He led Harry out the back door of the Burrow and began walking to
the ward line. Harry sped up a little so they were walking side-by-
side.

"Not taking the Floo sir?" Harry queried.

"Alas, Harry, we are not. The floo network is heavily monitored by the
Ministry and frankly, we're unsure how to separate the trustworthy
from cohorts of Voldemort. No, We've got express permission from
Director Ragnok to apparate directly in the bank." He explained.

There was a moment of silence before Dumbledore began making

his inquiries, as Harry imagined he would.

"I see you've made friends with our newest addition, young Miss
Delacour, tell me, what do you make of her?" The wizened wizard
probed.
His mind drifted to his newfound friend if her attitude in the morning
was any indicator she seemed more than eager to prove that she
didn't need any assistance. She'd never said it outright, but Harry
had more than a sneaking suspicion that the end of the Tournament
left a deeper mark than she cared to admit, a desperate need to
prove herself that triumphed over her other priorities.

"She seems very passionate about her duties. I think she'll be a

great asset to Hogwarts." He confessed as his feet hit the gravel of
the Weasley's path.

Dumbledore stroked his beard as they walked, "Yes, I surmised that

when I hired her. She always seemed to have the disposition of
never giving anything less than her utmost, a trait we'll need greatly
in the coming days I fear."

"Why'd you decide to hire her sir?" Harry asked, "Surely you had a
lot of candidates in mind."

"Quite a few indeed," The man confirmed, "But I think Miss

Delacours invaluable nature will soon become apparent."

"What do you mean by that sir?"

"Wait and see, Harry."

Doesn't sound like I have much of a choice.

They continued walking and crossed the ward line, the Headmaster
offered his arm and the pair disapparated with a soft crack.

When they landed, Harry did not stumble as he had a few times
prior. Though it still upset his stomach greatly, enough that he was
forced to take a few sedate steps before he had the courage to
resume normal strides.
Harry peered around the room in which they had suddenly appeared,
they were in an area of Gringotts he had never seen before, but that
was to be expected given he had never apparated into the bank.

Whereas the outside of the building was made of bright white stone
and cobbles that rose in askew pillars and burnished bronze doors
that guarded it's depths, this section was entirely more elegant. This
sector of the bank rose in cultivated, glimmering marble pillars that
rose aloft into a roof that shone with the brightness of a galleon, it
was lavish, far more than the main lobby which he found interesting.

Dumbledore was quick to move out of the room, after gesturing

Harry to follow him he sped down the corridor with long, purposeful
strides that looked out of place on a man of his advanced age.
Passing a plethora of armoured goblins with the same resplendent
armour that watched them with a keen eye.

They turned the corner and continued walking, this particular hallway
extended further than Harry could see, every so often a door would
appear. He'd forgotten how many they'd passed. Sharpclaw,
Haggedtooth, Zagnoth, were written upon great golden plaques that
covered a portion of the door. They continued walking until they
finally halted upon a particular door.

Shiverbane

Account Manager for the Most Ancient and Noble House of

Black

Steeling himself as Professor Dumbledore opened the door, they

both walked into a room that seemed to be far more luxurious than
even the corridor they followed to reach the room. The room was
deep and culminated in a large desk upon a small dais, along the
length of the walls were a series of motifs, depicting various events.
A dragon stretched a sizable portion of one side and a serpent the
other. Sat at the desk on the end of the room was a dark-skinned
Goblin wearing fine robes, above him the words ' Toujours Pur' stood
proudly, engraved in gold. As they entered the room, a pair of
Goblin's adorned in gilded gold armour slammed their spears into
the ground and walked them to the Goblin's desk at the end of the
room.

Once the goblins had walked them both to the desk, they quickly
stepped back and returned to their position at the door. The Account
Manager looked over his spectacles at the pair of them.

"Mister Potter, Headmaster Dumbledore," He said in a deep baritone

that felt woefully out of place on the diminutive goblin, "Be seated."

Both of them took a seat in the plush chairs in front of the desk, the
Goblin shuffled some papers and stamped one with an implement on
his desk before slipping them into a drawer. He grabbed another
stack of papers, straightening them before he placed them in front of
him.

"I'm Account Manager Shiverbane, Masters of Accounts for the Most

Ancient and Noble House of Black." The goblin announced, his
clawed fingers clasping together menacingly as his beady black eyes
peered at the two.

Dumbledore merely nodded, Harry thought it'd be wise to emulate

his gesture and did the same.

"Are you ready to hear the last will and testament?" He asked, his
voice a little softer this time.

Harry nodded again without taking notice of what the Headmaster

did. The Goblin nodded in return before tracing a long claw on a rune
on his desk, the stack of papers he'd straightened on his desk
shimmered with an ethereal glow before words began to shift and
form anew.

"I hereby begin the execution of the last will and testament of one
Sirius Orion Black. We will first begin with the division of assets
between tertiary benefactors. The deceased has bequeathed a sum
of three thousand Galleons to Andromeda Tonks née Black, a sum of
five hundred galleons to Hestia Jones and two-hundred and fifty
galleons to Elphias Doge." The Goblin finished with his first page,
gently placing it aside.

He wasn't entirely sure who any of those people were, he assumed

the first was a relation to Tonks. The other two might've been
members of the Order but he couldn't be sure. Although by the way
Dumbledore rubbed his chin and nodded with each name, he
assumed he must've known them.

"The Secondary Benefactors are as follows; Remus Lupin is

bequeathed a sum of twenty thousand galleons, Albus Dumbledore
is bequeathed a sum of twenty thousand Galleons and Nymphadora
Tonks a sum of five thousand Galleons."

In contrast to the first few, he knew all of these benefactors.

Dumbledore seemed to lean backwards in his chair as his name was
mentioned, stroking his beard absentmindedly.

"There is only one primary benefactor, Harry James Potter. He is

bequeathed the remainder of the Black Estate, it's titles, vaults and
properties minus the sums the deceased has bequeathed to other
benefactors. The current valuation of the Black Estate is a total of
two-hundred and thirty-three thousand Galleons, No. 12 Grimmauld
Place. The Remnants of Black Manor in Wales and 82 Charmonay
Lane, Lyon. The deceased also wishes to pass along a few key
items to the primary benefactor, namely one Auror Handbook
belonging to the Benefactor's father and a photo album." The Goblin
proceeded to hand over the items to Harry who took them gratefully.

"I, Shiverbane, Master of Accounts for the Most Ancient and Noble
House of Black do declare the final will and testament of Sirius Orion
Black executed, may the deceased now rest."

Shiverbane traced the same rune on his desk and the words on the
paper became illegible once again.
He sighed and looked up at Dumbledore and Harry before taking off
his spectacles.

"It's a sad day when I must see another of a line I've served for over
a century light extinguished before his time, accusations
notwithstanding. I served his grandfather, Arcturus and his father,
Orion. I watched them grow old and perish, just as Melania,
Walburga and now, Sirius. It's saddening when such a prominent
family in our shared history is eliminated even if we've never been on
diplomatic have my condolences, young Potter."

"Thank you," Harry said, almost choking on his words.

"Now, young Potter," The goblin said, "I have something to ask you."

This intrigued both Harry and Dumbledore equally, the pair edging
forward in their seats. To their confusion, he merely procured a
single galleon.

"Now," The goblin began, rolling the coin between his short fingers, "I
find myself interested in whether the whispers that circulate within
these halls ring true."

"Rumours?" Harry questioned hesitantly, hoping it wasn't what he

thought. Dumbledore seemed to have a similar thought and sat
straighter in his chair.

"That you may indeed be of equal constitution and potential to the

Dark Lord," He said, continuing to flip the coin through his fingers in
feigned disinterest, "Unsubstantiated or not, such whispers are
indeed a troubling prospect."

"Why would that be?" Harry asked, trying to stop the frown he sorely
wanted to show to reach his features.

The Goblin merely placed the coin onto the wood of his desk onto
the rounded edge, using a clawed finger, he spun the coin in a
circular motion,
"We have a saying, in the Goblin Nation, young Potter." He said, no
longer focusing on the pair in front of him, his attention solely affixed
on the spinning galleon. "That malevolence and benevolence are
merely adjacent sides of a single galleon, that every time a Goblin is
born, they could be dark or light. They could lead us to riches or
ruins, death or dishonour."

He paused the coin with his long fingernail, letting it fall over to show
the emblem on the side.

"This is doubly so for powerful wizards. The world holds it's breath
while the coin topples. As many great men tore the world apart as
their counterparts rebuilt it, the cycle remains identical."

"So what does this have to do with me?" Harry questioned

impertinently, interrupting the Goblin's story.

"Perhaps nothing," He admitted with a shrug of his small shoulders,

"But perhaps everything. Perhaps, I merely wanted to get a measure
of you, to see which way your coin fell."

"Why?" Harry probed simply.

"To know if one day, you might be the right type should those same
men tear the world apart."

"Which way did my coin fall?"

"For both our sakes, Mister Potter," The Goblin said with nought but
a small smile, "I hope neither of us ever have to truly learn the
answer to that question."

"If that is all, Accounts Manager?" Dumbledore inquired, breaking his

self imposed silence. "I'm sure your affairs ensure you are a very
busy Goblin."

"Likely former after today," He japed good-naturedly, "But, indeed,

our business has been concluded."
Both Harry and the Headmaster stood from the chairs, the same
Goblins that escorted them to the desk thumped the wooden end of
their spears onto the ground menacingly as they approached again,
beginning to escort them towards the exit.

"Mister Potter!" Shiverbane called out. The pair stopped and turned
to face him. "I can't be sure whether or not the rumours are true, but
Goblin's have long memories. As long as our interests align, which
they appear to, you can always count on having allies within this
bank. However few we may be."

Harry flashed a small smile while Dumbledore looked contemplative,

they turned on their heel and walked back into the corridor with the
Goblin warriors escorting them. They trekked back through the wide
passageway and back to the apparition point, instead of entering the
room that held the chambers they came in through, the warriors
walked up to the blank wall. They struck it with their spears thrice
before the wall developed a seam and split apart, giving way to an
almost empty lobby.

"One may apparate in, but not out," Dumbledore explained succinctly
to Harry, who looked confused as to why they came this way. They
continued out the main doors and into Diagon Alley. "An intuitive use
of charms indeed."

The atmosphere of the alley was still sedate, solemn. The few
people that remained active in the streets darted to and fro to the few
shops that remained open. Most, however, ducked away at the sight
of what was coming down the streets.

A contingent of Aurors and other assorted Ministry personnel walked

down the middle of Diagon Alley, the remainder of people caught in
the street gave them a wide berth. A motley coloured sea of colours,
dominated mostly by the dark blue of auror robes. They seemed to
be crowding a single individual although their formation was tight
enough that Harry couldn't see who it was.
Harry made to step forward, to continue their journey down the
length of the alley, but a hand on his shoulder and a look from
Dumbledore halted him from doing so. The formation continued it's
advance, numbering maybe twenty strong, although he hadn't taken
the time to count.

The formation soon provided a gap for the individual to become

apparent to the pair.

It was Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic and he stalked forward

to the pair with a cane and limp. There was a presence to the man
that was almost tangible, but entirely placable. Despite his disability,
his gait and appearance were those of a predator, a lion stalking
prey. His grey-stained mane splayed out behind him as he walked.
But Harry's gaze remained affixed onto the eyes of the Minister.
They were an odd colour, almost yellow, enough that they reminded
Harry of the sunrise he'd seen in the morning, but there was
something else to them. They held a paleness to them like the
morning mist, a mist that seemed to conceal whatever the man was
feeling in that moment.

"A pleasure, Minister Scrimgeour" Dumbledore said politely. "Do you

have business here?"

"Mr Potter," The man spoke tersely entirely ignoring Dumbledore, "I
heard from Dirk Cresswell that you were here."

"I suppose that's right," Harry spoke, not entirely sure how to
respond to what the man said.

"Indeed." The Minister responded - his lips a thin line. "I wonder if
you would be so polite to allow me a moment to speak with you."

The courtesy was feigned, and it was clear Harry had little choice in
the matter. Much like his appearance, his words carried a predatory
growl that made argument seem useless. Dumbledore merely stared
at the man with a look he couldn't decipher.
"I guess that'd be alright," Harry said hesitantly, a look to the
Headmaster yielded no indication on what he should do.

"Follow me." The man said gruffly, clearly foregoing pleasantries now
that he'd caught the prey in his jaws. His detachment formed around
him again, although this time encompassing Harry and Professor
Dumbledore in its formation before they set down the length of the
street.

It quickly became apparent to Harry the excessive amount of force

on display was not luck. At the same time as their appearance, the
Daily Prophet and wireless spewed waves of Ministry propaganda.

' Your Ministry remains strong!' He remembered reading one of the

issues of the Daily Prophet. They spoke of a bold Minister, one who
stepped up to defeat the Dark Lord once and for all.

But the people had a choice way of saying it.

' Not bold - old.' They said, ' A lion without teeth.'

He recalled reading another tabloid, this time one Mrs Weasley was
subscribed to. One side painted him a hero, the other a man long
past his prime, with no skill in administration only waning skills in
combat.

This was to prove to the people their Ministry still held the strength it
once had, to instil the common witch and wizard with the confidence
to stand with the Administration.

Their confidence was an illusion. Even Harry wasn't naive enough to

believe otherwise. A fantasy that would fade indefinitely with time.
What came after, he couldn't say. Though he felt like they'd have
been far more successful if they'd shown them the memories of
Dumbledore in the atrium, he was far more awe-inspiring than any
amount of Aurors that could be mustered.
After a short march, they made it to their destination - the Leaky
Cauldron. A few Aurors went in first to ensure it was clear, then the
rest filed in.

" Wand and spell guard me well!" A group of drunkards sung good-
naturedly in the corner, the only sign of life in the pub outside of quiet
patrons, " Or else I'm fucked and doomed to hell!" They finished in
raucous laughter, knocking together sloshing tankards.

One got up to sing the next verse, but another caught sight of the
Aurors and stopped his friend. The view of the Auror contingent and
the Minister himself seemed sobering enough to force them into
silence.

Tom seemed to be idly cleaning a glass behind the bar as Aurors

began to close doors and windows around his inn.

"What can I do for you, Minister?" The barkeep asked politely. He

couldn't afford much else but acquiescence in this instance.

"We'll be making use of one of your rooms." The Minister said

succinctly.

"Very well," Tom relented, "Can I get you a-"

A hand from the Minister cut him off from any further questions. It
appeared the Minister wasn't exactly personable. They found
themselves in a fairly shallow room, the Headmaster accompanied
both himself and the Minister into the compartment, although the
Minister seemed quite angry at the uninvited guest.

The man sat down and sighed in relief. It was clear his leg pained
him greatly. He sat his cane down next to his seat and leaned
forward, so his elbows sat on the table.

"I'll be candid with you Mister Potter, I've never been one for pretty
words and half-truths," The man said, shooting the same predatory
gaze, "We're losing this war, we've been losing it since before it truly
had begun."

"It's almost like someone was trying to tell you." Harry snarked, aside
from a look of annoyance, the man ignored it.

"To put it in the simplest of terms, you need the Ministry and we need
you." He admitted, though he seemed to loathe doing so.

"I fail to see why I need you, the same people that spent the last
year slandering me about the same Dark Lord you're trying to fight."
Harry said, his anger running hot and scar twitching in anticipation.

Scrimgeour might've been content to let the first comment go, but
the second set him alight.

"Grow up." The man said simply, "The previous administration was
as much my fault as it was your own."

"I suppose it's changed now? Has it?" Harry shot back.

"No. It hasn't." The man regarded him with a harsh glare, "The rot
has had the better part of two decades to infest in the Ministry and
there's not a day I don't curse the hole Fudge dug for us. We've little
but leaks and words - the ship is sinking, Potter, but we shall not
drown while I live."

"Excuse me if I don't share your confidence." Whatever the man

said, he was still reticent to trust the same government that tried to
kill him.

"I'm not going to argue in circles Potter," The man growled

menacingly, "Help or hinder, that's your choice. But how many will
die because you were too prideful to work with the Ministry?"

"Pride has nothing to do with it." Harry retorted.

"Nothing?" The man scoffed, "Aye, nothing. I'm sure those pretty
words seem believable, it's a shame the dead won't hear them. I
wonder how many will have to die before you stop believing that
farce. I've seen men fall, good men. You want to be apathetic to our
cause? Be my guest." He rose up to his full height, his hands on the
table. His wounded leg shook under him and he didn't allow Harry to
retort, his scarred visage began to contort in a simmering rage that
he'd been trying desperately to beat down.

"I didn't get these scars by playing politics with Bureaucrats boy! "
The man snarled, if he looked a lion before, now he was a beast
now, unleashing its unbridled fury with its fangs bared. "I've seen
what war is like, Merlin above boy! I've fought in one myself and I'm
going to be amongst another, you want to cower behind
Dumbledore? Do it. But the darkness is coming and mark my words
boy. It'll be the ruin of us all."

He wanted to scream it was unfair, that it shouldn't be his

responsibility. But anger wouldn't get him anywhere, wishing it wasn't
so would not make it otherwise. Tearing the room apart would feel
good, releasing his pent up rage was momentarily advantageous.
But when he came tumbling back to earth, it was the same reality
he'd tried to escape. Running would do him no good.

"So I'm supposed to save them all am I?" Harry returned, but his
resolve was faltering, and Scrimgeour seemed to smell the
weakness like blood in the water.

"No, but some are better than none," Scrimgeour said, his voice
losing its edge as he pushed his advantage. His fury calmed and his
face lost his anger, he knew he was close to his quarry. "I'm in this
position - in this world a little while longer, to make sure others stay
here too."

Harry went to speak, but the man seized the advantage again.

"For whatever reason, people look at that scar and however little or
large it may be, they feel hope. The Ministry can't do that,
Dumbledore can't do that - but you can. I'm not asking you to forget
what the Ministry did to you. I'm not asking you to work for us. But
that scar is a symbol, one this nation needs. Like I said, help or
hinder. The former means we might be able to stand and fight; the
latter makes you a coward. Apathy won't serve us well Potter. It'll just
kill us all."

Harry seemed to sit in silence for what felt like an eternity, mulling
over the importance of the man's words. He looked to Dumbledore,
but he found no wisdom in the older man's eyes for him to follow.

"What do I do?"

The worlds were simple, and for the first time, he saw something in
the old lion's yellow eyes that looked conspicuously like victory.

"Done," Scrimgeour said immediately, before limping out, his

detachment forming around him as they apparated away.

"Not the most eloquent man, but a far more advantageous leader to
have, a sight better than Cornelius was ever going to be during the
war," Dumbledore commented on the retreating form of the Ministry
workers. It was the first time the man had talked in a while; he
remained mostly silent through the exchange.

"Did I do the right thing?" Harry asked, unsure of his actions.

"I believe you made the best out of an unfavourable situation. Rufus
Scrimgeour is a warrior, he's no bureaucrat, but he is cunning. If you
had too easily fallen into his pocket, you'd be forever jumping
through hoops on his command." The older man said, straightening
his robes as he stood up.

"You make him sound like a bad choice." Harry frowned.

"He's not a bad man, better than most. But no man can occupy that
position with ease, the power takes its toll, and few can subvert its
influence for long. Power and politics are a volatile mixture, sickly
sweet, but corruptive even to the hardiest of men." His long beard
twitched with his words, "It takes a particular sort of man to sit in that
chair, one that Rufus Scrimgeour is not."

"Then why is he sitting there?"

"Because for all his faults, Rufus is better than most."

He nodded at the Headmaster's sage advice, unsure of what other

action he could take.

"Do you think he was telling the truth? About the Ministry falling?"

"It's very likely he was," Dumbledore confessed. "Rufus is a proud

man and wouldn't ask for help unless necessary. Cornelius spread
rot within our government for years. We're ill-prepared for what will
come."

It worried Harry even more that Dumbledore knew the price of failure
as well. They left the small room and the Headmaster bid Tom
goodbye, a far greater courtesy than the Minister afforded him.

Dumbledore watched as Harry left, barrelling through the Floo

Network, back into the lively atmosphere of the Burrow.

Harry arrived home, once he was sure that the Weasley matriarch
knew of his return, he brushed off questions from Hermione and
conversation attempts from Fleur. Feigning tiredness, he retired to
his room.

He took a seat on his bed before taking his glasses off. He rubbed at
his face tiredly. It seemed like every step forward he took in figuring
out where he stood in this war was soon tossed asunder from
something coming from every direction.

The way everyone talked it was as if the world's weight sat upon his
shoulders, teetering on a dangerous fulcrum that hovered over
peace and destruction. Hundreds were dead or injured already and
the war had barely begun. Britain looked to him for a saviour and he
was unsure if he could amount to what they needed.

Things wouldn't get easier, he had to get stronger, for his sake.

For everyone's sake.

Of Counsel Unheeded
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Of Counsel Unheeded

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Big thank you to my Beta-Readers, x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid for beta-reading the chapter and saving it from my
terrible grammar.

Be sure to review, favourite and follow if you enjoy. Mostly the

former, reviews help me grow as a writer and I appreciate them
greatly.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

The Weasleys possessed many admirable traits that made Harry

come to love the atmosphere of the Burrow. However, tidiness and
sound organisation could not be found amongst their ranks.

There was a crescendo building in the Weasley household, an

unmistakable tension that would grow exponentially as the remaining
few hours they had at the Burrow waned into nothing. The Weasleys
had been operating under the annual anarchy that was the return to
Hogwarts for days now and finally the day of reckoning was upon
them all - September First.
Harry had been fully packed for days, sans the few articles of
clothing he required. The house-elves Dumbledore sent to retrieve
his trunk had done a fairly thorough job at packing what he needed,
anything else wouldn't have been sorely missed. Hermione and
Fleur had also been packed for quite some time. The former by
virtue of her own tidiness, the latter was a mystery to Harry. He was
unsure if Fleur's eagerness to begin at Hogwarts was born from
excitement or anxiety, but the last few days had seen her acting
differently from the norm that was Fleur Delacour.

Outside his room, the Weasley family seemed to be preparing

themselves with all the fervour of a roaring fire. Ron would
sporadically burst into their shared room, throw the room apart in a
desperate bid to find something left behind. Inevitably, he'd leave the
room empty-handed and Mrs Weasley would take his place, tearing
it apart with equal enthusiasm albeit in a much more dignified
manner.

The shrill, piercing shrieks of Ginny echoed through the house as the
Twins, who swore they were only here to wish their siblings farewell,
did their utmost to ensure chaos reigned wherever they could
manage.

Harry very much preferred the solitude of his room as opposed to

braving the depths of the lounge room amidst the chaos. He
retrieved his wand and flicked it, levitating the trunk onto his bed in a
blasé use of his newfound ability to perform magic without the trace
sensors detecting it.

That had been one of the few boons the Minister chose to grant him
against the many concessions he was forced to make.

" That scar on your head is little more, but skin marred red and
purple," The old lion spat when Harry started to inquire as to what he
was getting from their 'deal'. " Aye, I've got ten scars for every one of
yours. Don't presume to think that it truly holds any power over us,
and presume even less to ask anything of me."
Despite what the man said, he saw the benefit in providing
something in return. Though he felt that was more a result of the
ministry worker that seemed to whisper counsel to the older man
rather than the Minister's own idea.

With whatever heated debate the man seemed to have with his
advisor was rectified when he relented and before they left the Leaky
Cauldron, the process was finalised and he was free of the Ministry's
trace. He thought to push for his friends too, but after seeing the man
after that he'd wisely decided against it. Although he'd only met the
man once, it was enough to know that Scrimgeour wasn't one to be
bargained with. Each word that Harry spoke contrary to the man's
own plan set his pale yellow eyes alight with a thinly veiled anger
and he was smart enough to know pushing the man wouldn't end
well.

That, of course, was the second of his requests, the first sat at the
top of his trunk. He flipped either latch of the leather-bound case and
pushed the lid open, fishing out the first item he saw, the last he
packed.

' SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT?'

The headline was published a few days ago and to Harry's surprise,
was the easier of the two to convince the Minister of. He was eager
to be shown as righting the wrongs of the previous administration. It
at the very least hailed him as what he was, a hero. It wouldn't
retrieve him from the veil, but at the very least he'd be heralded as a
hero as opposed to being scorned as a coward.

Beneath the article was the price of his bargain - a letter.

One written in his hand, but not his words. Only a single one, but
with the promise of more to come. His liaison to the Ministry, whom
he didn't know the name of simply sent letters for him to copy and
send back. That was the extent of Scrimgeour's master plan,
publishing the words of a teenager in the Daily Prophet.
" If you so meekly fell into his hands, you'd be forever jumping
through hoops on his command." Dumbledore's words echoed
hollow, for he felt like he'd be jumping through someone's hoops no
matter what he did.

It made him feel dirty, tracing words that weren't his own to publish
thoughts that he wasn't sure he believed. While he wasn't always a
paragon of intelligence, he wasn't dull either. He knew the
significance of his words, but that didn't make it any easier to pick up
the quill.

But they weren't the objects that held his interest at the moment, he
wiggled his way through robes and shirts until he grasped a book,
dragging it upwards through his other possessions.

AUROR PERSONNEL HANDBOOK

Property of J. C. Potter

The exterior of the book was fairly pristine, a dark blue colour that
had stood the test of time. The writing underneath it less so, his
father's name was scribbled beneath it and wore the scars of the
years.

He ran his finger over the indentations the quill left, some of the ink
freeing from the page under the rough skin of his finger. He wasn't
entirely sure he could describe what he was feeling, instead of
turning the page his eyes remained affixed to the signature that
adorned the front page.

It was the first time he'd ever seen writing in his father's hand. The
inscriptions on the Marauder's map were written by Remus
presumably because his handwriting was the neatest. He'd seen
Sirius' writing countless times in letters delivered by tropical birds,
but this was something different entirely.

He traced his finger over the signature again, if only to ensure it

wasn't a facade. He had the cloak and the map, he had photos and
stories, but this seemed to be a piece of connective tissue to his
father that was far stronger than the others, though he couldn't
explain why. Their writing was similar but held subtle differences,
where Harry's hand was blocky and obtuse, his fathers was more
refined. It took him a moment to gain composure, everything he
could've had, everything he should've had seemed to be embodied
in a single signature.

He pried the covers apart, releasing a thin layer of dust trapped

within the pages. At first he just sporadically flipped through the
pages not taking particular note of what they held. It held the aura of
something that was well-read, there were annotations in the margins
and the corner of some pages were folded as if his father intended to
go back to them.

He lingered on one of the margins of a disabling jinx, one that spun

the victim around in fierce revolutions until they passed out, a hastily
scribbled message adorning the margin of the page.

' TEST ON SIRIUS A.S.A.P'

He began to peruse the pages of the handbook and to his surprise,

most of its pages were comprised of subject matter outside of
duelling and combat. The first half was dedicated to Auror protocols
and various laws and treatises that didn't particularly hold his interest
and judging by the lack of wear on the pages, neither was it his
father's.

" Contusio," Harry whispered, testing the foreign words and

committing the spell to memory.

The Concussive Charm

Below the spell was an illustration, a rudimentary one albeit fairly

enlightening. The drawing of a wizard seemed to use the spell and a
few figures in front of it seemed to topple over. As the figures began
to rise, the illustration reset itself and it cast the spell again.
There was a small glimmer of hope that rose within him, remnants of
a dream long since dashed. Perhaps he could become an Auror, in
all but name.

A particularly loud thump followed by Mrs Weasley's shrill voice

screaming broke Harry from enrapturing pages. He'd been reading
for close to half an hour and the pair still weren't finished packing.
Harry sighed, moving to place the book back into his trunk from
where he'd retrieved it.

"Are they always this rowdy?" A voice laced with poorly laced disdain
asked from outside the room, though he didn't need to peer from his
position over the trunk to know the face. Fleur Delacour had become
a regular at his door.

"Mhm," He murmured in agreeance, "You should have seen it in my

second year, they had five kids going to Hogwarts instead of two.
Not to mention two of them were the twins. It was chaos."

The thought seemed to scare Fleur, another loud crash rang out and
Fleur winced as if in pain.

"You okay?" Harry queried, catching the latter half of her grimace.

"Fine," She said tersely as either Ron or Ginny tried their best to
imitate an earthquake, "Veela have sensitive hearing, nothing to
worry about." She waved off, having weakness on display seemed to
perturb her as much as the noise.

"Wouldn't it be quieter downstairs?" Harry asked as another

clangorous noise rang out that sounded conspicuously like a
dropped trunk.

"Nowhere's quiet in this house ." She shook her head, looking up as
if she could see the source of the noise through the roof.

She tried to maintain the facade of civility, but her voice betrayed her
true feelings although he was unsure if it was born from her pain or
her feeling comfortable enough to do so. He was naive enough to
assume their acclimation to Fleur meant the tensions might ease,
that her willingness to be more friendly might've bridged the gap - it
hadn't. She'd stripped Hermione of her intellectual superiority, Ginny
of her brother and Molly of her first-born, crimes that as far as they
were concerned, weren't atoned for.

Bill hadn't been to the Burrow reliably for weeks, his contract moved
him place-to-place sporadically enough that he could hardly make
time for home life. She was lonely, although she did her utmost to
hide it. Alone and with the majority of the house against her, her ire
was often indiscriminate. In many ways, they were far worse off from
when they began.

"What were you reading?" She queried, breaking her self-imposed

silence.

"My dad's old Auror Manual." He said, referencing the book that he'd
just stowed back into his truck.

"Anything of use?" She asked eagerly, the reference of the book

seeming to pique her interest.

He nodded, and she set herself down beside Harry on his bed.

"Mostly stuff that won't really help us," He said, thinking back to the
first half of the book, "No wards from what I could see, just some
stuff that could be good in a duel."

"Fancy yourself a duelist then?" She asked, her lips shifted in a half-
smirk.

"I'm alright." He shrugged, not wanting to play into her hand.

"Just alright?" She smiled smugly, "I'll have to test you then, no
protege of mine will be a lacklustre duelist."
"I've duelled and beat members of Voldemort's Inner Circle." He
scoffed, her tone was bordering on condescension.

"Perhaps," She weighed, "Or did they want you to beat them?"

"Maybe," He considered, "But I beat them nonetheless."

"Sure," She smirked, "But you haven't beat me."

Harry had to concede that point, he hadn't and he was unsure if it

was hubris or skill that prompted her boasting. Silence reigned for a
few seconds before she regarded him again.

"Say," She began, this time a bit more passive. "Do you think I could
borrow that book when you're done with it? It might have something
helpful."

Harry took his time to mull over her question. They were friends, that
was undeniable, but he was reluctant to relinquish the book to
anyone else.

Fleur seemed to sense that same reluctance and he was soon

caught in an awkward silence.

"I suppose," He relented, "As long as you're careful."

"I was going to cut it in half until you said that," She joked light-
heartedly, presumably to set him at ease about his decision, "But
thank you."

He hadn't taken the time to truly examine her since she'd been in the
room, in her hands she clutched a piece of parchment and a
browned envelope. If he was the paranoid sort, he'd assume she
was almost trying to shield it from view.

"Writing to someone?" Harry inquired towards the letter in hand.

"Oh," She said in a rare moment of surprise, seeming to forget she

held the letter in hand, "Yeah." She finished lamely.
"Gabrielle?" Harry guessed.

The Veela crinkled her nose, appearing to dislike the sudden scrutiny
she was subjected to, but nodded.

"She'd be going to Beauxbatons this year wouldn't she?"

"Next year," Fleur amended, "Maybe I was right. Maybe you are
interested in my sister?"

"Sod off." He shot back, though not unkindly, Fleur merely laughed
before continuing her prodding.

"Should I tell Gabrielle she has some competition?" The French

witch asked with a half-smirk, the momentary flash of dislike
disappearing in an instance.

"Pardon me?" Harry asked, unclear of her meaning.

"Shall I tell her of Ginerva's longing glances? " She said, the last two
words dripping with a seductive tone, "Or do you think I'd best save
that for later?"

"What do you mean?" Harry questioned, feigning ignorance, but the

heat rising in his cheeks told her a different story.

"Don't play coy Harry," She laughed slyly, "Methinks you have an
admirer in the Weasley household."

"I'm not so sure of that." Harry frowned.

"Of course!" Fleur agreed with false enthusiasm, "I'm sure she
wakes every morning wearing her finest clothes and her hair done,
all to have breakfast with her brother's friend."

"She's done that for ages." Harry argued.

"But does she do so with only her brothers?" She queried, her ocean
blue eyes meeting his emerald in a fierce stare.
"How am I supposed to know?" He retorted, not entirely comfortable
where the questions were leading.

"I think you know," She refuted in turn, "I also think she's quite
jealous of me, non?"

He frowned at that comment, "No one is denying your beauty Fleur,

but I don't think Ginny wants to be you."

She chortled, that same full-blown, infectious melody but this time it
made him feel like he was the butt of the joke, laughing at something
he couldn't quite figure out.

"Non, she doesn't want to be me for my beauty," She shook her

head, the mirthful smile still covering her features, "But who has you
in corners for hours at a time reading together? Non, methinks she's
jealous of how much I've been spending time with you."

Harry didn't respond, for he couldn't muster an answer, though the

heat in his cheeks rose and that was enough to set Fleur off into
laughter again.

"Ahh." She sighed in faux wistfulness, "The virtues of young love."

"Young love?" Harry scoffed, "You're not that old Fleur."

"Not that old?" She said in a poor imitation of anger, "My, you do
know how to charm a woman Harry."

"No, in fact, twenty is fairly old." Harry agreed, changing tact.

It was her turn to scoff, "Twenty is a very attractive age," She

disagreed, "I know many women who of their own volition, have
remained twenty their entire life."

"Do those same women bully sixteen-year-olds?" He returned,

although not entirely understanding her words.

"The good ones." She confirmed. "Only the good ones."

"Shouldn't you be sending your letter instead of laughing at me?" He
grumbled, eliciting another laugh from the French Witch.

"Maybe," She teased, "But maybe I should take my time to include

how many times I made her hero blush?"

"Yeah, alright." He huffed, standing up from his bed.

The thumping and rattling upstairs suddenly fell silent and Fleur
seemed immensely thankful for the lack of clangorous noises. Soon
Ron raced down the stairs with hauling his trunk in hand. Ginny
followed soon after with hers floating behind her courtesy of the
Weasley Matriarch and her little purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold, in her
hand. Mrs Weasley followed soon behind, howling at them as they
raced down the stairs. To her credit, she gained instant composure
when she realised she was now in the presence of members of the
Burrow who weren't her children.

"Come along dears, the Ministry cars will be here shortly." She said
sweet, though still red in the face from exertion.

Harry and Fleur did as the matriarch bid, although the latter
grudgingly. Reluctant to flaunt his newfound ability to use magic in
front of Ron or Hermione he was relegated to hauling his trunk in his
hand, Fleur trailing behind him.

Soon enough, the roaring of engines was heard beyond the outskirts
of the Burrow. Eventually, two jet black cars came through the trees,
driving with a fair amount of haste if the dust cloud trailing them was
any indication. The rest of the Weasleys formed up outside, including
the twins, whom he hadn't really seen yet. Both of them being more
content in apparating around and causing mischief.

Fleur turned to Harry, "I'll see you at Hogwarts, I trust you won't
make any trouble for yourself between now and then?"

"When have you ever known me to cause trouble?" He laughed,

shrugging off her concern.
"I can think of a few stories I've been told," She smiled, "Let's not
make another, non?"

The first car pulled up and four Ministry Workers stepped out. The
first one he recognised immediately, Tonks still looked worn after
Sirius' death but the colour had restored to her face a bit. She
approached Harry but was noticeably apprehensive about contact
with her colleagues around.

"Phelps, Roscoe, Fergus. Attention!" She barked, her tone

uncharacteristically harsh for the usually jovial Auror. She was
certainly far different from the time he last saw sulking out of the
Burrow, Remus in tow.

"Hello Mister Potter," She greeted cordially though he was unsure if it

was a result of being on duty or remaining blame that may have
been shifted to him, "Myself and Hitwizards Phelps and Roscoe and
Junior Auror Fergus will act as an escort for your party." The Aurors
began to fan out as the second car arrived, this one was empty save
for the driver.

Tonks flicked her wand and their luggage deposited itself into the
trunks of the rear car. Another flick opened the car doors save for the
drivers as she gestured for them to get in. Harry hopped in the car
first followed by Ron, it was certainly the product of an enlargement
charm, one row of hard leather seats ran where the back seats
would usually be while another full row of seats ran adjacent to those
in front, facing backwards. They all began to pile in including Tonks
and Auror Phelps whilst the other two hopped into the leading
vehicle. With a mechanical roar, the vehicles fired into action and the
wheels began their slow trudge towards their destination.

They'd just begun pulling out of the Burrow when an embarrassed

Ginny admitted she'd set down Arnold and forgot him. Phelps
clenched his jaw and Harry could see how angry he was. The lead
vehicle kept driving until Tonks shot red sparks from the window of
the Car, the two Aurors in the lead vehicle burst out of the car with
their wands in hand. It appeared to be a fairly well-practised
manoeuvre, executed quickly enough that Harry may have missed it
if he wasn't watching intently.

They moved in unison to their vehicle. Tonks whispered something to

Ginny and the embarrassed girl tried to hide behind a shroud of
auburn hair. She hopped out the vehicle with Tonks and the
Hitwizard they'd been stuck with seemed to palm his wand in
frustration.

His frustration was short-lived, soon they returned to the vehicle with
one Pygmy Puff in tow and their journey began again in earnest.

They'd broken out onto the open road and met tar, they drove for a
little while longer before Tonks finally broke the silence, but not by
addressing him or the Weasleys but rather her partner in the vehicle.

A smattering of mutters here and there seemed to be the only barrier

between them and the same silence that had reigned moments ago,
it went for a few minutes before they finally seemed to decide on
whatever they discussed.

She plucked her wand from her wrist holster, raising the dark shaft to
the roof of the car, chanting in a dialect that he didn't understand,
Hermione might've, though she remained silent. Tonks' wand
movements shifted from wayward motions to something more
deliberate and before their eyes, the exterior of the car shimmered
softly from view, camouflaging into their surroundings.

The leading vehicle with the two others, however, did not and when
the first junction came, they diverged onto a different path than their
vehicle.

"Where are they going?" Harry said, regarding the pair of Ministry
workers as the rear of the other car disappeared into the distance.

"They're taking another path." They responded, although not Tonks

like he would've assumed, she seemed hesitant. Her partner,
however, spoke first. His grating voice spoke the answer in a tone
that Harry assumed must've hurt his throat.

"Why?" Harry probed succinctly, whatever the reason he was sure

he wasn't going to like it.

"Because," Tonks said, acknowledging them for the first time since
they left the Burrow, "Your safety is paramount."

"That doesn't tell me why they left us," Harry said, frowning at the
answer.

"Thirteen cars left the Ministry this morning," Tonks explained in a

terse tone, "Up until this morning, none of us knew which car would
house you nor where it was leaving from, but just because we didn't
know, doesn't necessarily mean Voldemort didn't. The Ministry is full
of leaks you see, we've planned accordingly. They'll throw off any
who attempt to track us."

"So they'll fend for themselves then?" The raven-haired teen shot
back, incensed.

"They'll escape." She amended, "As will we should anything arise,

but your protection is our main goal."

There it was, the reminder that it was all for him.

He wanted to retort, to be petulant, to be the child they seemed to

forget he was, that he was merely a teenager caught in their war. But
he couldn't. The Weasleys present seemed intent to blend into their
seats and remain free from the conversation. Tonks and her partner
merely regarded him with piercing gazes. They'd all accepted what
he was.

If the armed guard and escort weren't enough to remind him of that,
this was. As were the other cars of men and women risking
themselves so he might live.
Suffice to say, the rest of the journey passed with an uneasy silence
reigning.

A few hours later they pulled into the overflowing car park of King's
Cross Station. Muggles moved en masse, rush hour slowly
beginning in earnest, enough so that they couldn't safely navigate
and were relegated to parking a short distance from the car park.

The sun was high in the sky and the heat was still surprisingly high
for London. Once they'd pulled into a suitable location, Tonks pushed
her wand into the roof again and the exterior of the car materialised
into view as they piled out. Harry and Ron began passing trunks
from the rear of the vehicle. Ginny's came last and when he handed
her trunk to her, the Pygmy Puff balancing gently on top, she
grabbed too close to his hand, encompassing half of it in her own.
She flashed a smile that seemed to be indecipherable to him before
she trotted off. Maybe, Fleur was on to something.

The two Ministry Workers escorted them towards the station, their
robes contrasting greatly against the overwhelming exodus of
muggles moving to and fro. Though their outlandish clothing seemed
not to garner as much attention as he would've first thought He
imagined there'd been far stranger things at King's Cross Station.
They continued weaving their way through the crowd until they found
themselves past the barrier and onto the platform.

Tonks was directly behind him, the rest of the Weasleys and the
Hitwizard in front of him. He kept his pace until a pair of hands
seized his shoulders and pulled him sidewards, unbalancing him.

"Tonks -" Harry tried to call out as the hands pulled him behind a
pillar.

"Pretend to be tying your shoe." A harsh voice whispered. the same

harsh voice seemed to belong to the arms that pulled him aloft,
Nymphadora Tonks.
"What…" He asked, bewildered at the suddenness of the affair.

"Now." The Auror demanded and Harry did as he was bid, kneeling
down to untie and tie his trainers.

"Listen," She whispered again hardly, enough that her voice was
legible, if only just, "Scrimgeour's planning something, you need to
be vigilant."

"What?" He asked again, although this time born out of concern as

opposed to bewilderment.

"Now's not the time," She hissed peering over her shoulders, "He's
been monitoring the Floo network and owls, he's had advisors in his
office for weeks, make sure you don't tell anyone anything that we
can't handle being public knowledge, understand?"

Harry swallowed hard before nodding.

"Up, quickly!" She bid urgently and he did so, now face-to-face with
each other.

"As for the other thing," She started, sounding like something was
stuck in her throat, "We need to know you're not going to do
something stupid this year."

"Stupid?" He asked icily, his brow lowering in the beginnings of

anger.

"Like trying to avenge Sirius," She elucidated and his anger began to
grow, "We're worried you're going to do something that'll get you
hurt, we just-"

In any normal circumstance, he would've been meek, agreed with

what she said and bid the Auror goodbye. But his scar throbbed with
anger, his veins alight with the righteous indignation he felt.

"How dare you?" He broke through the Aurors words, his own filled
with vitriol.
"Harry-" She tried again, taken aback by the sudden shift.

"You, Remus and the rest of the Order ignore me all of last year,
don't say a word to me after Sirius died and you expect me to do as
you say?" He spat, his scar pulsing angrily with each beat of his
heart. She had the decency to look abashed at his outrage, offering
no defence.

"I think I'll be fine." He snapped, " Thank you for your concern. " He
shot her a final look before stalking off towards the Weasley
contingent, unsure if the Metamorphmagus was trailing behind him.
By the time he'd reached the ginger-haired family, his absence
hadn't seemed too conspicuous. Thankfully, with him being in the
rear of the group they couldn't see his face nor the anger that surely
would be written across it as he did his best to bleed the rage off.
The Hitwizard who had led them there seemed to be aware of the
absence though and searched around for his lost partner.

Molly came around to dispense kisses and hugs between the

children quickly, Harry came last being at the back. When she
reached him she gave him a bone-crushing hug. "I want you to stay
safe dear. Should you ever need it, the Weasley family's door will
always be open, no matter what." She kissed him on the cheek and
sent him with Ron, Ginny and Hermione as they began to board the
train.

Tonks' diversion and being last to board the train hadn't been as
much of an impediment as he'd imagined. He sent a sideways
glance down the platform, originally to see if Tonks was still there,
but he found something of greater interest. Draco and Narcissa
Malfoy, the latter seemed to place a nondescript bag into the
former's hands, who he quickly stowed away. That raised some
suspicions, especially since he saw him that day in Diagon Alley
lurking in the shadows.

In his current state, the task of pushing down the urge to chase the
blonde and seeing what he had was curtailed only by Fleur's advice
in his head.
' You'll catch the rat, but the pack will be smarter for it.' The
melodious voice echoed, he gritted his teeth and stepped through
the door into the carriage.

Once they boarded they were forced to shift through crowds of the
lower years to find a compartment. They eventually located an empty
one. It was of decent size and enough to fit six people comfortably.
Ron, Hermione and Ginny piled in and Harry lurked behind them,
content to let his anger simmer for the moment as the pain in his
scar waned.

They'd been in the compartment for a few minutes before Neville

and Luna found them and began to ingratiate themselves into the
group. Small chatter broke out between the five of them. Harry
noticed Neville brandishing a new wand held tightly in his hand as if
he was scared of letting it go.

"Got a new wand Nev?" Harry asked, nodding towards the death grip
that choked the wand, light in colour where his Father's was dark,
short where it was long, and straight where the other was crooked.

"Yep!" He said excitedly, he brandished it in a wide arc to show it off,

but instead a bright shower of colourful sparks sprung from its tip,
decorating the small space with a series of loud cracks and bright
flashes.

"Bloody hell," Ron cried in fright, pushing himself backwards into

Hermione. Neville briefly looked embarrassed but regained his
confidence quickly, an action that seemed woefully out of place on
the bashful boy.

"Nine Inches, Cherry with the tail hair of a particularly graceful

unicorn." He continued, reciting the description in a wizened voice -
a poor imitation of the ageing wandmaker. "Dad's wand always made
me feel close to him, you know?" He asked, though more in Harry's
direction than the others, he obliged the boy with a nod.

"But this," He continued, "Just feels right I 'spose."

"I thought your Gran didn't want you getting a new wand?" Harry
asked, remembering a conversation they had when Neville was
having trouble learning a particular spell and seeing the old woman's
demeanour when they met at St. Mungo's.

"She didn't," Neville admitted and he could see the glimmer of

insecurity have new life breathed into it at the mention of his
grandmother, "But she was right angry when Dolohov broke dad's
wand. She reckoned if I was going to be fighting Death Eaters I'd be
needing a new one."

"Well good on her then, you were invaluable that night Neville, I
reckon your parents would be proud." Harry said sincerely, the same
glimmer that had momentarily bloomed in the boy's eyes had
vanished under his words.

Neville smiled and moved to sit his trunk on the rack above Ginny
but it was to heavy for him to put up properly, his trunk burst open
and his old remembrall flew out and careened for Ginny's head, she
put her hands up to stop it but Harry's hand was faster, honed by
years of dodging brown balls and motley coloured spells. He caught
the smoke-filled ball within his fingertips, leaning over Ginny to do
so, an action that certainly didn't go unnoticed by the girl.

"Sorry 'bout that." Neville apologised, taking the item from Harry's
outstretched hand.

"That's alright," Ginny mumbled as Harry leaned back into his seat.
"Thanks." She added towards Harry in an even lighter mumble,
before claiming she needed to use the toilet and retreating from the
compartment.

"Maybe it's just a trick to go see Dean?" Harry teased Ron with a sly
look when the girl had retreated from the compartment.

"Sod off, not that slimy git." Ron bit back, clearly annoyed.
"What's wrong with Dean?" Hermione asked, looking between Ron
and Harry with the same harsh glare that dared them to say
something stupid. Thankfully, Ron charged in first as far as the
stupidity was concerned.

"Never really liked the guy." He admitted in a sour tone. "Just not
sure he's the right bloke to be dating Ginny is all."

"That's just immature and insensitive Ronald." She retorted. "Your

sister can make her own decisions."

"Harry can back me up, can't you mate?" Harry just shrugged. He
couldn't say he'd been in the same position nor did he have any
misgivings with his dark-skinned roommate. Though their words
seemed to ignite the same cyclical arguing that had been happening
for years without end. Harry was just thankful for the illusion of
normalcy brought back to him at returning to school and seeing his
friends argue.

Once the train broke away from London into the famous Scottish
Highlands and the hours began to pass, the trolley lady began to
make her rounds. She came and went wishing them well though
Harry chose not to partake in the sweets as he once had. With
further hours passing soon the call for the Prefects meeting came
and Ron and Hermione shuffled out dutifully and Harry too left to use
the loo.

He'd separated from the pair of them and crossed into another
carriage to the toilets. He did his business and exited the small
toilets and found another unwelcome sight on his exit.

It was Draco Malfoy, again.

The blonde boy was still skulking about, presumably to the Prefect's
meeting. The alcove that held the toilets meant while Harry had seen
him, he wasn't so sure of the inverse. The boy walked past and they
locked eyes, though he passed without incident, no foul-mouthed
insults nor threats, he seemed to be intent on his destination more
than anything. Perhaps if he was less perceptive, he might've
missed something about the boy.

His left hand clutched something gingerly, clearly worried about it's
delicacy. It took him a short moment to realize exactly what it was, or
at least, what he thought it was. The overhead lights shone down
brightly and whatever was in his hands reflected the light in an odd
way.

It was a silk bag.

Perhaps, if he hadn't washed Aunt Petunia's silk dresses as a child

as the older woman tried to play the role of a budding socialite, he
might've missed it.

The importance of silk wasn't something that he'd have ignored after
his education on all dark matters by the false Alastor Moody, the
man's gruff voice seemed to ring his counsel in his ears.

Silk, Acromantula Silk specifically was non-conducive to many dark

enchantments, ensuring they could be transported safely without the
holder being cursed. But it was also absurdly expensive, with the
destitute state of the Malfoy Family, they wouldn't have had it to
flaunt their waning wealth.

They had to have had a good reason.

The cogs in Harry's mind began to revolve dangerously.

Draco is smuggling dark objects into Hogwarts.

There was that same rational part in his brain, the same melody of
Fleur's counsel. The pack might be smarter for it, but the temptation
not to learn the rodent's plan was another issue entirely. He had his
plan and with long, purposeful strides he returned back to his
compartment.
He knew Draco better than anyone, at least, so he thought. He had
something, something that was no doubt a danger to someone,
somewhere. Blinded by hatred or otherwise, heeding counsel from
someone who didn't know the boy as well as he didn't sit well with
him.

Neville seemed to be lost in a Herbology book and Luna was reading

an upside-down copy of the Quibbler. Harry fished his trunk down as
quietly as he could, removing his cloak and stuffing it inside his
jumper. The other two appeared none the wiser to his plan. He
moved to the door and quietly opened it, to his surprise, there was
someone on the other side. A younger girl wearing Hufflepuff robes
who seemed particularly nervous. It appeared opening the door in
her face surprised her as much as it did Harry. She went red in the
face and jumped back a little.

"Harry Potter?" She asked nervously.

"Uhh.. Yeah?" He responded sceptically.

"Professor Slughorn requests you and Neville Longbottom in the

Conductor's Compartment for a luncheon." She said as she passed
a note. Harry nodded at her after glancing at the piece of parchment
and she took her leave.

"Nev?" He called behind him.

"Yeah, I heard, who's Horace Slughorn?" The boy asked curiously,

standing up.

"The new Professor, I guess he wants to meet the students he'll be

teaching." He wagered, but he had a feeling he had an idea of what
he wanted - to see who was worth befriending.

Neville hopped up and they bid Luna farewell and headed towards
the front of the train, where they assumed the Conductor's
Compartment would be located as neither had ever been. Harry's
plan to crack Draco Malfoy's 'conspiracy' was shattered for the
moment, he'd have to seize an opportunity in future.

They made their way through the remainder of the carriages until
they got to the front of the train. There was a door that connected the
last carriage that no one was allowed to enter labelled
'COMPARTMENT C', Harry seized the door handle and pulled it
open.

Inside was just a regular compartment albeit a bit bigger. Professor

Slughorn sat at the head of the Compartment, spread along the
seats were all people he'd recognised. To Slughorn's right were
Cormac McLaggen and Marcus Belby. The former he had the
displeasure of dealing with quite a few times McLaggen saw himself
as a womaniser. However, his terrible manners and personality
weren't what Harry would refer to as 'ideal'. The latter on the other
hand, Belby, Harry had never spoken to though he was sure he'd
heard the name from Remus at some point. To his left were also two
confusing guests, Ginny Weasley who looked like she'd rather be
anywhere else and Blaise Zabini, who shot Harry a terrible glare.

"Ah, Harry, my boy!" Slughorn said jovially once he had noticed him
and Neville had arrived. "Mister Longbottom too! How very delightful,
please take a seat. We've got some beverages here, of course, feel
free to indulge."

Harry decided to be easy on Neville and let him sit next to Ginny
whereas he took a seat next to Belby. Picking up one of the drinks in
a fanciful cup with a slice of fruit on the rim. He peered down into the
cup. It was a thin, clear liquid that smelt almost tropical. He took a
hesitant sip of the drink, it burned his throat not dissimilar to the
feeling of firewhiskey. But this time, he belched no flames, only
fought against the odd compulsion.

To laugh? Harry questioned internally, letting out a little snort at the

sip. It didn't taste terrible, so he continued imbibing in the foreign
liquid that seemed to tickle his taste buds gently.
"Welcome you two," The jovial man said again, "We were just
discussing some of the family members I've taught. So Marcus, how
is your Uncle Damocles?" He said, regarding the plump boy to his
right.

Marcus, who at that point had been wolfing through the sandwiches
provided with such ferocity that Ron would be proud looked
embarrassed at the topic.

"He's.. uh… he's good." The plump boy responded nervously,

brushing crumbs off of his face.

"Do you see much of him these days?" The Professor pushed,
clearly not perturbed by the boy's nervous demeanour.

"Not… Not too much, no." He offered meekly.

Slughorn took it in his stride. Harry supposed Slughorn had been

creating social networks for decades, enough so that he was most
likely superb in the art of ensuring conversation continued with his
'supplicants'.

"Ah, well no bother then! I daresay he'd be a most busy man, being
such a successful potioneer as Damocles is, with his creation of the
Wolfsbane Potion and whatnot. The Belbys have always been the
capable sort!" He offered, this elicited a small smile from Marcus.
From the outside, you could see clearly what he was doing, or
maybe it was just Harry's forewarning on the matter. He'd questioned
Marcus and then made him feel like he was a valued member, Harry
supposed he wasn't Head of Slytherin for nothing. The man clearly
had cunning in spades to weave the webs he was so proficient with.

"What of you Cormac?" He turned to the tall blonde. "Last I heard

your Uncle Tiberius was promoted to Head of the Hitwizard
Department and your Father was making his way in the Department
of Labour. How fares that?"
Cormac, in contrast to Marcus, seemed better prepared for
Slughorn's probing.

"They're both quite well. Uncle Tiberius has been doing excellent
work with keeping the civilians safe, and Father is always reaching
higher, us McLaggens are an ambitious sort." He said proudly.

Again, Slughorn took it with ease. "I dare say you are! Well, send my
regards to both of them, it's been quite some time since I made the
company of such excellent men. Though I heard you made good
time in the hunting season?"

"A good season too! Bagged a few Erumpents on the reserve." The
boy boasted and Slughorn's face seemed to push him onwards

Conversation between them seemed to last far longer than with

Belby. Harry was content to observe the older man while he chatted
animatedly with Cormac.

The plump professor seemed to have a gravity about him that

attracted people like Cormac to him. Cormac was forever eager to
boast and impress and Slughorn was eager to listen and befriend, a
dangerous combination. Though the older man seemed to be
holding Cormac's conversation with ease as well as shooting
sidelong glances at Harry with an odd look in his eyes, the same he
had the night they'd met. Harry had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't
like the conversation that was almost certainly ensuing and
continued sipping the fruity drink.

He then turned to Blaise. Harry was particularly interested in this

conversation. He couldn't say he knew too much about Blaise. At
least, not as much as he did about the other Slytherins. However, he
hadn't heard of anyone with the name 'Zabini' being a Death Eater.

"And tell me, Blaise, how is your mother fairing?" He questioned, but
there was a clear edge in Slughorn's voice now.
"She is well, she's currently working on a business venture in Rome."
The dark-skinned boy said tersely. Where the others, or at the very
least McLaggen seemed keen to boast or appease Slughorn, Blaise
didn't seem so eager to please.

"Ah yes, Hera always was a bright and beautiful woman, please do
send my regards," Slughorn said quickly, seeming to want to switch
from Blaise with all due haste without being disrespectful. It made
Harry terribly curious about why that was.

Slughorn turned to the remainder of them in the compartment who

he hadn't talked to. He had to take a different approach to these
three and Harry could see the tact in leaving them for last. Harry and
Neville didn't really have a family anymore, at least family members
who Slughorn would've taught, members that'd be alive. Nor did the
Weasleys operate in the same circles as Slughorn, but they did all
have one common factor that Slughorn was desperate to learn
about. Harry continued to sip his drink before Slughorn turned to
them.

"As esteemed as our collection of guests is," The man began,

affixing his gooseberry eyes on Harry, "I think we'll find no greater
honour, nor stories without talking to you, Mister Potter."

"I wouldn't know what you're referring to, Professor," Harry

responded, trying to see if impudence would free him from the
conversation.

The large man let out an equally large, boisterous chortle.

"I daresay you do my boy," He countered mirthfully, "Your sortie into

the Department of Mysteries was the stuff of legends, or so the
papers say. Please, do us the honour of regaling the tale."

Slughorn seemed oblivious to the reactions of the three, each vastly

different. Ginny looked murderous, Neville nervous and Harry guilty.
But it seemed, in this case, unlike the three prior, he was more
concerned with the story than forming a bond at that moment.
"Us being in the Department of Mysteries was just by chance." The
raven-haired boy lied, disliking how quickly the falsities slipped from
his lips, "Death Eaters chased us from the Atrium there. We just ran
wherever we could."

"So there truly isn't any truth to the rumours of a prophecy then?"
The older man asked, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands.

Ginny chose to make her own addendum. "I don't remember seeing
any Prophecy down there. We duelled near the Hall of Prophecies
but we didn't see any." Neville merely nodded in agreement. Harry
thought it wise to nod too. He made hard eye contact with the
Professor and noticed the glint within his eyes had turned steely.

The lie hadn't passed as well as they'd thought. Ginny was probably
the best liar out of the three of them, having lied to her parents about
riding brooms for years, but the look on Slughorn's face showed he
didn't believe the story for a moment. Harry didn't want to say
anything else. He felt the odd compulsion to procure and start
sipping a second drink and he'd been beginning to feel the
pleasurable buzz that the drink brought. It was clear why he'd set
them out if this was the reaction, that they'd be more compliant to his
questions, more susceptible if they were exposed to alcohol. It was
cunning, he had to yield that much to the Professor.

"I did hear that Albus, or rather the Headmaster made quite a
spectacle, no?" He prompted eagerly.

"I suppose some would say that, sir." He replied evenly, though the
older man was not dissuaded.

"They also said you alone were responsible for felling many Death
Eaters?"

"I think they played up my involvement a bit sir," He replied again,

heat rising in his core at the mans insistent probing, "The Aurors did
most of the work for us,"
The lie again hadn't seemed to have passed the man unnoticed, the
man's light green eyes shimmered with what could've been
construed as mirth. But it only seemed to garner him more interest
from the enigmatic man.

"So truly," The man said, perhaps playing up his astonishment to

cater to the small group, "The Prophet spoke falsely?"

"Perhaps," Harry said, trying to be diplomatic. "I can't say I read it,
sir, not after last year."

"Oh bully," The older man said, "Anywho, I shall not pester you about
it any more, terrible business I'm assured." Despite his saying
otherwise, the man wore a look as if he intended to do just that.

"Perhaps," The man announced, taking a stand with the little space
between him and the table, "I think I should properly introduce
myself."

The man began to launch into a tirade of titles and achievements, or

memories forged inside and beyond Hogwarts. At one point, a
tangent took them so far as for him to detail all his good friends in
the Department of Magical Games and Sports, detailing what he did
for each one.

He sounded very much like an avid collector, regaling the history of

his pieces. This whole affair seemed to be something along those
lines, acquiring new pieces for his collection. He'd plied them with
drinks, interjected himself into their lives, cared about their
achievements. He tried to be the antithesis of what every other
Professor was and judging by his results, it seemed an attractive
prospect to some.

Conversation quieted down soon after the man's long tirade, they
chatted quietly while they dined on sandwiches provided. Harry
didn't eat much, more intent to watch the boisterous man. But he
soon made his way into a third drink, the odd compulsion to pick up
the cup not yet abating. Not long after they'd finished, Slughorn
made a grand gesture, looking at his watch overtly, appearing to be
shocked at what he found.

"Oh my! Look at the time! Less than an hour to Hogsmeade Station.
You'd best get along then and remember, my door is always open
should you need help!" The new Professor bid them well and began
politely shooing them from the compartment.

They began to file out and Harry's plan prior to the long-winded
'luncheon turned networking' began anew, the Prefect meeting would
be long done so Draco would be back in his compartment. More
importantly, Zabini would be going back there. Zabini shot out of the
Compartment. Harry had to be quick, he followed behind him
feigning ignorance until he could pull his invisibility cloak out of his
jacket.

He ducked into the alcove created between a pair of carriages and

donned the cloak. He quickly tailed Zabini with fleet-footed steps,
getting as close as he could without touching the dark-skinned boy.
Though it appeared he wasn't close enough, Zabini flew into the
compartment and closed the door behind him quickly. Harry shot
forward and put his foot between the door, he winced as Zabini
began to slam his foot in the gap.

"What the fuck is wrong with this thing?" He queried as he kept

slamming the door into Harry's cloaked foot. Each time he threw the
door closed, it sent a lance of pain up his ankle. Harry fished his
wand from his pocket, poking it through the cover of the cloak.

" Contusio," Harry whispered. The first spell on his mind was the one
he'd only learned that morning.

The invisible wave of energy connected with the dark-skinned boy,

blowing the door open and him careening backwards into Crabbe
and Parkinson. Harry seized his opportunity and bounded through
the open door although his reflex seemed to be slowed by whatever
drink he'd indulged in.
Pansy had vacated her seat, as Blaise stumbled past her. Harry
placed his foot in the seat and began to hoist himself up into the
luggage compartment. His hand flailed in the attempt to dodge
everyone in his path and accidentally shot across Parkinson's
breasts, who in turn seemed to think Blaise was trying to grope her,
sending them into disarray again. All the while Harry had safely
sequestered himself in the luggage rack.

Draco watched the spectacle with a hyper-vigilant eye and Harry

hoped he hadn't alerted the seemingly paranoid blonde.

"What the fuck was that?" Blaise spat vulgarly once he'd regained
some composure.

"Probably messed with the enchantments." Goyle said gruffly,

recovering from being pushed over.

"There's no enchantments on the door, you lackwit." He spat back.

"What did Slughorn want?" Draco demanded, breaking up the

budding argument.

"To connect with his students I suppose," he said indifferently, "It was
only six of us. That pig Belby, McLaggen, Potter, Weaslette,
Longbottom and myself."

Draco snorted at that. "What is he assembling a club of swine? He's

got the stomach of one, Belby eats like one, Weasley lives in a sty
and Longbottom looks the part." The entire compartment let a laugh
out at that one save Harry. He felt rage build within him about the
comment against his friends.

"Well, I don't foresee I'll be at this dump for much longer anyway."
Draco announced."Something's happening this year, I doubt those
same swine will be allowed back."

Blaise started as if to ask what it was but Draco shot him a glare that
seemed to ward him off from doing just that.
"Do tell Draco." Pansy said eagerly, clearly not taking the cue Blaise
did.

"Not now." The blonde boy ordered, seeming far harsher then what
was necessary.

" Yes, Drakey. Do tell." Blaise said, mocking the pug-faced girl.

"Remember your place, Zabini ."

Harry could hear the hatred within his voice, but the dark-skinned
boy wasn't cowed in the slightest, not this time.

"Of course, My Lord."

"There's only one Lord, Blaise and he'd flay you for your
impudence."

"I'm shaking ." The boy said nonchalantly.

There wasn't much more of interest in their conversations save for

that little tidbit. They talked back and forth about how Hogwarts had
'gone to the dogs'. The only other thing that seemed unusual was
that Malfoy seemed to brush off Pansy consistently.

If the rumours are true, they couldn't get enough of each other last
year.

Last he saw the pair were on good terms, but now he appeared
nervous, jittery almost. He kept his right hand clutched in his pocket,
presumably on the silk bag he'd been trying desperately to hide. It
seemed woefully tame for what Harry hoped to be a moment of
incrimination for Draco.

Harry could see from the windows they were entering Hogsmeade
Station, the resounding noise of the train's horn only served to
reinforce that. Goyle shot up to the luggage rack and swung his trunk
down with a fair amount of force, on its way it smacked Harry's head,
hard. He fought to stop a gasp as he felt blood run down his head.
He saw white and Goyle was wondering what he hit but clearly
wasn't too bothered by it as he walked out of the compartment. The
rest of the trunks didn't worry Harry but his head was still spinning,
the alcohol certainly didn't help his predicament.

Draco seemed to pause for a moment while the others grabbed their
trunks, a look of strange contemplation instead.

"You guys go on, I'll be along in a moment," Draco said, the others
looked confused but followed his orders.

Draco feigned reaching up to his trunk but shot his wand out instead,
plunging under the depths of the cloak.

Harry, to his credit, was not one to be undone in such a fashion.

He took the Hawthorn wand in an ironclad grasp, Draco stumbled

forward a short distance as Harry yanked the wand towards him. The
surprise stilling Draco's words at his lips. Harry lunged forward off
the rack, his vision blurry as the blonde-haired boy was in sight. The
cloak somehow clung to his body as he launched downwards at the
boy.

A spell flung by that Harry didn't hear, a bright white flash that
illuminated his vision for a moment. With his wand stowed away in
his waistband, it would be no easy task to retrieve it. Instead, Harry
resorted to a less intellectual form of battle; one Dudley Dursely had
taught him with blow after blow.

His fists.

He swung his right hand, hard. His swing lacked finesse but did not
want for power, it careened across the distance and struck Draco in
the chin, sending the boy sprawling backwards with a surprised cry.
His vision was still unclear from the knock to the head and
Slughorn's compartment but the bright, almost white-blond hair was
a beacon in the dark. He made to swing another first, but to his
chagrin, Draco saw an opportunity to strike. Harry's arm raised, and
the cloak shifted, exposing the body beneath.

" Petrificus Totalus !" he cried, Harry felt the cloak swing off of him,
he was hardly in the state of mind or body to respond in a manner
that would send the curse careening past him. The distance was too
short and Draco's advantage with having his wand, too great.

The spell struck his body, there was an overwhelming coldness for a
brief moment as the spell washed over him. But there was a
briefness to it, taken over by the sudden fall to the hard ground. The
impact had cracked his glasses, and white spots overtook his vision.
Harry fell the distance to the ground with a sick thud. Draco looked
down disdainfully.

He took a moment to tend to his cracked lip, even Harry could see
the rivulets of crimson making themselves known on his lip.

"I thought there was something amiss. I knew I saw something when
Blaise couldn't close the door, or when Goyle hit you with his trunk.
Didn't your filthy mudblood whore of a mother teach you any
manners?" He gasped, "It's rude to spy on your betters." He followed
that point by stomping his boot into Harry's face, the cartilage
bending under the bottom of his foot with a sickening crack.

He leant down and placed his wand under Harry's chin, but as he did
so, the train blew its whistle again. Draco stood up quickly and threw
the cloak back over Harry.

"They might find you in London; they might not. Good riddance
Potter." He spat a mouthful of blood on the floor of the cabin. The
blonde boy was wroth.

He quickly left the compartment, but Harry didn't see what followed
as the harsh grips of unconsciousness grasped him and dragged
him under its spell.
Hard Truths
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Hard Truths

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Big thank you to x102RedDragon and NerdDragonVoid for

beta'ing the Chapter. Harry learns some restraint and learns a few
hard truths.

Will try and focus on the rewrite for a while, had a lot of fun writing
this chapter. It's a bit shorter than the others, but I tried to take in the
comments about me being too verbose, I hope it pays off.

Please be sure to review, criticism helps me grow as a writer!

Stay safe and until next time, enjoy!

At first, it sounded like a lullaby.

Not that he could ever remember hearing one with particular clarity.
Petunia certainly never did him the service of singing one, although
he doubted she could sing anyways. It could've been his mother, but
yet, this was a voice cut from a different cloth altogether. A melody
that seemed intent on waking the sleepers.
" Rennervate." The same voice incanted softly, " Finite."

Harry groggily opened his eyes, the world was dark around him, his
vision still plagued by bright, white spots, blood continually dripping
down his face from his presumably broken nose. When his vision
cleared he found himself looking into the beautiful, ocean blue eyes
of Fleur Delacour. She seemed anxious, given Harry's current state,
he couldn't say her worry was unwarranted if he looked as bad as he
felt.

"Hello." A familiar voice greeted lightly.

"Fl..Fleur?" He stuttered out painfully, his jaw protesting painfully at

the provocation.

His response clearly gave her some ease as she let out a sigh of
relief. She gently grabbed his jaw, tilting it to and fro observing his
injuries. He let out a little wince when she twisted too far and she
frowned.

He felt her place her wand under his jaw, not unlike Draco did
before, except this time the presence exuded a calming presence,
which was not unwelcomed given his current state.

" Comprimo reintegro. " She whispered, the reaction was almost
instantaneous. His nose shifted back into place and his jaw righted
itself, both echoing in the compartment with a sickening crack.

" Perspicuitatem ." His vision began to clear up and the white faded
into the colours of the scenery.

" Oculus Reparo" Seemed to be the final spell, snapping the frame of
his glasses into place.

"How do you feel?" She questioned him gently, lifting him into a
sitting position.
"As I looked," He japed, although she clearly wasn't in the mood for
jokes. "Not great but better now, thank you."

"I distinctly remember having a conversation many hours ago about

not getting into trouble. Now imagine my surprise when you fail to
show up at the opening feast and I find you looking like you fought a
manticore in a compartment on the train? You're lucky the point-me
spell was so accurate, else you'd be en route to London already."

"I.." he began but Fleur cut him off with a glare.

"Do you want to divulge what you were even doing to end up in this
state?" She said, in a tone that reminded him very much of a young
Hermione.

"I… was following Malfoy." He admitted sheepishly, "He found me

and got the jump on me as they left the train."

Fleur looked incensed and soon became irate. "Do you always
attempt to circumvent our best efforts to keep you safe with acts of
idiocy?"

"I don't need to be kept safe." He bit back. "I just… I made a
mistake."

She let out a snort at his statement. "I found you in a pool of your
own blood looking like the Hogwarts Express itself hit you, not
exactly an amazing endorsement of your refusal to be protected or
counselled. You should've listened to me when I told you to let it lie."

He was forced to concede that point, begrudgingly.

"I still think he's been ordered by Voldemort, he was talking of how
something was going to happen at Hogwarts, he was talking about
Voldemort. I'm sure of it."

"Did he say he was working for Voldemort?" She asked, arching an

elegant eyebrow. "Did you get any proof?"
"Not in so many words." He admitted meekly.

"So you uncovered school gossip?" She said dryly, "What a find. Tell
me, who does Draco Malfoy have a crush on?"

"It's more than just gossip Fleur." He argued, "You don't know him as
well as I do."

"That's where half your problems come from." She said, "You're
blinded by your hatred of him."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. It's clear as day. What grounds do you have to believe
he's under Voldemort's orders? Other than the fact that you dislike
him and his father had joined the Death Eaters?"

"He's been carrying around a silk bag, I don't need to tell you what
that means."

"Heaven forbid the boy buys silk," Fleur said, dramatically. "You're
not going to see sense if your ears are unwilling to hear it, Harry. He
might have something, but that's our job, not yours."

"I'm not going to ignore something if I could stop it."

"See where that attitude gets you?" She said, stretching her hands
out around her, "Sure. You could've learned something useful. But
what if Draco Malfoy was made of something harder? What if he was
truly lost? Then you'd be dead, alongside anything you learned."

"Don't you see?" He tried desperately to convince Fleur, "He's

distancing himself from everyone and he admitted he's not going to
be at Hogwarts for long, it means something. Something is
happening at Hogwarts and he's behind it."

"I don't doubt that. There indefinitely is some plot or another, but
Draco Malfoy is not a tool for Voldemort to wield within Hogwarts.
Like I said in the Alley and if he is, Dumbledore will know about it.
But sometimes the best way to trap your enemies is to play their plan
out."

"So playing out a plan that we don't know is a better idea?" Harry
asked.

"How many times have my ideas seen you bloody and bruised?"
Fleur replied, a superior smirk across her beautiful features and
Harry let out a barely audible sigh.

"We'll go with your ideas then, I guess." Harry shrugged although he

smiled in return despite himself, it truly was infectious.

"You're learning," She deduced, "I'm not telling you to stop playing
the game, Harry. I'm telling you that if you truly want to be an asset,
Play it smarter. "

She stood up and extended a gentle hand, he grasped it and pulled

himself up but his symptoms clearly weren't all remedied as he
stumbled and staggered enough that Fleur had to wrap her arms
around him to keep him steady when walking. Harry didn't know if it
was him or the head injury but he found he quite liked the contact
with the beautiful Witch.

"I was going to ask you to help me map the wards and secret
passages tonight, but I fear you're in quite a state." Fleur said simply.

He shot her a smile and she rolled her eyes, they made it off the
train at the station but all the carriages had been long since gone.

"How did you even get here?" He questioned. "It's a long walk from
the castle."

She patted the pockets of her robes. "I flew here, But that doesn't
look like much of an option anymore."

"What other options do we have?" Harry asked. "Either that or a

long, long walk."
She sighed and thought for a moment before she pulled the
miniature Nimbus out of her pocket before enlarging it. She
gracefully swung her leg over the shaft and scooted forward,
gesturing Harry to hop on behind her. He reached his arms around
and grasped her midsection. If Harry was anyone else he may have
tried to take advantage of the fact they were meshed together so
tightly he could feel every contour of her body. Instead, he felt
terrible, not only that he'd been treated like a punching bag, but he'd
also dragged Fleur away from her first feast as a Professor.

They flew for a few minutes before they touched down where the
carriages usually dropped students off.

"You fly well," Harry commented unsteadily, "Do you do it often?"

"I am Veela." She said simply as if that explained it all. "The skies
were our domain long before any man."

"They had wings." He said, pretending to observe her with a keen

eye. "I don't see any wings."

"Not yet." She warned good-naturedly. "I grew up near a Broom

Racing circuit, I used to race myself."

"Were you any good?"

"I'm Fleur Delacour." She said as if that gave all the explanation
needed.

"Is that an eloquent way of saying second place?" Harry said

cheekily. "Silver always was your colour."

"I don't need to remind you that the Triwizard Cup was silver, do I?"
She mocked.

"See, I don't need to remind you I won that tournament, do I? ."

Harry returned.
"You mustn't be too injured if you can still try and be witty. Maybe you
can walk by yourself from here, or do you just like being close to
me?" She flashed an equally cheeky grin back and Harry blushed.

She let out a gentle giggle before they made it through the archway.
Fleur felt Harry tense and looked for the source of it, to the left of the
gates were a massive pile of trunks with Argus Filch trapezing
through them, searching them individually. Draco was with Professor
Snape, Harry could make out a piece of conversation.

"I can assure you, Argus, my student is not carrying anything illicit
nor should his person come under any undue scrutiny, I've already
searched the boy." Snape said silkily to the older man. Flich merely
grunted and looked at the mountain of motley trunks he had to
search and shooed them away. Draco stared at Harry intently, he
would have assumed a cocky smile would've found its place onto his
face as well. He felt his hand creep down towards his wand.

" Play it smarter ." Fleur reminded him, her breath tickling his ear.

He stopped reaching for his wand but the tension in his shoulders
never abated. Despite what they all said, Draco was here on a
mission and Harry would do his utmost to learn it.

They continued walking once they passed through the front gates,
they soon entered the castle. She turned to him and with a quick flick
of her wand transfigured his current clothing into his Gryffindor
robes. She righted the collar and looked at his face a little harder and
before he knew it, her wand was touching the gap between lip and
nose.

" Scourgify ." She said brightly, the blood that remained on his face
began to scrub away. Though Harry's eyes watered, it felt like his
nose was scrubbed through by a metal scouring pad. He resolved
not to let that happen again anytime soon.

They turned the corner and entered the Great Hall through the set of
large doors. The feast was already in full swing and Harry had
missed the sorting. Quite a few Gryffindors turned to Harry and their
looks turned vacant with their proximity to Fleur. His friends all turned
to him as he took a seat next to Ron.

"Where have you been?" Hermione hissed.

"Just talking to Fleur." Harry waved off succinctly, not all that keen to
begin that certain conversation at dinner. He grabbed a pitcher and
poured himself a healthy serving of pumpkin juice, imbibing
cautiously in the sweet liquid.

"Hey Harry," A voice from his left sounded. He turned and found
himself on the opposing side of Katie Bell's caramel eyes. "Heard
McGonagall is looking to make you Captain."

"I'll refuse then, I suppose." He shrugged

"Why?" Asked the girl, astonished.

"There's a war going on." He pointed out, "I can't really justify
spending much time on something like Quidditch. That and I don't
know much about Quidditch plays."

"Something like Quidditch?" Ron asked, "Starting to sound a bit like

Hermione there mate."

"So I take it you're not playing at all then?" Katie asked.

"I guess it looks like that, I suppose it'll be up to you to take the
reins." Harry said, patting her on the back.

"Oliver will be rolling in his grave I reckon," She said, taking a sip
from her goblet. "Losing his protege and all."

Harry snorted, "If I'm Oliver's protege, we've got more problems than
just me quitting Quidditch."

"To our last cup then." Katie said, pinching Harry's goblet and raising
it, before taking a healthy swig.
"I distinctly remember pouring that for me." Harry said dryly as the
girl placed the goblet back down.

"Consider your cup for the Quidditch Cup." The brunette said with a
wide smile.

"You can't do worse than I would've done." Harry placated the

brown-haired girl.

"You'd be surprised."

"On second thought, you are pretty shite." He said in faux-

agreement.

"Wanker." She swore, and for good measure finished off Harry's
drink.

"Should I put anything on my plate, or are you inclined to ravage my

dinner too?"

"I think it'll be safe," She said, a finger tapping her chin, "But I'd eat
quickly anyways, just to be safe and all."

Harry piled roast beef onto his plate, he was desperately hungry. The
alcohol and getting treated like a punching bag for a litany of
different people worked up an appetite. He'd barely had the first bite
when Professor Dumbledore rose to his winged lectern in the centre
of the hall. The Headmaster tapped his wand onto one of the golden
wings, letting out the harsh, clangorous noise reminiscent of a gong.

"To begin with, We have two new additions to our staff. Miss Fleur
Delacour, whom I'm sure you all remember from the Triwizard
Tournament has graciously returned to assist in safeguarding the
castle against danger." Fleur in the meantime rose and gave a small
curtsey before retaking a seat. She received a smattering of
applause, mostly from her male audience.
"Whilst she is conducting her duty, she has powers congruent to
those of your Professors. Please do not impede her as she goes
about her duties. Reprising his role as Potions Master, we have
Professor Horace Slughorn. As a result of such an appointment,
Professor Snape will be moving to take the post of Defence Against
the Dark Arts." This garnered small applause, mainly from the
Slytherin table.

Dumbledore let the small applause disappear before he began.

"Now, to grim news. You were all searched upon your entry to
Hogwarts and I believe you have a right to know why." The man
abandoned his lectern in favour of walking closer to the tables.

"Many years ago, a student walked these halls, not unlike you. He
was a model student, knowledgeable and kind. But under the veneer
of civility and intelligence he hid a darker side. He perverted many to
his cause within these walls and he would seek to do so again. His
name was Thomas Riddle or the moniker he chooses to use now,
Lord Voldemort." The hall seemed to morph in an amalgamation of
gaps and mutterings.

"His return was obscured from you for more than a year. But I shall
not spin falsities for you, the danger is real, not only and not only
within the Isles, danger seldom pauses to rest. Voldemort will try and
sway you with whispers of becoming a conqueror, of gaining power."

"But you shall find nought but servitude and suffering in the arms of
Voldemort. You needn't look any further than our own Cedric Diggory
for confirmation should you feel disinclined to listen to my counsel.
Your choices are your own, scorn or praise the Dark Lord as you
wish. But do not mistake my words, nor his intentions. He shall seek
to wield you as weapons against one another within these walls to
divide you, to see you do battle in this very school. His greatest
weapon in this war is not the crude matter of spells and wands, but
of minds - your own minds. His greatest weapon in this war is you,
don't let it be so."
His tone backflipped in an instant. "Well! Pip, pip! Off to bed!" He
said before vacating the hall quickly. The remainder of the hall was
as quiet as crypt, the only noise was the prefects ushering the
younger years to their common rooms. Harry was lucky he indulged
in a few sandwiches in the Conductor's compartment as the food
promptly disappeared with the Headmaster and his stomach growled
in anguish.

He watched Ron and Hermione begin to escort the first years to the
Common Room. He stood up from the bench to head to the common
room as well.

"Mister Potter." A stern voice spoke from behind him, dragging his
attention from his quest to get some sleep. He turned to lock eyes
with the speaker, it was Professor McGonagall wearing her usual
attire. "The Headmaster has requested I escort you to his office."
She made a gesture with her hand that he was to start walking.

They made it out of the Great Hall, it was surprisingly desolate but
Harry supposed that the Headmasters words had a profound effect
on many of them. Everyone had always felt safe with Dumbledore at
Hogwarts. For him to admit that danger still lurked likely had a
profound impact on the student population. Harry couldn't fault them
for not being too jovial.

They stepped aboard one of the shifting staircases, it was taking its
time to revolve to the next landing. Professor McGonagall decided to
speak. "I do hope, Mister Potter, that I might persuade you to take
the Quidditch Captaincy this year?"

Harry shook his head at her. "I don't think so, Professor. I wasn't sure
I was going to play this year. I love the sport but I don't know if I can
justify spending so much time on it, with what is going on outside."

Professor McGonagall frowned. "I would've hoped you would play

this year, but I understand your decision. You more than any, Mister
Potter, have a weight on your shoulders and I don't want to
contribute to that unnecessarily. Though I think I'll come to miss the
assured place the trophy had in my office."

"I'm sure Katie will do an excellent job."

"Yes, Miss Bell will have quite a task set out in front of her with the
training of a younger team. It is truly a shame, dare I say it, you were
one of the best Mister Potter."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry said simply. The remainder of their

journey passed in relative silence.

They arrived at the gargoyle guarding his office, he peered at them

from his perch.

"Manticore Minties." Professor McGonagall said clearly, the gargoyle

stepped back from its position standing vigil and the spiral staircase
appeared, ascending to the Headmasters Office.

"I'll leave you here Mister Potter, good night." McGonagall said
before turning about and disappearing down the same corridor they
just walked through. He ascended the stairs, steeling himself to see
the carnage he wreaked the last time he stood in this office.

He finished the final few steps and came face-to-face with the
Headmaster's Office.

It had been enlarged, Harry noticed immediately, where a hoarded

room used to lie, the walls extended on either side in a much wider
berth then before. The Headmaster's desk still sat upon a raised dais
with stairs on either side. He could make out Fawkes' Perch and a
large golden pillar with glass, but the Headmaster was noticeably
absent. Though in place of his various trinkets were individual glass
display cases with plaques on the front. With the Professor absent,
Harry decided to take a look. There were maybe thirty in the room at
present, many were filled but some towards the back of each room
were empty. Harry decided to walk to the closest, in it was a scarred
chest piece made of some kind of hide. Harry flashed a look at the
plaque below.

The Hebridean Black Breastplate of Sir Theseus Laurier

Sir Theseus Laurier fought in intermittent conflicts in South Africa in

the early Twentieth Century to halt invading Witch Doctors from
influencing and experimenting on the Muggle Population. Laurier led
sixteen separate sorties against the Witch Doctors, pushing them
North, out of the country. The breastplate was a gift from South
African Wizards as a sign of respect, imbued with many of their
traditional enchantments.

He's clearly redecorated. Harry mused. Last time he saw the office it
was in a considerable state of disrepair, now that void seemed to
have been patched with artifacts. The next case was a gnarled piece
of wood, likely about the size of Harry's leg if his estimates were
correct.

The Battlestaff of King Gradlon

Ruler of the Magical Kingdom of Bretagne, said to have raised the

city of Ys from the earth itself. When Sirens destroyed the city's
break wall, and the city flooded, sinking it forevermore. King Gradlon
rode his winged horse against the Sirens, banishing them to the
depths of the oceans with his staff.

"Hello Harry." A voice said from the back of the office, shocking
Harry out of his stupor, he didn't hear anyone enter. "I see you're
admiring my new choice of decor."

"They're nice Professor." Harry said, "If you don't mind me asking
why didn't you display them before?"

"Alas, I never felt the particular need to show off my collection. But
recently, I've had a change of heart," He smiled at Harry. "Just some
of the few items I collected as Supreme Mugwump and Chief
Warlock. Even my predecessor, Headmaster Dippet contributed to
the collection."

A feeble, white-haired portrait behind the Headmaster's desk

seemed to say something, but Harry didn't hear it.

"Have you had them for long?" Harry asked, "They seem ancient."

"Quite some time, I felt now more than ever that they'd be a prudent
reminder of the task ahead."

"Reminder sir?" Harry queried, "Of what exactly?"

"Tell me, Harry." The man assumed his grandfatherly tone, "Do they
have something in common?"

He'd only seen two, but he assumed well enough what the
connection was.

"They fought in wars?"

"A piece of a puzzle, perhaps, but not the full image." The man said,
taking a step towards the displays. "They're stories, not complete
ones either."

"Stories?" Harry asked, confused.

"Indeed," The Headmaster said, placing his hand atop the case
containing the breastplate. "Laurier was indeed a good man in his
youth. But war changed him, as it changes all that have the
misfortune of experiencing it reign. He returned to England a hero
and left the world a bigot. A drunkard so intent on policies of
suppression against others that he was murdered in his own home
by those he sought to stomp under heel."

The man took a step forward and placed his hand again on the case,
but rather the case that held the gnarled wood.
"Gradlon too was a good man once. He raised massive earthworks
to house the magical population of Bretagne. But it was said a Siren
stole away his wife, fearful of her beauty matching their own. When
she died, the Sirens and the rising sea fled to the safety of the
channel and Gradlon stained the waning waves with the blood of
Sirens and innocents alike to fill the void they left behind."

"Neither of their stories say anything of what happened to them

afterwards." Harry noted, still struggling to comprehend the tales, or
rather, history.

"Indeed." The man said, "I imagine when I've returned to the earth,
they shall sing the songs about me and mine. Of my triumphs and
battles fought. Of the man who conquered Grindelwald and yet, they
shall forget all my many faults. The songs they sing will be pretty, but
hollow when the day closes."

"Wouldn't you rather that sir?" Harry asked, "That people

remembered you as a Hero?"

"It's a nice thought isn't it?" The man said offhandedly, "But when
they sing those songs and tell those tales, the aspects that made us
remember, that we need to recall will be absent. No one will
remember why Grindelwald fell to Dark Magic, but they'll remember
how I fought him. It makes for an exciting tale but it shall matter little
when the next Dark Lord rises because we couldn't remember our
faults."

"That's why you want them?" Harry asked, "To remember our
faults?"

"Yes, my boy." The older man agreed, "Oftimes, tales are just that.
Illusions that we weave to help children sleep at night. Sometimes,
we twist them beyond recognition until they only suit our purpose.
Sometimes, they're even lost to memory. But so rarely are they ever
the truth and rarer still do we ever learn from them."

Harry pondered that revelation.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Harry?" The man prompted, his
eyes twinkling. Harry thought a moment longer.

"Voldemort, I suppose." Harry guessed, "His story has been

forgotten, no one really learned anything from him."

"Not yet." The man amended, procuring a thin vial that held what
looked like a cloud of writhing white energy. "Not while we remain."

"A memory sir?"

"Not mine, I'm afraid." The man explained, thumbing the stopper
from the bottle, emptying it into his Pensieve. "A Hitwizard, one who
saw more than any man ever should and a key to understanding the
enigma that is Tom Riddle."

The man poured the vial into the ornate Pensieve, coalescing from
its captivity like smoke as it fell downwards. The water sprouted
tendrils of white, soon turning the entire surface to something akin to
milk glass. It seemed to conceal the memories behind a thin layer of
what looked like morning mist.

"Shall we go?' The Headmaster asked and Harry nodded.

It looks like I'm about to be baptised. Harry thought, staring at the

Pensieve's odd shape as he joined the man into a broken descent
downwards amidst misted memories.

And baptised he was though not through mundane means of water

or fire.

Through something more malevolent all together.

Harry grabbed onto the desk that the Pensieve sat upon, almost
risking plunging himself back into the depths of the memory in an
attempt to steady himself. An uneasy silence sat heavy in the Office
of Albus Dumbledore as Harry returned to his seat.
"They were mad, weren't they? Harry asked quietly.

"Indeed," The man agreed, his eyes uncharacteristically dull. "A vein
of corruption always ran within the Gaunt Family. They, as I'm sure
you know, trace their lineage back to Salazar Slytherin. They married
cousin to cousin, brother to sister in an effort to keep said line pure .
Purity wasn't just an obsession for the Gaunt's. Lineage was their
lifeblood, it ruled them and in the end, it ruined them."

"I see where Riddle got it from." Harry said, his voice hard.

"Contrary to common belief, the madness that plagued the Gaunt

line did not affect Tom. Merope was the first in seven generations to
breed outside of her own kin. No, oddly enough, Tom likely began his
life the sanest of them all."

"Then what changed?"

"The same beast that turned the owners of those artifacts. We are
not the sum of our circumstances, nor is fate certain. But we are
victims of them. Tom grew up amidst four wars, two muggle and two
magical. All he ever knew was hatred and scarcity. Where men and
wizard alike dealt in blood and ichor, rather than diplomacy. Chasing
a legacy he always dreamed of having, but could never truly find
until he came to Hogwarts. He might've been the sanest of his family,
but he could not escape his circumstances. In the end,
circumstances ruined him far worse than the slobbering malevolence
and rhetoric of the Gaunts ever could."

"You sound like you almost feel sorry for Riddle." Harry frowned.

"I do, in a way." The man said, his eyes staring past Harry at the
wall. "Never for the man that he became, but for the boy he once
was, the boy he could've been."

I wonder if I could've been that boy.

"But I don't do this to sympathise with Tom but to understand him, his
own history begets his downfall. Of that much, I am certain."

"Do you really think understanding these memories will help us

defeat Voldemort?"

"Voldemort's defeat does not, cannot, lie with martial means. He is a

symptom, albeit a large one, of a pestilence that's been in this world
for centuries. Pureblood cabals, bigotry and hatred have led to
cycles of war, discord and famine since the time of the First
Warlocks. We can eliminate Voldemort, but his ideology will persist.
We can abate the symptoms, but the sickness remains uncured. We
merely sign another armistice until they gather their strength and
prepare to impose their hegemony once again."

"So it's not just Voldemort's defeat that lies in these memories?"
Harry asked.

"In a way, I suppose, the contents of those memories provide ample

context of the man who became Voldemort." The Professor
explained, "They let us see the conditions that gave rise to his
ideology. They show us how he could become the man he did, but
they also show us something else. Something far graver."

"Professor?" Harry asked, confused.

"I told you all those nights ago, Horace had a greater reason for
being here. All those years ago, he gave Tom Riddle the answer to a
question he'd longed for - a method to circumvent death. Horace has
always been the scholarly sort, he delved into the esoterica of some
of the darkest magic. He told Tom something that night, something
that keeps him tethered to this plane of existence, whilst he is bound
to this world, he can never truly be banished."

Harry felt it again, the immense pressure on his shoulders again, like
the weight of the world wanted to drive him into the floor. Not only did
he have to first discern and decipher the methods Voldemort used to
gain immortality, he had to be strong enough to best him.
It took a moment for Harry to absorb the gravity of the situation.
"How…" He swallowed what felt like a lead weight. "So we need him
to tell us?"

"We do, but he's far too reticent to share the truth with us."

"Why?"

"Horace is a socialite. A collector and an enthusiast. The currency he

has always coveted was favours and names, both of which are
invaluable to a man cut from the same cloth as Horace Slughorn."

"He can't be that powerful, I doubt half of us had heard his name
before today."

"The throne is a position of grandeur, Harry, that is without doubt. But

some prefer the comfort of the backseat, of being the power behind it
rather than the face."

"To pull the strings I suppose?" Harry guessed.

"Indeed. None of the recognition, yet all of the power. Horace is

nothing if not ambitious."

"How do we get the information from him?"

"As I said, Horace was an ambitious man. Yet, he favoured no

student more than a young Lily Evans. For all his obsession with
names and power, he befriended a muggleborn girl. Whatever may
be said about your Mother, Harry, she truly was a gifted witch. He
cared for her deeply and I daresay he shall care for her son equally. '
The Chosen One' is a title that has never found its way into his
collection."

"So you need me to find a way into his collection?" Harry asked,
unable to keep distaste from his voice.

"Simply make yourself available." The older man said, "Horace has
seldom resisted temptation. Make yourself available and your
opportunity will arise."

"Why haven't you just asked him yourself sir?"

"Would that I could, Harry." The man explained, looking sombre,

"Horace was never the same man after the war. His own involvement
contributed to the death of his favourite student. A sin, I fear, he shall
never stop atoning for. But the man only speaks half-truths and
falsities to me. Fake memories in place of real ones. We need hard
truths Harry and I cannot get them."

"I'm not sure."

"You may yet be our only chance of persuading Horace, Harry. I'm
afraid our reservations will have to wait for safer tidings."

Harry nodded, there wasn't a whole lot else to do. It seemed every
moment the weight grew in intensity.

"Well then. Before I release you to the comforts of your own bed, I
fear I have one more item on our agenda."

"Of course, Professor." Harry responded.

"I've been told you may have had an altercation with Mister Malfoy
aboard the Express?" The older man asked, leaning forward. His
eyes seemed to hold an edge that would dissuade him from lying -
not that he would anyway.

"I did," Harry said, having the good sense to look abashed.

"Fear not, I shan't chastise you Harry. I fear you've paid your dues
enough for one night." The man seemed to lean closer, his eyes
twinkling in the candlelight. "But I'd implore you to heed my advice.
Do not push Draco Malfoy any further than you already have, lest he
reacts."

"I'm sure I could beat him sir." Harry argued, but he couldn't help but
wonder whether his impudence was born from the afront out of his
feelings for Draco, or his besting of him.

"You are uniquely talented, yes." The man acquiesced, "Although I

speak not of his prowess versus yours. It appears we've so easily
forgotten the contents of this discussion. Martial might is not a
ubiquitous solution for every problem that you'll ever face.
Sometimes the wand is mighty, but just as often picking up the quill
will suffice."

"He's brought something with him to Hogwarts, sir." Harry tried,

desperate to make the man see reason. "I'm certain of it. We-"

"I'm well aware of the fact a plot surrounds Draco Malfoy, Harry." The
man interrupted gently.

"So why let him come back to Hogwarts?" Harry questioned

pointedly, "Surely that'd risk more people then expelling him."

"As opposed to letting him roam free under the tutelage of his father
and others?" Dumbledore pointed out, "If we ever want anyone to
see our way of life as superior, they need to know it's different. If we
incarcerate a boy that's been coerced by his father his entire life,
shall he ever see us as better then what he's always known?"

"I'm not sure Draco would ever come over to our side willingly." Harry
frowned,

"It is indeed a great victory to best your foes in combat." The man
counselled, "However, the greatest victory lies elsewhere. When you
can make a foe see your ideals, through your eyes, as opposed to
closing theirs forever. Only then, have you truly bested them."

"Of course sir." Harry said he saw the man's point, even if he didn't
fully agree with him.

"The night quickens Harry, I believe I've held you here for far too
long." The man stood up from his desk. "I shall be sure to contact
you for our next meeting. Otherwise I believe you'll find
perseverance will help you greatly in getting into Gryffindor Tower."

Harry bid the man good night and descended down the same stairs
he'd ascended some time ago. Although he felt far heavier as he
walked away, the Headmaster's gargoyle staring intently at his
retreating form.

Hogwarts seemed uncharacteristically still, or so he thought.

The hallowed halls were silent. Whatever griseous-hued moonlight

that made it into the castle undispersed by the stained windows
seemed dull. Even the various cries and snoring and in the case of
Sir Cadogan, longsword duels seemed muted.

He'd debated going to Gryffindor Tower, but there he'd likely be

confronted with friendly, familiar faces. Although he'd like to see
them, he desperately didn't feel up to the task of false cheeriness for
sake of appearances.

The night was too late to seek out Fleur, even if he'd want to. She'd
likely be settling into her own office and hence, Harry was left to his
own devices.

Those same devices carried him to the left-hand corridor of

Hogwarts' seventh floor as he paced to and fro in front of the stone
wall. Idly noticing the tapestry of the wizard who seemed forever
bound on dodging ineloquent trolls and their flailing cudgels.

The door appeared and he threw himself at it with eagerness, or at

least, as much eagerness as he could muster.

The room before him laid barren. He'd only wished to be alone and
the room saw to it. Spartan, barren, vacant. All words that had shot
into his mind, all meaningless in the end only words to describe how
utterly empty he felt at that moment. He might've been able to mask
that fact from himself. The room, however, was a different story.
Though at this point, he'd long since left his pity behind with the
scores of letters demanding his death. He'd shed his guilt for Sirius,
even amidst the turmoil of his life, however, in this instance, only one
emotion truly ruled him.

His heart thumped hard in his chest, his scar throbbing in unison with
every harsh beat. The tendons in his arm ached and pulled taut, a
power rippling through them that ached to be released.

He palmed the holly shaft of his wand, it felt white-hot in his hand,
yearning to be used. The urge to exhaust himself into sleep was nigh
intoxicating, slowly atrophying his resistance until all that was left
was wrath.

His wand twitched with sudden alacrity and he levelled it at the

emptiness of the room and in a way, the emptiness he felt. He
thumbed every groove of the wooden shaft, committing it to memory.

Play it smarter. Fleur's voice echoed in his ears almost cruelly.

He could still feel the contours of his wand, even as he tossed it to

the floor and the warmth it brought left him, leaving only austere
coldness in its place.

He wanted to let go, to release what he held within, even his magic
wanted it. But the rational part of him, however small it was in that
moment, knew it was futile. The release would be temporary, the
feeling of relief fleeting. Try as he might, his issues wouldn't solve
themselves no matter how wroth he was, nor how many spells he
cast in the empty room.

He could've willed a bed into existence, but comfort wasn't at the

forefront of his mind.

He stared aimlessly into the rafters and beyond that ascended high
into the roof, a mirage of stars glittering across the roof like the Great
Hall.
If he was hopeful, the false stars and imposing wooden beams might
give him some newfound guidance. If he was realistic, they'd be an
idle distraction until the sweet song of slumber rang true and his
current situation faded into nothingness.

Harry awoke at the behest of the morning, the first few lances of
sunlight shimmering through windows that he was confident weren't
there when he'd entered. He gathered his wand and set out towards
the tower with dawn's first swords of morning at his back.

He found himself outside Gryffindor Tower, a muttered '

Perseverance' had the Fat Lady awake, startled, before swinging the
portrait open with a loud screech. The common room was fairly
desolate outside some who looked as though they might have slept
there. He quietly bounded up the stairs to his dorm in hope his
absence wasn't as conspicuous as he felt it was.

He was greeted by a series of drawn curtains, save his own. At the

very least, no one had seen his entrance. Fleur's transfiguration of
his robes had deteriorated and his jeans and shirt had returned. He
fished a proper set of red-trimmed robes from his trunk and set off
towards the shower.

Occupying the one of the shower stalls he undressed and twisted the
handles, revelling in the warm water that ebbed away the tension
that pulled his muscles taut. He hadn't known how long he spent
under the watchful gaze of the showerhead, but his thoughts were
interrupted.

The door opened and a moment later, the shower turned on.

"Dean?" Harry guessed through the stalls.

"Seamus." An accented voice of the Irish boy called out.

"I didn't get to catch up with you on the Express, how was your
summer Seamus?" Harry called back politely.
Seamus wasn't particularly pleased at Harry's presence at Hogwarts
last year and it was a tear in their usually friendly relationship, one
that hadn't been completely mended he imagined. But with
everything that seemed to be on the horizon, the last thing Harry
wanted was more enemies at his back.

Seamus seemed to ponder the question for a little moment, that or

he was too busy showering. Harry had no way of telling through the
shower walls.

"Not too bad," He said, his accent hard to decipher through running
water. "Me Mam's been worried about all this business with You-
Know-Who. Not much good for anyone these days."

"Well it's good to see you back anyways Seamus." Harry said.

He got a little murmur of affirmation through the stall wall, there

wouldn't be any apologies between the two but it was nice to know
his hatred of Harry had abated.

Harry finished his shower and dried himself off before anyone else
entered, gingerly pulling his robes over his head. He decided to find
a home in his bed for the foreseeable future. He decided the morning
couldn't be that new if Seamus was getting ready. He stepped
silently to his bed and fished his father's Auror Handbook from his
trunk. He'd taken to reading a portion of it every night.

He'd progressed through the defensive charms and shields though

he hadn't had the opportunity to read at the Burrow before he
progressed further inwards. He'd always heard that the Aurors' main
goal was incapacitation of their foes, but the book weaved a different
tale.

Harry couldn't tell if the war was an impetus on how they reacted to a
threat but the manual detailed all sorts of gruesome spells. It
seemed lethality wasn't solely the staple of Death Eaters. Broken
bones and crushed foes seemed to be caveats of the Auror force if
the book gave any accurate insight.
It included far more than that of course, of how to bend some spells
and a brief introduction into the art of duelling. Given Harry had no
formal training in the art save from a few lessons from Sirius, it
offered some prudent advice. Harry resolved that one way or
another, he'd have to test the skills he'd been learning eventually.
Though he prayed it wasn't another life or death situation. Harry had
been reading for some time before Ron's snores stopped pounding
his ears with consistent frequency.

"Hullo" A voice called weakly a few moments after the snoring

stopped. Ron peered through his curtains groggily.

"Hey mate." Harry called back, closing his book.

Ron stretched a little and let loose a loud yawn.

'Where were you last night?" The redhead asked, rubbing sleep from
his eyes.

"Had a meeting." Harry said, "Dumbledore needed to see me."

"The whole night?" Ron frowned.

"I came in late." Harry tried.

"Well, Dean reckons he went to get food past midnight and your
curtains were open then."

"Maybe he was really going to see Ginny?"

Ron muttered something Harry couldn't hear, but it sounded like

something not to be repeated in polite company.

Harry sighed as the internal conflict rose again. Last time he involved
anyone in his 'problems' the consequences were dire, he was
noticeably reluctant to endanger them again. Given the battle was
fated to be between him and Voldemort, it made more sense to
Harry at the very least to bear the burden alone. He'd be forever
haunted if he led another to their death.
"So what's up?" Ron tried again.

"I can't tell you mate, after everything we've been through you know I
would if I could, but I can't, Dumbledore's orders even." Harry was
practically pleading with Ron, the less he said about his troubles the
better.

It felt cruel to hold back information from those who had stood by him
through every hardship, but he felt it was crueller to look the
Weasleys or the Grangers, anyone in the face and explain they
wouldn't be coming home because Harry Potter dragged them along
into a war that wasn't theirs. The Ministry battle was bad enough on
that front.

"I get it mate, I do, Hermione might not be so understanding." He

stated offhandedly.

Harry was exulted at Ron's acceptance of the matter, though he

winced when Hermione was mentioned. She certainly wouldn't be so
blasé about disappearances he wouldn't, couldn't explain.

"Mental?" Harry asked.

Ron took a brief moment to ponder.

"You know, I think so." He agreed

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said, "For understanding and all that, I

appreciate it."

"Add a sir to that and I think we'll be even."

"You know," Harry said in faux-wonder, "I am really interested in what

Ginny and Dean were doing last night."

He didn't see the pillow that careened into his face, but it was a price
he was willing to pay for the moment to take some weight from his
shoulders.
These were problems Harry was unsure if he could face, let alone
drag others in.

Though, he pondered internally. I wonder if Fleur might know how to

get information out of Slughorn.

She'd so often bragged that the French invented the dance of

socialites gathering information under the guise of civility and
shrouded by pretty clothes and drinks. He imagined she'd relish at
the chance to get to prove her mettle on her homefront.

Maybe, just maybe. He thought, maybe he had an escape from the

madness before it truly began.

Slinging himself from his bed, Harry pulled the Marauders Map out of
his trunk. Although the hour was still early, the beginning of
Breakfast waned closer as the day progressed further. An idea
formed in Harry's head, perhaps Fleur's Office needed to be blessed
with its first visitor.
Fleeting Normalcy
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Fleeting Normalcy

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Seems I'm riding high off of my previous inspiration, three days
and a 10k chapter, suffice to say, I'm a bit tired.

Massive thanks to x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid as always.

In my quest to be expeditious, I tend to misspell far too many words.
They helped clean it up greatly.

Had a great time writing the 'Mad-Eye' POV, that was enough to
launch me forward, alongside reading some of my old work.

Please be sure to review, I'm fairly new to the whole writing gig, or at
least, relatively new. I thrive for feedback, so please review if you
have the time.

The world, as always, is a crazy place. So stay safe, happy and

enjoy!

THE 'MAD-EYE'
With a crack that imitated a muggle gunshot, Alastor Moody
apparated into the desolate valley. A clangorous percussion followed
his arrival, heralding his allies' appearance.

The small valley was smoke-filled, errant flames licked at destroyed

rooftops, their orange-hued light bathing the surroundings in a sickly
glow.

They apparated some distance away from the houses in a thicket of

foliage and tall, imposing trees. Most of which were felled, cracked at
head height and splintered into shards. The forest itself bore the
scars of battle, but judging by the ruined hamlet, a battle lost.

"They approached from the trees." A feminine voice noted from his
right, the shimmering ebony hair of Emmeline Vance.

"Must've known about them then." Sturgis Podmore added, the

stocky man perched on higher ground. "We're a fair way off, too far
for spells to be very effective."

Sturgis was wrapped in a thick cloak, despite the relative heat. The
man had been released from Azkaban some months ago, but the
cold never left him.

"Could've been a sortie." Emmeline guessed, "Might've reckoned

they could take them in the open field."

"Hogwash." Moody growled, his deep voice cutting through the air
harshly. "They would've needed to have known an attack was
coming."

"Could've had wards." Kingsley Shacklebolt noted, approaching from

the rear.

Mad-Eye gave the air a harsh sniff, "Air's still, if wards were up, they
haven't been taken down."

"Find anything Shack?" Podmore asked, clutching his cloak.

"Apparition site." He said with a shrug, barely visible in the twilight,
"No casualties or signs of magic."

"I dislike this." Emmeline grumbled.

"We all bloody dislike it." Moody said harshly, "We've got no choice
but to investigate."

"What's the plan?" Kingsley asked.

"Kingsley, you and Podmore will approach from the opposite side -
search for survivors. Vance can linger on the hills, await the signal
and send a patronus should those bastards try an ambush."

"You're sure of this?" Emmeline asked, trying to steel herself against

the nervousness, but some still crept into her voice.

"Aye, I like it no more than you lass." The scarred man said, "Pray to
Merlin if that'll help you see dawn, but keep your vigilance about you
for the moment."

"Out of the frying pan I suppose." Sturgis said dryly, standing up from
his position.

They dispersed, Emmeline to the left and Kingsley and Sturgis to the
right. Moody instead, grabbed his staff and set forward across the
dry ground.

His staff was long and gnarled, wrought from old oak. A woven braid
of heartstrings ran down the center of the shaft. It was ungodly to
wield, heavy and unyielding. It lacked finesse but righted it's deficits
easily with its power output. He'd mastered whatever few spells
staffs could use that were useful and wielded them to deadly effect.

He hobbled across the open field and was soon close enough that
the raging fire's heat felt rough on his skin, smoke and ashen wind
staining his lungs, but his advance did not falter. Of all the many
activities Voldemort and his ilk committed, razing was what Alastor
Moody hated most.

The McKinnon's Manor had been razed and with it the last few
relatives he could claim that weren't lost to the pox and age. Their
halls set alight and the family trapped within. He'd been there that
night with the Ministry. His eye gouged from its socket by Evan
Rosier's wand, who's throat was slit in turn. He begged to save them,
to beat back the fiendfyre.

' Not today Alastor,' Bagnold's words to this day seemed mocking,
even if that was never intended, ' They're gone, my condolences.'

The Healers at Saint Mungo's, the Aurors in the corps, they all
claimed they'd seen hell. Skirmishes and dead bodies, broken bones
and prisoners of the war.

What did they know of hell? He lamented angrily, Only a man who's
seen family consumed by flames truly knows hell.

McKinnon Manor had been his finest hour, he'd felled near a dozen
Death Eaters, put Rosier and Wilkes in cold, hard ground. Yet, his
failures tasted bitter on his tongue while he lay in the bed of St.
Mungo's. Skin marred crimson with blood and scar tissue, his single
eye haunted by those same flames and the words that came after.

Not today.

That was the day Alastor Moody ceased to be a member of the

Auror Corps. That was the day Alastor Moody truly died. From the
same crucible that bore the flames that murdered his family bore
something different for the man.

He was the Mad-Eye.

Ministry Malcontent.
From that day onwards, his wand was no longer the Ministry's, it
never would be again. Albus Dumbledore extended a hand, an offer
to try and make a real difference. From that day, he found out who
would have his wand for as long as he breathed. Even on odd
requests such as these.

Even in the harsh gaze of the flames the area was still dark, the lack
of moon offering no guidance to the scarred ex-Auror. But even
without visibility, he could hear it as if they were right next to him.
The gleeful cheers of men and women, the intoxicating high that
came with the dark arts.

His wooden leg clacked hard against hard cobbles when he began
his journey towards the square, their cries echoing in his ears as
cruelly as those words did.

Not today.

He rounded the corner as he saw them all, or as many as he could in

the low light. There were seven, maybe eight in total, herding
wizards and witches into a small circle. He'd fought against worse
odds, but loathe as he was to admit it, he was older, slower. But no
less ardent in his hatred. They'd be slow themselves, high on
courage and victory, but exhausted. The Dark Arts may have been
powerful, but power had its toll.

He thumped his staff onto the hard stone ground, the echo
reverberating harshly in the small square.

Not today. He echoed again, but this time, it felt different.

" τυφλό φως." The man hissed, a ball of bright light forming at the
apex of the old oak, and shooting skywards. Bathing the
surroundings in a bright alabaster-hued glow that removed any
uncertainty of their numbers or activities.

The signal was fired. Emmeline's patronus fled across the hills at
breakneck pace to alert their reinforcements. Sturgis and Kingsley
sprung a trap of their own, bursting from the other side of the square.

"It's the Mad-Eye !" One cried in fear, brandishing his wand towards
the man.

And for the first time in a long time, Alastor Moody was happy.

This is what I was made for. He thought, Not the politicking of

Grimmauld Place, not the bureaucracy of the Ministry - this.

Then, battle erupted. The smell of ozone was hot in the air and the
night was further illuminated by motley coloured spells.

" Tarian Pridd." The man chanted, thumping his staff again. An
earthen barrier rose to protect him from the curses that careened
across the short distance. He threw the staff aside, it had served its
purpose, he drew his long, dark wand and began the butcher's work
in earnest.

Half of the Death Eaters would be engaging Kingsley and Sturgis,

but his foes still approached, hoping to be the one to down the Mad-
Eye .

He caught his first lingering on the flank, trying to use market stalls to
hide his advance.

' Sagitta.'

An arrow sped across the distance and buried itself in the shoulder
of the advancing foe, hard enough to send him sprawling. Another
connected with their calf, enough that he wouldn't be mobile for
some time.

' Contusio.' Shook the earthen barrier free, scattering the distance
between him and the rest of his enemies with dirt and stone.

He found his second with debris, chunks of cobblestone showering

one who made an attempt to rush through the breach. The Death
Eater stumbled through, a hastily erected shield to stop the barrage
of stones that seemed to work.

He was, however, woefully unprepared for the spells that would

follow. A newfound salvo of curses careened into the already waning
shield and sent the cloaked man stumbling backwards over uneven
ground.

' Secare.' Moody swung his wand in a vicious arc, a pale spell shot
from his wand and his retreating foe stumbled over backwards,
clutching his torn throat. His silver mask flying from his face, the man
tried desperately to apply healing spells to the wound that sapped
his lifeblood. But the man soon succumbed and fell still.

His second had been claimed.

He was caught in the open now, the dust from his attacks had
cleared, leaving only open ground between him and the remaining
two adversaries he faced. A lesser wizard would've been perturbed,
a lesser wizard might've fled.

But the Mad-Eye was no lesser Wizard.

Two spells arced across the gap between them, he was no longer
nimble enough to dodge as effectively as he once did. Although that
didn't seem to be an issue as a dark curse of some manner flew
towards him. He didn't even do the man the service of shielding, he
flicked his wand and parried the curse skyward, sending it beyond
view. The second shot forward a gout of blistering flames that
seemed to fail to make the distance, although it did obscure his view
of the pair. It may have worked too, if not for the electric blue eye
that swivelled in it's socket eagerly.

He retook the initiative as a new volley of curses flew towards him. A

transfigured steel spike crossed the gap and the cry that rang out
signified it must've found flesh somewhere. A trio of various
incapacitation spells flew afterwards. The ropes succumbed to the
flames that still tried to obfuscate his vision, his bonebreaker flew
wide as the man repositioned himself. His bludgeoner came too fast
and struck the man head-on.

Probably shattered every rib he has. The man thought grimly as his
enemy crumpled under the force of his spell.

The other Death Eater started blistering heat grew in intensity as he

looked for a way to circumvent the raging flames.

' Accio.'

A brick came loose from one of the few standing houses and flew
towards the man from behind. He stumbled forward, the flames
wavering. Moody flicked his wand again and the earth rose to meet
the stumbling man, flinging him backwards.

He seemed to struggle to retake his feet, but his inability to stand

mattered little. A banished wooden beam removed the ability in
perpetuity.

Butcher's work indeed. He mused, taking sight of the carnage.

He summoned his staff and hobbled over broken bodies and

shattered earth to the center of the square to where the Death
Eaters herded their quarry. A quick flick of his wand tore the
containment charm apart and bodies began a fervoured scamper to
escape.

Some remained, the injured ones, he assumed. The rest seemed

more than eager to flee, cracks of apparition securing their safety. A
flash of ebony hair that ran past him, babe in arms sent a pang of
pain through his heart. Memories of a young girl who still would've
been there had he been that much quicker.

She's got Marlene's hair . He mused wistfully as babe and mother

tore away from view with a loud crack.
He'd cleared his section before the beaten form of Kingsley
Shacklebolt and company arrived.

"You look like Goblin shite." The scarred man noted dryly.

"Yeah you're a fucking ray of sunshine yourself Mad-Eye." Sturgis

Podmore said, limping with the assistance of Kingsley.

He likely did look terrible, although it would take time for the
adrenaline to subside and the aches to rise.

"Was it here?" Moody asked gruffly, thoughts of the past left where
they laid.

"It was." The broad shouldered Wizard said in a deep voice, "We
missed it though, slipped through our fingers when we attacked by
the looks of it."

"We'll get the snake." Nymphadora Tonks assured from his right
side, "Our group got a good look at it too. Remus got a spell off on
it."

"I assume you got Vance's patronus?"

"No, I came to see you old shites for the fun of it." The
Metamorphagus drawled, "Our section cleared out quicker than
usual. Patronus came during clean up."

"Did the spell do anything to it?" Moody asked.

"Not that we could see, did a number on Doge though, before it took
off."

"A snake that we can't harm." Podmore said, seeming to shiver

without his cloak despite the fires that still raged. "Wouldn't mind
knowing why we've hunted a sodding snake halfway across the
countryside. Or is that too much for a bloke to ask?"
"Not our place to question Albus." Moody reminded the man gruffly,
"Find the wounded and get to clean up. You hear anything from
Diggle's team?"

"North country was quiet tonight." Tonks said, "Seems he wants

them to remember neither side is safe after the last set of raids."

"Capture whatever scum they left behind." Mad-Eye ordered, "Get

them to a safehouse before we give them to the Ministry and put out
those fucking fires. " His voice was demanding and without room to
question. Even the usually impertinent Nymphadora Tonks ran to
follow his order and soon, rooftops became sodden with water and
ash.

Albus might not have disclosed why they needed the snake, but he
knew better than to question the man, he had his reason.

Death and destruction followed that snake, like day followed night,
ending every raid in grief, fire and ichor. But they were close, the
noose was tightening, they'd seen it thrice in as many raids.

The day was close, he could feel it.

But not today. He thought, but this time, without malice.

Harry had been consulting the Marauders Map for some time,
searching the animated piece of parchment for Fleur and her office.
However, he wasn't able to find it yet. That might've been a result of
his haphazard searching, or the fact his eyes were locked onto
another name. Draco Malfoy was lingering around Filch's office,
pacing back and forth. The name itself didn't confuse him, although
his nose still twinged in pain from the chance meeting with the sole
of his boot. If he was candid, the urge to seek him out was strong,
although he was firmly shackled and chastised for his actions by
both Fleur and Dumbledore. He wasn't eager to repeat that bad
decision, even if he had reservations about their judgements.
No, it was not the name that caught his attention, but rather the
map's reaction itself. Every time he lingered over the footprints of
Draco, the map seemed to almost flicker. The lines would shift and
the map would go askew and his name shimmered out of existence
for a moment, before returning. His name jumped between floors,
enough so that Harry couldn't accurately discern what floor the boy
was on. He'd never seen the map react in such a fashion.

Harry was far beyond the portrait of the Fat Lady when he found
Fleur. She was pacing in one of the corridors in the disused quarter
of the Castle. He assumed that must've been where her office was
located. Loathe as he was to admit it, her allure might attract some
unsavoury visitors should they know where she stayed. He knew she
certainly had trouble during the Tournament in that regard, but he
also knew she was more than able in dispatching such suitors. But
he was sure the hassle still wouldn't be worth it.

He began his second trek through the castle, in as many hours, in

earnest. The throbbing pain in his head dimmed to a dull ache and
flexing his jaw no longer carried the same twinge of discomfort as it
once did. He supposed he owed one of those remedies to Fleur,
although he was sure once he found her he'd be doing his utmost to
add to that list.

He trekked through to the other side of the castle. Some of the

paintings had awoken and greeted him as he passed by. He passed
Sir Cadogan somewhere on the fifth floor instructing a group of
eunuchs on the art of the longsword again, to no avail Harry
imagined. The familiar morning light shone through the shutters of
the castle and gave Harry a rough estimation of how long he had to
talk to Fleur before morning schedules were handed out, which
suffice to say, wasn't long.

Another few long glances at the map was all he needed before he
located Fleur. She was only a few corridors over in a section of the
castle he wasn't too familiar with. However, he was intimately familiar
with the map and the group of names that seemed to be between
him and Fleur.
Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Blaise Zabini, Millicent
Bulstrode.

He swore quietly under his breath. The last thing he needed was
another confrontation and Slytherins always had a penchant for
starting them and their numbers emboldened them greatly in his
experience. Well, so did he, if he was honest. He'd neglected to
bring his cloak and while he was surely interested in what a group of
Slytherins were doing in the deserted sector of the castle, he
remembered his promises. He thought not of conspiracies, but of a
book he'd only been reading a short time ago.

" Levis Obliqua." Harry incanted softly, waving the length of his wand
from his head to toes, then back again. Repeating the action enough
that his body shimmered from existence, the only indication of his
existence being distorted sunlight. He certainly had no mastery of
the charm, far from it being the first time he'd tried it, but it would
work. He hoped.

The Disillusionment Charm was definitely not as formidable as his

cloak, though he doubted many things were. For lack of a better
word, his father's cloak was a masterpiece. He'd seen Moody's
Invisibility Cloak once at an Order meeting, it was rough hewn from
the skin of a demiguise and felt terribly coarse. Moody often
complained how it was due for a replacement in a few years and he
didn't have the money. Harry's, on the other hand, was smoother
than silk and large enough to cover two with no sign of degradation
after all the years he had it. Though he was unsure if his opinion was
born from the cloak's quality or his sentimentality of it.

Still, the Disillusionment Charm held a versatility the cloak didn't. He

couldn't accidentally step on the hem of the cloak and lose it, it truly
did seem like a good spell in a pinch. Still, Harry's wasn't perfect, if
he moved too quickly the light would bounce more than usual,
contrasting heavily against the stone wall.

He tiptoed down the length of the corridor and took refuge behind the
rusted plate-armour that dorned an alcove. The four in question
passed without question, little but idle chat passing between them.
They left without incident and Harry stepped from his hiding place.

" Homenum Revelio," A voice sounded. A short pause followed,

maybe half a second before another word came, " Incarcerous."

Harry swivelled from his hiding spot, but couldn't find his assailant in
time. Hard ropes bound him around the midsection and the
disillusionment charm dispelled. The breath was knocked from him
by the hard force but thankfully, the static knight's sword took the
brunt of the ropes' force, tearing them apart.

He quickly made to counter-attack, but was brought face-to-face with

familiar, angelic features.

"Creeping on Veela now 'Arry?" Fleur said, momentarily shocked as

his face came into view. "That's a headline your papers would run
with, I'm sure of it."

Hogwarts hasn't dulled her wit. Harry thought, lowering his wand.
Now how to explain this.

"It's not what it looks like." He assured lamely, she merely arched an
elegant eyebrow.

Yep. That's what we're going with. He cursed internally.

"I'm sure." She drawled, her disbelief evident in her ocean eyes and
tone.

"I did come to see you." Harry said, "Just not, you know, like this."

"So you didn't decide to creep up on someone while disillusioned?"

She said, "I'm flattered. "

"I had to ask a question." Harry defended, "I saw you a few corridors
over and then-"
"Saw me a few corridors over?" She probed, "Pray tell exactly how
and why you found me?"

"As for how? That's a trade secret." Harry said, "As for why? I need
your help."

"A trade secret?" She laughed lightly, "You're remarkably non-

compliant for a person at my mercy."

"We've both got out wands." He pointed out, "I'm not sure I'm at your
mercy."

"For all your merit Harry, I'm still better."

"I'm too valuable for you to injure."

She raised an eyebrow at that, "I told you I could just as easily train
Ron or Hermione to carry out my bidding."

"Yes, what great conversations you'll have, I'm sure."

"What they may lack in social skills they may redeem in not preying
on innocent witches, non?" She said pointedly, "Be it either at the
mercy of my wand or my mind, you seem to want my help."

No, Harry reiterated internally. Hogwarts hadn't dulled her wit at all.

Seeing the argument clearly was not in his favour, he relented. He'd
learned over his many attempts that arguing with Fleur was a bit like
duelling. It was a quick affair, if he forgot to shield or dodge, she'd
strike. Never in a way that was overtly rude or callous, but she
seldom let an advantage lie. It was a quick and clean affair where
one got the upper hand within seconds and rarely, if ever, was it
Harry.

"I'm sorry." He relented, "This," He said gesturing to himself as if the

charm was still active, "Really wasn't for you, I was avoiding people
I'd rather not see."
She seemed to ponder his words for a moment,

"I really do need your help with something." He said again and the
French witch relented.

"I suppose I could, this once." She said.

"How'd you know I was there anyways?" Harry queried.

"Outside of the fact your charm was mediocre at best?" She said, a
smirk of superiority reigning across her beautiful features, "I was a
Curse Breaker, Harry, seeing through eyes alone is a poor way to
perceive the world." The latter half of her explanation carried a
mystifying tone that made Harry laugh.

"Now you're here amongst us plebs ." He laughed, "Oh, how the
mighty have fallen."

"Careful." She warned with a small smile, "It's my help you need. I
could easily just tie you up again."

" Try. " He amended with a superior smirk of his own, "Did your
colleagues at Gringotts experience your wonderful hospitality?" Even
as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd misspoke.

She shook her, "Sadly, no." She sounded wistful, almost angry, given
the place and time Harry didn't really feel like pushing her on the
point.

"So anyways," Harry said, trying to change topics as eloquently as

possible. "My arrival aside, I really do need your help."

"What with?" She asked succinctly, her attention drawn to the wall in
front of her.

"I need to… ask someone about something." He said, floundering in

his attempt to phrase it.
"You shouldn't struggle so much." She laughed with her infectious
melody, "It gives away the game."

"It's something they've never told anyone." He tried with a bit more
confidence, "Something I really need to know."

She turned her attention from wherever her vision was affixed,
"Would it perhaps be a certain red-haired witch you were looking to
coerce information from?"

Harry flushed brightly at it. "I have absolutely no clue what you're
insinuating." He said meekly, eliciting another laugh.

"Bill's seen the both of you together once." She said, "Only once.
Even then he was sure of her infatuation with you."

"Ginny's my best mate's sister." He defended, "She's a good friend,

but nothing more."

"Good." Fleur announced to his shock, "You could do far better than
the scheming of Ginevra." Her name came out almost mockingly.

No love lost between those pair. He thought with a grimace.

"You make her sound evil." Harry pointed out with the same grimace
lining his features.

" Of course. " Fleur began in a tone that made Harry already feel like
he wouldn't enjoy her words, "I'm sure her flaunting her boyfriends to
you, stealing away kisses in your sight, making sure you're always
near are all coincidental."

"You haven't seen half of that." He argued.

"But it's happened?" She said, placing a hand on her hip, "Hasn't it?
Trust me Harry, there's nothing half as wicked in this world as a
teenage girl."
"What does it matter?" He argued, "What is she supposed to do,
shout it in the Great Hall?"

"Of course not." She snorted, "There's an elegance to love that

neither you, nor Ginerva have mastered."

"Of course, you're the Mistress of Elegance. "

"See?" She said, patting him on the shoulder, "I may have to keep
you around should you be such a quick study."

"What a study that'll be." He said dryly

"Study with me, Harry Potter ." She said in a tone that almost
seemed seductive, "And you shall learn all about elegance and
love."

If it was possible, Harry's crimson cheeks darkened a shade. Women

weren't exactly his strong point, definitely not if you counted that his
only experience was sloppy kisses reminiscing about the girl's dead
boyfriend, which he'd rather not count. Fleur merely let out yet
another laugh at the colour of his face, that was enough to assure
him it was a joke.

"Anyways, if we could get back to the point," Harry pleaded, his

cheeks losing some of their colour. "Maybe its elegance I need,
could you suggest anything?"

"Who are you trying to pry information from?" She asked.

Harry had a similar internal battle as before. But where he could say
that he didn't want neither Ron nor Hermione hurt, Fleur had just
soundly bested him and her tone sounded like her assistance was
contingent on knowing the whole plan.

"I can't tell you," Harry admitted.

"Why?" Harry didn't know if it was the hour or her workload, but she
seemed more prone to dropping witty comments in favour of being
blunt. More so than usual, anyways.

"Dumbledore's orders." He said, "I really can't tell anyone."

She seemed to ponder for a little, brushing a wisp of her silver hair
behind her ear.

"Tell me about them." She asked.

"It's a 'he'," Harry began vaguely, "He likes… 'collecting people'.

Professor Dumbledore told me he was a socialite, I suppose that's
as good a word as any."

"If they like to collect names." She said, "Simply get collected."

"That's vague." Harry commented, it was the exact same assistance

the Headmaster gave him.

Fleur merely shrugged. "You asked, I delivered. If I can't know him,

that's what I'd say. You could try and get them drunk, I suppose."

"That seems oddly manipulative." Harry commented. "Messy too."

"The storybooks are pretty." She lectured, although not as

condescendingly as he would've assumed. "Reality is less so.
History is messy and history is written by men like that. I think you'll
find socialites and sorrows go hand-in-hand."

"Now that sounds melodramatic." Harry said lightly. She sounded

like there was a foul taste in her mouth.

"I wish it was. Pretty gowns and sweet drinks are conducive to few
things, Harry, none of them good. In times like these they do little if
not barter about how best to divide the world between them."

"And they say elegance is dead." Harry said, slightly perturbed at her
words. But she seemed fervent in her belief. He didn't feel it wise to
test that same belief.
"No one says that." She laughed. "Though if elegance was easy, it
would hardly be worth the effort. That aside, I do have some good
news for you."

That piqued his interest.

"That's rare, what is it?" He asked eagerly.

"I thought you'd be happy to know that Potions is now open to those
who received 'Exceeds Expectations'."

"Really?" Harry asked shocked, he sorely hoped this wasn't her

attempt at a joke.

"Yes, There was somewhat of an impromptu staff meeting. Slughorn

and Snape were arguing about it, though Slughorn didn't seem that
perturbed about his displeasure."

"That's great news." He smiled widely.

Despite this week's events, hell, even the past years events, that
news that his dreams as an auror weren't completely shattered. A
modicum of light in what looked to be a year of darkness.

"So what would you do if you were in my situation?" Harry wondered,

although far more cheerful than he was before.

"Appeal to his hedonism, offer him something no other person could

and he'll inevitably play into your hand." She said, "They're invariably
going to play the fool to lure you in, but they rarely expect you to
follow suit.

"So be an idiot?" Harry scoffed.

"Look," She said in wonder, "You've already mastered it!"

"Why are we friends again?" Harry said, sullenly.

"I'm charming." She said simply in a tone that was decidedly 'Fleur
Delacour.'

Harry didn't respond, merely pondered.

She made it sound easy and to her it likely was. Harry began to
concoct the beginning of a plan in his head. Given the fact his last
two plans ended rather humiliatingly, he might think on this one a bit
more than usual.

"So, what exactly are you doing up this early anyways?" He asked,
taking a look at her face.

Confusion marred her angelic features and he followed her line of

sight to the wall. She'd been staring at a painting on the wall.

It depicted a Centaur reaching upwards towards the stars, it would

gallop but lean back as if struck and the canvas flickered for a
moment, before it morphed back into the original picture. It then
began playing out the scene again as if the centaur was forever
stuck repeating it's events under its varnished prison.

It's like the map. Harry thought, remembering the charmed

parchment. Something was wrong.

"It's… broken?" Harry guessed, he could see what the issue was, but
he couldn't really surmise what the issue was.

"Not exactly. A ward stone is placed in the cobblestones behind the

painting. Usually they're not a disruptive force unless they're actively
being tested. But it's making the ambient magic surrounding the area
to atrophy."

"Well, that sounds morbid." Harry admitted "Do you have any idea
what is causing it?"

"Maybe, something cursed could be trying to pass in and out of the

wards." She theorized, "Could be a magical animal. I can't know yet."
"An item?" Harry thought, thinking back to hidden silk bags

"No," She said, feigning confidence though some consternation

seeped into her voice "I don't think it is." Harry empathised with her,
her first day and problems already began to present themselves, he
knew the feeling well.

"Are you able to help me map the castle tonight? Or do you plan on
losing any more skirmishes?" She broke away from talking about the
painting, her statement made Harry wince a little.

"Should I start winning them?" She raised an eyebrow and shot him
a dangerous look. "Nevermind, I can help, in fact, I've got the perfect
tool for the job."

That same eyebrow seemed to raise higher in disbelief.

"Trust me." He replied to her expression. "I think you'll like it as much
as I do."

"Very well then, I imagine breakfast is soon. The last thing we want
is a habitual truant, no? After almost missing last night, best you
make an appearance before they think I've stolen you away."

"I think I'd be the one doing the stealing." Harry said.

She turned her head and looked at him with a gaze that seemed to
penetrate him. She looked him up, and then down, before looking in
his eyes.

"I'm not sure about that." She said, her lips curling in a half smirk.

"My proclivity for stealing witches aside," Harry asked. "Are you
coming to breakfast?"

She shook her head, "No, I think I'd best unravel this mystery first."
She said, enunciating her meaning by jabbing her rosewood wand
towards the painting.
Harry shrugged, "Well, if you need my help I'm always around."

He got a small smile as she began concentrating again. Harry set off
towards the Great Hall, to fill his stomach and start his day. Learning
that he could take Potions set a spring in his step he felt wouldn't
dampen.

Harry found his way into the Great Hall, it was sparsely populated
given the early hour but like always it would soon be filled to the
breaking point. Everyone would soon pile in to start their year fresh.
If only for the fact that it was one of the only mandatory feasts to
dispense class schedules.

Professor McGonagall was already present, handing out timetables

to the few Gryffindors present. The other three Heads of House were
doing similar, there was only one other professor in the hall outside
of theml. Slughorn sat at the head table shoveling food into his
mouth in a way that would make Ron envious. Unlike Ron however,
he had decorum whilst doing it.

Harry began to pile sausages and bacon onto his plate along with
pouring himself a tall glass of pumpkin juice. He dug into his plate
with all the fervour of a starving man, which given the fact he hadn't
had a proper meal in almost a day, that was somewhat true.

McGonagall slowly made her rounds, handing out pieces of

parchment to each of the students present. She eventually made her
way to Harry after discussing something with a group of first years
that had arrived with one of the fifth year Prefects.

"Mister Potter." She said handing the parchment to him over his
shoulders.

"I was impressed by your studies and your performance in the O.W.L
exams last year." She said with a smile, but he was sure he knew
what she was insinuating. "Please do try and keep your studies up to
similar levels, lest you sink into mediocrity. That would be a true
disservice to your abilities indeed." She commented before walking
away to another student a few seats down.

First up was a double free period, but Harry supposed it could be

Potions, he'd have to wait until Hermione got hers to make sure.

Soon enough, both Ron and Hermione entered the Hall, making a
beeline for Harry, during their course they were intercepted and
given their schedules before taking a seat on either side of Harry.

"Where were you?" Hermione demanded.

' Hey Harry, how are you?' He mused, That could've worked.

"At… Breakfast?" He replied, feigning confusion to try and evade the

conversation.

"No." She shot back harshly. "I meant before the feast, last night, or
even this morning!"

Harry supposed bending the truth couldn't hurt too much. "I was
helping Dumbledore with something."

"For the whole night? You expect us to believe that?" She reiterated
Ron's point from earlier and he was shot a look of 'I told you so' from
the redhead.

"He swore me to secrecy Hermione, you know if I could tell you, I

would." She let out a loud huff and crossed her arms.

"Why would I not tell you if I could?"

"You didn't tell us you were helping Fleur."

"That's different." He said, "That wasn't anyone' business but mine

and hers."

"If it affects you, it affects us." She said, her voice hard.
"In regular times, it would." He tried, his tone diplomatic, "But you'll
be worse off by knowing some things. If Dumbledore wants me to
keep it close to my chest, I'll have to listen to him."

She glared, but relented. Ordinarily, it may have been cause for
relief, but letting topics go was never a skill Hermione possessed.
She'd no doubt prod him again before long, but for now, he was free.
Rather than trying to push any contentious issues further, he made
an effort to leave the topic behind them.

"What do you have first, Hermione?" Harry questioned after

swallowing a piece of sausage skewered on his fork. She glanced
briefly down at her piece of parchment.

"Potions, why's that?" She questioned skeptically.

"Because me and Ron are coming along." He said matter-of-factly.

Ron let out a choke on his food while Hermione's brow furrowed.

"Potions are only for students that had an Outstanding, Harry, you
and Ron didn't get one."

"Snape's Potions Class was for students that got Outstandings,

Slughorn has a different approach." Hermione looked happy for him,
Ron on the other hand looked rather displeased.

"Come on mate, you know how much I hate potions, surely you
wouldn't make me come?" He pleaded.

"I thought you wanted to become an Auror too?" Harry asked. He

already knew the answer. Ron had always longed to step out of the
shadow of his older siblings, becoming an Auror was a sure-fire way
to complete that.

"I could settle for less." He said simply, "If less means no potions, I'll
take two."

"What would your mother say?" Hermione asked pointedly.

"She'd huff and puff, but she's not the one dealing with being in the
dungeons for hours." The ginger-haired boy defended.

"What if it's better without Snape?" Harry asked innocently to a

betrayed expression.

"What if you did really well?" Hermione joined in, sensing the plan,
"Wouldn't that be a way to prove Snape wrong."

"Fine." He said sourly, but without much thought "I'll come to bloody
potions, but you owe me."

"I'll let you use my Firebolt for Keeper Tryouts?" Harry offered.

"Suddenly, I think the dungeons look pretty good, don't you?" He

said cheerfully. For whatever could be said about the world, Ronald
Weasly was always an easy man to please.

The trio began to finish their breakfast in silence as the remainder of

the school flooded in, Harry noticed Fleur was conspicuously absent.

It must be more difficult than I imagined, Harry thought.

Soon, the three of them had concluded their breakfast and headed
down to the Dungeons.

Slughorn had changed from Snape's classroom to presumably to the

one he had run his classes from. It was a bit further along in the
dungeons and Harry could say with some certainty he'd never
ventured this deep into this side of the castle. Not too far past their
old classroom they ascended a short staircase and came to a room,
opening the door the three walked in. Some students had already
taken their place inside, to Harry's chagrin, one of them was Draco
Malfoy. Harry hadn't the foresight to predict that he'd be there as
well, though he supposed it was another chance to keep his eye on
him, not that Harry thought that he was bold enough to try something
under the watchful gaze of the Professor.
The room was well-lit and homely, which was already a far cry from
Snape's darkened abode. The half of the room closest to them had a
series of chalkboards running down the length, the far half had
numerous rows of shelves that had various ingredients sat upon the
shelves.

"Come in!" A jovial voice cried, "Please, come in!" Slughorn

beckoned them in to take a seat, they sat near the front of the room.

"Sir?" Harry got the plump man's attention. "We don't have our
textbooks. Until this morning we didn't know you'd be accepting
students without Outstandings."

"Not to worry Harry!" The man gave him a wide smile. "Today, we
won't be following our text books, but there will be some books in the
back cabinet for you and your friend's next lesson." By the time
they'd finished, most of the class had already taken their seats. With
a quick flourish of his wand a roll of parchment flew from his desk
and he began to mark the roll, making sure to thoroughly observe
every person that answered. Once he had finished calling the roll, he
crossed his arms behind his back and walked to the centre of the
room.

"My name is Professor Horace Slughorn, I headed House Slytherin

of Hogwarts for over fifty years, I am a Potions Master and have
served as a member of the Potions Guild for decades. This year I will
instruct you into the extensive art of Potions and give you a
comprehensive introduction into the esoterica that is advanced
potioneering. Traditionally, I would've started my sixth years with the
Draught of the Living Death, however, given the circumstances the
Headmaster has persuaded me to adapt our curriculum to provide a
more defensive insight to the possibilities of potions." He flicked his
wand and a series of complex instructions appeared on the
chalkboards.

"Today, we will be brewing the Entwurf ohne Schaden, a German

potion created in the late seventeen hundreds by Potions Master
Eric von Hoffmen. Through a long, convoluted process of which I
won't attempt to describe, this solution is used in the revitalization of
dormant protective enchantments and is integral in the creation of
many newly engineered wards. However, in keeping with tradition
there will be a prize for the best potion." Slughorn flicked his wand
and an apparatus on his desk appeared, two claws grasped a small
vial and kept it suspended." Could anyone hazard a guess to what
this is?" Instantly, Hermione's hand shot upwards.

"Miss Granger?" Slughorn chose.

"Felix Felicis sir." She made like she was going to give her obligatory
explanation but was quickly cut off by Slughorn.

"Quite right Ms. Granger!" The class seemed to perk up at that.

"Before you stands Felix Felicis, better known as Liquid Luck. A
notoriously hard concoction to brew but a worthwhile one. Bottled
good fortune that ensures one of the best days of your life. Though I
would dissuade you from attempting to brew this potion, many
prospective potioneers have perished in pursuit of the prosperity this
particular brew presents." He said, the final line made Harry think the
old man had clearly reheasered the speech.

"The instructions are written upon the board along with the list of
ingredients, please raise your hand if you require assistance. Given
the corrosive nature of this potion at particular stages, we will be
providing wrought iron cauldrons for you today. Very well, get to
work!" Slughorn clasped his hands together and returned to his
desk.

It was certainly a change from Snape's autocratic barking of orders

followed by harsh glares, not an unwelcome one of course. Slughorn
went to help a Hufflepuff measure ingredients, Harry went to gather
the needed ingredients, Hermione had already got her ingredients
and diligently began working on her potion. Ron looked thoroughly
confused and Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling
something similar. It was far beyond anything they'd done before.
He must sorely overestimate Snape's ability to teach. Harry thought
sourly. It's going to be a hard year.

Harry lit the fire beneath his cauldron and cast a quick Aguamenti
inside, filling it near halfway. He began to prepare his ingredients.
The canine tooth of a Quintaped, crushed and sprinkled with four
clockwise stirs, shavings from the head jewel of a Shaanxi Horned
Serpent. A piece of a silver occamy shell no bigger than one's palm
stirred twelve times clockwise, alternating directions every three
stirs.

A litany of other ingredients and extensive preparation instructions

followed. Harry had been at it for close to two hours before he had
completed the potion. He slumped in his chair defeated, his potion
was a full four shades darker and viscous, where it was meant to be
watery. Hermione's was of perfect consistency and colour and the
only one even remotely close was surprisingly, Draco. He put in an
odd amount of effort, furiously ensuring every aspect of the potion
was correct even down to the smallest minutia, though to no avail
apparently.

Still, his surprising amount of effort piqued Harry's curiosity. If he

wanted the prize so bad, it definitely wasn't for anything good.

Maybe to finally get into Daphne Greengrass' robes Harry joked

internally though he severely doubted it would be anything as
mundane.

Slughorn began to make his rounds, inspecting each potion with a

silver ladle that got darker with every potion he tested. He'd take the
better attempts and bottle them into an individual flask each,
presumably for future use. By the time he'd gotten to Harry the
utensil was definitely thinner and especially darker, Harry supposed
the Professor wasn't entirely wrong on the potion being corrosive. By
the time he got to Harry, he winced at the contents of the cauldron
before giving a reassuring smile. Harry already knew it was terrible
but it was certainly an insult to injury.
As Harry had predicted, he was astounded by the time he reached
Hermione's work, after he collected the last few samples, he
dragged her to the front.

"And to Ms. Granger goes the vial of Felix Felicis! Use it wisely." He
cautioned before giving the class a beaming smile. Hermione looked
amazed. Harry felt slightly sour that he didn't win, the vial would've
been invaluable to prying the information out of the same man that
had bestowed it. Harry supposed he could ask her if he could use it,
but he wouldn't unless the situation was dire, she did win after all
and he didn't want to deprive her of her victory. Still, his loss
presented a different opportunity that Harry would try and exploit at
some point.

The class began to file out and Hermione seemed too thrilled to
speak, Harry was happy for her, not only because her excellence
was recognised but also because this would be a sufficient
distraction from her prodding him about his whereabouts, for the
moment at least. They all filed out of the potions classroom. Lunch
was upon them and afterwards was Defense with the newly minted
teacher, Snape. Harry was sad to see his best class perverted by the
dank and dark bat that was Snape, but he resolved he couldn't
dampen his marks given. Unlike Potions, Harry far exceeded the
course materials.

They trekked their way back to the Great Hall, lunch was to be
served and Harry still hadn't sated his appetite. He felt like Ron with
the amount he was eating. Even at the Burrow he consumed food at
an alarming rate, enough to keep up with the best of them, or as the
best of them liked to be called, Ginny and Ron. Hermione was still
beaming, she kept the vial of Liquid Luck on her, too scared to leave
it in her room for fear of one of her roommates spiriting it away.
Whilst Harry's appetite was abnormally large and definitely
uncharacteristic of the skinny youth, he thought it best not to
overindulge given that Snape was next on the list and knowing him,
in one way or another he had some perverted method to embarrass
Harry or take him down a peg. The Great Hall was definitely less
subdued than the opening feast or the first morning but the
undercurrent of tension still remained. The boisterous conversations
that onced boomed were substituted in favour of harsh whispers and
huddled chatting. The atmosphere of Hogwarts had become rigid,
restrained in its ability to provide the safety and assurance it once
had. It gave off an air of darkness that Harry doubted they would
overcome anytime soon. Hogwarts was shifting to a war footing and
everyone could see it.

He'd quickly finished his plate and the trio began making their way to
the Defense Classroom. Their best bet was to be early given they'd
all experienced Snape's temperament. It was entirely possible it
would be an entire shift from his usual approach of overwhelming
vitriol and stern, fast paced teaching methods that amounted to little
actual teaching but Harry thought it was wishful thinking more than
anything.

They quickly huddled into the Defense Classroom, he'd not bothered
changing it from the one that had been in use for all their years at
Hogwarts. They took their seats in the middle of the class as the
conglomeration of the rest of the houses filed in. To Harry's dismay,
Draco Malfoy was among them again. But for someone who'd
always received blatant favouritism from the Professor, he
surprisingly seemed to detest the thought of being in the classroom.

As the last few members of the class shuffled in, the door slammed
open and Professor Snape charged through the middle column to his
desk, slamming the shutters closed with his wand as he went
forward, darkening the room and its climate dramatically. Once he
reached his desk, he swivelled about and faced them, his arms
behind his back.

"The Dark Arts are an ever evolving system of complex and arcane
pieces of magic far beyond the comprehension of any Wizard alive.
From ritualistic sacrifices and blood magic of Ancient Aztec and
Mayan society to the murderous divination of Mesopotamian Seers,
Dark Magic has forever coexisted with magical society as far back as
written history records. Thucydides claimed that Spartan War Mages
unleashed pestilence on Athens, Thiers claimed Robespierre
bewitched the masses with cursed artifacts. The Dark Arts are
timeless, your previous tutelage in this subject has been lackluster
and limited in its capacity to provide any tangible defense should the
need arise. That will now change. It is my solemn duty to induct you
into a magical arms race that spans aeons - you will adapt, you will
overcome or you will perish. To that end, anyone who fails to remain
with the turbulent pace of the class will be removed without warning."

As much as Harry disliked the man, he begrudgingly conceded the

man could weave words like no other. He supposed he'd have
prepared relentlessly given the fact he was poised for this position
for years. If he taught as well as his speech went, it may not be such
a terrible class though Harry still had his reservations. He looked
around briefly and saw that the majority of the class was enraptured
in his speech, save Draco who was doing his utmost to not make
eye contact with anyone. His behaviour was an anomaly that Harry
was sure would unravel with time, given the fact he swore not to do
anything, he had little choice.

"Magic itself is dangerous, the Dark Arts chiefly so. They are
addictive, intoxicating, orgasmic. The euphoria felt when using them
is second to few things in life, that is where the true danger lurks. To
use them is to invite an addiction few can escape, a stranglehold so
fierce even the hardiest fall to its embrace. They are slippery, without
a definition that is not arbitrary. They are the evils, both lesser and
greater, but it is my opinion that only one explanation will truly
suffice."

Snape turned and flicked his wand to the board, the word 'INTENT'
appeared on the board in blockly letters written in chalk.

"Intent is paramount. It remains the only barrier to stop wizards and

witches casting magic during every instance an incantation is
uttered. Intent is what separates a child's accidental magic from your
own. To truly use the dark arts is to intend for malevolence to reign
free, to truly wish to enact a harmful reaction against another. Many
spells themselves fail to be inherently categorized as dark or
mundane, lest the defence against such would be a far easier study.
The definitions are illusions. Intent is all there is."

He flicked his wand again and below the first word 'DUELLING' was
written.

"But intent matters little against the face of the issue." He began his
drawl again that enraptured the class. "While much of your previous
tutelage relied on theoretical work, you shall conduct your own study,
in your own time. I shall impart you with the skills of which you can
wield to survive, or use to quicken your own demise. That choice
remains yours."

He took two large steps towards the class and stared down his
hooked nose at them.

"Providing a comprehensive guide into the ways to remove Boggarts

or nullify Kappa dwellings will not assist you in the crucible to come.
You will learn to adequately defend yourself in order to evade and
escape should the need arise." He drawled in his usual tone.

He flourished his wand again and a platform rose in the large space
between the front row of desks and the stairs that led to Snape's
Desk. It was reminiscent of the duelling platform in Harry's Second
Year, sans the colourful and ornate pattern on the top, this one was
stark grey.

"Given the seriousness of the subject matter, our first unit of the
course will be learning defensive spells in order to retreat from any
foe that may present themselves." He began to walk around the
platform and to the rows of desks. "Though before we begin our unit,
I find myself quite curious as to the prowess of some of the '
prestigious' members of our classroom, mayhaps it would be prudent
for an example of your peers' ability or lack thereof." He smirked
dangerously and looked quite fear inspiring.
Harry could see it already, the attempt to establish hierarchy. For him
to show Harry no matter what happened he was beneath him. The
inflection on his speech already told Harry he was the target.

"Potter, on the Platform, Now." He ordered, snarling at him.

There it is.

Harry took off his outer robe. If he was being forced to perform he'd
do his best to ensure Snape thought twice about using him as an
example. He had hoped the man had changed, but it appeared he
was too optimistic. He drew his holly wand from his belt, the warmth
seeping from its core of eternalized inferno up his arm into his chest.

"We will assume the position, though I assure you, no foe you fight
outside of the arena will follow protocol." Snape assured icily.

Harry thought he sounded oddly like Lockhart in his second year, but
with the power to back up his statements. He'd watched Snape duel
Lupin and Sirius to defeat, a small amount of his bravado
disappeared when Snape stepped onto the platform but his resolve
remained ironclad. He'd duelled Death Eaters and Voldemort but this
wasn't life or death. Whatever the outcome it wouldn't be favourable
for Harry, that thought alone was disparaging.

"First, we bow." Snape announced.

They bowed, more a slight incline of the head, neither willing to take
the eyes of the other. Tradition dictated, or at least his father's
handbook said that it was to be from the waist, but he doubted
tradition was at the forefront of either of their minds.

"Then, we assume positions."

They took their positions, Snape held his wand straight ahead,
minimizing his profile, Harry followed suit.
"Begin!" Cried Snape, casting a yellow spell at Harry a moment
before he started. The spell connected with his ribs, a pain hex that
sent out a brief flare of white-hot pain through his nerve endings.

"Pitiful Potter, I expected better from the prodigal wizard of Britain ."
He snarled, clearly amused. Though something lingered behind the
man's dark eyes.

But it was not his words that angered him, nor the pain that echoed
through his chest. It reminded him of that night. Of crackling spellfire
and flying debris, of opening curtains and lifeless eyes. Of sickly
green curses and crimson eyes. Every fibre of muscle tensed into
action, his tendons became taut and his mind was no longer his own.

The reaction Harry was anticipating was unexpected. Blood began to

pound in his ears, like war drums reaching a crescendo. They beat
to a tune only Harry could hear.

Rend.

Maim.

Tear.

A voice sounding in his head not unlike how he heard the Basilisk all
those years ago. Although, while the words were similar, the voice
was not. It was uncharacteristically gentle, almost soothing. They
sounded like suggestions, despite being phrased otherwise. They
sounded soothing, but they were forceful. They sounded sweet, but
they were bitter.

If his mind was rational, he would've sensed the change. The air felt
tangible, permeated with something hot and foul. Enough so that the
front row that had been eager to observe the duel stepped back.

The war drums reached their fever pitch inside his ears and Harry
levelled his wand, their apex heralding nought but darkness. Magic
flared out his arms in dangerous bursts. He'd read enough spells
from his Father's handbook and he was now eager to test them.

" Contusio, Ossula Fragmen, Foraminis, Potentia Vis!" Harry cried

out, spells shot out of his wand faster then he could comprehend,
Snape flung his wand upwards, drawing the floor of the platform up
to stop the Concussive Charm. Equally as fast as Harry, he parried
the Bone Breaker away but was forced to shield the Piercing Curse.
Fortunately for Harry in the state he was in, the piercing curse
punctured Snape's hasty golden shield that Harry couldn't identify, it
tore a wide hole but nothing more. The men merely sidestepped the
curse as it careened backwards into the duelling wards.

A lesser man would have succumbed to the barrage, undone by the

sudden offensive.

But Harry was forced to concede, grudgingly, that Severus Snape

was not a man to be so easily undone.

Some deep recess of his mind acknowledged that his advantage

over Snape was the surprise of his response, but the majority of his
brain wanted the battle to last forever. The magic boiled within him
like a cauldron of primordial power, begging to be released and
singing at the chance to be used in battle.

The piercing curse left a whole wide enough for the last spell in the
chain to follow. A Carving Charm, it was originally used to carve
sculptures by using immense pressure but after seeing Voldemort
use it in the Graveyard, Harry had found it in the manual. Whereas
the Aurors used it to carve efficient holes in walls and similar
applications, Harry's plan was all the more darker. The grey charm
hit the unprepared Snape who did his best to dodge out of its path.
The pressure struck Snape's spine and forced him to a kneeling
position, one of servitude, almost as if he was acknowledging Harry's
power.

" Pitiful!" Harry snarled in a voice not all too dissimilar to the one
Snape used earlier, unbeknownst to Harry, the class was yelling and
screaming but the noise was drowned out, the war drums continued
their song of passion and power.

The realisation hit Harry like a freight train. His wand fell loose in his
hand.

The war drums stopped their beat abruptly, leaving only a loud
silence in his ears as the Professor rose unsteadily to his feet.

" Leave. "

The man didn't yell, nor enter a rage like he usually would. His words
were soft, almost inaudible. But they carried more malice then any of
the words the man had yelled or spoken before. It was full of wrath,
yet too calm.

Harry couldn't even muster a response, the anger had taken its toll,
the building rage had extracted it's price. Harry quickly pocketed his
wand, leaving his bag and book behind he shot from the room at
record pace.

His mind was in a flurry. The toll was too great, he was unsure of
what had happened, why it happened now or even how to fix it.

He fled, leaving his friends calling at his retreating form.

He needed help.
Of Blood and Wine
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Of Blood and Wine

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: As always, a big thank you to x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid for keeping up with my recently turbulent update
schedule.

Somehow, I've retained my momentum, to no one's greater surprise

than my own. But here we go again. A little delve into some not
strictly linear storytelling, but I always have fun in delving into the fact
that the intent to impose hierarchy isn't a sudden thought. That
there's going to have to be a lot more work done at large.

Anyways, that's enough from me. Enjoy the cheeky Witcher

reference, some flirting, some emotions, a bit of growth and what I
hope to be a good chapter.

Be sure to review, opinions outside my own help me grow and

ensure the story is the best it can be.

As always, be safe in this turbulent world. Stay well and happy and
enjoy!
The war drums had finished their song. Where passion and rage
once dominated, it was replaced with an equally volatile pounding in
his forehead. He'd fled far beyond the confines of the classroom, into
open corridors and past flickering paintings.

His thoughts spun around in a confusing maelstrom in his head, his

rudimentary Occlumency was no match for the intensity of the urge
he felt nor the flurry of emotions that threatened to break from their
confines. His thoughts continued their vortex in his skull, keeping him
from clutching at one to form some sort of cohesive grasp on the
events that had transpired.

His world shifted as though his axis was off tilt, everything was
bathed in a crimson light as he staggered down the hallways to the
Headmaster's Office. His scar throbbed violently in inconsistent
patterns.

Still, Harry fought against the ache. His own mental constitution was
the only barrier against the bombarding ache in his forehead.
Although, it was a battle he was losing in earnest.

The pain soon became too much. He began to list too far to his left,
like a ship sinking at sea, bouncing off of hard cobblestones and
suits of armour. He crashed into an object he could barely see, a
door that relented upon harsh contact with his shoulder.

His blurry vision offered little insight into his new dwelling, he
struggled to get to his feet before he was sent backwards again. A
lance of white-hot pain that smashed into his skull sent him
sprawling, his eyes rolled backwards into his head, showing only
milky alabaster in place of Emerald.

Yet he saw, although through eyes not his own.

Harry struggled to be free from the restraints of a body that was not
his own, although to no avail. His protests were futile, his newfound
limbs moved of their own volition, along with his voice and eyes. It
felt not entirely dissimilar to when he was launched into
Dumbledore's pensieve, albeit much more disorientating and
constricting.

Adjusting to the sensation was hard, the substitution of familiar

ground for foreign. His scar lost its ache and his blurry vision was
shedded for a clear view of his surroundings. The changes were
disconcerting and the events that led him there filled his stomach
with dread, but his protests meant little against the force that urged
him forward

The twilight felt hot on his skin, the gaze of moonlight harsh and
oppressive. His very presence felt subjugated and narrow, in a way
he couldn't describe. Every step he took rebounded off the hard
cobbles. He should've been able to feel them underfoot, but the
sensation was absent.

Before he knew it, a set of doors were ahead of him. Large, wrought
iron that towered high above him towards the ceiling. Decorated by
ornate heraldry that glimmered a golden glow in the bright, full moon.
It was lined with silver and had an elaborate crest in the centre of the
door, a large 'M' sat proudly, guarded fore and aft by two black
dragons. The coat-of-arms sat upon two diagonal spears that were
made of black stone, beneath it, a motto.

' Sanctimonia Vincet Semper'

Either side of the large entry stood men in black cloaks. Harry didn't
recognise the first, a thick jaw sat upon narrow shoulders with fairly
unremarkable features save for a discoloured patch of scar tissue
above his right eye, straw coloured hair topping his head.

The other man, however, Harry could almost claim to know. He

looked like Lucius Malfoy, although only slightly different enough that
Harry could discern this was a different man. He could see a bit of
Draco in him too, his cheekbones were high and tapered into a
narrow jaw and his bright blonde hair fell just below his shoulders.
His robes were finely tailored also, embroidered with golden details.
His mere presence screamed aristocrat.

"Abraxas, Pericles." Harry greeted formally or rather, the body he

currently inhabited did.

The voice wasn't his own, it was silky and smooth where his had
only just shedded the last few vestiges of boyhood.

"Master." They both bowed lowly to him. Harry didn't like this at all.

"Shall we retire inside?" Harry asked. It was phrased like a question,

it sounded like a question. But his voice carried a command that
made the men relent immediately.

The inside of the house, or rather, manor was more outlandish if it

was possible. Pillars of dark marble rose high into the ceiling and the
ceiling was decorated every so many meters by large candelabras.

They soon led him to a wide room, a fireplace crackled animatedly

off to one side. A long table filled a good portion of the empty space.
Long and stained dark, the table held many occupants, all donning
the same cloaks as the men he'd seen before.

A chair sat at the head of the table, standing taller than the others.
He assumed it was reserved for the owner of the house, but the
blonde man allowed Harry to sit there. The other occupants of the
room lowered their head to his presence.

"Rise." Harry commanded and their heads raised, more unfamiliar

faces.

Harry turned to the blonde man, "Abraxas, I trust you've made

suitable arrangements in regards to your father?" He asked with a
volatile undertone lurking below the polite words.

"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas was quick to oblige. "Caractus Burke

was quick to oblige with a pox carrying rat, he's been given a month
to live by his personal healers."

"I trust you've dealt with Burke accordingly?"

"Of course, My Lord, he's been interred in accommodations befitting

his transgressions against yourself."

"Excellent, have him sent to Romulus Westhall. Cromwell ensures

me he's been chosen as the leader of their pack." The man in
question puffed his chest out at the mention. "Ensure he's sent as a
gift, food or otherwise."

"Would it really be beneficial to add such ilk to our cause?"

"It's not your place to question our Lord." A heavy-set man warned.
"You're alread-"

A raised hand stopped the man's tirade.

"As long as Westhall is amicable, any alliance born between us and

the Scottish packs will be temporary." He explained, his silky voice
commanding attention, "But if we wish to become the conquerors our
birthright demands of us, we must find allies."

"Conquering with those beasts sounds counterintuitive to our plans,

My Lord, surely more would join our cause without such
impediments?"

Harwell Crabbe. Harry thought, looking at the heavy-set man,

although the knowledge wasn't his own. The man sat across from
him nodded in agreeance. Gilford Goyle. This one was thin, though
his face was fat, marred with pock marks that had no doubt come
from Dragon Pox that he must have narrowly survived.

Loyal, Harry thought, But lacking wit. Harwell seldom has a thought
that Gilford didn't have first, likewise with the inverse.

He committed the foreign knowledge to memory, although he had no

right to know any of it.
"Perhaps." Harry said, his voice carrying an edge it hadn't before,
"There is some credence to your words, but little sense behind them.
We cannot gather allies without strength. When the opportunity
presents itself to gain both, Should we not take it?"

"We should spend our time gathering the Pureblood houses,"

Harwell said, "Mindless beasts are useless to us, let them taste our
power by force should the need arise."

"Coercion leaves a bitter taste in the mouth." The silky voice said,
"Power tastes best when sweetened by platitudes and courtesy."

"I agree with our Lord." The blonde man said, "The Werewolves are
fickle beasts, but if offered sufficient grazing, they should heed your
commands. We've a greater chance at bringing the foolish to heel
with them at our backs."

Abraxas Malfoy, the silky voice echoed in his head as if it was his
own, Of all my inner circle, only he is truly cunning. The majority are
wrought from something more mild, burnished like bronze to preen
and recite their heritage. But Abraxas is true steel.

Abraxas turned to look at Harry or rather, Voldemort. His eyes

seemed to bore holes through Harry, although he was not perturbed.
He truly was close to identical to Lucius and even Draco. His eyes
were the same austere grey, his face was dissimilar in expression
only. But there was an agelessness to him the others didn't possess.
His eyes appeared to be wrought from stone and looked to betray as
much as hardened rock.

This is a cold man. The silky voice praised internally.

He had enacted a plan to murder his own father, Brutus, without

hesitation all at his behest. The Malfoy fortune would soon be
beholden to their cause. His other followers had squandered it,
paying fines for muggle baiting and hunting tore their fortunes apart.
But now, galleons could persuade many allies.
"Having the werewolves at our backs is my concern." Gilford said, "If
we're to offer them the means to sate their lusts, we need to gain
ground if we wish to appease them."

"Enough." The man commanded and without hesitation, they

obeyed. They had long since learned the price of insolence.

Cromwell Nott.

Last time he spoke out-of-turn despite their Lord's command, he'd

been punished. Now, he kept silent until called upon. Hiding the
shakes of his hands as corroded nerve endings kept him in line, the
Cruciatus truly was a cruel curse.

"Abraxas, see to your father and ensure his death is clean." Brutus
was no follower of his, but his seed had spawned one of his most
valuable pawns. No, the man was no fanatic but his birthright earned
him a quick end.

The blonde man ran off quickly to oblige without a spoken word.

"Pericles, have you made the preparations I requested?"

"Of course Master." He replied succinctly in a gruff voice. "The

Malfoy dungeons have housed him for days."

"Very well." Harry replied in turn. Sensing their dismissal, the black
cloaks started fluttering out of the door and into the manor proper.
Harry sat there for another moment, before he followed.

Though he diverted, where they went right to the entryway, Harry

went left. He himself didn't know his destination and yet, he did.

The dungeons.

Harry opened the door, it was heavy and made from dark wood, odd
inscriptions carved into it. There was no slot for food nor air. He
tapped his caramel wand onto the door and the inscriptions flared
red before the door swung open.
Whatever Harry expected behind the door, this was not it.

It was an old man, or at least, relatively old. Suspended in the air in

an odd pose, likely orchestrated by magic.

Harry began to circle the old man, he was either asleep or knocked
unconscious if his closed eyes and soft breath were any indicators.
Given the fact that he was suspended in a position that looked
entirely too painful to fall asleep, he very much assumed it was the
latter, rather than the former. He flicked his wand and a silent spell
shot forward and buried itself in the man's gut, sending the man into
a wheezing fit.

"Who.. are you?" The man croaked, his throat raw. It was clear he
hadn't had any water for some time, his voice was hoarse and barely
audible.

"Do you truly not recognise me?" He mocked, "I've been cursed by
your features my entire life, yet you cannot see yourself in me. A true
blessing, father ."

The man seemed to take a moment before realisation hit him. He let
out a painful chuckle.

"So that bitch kept you?" The man spat, although lacking saliva, the
attempt was little but pitiful. "That miserable whore of a mother
should've let you dribble down her legs. You're no son of mine."

Harry felt a brief flash of anger and his wand flared to life, it didn't
offer the same radiating warmth as his holly wand, not that he could
feel it, but it lurched with an eager alacrity. A silent curse shot from
it's tip, crossing the short distance with a red flash, drawing a deep
cut across the man's cheek, he hissed in pain and spat at Harry's
feet.

"You speak of my mother as if you're any dissimilar." He said,

enunciating his words by pushing his wand into the open wound.
"Yet here you are, a disgraced aristocrat with naught but an empty
manor. Even your blood befouls my wand. You may have sired me,
but nothing more. You imparted nought to me, where Merope gave
me all."

"You're no son of mine. You little cunt!" He spat again, this time in
Harry's face. A quick flick of his wand and the spit vanished, another
flick and a white spell shot from the pale wand, a sickening crack
later and the old man's capacity to speak was stunted by a broken
jaw.

"You couldn't be more correct. I am no son of yours. I am a

conqueror, the last heir to Salazar and House Slytherin. Destined for
greater than living out my days as the spawn of a filthy muggle."

The man tried to say something, but his injuries withheld his words.

"You shall die tonight, alone and forgotten. But your name can fill a
footnote in the history books, father. You are the key to my
ascension."

The floor was covered in a complex pattern, Harry assumed in his

limited knowledge of the content that it was some form of runic circle,
Hermione had a fascination with them in third year. He summoned a
knife from the table, it was bright silver, almost white and adorned
with jewels down the tang of the blade. Harry gripped the cutting
edge and ran it through his palm and surprisingly he felt it, cool steel
parting his skin and a wake of crimson following.

He began to cover the pattern with blood, clenching his fist to draw
the crimson ichor free. Harry began to feel the effects of blood loss
but the circle was soon covered in blood. He then took a ring off his
left hand and placed it in the middle of the circle. The smell of iron
hot in his nose.

Harry gingerly ran his wand over his palm, sealing the wound before
looking at the battered old man, he had an expression of perpetual
terror and Harry felt his lips curl into a cruel grin.
" Avada Kedavra. " Harry said simply, his voice full of malice.

The man didn't seem to understand the words, but he understood

the implications. His body threw his arms back instinctively as if to
save himself, the body's final gambit to prolong life. Harry too was
thrown backwards beyond view.

The world was black around him as he descended back into his own
body, a perilous descent with the scent of iron still hot in his nose.

His eyes rolled back into their rightful position, he was still prone and
apparently in a broom cupboard. He'd thrashed quite a bit judging
from the damage. He rose to his feet and took some tentative steps
before expelling the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

His head no longer pounded and his scar didn't ache, but it now
bled, dripping ichor into his eyebrow and coating the side of his face.
He reached a gentle pair of fingers to the weeping wound, they came
away sticky though the wound didn't drip the crimson blood he was
expecting. Instead his fingers came away coated with a darker liquid,
near black and more viscous than blood. His fingers seemed to
aggravate the wound as its efforts to expel the dark discharge begin
with a newfound fervour, running down his face to form a thick pool
on the floor.

Harry didn't know what to feel.

On the one hand he felt the contents of his stomach lurch again at
the blasé nature Voldemort went about killing or the ritual afterwards.
But on the other, it felt so much like it was his doing. He experienced
what Voldemort did. Retrospectively it was easy to be disgusted by
the act, but when he was in the body of Voldemort, he felt the
pleasure, the perversion and he enjoyed it. Maybe it was just him
experiencing what Riddle felt, or maybe the two were becoming
more akin then he cared to admit.
He'd had more visions of Voldemort than he could count, his fifth
year had been plagued by them. Although this one stood out. It felt
more like a lecture, like he was being taught something, rather than
goaded, as odd as that was.

The ritual too, it was at the heart of it all. Whatever it did to that ring
was important but what he couldn't figure out was why he saw this.
Was Voldemort bold enough to try another ruse through their mental
connection or was it involuntary? There was nothing there to suggest
it was another attempt to trap Harry, but if not that, then what?

A few shaky steps forward and he grappled with the worn door frame
as he battled vertigo. A few more careful steps and he'd developed a
sedated pace that kept his head from spinning. He debated going to
the Hospital Wing, but he'd made it closer to the Headmaster's
office, his original destination.

With some longer, purposeful strides his pace quickened and he

found the nausea settled for the moment. He was unsure what time it
was or rather, how long he'd been in a trance for. But judging by the
empty hallways save for the idle chatter of the portraits, he'd wager
they were all still in class. The trek to the Headmaster's Office was
fairly uneventful.

As always, the gargoyle stood vigil as the resolute protector of the

Office.

"Manticore Minties." Harry tried, hopefully the man didn't change his
passwords often.

The Gargoyle gave a brief nod before it stilled, moments later it

stepped aside and the familiar spiral staircase was yet again on
display. He reached the top of the stairs and saw the man in
question. Professor Dumbledore was sat at his desk, peering over
his half-moon spectacles at one missive or another at his desk.

He was especially enraptured in its words given the fact he failed to

give Harry the cordial welcome that he'd always given. As Harry
slowly approached the desk, the wizened wizard looked up at him,
he looked noticeably worse since Harry saw him only hours ago, his
face was gaunt and it appeared he hadn't slept.

"Harry? I didn't ask for you." The man asked, his voice laced with
concern. If Harry thought the Headmaster looked off, then he
shuddered to think of his own appearance. Black ooze still stained
his face, his scar flared an angry red and his face was pale. The man
flicked his wand and the discharge vanished, or so it felt like.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

"To be honest sir, I'm not too sure myself." Harry admitted, his voice
laced with uncertainty.

The Professor made a gesture with his hands to continue, Harry

obliged.

He told him of blood that pounded in his ears, that whispers in his
ear to strike down Snape and the vision of a young Voldemort,
undergoing a ritual at the cost of his father's life. With each detail
that Harry divulged, the Headmaster grew paler as if each word was
a blow to his person. After Harry had finished recounting the day's
events, the Headmaster relieved his face of his reading glasses,
rubbing tiredly at his eyes, he did not give any indication that he was
about to answer.

"Please, sir." Harry begged, he could see Dumbledore's internal

struggle on the matter, he was unsure of why he seemed so
conflicted but he was desperate for answers. "What's happening to
me?"

Sighing once more, Dumbledore acquiesced.

"I don't fully know." The old man said simply.

"I don't need 'I don't know', sir." Harry replied, "I need to know what's
happening to me."
"I fear no answer I have will give you what you seek, Harry." The
man said sadly. "But perhaps we can start from the beginning."

His gloved hand drew his long wand, the old wood decorated with
clusters and knots.

"Think of the memory." He ordered simply.

"Do I have to?" He responded, equally as simply.

"Not if you don't wish it so," The man assured him, "But it would help
me greatly."

Harry was mute, he merely nodded and the man pushed the harsh
tip of his wand into Harry's temple as the raven-haired boy closed his
eyes. The skin screamed in protest, a lance of pain arcing down his
jaw. But the wand pulled away and the tension he barely recognised
was there was extracted as well.

The wisp of memory came away, hanging onto the tip of the
Headmaster's wand by a barely visible thread. But it wasn't like the
Hitwizard's memory, this one seemed lifeless. Where the other
wriggled and writhed, this one remained still, blown by the small
draught in the room.

The man flicked his wand, freeing the thread that was hung upon its
tip. Its descent towards the water of the Pensieve was slow, far
slower then it had any right to be. It contacted the dark surface and
instead of turning the surface into the shimmering milk glass as the
other one had, the surface remained blackened as if burnt.

The memory had sunk, condemned to the depths of the Pensieve.

"Peculiar." The Headmaster said absentmindedly, definitely not

addressing Harry.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Harry asked, nodding towards the

ornate bowl.
"No." The man announced after another brief moment, "It's not.
Something protects your memories."

"I didn't use Occlumency." Harry defended, "I came straight here
after it happened."

"Would that it be so simple." He said, stroking the knot in his beard.

"Few memories are protected from a Pensieve's scrutiny. There is a
reason why they are so coveted amongst collectors, there is power
in their enchantments."

"Few memories?" Harry pointed out, "But not all?"

"The prediction of a Seer is likely the most notable," Dumbledore

said.

"You think I gave a prophecy?" Harry said, dumbfounded.

"Nothing of the sort." The man refuted, "These protections are

intrinsic to the art of Divination, as unreliable as it is. No, something
else protects the memory."

"What does it mean then?" Harry said, his temper rising again. "If
you know so much about it, why is it happening again, like this? "

"Wise men and fools ofttimes try to interpret visions and dreams, and
magic itself ofttimes laughs at our errors." The Headmaster mused,
in a jovial tone that stoked Harry's anger.

The man was treating it like a game.

"I could no sooner tell you why you saw what you saw." He said,
offering Harry a short glance, "I cannot fathom the contents of your
visions, but perhaps I can discern their relevance."

"Then tell me." Harry said tersely.

Dumbledore eyed him for a moment, before speaking.

"First, it would be prudent for me to explain what I can glean from
your own explanation."

Harry nodded his consent and the man began.

"Your incident with Professor Snape, while volatile, was not entirely
unexpected."

Harry furrowed his brow, "You expected this to happen?"

"To some degree," The man confirmed, "I asked that Severus
provide a test for you, but it appears my confidence in him was
misplaced."

"It's always been misplaced." Harry snarked.

The man simply ignored his words in favour of continuing.

"There are said to be primaeval warrior cultures that thrived on the

call to battle, the rush of adrenaline and power that comes with
taking a life. They say some were once employed by the ICW,
powerful mages that beat back Dark Lords. They're little but tales."

"Illusions," Harry added.

"Precisely." The man agreed with a smile, "More oft than not, the
ICW Enforcers are merely butchers with little regard to their
surroundings, a story to sell their innocence. Agamemnon was
depicted by Homer in his magical texts as a 'Battle Mage', but again,
mere tales. You are no more a man fuelled by bloodlust than I, nor
does your reaction make you anything more or less than that of
which you are already."

"Professor?"

"You experienced trauma, Harry." The man explained softly, "Worse

than all but few have to go through. Severus, against my wishes,
stoked a fire already raging. You responded, not entirely out of turn
and certainly not in a manner that's unexpected."
"So what is it then?" Harry asked, "Why is this happening to me
again?"

"That's the cost of war, Harry." The man said, "It affects us all. Those
who have the misfortune of seeing it reign. That was its call, the heat
in your chest, muscles pulled taut, the thump of blood in your ears.
Every man feels it at least once, those who fight it are the better for
it. Those who don't often don dark cloaks."

"That doesn't explain the voices," Harry said.

"No it doesn't." The man relented, "But I believe you know well
enough how you saw what you saw. You needn't the reminder that
your skin is far more than skin marred red and purple. Your
connection will persist until one of you perishes."

"So why is he showing me this? " Harry asked, "It had no point, there
was nothing there, not like the other ones. Nothing to lure me
anywhere."

"I don't think he truly controls the contents of the visions any longer. I
think, perhaps, you glanced into his mind, rather than the inverse."

"I didn't do anything." Harry defended.

"Of course," The man agreed, "I believe his attempt to possess you
at the Ministry went awry. There remains little explanation of why the
Dark Lord is now so fearful of entering your mind, perhaps it became
a far more daunting task than it once was."

"So you think I saw something from his mind? Do you think it means
something then?"

"I do." The man simply nodded. "I believe you witnessed one of the
first-generation meetings of what would later become the Death
Eaters and you witnessed something far more important afterwards."

"The ritual?"
"Indeed. But first, I might explain the vision to the extent I understand
it."

Harry once again nodded his head and the man began.

"Tom coerced many to his ideals in these halls. Abraxas Malfoy,

Cromwell Parkinson, Harwell Crabbe, Gilford Goyle and Nelson
Greengrass were the first of many. All prominent members of our
society, disillusioned by increasing muggle-born rights, hiding behind
antiquated laws to enact their revenge. They all wanted change
desperately. Where the Wizengamot failed them, radicalism did not.
Their views were rigid, and their dogma strict - the old ways were
paramount."

"Why does that memory matter though?" Harry asked, "They're all
dead."

"Indeed and for most of them, almost immediately after they joined
Tom's movement. But the ideology persisted, has it not? We've beat
them countless times before Harry, but yet they remain. It's not
enough to merely best them. If we cannot establish peaceful
coexistence with them we're doomed to follow the same bloody path
forged a millennia ago - war will be all we've ever known, ever will
know."

"You've already told me about this." Harry noted, "Only yesterday. I

know what you meant."

"Then you were granted a glimpse of exactly what I described and

something more. I don't believe that to be happenstance."

"So I'm seeing what you tell me to see?" Harry asked tersely. His
scar began it's dull throb again.

"Not what I tell you Harry. But what you needed to see. Something I,
regrettably, kept hidden for fear the right time would never come."
"You're telling me I needed to see a man murdered?" Harry spat, "I
needed to faint in a broom cupboard like a child?"

"No, but you needed to learn a truth, one I hoped to never have to
speak of." The man pulled open the drawer of his desk and from it,
he procured a silk bag.

He pulled the drawstrings loose and emptied the contents onto the
table with a small clang.

It was the ring from his vision, split into two at the midsection. The
face held a dark emblem, a triangle with a circle in its grasp, bisected
by a single line.

"The ring?" Harry asked aghast, "How did you find it? Why do you
have it?"

"Luck." The man said simply, "But it represents something far greater
than we could ever imagine. This -" He said, gesturing towards the
ring before taking a long, bated breath.

"Is a Soul Jar - A Horcrux. This is what you saw."

"A Horcrux?" Harry asked, testing the foreign words on his lips.

"Magicks of the soul and blood," The Headmaster explained, "Old

and foul. There are some things that even the worst would not befoul
themselves with. Voldemort had no such compunctions, the murder
of his father sealed the creation of the ring. A man you're all too
familiar with, I imagine."

Harry had a brief flash of memories. Bursts of red and green flaring
across the dark night, lifeless eyes staring at him, stone angels that
wouldn't let him free and above all, a serpentine figure rising from a
bubbling cauldron like a demonic phoenix from the ashes, eyes a
volatile crimson.
"What do they do?" Harry asked, staring intently at the ring sat upon
the table.

"They tether him to this mortal plane, while they linger, so shall he.
Forever bound to this earth while his objects persist."

"How many are there?" Harry asked, his throat suddenly dry.

"I've destroyed one, as have you."

"The diary?" Harry guessed after a moment.

"Precisely." The Headmaster agreed, "What you saw before it was

happenstance, perhaps, but not what came after. The Dark Lord
would not dare flaunt what he holds closest. I believe you may
possess the ability to receive glimpses of these Soul Jars by your
connection to him, but not by choice. Neither yours nor his."

"I've only seen the ring." He pointed out, his voice shaking somewhat
"Can we really make a judgement after one time?"

"You also saw through the eyes of Voldemort's familiar, which may
very well be another of his Horcruxes."

"Then let's destroy them." Harry resolved, "If I can see them, we can
find them."

"You're not ready." The man said simply, "I fear you won't be for
some time."

"Then train me." Harry returned quickly, "Then let me fight him."

"I cannot." The man said simply, "Martial might alone cannot hope to
defeat Voldemort. Nor can you hope to match his power or
knowledge. The disparity between you is too large to span in
decades, let alone months. Tom was gifted, even among prodigies,
the idea that you can match him alone is a fanciful tale. I had once
believed that my own prowess would be more than a match for Tom
and even I was misled."
"But it's not just Voldemort, is it sir?" Harry asked. The Headmaster's
face seemed suddenly dull at his words. " Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle,
Nott. All those faces in my visions, they might be dead, but their
children aren't, you said it yourself. They're coming. What good am I
to anyone if I can't even protect myself?"

His face was still dull, like it was the day before and yet, it held the
slightest of sorrows. He'd seen it before in a few faces - Sirius,
Moody, even Scrimgeour. Men who'd seen war and did their utmost
not to spread its tools. His reluctance suddenly made sense, even if
it was infuriating.

"I cannot." He said again.

"Why?"

Harry asked and his words felt like they seemed to echo around the
room, even the portraits remained still. It felt less like a question and
more a demand, although he didn't expect it, the man obliged.

Dumbledore grabbed the tip of the glove he had taken to wearing on

his right hand, he winced in pain as the dark accessory came free.
Harry immediately saw why he chose to wear it, his hand was
blackened as if charred, veins rippled beneath his skin pumping dark
blood around his hand. His ring finger was the worst, the bone was
exposed and blackened. Tendons spasmed periodically, as if rigour
mortis had already set in, the dead muscles flexed and the Professor
let out a harsh hiss.

"Alas, a necrotic curse I missed, in my hubris, I failed to give the item

the proper respect. A failure I paid dearly for. Given the diary had no
similar protective enchantments I imagined the same for the ring.
Professor Snape has discerned a way to slow down the process, but
I'm afraid I am not long for this world." He said gravely, his face even
more hollow than before.

"How… How long?" Harry choked, bile rose at the back of his throat,
their greatest hope in the war to come, the one light in a sea of
darkness was cursed, living on borrowed time.

"The end of the year, if I fight the curse sufficiently well, but even
now it drains my magic. I'm unsure just how long I have." He said
sadly, "This had always been your duty, Harry, to follow footsteps
you couldn't see towards a destiny you couldn't comprehend -
Voldemort's footsteps. Within you lies my legacy, the hope of a world
better than the one we've always known.

Harry didn't answer, how could he? His world was crashing down
around him, the world that already seemed destined to pile a great
weight for him to bear. But this was worse, far worse. The only
reason Voldemort hadn't initiated open conflict was fear of Albus
Dumbledore, without him, the Magical World faced a threat with no
remedy.

"Teach me then." He said quietly, "Let me do my duty."

"I shall." The man said, relenting in an equally as soft voice, "But not
yet, there is more to life than duty."

"My life has only ever been duty, sir."

"I know, my boy and that fact stings more than blackened skin ever
could."

"Does he know?" Harry asked fearfully.

Dumbledore shook his head, "I'd surely regret the implications if he

did, but at the present moment, I'd say he's unaware of the
destruction of the ring. Tom was never one for patience. If there was
an opportune moment to attack, which my injury most certainly is, he
would've struck."

He looked at Harry mournfully. "My boy, I need you to know I never

intended to leave this burden on your shoulders. It was our war and
it pains me more than any curse to know I'll leave this world with it
still plaguing the youth. I'll impart to you the knowledge imperative to
the defeat of Voldemort. I'll give you as much as I can, for as long as
I can, but this war is yours now Harry. It's always been yours."

Harry wanted to form a rebuttal, tell him he had to stay, that he was
their only hope. But it was futile, his words stilled at his lips and his
breath became ragged. Dumbledore seemed to notice.

"Mayhaps, Harry, it would be best if you headed to your dorm to rest,

I fear today's events have had quite a significant impact."

Harry nodded, his feet guided him out of the room and down the
stairs, his head started to spin again but not in the same way as
before.

"Harry." The man called out again, but said no more. He no longer
looked like the powerful wizard that fought at the Ministry.

He looked like a sad, old man.

The air had been sucked out of his lungs and it felt like a
sledgehammer was thumping his chest. His feet dragged him to his
destination without his mind fully comprehending where he was
going, he didn't remember consulting the Marauders Map, nor the
long and winding track he took around the castle to get there.

But sure enough, he winded up at her door.

He barely lifted his clenched fist to knock on her door before it swung
open and beyond it stood the beautiful face of Fleur Delacour, that of
which he'd been seeking counsel and comfort in for over a month.

"'Arry? What's wrong?" Her words broke the fragile flood wall that
had held his torrent of emotions from spilling onto his face.

The first tears began to fall, he hadn't shed tears since Sirius died. It
made him feel weak, more of a child then he had a right to be given
the situation. But he didn't exactly epitomize caring at the moment.
She noticed the tears fall and brought him into the room. It smelled
of her, the fragrant mixture of rosewood and vanilla that just smelled
familiar.

He stumbled forward across the threshold into her office, she was
clearly surprised by the action and moved from his path. She helped
him towards one of the plush chairs of her office, of which Harry
didn't have time to take note of.

She stood next to him as he sat down, Harry's head rested briefly on
the shoulder of her robe, his eyes weary from the few shedded tears
and lack of sleep. She put a hand on his shoulder and met his
emerald eyes with her ocean blue.

"Is it important?" She whispered as if a louder voice would aggravate

him.

"Yes." He whispered back, though not looking at her.

"Is it urgent?" She prompted again, her voice quiet.

"Not really." He said, there wasn't much he could do.

"Then sleep." She requested. "You can think about it later."

If he was thinking rationally, he might've protested. But the room was

warm and the chair comfortable, the smell of vanilla overtook his
senses. His eyelids wavered, their final gambit against slumber
before lowering. Drifting into a well-deserved albeit short slumber.

He awoke a few hours later, he felt better save for a terrible kink in
his neck that came from sleeping in an awkward position. He looked
around the room expecting Fleur to be in it, though she was nowhere
to be seen, the moderately sized room was empty save for Harry. He
could, however, hear the pattering sound of water hitting the floor
and resolved it was likely she was in the shower.
He peered around the room to take in the surroundings. The decor
was very minimalistic in its design, it looked entirely out of place with
the rustic and medieval design of Hogwarts. Sleek tables jutted from
the wall to act as a desk and bookshelves, there was very little else
save the recliner Harry had perched himself in, a fireplace and a
single door, which Harry could only assume led to a bedroom and
the bathroom if the noises were anything to go off.

Her scent lingered in the room, between that and the decor the room
was decidedly Fleur Delacour.

She emerged a few moments later in a fresh set of light blue robes,
using a charm to slowly dry her hair.

"Hey." Harry offered awkwardly.

She snorted in amusement, "Not exactly what I'd say after crying on
someone's shoulder but I suppose it works."

He had to let out a little chuckle at that. "Seeing as you've

conscripted me to your service, I'd say I should get some
repayment."

"Will coming into my office in this state be a regular occurrence?"

She asked with an arched, manicured eyebrow.

"It is a nice shoulder." He agreed, thankful for the distraction "I've

definitely seen worse."

"Such high praise." She drawled in a tone that made it clear it was a
jest, "I'm sure Ron's would suffice."

"Nah, just hasn't got the same ambience." He shrugged.

She smirked at him and continued drying her hair, but didn't break
the sudden silence.

"That's it?" He queried "You're not going to pester me as to why I

came here?"
"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No, not really." He admitted.

"Then I won't ask unless you need another shoulder."

"I appreciate your respect for privacy." He said gratefully.

That was a significant difference, Hermione would pester him until he

relented and Ron would ignore the problem completely.

"I'm sure I could guess anyways." She said confidently.

"I doubt that."

"Would you take some advice?" She asked and he found himself
nodding.

"Sure." He nodded, taken aback by her sudden shift.

"You're Harry Potter." She began.

"Very astute." He added with a smile.

She shot him a glare but didn't falter.

"You have a great task ahead of you if the papers are to be

believed." She said, turning to look directly at him. "Adversity will be
all you ever know if you let it - don't let it. There's nothing admirable,
nothing to be gained, by lowering your head and accepting what is."

He didn't know what was more perturbing. The fact that he was so
easy to read that she'd surmised most of the reason without a
second glance. Or how hard the words echoed within him.

"What else is there?"

"Everything." Fleur said simply, "It's your decision."

"You make it sound far easier than it is." He said sombrely. "It's a bit
more difficult in reality."

"For a lesser wizard, perhaps." She said, "You are no lesser wizard.
You're a Triwizard Champion, you've fought Voldemort. If you wish to
change the world around you, you need only start somewhere."

"I guess I am pretty good." He agreed lightly as a joke, but he was

far busier mulling over her words.

Perhaps she's right. He mused solemnly, I could've been preparing,

instead, I'm weeping over things already written in stone.

Dumbledore's words were still loud in his ears as if the man kept
saying them.

This is your duty.

This war is yours, it has always been yours.

She let out her infamous, melodious laugh.

"Pride fells even Dragons, Harry." She said, "It won't serve you well
here."

"Thank you." He said, still thinking of her words.

"Well," She began, "I was going to ask for your assistance yet again
but somehow you've found another way to circumvent your
servitude. I'm starting to think you're just doing this to escape from
my company. "

"What can I say? I've got a penchant for trouble." He shrugged.

"Still," She frowned, "I could really use your help."

"I've got just the thing," Harry said, drawing the Marauders Map from
his back pocket.
"An old piece of parchment? Oh my, you shouldn't have." She said
dryly.

"Not just any old parchment." He said with a dramatic flourish of his
wand. "I solemnly swear I'm up to no good.." He tapped the
parchment with the tip of the holly shaft, the map flared to life.

The lines formed eloquently like the stroke of an artist's brush, Harry
was solely focused on her reaction, she looked just as enraptured as
Harry imagined he did the first time he opened the map. She turned
the parchment over in her hands, looking at it through the line with a
keen eye.

"How'd you get this?" She asked incredulously, "This is an artisan's

work."

"My father and his friends made it during their time here, it'll show
you every occupant, every passage and every room in the castle."
He spoke proudly, happy that she appreciated it as much as he did.

She levelled him with a wide smile. "This is amazing! Why'd you
keep this to yourself?"

"A man's got to have some secrets." He shrugged, "I can't always be
an open book."

"Well," She decided, "I suppose I could let you off helping this once."

She sprung from her seat. "Come on, let's go."

"Where to?" Harry queried.

"To an abandoned classroom." She replied, purposely evading the

question.

"Why?" He followed up.

"So I can ravish you of course. What else do students do in

abandoned classrooms?" Seeing his bright blush, she decided to
take pity on him. "We're going to duel."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea." Harry admitted, fearful of the
arrival of the war drums and the lust for combat.

"Scared 'Arry?" She mocked. "Wouldn't you be eager to prove the

incident with Draco wasn't just a lucky shot?" She goaded him into it,
mentioning Draco was a low blow, they both knew it.

"I still don't know if it's a good idea." He offered meekly.

"Let's stop you wallowing in pity." She suggested, "Let me teach you
something instead."

"You seem to forget who was in first place." He japed.

"Let's have a rematch," She said, her superior smirk across her
features, "Just to be sure."

Harry acquiesced in the end. He was just as eager to know what his
reaction would be but even more so how he'd match up against
Fleur, who always seemed so confident in her abilities.

Marauders Map still in hand, she decided on an area they'd use

without anyone near. They soon arrived, throwing open the door in a
disused section of the castle. The room was barren save a worn
desk in the back corner.

They separated and headed to either side of the room, it was a

dance they both knew well, they needed no instruction. They stood
across from each other, their interactions were wordless, it all
remained fairly self-explanatory. A brief nod from each of them had
them both snap into a duelling stance.

Both of them stood side on with their wand straight out. With a quick
piece of conjuration and a levitation charm, a piece of silk fluttered to
the ground, both of them knew its significance, upon its landing, the
duel began.

The silk descended, fluttering and tumbling through the air until it hit
the ground, then the room erupted into bright flashes of light. Harry
opened up with some spells from his Father's book, he'd developed
a little chain of relatively harmless charms he was eager to test.

" Celeri Vero, Immobulus, Visus Conmoro, Mutare Manus!" He

whispered, he hadn't had a chance to master non-verbal spells, but
he hoped her not being able to hear him would give him an upper
hand.

The revolution jinx shot out of his wand as he was forced to dodge a
series of quick stunners fired from her wand followed by a spell that
ripped some floorboards up and shot them at him in an arc. He was
forced to duck, he watched as the jinx smashed into wooden planks
that came to her defense as well as attacking Harry. They splintered
on impact and the following spell immobilized the debris. The
blinding hex fell against her bright blue shield and the hand
swapping Charm suffered the same fate.

There was a brief detente between the pair as they assessed their
next attack. Harry attacked first, unsure if it was due to him being
quicker or Fleur luring him in.

" Bombarda, Immobulus, Pulsus!"

Seeing how the Immobulus stopped the debris, Harry had an idea.
His Bombarda tore up a large section of the floor, the Immobulus
stopped the debris mid-air and the wind charm shot the entirety of it
at Fleur.

She managed to eliminate some of it with a quick gout of flames but

was forced to fall to the floor in order to evade the rest. She seemed
surprised at his offensive. Before Harry could comprehend her wand
came to life from the floor. She transfigured the debris into a series
of misshapen dogs that charged him. He managed to destroy two
while the other two jumped at him, he twisted out of the way but was
stuck as the wooden floor molded to encase his shoe.

While he tried to free his foot, one of the wooden dogs rammed him
from behind, sending him sprawling. His wand was quickly
summoned as he hit the floor, rather hard. His ankle eventually freed
itself, but it too hurt from the impact. Fleur walked over to help him
up, a bright smirk on her now flustered face. The duel wasn't
particularly long but it was exhilarating, she offered him a soft hand
and he took it.

"You're certainly better than I was at your age." She offered, still
smirking.

"Not good enough." He said, playfully downtrodden. "That was

quick."

"Not yet," She said, sticking her nose up mockingly, "But few can
match Fleur Delacour."

"Awfully confident in yourself, aren't you?"

"Do I have a reason not to be?" She said, placing her hand on her
hip. "That was a nice move with the debris."

"Didn't beat you though."

"Maybe this time." She offered, "But next time, watch your feet."

He smirked at her and rose to his feet, ready for another round.

He was thankful for the distraction, even if it had caused him a great
deal of pain.

Apparently, her confidence was not without reason.

The conclusion was foregone from the first duel, she'd beat him fairly
soundly even if his trick had almost caught her off guard. Though
she was smarter for it and as the duels progressed into the day, his
tricks soon ran out and his losses rose. Yet, he could feel himself
growing already.

Now on his feet, Harry gingerly stepped on his sore ankle. He

wouldn't have minded another round but he didn't doubt that if he
continued his list of injuries would be all the more extensive. They
set off back to Fleur's Office, him limping along with the assistance of
a numbing charm and Fleur's shoulder yet again.

Fleur opened the door to her office and helped him inside, placing
him down gently on the lounge chair. There was a smirk on her face,
she'd proved her point. Past merit wasn't everything, current merit
was all and she'd proved hers seven-fold in the last hour and a half.

Pride might fell Dragons, Harry laughed internally, But she's standing
tall.

She left him in the chair and went to the corner of the room. She
began to rummage through a pile of boxes in the corner. She was
there for some time, flicking boxes and other objects he assumed
she hadn't sorted around her.

She rose to her full height, a pair of darkened bottles and two
glasses in her hand. She walked back over to Harry and conjured
another chair, resting her bottle on her desk.

"Wine?" Harry asked.

"The best." Fleur confirmed with a grin.

He gave the glass a brief sniff. "Should you really be giving wine to
students?"

"I find it's best after a duel." Fleur said, "I think if anyone deserves a
drink, it's you."

"I forgot you were a connoisseur."

"I'm French." She said, ever the patriot.

"White or red?" She asked, presenting the bottles as if their colours

made the choice make any sense.

"Is there a difference?" He asked simply.

" Is there a difference ?" She sighed dramatically, "You truly are a
lost cause, I think I'll have to expose you to some more before my
time is up."

"I take it that means more duelling?"

"Like I said, no protege of mine will be a lacklustre duellist."

"I thought we agreed my duelling wasn't that bad?" He said, acting

more offended than he felt.

"You agreed to that." She amended, "I didn't."

"You told me I was better than you were at my age." Harry

rationalized.

"Are you better than me at my age?" She said, her back turned to
him as she weighed the bottles in her hands.

"Well, no."

"There's your issue." She said sweetly, verging on mocking. "You

can have the white, you'll enjoy it more."

"As you wish." He said dramatically.

She poured out equal measures into both the glasses before placing
the cork back into the bottle with her wand. She walked around to
the other side of her desk, handing Harry his glass which he gently
took by the stem.

"Sure you won't get fired?" He joked.

"Will you tell them?" She shot back

"I might tell Mrs Weasley." He threatened good naturedly, "I'd like to
see that argument."

"Perhaps I'll tell Ginerva that you were drinking in my office instead."
She returned, "I'd be eager to see her reaction."

"Go easy on me."

"Maybe for today." She relented with a smile.

Harry swirled his glass around in front of him, he'd seen Aunt
Petunia do it hundreds of times. He feigned expertise as he
pretended to look at the liquid while under Fleur's scrutinizing eye.

Then, as he would with any Firewhisky after the Quidditch

Championship, he downed a sizable gulp.

He squinted his eyes and swallowed hard. It was incredibly sweet, or

maybe it was sour. The sudden assault on his taste buds was
shocking to say the least, but he swallowed the bubbly liquid all the
same.

"I suppose this is what elegance tastes like?" He managed to get out
after he swallowed, while Fleur laughed at him.

"I suppose some would say that." She agreed neutrally.

"Well," Harry said with a frown, "Elegance tastes like shite."

"How uncouth." She said in a voice that made her sound far older
than she was, "You're drinking it wrong."

"You'd want to hope so." He said, "That tasted like death."

"Like this." She instructed, grasping her glass by the stem as he had.
She swirled it and let it sit, before sniffing it. She rose the glass to
her lips and imbibed in a small portion.
Harry followed suit, although much more reluctantly then the first
time. He swirled it and raised it to his nose. It smelt like lemon,
oranges maybe. He didn't really know the taste, it was less sweet
than before, definitely more palatable.

Definitely lemon. He thought, the sourness making itself known.

"Do you like it?" She asked eagerly, swirling her glass idly in one
hand.

"It's alright." He said, "Better than firewhisky."

"High praise, I'm sure of it." She said before taking another drink.

Soon, as the day turned to dusk and further to night, his sips grew
more frequent. Their topics changed as did the colour of their wines
and bottles. Soon, Harry finally made the decision he had far more
wine than he should have. Although he was certainly not drunk by
any means, he couldn't have been far off.

Though he felt gallant, like none of his worries would worry him any
longer. Fleur reached across the table for the bottle and Harry
redirected her hand to him, brushing his lips against her knuckles
eliciting a little squeal and the hints of a blush as they both laughed
good naturedly.

"How was that for elegance?" He asked.

"You're learning." She decided. "Wait until we find the Dragon

Caviar."

Dragon Caviar? That can't be good.

The act was without intimacy. He doubted their relationship would

ever be such, but he was thankful for her. Her words and counsel
were one of the few things that he could count on in these turbulent
times.
Fleur briefly retreated to the toilet whilst Harry continued drinking. He
set his glass down on the table to bask in the momentary reprieve of
little alcohol.

Dumbledore's words were still in his head.

This is your duty.

This war is yours now, it has always been yours.

He had resolved to stop wallowing in his sorrows at the Burrow, but

that hadn't worked so well.

Yet, Fleur was right. Adversity cared little if he was strong or weak,
happy or sad. His problems would come all the same.

I won't let anyone else die for me.

You're not ready. Dumbledore had said.

Not yet. Harry agreed.

But I'll get there.

Innocence Burning
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Innocence Burning

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Massive thank you, as always to my Beta Readers

x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid who consistently remain up-to-
date with my story, as demanding as it likely is.

I'm a bit later on this one than the others, mostly due to the fact this
chapter in my plan started with a big chunk of exposition and was
about half the length it currently is. So after lots of music, a few
sleepless nights and a lot of stress, here it is. Chapter name was
inspired by my 4 AM viewing of 'A Time to Kill' which is a
phenomenal movie.

Wasn't overly proud of this chapter in the beginning but it came out
to something I could certainly sit back and enjoy.

As always, the world's a big and dangerous place. Stay safe, happy
and well and until next time, Enjoy!

There is power in sacrifice, Harry.

Dumbledore's oaken voice rippled in his ears as they walked through
the foreign scenery of the Pensieve.

Large or small, universal or restricted. Blood or soul, peasant or

Lord. There is power in loss.

Austere, grey walls rose high into the street. Each block of suburbia
found an identical copy to itself on the adjacent. Unending walls
broken only by windows obfuscated with grime. No doubt hiding
families inside. But families he'd never get to glimpse, living life in
the same poverty as Voldemort once had.

It was a district that had been struck by the Spanish Flu outbreak.
One that had never truly recovered. The street was littered with
pockmarks, deep gouges that seem to deter visitors. Bordered with
fences to ward off thieves that stood twice the height of Harry and
the bitter taste of smog seemed to burn through the enchantments of
the Pensive to bite at his mouth-born from towering chimneys that
rose high into the air.

Harry looked down the street to its end. "This is where it all began,
isn't it?"

The man beside him stroked his beard. "In a way, I suppose it did."

"Did you know? Back then, I mean."

"What he would become?" The man shook his head, "No. Though as
I once said, I weep for the boy who thought there was little more to
life than servitude and suffering. But never for the man who saw
other paths and continued still."

Pain and suffering are crude matters compared to some sacrifices.

"I suppose it doesn't matter." Harry said, his eyes drawn to the
chipped street before his feet, "History has already been written."

Sometimes innocence is the greatest loss of all.

It echoed in his ears as they crept towards the imposing building at
the end of the street, towering over all others as if lording its
materialistic dominance.

Dumbledore shook his head, his beard twitching with the action.

"Perhaps not. History written is dead ink. We still live and while we
stand, the ink remains wet. Malleable."

That is what we must learn - what a man can sacrifice, to become

less of one.

The long hours had given way to longer days, days waned to weeks
and before Harry truly knew it, over a month had passed since he
had arrived at Hogwarts. A month and a half, ripe with Pensieve
visits such as this.

He often thought he spent more time standing upon foreign ground,

rather than familiar. But that was subjective, or so he supposed. He'd
almost become as accustomed to the world above as he had the one
below, guarded by pale milk glass and silver smoke.

"Anyone would go mad growing up here," Harry said, his feet tearing
up a flowered weed grown from the cracks between the road.

It wasn't too hard for him to imagine the dirty street lined with
beggars. The musty alleys lined with bodies and the pleas for food
laden in the air.

"Squalor and scarcity rarely make for good companions."

Dumbledore agreed, gesturing to the torn street, "War fosters many
wounds, some refuse to heal."

They entered the tall building; it's worn wooden doors held open with
the frantic rushing and squeals of children.

It was an orphanage.

I could've ended up here in another life.

They trudged through seas of intangible children as they ran to and
fro, each passing through his person with a slight shiver. Children
orphaned by war, as he was, though it appeared they at the very
least had happiness, where he did not.

Harry looked around, trying to spot an unfamiliar child. "Is he here?"

He'd never seen him as a child, not really, anyways. There was little
chance he could discern him from any of the others that roamed
under the dull gaze of their Matron.

"He is." The man said solemnly, looking down a hallway, Harry
seemed to recognise something akin to familiarity in his eyes.

"Should we go see?"

"No."

"Professor?"

The man was noticeably reluctant, and his eyes darted to the
hallway and back to Harry.

That's understandable, I suppose. He extended his hand to him and

tore the magical world apart in the process.

He took a brief moment, perhaps to collect himself or gather his

thoughts.

"Not yet."

War fosters many wounds. Harry repeated the man's words. Some
refuse to heal.

"Then what shall we do?" Harry asked.

"There is another we need to visit first."

The Headmaster turned and took a long stride towards a bench in
the corner. It housed a small girl, ratty blonde hair fell from her head
and she merely stared at the floor.

"Amy Benson." He announced, needing no provocation.

"Is she?" Harry left the statement hanging. The man knew what he
spoke of.

"One of them?" He confirmed with a solemn voice. "Yes."

It was all he needed to say, for the words he needed to know were
taught in lessons past, remaining to linger in his mind.

Sometimes innocence is the greatest loss of all.

The ascent out of the Pensieve was no longer as jarring as it had

once been. With each new memory was an opportunity to practice.
Born from that practice was the ease of which he returned to the
world above. No longer ruffled and stumbling.

The Headmaster, on the other hand, was forced to stabilise himself.

His uncovered hand grasping the corner of the desk, turning his
knuckles white.

A man that, ostensibly, was still the epitome of power and wisdom
was secretly withering away behind closed doors, wrought with
frequent pain and running down a clock to his own demise. It was a
hard truth to escape, he'd forget about it, only for it to come back and
gnaw at his gut every time an errant thought strayed to the war.

Or every time he was forced to look in the man's aged face, to see
pain shrouded behind his eyes.

The man had offered him some books, usually History. But his
resolution to train Harry was mostly limited to glimpses into the past.
Though, he mused, I suppose something has filled that void.

"Alright, sir?"

"Fine, my boy." He rolled his shoulders back and began a sedate

pace to his desk. Harry took the seat adjacent, as he did so many
times before.

The usual silence reigned in the office as they mulled over the
events. Or rather, Harry pondered as the older man observed him
with a keen eye, willing to provide amendments and explanation
where needed.

"Why not just kill them?" Harry asked, it was callous and cold but a
prudent question.

"Truthfully?" The man rested his hands on the table, "Because he

lacked the capacity to do so at that moment. Instead of two deaths,
he stripped the innocence of three."

"How could he use that though?" Harry asked, "The ritual happened
years later."

"Blood magic is complicated, far more esoteric than even divination.

Too complicated to explain in the time we have, but it did not require
ritualistic sacrifice. Merely that sacrifice be extracted to reach a
goal."

"So he might have used that to make a Horcrux?"

"Perhaps," The Headmaster pondered, "Tom never let the death of

anything go to waste, even if he did it without thought."

"So he could kill anyone and call upon it later?"

"Not quite." The man shook his head, "Death is a final state of
affairs, static. There is power in death, yes. But to have lost
something of great importance and linger in pain, that carries equal
power - greater in some circumstance. Both were still alive when he
enacted the ritual, enough so that their pain was a sufficient conduit."

"I still don't understand it." Harry frowned.

"I'm more thankful for that then you could ever know." Dumbledore
said, "You needn't understand the magic behind it, only what Amy
Benson and Dennis Bishop meant to Tom Riddle."

"Do they still live?" Harry asked hopefully, though he could tell by the
man's face that the conclusion was written.

"Tom stripped them of what made them, them. They lingered on this
mortal coil for some time but truly lived no longer. They went missing
a short while after, presumably at Tom's hands."

"Where could he have learned it so young?" Harry wondered,

"Hogwarts doesn't teach Blood Magic."

"He'd need a teacher, most likely." The bearded man said with a
quirk of his mouth. "Blood magic is a dagger with no hilt. To grasp it
at all spills your own blood, to wield it invites untold tolls. Waters too
dangerous to swim alone."

"So he found a shark." Harry said.

"So it would seem." He said, fiddling with his gloved hand before he
glanced at his pocket watch. "The hour is early, would you like to be
excused from classes?"

He thought briefly on the matter, "I've got a big day sir, probably best
to get it out of the way."

"Your dedication to your betterment is admirable Harry." The older

man praised, "May it continue to serve you well."

"I did read those books," Harry said in return.

"Did you like them?"

He shrugged indifferently, "They were better than the last few, I
suppose."

Saved me from writing more of Scrimgeour's 'letters'

"I'll be sure to procure some more for your next visit. I'd run along
now, Harry, get Breakfast while it's warm."

"Of course, sir," Harry said, though he had a sneaking suspicion the
man's dismissal was more to do with his tired eyes and painful
grimaces.

Harry left the old man behind, he bid a farewell to Fawkes who now
always seemed to be singing a mournful song. Soon with the
gargoyle at his back, the tiredness bit at his eyes. He blinked away
bleary vision and continued towards his destination.

He made his way to the Grand Staircase and stepped aboard one of
the revolving staircases.

After a few minutes of the staircase spinning to the wrong junctions,

it became apparent the task of getting to the Great Hall was not
going to be as easy as anticipated. After a few more minutes, he
abandoned the stairs two floors above the Great Hall.

He forwent his task of having Breakfast. Instead, he paced the old

corridors above the Clock Tower Courtyard, the dull thump of the bell
echoing through the air. Soon enough, he made it far enough into it
that the antechamber below was in sight.

Harry could see the pendulum of the clock high in the ceiling,
swinging to and fro in its repetitive interval. The faint ticking of its
gears could be heard from the antechamber as he walked into it.
Harry found he liked the view. It wasn't comparable to the far-seeing
position the astronomy tower boasted, but the walk was far shorter,
especially without the multitude of stairs.
A small flock of sparrows flew into the tower before settling on the
ledge. Harry held his finger out, one particularly brave bird looked as
if it would take the leap, but was frightened from flying by the loud
clack and clank of steel on cobblestones. The birds took flight,
fleeing from the tower.

"Neptune was palest before the eve, young Potter, the stars foretold
me of your presence here."

Harry turned to find the culprit and was greeted by the towering form
of a Centaur.

Or the staircase did, Harry mused.

"Hello Firenze, it's been some time."

The golden, palomino coat of his lower body sparkled in the morning
light. He had trimmed his golden hair since he'd last seen him,
instead of falling straight down, the majority was tied into a bun at
the back of his head while two separate pieces fell behind him. But
the most noticeable new feature was the garish scar that ran from
his right collarbone to just below his left breast. It had scarred over
but still looked fresh.

"The stars' blessing, Harry Potter." The centaur said in his baritone,
moving to stand alongside Harry.

"You were looking for me?" Harry asked inquisitively.

"Of course. The darkness has obscured our view of the stars for
some time. When we can gaze at the unadulterated heavens we are
bound to follow their signs."

Obscured?

Harry was confused, he peered upwards into the cloudless morning,

"How is your view of the stars obscured?"
"Foul magic is at work Harry Potter. I have not been with my herd for
some time but I assure you our view is obfuscated, dampened by
dark skies." He said looking mournfully at the sky.

Harry stepped around so they were next to each other. Harry never
really stopped to think about how tall the Centaur was, Harry had
grown considerably in the past few years but he barely made it up to
his breast bone.

"So why did you need to talk to me then?"

"Sorrowful tidings are nigh. Both I and Sybil have consulted the stars
and heard the same songs."

"What 'songs' are these?"

"We hear the tolling of bells, the clash of gold and seas of dark
waves. At the centre, a fulmination. A snake skewered by chance."

Harry couldn't make head nor tails of the cryptic message. "And what
exactly does that mean?"

"We can only divine destiny, never make sense of events before they
happen, Harry Potter. We see only what is written in the stars, never
less, never more."

"Professor Dumbledore once told me Divination is wrong more often

than it is correct."

"Perhaps." He said in a faraway voice as he gazed upwards into the

early morn. "But if I have mistaken good tidings in place of terror,
calm for peril, that is my mistake alone. The reader may err, Harry
Potter, but the fault never lies with the book."

He began to turn about and let out a small gasp pawing at the length
of scar tissue. It pained him clearly.

"How'd you get injured, if you don't mind me asking?" Harry inquired,
the scar was unlike Harry had ever seen, it seemed to periodically
pulse a light crimson down the length.

"Bane is most vehement in his hatred of humans." He said gesturing

back and forth at the diagonal scar. "For attempting to visit my herd I
was gifted this token of our leadership from breast to navel."

"When we met Magorian, he didn't seem entirely terrible." Harry

offered. "Is it so much worse now?"

Firenze snorted, but it sounded more like a whinny that his lower-half
might muster. "Magorian was always a poor leader. He looked to the
stars and saw tidings of hatred but was always fearful of making an
ill-fated decision for the Herd. Bane is much more ardent in his
distaste, he uses the shroud to gain control of the herd. Magorian is
now leader of the herd in name only and remains only to honour our
traditions."

He finished turning around, "But I have taken enough of your time

Harry Potter. As I told you those years ago, even Centaurs have
misread the stars and I sorely hope I have."

"You told me the same thing years ago, that you hoped the stars
were wrong when you read them, were they?"

"One cannot fully fathom the truth of the stars, nor the intent of what
the gods allow us to glimpse."

That's vague. Harry thought, But it's probably the best I'm getting.

In his experience with Divination, words were rarely just that.

"Nothing is written in stone, I suppose."

"No." Firenze agreed, "The stars are forever in motion, what is

certain today is seldom so on the morrow."

"Thank you, for the warning, all the same."

"I bid you a safe farewell, Harry Potter." He trotted away, making the
echoing clank of his horseshoes on the cobbles reverberate
throughout the castle.

I'm sure I've had stranger mornings. He mused although none came
to mind.

Harry decided that he would depart as well, breakfast called to his

empty stomach and he had spent enough time talking to Firenze that
the sun had risen enough and the Great Hall would have enough
people in it that he wouldn't be eating alone.

Though, something ate at him. Firenze had always been decent to

him. His exile didn't sit well with him.

Harry returned to the hallway. Hopefully, fate would allow him

breakfast over troublesome stairs.

Harry continued his original path to the Great Hall, the grand
staircase immediately providing a route to his destination as if the
difficulties had been in his imagination. Soon enough he was on his
way. As he expected, enough people were in the hall that he
wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. Ron and Hermione hadn't
arrived yet, but given the fact that Harry hadn't slept, it was unlikely
he'd see them for some time.

Neville was already seated at the Gryffindor table, using his new
wand to practice some charms. Neville's new wand seemed a
godsend for the usually timid boy as if the cherry wood had given
him a healthy dose of confidence.

Gran reckons I need to learn how to use it properly, He had said,

Reckons if I'm going to be fighting the Lestranges again, I better
know enough to put them in the ground next time.

The Ministry had stoked a rage in the boy, for better or for worse.
Harry wasn't quite sure yet.
At the current moment, however, he was trying to animate the forks
at the table to walk. It wasn't the most straightforward of tasks,
charming steel, given it was less pliable than the plastic soldiers they
were meant to practice the charm with. He took a seat next to the
practising boy.

"Hi, Nev." Harry offered brightly.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said, broken out of his concentration. He

continued to try and perform his spell, he righted his fork and tried
again.

" Motus Leporem!" He incanted forcefully, the prongs of the fork

moved for a moment before the utensil listed aimlessly into a bowl of
porridge.

"Why aren't you using the figurine Flitwick gave us?" Harry asked as
he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth.

"Lost mine," Neville replied glumly. "Been trying to find something

decent but nothing's working." he sighed.

"You could borrow mine?" Harry suggested, "I've already finished."

"Suppose we can't all be getting private lessons." The other boy

smiled. Harry might've assumed Dumbledore, but the smirk spoke a
different tale. They'd taken notice of his close interactions with a
certain French witch.

His time with Fleur had grown exponentially and he found there were
few words for her.

Slave Driver perhaps?

He had learned very quickly the word of Fleur Delacour was her
bond. When she had spoken of them duelling and his own meagre
style, he'd refused to believe either.

Now? He was thoroughly convinced.

Gifted also works, I suppose.

He'd had his fair share of bumps, bruises and broken pride. He'd
limped enough nights back to her office or Gryffindor Tower to refute
her skills. Their bouts were close, but there was no other way to
describe the situation.

She was better.

But not for long, there had once been an almost insurmountable gap
between them, born from the years she spent beyond school.

The gap had been closing under her tutelage, shrinking with every
spell he learned and duel he fought. For every duel and spell she
taught, he was conscripted to helping her in turn.

Sealing and opening derelict passages and tracing animated lines on

parchment consumed much of his time. But he couldn't begrudge
her his assistance, given all she had done for him.

Harry snorted in response, "Any time you want to start trading my

place for yours, just say it mate."

"You keep your Dark Lords, I'll stick with forks."

"Sure I can't convince you?"

"Doing that fourteen-incher that Snape won't give up about would be

a start."

"I'll settle for lending you that figurine." Harry said with a smile, "For
some help in Herbology."

Neville's face seemed to lighten up at the prospect. "Yeah, that'd be

great. What do you need help with?"

Harry let out a chortle as if it was already apparent. "That ruddy

Venomous Tentacula, unless we've got some other bastard plant I
need to worry about." He said sourly.
"I didn't know you were struggling," Neville said.

"I'm not really, but last time the bloody thing ate through the tip of my
glove, anything that can go through Dragonhide I'd rather not touch."

The conversation seemed to taper off after that point. Harry

continued to eat his breakfast in silence as Neville tried a few more
times to animate the fork, to no avail, before digging into his first
meal as well. Not too long after Fleur entered the hall, finding a seat
beside Professor Sinistra.

Soon, the morning post arrived.

That had been perhaps being one of the oddest changes occurred,
one he couldn't say he entirely expected. Morning post had been
exciting, fun, for lack of a better term. A chance to bet on Quidditch
scores, read some scandalous gossip of something or other and
purchase products from the back of the Prophet.

Now it was very different.

Each morning was a startling fall back to reality. The possibility of

what could fly into the hall was not lost on any of its occupants. Dark
wings, darker words and empty Ministry platitudes were what every
student feared hid behind unbroken seals.

A barn owl deposited a rolled newspaper in front of Harry, the rolled

paper only narrowly missing his breakfast. Usually, the owls would
try and stay around, take a knut back as a tip or try and snag some
food. Today, however, they left immediately.

Must be a busy morning.

He removed the twine that bound the newspaper together, unfurling

it to glance upon the front page.

No sooner did he read the words did the paper leave his hand,
shoved across the table. Neville sent him a look and reached across
the table, plucking the discarded newspaper within two fingers.

"Vampire attacks magic settlements in Exeter." Neville read aloud,

though Harry didn't feel he wanted to hear it again.

"Not great." Harry remarked solemnly, "You know if anyone lost

someone?"

"Way Colin was telling it, Lilith Warble wouldn't leave the dorm this
morning."

Harry merely sighed in response .

"Make sure someone's with her, yeah?" Harry asked.

"I reckon we could get one of the fifth year Prefects to make sure
she's not alone." Neville returned.

"If anyone decides to go to class that lost someone, make sure they
take some of the older years with them."

"Reckon Slytherin will try and get them again?"

"I hope not," Harry said, "But after Copper? I'm not sure I have much
hope in anyone not pouring salt in the wound for a quick laugh."

Ron and Hermione hadn't shown up to breakfast yet. Resolving to go

on without them, Harry left his breakfast half-finished. He lost his
appetite and headed to class early, it couldn't hurt with Snape and
he'd rather be free of the depressing atmosphere, even if he was
trading it for an oppressive one.

It seemed like the entirety of the castle was silent. He made his way
to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom without any hassle,
the majority of people were still eating breakfast. The room was
empty save for Ernie Macmillian in the front of the class. Harry took
his regular seat in the middle row and waited for the class to begin to
fill up.

Soon enough, students filed in, filling the class up to its regular
capacity. Ron and Hermione eventually came and took their seats
wordlessly beside Harry. Though Hermione looked a bit flustered.

Must've been a good argument.

Soon enough, like clockwork, Snape barged in. He always made a

habit of walking in after all the students, maybe for dramatic effect,
Harry didn't quite know. But this time, it was different. He stormed in
and one could feel the anger radiating off him, the blinds that had
been perpetually closed since Snape walked into the classroom
were raised in a similar fashion as if he was disgusted by the
presence of the darkness. A bright light bathed the room for the first
time in a while.

He stomped to his desk and turned around quickly.

"The events of last night need no introduction. I warned you when

this class started of the dangers you would face. Last night students
lost their parents, brothers and sisters. A crucible envelops these
Isles and will melt any of you not hardy enough to survive what
ensues. Your previous instruction on the issue of Vampires was
insufficient to protect you in the face of the new threat they now
pose." He stepped aside, his wand flared and the chalk began to
write a spell upon the board.

CLARA SANCTORUM

TWO REVOLUTION FLOURISH, RIGHT TO LEFT DIAGONAL

SLASH, JAB

"A spell used by Albanian hunters to incapacitate Vampires and their

subspecies. Vampires are vulnerable to all forms of natural light,
being fire or sunlight. Observe."
Snape turned to face the wall and clearly said the incantation and
followed the wand movement, though Harry doubted he'd really
needed it. A beam of yellowish-white light blew out of the tip of his
wand, followed by three bright pulses of light that had Harry rubbing
his eyes in protest.

"You will master it before the week is out or you shall no longer be
present in this class. This war will strip you bare if you let it, do not
let it. Now practice." He finished, storming out as quickly as he
entered.

" Merlin ." Ron swore, "He's on it today."

"You'd want to hope so, Quirrell was meant to teach us about

Vampires in first year." Harry said.

"Well, if Voldemort ever wants to start using Iguana's, we'll be onto

him."

"That'll be the day." Harry laughed lightly, "I thought the Vampires
were still confined to the covens in Minsk?"

"Tirana." Hermione corrected.

"Tirana." Harry repeated, "They're far from home."

"Not all of them," Ron shook his head, "Dad reckons he met a few of
them when he was writing stuff for the Wizengamot. Though I'm
more concerned with what Snape's trying to do with this duelling."

"What, the tournament?" Harry asked, "I suppose he wants us to get

a proper look at how it's going to be."

"Not sure I like Snape being the one to be running it though." Ron
snarked, "When has that bastard ever not tried to make our lives
hell? This'll surely be the same."

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't reckon it's a bad idea, he wants us to get a measure of what
it's like," Harry said, practising the wand movement. "The price for
overestimating your abilities is far harsher out there, they want to
make sure we stay alive I suppose."

Ron murmured what sounded like acquiescence but didn't say

anything further, Harry returned to his spellwork as motley flashes of
light illuminated the classroom.

Soon their class concluded and they moved onto the next -
Transfiguration. Which in comparison to Defence Against the Dark,
operated at a much more sedate pace. Much like DADA, it was
relatively quiet. Some conversation had begun and dispersed quickly
under the harsh gaze of Professor McGonagall. They were practising
conjuration and the Deputy Headmistress had expressed the utmost
importance of concentration in the matter.

" Pario Rete" Harry incanted softly.

He'd chosen to conjure a statue of the Gryffindor Mascot, a little lion

statuette shimmered into existence before him. It was pretty much
exactly like he envisioned it, which he found was integral in
conjuration, more so than transfiguration. He failed to envision his
lion correctly in the last lesson and while it looked like an excellent
puddle, it was a poor lion.

Still, the statue was a fine effort, from the details of the mane to the
texture of the body. It was perhaps a bit misshapen, lacking
refinement in many areas, but it was good enough.

" Motus Leporum." He followed his initial incantation with an

animation charm, soon, his lion let out a silent roar and rolled over,
before stilling.

Deciding that maybe he could try the spell silently, he vanished his
latest attempt and tried again.
Pario Rete, he incanted internally.

The results were to be expected, the lion was much less refined, it's
edges were shaped and resembled some form of contemporary art
rather than the fearsome beast. Seeing he had little luck but deciding
to try again, Harry cast the same following spell internally,

Motus Leporum .

His statuette didn't even manage a step forward, it's blocky leg lifted
and it teetered for a moment before falling.

Harry continued his efforts to cast the complex charms non-verbally,

by the end of the class he'd achieved a more refined version that
managed to walk on its own, as well as ten inches on the properties
of non-animate conjuration.

They broke their spree of classes with Lunch, which was thankfully
much less distressed. He broke into a quick lunch with Ron and
Hermione. Little was said between the trio, the day was busy and
they sorely needed food but Harry noticed the indecipherable
glances between the pair. Soon enough, they'd filled their stomachs
and were sent towards their last class of the day. They made the
arduous trek down to the dungeons to begin Potions.

Harry was keen to see if Ron's performance could be repeated again

given he recently had a habit of being the best, despite his record of
abysmal and lacklustre results. Slughorn had taken note of his
achievements and couldn't help but praise the 'budding potioneer.'
They took their regular seats inside the classroom and soon enough,
Slughorn began the class, as jovial as ever despite the situation.

"Today!" He announced in an upbeat tone with his arms in an open

gesture. "We will be brewing the Draught of Rage, a potion that
evolved from what we believe Northern Europe as a means for
Scandanavian Mages to enrage the warriors of their tribe. You will
find the instructions on page eighty-seven and I have the ingredients
prepared."

Harry got to work, collecting the typical obscure ingredients.

Dragon's blood, Hippocampi spines, A Doxy wing, Malaclaw
antennae, A leaf of the Venomous Tentacula which Harry felt a
sadistic satisfaction in tearing it from the plant. Almost revenge for
the plant ruining his set of good gloves. The esoteric nature of the
ingredients continued to grow as the list went on, thankfully they
were all in minuscule amounts or Harry imagined Hogwarts would be
bankrupt.

Harry went about making the potion. His wand lit the flame beneath
the cauldron and he began to put the ingredients in. A quarter ounce
of Dragon's Blood that turned the simmering water a dark crimson
and emitted a volatile hiss, he sliced the Hippocampi spines finely
and pushed them in, dissolving as they hit the water. The ingredients
and their preparations continued, followed by a series of clockwise
and counterclockwise turns and convoluted instructions on turning
the heat on and off to keep the temperature exactly right.

By the time Harry had concluded, his potion was a measly one
shade away from perfection, the blood-like potion bubbled with
hidden danger. Slughorn began to make his rounds as always,
scooping a small vial out and vanishing the rest. By the time he got
to Harry, he gave his sample a small sniff.

"An excellent effort my dear boy, though I'd say you didn't remove all
the membrane from the Doxy wing, alas, a mistake many a young
potioneer makes. However, it does not devalue such a terrific effort."
He gave Harry a beaming smile, he felt pretty good about it until of
course, he made his way to Ron. The perfect potion in colour,
consistency and potency.

"Excellent work Mister Weasley as always! I imagine the Mages of

Scandanavian would pay you a hefty sum of livestock to have a
sample this potent."
Ron grinned and the man continued to the next person.

" Excellent work, Mister Weasley." Harry mocked softly, so only Ron
could hear him.

Ron began packing away his equipment. "Sod off."

"If Keeper doesn't work out, at least you'll have a job." He

congratulated and Ron stuffed a ratty book away into his bag.

With his final closing remarks about how there would be no

homework, Harry began to pack up his equipment. Slughorn
approached Harry.

"A word, if I may, Harry?" Momentarily bewildered about what it

could be about, Harry nodded.

Slughorn waited for the class to clear before he started talking, Ron
and Hermione shot him confused looks but he merely shook his
head.

"I haven't received a response from you if you're coming to the party
I'm hosting, you do remember it is tonight, yes?"

Bugger.

Harry had been so caught up in recent events he'd forgotten to

respond to the missive Slughorn had sent over a week ago, he'd
brushed it off at the time and subsequently forgot.

"Of course sir, I apologise for not replying earlier," Harry said
awkwardly. "NEWT year and everything."

"Ah!" He said clasping his hands together, "No harm, no foul. I shall
expect yourself and your date at my office at eight' o'clock this
evening."

Shite.
Harry had forgotten all about the date.

"Is a date mandatory, sir?"

"Having trouble deciding Harry?" The man said slyly, "No, It's not
mandatory."

He stepped a bit closer so that he could whisper.

"But between you and I, of course," The man's voice was harsh in
his ear, a product of being so close, "Some of the crowd coming
tonight might take umbrage to the fact you haven't taken the time to
find a date."

He stepped back. "Not me, of course! But best to avoid any

confusion."

"Of course sir." Harry agreed, dreading the thought.

"Dare I say it, I can't imagine you'll have much trouble finding a witch
to decorate your arm, even on such short notice."

"You're too kind sir," Harry said, desperately battling the frown that
threatened to spill onto his features.

"Nonsense." The man waved him off, "But you best be getting ready
rather than talking to an old man."

Flattery may be the way to the man's heart.

"I'm sure you're the vision of youth, sir," Harry said.

The man let out a loud, boisterous laugh.

"Maybe tonight once the mead breaks out Harry! But for now, you
best go gather your date."

He flashed Slughorn a forced smile before dashing out, he had

nothing to wear and no date, but he very much had to be at this
party, if only to observe the man.

His mind began to race, who to take?

Hermione was going with Cormac McLaggen, though everyone

already knew that. Ron and Hermione had been warring for days
over that decision.

She's out. He thought with a frown.

Ginny was dating Dean Thomas and given the amount of time they
spent in the Common Room, that'd be an awkward conversation with
Ron, Dean, Fleur and a plethora of other Weasleys.

She's out too.

Luna would probably be free, but while they were good friends,
whether they were that good was debatable.

Dental based conspiracies and invisible creatures might be off-

putting.

But of course, the option that had been at the forefront of his mind
was the riskiest one.

Fleur Delacour.

It was perhaps the riskiest of the options, but the only one that really
made sense.

But he couldn't show up without someone else. He needed her even

if only as a defence against the myriad people Slughorn had brought
into the castle to meet. Fleur was his best choice, his only choice.

I think you'll find socialites and sorrows go hand-in-hand. She had

said.

Perhaps, it was unnecessary dramatics. Perhaps, it was a jape to

scare him. But part of him thought it was neither.
Perhaps it truly is that perilous.

Fleur had always mockingly bragged about being a 'budding

socialite' herself. Harry decided now was as good a time as ever to
put that theory to the test.

He peered left and right and saw no sign of Hermione or Ron. He

tore off to the other side of the castle, the route to her office
ingrained to his memory.

I've been there often enough.

Long strides helped him cross the castle with ease. He didn't need to
consult the Marauders Map to find her. Fleur always made a habit of
always reading before dinner. It was one of the few predictable
things about her.

Where am I going to get dress robes?

He supposed he could transfigure some robes, but fashion wasn't

exactly his forte nor was complex transfiguration. He had his robes
from the Yule Ball, but they were sure to be ill-fitting.

He could sneak out of the castle and get to Gladrags before it

closed, but he'd have to see Fleur ensure the colours were
matching, after his long day he looked forward to a casual day and
winding down into the weekend. Instead, he'd gotten a headache,
but developing a positive rapport with Slughorn was imperative.

Soon enough he arrived at the familiar sight, he rapped on the heavy

wooden door thrice and after a brief moment, it swung open.

"'Arry?" She asked, confusion evident on her face, "You're very

early."

"Yeah..," He responded lamely.

Maybe I should've rehearsed this.

"Lost for words?" She teased, leaning against the doorframe.

She had an amused look on her face, crossing her arms as she leant
against the doorframe, prompting him to continue with an arch of an
elegant eyebrow.

"I need a favour, a big one that is."

"Is that so?" She asked, confusion morphing into interest. "Has
Scrimgeour delegated another of his tasks ?"

Scrimgeour often demanded much, for little. But he had little choice.
Fleur, however, was no great fan of the 'Old Lion'.

"Not yet." He shook his head, "I've still got to write that letter, but I
haven't gotten anything new."

"So you don't need my help with our esteemed Minister, what do you
need?"

"I need a date to Slughorn's Party." He said abruptly.

To her credit, if she looked shocked she certainly didn't show it,
though her lips pursed and her irritation was clear.

"If this is your attempt at romance, I can see how your attempts at
relationships have gone so stellar in the past." Wincing a little, Harry
was quick to defend himself.

"No, it's just…" He struggled to find words to placate her, "I need
your help, desperately. I need it to go well and you're the only
chance I have."

"Is it to do with your little 'Quest'?" She asked, standing up from the
doorway.
Harry nodded, He knew she wanted to know, it was eating at her not
being able to know all his secrets, suffice to say he had quite a few.

"So you've conveniently forgotten about it up until now?" She asked,

her hand coming to rest upon a cocked hip. "You saw me yesterday
and you honestly couldn't remember then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Well, It was Slughorn that

reminded me. Told me it would be best if I had a date."

"An astounding impression, I'm sure." She drawled, "Who's going?"

"I'm not too sure of that."

"So I'm to be your date to a party and you've got no clue who's
going?"

"I could always ask Ginny."

" Ginerva would be honoured, I'm sure of it." She mocked, "When
does the party start?"

"Eight," Harry replied meekly.

"So you've given me," She flicked her wand to check the time, "A
little under three hours to get ready. Did you wait so long as to
ensure I couldn't say no?"

"No! No no… I've just had a lot on my mind as I said, I forgot."

"Do you have robes for tonight?"

"No." He said sheepishly, meeting her ocean eyes.

"Do you have any idea how terribly irritated I am at you?" She sighed
but some amusement crept back into her voice.

"Uh. Possibly?" He admitted, though the fear of refusal had shedded

and her features had softened.
"Get in here, I'll shower and transfigure you something."

For the first time since Slughorn reminded him, Harry could breathe
easily.

Harry crossed the threshold into her office and took a seat at the
familiar recliner that he'd be using to nurse his wounds after their
nightly bouts. She quickly retreated into the bathroom and a moment
later, the shower turned on.

He tried to occupy himself at first, but she was in the bathroom for a
lengthy amount of time, he started peeking around the room. The
minimalist decor had persisted, even as she had finished unpacking.
The antechamber that served as her office still only decorated by a
few pieces of fine furniture.

He rolled his wand between his fingers and sat back in the chair,
waiting until she returned.

A generous amount of time later, the shower cut off and she exited.
Sounds began to emanate from the room, presumably drying spells
and the likes. Soon enough she stepped outside of the Bathroom,
blindsiding Harry.

She wore a light blue dress that hugged and accentuated her
womanly curves. Her hair was up as it so often was when she
worked or when they duelled, but tonight two elegant wisps of her
silver fell from either side of her head and framed her angelic
features.

She was beauty incarnate. Harry felt his mouth go dry and his heart
pound furiously in his chest.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

In times like this, that was all he could cling to.

A simple mantra, but effective. That was his shield, the only barrier
that stopped his errant thoughts from straying into dangerous
territory. It was a simple truth - Fleur Delacour was astoundingly
beautiful. So much so that Harry could seldom remember a time
where another had even come close. She was intelligent and witty,
funny and wise.

A beautiful, foreign witch that possessed the power to bewitch men.

The bane of witches and wizards alike, she was engaged and most
importantly, she was a friend.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

Simple, yes. But the words were all he had.

If he were any lesser a wizard, he might've succumbed to that

desire. The urge to seek her out irrespective of whatever ties she
held to the Weasleys like he'd seen many do when they were bought
face-to-face with her.

It was times like this where he could be grateful he was no lesser

wizard.

She turned to him and gave his outfit a once over, his brief moment
of being dazed flying past unnoticed.

"I'd tell you to shower but we haven't got the time." She said, her lips
quirking in thought.

I get the feeling that was intentional. He mused, a small act of

revenge for his lack of decorum.

He hid a smirk that threatened to cross his features.

That would've given up the game.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, didn't have Herbology today."

Without giving Harry a moment to respond, she began to flick her
wand like an artist making precise strokes on a canvas. The length
of his robes shortened at the front and lengthened at the back, a
dark green trim emerged from the edges. Harry began to observe
the changes, it was fairly reminiscent of his Yule Ball robes although
a tad more refined, which was surprising given the fact they were
tailored by a seamstress, but Harry found he liked these much better.
Another spell shot from her wand, coating him in a vaguely floral
fragrance that he found he liked a fair bit.

She checked the time using the ornate clock that sat upon the far
wall rather than her wand.

"We best be on our way." She announced, "I trust I don't need to
remind you to be on your best behaviour?"

"When am I ever not on my best behaviour?" He replied cheekily,

though his jape didn't seem to elicit any amusement.

"I'm serious, Harry." She deadpanned, "These gatherings aren't

strictly social. I told you, no one is here to reminisce with old friends.
They wish to know how the spoils will be split."

"Spoils?" Harry asked, "I doubt they'll be vying for Slughorn's

collection of robes."

She paused for a moment and turned to him, her head cocked.

"Do you think the meeting at Hogwarts is happenstance?" She

asked, though there didn't seem to be anything but genuine curiosity
behind her question.

"I don't think much is a coincidence." Harry said, "Slughorn wants

everyone to meet the 'next generation' of witches and wizards."

"Maybe." She said, her voice oddly soft. "More likely, they want to
find for themselves how their pieces will land."
"Pieces?"

"Some men play Quidditch, some learn spells, some hunt game. But
some play a different game entirely. To them, everyone is a
plaything, every person a piece to be moved and bartered at their
behest. It's a gambling wizard's game, Harry. They're here to see
which side deserves their final gambit - to see if Dumbledore can
truly win this war."

"Of course he can." Harry scoffed with feigned confidence.

"Dumbledore almost killed him at the Ministry."

He neglected the words in the back of his head.

This is your war now.

They'll be looking at the Chosen One too.

"But how long does he have left? He couldn't beat him in the First
War. What makes the Second so different? If he can beat him, how
long will it take?"

"Have some faith." Harry said sourly, "He's the only reason
Voldemort isn't in control of Hogwarts."

"These aren't my words, Harry." She said softly, "These will be theirs.
How much longer can the great Albus Dumbledore last? They'll ask,
ten years, fifteen ?"

Fewer, Harry thought sadly, Far fewer.

"Armando Dippet lived until three hundred and something," Harry

said, remembering the feeble painting in the Headmaster's office.
"He could have another two hundred years in him."

"Armando Dippet didn't fight wars, Harry." She said, her voice still far
softer than it usually was. "Dumbledore has fought how many?
Three? Four?"
"I'm not sure I want to talk about it, Fleur," Harry said.

"It's a truth you can't escape Harry," She said, "Be it from my mouth
or theirs, half-truths or hard truths, confronting them is easier than
running."

She was sombre, serious. A stark departure from her usual tone.
"How do you know this?"

She gave a soft snort in response. "The French invented the social
rendezvous, and we're nothing if not masters at our craft."

"I don't plan to be there too long anyways." He admitted, "I just want
to talk to Slughorn a little and then hopefully get out of there before it
gets too serious."

"Sometimes, that doesn't always go to plan."

"I'll keep trying until it does." He resolved.

"Alright then," She relented, "Though as payment I expect you to tell

me what exactly you're getting from this."

"One day, I just might." He replied vaguely.

She finished some final touches to his transfigured robe before she
announced it was perfect.

She took Harry's arm and led him out the door.

He wondered if he was truly ready for all this. He started with

thinking it was little more than old men debating Ministry policy and
getting drunk. Now? It seemed altogether more nefarious.

He supposed it didn't truly matter if he was ready.

Into the Viper's nest I go.

They made their way to the sixth floor. The majority of students
would've retired to their Common Rooms so the long journey was
made relatively quiet, save for the odd comments Fleur made on
paintings that caught her eye. Thankfully, none flickered as they had
those weeks before, but she'd stop to point out artists whom she
admired.

Soon enough, they arrived at the office. Harry gave a quick glance to
the Marauder's Map which he'd taken to keeping on him regularly to
keep eyes on specific individuals. It contained many names he'd
never heard but he imagined he'd be thrust into the deep-end
beyond the door.

Fleur knocked, giving three small raps on the door, soon enough the
plump form of Professor Slughorn to open the door.

"Harry, My boy!" He boomed. "The lovely Miss Delacour as well!

Please, come in. I've many people here eager to make your
acquaintance."

And so it begins.

Harry groaned internally, that was precisely what he was trying to

make a conscious effort to avoid, yet here he was now being led
around by Slughorn. Fleur flashed him a knowing smirk and they set
out into the room.

It was large, larger than any of the other offices he'd been in, it more
than rivalled the Headmaster's even. But it seemed claustrophobic
given the sheer amount of people piled into it. A circular table sat in
the middle of the room, surrounded by ornate pillars. A desk sat in
the back right corner and in the other three, a variety of settees and
lounges that people were sitting upon.

Slughorn practically dragged Harry and by extent, Fleur across the

room, almost bowling over a House Elf rushing around with plates
stacked so high towards the ceiling that it looked more akin to a
moving table.
"Here we are Harry, Eldred Worple!" A stout, bespectacled man
turned around at his name, breaking conversation off with a tall,
gaunt man wearing crimson red robes.

"Ah, Mister Potter! A pleasure." He said excitedly albeit very quietly.

"Worple, Eldred Worple. Britain's premier author on all matters of
Vampiric Magizoology."

Both the man's small hands clasped his right hand tightly, giving it a
series of firm shakes.

"I'm sure that's a very lucrative field," Harry said after a brief pause.

"Oh indeed, indeed!" The man agreed, perhaps thankful he got some
recognition.

"And Miss Delacour," Slughorn announced, "Who is currently

assisting Albus in some work around the castle."

"A pleasure," Fleur said, her voice sickeningly sweet with a

politeness that was almost certainly feigned.

"The pleasure remains mine, my dear." He said, brushing his lips

against her knuckles, enunciated by an elaborate bow that looked
decidedly archaic.

The man stopped and seemed to realize something. "But I'm being
terribly rude!" He stepped aside and the pale visage of the taller man
stepped forth. "My colleague, Sanguini."

The man's face was pale but the shadows under his eyes were
extremely prominent as if he hadn't slept in ages. He looked
reasonably emaciated too. Despite his robes looking fairly well-
tailored, they hung off him like ill-fitting rags.

Harry knew the experience well.

"Mister Potter." The man said in a dark voice, his voice more a hiss
then conventional chatter. Though Harry wasn't exactly listening to
him, rather the elongated canines that fell from his mouth. Fleur was
close enough behind him that he felt her tense at the same
realisation.

The Vampire Author came with a Vampire.

The emaciated man did not attempt to exchange pleasantries and

received none in return. Harry's eyes flicked back to Worple for a
moment.

He's either incredibly dull or there's something else at hand.

Slughorn was fairly quick on his feet though. detecting the harsh
glare and no response was likely going to become very awkward
soon. He offered a quick pleasantry and ushered Harry to the next
guest.

The reputation comes with practice I suppose.

Suddenly, he felt like cattle being bought and sold at will. Passed
around by old men and subjected to lengthy introductions that
seemed to be never-ending. Even in a room that wasn't extremely
large, he felt like he waded through the sticky subject of politics for
an age. Fleur being by his side was his only saving grace.

It was her that would whisper advice in his ear while his conversation
partner was distracted, providing counsel when he felt out of his
depth. Which was often. Soon, free from the overbearing clutches of
proud men, the pair made their way to a less populated corner of the
room.

"How was my political debut ?" He asked, glad to be free from the
oppressive atmosphere, even if that relief was only fleeting.

"Sloppy." She said although the smile on her face told a different
tale. "But better than most."

"Such high praise." Harry scoffed

"I've seen better."

"I didn't know you trained many in how to get passed around by
boring, old men for hours."

"An hour and a half, Harry." She amended, "You've got a long path
ahead, still many more guests to be greeted."

"Looks like the dream of getting out of here before midnight was just
that."

"Get yourself a drink." She suggested, "Slughorn seems to have

spent quite a bit of money on it."

At some point in the night, she came into the possession of a wine
glass. Bringing the ornate glasswork to her nose, swirling it and
finally bringing it to her lips as she'd shown him nearly two months
ago.

"Good?" He asked as she sipped idly on the crimson liquid.

"Expensive." She said simply, "You might want to indulge yourself, it

looks rude not to partake in the Host's refreshments."

"Is expensive always good?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Sometimes, but not always." She said, removing the glass from her
lips, "Perhaps, there should be less talking and more observing
anyways."

"I think I've done enough observing for tonight."

"You've never done enough observing in this setting." She said, "If
you think you have, you're a fool."

She nodded towards a heavy-set man. Straw-coloured hair sat upon

a large head that seemed to laugh with all the boisterousness of
Slughorn himself.
"Who's he?" She queried.

"Louis Capaldant," Harry recited with relative ease.

Merlin knows I've heard it enough.

"French Gastomagus, he works in the Preservation Department."

"Did he ask you anything strange?" Fleur prompted.

"He wanted to know if we thought we could win the war without the
help of the ICW."

"What did you tell him?"

"Not much." Harry shrugged, "I don't know myself."

"Good, what about him." She said nodding to another man.

They stayed there for a moment. Harry stuck reciting the length tales
about each guest. Martin Theander, The head of Qwik Quills who
gifted Slughorn ' The most amazing red-eagle feather quill every
year.'

Adrian Wilkes, a magical photographer for the Daily Prophet who '
could've done so much better' He ran into Worple and his Vampire
more than once, his dissertation on ' The effects of Vampirism on
Magic' was to die for, apparently .

He kept reciting names, putting quotes and occupations to them until

Fleur was happy, or rather, until their host decided to make another
appearance.

"Enjoying ourselves are we?" Slughorn asked from behind.

They turned to, the man's face was red and sweat beaded at his
forehead. He seemed quite thoroughly sloshed.

It seems like drinking is his guilty pleasure.

"Of course." Fleur said, not to be taken off guard "Quite a beautiful
blend Horace, you've clearly spared no expense." She
complimented.

"Of course not my dear, only the best for such a prestigious
gathering." The two engaged in a conversation about one bottle or
the other while Harry tried to get his own drink. He only managed to
catch the tail-end as he continued to look around.

"I have an Egyptian vintage, quite rare too, you know? But I imagine
you've heard all about such with your fiancé in Egypt."

"Australia." Fleur corrected.

"Oh, apologies." The man said, "Albus told me he was in Egypt

yesterday."

"I assure you, the Headmaster is mistaken." There was a tenseness

in her tone and tightness behind a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
The ocean seemed considerably darker against the face of the drunk
man.

"Very well." The man relented, "I shall leave you to it."

"Are you okay?" Harry asked gently behind her, her very posture
seemed off at the plump Professor's work.

"Fine." She assured succinctly.

Harry might've thought to push the issue. But if she wished to keep
her thoughts private, that was her prerogative.

Merlin knows she hasn't pushed me on half the things she could've.

He'd been debating whether or not he should drink the alcohol

provided, given he was under the watchful gaze of Slughorn the
entire time, Harry protested against it, but now that he was gone
Harry was emboldened, anything to make the terribly dull night go
faster. A passing elf dipped it's tray as it walked past.
"Would the sirs be liking some Tingly Meads?" It asked politely,
resplendent in significantly better clothing than they usually wore.
Harry took one of the generously filled glasses and brought it to his
lips. He swirled it in his mouth, it tasted sweet like honey and Harry
found he liked it quite a bit, he swallowed it and a tingling sensation
covered his body.

I guess I found out why it's called that .

He kept gingerly sipping it as Slughorn returned, dragging them both

back into the fray of scheming old men, boring conversation and the
facade of politeness. The sips turned to gulps and the glass turned
into multiple and then some.

Like most magical alcohol, it had the uncanny ability to get the
drinker horribly intoxicated very quickly.

A more than welcome prospect for the both of them as they

navigated dark waters full of cunning men and complex plots.

Soon enough he found Fleur again, the pair bid the Professor a good
night and Harry made to escort Fleur back to her office.

There were no other words for it; they were both terribly drunk. Harry
to pass the dull night quickly and Fleur because she claimed she '
absolutely couldn't let a vintage this good go to waste on dullards
that couldn't appreciate it.'

Though, perhaps she had another motive. However, she was a

remarkably well-composed drunk.

They began their slow sedated journey back to her office, giggling
and talking their way there.

"Happiest moment?" She giggled to hide a little hiccup that Harry

thought was quite cute.
Her face was flushed and she leaned on Harry to stand straight.
Harry followed a similar strategy as they both held each other up.

"Probably when I met Sirius and he told me about my parents, you?"

"When we were little, Gabrielle had a big stuffed Griffin. We made

Maman make it levitate and we spent the day eating berries flying on
a stuffed animal."

Harry struggled to think of a good question. "Favourite colour?"

She chuckled, "Terrible question, but blue. You?"

"Green."

"How woefully unoriginal."

"How is mine unoriginal?" Harry scoffed.

"It's the colour of your eyes." She said as if it was simple.

"So what? Yours is blue."

"Blue's the colour of wisdom and intelligence." She boasted, "Green

is just green ."

Harry harrumphed, "Whatever, it's your turn."

She seemed to ponder the question for some time, looking a bit
indecisive. It was a nice change, she kept her emotions so guarded,
but in her drunken state, they were all the more clearer.

"Have you ever dreamt about me?" She smirked.

Harry didn't want to answer.

Well, when in Rome.

"Once."
"You can't just say once! You've got to tell me!" She exclaimed.

"That wasn't the question." Harry defended.

"Well, I've amended the question!" She said, seemingly proud of

herself.

He sighed. "I dreamt after I saved Gabrielle you gave me a 'proper

thank you'." He said, embarrassed.

"A proper thank you?" She asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"You know." He said, his cheeks hot.

"No, I don- Oh!" She exclaimed as if she had cracked a great code.

She gave another small giggle. "Is that right?" She asked in mock
anger. But her tone shifted in an instance.

"Was I good?" She asked, her low voice laced with a seductive tone
that made him thankful for the low-light.

"Fleur." He warned.

"How did you have me?" Her blue eyes seemed to smolder through
the darkness.

That was certainly an area even drunk Harry didn't want to delve
into. "Alright! Alright! You win." He conceded with his cheeks still
burning.

Luckily, they were already at her door. She slipped her wand from
somewhere Harry didn't see, though his brain filled in the gap. She
went to tap it on the door, but it slipped from her grip.

She bent over to grasp the fallen Rosewood, giving Harry an

accidental flash of her perfectly sculptured behind. He was quick to
look away, even in his drunken state.
She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

The mantra was quick in his head, but some recess of his mind
ingrained the image into his very being.

She picked it up off the ground and successfully tapped it on her

door, opening it. She turned around to face Harry, unbeknownst to
her inadvertent malfunction.

"Even though you sprung it on me, I very much enjoyed the night,
the first time I've had fun in a while." She said in an
uncharacteristically harsh voice given how upbeat she was mere
moments ago.

She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, the
corners of their mouths just meeting. It smouldered with a forbidden
heat. Harry found he enjoyed the sensation far more than the mead.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

He repeated it over and over as she gave a small smile and

disappeared behind the door into the office beyond.

Maybe I can just enjoy it this once.

The Tempest
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : The Tempest

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Welcome to Chapter Eight The Tempest.

Was a bit of a fan of naming this chapter, literary reference and a fic
reference all in one - doesn't get much better than that.

Thanks to everyone who was a part of the recent influx of reviewers,

followers and 'favouriters'. Most of whom came from A Simple Act of
Vengeance by Frickles who after reading the story, was generous
enough to give me a shout out. So I'd go and read his works!

Wasn't the easiest chapter to write, complex dynamics that needed

to be pulled off and I can't say for certain whether or not I hit that
mark, though you can.

Outside of that, Here's a question for those who do take time to read
the A/N's. I'm going to have to ask what your preferred smut system
would be. Do you guys want full lemons, do you want half measures
or do you want simple allusion to the fact it happened? They're not
inbound for some time, but it's best I establish a consensus before I
get too far ahead of myself.
World's a dangerous place and as always, stay safe!

Winter was nigh.

Light sleet preceded thicker snow to come, the frost was cold in the
air and early. Heralding colder days and darker nights yet. Their
surroundings bathed in a dull, white glow, assisted by the full moon's
weight bearing down upon them. The sudden cold tempests were
slowing their pace to little but a crawl.

Now he was relegated to taking refuge amidst an outcropping of

trees, each breath blowing a torrent of frosty air from his cold lips.

Perhaps a sign of things to come.

Flames billowed beneath his feet, a small fire crafted by conjured

wood and errant branches. Heating charms were sufficient for their
daytime treks, but few things could surpass a warm fire to beat back
the cold.

It's not much, but it'll ward off the frostbite.

"Is lighting a fire wise?"

The voice was feminine, declaring an approach from his right side.
Peeking from beyond a heavy-set cloak and hood was the ebony
hair of Emmeline Vance.

"Say the word lass. You can always freeze."

"Charming." She drawled, "You'd want to hope the smoke doesn't

give us away."

"As long as Podmore keeps his wits, the wards will shield us."

She took a seat on a patch of thawed ground, fishing some stew

from a pot that rested gently on the fire.
"We've been tracking Yaxley for an age."

"Got a point?" The rough voice of Alastor Moody sounded in return.

"If we haven't caught them now, will we ever?"

The man stoked the fire with a stroke of his wand. "Soon. If we keep
pushing them North, those bastards will have their backs against a
wall soon enough."

"How many towns and hamlets have to burn before we get them
there?"

"North country is quiet. They'll struggle to find one for a hundred

miles." The man said, the heat of the fire hot on his face.

"Yaxley's no fool. He'll be hard to catch. Especially with that snake by

his side."

The snake was a reminder the old ex-Auror could've done without.

The snake.

That fucking snake.

Yaxley had been bad enough; they thinned his numbers sufficiently
that the man fought a fighting retreat northwards. Their only solace
was that the man would receive no further assistance from the Dark
Lord.

A captured follower told them as much. This was to be Yaxley's

crucible. Recompense for years of faithlessness, years that would be
repaid in blood if Voldemort had his way. If he returned without
besting them, he'd be bested in turn.

Serves that blonde cunt right.

But the hard-featured man did not worry them as much as he likely
should have. He'd been pushed far into Scotland, running low on
villages to raze and men to throw at them.

Where there was likely fifteen under his command at first count, he'd
lost many. Their numbers had waned towards nothing.

He'd be lucky to boast a third of that now. Moody thought sadistically,

taking a swig from his flask.

Aye, but we've suffered too.

A smaller group was needed to avoid detection, hiding from scouting

parties that would apparate within hundreds of meters, only for them
to go undetected. Numbers would've been good, would've helped
them bleed their foes. But numbers would have seen their ruin by
now.

We've lost Lupin to the moon; Doge to the snake, and Tonks to duty.

But their numbers didn't matter at all.

All because of that fucking snake.

A snake that's skin couldn't be marred on contact, who did not

succumb to the barrage of spellfire. It slowed but never wavered.

"We'll have to find another way to subdue it." The man finally
responded after the long pause, the cold spout of his flask burning
against his lips.

The fire's good, but so is firewhisky.

"We're at half strength," Emmeline tried. "We can't kill it. That's the
sad truth."

The 'Mad-Eye' was never one to cower from a fight, shy from a battle
or shirk his duty. But even he had to see sense in the woman's
rationale.

I've grown soft in my old age, he mused.

He sloshed the liquid in his mouth, savouring momentary warmth.
"Maybe not. If Yaxley heads back south with the beast, we'll have
more worries than a few Death Eaters."

"We'll have fewer worries if we're dead." she snarked.

"Aye, too right, lass." Moody said, raising his flask to the sky. "But I'll
die before they start razing our towns again."

"Is that what you want?" she asked, her voice softer than her
previous snark. "To die? Is that the only thing that'll bring you any joy,
Alastor?"

"I want to be young again, to have a nose and two eyes still, to claim
some family in this shite world," he admitted - his eyes - both dark
and electric blue boring into the flames. "Doesn't matter a whit what I
want. This'll be my last war and this, my last winter, by the looks of it.
I'll be leaving this world one way or another. Best I do it with my
wand in hand than a curse in the back as I cower."

None would ever call the Mad-Eye a craven or a coward.

"You keep pursuing death, it'll find you quicker than you may like,"
Kingsley said, approaching from behind Moody.

"Better than starving in the cold."

"Not by much," Emmeline said, clutching her hands close to the fire.

"Podmore still on watch?" Moody asked, looking towards the red

cloak of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Mhm," the man murmured in his baritone. "How he stands the cold
is anyone's guess."

The cold couldn't take much from a man that Azkaban hadn't
already.
"So is that all life is to you?" Emmeline faced the man again,
"There's more to it then death and duty, you know."

"No, that's all life needs to be," the grizzled Auror said simply, taking
a final swig of his liquor. "You get the Patronus?"

Kingsley nodded in response. "Diggle and Jones are coming, as will

Lupin in a few days."

"We'll wait until we're at full strength, then we'll push them up to
Orkney."

"A sound plan," the dark-skinned wizard agreed. "They'll be licking

their wounds after the skirmish in Alness."

The old Auror made to speak again, but his words stilled before he
could breathe life into them.

War had instilled a battle-born vigilance within Alastor Moody. He'd

awaken at sudden sounds in the night, grasp for his wand when
another held theirs.

Paranoia, they had called it. But he had viewed it through a different
lens.

Vigilance.

It was that same vigilance that felt the wards as they tickled his neck
and sensed the wind fall still against his face. That saw the stocky
form of Sturgis Podmore dash up the hill firing sparks from his wand.
Sparks that were cut short by a spell that careened across the dark
distance into his back.

The man who couldn't be cowed by the cold of Azkaban fell forward
with lifeless eyes, down into ichor-coated snow.

Claimed by the same cold depths he detested.

Motley curses illuminated the darkness, burnt ozone and sulfur sat
heavy in the air as vicious cracks sounded around them. Deafening
thunderclaps that threatened to split his eardrums in two.

That fucking fire.

The fire had given them away. The billowing smoke that provided
warmth had lured them into the clutches of death.

A flick of his wand sent snow over the fire, coating the raging flames
and stilling them to mere embers. Enshrouded by darkness, he
summoned his staff back to him.

This is not how the Mad-Eye goes, fucked in the rear by cowards too
frightened to fight him from the front.

This is not how I go, the man resolved.

Not tonight.

Harry had awoken with a headache that threatened to split his head
in two. An aching throb that bit at his temples with a hunger that
wouldn't abate no matter how hard he dug his fingers into his skin.
His first few thoughts were frantic.

Is this another vision?

In his panic, that was the only idea that he breathed life into. The
thought that it was another painful gift from Voldemort he'd be
submerged within.

A brief moment of realisation washed over him and instead of

preparing himself for a mental onslaught, he just laughed.

I'm hungover. That was all he could muster as he chuckled despite

himself. And I feel like death.
He turned over on his bed to search for his wand and soon found
that was not the ideal course of action. His stomach lurched at the
provocation and the telltale signs of vomit appeared to make
themselves known, abating shortly after he stopped moving.

Let's not do that again, he advised internally.

He fished his wand from his bedside table with gentle movements as
to not provoke his upset stomach any further. He grasped the holly
shaft with two fingers before encompassing the handle with his palm.

He flicked his wand and muttered a soft spell.

" Tempus."

The misty form of clock hands coalesced from the tip of his wand,
imitating any other clock he could find in Hogwarts.

Seven-thirty.

He bared his teeth and put the tip of his wand against them.

" Recens."

A bastardisation of brushing his teeth, but it still felt clean. Erasing

the taste of stale mead and morning from his mouth.

His memory had faded. For instance, his return to Gryffindor Tower
was beyond his recollection. Hidden behind the fog of sweet-tasting
alcohol and waves of ageing men.

While some aspects remained forgotten, some remained clear as

day.

A kiss that smouldered against his cheek. He felt he could still feel
the warmth if he traced the spot with his fingers. The small contact
the corner of their lips made and the feeling that came after.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

A drunk mind might've let him enjoy such, but his sober one
protested very much against the idea. Glimpses of bare flesh were
discarded from his conscious mind in favour of purer thoughts, but
their conversation remained.

Even amidst the haze of mead, he could still hear her laughs and
feel his cheeks blister with heat.

' A proper thank you'. He lamented, tossing his head back to his
pillow in embarrassment. Real smooth Potter.

Despite the lurching in his stomach, the day would not wait for him to
be ready. He threw his legs over the side of his bed and thrust his
curtains open. Shielding his unprotected eyes from the sudden light,
he blinked back the blindness before his vision returned.

Adjacent to himself, he found Ron by his bed pulling a shirt over his
head. The transfiguration on his clothes had worn off and they were
back to his standard school robes. Harry rubbed at his eyes groggily,
banishing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. He reached for
his glasses off the bedside table and gently placed them on his face.
Now seeing more than just outlines, he noticed the amused smirk
that had weaseled its way onto Ron's features.

"Big night?" Ron asked, if the amusement wasn't already evident on

his face, his voice betrayed the game.

"You could say that." Harry let out a little involuntary groan. "I feel
like shit Ron."

He managed to lock eyes with the redhead before a violent coughing

fit had him spluttering into his hand.

"Serves you right, like a bloody wrecking ball you are mate."

How the tables have turned. Harry mused, Hermione will be pleased,
I'm sure.
Though his words confused Harry - he certainly wasn't privy to any
of the events that led him back to the tower.

"What do you mean?"

Ron let out a loud chuckle. "You don't remember?"

"Do I look like I'm in the state to be remembering much?"

"Well first," He raised his arms as if he was about to embark into a

grandiose tale.

This can't be good.

"First, you tore through my stash of chocolate frogs."

Harry winced. Ron doesn't like anyone touching his food.

"Then, you polished off the last of the biscuits we got."

His wince turned to a sigh.

"You know those pies Mum made us?"

"Surely I didn't."

"Yep." The redhead confirmed, his broad smile belaying any fears of
anger. "They're gone too."

Harry groaned again.

I don't even need to know what else I did.

"I take it Slughorn's Party went well?"

"Gods no. Imagine listening to Binns lecture you but they're all alive,
have their own agendas on how the exact width of a vial should be
determined, and they all want your opinion."
It was a small lie, subtle enough to pass undetected without much
effort. Perhaps he didn't want to tell Ron the truth of why they were
there.

Or perhaps I don't want to face it.

"That bad, huh?" Ron questioned.

"That bad," Harry confirmed. "That's why I drank, just to get out of
the bloody thing."

And perhaps at the orders of a Veela.

"Harry Potter's become a drunk and a thief. Next time you want to go
on an adventure, invite me along."

"You can go in my place next time."

"If it'll get me as pissed as you," Ron said, "Count me in."

Harry winced again, but for a different reason. There was an edge in
his voice, a sourness that hadn't been there before.

He feels left out.

It wasn't an edge without reason. The days had merged into weeks,
into months and beyond and their time had waned to little but meals,
class and the common room…

"Listen, I know I haven't really been spending much time with you."

The words weren't as eloquent as he hoped. But how could they be?

Ron held up his hand to stop him. "I get it. You've got a lot on your
plate, just wouldn't mind having my friend back on occasion, you
know?"

"Yeah, I know that you mean, I've missed you both a lot. Just feels
like I need to be three places at once lately and even then I'm still
behind."

"It's a war." Ron shrugged.

It was rare for Ron ever to be understanding, rarer still for him ever
to see the larger picture beyond his immediate vision.

He's grown up. Harry thought, and for some indescribable reason,
he felt a pang of pain in his chest.

We all have.

War has a penchant for tempering those before their time.

They were Dumbledore's words, said to him offhandedly. He brushed

them off as an old man's passing wisdom. Advice that he'd thought
would never possess any relevance - hoped would never possess
any significance.

Now I'm staring that same penchant in the face.

"How's Hermione, truly?"

"Surprisingly okay." Ron shrugged, "You'd hardly think she knew

there was a war going on. It's always ' NEWTs are too important to
be playing Quidditch!' or ' Good grades are paramount Ronald!'"

A wide smile crossed Harry's features despite the churning of his

stomach. "So, not much has changed?"

"Just the day." Ron sniggered, "You just want to hope she doesn't
start using that Liquid Luck to start prying all your secrets out of
you."

I've a lot of secrets now too - a lot more than I once had.

"Knowing her, she'll use it to study." Harry said, "Surprised you didn't
get it, Prodigy."
"Not this shit again." The boy looked like he was debating closing his
curtains at Harry's words.

"You were worse than me with Snape. Now you're ' Merlin's gift to
potioneering ?'" Harry questioned. "Out with it."

"It does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" He said in a mock-serious
tone.

"Ron," Harry said, his voice suddenly laced with a serious undertone.
"Last year I watched you try and cut a flobberworm with the wrong
side of the knife, then proceed to drop said knife into the cauldron."

"Complete accident." Ron said, finding an interesting spot in the roof

to begin gazing at.

"You also thought the silver cauldron was the pewter and melted it."

"Common mistake, really." The redhead brushed off.

Harry frowned and decided to change tact.

He tapped his chin with his finger, an exaggerated gesture that

brought Ron's eyes back to him. "I suppose Hermione wants to know
too. I guess I could ask her."

" Merlin. " Ron swore under his breath, "Didn't have to bring that up.
You'd think demolishing my food would earn a bloke a bit of
sympathy."

"Hurry up, you were gonna tell me how you were so good?" Harry
said impatiently.

For the briefest of moments, he seemed indecisive, before he huffed

a theatrical sigh and stood up from his bed.

"Alright, wait here a minute."

Ron disappeared beyond the curtains of his bed. Harry heard the
latch of his trunk open as the hardwood creaked against the
movement.

"Here it is." He exclaimed, returning from the clutches of his curtains.

He brandished a book like a sword, displaying it for all to see. Old

and worn, it wore the test of time on its cover. The binding was torn
and the pages scattered. The black, billowing cauldron had almost
faded into nothingness, though the title remained clear.

' ADVANCED POTION MAKING'

It's just our textbook, Harry frowned.

The book looked like it had definitely seen a few years and not kind
ones at that. "Listen, I'll be honest, not really impressing me yet."

"Not the bloody outside of the book you git." He exclaimed, "Here,
take a look." He sat next to Harry on the bed and flicked to a random
page. "Look here, Draught of Fortitude, but it's got all these handy
little tips."

He wasn't wrong; the page seemed to be more a testament to the

owner's penmanship than the author's printed script.

Must have a pretty high opinion of himself.

Most of the author's own words were removed, making way for the
almost illegible script of whoever owned the book. Ron flicked
through the pages en masse to display his helping hand, a mirage of
black pen marks and yellow-stained pages.

Ron sounded almost giddy. "See, over here, ' Remove nervous
membrane from Billywig wings', but the Prince says to dry them
under the cauldron for better effect."

"The Prince ?" Harry questioned.

"Yeah, the Half-Blood Prince. That's who owned the book, or so it
says." He explained, flicking back to the cover of the book.

' This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.'

"I wonder who that is." Harry asked inquisitively.

"Couldn't really give one, but he's good at potions and that's fine with
me."

Harry always knew there was some other reason for his success. He
was glad something was finally going well for Ron, something of his
own.. But he couldn't help but have a nervous feeling gnaw at his
stomach.

"The whole book is like this?"

"Pretty much. Even some handy little spells in the margin." He

explained, flipping over a few pages and pointing to the margin.

Sectumsempra, for enemies. Harry traced the words with his finger.

"Sounds pretty fierce, have you shown Hermione yet?"

"Nah, you know how she is." Harry did indeed know how she was,
given the fiasco with the Firebolt. He could understand his reluctance
to invite her into the loop.

"I reckon you should be careful with the book." Harry announced,
handing the book back to him.

Ron's eyes found Harry's within an instance. "If I wanted a lecture, I

would've told Hermione."

"We've had enough experiences with strange books to last us a

lifetime." Harry said, there was defiance hot in his eyes.

He won't listen, but at least I tried.

Instead of a response, silence saturated the air.

"How about you and I go for some flying then?" Harry offered.

Ron shot him an amused smirk. "Sure you're up to that?"

"A bit of mead isn't going to stop me from spending some time with
my mate." Harry could see the smile widen on Ron's face.

Harry fished his Firebolt out of his trunk and the pair headed to the
Quidditch Pitch. Harry wanted to shake off the effects of the night
prior. Before he was due to meet Dumbledore and then Fleur, flying
sounded like as good an idea as any to do that.

Ron was a brief bastion of normalcy in his turbulent life. A painful

reminder of a life he'd been forced to abandon in favour of more
serious pursuits.

But for now, they could enjoy Quidditch. Ron would have his friend
back and Harry would have a fleeting moment to be a teenager
again.

Even if they both knew it wouldn't last.

They'd broken out into the corridors and beyond. Ron had taken
possession of his Firebolt and had been hugging the handle close to
his body in the cold morning.

"Bill reckons he was going to buy me a decent broom with his new
contract." Ron announced, weighing Harry's broom critically in his
hands. "It won't be a Firebolt or anything, but it'll be good to have
one of my own."

"New contract? What does that entail?" Harry inquired as Ron

seemed entranced by the ash shaft of his broom.
"I don't really know too much. He told me the Goblins reckoned they
found some new tombs in Egypt and needed someone on full time to
help secure them."

"Full time?" Harry prompted him to continue. "Reckon he'll get time
off?"

"Well if he's in Egypt, the Goblins won't let him out unless he breaks
the contract and Bill loves his job." Ron simply shrugged, "I'm not
sure what's going to happen with the wedding."

"Loves his job more than Fleur?" He asked pointedly.

"Don't know, not my place to ask him. But Mum reckons he thought
she'd wait for him. But I'm not so sure. I mean if you looked like her
there are probably some better deals out there, you know? Instead
of waiting years to marry someone you'll hardly see."

That explains Fleur, I suppose.

"Merlin, when'd you become such a hopeless romantic?" Harry

joked. Ron merely shrugged in return.

A forgotten bride.

"I guess being the best looking and all that must come with the
territory." He quipped, Harry gave him a little shove, eliciting laughter
from the pair of them.

"So Bill's not going to be helping with Order business?" Harry

questioned, seemed like a pretty odd choice given the war was
coming and his family was in the thick of it.

"I'm not sure," Was the simple response, "Not like I'm in the Order."

"Surely you know something?" Harry said, "He's your brother."

"Maybe." Ron decided, "Last I heard, Charlie sent a letter saying Bill
was poking around in Australia and Egypt for more Wizards." Harry
shifted past a group of people while still hanging onto the redhead's
words, "Though who knows if that's true, Charlie never let the truth
get in the way of a good story."

"Australia and Egypt." Harry echoed, "Awfully particular places."

"Nah, not really," Ron replied, "Not a lot of purebloods down in

Australia, lots of people still remember Dumbledore from the wars.
Lot of them are itching for a fight, reckon there are no better people
to fight than the ones that sent them there. Egypt too I 'spose, still
under Ministry control, they might pitch it should things go bad."

"Makes sense, I guess, we'll need the help." Harry said, they had
drifted into territory he desperately didn't want to talk about.

The pair made it to the pitch in good time and snow had begun to fall
early. It explained the deathly cold that bit at exposed flesh. But it
was light, enough so that they could fly without impediment.

A quick bit of wand work and an advanced unlocking charm courtesy

of his father's handbook and short work was made of the lock that
separated them from the brooms. They pulled out another broom
and the practice quaffle. Harry decided to try and take a few potshots
to get through Ron's defence. A bit of practice for the game to come,
the first game Harry wasn't going to be playing of his own accord.

It saddened him, but he would have to make it through.

They'd been practising for a while; Harry had either gotten a fair bit
worse with the quaffle or Ron had gotten better. For Harry's sake, he
leaned towards the latter, Ron definitely wasn't a terrible Keeper,
though his confidence was shaken every time a shot landed.

If he could manage his doubts, he'd be formidable, definitely not as

good as Oliver was, but there was time yet.

They soon departed, Harry needed to shower and he didn't want to

be late for his meeting with the Headmaster. The hangover had
abated a fair bit, but the occasional throb still echoed in his skull, but
it was manageable. Ron headed to lunch and Harry quickly detoured
to Gryffindor Tower.

He gave the password, but the Fat Lady levelled a harsh glare
before opening.

Probably something I can't even remember.

He grabbed a fresh set of robes out of his trunk and stepped into the
bathroom, taking one of the many free showers. He peeled his
clothes off; they smelt like mead and smoke from the ageing men
who couldn't keep their lips off of their elaborate pipes. It was a
terrible scent that bit at Harry's nose and made him gag.

They'll need a good wash, he thought, crinkling his nose. I feel sorry
for the elf burdened with that job.

The warm shower washed away the final vestiges of his alcohol-
induced headache and a fresh set of robes had him feeling far
cleaner.

In keeping with the perpetually artless routine, the Headmaster sat at

his desk, pouring carefully over one missive or another. Fawkes flew
around the room and upon noticing Harry's entrance, sung yet
another mournful tune before bursting into flames. Leaving nought
but ash and a sorrowful tiding in the air as the Phoenix fled, hopefully
to happier ground.

"Harry, please take a seat." He gestured with his good hand.

The other hand rested on his desk. He'd taken to not wearing the
glove when Harry was coming, confessing it pained him more
wearing it. Sadly, Harry could see the necrosis had been slowly
creeping upwards. From when he first saw it, it had encompassed
the last three fingers on his wand hand.
From there, it had been far more aggressive, his magic and skin
alike relenting under the fierce assault of the curse. Withered flesh
cut a blackened trail that enveloped the rest of the man's hand up
until his palm.

Snape's potions haven't been working . He thought sadly. It wasn't

even half of that two weeks ago.

It sickened Harry to see the man waste away in pain. It certainly

didn't get easier to see.

Pride fells even dragons. Fleur had once told him.

Not just dragons, he thought, good men too.

The ornate Pensieve was nowhere to be found, the pale depths of

milk glass sequestered back in its cabinet across the room.

"No memory today sir?"

"While we would no doubt find great knowledge within memories, I

once cautioned you about the danger of dreaming and forgetting to
live. I extend this warning to memories that are not our own. Linger
too long where you do not belong and you incite only catastrophe."

"Then what's on the agenda, more books?"

"In time." The man answered, somewhat cryptically, "For now I'm
very much interested in how your late-night rendezvous in the office
of one Horace Slughorn went."

"You knew about that?"

"Of course." The man assured him with a smile that didn't reach his
blue eyes. "It was I that Horace approached to ask permission to
have such a gathering. It was I who approved the guests and it was I
who did so all the while knowing their true purpose."

"To know if you could defeat Voldemort." Harry declared.

"Yes," Dumbledore answered quickly, somewhat shocked. "How very
prescient of you, Harry, I had not expected you to pick up on such."

If only I had.

"Not me, sir." Harry shook his head against the praise, "Fleur had
some… choice words about it."

"Ah, I see." The man said, his lips quirking upwards into a half-smile.
"I imagine I have much to thank Miss Delacour for, particularly
carrying your martial education where I could not."

"I'm still confused about something," Harry said, looking intently at

the Headmaster, "Why even bother backing Voldemort? Surely he'd
be harder on them than the Ministry."

"In some regards, perhaps." The man idly stroked the knot in his
beard as he always did when a thought grabbed his attention. "But
every man in that room was not there by chance, whichever side the
coin may topple, they stand to gain something."

"But what?"

"Power is more than a desire for these men. It is their very lifeblood.
The Ministry may give them stability and peace, but Tom would give
them power."

"How?" Harry asked, the point still evading him, "Surely Voldemort
wouldn't care for them."

"Apathetic perhaps, they are, for lack of a better excuse, purebloods.

Tom seldom wastes a life he could turn to his own. But war fosters
dissent, from dissent, hatred and born from hatred - power."

I suppose Voldemort is as good an example of that as any.

"To envision yourself at the apex of the ladder, every rung beneath
you needs to be torn away." The man finished.
I should've been more cautious. Harry frowned, Maybe that mead
wasn't the best of ideas.

"So they want to get rid of the Ministry?"

"No, nothing near as vulgar as that. There is power in bureaucracy,

yes. But there is equal power in wealth. That is truly the folly of our
society - war teaches men and women to obey wands and power,
not laws. Few men stand to gain as much from such an arrangement
than the cohorts and colleagues of Horace Slughorn and hence,
wars will carry on into perpetuity."

"Yet you allowed him back here?"

Like you allowed Draco Malfoy.

"Yet I allowed him back here." The older man echoed, "Not only for
his account of Tom. But it is far more advantageous to keep a foe in
the foreground than the peripheral."

"I had thought you were friends, sir?"

As friendly as one can be with a snake.

The man chuckled, a genuine laugh that seemed to detract from the
gravity of the situation.

"I imagine we are." The man smiled, a sight that had become rarer
with each day. "But what is a friend against wealth? Having a
companion will not fill your stomach nor light your hearth in winters
such as these."

"Another question then, sir?"

"Of course, Harry, I'm nothing if not an educator at heart."

"You said Fleur was invaluable, right?

He seemed to stroke his beard in contemplation. "I'll admit Miss
Delacour has surprised me with her tenacity. She has made more of
her position than I ever intended of it."

"She's been helping me." He admitted. He'd admitted such already in

this very conversation no less, giving his confirmation words didn't
seem to shock the man.

"I had expected as much." He confessed as Harry had done.

Of course you did.

"Given your close proximity with her and her accompanying you to
Horace's party, I had little doubt that you had formed an agreement
somewhere along the line."

"She helped me form a plan. I wouldn't have got half as far as I have
without her."

"A plan?" The man inquired, leaning forward in interest, "I assume
she remains ignorant of the purpose of such?"

"Remedial potions lessons." Harry explained, "She just knows I need

to get close to him; she doesn't know what it's about."

"I presume your raising of this issue isn't coincidence. You wish to
tell her of such?"

Harry raised his eyes to meet the pale blue of the Headmaster's
own. "It'd help. But I won't if you don't want me to."

The man paused for a moment, Harry sat, their eyes still meeting.
For a brief instance, Harry feared it might be refusal, rather than
acceptance that sprang from the man's lips.

His voice lost some of the fleeting joy it had held, "I trust you've
given such the proper thought? That some information may cause us
greater harm to know, rather than to be left lying?"
"I have." Harry said simply.

"I would've thought Mister Weasley and Miss Granger would be the
subject of this conversation. I daresay you've managed to surprise
an old man."

"I'd keep them from the war. If possible, sir."

For as long as I can. Harry thought.

"I respect your wish to do so. I would disallow you from this war
alongside them. If only we had that luxury."

If only.

"I shall not guide your decision, be it to tell Miss Delacour or withhold
the information. You must decide for yourself what the risks of such
may be."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry responded gratefully.

"In my observations of her, she seems like a young woman never

content to give anything but her utmost to her task. I imagine if she
does choose to offer her assistance, you'll find a valuable ally in the
young Miss Delacour."

"Of course sir." Harry agreed.

"Alas," He said, spreading his arms wide, "The merits of my staff

members, both endearing and nefarious as they may appear to be,
are not the sole reason I scheduled a lesson for today."

The man drew a book from his desk, cradling it with his off-hand.

"Another book, sir?" Harry asked, the man had him reading many
books as of late, none of them particularly interesting.

"Indeed, while the axioms of magic and our world are seldom page-
turners, I give you a book unlike any you shall have ever come
across."

And so it was.

The book was black and sleek. The front cover looked more like an
artisan's tapestry than it did a front cover. A dark purple ornament
rose from the corners in sharp, elegant arcs. The title itself was
ensigned both above and below with an argent cross. Silver inlay
with what appeared to be pearl. Someone had taken their time to
craft the book.

His eyes lingered too long on the title. Small, manicured letters that
seemed lost in the grandiose of the cover.

Secrets of the Darkest Art

Seeming to notice his apprehension, he was quick to explain. "I

mean not for you to use what you find within these pages. Perhaps
some context would be beneficial. Within this book lay almost four
millennia of dark magic, from the Westcar Papyrus to the rise of
Zhao in the east. A collaborative effort from generations of Dark
Wizards to breathe life into the vilest of magics. To give malevolence
legacy on the page. It is proscribed in every magical country, but
given my old position as Supreme Mugwump, I was able to keep a
copy in my possession."

His description already had Harry's stomach rolling over. "So why
are you showing it to me?"

The compulsion to push the book back towards the man was strong,
suffused through his very being to protest the pages advance. Only
the man's words stilled his reaching hands.

"Within these pages, Tom found the specificity of the magic he was
looking for. It spoke of Horcruxes but briefly, little more than
references and even then, vague. But, it shall give you an
understanding of such objects better than I can impart with words
alone."
He gingerly took the book, not wanting to touch it more then he had
to and placed it on his side of the table.

"Is that all sir?"

"I'm afraid not, I've one more text for you, albeit quite a bit less dark."
He procured another book, smaller still and noticeably different in
every aspect.

Bound by cracked, worn leather that no longer wore its original

colouring. Bound by threadbare twine that seemed to be the only
barrier against the pages within spilling out into the air.

"And this one sir?" Harry questioned.

"One I think you'll find much greater use of. My personal notebook."
He said, handing Harry the book which he took all the more eagerly
than the last one.

"Your notebook, sir?" Harry questioned. "I assume it's not a diary?"

"As interesting as that read might be," He smiled, "No, a

compendium of sorts if you wish to define it using words alone. More
the ramblings of a young man, but I imagine you'll find some worth
amongst its pages."

"Surely it'd be better suited in your hands than mine," Harry said,
gently grasping the corner of the dilapidated book.

"I shall not entertain any delusions that my time is infinite. My power
wanes and the book serves me no longer." He paused, if only briefly.
"There are some things within those pages best forgotten, but not
all."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak; he merely nodded, his eyes

tracing the cracked leather of the book. Not daring to meet the man's
eyes as he had moments ago.
"The Dumbledore line has no legacy - I have no legacy. I've sired no
progeny nor has my brother. The world no longer has need of men
such as I. That book is my legacy, Harry. You are my legacy."

The world will always have need of you. He wanted to say, to plead
for the man to defy his own death and remain in the world against
the will of magic.

But he couldn't.

He met his eyes once more before they fell to the unshrouded cover
of the book. He swept his thumb across faded quill marks that
marred the front cover.

For the Greater Good.

Soon, he found his mark and crossed the threshold thrice. He

needed a room large enough to test in without fear of damage.

When the door appeared and he stepped inside, he was greeted to a

large room with a black tiled floor that extended far out of his sight.
He sat down in the middle and untied the twine binding the book
together. He gently opened its pages, careful not to disturb the weak
binding or perforate the paper.

For the Greater Good .

It was written again in a tidier, sharper script than the Headmasters.

Dumbledore's hand was poor calligraphy, elegant and decorative, yet
still somewhat messy.

The unknown writer's script seemed almost as if the page had

angered him. The page suffered deep trenches from where the quill
was pressed near breaking point.

He tore through the pages with all the decorum of hounds fighting
over a kill. It was rapid as if by tearing through the pages, the
knowledge would come all the faster.

It read more like the rambles of a madman. Words sat upon the page
without explanation, broken English, runes and arithmancy
decorated fading pages.

He traced a spell in Dumbledore's writing with a gentle finger.

Procella Mare . Beneath it, a postscript written with an almost

illegible word.

Tempest.

" Procella Mare."

The words even tasted powerful as they passed his lips. A foreign
sensation, but not unwelcome, one that heralded nothing if not
strength.

He palmed his wand. The shaft feeling exceptionally warm in his

hand as it beat back the residual coldness born from cold stone walls
and winter's first signs outside.

" Procella Mare." He repeated it softly. There was no wand motion,

merely an incantation. The words left his lips and his wand shook but
soon stilled. His forearm tensed in preparation for the promised
tempest, but nothing came.

" Procella Mare."

This time was more forceful.

He felt the magic pool in his arm, a pressure that threatened to burst
skin and expose the raw flesh below. It was as if someone had
gouged their fingers into his arm, separating muscle fibres
individually.

There was a delicate stillness to the world, for just a moment.

Before the heralded tempest arrived and the dark room erupted with
the wrath of a coming storm.

He was about halfway to the common room. He'd only just passed
the paintings of the three Hags. They began to orchestrate an
imperfect symphony with pots and pans that filled the halls with the
dissonant clash of steel.

Yet, beyond the deafening orchestra, was another distinct sound.

Heated voices from a corridor over that echoed from the stone walls.

A lover's quarrel, perhaps. Harry mused.

His footsteps fell quiet as he walked with gentle steps to the

connecting corridor. That, to his chagrin, they now occupied.

Levis Obliqua. He incanted silently, his forearm still protesting at the

sudden movement. His body shimmered from view, a more
admirable attempt than his first.

He was more than content to let them sort their problems out and
head to his dorm. But their voices raised in volume again, a flash of
blond had Harry swivelled his head as he caught the first legible
voice halfway through its tirade.

"You know fuck all Greengrass." He bit back.

Daphne Greengrass and Draco Malfoy. The former was standing her
ground from the latter, who advanced menacingly.

Seamus thought they might've been a couple last year, but they look
anything but.

"Do you really think it's going to work? What, you're just going to
waltz it in? What a wond-"
She was cut off by Draco, who put his arm across her throat and
pushed her into the alcove that a suit of armour occupied, pushing it
out of the way with a harsh screech. Harry leapt into action, crossing
the short distance quickly to see further what he was doing.

"You'll speak to no one about this, you hear me? Not a soul!" Draco
ordered, but his voice betrayed his panic.

The pretty blonde was held up against the wall, she clearly wasn't
too shaken up given her composure. Instead, she merely snorted in
his face.

"You think I'm scared of you Draco? I've known you since we were
children."

"You think it's me who you have to be scared of Greengrass? Think

he is going to take kindly to you interrupting his plans?"

"Do you think I really care?"

"I think you're a fool if you don't." He laughed. "You keep your nose
down, or I'll put it down."

"You don't have it in you."

"No, but I know some people that do." He said in an oddly shaky
voice. He pushed her back into the wall and stalked off.

Daphne freed herself from the position behind the antique armour
and brushed her robes off. A quick counter and Harry returned to
vision, approaching the blonde girl from against the wall.

"Hello, Greengrass."

The violet-eyed Slytherin peered down her nose at him, as if his very
presence was an affront to her.

"Potter, I should've known, I've heard you've got a penchant for

listening to conversations that don't concern you." She said, pursing
her lips.

"I heard it, all of it." He explained in a tone that clearly demanded
more than what he told.

"Very astute of you, to hear a conversation you were eavesdropping

on. I'm not going to speak a word to you, Potter. Nothing's worth that
backlash."

"He was threatening you, yes?" Harry asked, though he already had
the answer, "What do you know that he doesn't want you to?"

"I think I've made that amply clear why that's none of your business."

"Humour me," Harry said dryly.

"No."

"It has something to do with his silk bag, doesn't it?" He tried, despite
her words.

She took a few long steps towards him. She was mere feet away,
enough that he could hear her next words, even as they came out as
a whisper.

"You know what I think, Potter?"

"What?"

"I think you like to believe you have any idea what's going on." Her
voice was tantalising, it could almost be construed as seductive, "But
I think you're out of your depth. I think you're not as clever as you
think you are."

Her words meant little to him, from here he could see what looked
conspicuously like fear in the girls' eyes. Her words were false, an
illusion to draw him from the truth.
Even her hair wears false colours. He mused, her black roots
showing through the pale blond dye at their proximity.

"Remarkably witty for someone who was thrown up against a wall

mere minutes ago." Harry snarled, "So be it. I'm sure Draco will be
pleasant company."

"Perhaps." She shrugged.

With her final words, the blonde Slytherin disappeared from his side
and out of view. He debated attempting to coerce more from the
reluctant Slytherin, but was content on letting it go for now.

There's much to be done, the disorderly plots of Draco Malfoy can

wait another day.

He waited until she was little but an afterimage in his mind before he
followed the same hallway.

The common room awaited and his body ached. The sweet song of
slumber called to him desperately. A call he had little choice but to
heed.

A short walk found him at the disused classroom that served as their
duelling grounds, he was a little early but sure enough, she was
inside.

"Early again 'Arry? Got any more last-minute dates?"

"Nope." He chirped happily, "Just had a really good feeling about this
one."

She raised an eyebrow. "Become a duelling master overnight have

we?"

"Maybe," He shrugged indifferently, "We do live in a magical world."

He stepped onto one side of their makeshift duelling platform. He
shed his outer robe as did she.

"Care for a wager then?" She smirked, "If you're so confident in your
ability, that is."

"Done." He replied quickly.

"If I win, you show me around Hogsmeade tomorrow."

"You've already been to Hogsmeade Fleur." He asked confusedly.

"I went into one shop two years ago ' Arry ." She replied dryly.

"And if I win?" He queried.

"I'll teach you some more of my curse-breaking spells."

The thought of new knowledge was still appealing, despite how

much he'd recently come into.

"I'd prepare for that lesson." Harry said, "I'll be wanting a good one."

"Perhaps a ' proper thank you'? " She laughed and his cheeks
boasted no defence against the raging blush, nor her laughter
afterwards.

"If you're so confident, I'll even let you take the first spell." She
declared.

He responded not with words, but with a cocky smirk that painted his
features. It was prominent enough to draw an identical one from the
Veela.

She assumed her stance at the end of the platform. She stood side-
on, her wand raised in front of her - a mere slimmer of her full profile.
Harry copied her stance, levelling his own wand in front of him.

"You won't get far if you keep trying to beat me at my own game."
"When I've beaten you at your own game, I'll know I've truly gotten
better." He smirked.

"Expect to be trying for a good while more."

Perhaps not.

She flicked her wand and conjured a length of bright silk. Another
spell sent it tumbling through the air. Its descent to the platform
below would begin the duel, as it always had. He tensed and magic
welled within him, eager to be released.

The silk fluttered through the air before finally touching the ground.

Chaos unleashed, as it always did.

She was lithe and experienced. Agile and nimble, far more than him.
But he surpassed her in power, even now.

She launched the first spells, a trio of stunners followed by a

paralysis hex.

So much for allowing me the first spell.

The thrice cast blue spell was his first opponent as she began to
weave more spells to follow. He parried the first two, his wand
directing them into the roof above with a series of sharp hisses.

He danced sideways, the pale yellow paralysis hex passing over his
left shoulder harmlessly alongside the final stunner.

' Fumos'

Billowing black smoke coalesced from his wand, obfuscating her

view of him. A barrage of various incapacitation spells shot through
the smoke, though none connected. She kept up the salvo of spells,
trying to catch him unawares through the dark cloud.
Every spell that came close was parried or shielded, seeing the
futility of her efforts, she employed a new tactic. He felt the cold
wash over him of the human revealing charm, she brandished her
wand like a knight would a blade. Precision slashes with her wand
that sent gusts of air barreling towards him.

He crouched low under her renewed salvo of spells that approached

with significantly more accuracy than before. He closed his eyes
despite his instincts and rolled shifted on his feet.

" Lumos Solemn!"

There was a bright flash of white light through his eyelids that surely
would've dazed him had he been staring at it like he imagined she
had been. A flash of light of her own telegraphed her response - an
ethereal blue barrier shimmered brightly in front of her as she
grappled to regain her vision.

" Aegis Confracto!"

Magic thrummed and pooled in his arm and like a muggle riffle,
discharged. A pulsing white lance of light crossed the distance in an
instant, shattering the shield of the blinded Veela. If his spell hadn't
already blinded her, this would've had a similar effect.

" Contusio."

The concussive charm sent her off-balance behind her crumbling

shield. Despite being blind, her defence remained ironclad. She
managed to bat away a stunner by Harry despite her impediment.
The disarming charm that followed, however, boasted a different
fate. Pulling the Rosewood shaft from her hands into Harry's own.

Beating her at all was a rare occasion, but confidence was on his
side today.

She blinked away the remnants of the blinding light in her vision
before Harry floated her wand back to her, which she grabbed
gratefully.

"Best of three." Was all the French Witch could huff before the salvos
of spells began again in an effort to catch him off guard.

This had been the daily routine of their duelling since they began.

The first duel was reminiscent of their conversations. It was elegant,

a duel of finesse and tactics. It was a duel with rapiers, either would
win by finding the gap, however small it would be and sinking it into
flesh.

The second, however, possessed none of the grace of the first.

Finesse could not be found, elegance had been shed in favour of
brute force. If the first was a duel with rapiers, this was far less
refined. Mauls and hammers, teeth and nails.

Bright spells illuminated the dull room with far fiercer intensity than
the first. Flashes of reds and yellows flew towards him, born from the
apex of a pale wand he now faced.

Bravado rarely served him well. He thought himself capable of

weaving through a set of bludgeoners to begin his own offensive.
The first was simple, shifting his body in a tight rotation to avoid the
red spell.

The second, however, was fired for that exact eventuality. His
attempts to snake through the rifts in her spell chain had failed,
enunciated by the searing agony in his shoulder and the grinding of
bones.

He fell towards the hard floor, her barrage rushing towards him.

' Bombarda'

The floor took the brunt of the curse, tearing cobbles and wooden
floorboards asunder to halt the spells.

Thank Merlin we're in the uninhabited section.

' Contusio.'

He utilised the concussive charm again, the shockwave sending the

scatter debris towards her. Chances were she'd use a simple
Immobulus and his offence would be halted in his tracks. But he only
needed a short moment.

" Procella Mare."

The words had been at his lips since the first spell was cast. There
was a desire to the words, a calling that he struggled to do battle
against. The spell begged to be used. The very air that passed
through his lips seemed to be more than merely that.

It was almost tangible, a taste he couldn't place. A sweet

amalgamation of power that promised reckoning with a lingering
bitterness to ensure such a promise wasn't misplaced.

He swung his wand around his head in a long, viscous arc and the
tempest came to his command.

Water sprouted from every direction, his wand a rallying cry for the
element to form around. The torrents of water were a symphony, a
harmonious expression of his magic. Born to smite his foes.

But he did not seek to smite her. She had only just discarded the
debris from the platform to begin the duel again in earnest, hence,
she was woefully unprepared for the attack to follow.

The water curled around her like the suffocating embrace of a

serpent. Its coils barring any attempt to refute her sudden captivity or
harm its caster.

He held it for only a few seconds, but it was enough to sap from him
his remaining strength. The gouging sensation in his forearm
returned, his muscles screaming against the tension, crying out for
desperate release.
The taste of copper was warm in his mouth as he released the spell,
water fell back towards the earth and drenched Fleur with it's cold
embrace. She fell to the floor, wet robes and chattering teeth were
no defense against the cold.

Despite the situation and himself, Fleur's wet robes clung to her
body as if they were a second skin. He closed his eyes and muttered
a drying charm that crossed the distance.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

He dared only open her eyes once he was sure the charms were
sure to have taken effect.

The saturated robes had been dried, but the cold didn't seem to
leave her. She seemed lethargic, she hadn't raised her wand to dry
herself despite her more than ample capacity. She merely sat upon
the wet floor.

"You've never beaten me twice in a row." She seemed sullen, her

eyes not meeting his own.

She's not as graceful in defeat as she is victory, he thought, a brief

glimmer of pride shining through. But she's graceful all the same.

"I've hardly ever beat you once." Harry tried to placate the witch.

"No." She refuted slowly.

The cold's still taking its toll, he mused, even her wit has slowed

"I don't need to be coddled, I lost, you won." She said with an air of
finality suffused within her words.

"So about those spells then?" He asked with a cheeky tone.

"I'll teach you my spells," Fleur said, "But only when you tell me
where you found yours."
"You know, here, there." He replied in an attempt to be purposefully
irritating. "A bit of everywhere really, I suppose I've had a few
teachers."

"You'll be teaching me them."

"Will I?" He laughed, "I don't remember that being part of the wager."

Changing the rules afterwards, why does this conversation feel

familiar?

"Consider it payment for last night."

"I thought the payment was telling you what we needed Slughorn
for?" He queried.

"I suppose I can have that too." She decided.

"Beggars can't be choosers." He joked. "It's one or the other."

"Now you've evaded the question, where did you get those spells?"

"Dumbledore taught them to me." He gave her the half-truth, he

wanted to keep the book a secret for now, if only to surprise her
again.

It's still the truth, I suppose.

"What was that last one? I've never seen anything like it."

Her tone had a sense of amazement in it that he wouldn't associate

with her. Hermione was usually the perpetrator of such at the helm of
one book or another.

"Trade secret. Might teach it to you one day."

"Or right now."

"I'd rather not, we're both wet and tired." He rationalised, "It's hard
enough without either of those.

"Next time then?" She said. It was phrased like a question, but Harry
knew better.

"They're hard," He said mockingly, "Sure you're up to it?"

"My, my" She smiled, though it lacked the energy, "Success has
made you cocky, you've only bested me once."

"A sign of things to come, perhaps?" He smirked at her.

"One win doesn't make you a master 'Arry."

"Better than one defeat, I suppose." He jibed.

She laid back onto the wet ground, clearly not perturbed at getting
her clothes wet again. He laid back against the cold and damp floor,
their faces were inches away, facing upwards, towards the ceiling.

It was oddly intimate, given the circumstance.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

"But now you've reminded me, What did you need Slughorn for?"
She asked, her tone thick with interest and intrigue.

He paused for a brief moment; Dumbledore's warning hadn't left his

ears.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

They were simple words that he hoped would convey the danger
hidden beneath. The danger he didn't wish to speak of. Maybe, if he
didn't give life to the words, they'd die out themselves. A terrible
mirage, but nothing more.
How very optimistic of me. He pondered, Or perhaps naive is a
better word.

Maybe his words had their intended effect. She stilled and seemed
to mull over the idea and the world seemed much quieter for it.

Then, she nodded.

I owe her the truth.

So he spoke before indecisiveness got the better of him.

"Slughorn used to teach here, years ago."

"I know, he boasts about it often."

"No…" He grappled with finding words to fit his thoughts, "Not just
teach here, he taught Voldemort."

"Something in particular, I assume?"

"Something important, essential to the war."

"And you know what it is."

It was no question, a mere statement of facts that seemed to

reverberate in the empty classroom.

"Yes." He confirmed succinctly, "But you don't want to know. It'll paint
you as a target for the rest of your days. I can bear that burden
without dragging you into it."

Their faces were less than a foot away. Her ocean-blue eyes
seemed to possess a depth in that instance that he'd never seen
before.

She had taken the leap in learning his purpose. Now, he just hoped
she wouldn't insist on falling with him.
"Tell me."

The words he didn't want to hear came out almost mockingly.

Ridiculing him for ever daring to believe Fleur Delacour was a
coward.

"Please."

His resolve crumbled and the secrets spilled from his lips.

"Horcruxes."

Even with her knowledge as a Curse Breaker, the truth was as the
Headmaster described - hidden, by all with any morals. Proscribed
for the safety of all.

So, against his better judgement, he told her what the Headmaster
had once told him.

Of the power of loss and the sacrifice of innocence.

Of what the man could sacrifice to become less of one.

To become something else.

By the time he was finished, she seemed to depart from the

conversation for a moment. More content to mull the words over
herself, then with company.

"We should get going, it's late," Harry advised, the hour had waned
past the night and dallying in the room would change little.

"Give me a while, that water spell affected me quite a lot."

She had placed her weakness on display, she scarcely did so ever.
But the few times such truths came from her mouth, she seemed like
a very different witch.
"I didn't know water affected you that much," Harry asked. "I'm sorry
if I hurt you."

"Do you truly know nothing about Veela?" She returned. Her
sideways gaze made him feel inadequate as if he still had much to
learn.

Only she could turn her defeat into my own somehow.

"Other than being strikingly beautiful and throwing the occasional

fireball? Not much."

"I would've researched it straight away if I knew I was to be duelling

a Veela foe."

He simply shook his head. "You've never been a foe Fleur, only a
friend."

She rolled her eyes but Harry could see she was flattered to some
degree. "Would you like to hear our story?"

"Couldn't hurt."

He obliged, perhaps out of interest or maybe for the need to

separate himself from the discussion that came earlier.

"We were born in Mesopotamia, along with Succubus and Sirens.

We're said to be descendants from Enlil, the Chief God. Sirens were
descended Enki, the God of the Ocean and Succubus, Ama-arhus."

I've never heard of Sirens or Succubus, he thought. Hermione

would've been sure to mention them.

"Three races of supreme beauty. Veela are avian, born to the sky - of
air and flames. Sirens are of the sea and Succubus, the land. Once
the earliest of sorcerers learnt of our talents, the races were hunted
for slavery. The succubus had it the worst initially. The land was the
domain of man - the wizard. They were sold into slavery en masse
and when they fought back, they were made extinct. Once man had
greater dominion of the seas, they hunted the Sirens who followed
the same fate."

"And the Veela?"

"We had dominion over the sky, long before any man. We could flee
without fear, we spread out, into the Caucasus Mountains, to the
Tibetan Plateau. Our story spans millennia, of fierce warriors, their
beauty unparalleled. Today, We have twenty-six covens across the
world that convene at the Covens Majeure, every solstice."

"Are you a part of a Coven? Your family that is."

She gave a hum of affirmation. "Every Veela is. My grand-mère was

the assistant to the leader of the French Coven before she passed."

"Any more weaknesses you're hiding there?"

"That would be telling, wouldn't it?"

And she's back.

"You could always save me the study."

"One taste of victory and you've envisioned yourself as the

Conqueror." She chuckled, "I shall make you work for those
victories."

"Thank you, for telling me." Harry said sincerely.

"You're welcome." She said, her voice held an odd tone that he
couldn't decipher. "You should come with me one day, to the Covens,
it's fascinating."

"When this is all over, I might just." He promised, standing up.

He waited for her to dry her robes and offered her a hand up. She
flattened out her robes, though it was clear they were in need of
good ironing.
"Remember to be up early tomorrow." She ordered.

"Why's that?" He asked, confused.

"You're taking me to Hogsmeade." She explained, a broad smile split

her face despite the events of the day.

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

She certainly has a liking for changing the rules.

"It's your prize for winning." She said with a mock haughtiness in her
voice.

Maybe I would've preferred this prize anyways.

For Whom the Bell Tolls
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : For Whom the Bell Tolls

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: As always, massive thanks to x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid for beta-reading at such short notice.

As a fun fact, it was stumbling over this chapter of the old version
that made me so desperately want to return to the rewrite and
hopefully I did it the justice it deserves.

What can I say other than thank you? For all the reviews, favourites
and follows, you've been outstandingly generous in that regard and I
am very thankful for it.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

Like the ever-present clockwork, dusk shifted to dawn and the first
Hogsmeade visit of the year arrived alongside it.

Along with the fresh dawn was a frost that possessed a far fiercer
intensity than it had the day prior. A cold that permeated the air so
densely that the furthest reaches of the Forbidden Forest were
obscured from view. Towering sycamores, yews and pines hid
beneath layers of bright snow that shimmered like porcelain against
the obfuscated sunlight.

Still, there was an aspect of predictability - familiarity, during this time

of year, even if the snow had come thicker and quicker than it ever
had during his time at Hogwarts.

The snow would begin its descent, covering the ground and
magnifying the bucolic atmosphere of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade.
The children of the village would craft sculptures of the fresh snow,
fires would be roaring and men and women retreated to the pubs in
search of mulled wine, firewhisky and conversation.

Despite what happened beyond the walls, beyond the village, there
would still be smiling faces and open shop fronts.

There were always those who kept their head held high, who still had
hope.

That fact alone gave Harry a faith of his own, no matter how sedated
the atmosphere of Hogwarts would become. Even though it had far
fewer stores and far fewer people, in some ways that fact endeared
Hogsmeade to Harry in a way Diagon Alley could never.

He now, however, found himself headed to the village with Fleur in

one of the early carriages that ferried students to and fro.

It had been a hectic morning. The haphazard plan conceived only

the night before soon made its impact apparent when the morning
came. It was desperately frantic, if only as a last act of recompense
for springing his need for Fleur at Slughorn's gathering only mere
hours beforehand.

We reap what we sow, I suppose.

Harry dashed around the castle. He'd conveniently left the

Marauder's Map in her office the night before, high on his victory.
Hence, he was consigned to the task of dashing around aimlessly to
locate the silver-haired Veela.

After finding her a few corridors away from her office, he then had to
dash back to the Tower to retrieve his coat after he was greeted to
the morning's colder winds. But in good time, a slightly exhausted
Harry and an overwhelmingly amused Fleur made their way to the
Hogsmeade carriages.

The wagons bumped along the rocky road, displacing the snow with
the slow trot of the Thestrals. Fleur had opted for quite a few layers,
given the turn the weather had taken and her lack of prowess when
dealing with colder weather. She had also doused herself with
warming charms, but as adept as she was with charms of all
manners they could only go so far. She spent the ride complaining
about the dreadful British weather.

"How you stand this pitiful snow is anyone's guess." She

complained, rubbing her arms gingerly as if to trap the heat in.

She had wrapped herself in a thick coat on top of her already

significant amount of layers. Her thickened form enshrouded by a
baby-blue cloak that closely resembled her old school robes may
have detracted from her form had she been anyone else.

But she was Fleur Delacour, beauty incarnate.

Even when she's bundled up like a newborn, Harry mused.

"I quite like it," Harry replied, gazing out the charmed glass so he
could see the snow falling through the trees outside the carriages as
it continued at its leisurely pace. Flecks of white trickling through the
dark green pine needles. "I think it makes for a nice setting." He said,
turning to face her again.

"I must be the only one of my countrymen to be stupid enough to

debase myself by living here." She muttered bitterly.
"Not this cold in France?" He quipped.

"Definitely nothing like this awful winter." Fleur shivered,

"Beauxbatons was in Southern France, the days were pleasant and
the nights warm. Nothing like this godforsaken island."

"Here I thought you enjoyed your job here." Harry drawled, "Here
debasing yourself amongst us plebeians for nothing, I suppose."

She gave a little laugh. "It was an option, but it's a big world and I'm
going to see more of it."

"Only to end up here," Harry quipped. "Is that why you became a
Curse Breaker? To see the world?"

"In a way," The silver-haired witch shrugged, "I originally wanted to

be an Enchanter."

"An Enchanter? Never really heard of them." Harry confessed.

"Though I suppose you're enchanting enough."

"Quite the womaniser Harry?" She arched a perfectly sculpted

eyebrow. "It's very much what they sound like, binding enchantments
onto magical objects permanently - like Brooms for instance. It was
my favourite class. Professor Bisset was an excellent teacher."

"I don't think Hogwarts offers an Enchanting class." Harry said,

"Though it does sound interesting."

"No account for lack of taste." She jibed, "Nor lack of intelligence if
this country is any barometer."

Forever the patriot.

"What made you change your mind?" It sounded to Harry like she
was fairly passionate about the idea of becoming one.

If I've learned one thing about her, it's that her passions rarely go
unacted upon.
"To become an Enchanter of any notoriety you need to be certified
by the Enchanter's Guild and they're not exactly partial to Veela, or
non-humans at all." She said somewhat wistfully.

"But the Goblins were?" Harry asked, confused, as far as he

understood they weren't too partial of Veela either.

Not too partial to anyone, I suppose. He mused I don't think beauty

is on their job requirements.

"Definitely not, but they've got the uncanny ability to spy talent. Mine
was enough for them to overlook my ' genetic disadvantages' as
they'd taken to calling them." She said sourly.

"But the Enchanter's Guild didn't?"

"The Veela Covens and the Guilds don't get along very often.
Centuries of bad blood that are far too obscure and monotonous for
polite company." She explained.

"Odd you'd call it polite company when you've insulted my country

every chance you've had."

"It's the jabs that land closest to home that sting the greatest." She
chuckled, "There's many a better place in the world than the freezing
depths of Britain."

Having never been outside of Britain, Harry lacked the ability to

make a comparison or rather, form a rebuttal.

Maybe I'll go to France, even if only out of spite.

"Your misguided attempts to attack my country aside, you're one of

the most talented people I've met." Harry frowned, "That doesn't
seem very fair."

"Sounds like something I once told you, no?" She said with a small
smile, "Life is rarely fair, Harry."
"Sounds like someone should change it then."

Maybe it'll be me.

"Maybe someone should." She said, her ethereal features broken by

one of the broadest smiles he'd ever seen.

"I wouldn't mind getting rid of a few Dark Lords then."

"My, aren't you ever the hopeless romantic?"

"I've been told I have my moments." He laughed, eliciting a soft one

from her in turn.

"I enjoyed my time as a Curse Breaker. Who knows? I might try and
become an Enchanter in Britain when this is all over."

"You'd stay in Britain?" Harry probed, given how much she detested
almost all things English, that was shocking for him.

"For a few years, at least. Maybe the food is terrible and so is the
weather. But some people aren't so bad, no?" She teased gently.

"Our food is not terrible." Harry scowled.

"You boil and fry everything." She said, her nose upturned in
apparent disdain. "It's ineloquent and distasteful."

"That's efficiency for you." Harry shrugged, "If it keeps me fed, I'm
fine with it."

"It's not efficient," She scoffed, "The Germans are efficient, even the
Italians."

"I remember some times where we beat them both."

"There is food and there is food ." She lectured, "The former fills your
stomach, the latter your mind just as much. You possess all of the
former and none of the latter, a barbaric culture with the cuisine to
match."

"Hey! You're speaking to a barbarian." He defended, "You're even

engaged to a barbarian."

The latter half of his sentence pained him as it left his lips, it felt
heavier than mere words. A promise given life. But he couldn't
ascertain why it stung him as it had.

"Perhaps I do need to find better company."

"Tell me how that goes. I don't know anyone who would take as
many insults as I do."

"Not insults." She amended, " Education. "

"That's rich," Harry laughed. "What does Bill think of you both staying
here?"

It was rare that Harry ever found the flesh they both searched for.
She was forever clad in plate forged of wit and confidence, every
blow was glancing and never cut any deeper than a mere scratch.

But for some reason, Bill is the gap in that armour.

Every mention of her fiancé, no matter how unintentional or

inadvertent laid her bare for only the briefest of moments. His rapier
struck true and bit flesh, even if he had never meant for it.

But why?

"I'm not entirely sure." She said, her tone imperceptible.

Perhaps she truly is a forgotten bride, he frowned.

Her features were the only indicator that anything had even been
said. Her mouth moved and her ocean eyes swivelled. But in a way
that just seemed different. Though he was no master of body
language, no artisan of phrases or tone.

Whether it was too subtle to say definitively or if it was simply his

imagination, he couldn't say.

For a few moments, Harry feared he'd embittered her with his
probing. Her soft features were uncharacteristically hardened and
the snow outside became far more interesting than the prospect of
discussion within. Even if only for mere moments.

Though the possibility of any further conversation that may have

arisen was cut off by the braying of the Thestrals. The carriage had
arrived at the road leading into Hogsmeade, signalling their time to
withdraw from the carriages. They halted their trot and neighed
incessantly, waiting for the occupants to depart and greet the cold
air.

Harry got out first, gently opening the carriage door and descending
down the few stairs provided before turning around, offering his hand
to her as she scaled the icy steps. She gingerly took it and
descended without issue, flashing him a small smile that assuaged
any fears of damage done.

"What shall we do first?" She asked, seeming eager to be out of the

hostile wind that swept through the village.

He looked down into the village beneath them, "What would you like
to do?"

I'm not sure Hogsmeade caters for French Veela with sophisticated
tastes. He fought desperately against the smile that threatened to
form at his thoughts.

"What do you do for fun around here?"

He shrugged, "Look at the shops I guess."

"Any in particular or is the extent of Hogsmeade's charm looking at
Quidditch equipment?"

"Dervish and Banges are pretty decent if you need to look for some
Christmas gifts."

"If that's what's best." She said, noncommittally.

"I did promise we'd meet Ron and Hermione for lunch at the Three
Broomsticks if that's okay with you?"

She merely nodded her acceptance, likely as to not dally in the cold
any longer. With her assent, they set off towards the magical
instrument store.

Only a short distance across and down the snow-shrouded street did
they find their destination. The worn green paint of the shop stood
starkly against the bright snow and frost had formed on the large,
cylindrical windows on the door's adjacents, making it impossible to
peer into the store beyond.

Harry pulled the heavy door open with a quick motion, ringing a bell
mounted above the door as he did so. He'd never frequented the
store and when he opened the door, he soon remembered why.

The shop felt claustrophobic, a warm atmosphere that was perhaps

too warm for comfort. Shelves crowded together and stocked to
breaking point with a plethora of magic instruments and toys. Most of
which did their utmost to contribute to a grating symphony of
screeches that tore at his ears.

Harry was instantly forced to dodge a pair of children's toys, soldiers,

by the looks of it. Duelling with sticks that forced him further amidst
the depths of shelves.

He began to peruse some of the items. He still had to shop for

Christmas presents and he'd rather he did it sooner than later, as a
foresight, in case anything happened that barred students from going
to Hogsmeade.

Harry plucked a model of a Nimbus off the shelf. A miniature

encapsulated in a snow globe that raced in rings, dodging fake
snowfall. Tens of identicals adorned the shelf, save for their base
being a different colour. Each representing a different professional
team.

The Arrows, Harpies, Falcons, Tornados. He recited as he sifted

through, But no Cannons, you're out of luck today mate.

He caught a glimpse of silver hair through the shelving and peered

intently through the gap. Fleur picked up a lengthy, golden rod and
flicked it forward. It extended almost like a telescope but gave out a
screeching noise that had Harry covering his ears.

"I used to have one of these at home, drove Maman up the wall."
She reminisced, talking across aisles.

"Can't imagine why," Harry replied, rubbing at his ears. "What is it?"
He asked confused as she began to drag it around the room, giving
off little whistles in random intervals.

Here I was, thinking Veela hated loud noises. She grimaced but
seemed far more intent on reminiscing than succumbing to the
racket.

"Probity Probe, a dark sensor. Scepticism mostly, but lots of people

use them. I used to use it on Gabrielle when I tried to blame her for
something." She smiled at the memory.

"Here I thought you said you weren't a troublemaker?" He jibed in a

friendly tone.

She gave a little scoff, "She was definitely the troublemaker, we

couldn't take her shopping for fear of what she might break."
"I take it Beauxbatons won't know what hit them?" He laughed.

"No, I don't think they will. But I worry about her all the same." She
confessed.

"Why's that?

"Veela never have an easy time at school, it's why the covens
usually teach children themselves."

"But you weren't?"

"No." She admitted, "The Delacour's and the Covens haven't been
on good terms for some time."

"Well, you did tell me it would be interesting."

"You'd enjoy it."

"I suppose you turned out alright anyway." He joked. "I'm confident
Gabrielle will be just as resilient."

"Just alright Harry?" She asked with mock seriousness. "How

suave."

"I mean you're no tournament winner." He bit back cheekily.

"I can wipe the floor with you." She returned.

"I believe I won the last duel."

"A fluke, try me again." She defended herself.

"Think you're a match for me?" He said in a cocky tone.

"A perfect match." She said in a tone Harry couldn't quite make out.
But Fleur quickly laughed and declared herself the winner at Harry's
lack of rebuttal.
They continued sorting through the shelves. Harry found a
particularly bright and loud Sneakoscope that sprung to life when he
passed it, screeching incessantly until he kept walking, to which it
stilled.

Not sure I'd want that in the dorm. He resolved, another possible gift
for Ron passing by. Joining its ranks was a shock quill and deluxe
dungbomb package.

He eventually found something of interest.

It was a glass ball, frosted as if to obscure the secrets within. Harry

plucked it from its perch, rolling it around gently in his open palm. His
touch seemed to be impetus enough for a reaction to occur. The
glass cleared and within, a mechanism suspended in air alone.

A sexton, maybe? He decided, it looked vaguely familiar. Enough so

that he might've remembered seeing it in his Astronomy textbook.

This mechanism seemed to fluctuate with his touch, spinning wildly

on all its axes while he held it.

"What's this?" He asked Fleur through the shelves, holding up the

glass orb. She came around the aisle and took the orb into her own
hands, peering over it with a keen eye. She passed it over in her
palm for some time, before deciding.

"A terror transceiver." She said, "They're fairly rare, I've only ever
seen a handful in Egypt."

Well, that sounds ominous.

"How does it work?" Harry asked, it sounded like a decent gift for
Ron.

She grabbed the orb in two hands and twisted it, almost like one of
Aunt Petunia's egg timers. The orb split into two halves and began to
click towards their original position. The object inside then restarted
its imitation of a cyclone, but this time, a short tube sprang out from
the top of one of the halves.

"Put this up to your ear." She instructed and so he did.

He could hear the gears grinding against one another for a moment
before the two halves finished rotating. The ensuing moment felt
longer than it had any right to be, seconds seemed to morph to
hours and his ear strained for any sound.

Yet there was nothing, the soft pounding of blood in his ears
perhaps, but nothing that attracted him beyond the pretty glass shell.

A trick . Was his only thought. An illusion.

He went to free it from his ear, but his arm protested. A smattering of
noises rang out, enough to draw his interest back to the glass ball.

At first, it was nought but an echo, a deep and cavernous noise that
declared something fiercer yet to come.

And so it came.

A sharp clash of steel, a resonant reverberation and a ringing in his

ears followed. Harsh and grating, yet soothing.

He slowly removed the protruding instrument from his ear. It quickly

retracted, sealing the hole it left behind.

"Hear anything?" Fleur asked, breaking him out of his stupor.

Bells . He thought, recognizing the noise after a short moment.

We hear the tolling of bells.

Perhaps Firenze had truly misread the stars. A mirage, curved

thinking even. The bells seemed to mock him even as he tore the
glass globe away.
What's certain today is seldom so tomorrow.

He had hoped, at least, the Centaur was correct in that regard.

Whatever could be said about his life, he knew prophetic predictions
and nebulous divination would not improve it.

"Bells. Church Bells, maybe." He said, still confused.

She let out a little laugh. "I wouldn't worry too much, they're usually
not very well enchanted. A facade to play on gullible wizards ruled by
superstition."

"Maybe." Was the only response he could muster. The ball felt oddly
heavy in his hands as his palmed it to and fro.

"If trinkets could divine the future, being a Seer would hold less
gravity than it does."

Perhaps I am being gullible, he mused, Superstition won't serve me

well.

Still, even if it was little but a poorly crafted trinket, Ron might get
some value out of it where he could not. They perused the store for a
little while longer without any further events, drawing attention to the
occasional remnant of memory when either he or Fleur saw
something familiar, but little else.

Soon the old man that owned the shop ventured out from the
backroom, sending some errant figurines back to their positions and
silencing loud instruments with a well-practised flick of his wand.
With the wayward objects dealt with, Harry went to pay his due of
galleons and sickles before they departed, neglecting to purchase
anything more from the shop.

The man looked desperate to make conversation as he eyed them

throughout the transaction.

Wants to make friends with the 'Chosen One' no doubt.

The coins he handed to the man seemed to dissuade him from any
attempts to make conversation. He occupied himself with the clash
of gold coins between his fingers as he sifted through sickles to
ensure the amount was correct.

Harry chose to stop at Honeydukes next, braving the sickeningly

sweet-smelling abode of Ambrosius Flume. Off to replenish Ron's
nefariously plundered sweets from the day before.

Fleur wrinkled her nose at the smell, "Do we have to be in here?"

The aroma certainly had long surpassed pleasant, delving into

something far beyond. He walked close to Fleur, her soft floral and
vanilla scent being his only respite against it.

"Only for a little bit. I need to buy some stuff for Ron." Harry
explained.

"I was labouring under the impression that Ronald could buy his own
sweets."

"He can, but I ate all of his." He said sheepishly, scratching the nape
of his neck.

"I never took you for having a sweet tooth."

Mead will do that, I suppose.

"I may have overindulged in those drinks."

"Oh my." She giggled, "Harry Potter, a drunkard and a thief."

"Ron said something similar after I demolished his Chocolate Frogs."

He put his head down in an attempt to look sullen, "I'm terrible, I
know."

"Of course." She agreed, without agreeing in the slightest.

"I'm serious!" He cried in jest, "Wait till you hear about the biscuits."
"Not the biscuits!" She said, aghast, "A true travesty indeed."

"And some homemade pies." He continued.

"There's a special place in Azkaban for the likes of you, or so I've

heard."

"You'd fold eventually and break me out." Harry said, matter-of-factly.

"Pray tell why I'd do such a thing?"

"I'm too valuable to waste away in Azkaban."

"For now." She relented, "I might help you escape should you
continue to be useful."

"Such a kind Mistress." He drawled.

Their entrance did not go unnoticed for long. Where they may have
been able to escape the daunting prospect of conversation in
Dervish and Banges, the same could not be said here. Ambrosius
Flume was cut from a different cloth from most.

A less aware cloth maybe. Harry mused as the short man bounded
around the corner, his bald head covered in a bright red beanie.

"Mister Potter!" The old man said jovially as he reached out to grasp
and shake his hand vigorously. "Horace has been telling me of your
progress, can't say anything but praises of you." He assured him.

"I didn't know you knew the Professor?" He asked inquisitively.

I can't escape Slughorn no matter where I go it seems.

"Why of course! I was one of the first in his Slug Club. It was he who
helped me keep the deed to this place. Always sure to keep the
Professor stocked up on his favourite sweets after that Drama."

"Favourite sweets?" Harry asked, "What does he prefer?"

"Looking to ingratiate yourself with Horace 'eh?" The man said
suggestively, "You could do far worse methinks."

"Of course." Harry agreed, despite not wanting to do so, " Looking to
the future and all."

"A wise move, of course." Flume agreed, "Anywho, crystalised

pineapples and the odd Peppermint Welsh never went amiss."

"He's a fan of them?" Harry said that sounded like some useful
information.

"Quite so!" The happy man cried, "There are few things a man can
love more than sweets."

I could think of a few.

He explained as if it was obvious and judging by the Professor's

plump stature, it almost was. By the time the older man had finished
his conversations, Harry walked out with quite a few chocolate frogs
and a bag of crystallized pineapples for good measure.

"We could lace them with veritaserum?" Fleur suggested as they

passed through the threshold of the sweets shop.

"He's a Potions Master." Harry reminded, "No way he'll go anywhere

without a Bezoar."

"We're not going to poison him." She scoffed, "Unless he carries the
antidote to Veritaserum on his person, we should be alright. A
Bezoar won't halt the effects."

He might just. Harry thought. Not much chance he got to where he

was in life without caution.

"He'd smell it."

"Only if he was vigilant." She returned, "Would he be so alert if it was

you the sweets came from?"
Harry just shrugged. "Maybe not, but if he finds out we lose any
chance of finding out."

"A final gambit perhaps," She agreed, "But we lack a solid plan and
time is escaping us."

"Perhaps we could find, I don't know, something with a bit more

dignity? A bit more honour? "

"Honour is a bit like a finely crafted wand."

"This I'll need to hear." Harry laughed.

"You'll grow attached to it upon using it. So much that you will never
want to use another. But only a fool would die rather than use his
hands when the situation called for such."

Here I thought taking her to Hogsmeade would save me from any

sage advice.

"That's an odd one, even for you." Harry remarked.

"The phrasing isn't as eloquent as perhaps it should be, but neither

is the subject matter." She said, "If we continue searching for
eloquent remedies to ineloquent obstacles, we'll forever be standing
where we are right now - debating over little and less."

The truth had hardened her. He thought, For better or worse.

"I'd never thought you'd be the one to go forego eloquence out of the
pair of us." Harry jibed, although it didn't seem to land as well as he
hoped.

"Neither had I, but I didn't foresee us at the centre of a war."

"I'll think about what you said." Harry said after a moment of
contemplation, "We can try it if worst comes to worst."
"Think carefully then, and quickly." She said, meeting his emerald
eyes, "Lest our opportunities pass us by."

After Honeydukes, the rest of their shopping trip passed by fairly

uneventfully. Fleur had them detour inside Tomes and Scrolls. And to
her chagrin, despite their name, they had very few tomes and scrolls
of any worth. The shop was mostly packed with school texts for
forgetful students that misplaced or ruined their own. Which weren't
much use to someone already out of school. Though the pair did get
a good laugh out of a sappy romance story between a goblin and a
house-elf that instead of being written in a book, was written on a
massive roll of parchment.

They detoured into Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop to search for a gift for
Hermione. Seeing how the majority of Christmas gifts she received
were one book or another and Harry soon lost track of just what
copies she possessed. He thought she might favour some writing
utensils more. Purchasing an ornate writing quill with the large dark
and white feather from the wing of an Aethonan decorated the
tapered end.

Harry briefly dashed into Spintwiches and retrieved himself a Broom

Polishing kit and then to the Magic Neep, after Fleur informed him
that she'd be trying to salvage some decent food items to make her
own dinner as house-elves ' make an ill imitation of French Cuisine.'

They made their last stop at Maestro's Music shop, not so much to
buy anything in particular but the ambience of the store was always
pleasant and he felt Fleur would relish it more than the cold.

A series of harps had their strings plucked gently by a set of complex

charms made it sound as though an artisan was serenading their
entry. The browsed the store to be polite, looking at the ornate
gramophones and other assorted instruments before soon departing,
wishing the middle-aged man well.

By the time they had concluded their shopping, the majority of

students began their mass exodus from their carriages, swarming
the shops en masse. The resounding noise of excited chatter made
its way through the village. There had been a fair few students at the
town prior to the next wave of carriages arrival but they had now
become far more numerous, spilling into the main street and filling it
to capacity far quicker than they should have.

The arrival of the students also coincided with the time that both
himself and Fleur were due to meet Hermione and Ron at the Three
Broomsticks. Shifting through the schools of students moving to and
fro rapidly. They eventually reached the familiar pub. Ringing the bell
as the door opened, the pair walked in searching for Ron's ginger
hair which stuck out like a sore thumb, especially against the dark
brown of the wooden building.

Harry spotted them soon enough, sat against one side of the stairs
that ascended to the second floor. Making their way over they
passed Madam Rosmerta who was working diligently to provide for
her customers. Harry greeted her politely when they walked past her,
which she usually always returned.

The older witch usually returned such pleasantries but today she
didn't, whether by virtue of her not hearing him or by a busy
workload, he was unsure. Though he remained unperturbed and
sought out familiar faces.

"Hey, guys," Harry announced the pair, breaking them from their
deep conversation.

Both he and Fleur received some half-hearted "Hellos" in return from

the pair. They both took their seats. They had bought three
butterbeers but had neglected to get Fleur one and everyone
seemed to pick up on that fact.

"Sorry Fleur." Hermione explained although it didn't sound

completely genuine, "We'd forgotten you were coming."

"That's fine." She said peering into Harry's large mug. "What is it?"
"Butterbeer." Harry explained, leaning his tankard over so she could
peer into the brown depths.

"I've never tasted it." She admitted.

"You've never had butterbeer?" Ron asked incredulously.

She merely shook her head.

Harry extended his mug to her. "Have a sip."

She took the proffered mug in both hands before wafting it under her
nose and sniffing softly as if she was tasting the wine she so
favoured. She tentatively brought the cup to her lips and imbibed in
some of the liquid, before departing immediately from the drink.

Harry had to let out a little laugh at her face, she contorted her
beautiful features as if she had tasted something far too sour, or in
this case, sweet for comfort. It clearly didn't agree with her, but she
swallowed the sweet beverage despite the taste.

"Not a fan?" Harry asked, finished laughing. She vehemently shook

her head, wiping her lips clean with an offered serviette.

Discussion began amongst them, sans Fleur, who instead ordered

mulled wine from the bar. Soon the steaming liquid came to her and
she found solace within steam and spices. It was strong enough that
the aroma tickled the back of his own throat, but she seemed to
down the liquid with less umbrage than the butterbeer.

Harry reached into his pockets and procured the chocolate frogs
he'd bought Ron, tossing the bag over the table.

"Always good of a bloke to pay his debts." Ron said, instantly tearing
open one to pop into his mouth.

"Why are you buying him chocolate frogs?" Hermione probed.

Well, we're definitely not going with the real reason.

Harry did his best to look innocent, "Can't I buy my mate some
chocolate?"

"When have you ever done that?"

That's a fair point. He conceded internally.

A lie truly did sound better than the truth.

It's an innocent one, he rationalized.

"I lost a bet if you need to know."

"About?"

"Quidditch scores." Harry said succinctly, hoping it'd dissuade her

from any further questions.

Hermione instead turned to Ron, trying to discern the truth from his
face, rather than Harry's. Though, to his credit, Ron was either
extraordinarily fortunate or had foreseen such a ploy and was
currently staring at his chocolate frog card intently.

Harry dropped out of the dwindling conversation temporarily, words

tapering into background noise.

He'd felt something.

Like a thousand soft fingers had caressed the nape of his neck at
once. A gentle kiss, a fleeting lovers embrace, a winter's cold shiver.

It was all of these things, but none. A feeling that left him inexplicably
barren and searching for the culprit.

He swivelled his head around as if he was being attacked. First the

doors, then the bar, the closest tables and onwards. He scanned
each and every time, came up with nought.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice shook him from his stupor, she traced his
eyes to where he was looking. She frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

In his attempt to explain his situation, the culprit made themselves

known.

"Draco." He explained in a foul tone.

The almost white-blonde hair was a beacon amongst the dreary

colours of the pub. He seemed to realize this too, donning his hood
before inconspicuously dashing for the door. His hawthorn wand was
visible, clutched tightly between his gloves.

"What about him?"

"He's up to something."

Nothing I say will convince them. He thought, The conclusion of the

conversation was foregone, a breath of wind, they'd call it. A passing
itch - nothing to indicate innocence nor guilt.

But it was something.

"How do you know that?" Fleur chimed in.

"I just do." He said succinctly.

"I thought we agreed to drop this?" She said in a no-nonsense tone.

"I haven't done anything." Harry defended.

"Exactly." She said, "Enjoy yourself, it'll be over before you know it."

He sipped his drink as a sign of acquiescence, but his eyes didn't

waver from the door. He watched as an influx of students came in.
Cormac, Katie, Leanne, even Ginny.

"How's Katie as a Captain?" Harry asked, eyeing the dark-haired girl

at the bar.
Wonder how it's going without me. He mused.

"Not bad," Ron explained, "Doesn't crack the whip as hard as Wood
or Angelina but we're pretty much all-new this year."

"If we could trounce Slytherin with a first-year seeker, I'm sure we

can take it home a few more times." He said proudly, giving Ron
some confidence. Whilst they discussed various Quidditch tactics,
Fleur and Hermione had what appeared to be a fairly terse
conversation about charms.

They're making an effort, at least.

Their conversations continued for a time, idle chatter that filled the
air as much as the time. He was more than content to participate in
the act, in an attempt to shed the fleeting feeling from his body.

For a moment, life was as simple as it could have been that year.
Friends and butterbeer, jokes and conversation.

Until it wasn't.

Daphne Greengrass broke into the door of the Three Broomsticks,

her face alight with frantic eyes and nervously pursed lips. She met
Harry's eyes with her own misty violets and instead of the hatred and
vitriol that usually found their place there, they were soft, pleading.

He shook his leg side-to-side, rattling his wand in his pocket. A

subconscious action to ensure the holly shaft was on his person.

I might be needing it. Was the only thought.

The same violet-eyed girl disappeared beyond the threshold and

with it, whatever she had been trying to convey left with her. She was
soon followed by Katie and Leanne, arguing over something he
couldn't hear. Loud screeches that seemed to split the pub in two as
they followed Daphne out the door.

"I'll be back." It was all he could say, all his mind would allow him.
Fleur shimmied out of his way and upon seeing him make for the
door, she followed him.

She might've called towards his back, asked for an explanation, but
his ears disallowed such. He plucked his wand out with gentle
fingers and threw the door open. Following Draco, Daphne, Katie
and Leane with identical footsteps to their own.

Yet, there was nothing but falling snow and bright faces.

Students were still laughing and going about their daily shopping.
Draco and Daphne had disappeared from view, Katie and Leanne
were still arguing.

But there was no immediate danger, no warning signs that declared

a greater threat to come.

Just the cold winter's air.

It was a dark sea, the waves were calm - the surface still but
something lingered in the depths, even if it wasn't immediately
apparent.

"Where's Greengrass?" Harry shouted towards a passing Slytherin.

"You've got eyes, Potter, look for yourself ." The boy said, continuing
into the pub.

Fuck.

Then, the air was still. The cold winter wind did not bite at his
exposed flesh, the frost sat heavy in the air but fell no further.

Until a scream tore through the village.

It was hellish. Infernal and desperate, embodying nothing good and

everything terrible.
Before he knew it, his legs were under him, tearing through thick
snow at a rapid pace as were Fleur's mere metres behind him.

He broke through the head of the crowd and spied Leanne first. She
was scurrying backwards in terror, nearly prone against the ground
as if cowering from something. But the lines of students still
obfuscated his vision as he passed the final barrier into the
haphazardly formed circle beyond.

Finally, his eyes found the focal point of the circle, the impetus for
their cries.

Katie Bell.

She laid upon the ground convulsing as if she was in a seizure but
even Harry could already see it was something more.

Something far, far worse.

Crimson bile spilt from her lips, choking the dark-haired girl with her
own lifeblood.

Suddenly the convulsions halted and she shot aloft, as if in the grip
of some invisible force. For the briefest of moments, it seemed
almost beautiful. An angel of biblical origins - her hair splayed out in
a dark halo as if gravity no longer had any right to hold her in its
grasp.

She clutched some sort of chain in her hand, Harry couldn't really
see it. Then, without warning she plunged towards the ground,
smashing into the hard earth with a sickening crack. She rose up in
the air again as if to hit the ground once more.

All in one deafening instance, the shouts and screams of terrified

students were hot in his ears. They were war drums, if only of a
different breed. One that spurned his wand up to help, not harm.
" Arresto Momentum!" Harry cried with passion. The spell hit her full
force as she made another deadly plunge towards the earth, she
slowed immediately and descended at a snail's pace.

Fleur was beside him in an instant, casting a spell to follow his own.

" Aufer Malum!" She incanted, sounding manic. Harry had never
heard the spell, but it tore the chain, which once it had fallen to the
ground Harry could recognise as some ornate pendant, one with a
large blue crystal in the centre. Whatever Fleur's counter curse did, it
worked. She slowly floated to the snowy ground with the assistance
of Harry's spell.

The necklace holds the curse. He noted as he rushed towards her,

the skin of her hand had been blackened, showing bone beneath it
from contact with the chain. The same chain that sizzled against the
cold snow where Fleur's spell had sent it.

Aurors descended upon them from all angles, sonorous charms

beating back crying crowds.

Fleur was at Katie's side before he even fully comprehend the

gravity of it all. He tore off to the other side of Katie.

It was far direr than what he'd initially thought and given how grave
he expected it to be, it was a woeful testament to just how utterly
futile the situation appeared to be.

Blood seemed to pour from every orifice of her face, it pooled in her
eyes and she gave a final violent cough, spewing it up. One of her
legs was at an odd angle from the impact and he shuddered to think
of what other injuries were present that he couldn't immediately
observe. But one stood above all others.

Her chest had stilled - her heart no longer pumped blood and her
lungs fell silent.

The bubbly girl looked small in death.

"What can I do?" Harry said desperately, hoping to keep the panic he
was feeling out of his voice.

She had to finish a chant before she could answer him. "In the left
pocket of my robes, there's a silver kit." She said quickly before
embarking on another chant, another harsh melody against cold
skin.

He ran around to her other side, digging through the deep pockets of
her winter robe. Soon enough his fingers made contact with a silver
case, he pulled it out and cracked the mechanism open. It contained
two rows of vials, a pair of stones that looked a bit like basalt and a
wicked-looking curved silver knife.

"I've got it." Harry confirmed, waiting for Fleur to finish her next chant
that covered Katie's mouth with a sickly green looking barrier.

"Top row, third vial from the right. Tilt her head forward, four drops."
She ordered.

Harry grabbed the vial in question, a milky white coloured with blue
specks that looked almost reminiscent of a memory entrapped in a
vial. He did as he was instructed, tilted her head forward gingerly
and dripped the four drops into her mouth. The barrier covering the
entrance flashing brightly as every droplet passed through.

"Now grab the last vial, second row. Smear it under both her eyes."
She ordered, before going up and down her body with her wand,
casting some sort of radiating spell.

He grabbed the next vial, a gelatinous substance that was a murky

brown with a pungent smell. He dipped his finger in and got to
rubbing it onto her eyes. His fingers were all the provocation the
blood that pooled in her eye needed to leak freely across her face.

"Don't vanish it, cursed blood reacts volatilely." She informed him, he
wiped her other eye and by the time he'd finished, his hand was
coated in her blood.
"What's next?" He asked.

"Grab the knife, cut your palm and show it to me." She ordered. His
mind was reluctant to cut himself, his body's autonomy screamed
against it, but Harry overrode his own senses.

He gripped the curved blade in his clean hand and clutched the knife
tightly, in one quick motion he tore through soft flesh, the silver biting
into the meat of his hand with all the decorum of a hot knife through
butter. The wound was deep and he winced as he saw it, but gave
his hand over to Fleur all the same.

She took the blade and slit her own palm open, she grabbed his
sliced hand with her own, the contact provoking loose skin with a
harsh sting of pain.

She dragged their hands to the chest of the dead girl, their blood
pooling against her own.

And she sang.

" Ad ea, quae sunt amissa, dulce osculum dabo eam vitam,
sanguinem in venis respirare portabatur sacrificium nostrum."

Harry remembered every word, partly due to the tension of the grave
situation, partly because it was all he could do to stave off panicked
thoughts. But more because despite it all, it was angelic.

A soft melody that promised their life for hers.

She sang this one like he imagined she sang to the dragon although
he never saw it. He found solace in her beautiful voice, as the spell
continued, braids of alabaster light wrapped their hands together
above her heart. His arm grew weaker as they sapped their lifeblood,
for hers.

A final gambit to restore the spark to a fire snuffed in the cold.

She removed both their hands and tapped her chest, once, twice
and then a third time.

" Reddet animam!" Fleur cried.

The world stilled, moments turned to eternity as they waited, for any
sign of life, any sign of improvement.

" Reddet animam!" Fleur tried.

The cold felt oppressive against his back, the air bearing down upon
him.

" Reddet animam!"

The taste of blood splattered on his lips was foul, hot copper that
made bile of his own rise in his throat.

" Reddet animam!" She willed, her voice wavering under the barrage
of power.

Katie's back arched, her chest heaved and she took her first breath
in minutes.

They'd succeeded. They'd saved her from the clutches of death.

Her first breath was interrupted as she choked on the blood still in
her mouth, Fleur gently tipped her over onto her side, she spat the
blood out but didn't awaken. Once she was free of the blood in her
airways, Fleur cast a few more spells, sweet relief crossed her face.

All the while he stilled his hands he hadn't known were shaking.

Her hair had come loose and instead of the elegance it once
embodied, it was wild, untamed. She had a few specks of blood
under her eyes and looked extremely fatigued, likely from all the
advanced magic. It really wasn't the time but Harry couldn't help to
admire her beauty even in the direst of circumstances.
This was not the same Fleur Delacour, of wit, confidence and
passion.

This Fleur held a beauty incomparable to the other.

Even amidst such a terrible event, against all odds, together they
had triumphed.

She looked at him and offered a tired smile and he gave one back.

Within seconds of Katie being stabilised, Snape, Pomfrey and

McGonagall arrived at the scene through the Three Broomsticks,
likely through the floo. Snape was first to react, he conjured a silk
bag and contained the necklace. McGonagall conjured a stretcher
and levitated Katie onto it and Pomfrey went straight to her, casting
spells.

"We stabilised her. The Argí Póno curse, she wasn't breathing when
we got to her." Fleur said, conveying the prudent information as
quickly as possible.

"Heavens girl," Pomfrey said aghast, "How is she alive?"

"A ritual." She replied succinctly and frankly, rather tiredly.

Madam Pomfrey looked shocked, her voice ghastly. "Blood Magic?

Here? In front of the students?"

"I wasn't worried about their stomachs, nor the legality of it. She was
dying." Fleur said simply.

Pomfrey stilled a moment, before giving her a hard nod and

escorting Katie towards the Castle, with Snape levitating her into one
of the carriages before the Thestral began a gallop towards
Hogwarts.

"You alright?" Harry asked Fleur.

The Aurors had all but sent the students back to the castle. The
streets that teemed with life not ten minutes ago were desolate, save
for the two of them and the pool of blood they sat in.

"I am, you?" She said almost sadly.

"Yeah."

"Give me your hand." She asked, her wand outstretched, He obliged,

giving her his still bleeding hand.

Her hands are shaking too. He thought as she took his hand in her
own.

" Vulnera Sanentur." She said in the same angelic sing-song voice
as the chant minutes prior. She traced her wand across the wound
and the wound began to knit together, it felt as though someone was
tickling his palm with a single finger but soon, the wound had sealed
but left a garish purple mark behind.

"It'll heal in time, but we'll bear the mark for a while. I've got dittany in
my office that will help." She said, showing her own scar across her
palm.

He stood up and offered his weak arm, the one that wasn't caked in
blood that was, to help her up. She took it and got to her feet,
brushing some of the snow off of her.

"You saved her life Fleur."

"It was my job to keep cursed items out of Hogwarts, I failed. And
everything that happens to Katie Bell was born from my
incompetence." She said sadly.

"This isn't Hogwarts, Fleur." He pointed out.

"It'll be little help to parents that find a daughter on her deathbed."

She blamed herself.

Calling it irrational, pointing out the facts and singing praises
wouldn't stop the guilt from gnawing at her gut. Wouldn't stop the
pain in her heart or the tears that threatened to fall.

His own sorrow bit deeper than the silver that had cut his palm, a
blade in his chest - a wound that would only heal with time.

"If you weren't doing your job, the same thing would've happened."

She acknowledged that he said it, but Harry wasn't sure she
believed him.

Sensing there likely wasn't much more to be said for the moment,
the pair set off towards Hogwarts, covered in ichor and frost.

Instead, she stopped - her voice a whisper.

"If I had been better-" She tried, an attempt to rationalize it all made
in vain.

"If you had been anyone else, done anything differently, Katie Bell
would've died in that snow."

They'd barely made it to the Entrance Hall before another problem

came to pass. Colin Creevey came pelting down the corridor at
Harry. Barrelling towards him as he supported a weary Fleur.

"Ha… Harry." He said, trying to catch his breath.

"Come on Colin, breathe mate. What is it?" Harry questioned, the

young boy looked like he sprinted all the way from Gryffindor Tower.

He waited a moment to regain his composure though he still

sounded very much out of breath.

"It's Cormac," He explained quickly. "He's heard about Katie, he's

trying to start a riot!"
"A riot?" Harry asked, confused.

The gods love bitter japes. He cursed, Merlin, Morgana and

everyone above.

"He's trying to get all of Gryffindor to attack the Slytherins."

"Why?"

"He's told everyone they're responsible," The blonde boy huffed,

"They all believed him too."

That fucking fool.

That was the last thing Harry needed, the last thing anyone needed
was people fighting wars within the walls of the castle as much as
beyond them.

"Let's go, Colin." He turned to Fleur, "Coming?" He asked her. She

merely nodded and the trio made haste to the tower.

Soon enough, they arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady, even she
looked distressed.

"Quickly, there's been a lot of yelling." She explained. The varnish of

her painting in the low-light made it seem as if her eyes glimmered
with unshed tears.

"Valour." Harry shouted and the door swung open.

Every time the common room filled to the brim like this, a whirlwind
formed. Constructed from their victory in Quidditch to united in their
hatred against the fourth champion. Gatherings like this seldom
ended well.

The whirlwind was vicious and grew with each fevered pitch and
rallying cry.
"I'd say if they want blood, we give it to them!" He cried and a few
loud cheers resounded in the room. "For Katie!"

"Give it a rest McLaggen you fucking prat!" Ron called out from
across the room.

"You better keep quiet Weasley," He threatened. "I'm no fucking

coward. When one of our own is almost killed, we fight back, or
we're not true Gryffindors." More cries rang out at that statement, it
was quickly spiralling downwards.

"But indiscriminate violence is what true Gryffindors do, is it

McLaggen?" Harry announced himself with a harsh tone, his
appearance enough to startle the occupants of the room.

Where's McGonagall or Dumbledore? Hell, even Snape?

He knew where they were, but it made it no easier.

"Stay out of it Potter." He warned, much like he did to Ron.

On closer inspection, Ron's jaw was red and bruised and the older
years clutched their wands.

He used violence to show his disgust of it. Harry seethed, Used the
same tools so he could spread its seeds.

Perhaps he had spent too much time with Fleur, too much time with
Dumbledore. Before he knew it, he found a table of his own to stand
upon, as McLaggen had.

Fleur had her calling, to save a life that should've been lost.

Now it was his, to halt a whirlwind that would swallow them all.

"No, I won't." He said, his resolve ironclad. "Is that what Katie would
want? For us to go around cursing Slytherins for no reason?"
"No reason?" One of McLaggen's mates called out, Delfice, Harry
believed his name was. A short and skinny seventh year. "They
cursed Katie for Merlin's sakes!"

"Who did? Did you see it happen?"

I'm sure I did. He thought grimly, But those words won't help.

No one rose to his call.

"So you're going to go around cursing innocent people because you

feel it's justice?" He asked, "They're students, just as scared as you.
Scared that they're going to be next or one of their friends in their
place."

"So what Potter, you propose we do nothing ?" He spat the last word
as if it was a bad taste on his tongue.

"What would you do McLaggen? Teach them a lesson? Curse them?

What do you think adding violence is going to do to the situation? A
war is already waging outside these walls and you think it's a good
idea to bring one within them? You might not be a coward
McLaggen, but anyone who attacks another because they're scared
- because they're hateful are cowards. They're no true Gryffindor and
are just as bad as those starting this war."

"So what do we do?" A voice cried out from the crowd that Harry
didn't see.

That was the question to grapple with.

What do we do?

The words rang out from his lips before he could think on them - for
better or for worse.

"We stand united, we show this school, we show everyone that this
wasn't enough to break us. That it will never be enough to break us."
They looked to him, urging him onwards with their stares.
"They want us to fight, to hate one another until this becomes more
than a school - until it becomes another battleground for them.
They'll hurt us, take our friends to try and force us to crumble. They'll
pit us against one another until none of us remain. They took the
best of us today, but we only lose when we let them win . That's what
scares them, that they can't squash us like they do everyone else."

" They want us to let them win." He said, " But we can't. For Katie."

He felt a fool and for the briefest moment, he wasn't sure who won.
Defeat and victory, acceptance and denial looked congruent on the
face of the crowd.

A single wand raised in the room, held aloft as Katie had been.

But it did not seek to curse or herald darkness as the necklace had.

This one had a simple ball of light at the tip, only a simple ' Lumos' at
face value.

Yet it was so much more. Before he knew it, all but a few of the
wands were raised with a bright white light hot at their tip.

A stalwart shield against the horrors to come.

A glimmer of hope for the days yet to pass.

A vigil for a friend that may have been lost.

He left the common room with Fleur shortly after. They headed back
to her Office. She was tired and Harry desperately didn't want to be
in Gryffindor Tower right now amongst McLaggen and his lackeys.

By the time they'd reached her Office, it became apparent she wasn't
so much tired as she was ill.

He'd put her down in the chair in her office. "What's wrong?" He
asked, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand, which was
showing all the signs of a coming fever.

"Blood Magic enacts a price, I'll be sick for a few days at the very
least." She explained with a vicious cough following it.

There is power in loss.

Their blood, for a life. But Fleur had been the conduit, willing to
sacrifice it all for a girl she'd seldom seen.

"Do you need anything?" He asked. She looked frail, deteriorating

greatly on the walk there.

Yet, she stands stronger than I've ever seen her.

"Help me to my bed." She asked, He helped her up from the seat,

she took a few steps but it was clear she couldn't hold herself up.

"Are you going to be okay?" Harry asked, concerned.

"I'll be fine, it comes and goes quickly." She explained, her eyes
fluttering.

Harry had little choice, she couldn't walk to the bedroom.

He scooped her legs and grabbed her in his arms, knocking open
the door to her bedroom with his back. He'd never been in her
bedroom, her bed was large and the white expanse of the sheets
seemed far larger against her form as he placed her down.

"Help me get this coat off." She'd been sweating quite profusely. He
pulled off the wet and bloodied garment, tossing it to the floor.

Harry didn't take any further action and she waited expectantly for
him to do so.

"I'll need a hand getting out of my robe." Harry flushed brightly,

knowing what that implied. "Please Harry, now's not the time for
Modesty, I feel terrible."
That spurred him into action, he peeled the sweaty robe off of her
shoulders and downwards, just above her bust.

"You'll need to pull it down further Harry, you've trapped my arms."

He looked away and pulled the robe over her breasts, one of his
hands lightly skimmed the strap and that was enough to perturb him.

"Can you get the rest off yourself?" He asked weakly.

She gave a little murmur of affirmation and shimmied the rest of the
way out of her robe, leaving her only in her underwear, while Harry
observed the beautiful craftsmanship of the roof. She threw the thin
sheet over herself, it didn't do a lot to conserve her modesty, but it
was better than nothing.

'You can look now." She explained now that she shedded the heavy
layers and was safely under the covers.

"Do you need anything?" He asked again.

"I've got this itch…" She teased, giggling at her own joke while Harry
rolled his eyes, still flushing from before. It was good to see she'd
regained her own levity.

The day hadn't torn her apart. He thought It's more than I could've
hoped for.

"Water, please." She requested. With two flicks of his wand, he'd
conjured a simple glass and filled it with water.

"You're getting quite good at that, you know?"

"Well, a Prodigy doesn't like to brag." He joked, though without much

humour.

He passed it to her and she took a big few gulps before placing it on
the bedside table. A brief moment of silent contemplation passed
between the two of them.
"You were brave today Fleur." He said, still wondering if she felt
guilty over today. "Braver than anyone I've seen."

"At least she survived." She said glumly, that answered Harry's
questions.

"You're not infallible Fleur, but without you, we would've lost her." He
said.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" She asked, her voice distant
and aghast. "I thought I'd seen horrors in Egypt, but it was a girl, a
young girl, Harry."

She swallowed against the memories.

"Who does that? "

He didn't have an answer, not one that would ease the pain.

But he had a story, more than one even.

"I.." He didn't think his story would give her much comfort or console
her, but he felt like maybe empathy was the way to go in this
situation. "The first year I was here, I killed a Professor."

She sat up in the bed, "You haven't told me this story."

"Not exactly one I tell often. Not a pleasant memory." Harry

explained.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Harry."

"No, no. I think it'd be good to get it off my chest." He said, blowing a
belated breath of hot air from his mouth.

"My first year here, Hogwarts was guarding the Philosopher's Stone,
but Voldemort had also possessed our Defence Teacher and was
using him to hoodwink the defences to restore himself to life."
"I take it you stopped him?"

"Yeah," Harry said, reliving memories he really didn't want to see

again. "I got the stone but he got me. Tried to bargain with me. Told
me I could see Mum and Dad again. But." He paused for a moment,
to grapple with it all.

"But when I refused he wrapped his hands around my neck and tried
to strangle me. But when I touched him, he turned to ash. I watched
him crumble to ash under the weight of my Mother's protection."

The last thing she left me.

She remained silent, only reaching a hand, her newly scarred one to
clasp his own.

Fresh scar tissue met one another in the middle and inexplicably, it
was the most intimate gesture they'd ever shared.

"But what I'm trying to say is," He paused again, "All we can do, all
we can ever do, is go forward. I was shocked, I was scared. But for
the good of everyone around us, we have to move on. On to the next
adversity, until there's no more - until we're safe."

"That day may not come to pass, Harry." She said, "What then?"

"I won't stop fighting until it does."

"Haven't you become quite the politician?" She smiled weakly, "Two
speeches and saving a life in one day, when shall you run for office?"

"I sounded like a fool." He said bitterly, "I'm surprised anyone

listened, I worded it like a child."

"You sounded like someone who was trying to cope with how terrible
life could be, trying to make sense of it all. Your phrasing was
nothing, your passion was everything."

Even as he sat there to console her, she offered her own in turn.
They could not grapple with their own woes, but grappling with each
other's was easy.

They continued joking, laughing about life, what else could they do?
She shared stories of Gabrielle and their childhood, he shared his
own of Ron and Hermione and their adventures. Of things to keep
their mind from drifting into the day's events - to keep their spirits
high.

They talked until the fever wrought slumber invited her into its
embrace.

She drifted off peacefully and he remained in the chair. The hour was
late and he too grew tired. But he thought back on the day, even if
that's what they had tried so desperately to avoid. Of blood shared
and plans concocted. Of joyful smiles and happier times.

Harry realised a truth he'd been putting off for some time, his mantra
no longer worked. The shield had fallen, where he had a defence
against her, now? They were just words.

I'm falling for Fleur.

Darkness Arising
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Darkness Arising

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Writing this chapter was indeed inevitable.

It was the one from the original I could say I was the least proud of. It
held a lot of points, particularly to set the tone, that needed to be
pulled of. Did I manage that? I can't say for sure.

As always thank you to my Beta Reads x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid who screen the chapters as always, alongside the
Beta Reading team at the Harry/Fleur discord, the link for which can
be found on my profile.

This shall push us over the 100k words mark. A mark I wasn't even
sure I would reach again, yet, here we are. A massive thank you to
everyone who has supported me along the way, be it through
favourites/follows/reviews/beta reading.

Stay safe and as always, enjoy!

THE WARDEN
Somewhere hidden in the North Sea, an imposing castle rose high
against dark waves.

An anomaly.

That's what the muggles had called it, warships and trading vessels
battered against rocks they hadn't seen. Consumed by a sudden
cold the likes of which they'd never felt. Their guns blared against an
ethereal blue barrier as they were invited into the icy depths,
cannons and turrets falling silent as they decorated the seafloor
below.

There was history to the castle. Honour too, if he was generous.

But he wasn't.

A posting that fools and the outspoken soon found themselves in.
Finding joy in such a duty was impossible for even the most sadistic
that found their way onto the island. Only those same fools thought
otherwise.

This same posting killed the last Warden. He thought, disdainfully.

Azkaban withers every hand it has ever touched.

It had indeed killed the last man who tried to impose dominion over
the tall towers and cavernous corridors.

Heed the call, they said. He mused darkly. I was a fucking fool .

Scrimgeour, the 'Old Lion' bares his teeth! They had cried. Do your
duty and join the Auror Corps!

See the world, The banner had read proudly.

Fight a fucking losing war was more like it.

His boots clattered against worn cobbles, and his robes did little to
fend against the cold sea breeze as he walked the battlements. His
journey to ensure the watchmen hadn't absconded to find solace in a
bottle of whatever drink they'd smuggled in.

He visited each of the five towers surrounding them, all seeming too
tall, stretching upwards into the clouds above. Dark stone misshapen
by centuries of spells and seas made them look more akin to fingers,
reaching into the sky and strangling everything below within its
grasp.

He passed another soul caught amidst the rain and sleet, hurrying
through the ocean's gale. A haphazard ' sir' was all he got as far as
acknowledgement went. Protocol dictated he should ask why the
man had left his post.

But during nights like these. He thought as he let a gust of wind and
water splash harshly against his face. It's best to let them do as they
see fit, within reason.

He commanded a garrison of fifteen when by all rights it should've

been closer to thirty. It was barely enough to man the walls, let alone
keep the prisoners and dementors alike under lock and key.

He passed another man, this one praying, he tiptoed through the

turret as to not disturb him.

To Merlin or Morgana. He mused. It won't matter who you pray to,

what faith you arm yourself with - their ears never seem to reach
Azkaban.

He had never been a pious man, few were. But some always found
faith in Azkaban. A three-month sentence to guard the prison tore
more away from the Aurors than he cared to admit.

A man's got to get it back somehow, I suppose.

Some turned to prayer, some to drink, some to gambling. Few

subverted the influence of the North Sea for long.
Their only saving grace was that the Dementors had retreated to the
highest floors of the castle to watch over the thirteen.

Thirteen witches and wizards of You-Know-Who's inner circle, some

of the most dangerous witches and wizards in the Isles. Allies the
Dark Lord would like to have returned to him.

And I've got two more men than they do.

All it would take was one corrupt Auror, a lull in their defences and
the game would be over. They'd be spent, all it would take was one
wand to hold a Patronus and the rest to plunder the barracks.

God's above, I hate Azkaban. He mused sadly but snorted, Maybe I

am a holy man.

The question was no longer if, only when.

During nights like these, without the guidance of the moon and a
cold mist settling over the pewter expanse of the surrounding waters,
the time seemed nigh.

There he stood, a vigilant watchman on the battlements as he

unfurled a soft piece of parchment from his robes.

His second-in-command came from behind, his cloak fluttering in the

wind, making the man seem far larger than he was.

Man is the wrong word. The Warden thought, scratching his coarse
beard. He's just a lad with shite luck, just like the rest of them.

"The wands have been destroyed, sir." He strained his ears to hear
the younger man, words cast to the wind that barely sounded legible.

"All of them?"

"Aye, Rogers did it. I watched it with my own eyes."

If they couldn't end them, destroying their wands would be the
closest thing they'd get to retribution.

Let them try and cast with ash.

"Why'd we do it?" The man asked, "Not that I'm against it, sir, just
seems odd timing and all, what with them being here for an age
already."

He neglected to respond, no answer the man possessed or ever

would possess would ease the words he'd have to speak.

Lead from the rear. The Instructors had taught him, Head down,
wand up, voice loud. Know your men, have them know you and let
the pieces fall into place.

Though they clearly neglected the greatest lessons of them all in

their effort to expedite the Academy.

They never tell you how to make your men look their death in the
face, He mused darkly. They leave that lesson out of the books.

Tonight. The message had read.

He tossed that same piece of soft, offending parchment over the

thick walls, casting it and whatever false platitudes it contained to the
waves.

The man took the Warden's silence as an answer enough.

"What would you have us do, sir?"

"Wake the men and rally the watchers." He ordered, "Meet me here
as quickly as you can."

"Aye Warden." The man said, his eyes alight with confusion, but his
voice betrayed nothing.

"Good lad."
Aye, a good lad. One that doesn't deserve to die for the folly of this
forsaken island.

He laughed at his situation and the wind seemed to howl back,

mocking him in turn.

Azkaban truly is a cruel mistress.

Even now against the obscured horizon, he could see the flash of
magic and the silhouettes of brooms. A battle that edged closer.

A battle whose conclusion had been decided long before it had even
begun.

There were few words for Hogwarts.

A cauldron bubbling on the verge of something far greater seemed

most apt.

Katie's attack had been a catalyst, the student's, agents of agitation

and the war, a mere backdrop to it all.

It had been a fortnight. A fortnight that brought only unease and

tension to one of the last places that could boast defences against
that. Now, the castle felt closer to tipping beyond the edge into the
perilous depths below than ever before.

My words can only placate them for so long. Harry thought, Soon
enough, slights real or imagined, disagreement mistaken for
dissidence will push us over into chaos.

The school was now little more than furtive glances cast against
each other, hurried discourse and thinly-veiled threats. The school
had become so much more than a school.

Yet, so much less.

Voldemort didn't need to infiltrate the castle proper, although he most
certainly had. He was always more content to let the pieces fall of
their own accord.

He doesn't need to tear us apart. Harry thought, We're doing a good

enough job as is.

So, Harry threw himself into his studies. Into duels and
Dumbledore's dissertation filled notebook. Filled mostly with
empirical rants with words and jargon far beyond him and yet it held
the knowledge he had so desperately searched for.

Written in two hands, elegant and untidy, sharp and soft.

He'd only been searching for spells inside the leather-bound book,
scouring each page to sift through copious amounts of nonsense
given written form. Arithmancy and odd symbols littered throughout
the pages as if they were spilt onto the paper by accident. Broken
sentences never meant for his eyes, or likely, never meant for any
but the authors themselves.

He'd searched for spells and he had found them.

Creations of the Headmaster and others. Spells he'd collected over

his time - primordial strength etched into the page.

They were not the same crutches employed by Wizards to change

the world around them nor jinx their foes. It was power incarnate, not
meant to be wielded by lesser wizards. Despite his capabilities, the
spells took a toll.

Every bloody nose, every taste of copper on his tongue were a

testament to that. Every aching tendon, every torn muscle was a
lesson, and each lesson strengthened him.

Yet, the book was more than merely spells and dissertations.
It was something else. Something far more significant, and far
worse.

Ideology, He assumed.

Behind each gesture, each inscription lurked something more

nebulous-strings of words that seemed like nothing at first glance
and everything when read together.

For the Greater Good.

It was written in the Headmaster's hand as much as it was the

others. But he could seldom believe it was the wise wizards writing
any more than his own. It was dogma, efforts to subjugate and
dominate. To impose the will of themselves upon all, to win wars and
share spoils.

Precisely what Fleur had warned him about of the men that followed
Slughorn.

Now he found those same doubts in the Headmaster, a man who

had given him a book that held power beyond comprehension. A
man who did little but preach patience and counsel calm, even when
his own walls were infiltrated, had held the same view as them.

There's a reason. He rationalised, There has to be.

But, whatever the words, whatever the spells, the book was sufficient
enough in another regard. It was not just a guide but an escape.
From thoughts that strayed to what lay beyond the walls, of a girl
who still fought to cling to life in Saint Mungos and the wars being
fought.

And from his eyes drifting to a Silver-haired woman.

Sometimes, he'd preferred that the revelation never came. That his
feelings remained dormant. He could've continued his days without a
pang of agony in his heart when he met her ocean-blue eyes, or
when he thought of the futility of it all.

Every time he thought of her, the newly scarred flesh of his hand
ached. Each time he looked to her, wondering if she felt that same
ache or if she felt the same pang of agony in her heart.

But it was wishful thinking, he was beyond being naive.

She was engaged and he was destined for war.

That thought stung more than any scar on his forehead or hand,
harsher than any pang of agony in his breast.

"Lost in your thoughts, Harry?" A familiar voice called out, though

she emphasised her point with a dull curse. He quickly dodged to
retort. "Am I no longer interesting enough?"

"Resorting to underhand tactics, Fleur?" He mocked. "Maybe you are

losing your edge."

She merely shot an amused grin and sent her flurry of spells, Harry
evaded the first two and flicked the third, sending it careening
upwards into the rafters.

He responded with a spell, although not taught to him by the

leatherbound book, but by Fleur herself.

She's a fan of using my spells against me. He mused, Let's see how
she deals with her own.

" Flagrate Flagellum" He incanted softly, a thin trail of red hot flames
pooling from the apex of his wand, sizzling against the air.

He could not crack the whip, nor use it with any great efficiency. Not
how it was intended anyway, but he could still make use of the spell.
The inferno crackled around his head as he swung it in vicious arcs,
forcing her further backwards in their classroom.
The sharp snap of the flames met every attempt to cast a spell.
Forced to shield or retreat, neither being a particularly appealing
option - the former conceded power, the latter, ground.

To his chagrin, her shield remained inflexible, steadfast against the

sudden assault. Each strike sent out a resounding thump throughout
the room but did not pierce the ethereal barrier that protected her.

Then suddenly, she seized the offensive for herself.

"Don't grimace when you're about to change spells." She called out,
"You're making it far too easy."

Shite.

If it had been anyone else, anyone that hadn't duelled him as much
as her it may have passed unnoticed. The nuances of an opponent
made little difference in the grand scheme of a duel, yet, they made
every difference against an exceptionally skilled French Veela.

She shifted her shield to parry, the flames seemingly rebounded off
empty air. Despite having no weight, his arm overextended, forced to
oblige the unyielding spell.

That was the gap she needed, off-balance and attempting

desperately to regain it left him far more open than he would've liked.

Her spell struck true. Had its intention been to incapacitate him, he'd
be seeing little other than black. Unconsciousness, however, made
for a poor teacher.

A chain flew from her wand and captured his arm, forcing it stiff
against his torso. Her offensive soon followed and lacking the
capability to dispel the chains alone, he was forced to improvise.

He threw himself unceremoniously to the ground to avoid the

incoming barrage and threw his wand scattering across the floor into
his off-hand.
Inaccurate, unrefined and challenging. It wasn't an ideal situation.

But it's better than losing.

He risked injury if he attempted to remove his bindings in combat, if it

had been anything other than a practice duel, he might've taken that
risk.

Instead, he advanced towards her as fast as he could. His off-hand

deflecting what it could as he attempted to weave through her other
spells. If he couldn't be as precise as he'd needed to be, closing the
distance was the only option that gifted him a win.

Fleur, unwilling to be caught out in such a fashion, began her own

advance.

His defence remained strong, spells ricocheting off his shield as the
distance between them closed.

A spell slipped past his wand, unable to be stopped by his magic. It

missed, splashing harmlessly against the floor of the room.

Or perhaps not so harmlessly.

The pale yellow spell erupted against the worn floorboards and a
tendril reached for his leg, latching on to it.

A paralysis hex. He cursed, it was too late for the counter-curse and
even if he could, it'd leave him open to her spells.

Bound by chains and time, the duel had to be won quickly.

The muscles in his leg went taut, then numb, then refused to follow
his commands. He contInued his advance though it had slowed to a
limp at the behest of his paralysed limb.

They were mere feet away. Shields were ineffective at this range.
Each spell was deflected with a parry of each other's wand, careful
not to direct it anywhere that presented a danger to themselves.
His leg buckled under him, but he managed to grapple and found
solid footing, but that same move had set the conclusion. He was
duelling with his off-hand with the other bound tightly to his body and
losing function of his leg.

It was a valiant effort, but an effort was all it would ever be.

He slipped again and his disarming charm went wide, hers, however,
did not. The red spell careened across the short gap quicker than it
had any right to and knocked him off his tentative balance.

His holly wand flew from his hands and his back met the hard ground
with a thud.

The roof seemed to mock his defeat, candelabra's flickering flames

wavered as if laughing.

Fleur sauntered over to him, his Holly wand clutched tightly between
her fingers. "You missed your last spell."

"If I start hitting them all, I'll stop improving."

"You'll also stop losing." She smiled.

"How very astute," Harry said sarcastically.

" Adhuc sentiunt." She incanted, her wand flared for a moment, his
leg regained its feeling and the chains slackened, then vanished.

"You shouldn't use my own spells against me." She advised, "It
makes for an easy duel."

"I almost defeated you." Harry argued, "With my off-hand too."

"A fancy trick." She said, "It's good, it'll save you if you practice with
it. Though if you truly believe in your argument, remember who took
out your wand hand."

"Fair enough." Harry conceded. "Next time."

"Next time." Fleur agreed.

Fleur offered him a soft hand, he took it and rose to his feet,
savouring the contact a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
He took his proffered holly wand back into his wand hand.

"I meant what I said. If you continue to use my spells against me,
you'll never beat me."

"I'm getting closer."

"Perhaps," She agreed, "And if I use another tactic I haven't taught

you?"

"Then I'll learn that too."

"Your persistence to beat me at my own game borders absurdity."

She laughed, "To be forever learning spells sounds good in theory,
less so in practicality. Use what you know - use what I don't know -
against me."

"Then I'll start winning more." Harry joked, "Are you sure you're
prepared for that?"

"Then I'll have done my job." She countered, "We'll both be better for
it."

"Shall we go again then?"

"Focus on figuring out your own style first, not mine." She began.
"Then we can have another."

She makes it sound far easier than it is. He frowned.

She was fire and flight given flesh, lithe and graceful. Even when
paired against his reflexes honed from years from Quidditch and
duels. He held power, yet, he refused to use it.
What is power against intelligence? He thought sourly, If I'm using it
as a crutch, I'll never get any better.

She was forever the rapier he always thought her of in wit,

temperament and skill. He could never be one himself. He needed a
different tactic to beat her soundly.

He peered down into the wand clutched in his off-hand.

Maybe I'm getting there, he mused.

"You know the deal, Harry." She said expectedly.

"So the Master becomes the Apprentice?"

"Not quite." She smiled. "I expect something good."

This was the concession. The loser sacrificed a spell of their own. Be
it her curse-breaking spells or some of his Father's or Dumbledore's
they seldom left the room without another spell every time they met
wands.

He usually received protective spells, wards and healing spells from

her, although she occasionally offered other spells. In return, he
showed her to harness the tempest and much more, even if she was
not as powerful, each spell worked in their own way for the silver-
haired as if explicitly crafted for her.

"Alright," He said, wracking his brain for a spell he hadn't yet taught.

" Terrent Praegrandis."

He brought his wand around his head in a wide, arcing motion before
bringing it down on his target of choice, a well-worn blackboard
pushed in the corner.

Dark purple tendrils shot from his wand, like a rope braiding itself in
mid-air. It took on an ethereal glow before hitting the blackboard,
crushing it under the weight of the charm.
His arm ached less than it once had, muscles didn't cry out in
provocation as they could have. The spell left his wand without
issue.

"What does it do?" She asked. Harry, supposed it was hard to see
given the Blackboard relented, rather than struggled.

"A Beast Wrangling charm." He explained and she nodded her head
in approval.

One of the few with any reference beyond an incantation, a charm

meant to subdue wayward cockatrice rampaging across the
continent.

"Another one of Dumbledore's?" She questioned.

He'd yet to show her his journal, out of respect for the Professor and
his privacy, but then again, he probably wasn't meant to share the
spells around but he was sure the man wouldn't be displeased.

It's not the spells I'm worried about her seeing.

"Yeah, a pretty good one too, haven't had the chance to use it
properly."

She cocked her head at him, peering at his face intently with ocean
eyes. He felt his throat tickle at the scrutiny of her eyes, the depths
of which he found were inescapable if he peered too deeply. Hence,
he looked anywhere but her own face.

"You're bleeding." She took a large step forward and with such close
proximity that he could no longer feign ignorance.

He reached a soft pair of fingers up to his nose, coming away wet

with the scent of copper and the colour of crimson.

"It's nothing." He waved off, "You just clipped me with the chains."

"I didn't." She refuted, "You're a poor liar Harry."

With you, maybe. He winced, I've had to get better at it, one way or
another.

"It's my core." He explained, "It's getting used to the strain."

"Is this the opinion of someone who knows the subject?" She asked,
"Or is this your attempt to rationalise something else?"

"Dumbledore told me."

"Did he now?" She asked, "Casting spells does not make you bleed
Harry, contrary to whatever you've been told."

Well, not in so many words.

"I'm fine Fleur." He said, "There are more important things to worry
about then bloody noses."

"Like Slughorn." She said with a frown.

"Like Slughorn." He agreed.

"Have you given any thought to the plan?"

"We're not dosing him with a potion." Harry said firmly, "Not unless
there's no other option."

"Every other option is a gamble." She returned, "A gamble that has
no guarantee of a safe return. You've had five separate lessons with
the man. If he hasn't said anything by now he likely never will."

See every enemy as an ally. Dumbledore had told him. Even if you're
destined to become greater or lesser.

"We cannot keep our hands clean forever." She said gently. "There's
more at stake than our morals."

"I know that." Harry scoffed. "But we shouldn't make enemies where
we don't need to. We need allies far more than adversaries."
"And we can find them when this is concluded." She said, "We can't
inspire allies if we don't know the battle ourselves."

Harry took a moment to ponder her words.

"Tomorrow." Harry resolved, "I'll ask him tomorrow."

"Shall I buy what we need?"

Harry let out a belated sigh.

"I'll pay for it." He agreed, "But I won't use it unless we have no other
option."

"You'll need to get your side of the bargain then." Fleur said, "We
cannot buy that without someone knowing something."

"I'll try." Harry said meekly, "There's no guarantee."

"We can discuss it more in my office." She decided, "But whatever

you do, make sure your hands are clean by the end of it."

So they began the trek across the castle, leaving duels and spells
behind them in favour of more unscrupulous pursuits.

"Will you be entering Snape's tournament next week?" She asked,

attempting to make conversation as they walked past observant
paintings.

"No." He said simply.

"I have assumed you'd do so." She said, "You said as much to me,
have I trained a protege for nothing?."

"I would've." He said, "But I think we've all had our fair share of
fighting each other."

"You're fearful of what will happen." She deduced, sending him a

sidelong glance. "You shouldn't be."
"I'm not worried about me." He said, shaking his head, "I'm scared of
what's going to happen when everyone steps up to the platform and
decide it's a good time to settle differences with their wands."

The tension in Hogwarts wasn't going to abate that easily, no matter

how many spells they threw at each other.

"I still think it would've been a good idea." Fleur said, "I'd reconsider."

"There's no purpose." He argued, "Nothing to be gained by beating

people who can't fight as well as I can."

"It would give them hope, make it easier for people to follow you
when they need to - when the time is right." She rationalised, "Let
them see that you can fight."

"I don't want anyone to follow me." Harry frowned, "I never have."

"Yet, they will." Fleur laughed, the infectious melody seemed

mocking, "You have a passion to you Harry, a power. It's infectious."

"I rather I didn't."

She let out a soft laugh, "If anyone has less of a choice in that
matter, it's you."

He sighed, he could see the logic in her point, but he certainly didn't
like it.

"I'll see what happens." He acquiesced.

She smiled, "You should probably head to bed. Tomorrow will be a

big day." He checked the time with a flick of his wand. She wasn't
wrong.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Where else am I supposed to be? On second thought, I'm sure

Diagon Alley would be nice this time of year." She joked.
"Yeah, yeah." He said in a faux sour tone, "With that tone, I might
just have to take a fall in the first round of that tournament. Show
everyone the measure of Fleur Delacour's teaching."

"Oh, woe is me." She sighed, "A shame you can't best me like this in
a duel."

"You're hilarious." He drawled, "Speaking of duels, when shall we

meet again?"

She thought for a brief moment. "Maybe the day after next, I know
you're meeting Dumbledore and Slughorn tomorrow."

"Same wager?" Harry asked.

"I thought the winner would make dinner again." She said, a sly
smirk across her features.

"So, somehow, I manage to lose either way?" Harry joked.

"If you lack the refinement to enjoy true cuisine, that is no fault of
anyone's but your own." She defended.

"Sure." He tried, though more in an attempt to infuriate her rather

than placate.

"There's nothing wrong with my cooking." She said again, her

defence much less refined.

"Of course not," He said, "Except for the taste."

"Well, you'll be cooking a French dish when I win." She announced

triumphantly as if she had already won, "That should teach you
some respect for the finer arts."

"I think it might be worth eating your cooking then." He quipped.

There was the briefest moment of silence before Fleur asked a

question he honestly hadn't expected.
"Has the Headmaster told you anything about Katie Bell?" Fleur
asked suddenly.

Guilt still gnaws at her gut.

"He's gone to visit her." Harry answered, "Though as far as I know,

all is well, she'll live."

She tried desperately to hide behind a facade of nonchalance when

it came to the girl. As talented as she was at maintaining false faces,
this particular one did her a disservice. She could not hide the
beautiful smile that split her features at the news as much as he
couldn't hide his own.

"I'll try and visit her sometime soon as well." Fleur said, "Just to see
how good a job I've done."

"Of course." Harry snorted, "Ever so concerned about your

craftsmanship."

"The talented should not squander their abilities, Harry." She mock-
lectured. "We must put such on display."

"How very humble."

"Humility serves the humble little and less." She laughed. "We
mustn't waste our talents with so much to be done."

Katie had truly changed her, he thought.

She was different in a way he couldn't describe. But it was better for
her, better for the both of them.

She had appeared more beautiful to him that day in ichor coated
snow then she ever had. But not in looks, her silver hair and features
remained the same - cast from an angelic mould.

She had become so much more - so much that he couldn't describe.

Perhaps that's why I've fallen for her. He thought, Why I've fallen for
someone I can never reach.

He dared, of his own accord, to gaze into the depths of her blue eyes
as he'd feared to do so for being lost.

He did not find what he was searching for.

Instead, he felt hot passion and glee race through his veins.
Emotions that did not belong on his features.

His eyes rolled back into his head for the first time in quite some time
and he was granted something far more vicious than the eyes of
Fleur Delacour.

The clouds seemed ever so dull tonight.

The twilight was the only guide through the dense mist, though even
then it was fleeting. The moon itself seemed to retreat at the sudden
threat.

He had almost forgotten how it felt, to be submerged into a mind

beyond his own.

Though this was not the mind of Tom Riddle, it was not the cunning
and charming visage of the dark-haired youth. It didn't have legible
thoughts.

This was Voldemort.

His thoughts were a maelstrom of malevolence, each passing

thought couldn't be grabbed and simply swirled past him. The rot
had set in - the ritual had made him something less. Less rational,
less patient. But all the more dangerous for it.

Tonight was a night of such dangers.

The griseous hue of the sky was all that allowed him to see beyond a
few metres ahead.

Then, a sudden descent.

The sky rushed past him with an eager alacrity, and the dark waves
below him flashed into view. As did the masses that surrounded him.

The sky was ladened with stars and black cloaks. Broom mounted
wizards descended in the same fashion as the heavy rain that pelted
the castle below.

Spells careened from the near hundred fighters that swamped the
skies above Azkaban. This was his gambit, his full strength thrown
into battle to secure his first foothold.

Battle was perhaps the wrong word; slaughter was more apt.

Spells rebounded off the ethereal blue barrier that rose to the
challenge of his forces, each barrage dulling the shield that sought to
halt their passage.

Conquer .

The only thought that Harry could grasp from the maelstrom was
enough to send him reeling. He weaved his caramel-coloured wand
and loosed a guttural scream of rage, a sickly beam of light tore that
same barrier asunder. The remnants scattering to the harsh winds
like leaves in the autumn.

And death descended on Azkaban.

Soon, it was no longer the skies he saw, but turrets made from dark
stone.

Those same stones were his canvas, his wand, a brush. A terrible
piece of artistry detailed only in crimsons.
He began the butcher's work in earnest. A startling explosion
heralded the loss of the castle's roof, wraiths clad in black with
mouth's wide open soon joined in the fray. Encircling the island in
search of souls and sustenance.

Men stood against him with little result, every flick of wand, every
stroke of the brush tore men asunder.

It was brutality incarnate - senseless savagery that Harry could not

escape.

But instead of dread, it was still the white-hot glee that coursed
through his veins. A rational part of Harry's brain, wherever it may
have been during that instance, knew that it was not his excitement
but the jubilant glee he felt was intoxicating, even in this situation.

As quickly as it had begun, it had finished.

A mere blur against the vision, the Ministry had sacrificed its men for
nothing.

They'd rushed to the shores of Azkaban, searching for their

attackers and the wooden boats charmed to ferry them to the
mainland.

They instead found death, a circling embrace that took over half of
them within seconds.

A swarm of silver masked devotees knelt in servitude, joined by

grey-robed prisoners and that same jubilant mixture of emotions rose
to a fever pitch. Exhilarating, invigorating, intoxicating . He looked
around and saw only knees in the dirt.

Where they belong, the thought flashed across the forefront of his
semi-conscious mind, though it was not his own. It felt sickly as it
passed through his brain, he felt bile rise - but yet, it didn't.
His lips curled into a wicked smile and he raised his arms aloft, the
crowd around him rising. He seemed to cry something, an
unintelligible smattering of shouts that seemed to raise the spirits of
the figures. They all raised their wands skyward, and from the tips
billowed smoke and pulses of light.

The clouds above seemed to part, giving the moonlight above an

unadulterated gaze into their actions. With the racing smoke and
flashes of light, new clouds seemed to form in the void left by their
predecessors, writhing like an angered beast.

Then it morphed into a sign that Harry had become all too
accustomed to over the past few weeks.

A colossal skull, a serpent slithering out bathed in an eerie green

glow, like a star had died and birthed the image. It shone brightly
against the backdrop of the sullen, grey clouds as if his servants had
forged a new constellation.

No man is free, Harry Potter. A primordial voice echoed within his

skull, sounding equal parts wroth and calm. Volatility encapsulated in
mere words that shook him to the core. Every man is a servant,
every wizard a piece I shall command. Only babes and fools think
any different.

Which are you, Harry Potter?

A fool to cling to the words of Albus Dumbledore?

Or a babe, clinging to his mother's skirt as I rid the world of her ilk?

He willed himself to say neither, but no words came to his command.

This is my boon to you.

A single, bearded man was shuffled to the wooden boats they'd tried
to flee to. Bound tightly, he was sat upon the rocking frame and sent
to sea, paddles moving of their own accord back to the mainland.
There were still four others sat upon the stony shore, staring into the
dark water.

With wands at their back, they stepped from the shore into the icy
clutches of the North Sea, shivering as they went, their bodies were
soon consumed by crashing waves.

To the victor goes the spoils, Harry, I have drawn first blood.

Then it seemed that was all he was gifted to see, Harry's eyes
tumbled into the back of his skull and he saw through foreign eyes
no longer.

Instead, he fell, careening downwards into the dark abyss below.

Back to ocean eyes that stared at him intently, glistening with fear.

She thought you were dying . He thought, his mind still miles away in
the North Sea. As Katie had.

She clasped his hand in hers, their scar tissue connecting as it so

often had. She had begun her frantic questions, and yet, they
sounded quiet against his ears.

To the victor, the spoils.

He met her eyes again, a conversation would ensue in the coming

hours, days even.

But not now.

" Azkaban. " He croaked, his throat raw.

Before the same dark depths that claimed the Aurors claimed him in
turn, dragging him under kicking and screaming as it had them.

Harry trudged his way through the darkened dungeons in search of a

familiar quarry.
His eyes drooped, and he battled exhaustion, sleep had evaded him
that night. Both from the glimpse into Voldemort's eyes and his
dodging questions from a concerned Veela.

That's a conversation I'm woefully unprepared for.

Soon enough, Harry arrived at the familiar classroom and politely

knocked on the door thrice.

He desperately didn't wish to barter with Slughorn today. Azkaban

was still hot in his memory, thoughts that weren't his own still
lingered. Yet, he could offer no explanation to the stout man as to
why he couldn't be there.

Not much justice in that, he mused tiredly.

The wooden door was thrown open. The jolly man managed to keep
the perpetual facade of surprise on his face as if they hadn't already
planned it. With some quick pleasantries and ushering hands, the
artless routine of seducing Horace Slughorn began again in earnest.

"Harry, my boy! Please take a seat." He gestured to the plush chair

across from his own. They were both ornate, far more grandiose
than any other he'd seen. Yet, Slughorn's stood head over shoulders
taller than his.

Best not to let anyone forget who wears the crown.

There was always an intimacy to their lessons that unnerved Harry.

Slughorn would hover over his work, directly on the adjacent as if
reading his thoughts. The man would offer tips and tricks, point out
mistakes made and help him along.

If he had held any interest in perfecting the craft, it might have

assisted him greatly. But maintaining his guard and trying to woo the
man was a task that was near impossible.
"What are we going to be brewing today sir?" He asked inquisitively,
taking his seat across from the man. Sometimes it'd be potions,
other days salves or solely theoretical work.

"Ah, I can proudly say we're going to be brewing a concoction of my

own creation, Aconia Morea ." He said with more than a hint of pride
behind his words.

"What does it do, sir?" Harry asked.

This was the same ebb and flow they'd followed every lesson,
almost like it was scripted. A question and an answer, a comment
and then rapport built.

"This particular brew relieves some of the lycanthropic effects that

victims of Werewolf attacks face." There was more than a hint of
pride in his voice.

"I had thought Damocles Belby had already created the Wolfsbane
Potion?" Harry said though he struggled to remember the name.

"Very well spotted!" The plump Professor congratulated, "Dare I say

it, not without my help of course. But Damocles' potion retains the
mind. Mine simply culls the urge."

The man flicked his wand towards the chalkboard. Various diagrams
began to etch themselves into view.

"Not all Werewolf attacks lead to the creation of Werewolves, that

itself is a misnomer." Slughorn lectured, "Scratches from claws, toxic
bile even bruising in some instances can produce Lycanthropic
effects. My creation merely thins the blood for letting, so that they
may bleed the urge from their body."

Slughorn procured a bundle of soft cloth from one of his drawers. He

laid it on the table and unfurled it. It was a familiar sight, a plethora of
knives and utensils spilling out.
"Now, Harry, which knife should we use to mince the Aconite?"
Slughorn prompted in an educational tone.

This was the part he struggled with the most. He could brew
perfectly decently but the specificity behind why certain things did
what they did and why they did such wasn't exactly his area of
expertise.

"The bronze knife?" He guessed, plucking a dull-coloured instrument

from the set.

"Why would that be?" Slughorn prompted again, his eyes eager.

"Because the silver blade might have adverse effects on the

potions?" He said, unsure of himself.

"Very good, but why not the steel blade?" He questioned with a
crafty tone in his voice.

Harry had to rack his brain for that piece of information; even then he
was sure he came up short. "Because the steel blade might ruin the
ingredients?"

"Close!" He praised, "Because this particular variant of Aconite,

being from the Yorkshire and the Humber region, is particularly acidic
to heavy metals. The composition of bronze, however, renders such
properties inert."

Not close at all.

Harry gave the man a short nod and began wielding the bronze
blade. Thankfully, while the potion itself had an aspect of complexity
about its preparation, the ingredients list consisted of relatively
familiar flora and fauna. Harry filled his cauldron and lit the flame
before beginning his preparation.

He scored his lionfish spines, drained the heart of an Ashwinder and

so on. Preparing his ingredients took some time, and he awaited his
own moment to strike.

Then, the knock at the door and he knew the time was nigh.

"Pardon me, Harry." The man said and got up, heading towards the
door.

He opened the door as he had done for Harry.

"Miss Delacour!" The man cried, "What a wonderful surprise, but not
unwelcome."

"I was interested if you had those elixirs for me yet?" Fleur asked
and Harry grasped the Holly shaft of his wand, slowly removing it.

"Oh indeed, please, follow me." He led Fleur past Harry and into one
of the antechambers, his time was now.

Harry plucked a vial from the table and rushed over to Slughorn's
storage cupboard.

It's warded. Harry thought dully.

Fuck.

He thrust his arm beyond the ward, the magic burned at his skin as
his wand passed through.

" Accio." He whispered, daring not to utter his intended object, his
mind handled such.

A bottle sailed across into his fingers, shaped like an hourglass with
a dense cork adorning the top. He uncorked the bottle without any
fanfare and poured a generous serving into it. Another flick of his
wand sent it back to its position on the shelf and Harry closed the
door softly.

He surveyed the damage to his arm. The hair had been singed and
the top layer of skin reddened by the protective magic. Yet harming
him had not been the intention of the piece of magic.

He walked back to the desk with lengthy strides and grabbed a

handful of lionfish spines he had prepared and snapped them
between his fingers.

He put a cork into the vial of stolen liquid and stowed it in his pocket.

Soon, both Slughorn and Fleur left the antechamber, the former
chatting animatedly while the latter carried a box laden with potions.

Slughorn stopped to eye Harry intently, but as he saw him nursing

his crushed ingredients, his fears seemed to be soothed. Harry,
however, battled hard to control his racing pulse.

"An issue with your ingredients, Harry?" The man asked with a smile.

They'll play the fool to lure you in. The silver-haired woman mere
metres away from him had said, But they rarely expect you to do the
same.

Now, it was time to test the truth behind those words.

"I was moving my cauldron, and my lionfish spines rolled

underneath." Harry lied, "I tried to gather some more from the
cupboard and -" He held up his reddened arm.

"No harm, no foul." The man smiled, "I'll get you some more in just a
moment."

"Horace," Fleur said, "Would you mind if I borrowed Harry for a

moment?"

"By all means." The man said, "Far be it from me to stop friends from
reuniting. Just be sure your potion doesn't start boiling, Harry."

"Thank you."
Harry practically leapt from his seat and followed her out the door.
For good measure, they made it a fair distance down the corridor
before they began talking.

"Did you get it?" She whispered as they hid in an alcove behind a
suit of armour.

If it were anyone else, for any other reason, it might have been an
entirely different situation when being pushed into a dark corner.

Instead of the blush that would've formed, he merely procured the

vial and placed it in the box she was carrying.

"Did he suspect anything?" Harry asked.

"Not that I could see." She shook her head, looking into the box at
the clear liquid, "But that doesn't mean he's not going to assume
you're guilty of something."

"I'll keep his mind off of it." Harry appeased, "I'll be sure to leave
before he gets too suspicious."

"Good." Fleur said, "Dumbledore has returned, there was a staff

meeting this morning."

"I'll see him tonight." Harry resolved, "I'll talk to him about it ."

"Be sure to see me afterwards. You'll be making my dinner yet."

"Don't start counting your victories just yet." He smiled, "I'll need to
go before he suspects we're doing more than talking."

"Oh, what would we be doing Harry?" She smirked slyly, "Please do

explain what a pretty French witch and a British wizard get up to in
dark corners?"

"Pretty?" He snorted.

"Am I not pretty?"

Beautiful . He could've said, but didn't.

"That's a loaded question." He spoke instead.

"Such a grievous wound you've inflicted with your reluctance." She

laughed, the melody echoing in the alcove, "I'll see you tonight."

With her farewell, he departed further down the corridor and he

returned to the potions classroom and sat with the Professor as the
hours waned on.

The potion simmered away for nearly an hour and a half, changing
colour and texture with a slow monotonous stirring that Harry
wouldn't really call stipulating. But soon enough, he'd completed the
opaque potion. It shimmered in the low light of the dungeons and
gave off a dark blue smoke.

Too bad it smells like death , Harry grimaced.

Slughorn came around the table and gave his obligatory inspection,
using one of his ladles, he scooped up a sizable portion. He held it
up to his eye, swirling it around and even ventured a finger in to taste
it and if it was anything like it smelled, Harry wouldn't have been so
brave.

"An excellent first attempt, only a little too bitter. Likely not enough
Mooncalf hair." He explained,

"I'll be sure to remember that for next time." Harry offered, "It is quite
a potion."

Maybe flattery will give me an opening.

"Your compliments are well received, Harry." The Potions Master

smiled, "I dare say Miss Delacour would give you assistance in such
a matter if you asked, no?"

"She's a good friend." Harry said, peering into the man's gooseberry
eyes.
Those same green eyes had a familiar glint in them, the one the man
often wore - cunning. His darker green met the Professor's lighter.

"Perhaps something more, Harry?" The man said slyly, "Forgive me

for saying the two of you appear far closer than I expected."

"Just a friend sir." Harry refuted, perhaps more forcefully than strictly
necessary. "She's already engaged to Bill Weasley."

"Oh yes," He said, his face portrayed ignorance. If Harry had been
less prepared for his game, he may have missed the feint. "I'm sure I
had come across the information somewhere, it all tends to meld
together in business."

I'm sure social extortion and war profiteering is very taxing, Harry
snarked.

Harry made an attempt to reiterate his stance, "Just good friends,

I've learned a lot from her."

"You certainly could've found less appealing teachers, my boy." The

man laughed. "I do have some information that you may wish to
hear."

The laugh was forced, it was only in those same eyes did Harry find
the truth, or at least he thought he had. The man's eyes concealed
his thoughts, sincerity and insincerity - fact and fiction looked
congruent, hidden behind that same glint of cunning.

"Of course, Professor. I'm sure you've always got something worth
saying."

For a price.

"You flatter me, as always." The man grinned, "Well, as you know,
I'm quite good friends with Dirk Cresswell."

You might've mentioned him once or twice.

"He's always a reliable source of information when one needs to
discern what happens inside the walls of Gringotts. For instance, a
meeting both you and the Headmaster happened to attend reached
my ears from the mouth of Dirk."

"I was keeping my affairs in order." Harry lied.

"Of course." The man said, his disbelief was acutely evident.

He's trying to dissuade me from lying when it counts. Harry thought,

If the man already knows everything, why tell anything but the truth?

"Anyhow, I found myself very interested when the ruling council gave
command of one of the larger contingents to a relatively fresh Curse
Breaker. Obviously, my interest was beyond piqued."

"Obviously."

"So, I naturally thought it prudent to make the acquaintance of such

a man."

"Did you?" Harry asked, "Make his acquaintance, that is."

"Sadly, no." The plump man shook his head, "But Dirk did give me
something of great interest. As far as he's aware, the Goblin's have
been quite displeased with the young William Weasley."

"Why's that?"

"Hearsay, of course, Harry." The man iterated before going any

further.

"Hearsay." Harry agreed, "Nothing more."

"Smart man, Harry, you've got more than enough of your mother in
you." He praised, "But I've been told the Goblin's employed quite a
well-renowned European witch to help in their excavations."

"Fleur is a European witch of renown." Harry pointed out.

"Oh, indeed." The man agreed, "But this was no Veela, nor French -
but a Romani."

"Romani sir? I'm not familiar."

"Quite rare after the wars, especially Grindelwald's. But incredibly

resilient and well suited to find things that others cannot see."

"So she was the problem?"

"In a way, apparently, our own Mister Weasley has become,

perhaps, a bit too 'attached' to such a witch. Enough so that Dirk was
concerned about losing the operation to some Spaniard the Goblins
were interested in."

Maybe her being a forgotten bride wasn't too far off the mark. Harry
frowned deeply, but he still distrusted the man's words, no matter
how much he wanted to believe them.

"What would you have me do with his information?"

"Share it, horde it, whisper it, shout it." The man said, "It's yours now,
Harry - a gift from me."

I could've done without your gifts.

"Thank you, Professor, you're quite generous."

"Think nothing of it, my boy, though there is perhaps a way you could
repay me?"

Here comes the bartering.

"If I can do it, Professor, I will."

"Oh, excellent." The cheerful man clapped, "Another of my parties is

being scheduled soon, perhaps you would do me the honour of
attending?"
"It'd be my pleasure."

"I'll be sure to pen you a letter with the date." Slughorn promised,
"Be sure to bring Miss Delacour, I'm sure we can cater to her taste
for fine vintages."

"She'll be delighted to come, sir."

"As am I to know the company will be that much greater for it,"
Slughorn announced, standing up, his large stomach only just
clearing the desk. "I would say we've learned enough for today, a
pleasure as always, Harry."

Harry left the room unsure of who truly won their exchange,
uncertain if he really gained anything or simply conceded more
ground to the man.

Was he the fool? Harry pondered, Or was I?

He'd sowed the seeds of doubt in Harry, indebted him to the man
and left him unsure if he spoke only half-truths, ensuring the blame
wasn't on himself.

Perhaps that was the greatest danger Slughorn possessed .

Harry moved past the vigil gargoyle that seemed to stare at him as
he passed. It felt almost unfamiliar, it had been an age since he last
met the man in his office. He ascended the winding stairs in silence
until he reached their apex.

He reached the top, stepping onto flat ground. The Headmaster held
Fawkes in his lap, his burning day seemed to have passed only days
ago. The phoenix was still in its infancy, feathers of gold and crimson
yet to sprout. The man fed the bird treats while he rubbed its crest.

A sweet sight destined to be interrupted by bloody business.

"Harry." The man said at his arrival, "Please, be seated. I have some
unpleasant business to discuss with you."

Harry stepped forward and took his regular seat, waiting for words
he had known for over a day.

"It would appear that in the late hours of last night, Tom struck
Azkaban with the bulk of his forces." The man appeared sullen, his
gaze solely affixed to the Phoenix. "As we speak he consolidates a
foothold in the North Sea, poised to strike at the Isles."

"I know." Harry said, his voice seemed raw against the warm air of
his office.

"How did you come across such information?"

"I saw it." Harry answered, "He was too excited to block the
connection."

"You have my condolences, Harry." The man said, finally meeting his
eyes, "I had always thought I had seen the worst this world had to
boast. But at the hands of Voldemort, I know you'll see far worse."

It was a reminder he didn't need.

"It was…" Harry grappled to find an eloquent word. " Quick. I

suppose."

"Far more than we could've hoped for." The Headmaster said, "I
shall not ask you to recall what you don't wish to, but did he
communicate with you?"

Harry merely nodded.

"He told me we were all servants and pieces for him to command."
He took a moment to swallow the weight that sat on his tongue, "He
let one live as a boon to me."
"It is a fine piece of bravado when fighting ill-prepared men, out
powering them six-fold." Dumbledore said darkly, "Have you told
anyone what you saw?"

"Fleur was with me when I had the vision." He confirmed, "She

knows, as do you."

"It may be best to keep it that way for the moment."

"Will it not be in the papers tomorrow morning?"

"No." Dumbledore shook his head, "Rufus and his Administration

have decided to conceal the attack for the moment."

Harry clenched his knee in anger, his leg bouncing to try and bleed
off the rage from the man's revelation.

I'm glad I wrote those letters praising the Ministry only for the people
to be lied to because their government is run by cowards.

"And you support their decision?" Harry said, his tone very much
accusing the man of exactly that.

"I do not." The man refuted, "I do, however, understand his rationale.
War is a simplistic act morphed into complexity, decisions that seem
simple are rarely so. What seems a good decision today is seldom
so when the next day rises."

"So you do support it." Harry amended, "Surely telling the people the
truth, to raise their guard, would be a benefit. Rather than committing
them to know nothing."

"Truth is a fickle mistress Harry." The man counselled, "Be it candid

or concealed, both options have consequences. The likes of which
aren't always apparent."

"Such as?"
"Should the Ministry be truthful about the situation, the isles would
likely erupt into hysteria. Voldemort struck first and struck true, a
neighbour would turn to foe and the bureaucracy to weakness.
Those same men who put their lot behind the winning faction
suddenly have their champion."

"If we told the truth?"

"Admittedly, far less. At first, we may experience an exodus of

people to the continent. Those left would likely be the stubborn, the
sympathisers and the squalor. The first would perish and the latter
two would bow. The winning side and knees in dirt go hand-in-hand,
Harry. With men and supplies dwindling and morale dropping, it
would be a poor defence."

"So Scrimgeour's sacrificing them for a bigger scheme," Harry noted,

disgust evident in his voice.

Just like he did at Azkaban

"I told you that chair that Rufus Scrimgeour occupies is a perilous
one." Dumbledore said, "Tom has a strong force and fortress at his
heels. He chose one option out of many, all unfavourable in some
regard but that is the curse of such a seat."

"He can call it what he wants." Harry shot back, "He's still sacrificing
people."

"The philosophy of legislation and executive decisions in wartime,

while relevant and likely very interesting, will have to wait for another
time." the Headmaster said, "I had intended for us to visit another
memory, one of the few left. But I doubt you're all too amicable for
such visits. So, I relinquish you back to your bed for a rare early
night."

"Actually, sir." Harry said, "I do have one question."

"By all means, Harry."

"It's about your book." He began, "There were some passages I
couldn't make sense of."

"Most of them are simply phrases to reignite a spark I had when I

wrote." He explained, "I wrote much of that book beyond my school
years, I wouldn't expect you to understand some of the greater
esoterica within its pages."

"It's not the calculations that confused me, sir," Harry said, shaking
his head. "It's some of your words."

"As I said when I gave you my journal Harry, some thoughts were
best left forgotten." Eyes that once twinkled seemed dull at the
mention of the words.

"But I want to understand." Harry said simply, "It's full of nothing but
hatred and I want to know why."

"I wrote in anger. Do keep in mind Harry, that my own father was
imprisoned for crimes against muggles. My words were callous and
cruel, but there was still a man behind them."

"So you wanted revenge against them?" Harry asked, "Was that it?"

"I did, but not for my father. Not in the way you would assume."

"Then tell me." Harry pleaded, "Explain this all to me."

The man was reluctant, lingering on the border of acceptance and

refusal as he idly scratched the soft head of his Phoenix.

"In my youth Harry, I had a very good friend."

Harry didn't dare interrupt the man who seemed intent on laying
down the unadulterated truth.

"We were of an equal, he and I. In both martial might and

intelligence. In all my struggles to outgrow the shame of my family
name, of my father, I had somehow procured a friend instead. We
learned, we shared our intelligence between ourselves to our benefit
and believed ourselves cut from a superior cloth."

Fawkes jumped from his lap with a mournful trill and stepped over to
his desk.

"Then, the war came." The man said, his voice deprived of anything
but sound, "The Great War, they had called it. Wizards and witches
rallied to the cry to test themselves against the one true danger. We
had thought ourselves hardy enough to end a war the muggles had
started alone. Grandiose dreams of finding honour on the battlefield
and recognition for our greatness ruled us and those same dreams
died a bloody death on the battlefield. Instead, we lost ourselves."

The man's voice was dull, devoid of anything save for resignation.

"We wet the fields of Gallipoli red with the blood of our foes. We flew
dragons across France and burned whoever stood as an affront to
our power. We spread pestilence on the muggles who dare defy our
superiority. We thought the world would praise us, we had won their
war. But we had lost too much to get there."

"Sir…" Harry tried, but the man hadn't finished.

"I wrote what I wrote, Harry. No words I can utter will ever change
that. It was hatred, it was dogma, ideology. It was what I once felt.
But there was a simple truth behind my words, one that not even the
great Albus Dumbledore could escape."

"What is that sir?"

"War makes monsters of us all."

He ended up at her door as he had so many times before. He

knocked and she opened.

"Did you meet with him?" Fleur asked.

"I have."

"Are they planning to retake Azkaban?"

"It's lost Fleur. There will be no more battles for Azkaban."

Not yet.

"They plan to let him have it?" She scoffed, "Are they that foolish?"

"Most of them." He agreed.

"What's our plan now?"

Accio.

The same clear liquid he stole earlier that day flew from its hiding
place into his outstretched hands.

I've made my choice.

"We take what we need." Harry said solemnly, "We try and end this."

"You're making the right choice, Harry." She offered lightly, "I mightn't
seem like it, but it is."

He hoisted the vial before his eyes and shook it to and fro.

Veritaserum.
Of Socialites and Sorrows
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Of Socialites and Sorrows

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: As always, shout out to my beta readers x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid.

Purposefully nebulous motivations and rising parties. Socialites and

Sorrows was always favourite.

Be sure to review and the likes if you have the time.

Otherwise, as always, stay safe!

The night is here.

It approached far quicker than he would've liked. Despite all his

preparation, all the long nights wasted away reciting possible
conversations in his head, it still felt inadequate. It was as if he had
yet to plan for the simplest of possibilities, yet to spot the glaring
weakness that would tear it all apart.

But the dusk had arrived either way. Indecisiveness would not serve
him well here.
His footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor that seemed far
darker than it once was.

He had assumed the loss of Azkaban would've yielded results

similar to the raids at Exeter and Helga-by-the-Sea and whatever
other plethora of attacks had been conducted up-and-down the
coast.

I imagined they would've been of a kind. He mused, I've never been

so very wrong.

Information trickled in as Dumbledore had foretold. In the beginning,

it had been a simple breakout, then the prison had been attacked
and then finally, the dam had burst. The sea wall had shattered and
they were pounded by the relentless waves of hard truths. The same
waves that had battered Azkaban.

Yet, there was no sting of families being lost as the other raids had
heralded. No one had kin that guarded the prison, it appeared.

Most of them gained a little family instead.

That was where the tension had spawned.

More tension. Harry amended.

The return of the Death Eaters - the sudden influx of mothers and
fathers returned from the clutches of Azkaban emboldened many
and disheartened even more. The Ministry now simply tried to pick
up the pieces.

It hadn't succeeded.

Harry's letters to the Minister had been plastered across the Daily
Prophet like propaganda. Urging men and women to take up wands
for the Ministry, they'd been pushed onto the back foot and tried
every strategy to regain their footing. Every page was a call to arms,
every wood carefully forged to rouse the ordinary people into action.
Twelve galleons a month and three months training is a poor
substitute for proper Aurors.

But real Aurors were few and far between. Some had simply left.
They hadn't expected another war in their lifetime and simply walked
away. Some had defected to Voldemort and some found their way
into the lengthening obituary section of the Daily Prophet.

Scrimgeour had expanded the corps, amassing a sizable reserve to

protect the Ministry. But they were bodies, not fighters. Though few
made that distinction.

He shifted his body to weave through a group that had been leaving
from dinner towards their common room. A group made up of
Slytherins who upon noticing him gave him a wide berth. A berth,
however, that was not sizable enough that he could not hear their
laughter when they had passed him.

I know what they call me. Harry thought. He'd heard it often enough.
I'm Scrimgeour's lackey, I jump and bark on his command. They'd
shouted it, laughed it and hid it behind their hands with soft whispers,
but he heard them all the same.

Once, I would've said I was Dumbledore's man through-and-through.

But now? He pondered, Now I'll have to be my own man.

And so he thought it, and so it had to be.

Their time was nigh and the crucible was lit. Each step towards her
office, every dull thump of the clock tower in the distance, each
painful throb in his chest stoked the embers beneath. Even now he
could feel the heat, the twinge of flames at his heels urging him
onwards.

Tonight was a night of preparations and a single chance.

One single chance.

It's imperative. He'd repeat, a newfound mantra in place of the old.
One that seemed as ineffective as it's predecessor.

His finely tailored robes were mail-ordered, the silk soft against his
skin as he strode through the quiet hallways. His holly wand felt
heavy in his pocket as did the cold bottle of wine he sequestered up
the long sleeve of the dress robes.

Yet, it all felt artificial. The feeling of silk, heat and cold all felt
fleeting.

This was the first sacrifice he'd have to make, with many soon on the
horizon. It was a war, as every face seemed to so delicately remind
him.

And war makes monsters of us all.

Soon, he found her familiar wooden door in front of him. Knocking

his knuckles against the manicured frame as he'd done so many
times before. Even an act as mundane as this soon felt illicit, as if he
had betrayed someone or something.

Yet, despite that, he craved the rendezvous. It symbolised more than

just a meeting.

At least, it does to me.

Every opened door was an escape from the outside to a sanctuary of

sorts. Where levity, banter and stolen glances rose above the
darkness at their walls. It seemed forbidden, there was a war raging.
People sacrificed themselves every day to buy him time so that he
might finally see a conclusion in sight.

Yet here I am. He reflected.

Here he was, searching for touch, for commonality, for something

more with an engaged witch.

Soon, she opened the door and allowed him into the room beyond.
Her light blue dress hugged her lithe, womanly curves and her
platinum hair fell down past her shoulders. It was similar to the one
she had worn previously and yet, the similarities only stood to
exacerbate the differences.

It'd be poor showing to wear the same dress twice in a row. He

mimicked internally, Lest they think you only have one.

It was a testament to her ethereal beauty that no matter how many

times Harry saw her, in all matters of dress, undress or otherwise he
was still amazed. Each time since that day in the snow his heart
would pound and his throat would tighten.

For all his jokes, all his musings and thoughts, she truly was beauty
incarnate.

"So early Harry?" She smiled at seeing him, her tone teasing. "One
could be forgiven for thinking you're almost a little too eager to take
me to this party."

Perhaps I was.

Her hair was in its usual form, silver wisps framed either side of her
face with the majority tied up at the back of her head. She peered up
at him, somewhere along the line he'd grown only a few inches taller,
but it seemed to make all the differences.

Harry kept a keen eye on her features, the same high cheekbones
and elegant countenance. She'd been stressed recently in trying to
ensure nothing happened at Hogwarts.

Nothing like Katie.

He had been helping her where he could, but everything seemed to

demand more of him. More than he could give. She was sleep-
deprived from her duties and yet that still did not mar her beauty.
"Do I have something on my face?" She asked, her tone mostly
identical. "Or perhaps you see something you like?"

Her tone was exactly that - almost identical to the teasing one she'd
adopted. Yet, something lingered beneath it, something that gave
him the briefest glimmer of hope that there was more than platonic
friendship between them.

"And if I did?" He shot back experimentally, testing the water.

"My Harry, you've grown gallant and we haven't even touched the
mead yet." She let loose a gentle laugh,

"I distinctly remember there being two of us drunk Fleur." She let out
another, heartier laugh at that.

"It was such a good vintage, it couldn't go to waste on simpletons

who wouldn't appreciate it." She defended herself.

"Oh yes. Us British commoners can't hold a candle to your refined

taste buds."

"You're the first of your countrymen bright enough to admit such a

fault. I'm beginning to understand why I keep you around."

"Here was me thinking I was kept around for my sensational duelling

skills and good conversation?"

She scoffed in return, "You seem to owe both to me."

"Well," He smirked, "You did say you'd teach me about ' love,
elegance and duelling. '

"I suppose I have been somewhat remiss in the first one, haven't I?"

"I can't say you've taught me much." He shrugged.

Fleur leant forward, their faces merely inches apart, her mouth
hovering near his ear.
"Well," She whispered, her breath was hot against the side of his
face. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his chest
tickled. "I could do something about that, if you'd like?"

He didn't trust for his voice to not portray how he felt, he merely
nodded instead.

Fleur pulled her face away as if it hadn't been there, the loss of her
warmth breath left nought but an icy cold void behind.

" Ginerva will be there tonight." She smirked victoriously. "I'm sure
you can find love with her."

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. "You're
incorrigible."

"It was not I who had my thoughts in the gutter, Harry."

"My thoughts were not in the gutter." He defended.

"I distinctly remember some questions being answered the night of

the last party." She trailed her, her words enunciated by a finger
softly tapping her chin.

"I also remember who asked them." Harry returned, "In fact, you
seemed a little too adamant, maybe you were a bit too interested ?"

She's not likely to be undone so easily.

"Or perhaps you simply want me to be interested, no?" Fleur smiled

slyly, "In fact, I was interested in something - Which way did you
have me ag-"

"Alright, alright." Harry conceded, "You win. We've got bigger things
to worry about anyway."

He procured the wine bottle from his robes and placed it on her
table.
"Did you have any trouble getting it?"

"Nah, the Owner of the Hog's Head wanted to get rid of it pretty
badly." Harry answered, "An envelope heavy with galleons and it
was all mine."

"We'll need the entire potion." She frowned, "Three drops won't
mean much against the entire bottle."

"You disagree?"

"No," She shook her head, "But Veritaserum is invaluable, I wouldn't

want to dry our entire stock out."

"We'll find more," Harry promised, "I'll salvage the bottle for us."

"Oh?" She said, "A bottle of wine that makes you spill your deepest
desires. Would you really like to take a sip?"

"I'll take one if you do." He resolved.

Perhaps I'd be able to end all of this for good if we did that.

"Is the truth a problem between us, Harry?" Her face looked hard but
her eyes betrayed her.

"Is it?"

His voice portrayed confidence and yet, guilt gnawed at his gut as it
had hers with Katie.

It is. He wanted to say, but couldn't, I can't tell you the truth be it real
or false.

How could he ensure he didn't look the vain child vying for his
affection when he couldn't confirm it himself? How could he
eloquently broach such a subject as an unfaithful spouse?

I can't and I feel like a coward for it.

She laughed, "I'll make you a master at this yet."

She procured her own bottle, as he had. This one was diminutive,
the same vial he had used to abscond with the Veritaserum.

"Do you want to do the honours?" She asked gently, offering the vial.

I truly don't.

"Okay." He replied, equally as gently. He took the proffered vial and

freed the cork from his bottle then the stopper from the vial.

He poured the entirety of the clear liquid into the wine-red depths
below. It mixed seamlessly, leaving no indication of any tampering.
He waved the neck in front of his nose.

Not even a scent.

"Do you trust me?" Fleur asked suddenly.

"Of course, I trust you."

Would I have been here if I didn't?

"Then trust me now." She said, grasping his scarred hand, "We're
doing the right thing. I know it's not what you want -"

"What I want doesn't matter." He shook his head, "The war matters."

"What you want always matters, to me, at least."

"Thank you," Harry replied sincerely, he gave her scarred hand a

squeeze with his own and let it drop. "Did you get what you
needed?"

"Of course. I couldn't have known Ginerva was coming without it."
She flicked her wand and a piece of parchment sailed into her
waiting hand.
She handed it to him and he began reading through her elegant
quillwork.

"I don't recognise half of these names," Harry said, confused at the
unfamiliar words that decorated the page. "I must've met most of the
people present last time."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Fleur answered, "It's the Wizengamot."

"What is the Wizengamot doing at Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

The memories of austere courtrooms, hard faces and dark looks

decorated his mind when he thought of the Wizengamot.

"They're here for the same reason as all the others - they've made
their decision. Now they want to make the bed they're set to lie in."

"Is there anything we can do?" Harry asked, part of him desperate
for a simple answer. "Think we can change their minds?"

"As talented as we are together." She began, "There are only two of
us, a Veela and the Chosen One we may be, but only two."

"Wars have been started by less," Harry argued.

"But they seldom end with less." She countered.

"I managed it." He smiled.

"You did," She conceded with a matching smile, "Now let's go

manage again."

Soon that same crucible became unbearably hot. The wine bottle in
his pocket seemed to weigh him down.

Duty weighs me down too, I suppose.

He felt the heat but he wouldn't succumb, not yet. His hand latched
onto the new door handle and pulled it open.

The Professor had selected a new room to hold his gathering. Long
forgotten was his spacious office tailored to fit his acquaintances.
This was nothing of the sort. It looked more like an amphitheatre,
pillars bedecked in Christmas decorations that spanned the outside
of the inner circle.

A table sat in the centre, long, ornate and adorned with a golden
tablecloth that seemed more a statement of egregious wealth than
anything else.

I probably wouldn't believe this is Hogwarts if I wasn't standing in it.

Though the true decor lay within the guests that littered the room.
Seas of tailored-robes and dresses that formed a motley expanse as
far as he could see. Pipes and wine glasses seemed commonplace
amongst the older guests. Students instead seemed to flock to the
fringes, taking solace in the empty corners.

One big testament to his hedonism . Harry thought, Ron and

Hermione are supposed to be here amongst all this.

"Ah Harry and Miss Delacour!" A jovial voice cried from the centre
table, "Please come in and enjoy yourselves!"

Harry sighed and with Fleur behind him, did as they were bid.

"I wouldn't have minded a few more seconds to get ready," Harry
grumbled so only Fleur could make sense of it through the ambient
chatter.

"Best we don't waste an opportunity," Fleur said, being optimistic.

"Promise me you'll try our more genteel approach first?"

"Why the sudden concern?"

"I didn't think we'd be meeting them all at once." She whispered
harshly. "Don't let them anger you."

"You think they're going to try and anger us?" Harry queried, "It'll be
no different from last time then."

"Not us, you . They'll try and glean what they can out of you, anger is
conducive to such tactics." She explained, "Their cards are on the
table, the best hand will win tonight."

"I'll be the definition of poised ." Harry assured.

"Somehow, I very much doubt that." She smiled slightly, "Any ally we
can get tonight is one we didn't have yesterday."

"See every foe as an ally." Harry recited, "Professor Dumbledore

taught it to me well enough."

"Don't just recite it. Remember it, use it. "

Their approach to the table was belated by their conversation. But

soon enough, they were forced into the gravity of Horace Slughorn.

"Gentlemen, I give you Harry Potter, who I assure you needs no

introduction! Escorting the lovely Miss Delacour, one of the finest
additions to the Hogwarts staff in quite a few years!"

He turned from the pair of them and began gesturing to the man
sitting at the table. There were five in total, none of them looked
similar yet they all had a look about them that made them appear
identical.

"Harry, Miss Delacour I give you this merry bunch of Gentlemen."

Slughorn said, "Aldrich Hawksworth," He was skinny, short with a
large white moustache, "Damocles Belby," Plump and clean-shaven,
"Tiberius Odgen," Bearded and hard-faced, "and Carlyle Landon."
Sallow and tall.

"A pleasure." Harry said.

"Please," Slughorn began, "Be seated and share a toast with us."

"Of course."

No sooner had they sat down were crystal decanters passed around,
amber and crimson liquid spilling from their depths.

"To a speedy war!" Slughorn announced.

The words were unspoken, but he could still hear them.

And a profitable one.

They raised their glasses to their lips and gulped, Harry merely
raised his and let the liquid touch his lips. Slughorn hadn't deigned to
invite any other students to the table, he stuck out like a sore thumb
amongst them all as did Fleur.

"So, Mister Potter, I trust you've had a pleasant year?" It was

Landon, his voice seemed cruel, almost mocking.

"As pleasant as any other." Harry replied neutrally.

"Oh?" The gaunt man said, false surprise lacing his tone, "I had it on
quite good authority this year, in particular, was ripe with
misfortune?"

"No more than usual."

"Come now, boy." The man laughed, "I've been told you've suffered
quite greatly at the hands of many a troublesome incident."

"Carlyle." Ogden warned.

"Come off it Tiberius, " Landon said, mocking him as he had Harry,
"We're all interested in the pristine record of Hogwarts."

They're business partners, Harry observed, They certainly don't look

like friends.
"Do keep in mind, Mister Landon." Fleur broke in, carrying the
sickeningly sweet banner he was meant to parade, "That two staff
members of that same school are at this very table. The same
school you currently stand amongst."

"If you take umbrage to such a statement, perhaps my jape was

closer to the mark then I may have intended."

Harry looked to Slughorn, perhaps to call him off. Instead, the

Professor looked interested.

"Are you insinuating something?" Harry asked the sallow man,

perhaps more bluntly than he should have.

"Perhaps the matters of war and education are too taxing for Albus
Dumbledore?" Landon said, "If the man cannot protect the future of
this very Isles, I'm reluctant to believe what future he may forge
should he win."

They're bold. Harry remarked, To mock the man in his own school.

"He also almost killed Voldemort at the Ministry, or have you so

quickly forgotten that?"

"It's been decades split between two wars, boy, you do not call a
hound a hunter for coming away with its snout bloodied once."

Harry made to quickly return his words, but a harsh squeeze of his
knee dissuaded him from such.

They're baiting me.

"I'll bow to your superior knowledge in the subject," Harry said

noncommittally.

The man seemed irritated by his refusal to rise to the provocation but
said nothing more. Slughorn and Odgen wore grins that couldn't be
hidden under their glasses.
"That would be smart, Mister Potter." Hawksworth said, "Carlyle can
be a bit eager with new guests, you have our apologies."

"O-o-of course." Belby stuttered.

"Yes, perhaps I can pursue new prospects a bit more enthusiastically

then strictly appropriate." Landon said, although his hard eyes
betrayed the lack of sincerity.

"Best mingle with the other guests, Harry." Slughorn advised, "Lest
you spend the entire night in our esteemed company. I'll be sure to
seek you out later tonight, as will these other gentlemen should we
ever manage to leave the table."

Slughorn's eyes were hard like Landon's, a look that seemed clear-
cut to Harry.

Their plan didn't work. Harry wanted to smile. They're cross with
Landon .

"Of course, Professor." Harry stood up with Fleur, "Enjoy your

evening."

"A pleasure, Mister Potter." Ogden said, "You reminded me much of

your father when he was your age."

He couldn't detect insincerity behind the man's eyes.

Doesn't mean it isn't there.

"Thank you, sir."

The rest remained silent, there were no pleasantries exchanged

beyond Slughorn and Odgen as they left the table.

"How'd we do?" Harry whispered as they vacated the centre of the

room.
"Better than we could've hoped." She returned, "They didn't push
you as hard as I thought."

"I'm unsure if that's better or worse."

"We'll see by the end of the night." Fleur said, "We should split up for
the moment, go find Ginerva if you wish."

"What will you do?" Harry queried, peering around the room.

"I'll try and gather what I can, from who I can." She said, "You should
do the same before we're caught by Slughorn again."

"I'll see what I can do." Harry said, "We'll need to kill time enough for
him to start drinking some more."

"Also, Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Do try and look like you're enjoying yourself." She grinned, "They
may start rumours about you if somehow you've brought a Veela to a
party and still can't enjoy yourself."

"You really are incorrigible."

"Good luck, Harry."

"Good luck, Fleur."

He turned from her beautiful features and to the surrounding crowd,

braving the masses in search of familiar faces.

Harry made through the large crowd. What began as adequate

progress to the far side was soon made a slow and methodical crawl
to avoid exchanging pleasantries with people he vaguely
remembered from the first party. Like vultures circling a ripe carcass,
they descended from all sides one-by-one, aiming to take their piece
of the flesh. Every time he successfully circumvented deeper
conversation, another came.

Soon enough, he broke into large enough of a gap with no one

around him. He spied, looking for a head of ginger hair that stood
above the others.

And so he found one, although it was a darker variant and belonged

to someone far shorter.

"Hello Harry," Ginny said lightly, "Enjoying the party?"

"It's certainly more congested than last time." He said with a lace of
underlying sourness in his tone as a particularly stout man brushed
by him rudely.

"I imagine so." She said with a giggle that sounded more forced than
anything else. "I see you've been busy tonight." She offered, nodding
towards the centre table.

"I feel like a trophy being passed around by the winning team." He
said disdainfully, locking eyes with another potential 'vulture'.

"It does seem that way. Though speaking of trophies, we could've

used you last game. We're a mess without Katie." She explained
sadly.

"I haven't really been keeping up with Quidditch lately." He explained

lamely. "I'm sure you're doing well though."

"Oh." She said, surprised, "I suppose that's too bad."

This was where the differences between Fleur and someone like
Ginny became far more apparent. At least, the differences beyond
those skin deep. Conversation with Fleur was effortless, quick-witted
and exhilarating.

Conversation with Ginny felt anything but.

She was quick-witted too, but it was a different wit, one she had
decided not to employ here. It felt more akin to a sinking ship, one he
had to work constantly to keep afloat.

He shot a glance across the room at Fleur, partially to see how she
was progressing with her own conversations. But on the inside,
Harry merely wanted to telegraph the fact to Ginny that he wasn't
interested in this particular conversation.

I've got a lot to do. He wanted to say, but brushing off the girl
seemed a bad decision.

It was a rude, callous way to do it. But Harry felt if she was anything
like Ron and after coming to know her quite well over the years he
could only imagine the stubbornness ran deep. Her infatuation, her
misplaced romance, was just that - misplaced.

She was too young to have a romance at the forefront of the war,
they were all too young. But to be involved with Ginny was to bind
himself to a girl he would never allow to follow him anywhere, for fear
of her safety which wasn't a particularly appealing thought.

She saw the sign and ran with it, though not entirely how Harry
intended it. She traced his gaze across the packed room to the head
of glittering silver hair.

"How is Fleur?" She asked tersely though not entirely impolitely.

"She's alright, I think the holidays will do her some good." He said
though he doubted Ginny particularly cared.

Maybe it will do her some good, maybe it'll do me some good too.

He'd been caught up in all of this for so long.

We could all use a break.

"I should think so, with Bill coming home and all." She said
offhandedly.
"Bill's coming to the Burrow?" He asked almost hoarsely, he found it
odd how so few words left him feeling like the air had been punched
from his lungs.

They are engaged, Harry reminded himself, She was never really
yours.

"Of course, it'll likely be the last for a while, with the promotion and
all."

Harry was no master of dialogue and certainly no social butterfly, but

Ginny didn't mask the giddiness in her words very well.

She's more cunning than Ron gives her credit for. Harry thought
sourly.

The happiness in her voice was definitely not aimed at her favourite
brother being out of reach and given what had been her simmering
contempt at Fleur for taking him away. There was only one solution
to the puzzle.

She in some facet, however obscure it was, must've suspected that

he had feelings for Fleur. His callous attempt to free himself from the
conversation was met with a much greater rebuttal if anything, Harry
thought, it was an apt display of karma.

"Have you seen Ron? I need to talk to him." He asked of the crafty
redhead though definitely not with the confidence it had prior to the
conversation.

"Over in the corner," She waved her hand in a gesture to which

corner she meant, "Last I saw he and Hermione were arguing,
seemed like a pretty big one too."

"About?" Harry asked succinctly, though knowing the pair for long
enough it could be any myriad of situations, ranging from useless to
urgent.
"You know them, Hermione's ignorant to some things, Ron's ignorant
of a lot. Together they're ignorant of each other. Neither of them
knows what they want."

"That's oddly sage, Miss Weasley, where does it come from?" He

quipped.

"It's easy to judge," She boasted casually, "I know what I want." Her
last words rang with a touch of finality about them as if she couldn't
be persuaded.

"What's that?" Harry asked, fearful that he already knew the answer.

She pondered for a small moment. "One day, I think I might just tell
you. But what about you Harry, do you know what you want?"

His eyes quickly flashed to the silver hair across the room, the
reaction was almost involuntary. He wasn't sure if Ginny caught it.

"I do." He said.

If Ginny did catch it, she showed no indication of it.

"Then I hope you get it, Harry, you deserve it."

"I hope so too." He said to Ginny, with a goodbye Harry moved on

towards Ron, though mindful that Ginny walked away with definitely
more sway in her wide hips than when she arrived.

With Ginny out of the way, he tried to push the conversation out of
his mind.

There truly is nothing half as wicked as a teenage girl. He mused,

Fleur might've been right.

Harry broke through the unusually dense canopy of ageing women

between himself and Ron and Hermione and true to Ginny's word,
they were there.
He caught sight of Hermione first. If her broad frown was indicative
of anything, it was likely the fact they were indeed bickering. Though
it was definitely not in their conventional format, no raised voices or
rude glares. He made his way closer and caught a bit of their
conversation.

"Even your mother doesn't want you to do it, Ronald." She said
exasperated. Harry already knew it was never a good situation when
full names were brought into play.

"It's a war Hermione, I'm not going to be a burden to anyone." He

argued, equally exasperated.

"If you want to get yourself killed, go ahead." She bit back, "When
have you ever needed to listen to me though?"

"If I want to get myself killed, that's my choice."

She seemed to turn up her nose. She was never one who took
disagreement with her points easily.

As Fleur can attest to.

She stalked off towards the tables of drinks on the opposite side of
the room.

"Rough night mate?" Harry joked from behind him, breaking Ron
from his staring at her retreating form.

"You could say that." He said half-heartedly, glancing at Hermione

across the room again.

"What's eating at you?" Harry asked. Ron was clearly perturbed by

something.

"Hermione," He mused, "What else?"

"What has she done?" Harry asked pointedly. "Better yet, what have
you done?
"I've been practising some of the Prince's spells. She told me to stop,
even owled Mum to try and get a handle on me." He explained
bitterly.

"What's wrong with that?" Harry asked though he had an inkling of

what it could be, magics darker than strictly appropriate.

"I decided to practice one with her, y'know, after Defense." Ron
explained.

"So?"

"Put three gouges in the wall about two inches deep."

Harry let out a low whistle. "That'd do some damage, are they all like
that?"

"Nah, most are just silly jinxes; make your pants bite you, twirl you
around by one leg. But there's a few that are a bit more serious ." He
continued.

"Do you intend to listen to Hermione then?" He asked, but he already

knew the answer.

"No." He stated simply, "She doesn't get it and she's not too happy
being told that truth. But she doesn't get to decide what I do. Her
family isn't in this, mine is."

He really is growing up.

He'd spent years trying to escape shadows of people he thought

better than him, now he was just trying to be someone . Someone
that wasn't killed in a war.

It was rare that he was the more sensible of the two. But Hermione
persisted in her thoughts of prizing the institution above all.

Even if it scorns us at every turn.

"What do you plan to do then?" Harry asked simply.

"What else can I do? I'll learn what I can and give it up." He said, his
voice full of resignation.

Harry frowned. "You could always lie?" He knew Ron wouldn't

entertain the notion of lying to Hermione and given how egregious he
was at lying, it was likely for the best. "If you felt like you could get
away with it."

"I don't want to lose her." He said wistfully. "Lying would be a quick
way to do that."

"Why don't you tell her how you feel then?" Harry asked.

To his credit, Ron played feigned nonchalance very well in that

instance, though it didn't fool him at all.

"What do you mean?" He asked calmly although his voice had

definitely adapted a slightly higher pitch.

"You're not fooling anyone mate. I've watched you dance around
each other for years." Harry explained.

And had more than my fair share of help from Fleur.

"Do you really think it'd work?" He asked hopefully. "You know, if I did
actually fancy her."

"I do," Harry replied sincerely.

He stared across the room at the back of her as she made

conversation with one of the guests.

"I'm not too sure about that." He started indecisively.

"Listen, mate, I want you to be happy, I want her to be happy. For the
rest of our lives would be ideal but we don't know what's around the
corner, we'll have to settle for the 'now'. There's a war, we've got to
live for the moment."

"Do you really think it'd work?" He reiterated nervously.

"Yes." He replied confidently. Ron clung to the hope every word gave
like a student listening to a gifted teacher.

"I'm telling her it was your idea if it goes sideways, you know that?"
Ron said matter-of-factly.

"Somehow I doubt that'll mean much to Hermione. But if it does go

sideways, I guess we'll fall together."

After all their years together, that's how Harry always envisioned it
happened, falling together that was.

I'm not sure I ever imagined it being by Hermione Granger though.

He took a moment to ponder the situation. "How do you reckon I

should do it?"

"Try at Christmas, it'll be easier then." Harry offered.

Christmas had just recently become a sore subject for Harry with
Bill's return. He'd gone to immense lengths to source a gift for Fleur
and in the end, penned a letter to Gabrielle. Who with the help of her
mother, concocted something and judging by the time it took to reach
him and its price tag seemed a more than ample gift.

But with Bill coming? Now I don't know.

"I'll give it a try. Thanks, mate." Ron offered in return. "We can talk
about it later."

"I better find Fleur again." Harry confessed, "I'll see you soon."

Harry shot a quick glance at Slughorn, ostensibly to check how the

host was entertaining his guests, but his real objective was to see
how inebriated the Professor had gotten. The gregarious man
seemed high-spirited, making lively gestures with hands though he
noticed that the table had more vacant spaces then when he
departed.

Though he was clearly drunk, it wasn't enough nor had the numbers
at the party evaporated enough to get the man one-on-one. There
were still quite a few people who Harry should talk to whilst waiting
for an opportune moment.

Harry spied the silver hair across the room, it certainly wasn't hard.
Every feature was crafted by a thousand elegant strokes of a brush.
Her willowy form made her visible in any room, no matter the count.

He made to walk over towards her but was yet again halted. This
time by a face no less familiar but less welcome.

"Mister Potter," The gravelly voice spoke, "A pleasure to see you
again." The tall and imposing form of Sanguini stood before him,
appearing to have traded his crimson suit for a better-tailored black
robe.

Harry peered down the man's attire. I don't know why I'm surprised,
he is of the night.

"Sanguini," Harry greeted tersely, "I'm surprised Mister Worple isn't

with you."

"Eldred is a good friend." The vampire said, "But he is no more my

keeper than I, him. Though I must confess my own surprise at your
appearance here."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Politics is an old oak, tall and imposing. But it is odd to find one so
young tangled amongst its roots."
"If I had a choice, I could think of many places I'd rather be." Harry
said. He'd lost the glimpse of silver hair.

"Yet you're here." Sanguini said, "Presumably amidst men many

decades your senior for the same reason as I."

"I wouldn't have a single clue about what you mean, sorry." Harry
said, "I'm only here to see some friends, maybe sneak some of the
Professor's refreshments out."

The Vampire looked at him, his dark eyes staring menacingly down
towards him. But instead of a threat or a demand that he assumed
would come, it was a laugh - a grating noise, but not at all what he
would've expected.

"They had called you a fool, Mister Potter, believed you to be led
around Scrimgeour, Dumbledore, even the lovely Miss Delacour. But
they appear to have done you a disservice, you have an intelligence
all your own. And a disservice played into your own hand is a great
boon indeed."

"Maybe." Harry shrugged, "So why are you here then? If you don't
mind my asking."

"A cabal rises tonight, Harry Potter, a decision long since made."

"Why does that interest you?" Harry asked bluntly, "I had assumed
wizards did not interest you."

"It was never my ambition to be the most auspicious piece, nor the
prettiest. I do not seek to flourish or flounder - I seek only to remain
in the collection." The Vampire explained, "To achieve such, one
must be prepared to play their game."

"I don't think it's much of a game." Harry frowned, "I'd like to say it's a
bit more serious than that."
"Not a game, Mister Potter, the game - the great game." Sanguini
lectured, "The greatest game to ever have existed. Much shall be
decided tonight, many shall follow and all shall suffer."

"You seem a bit too familiar with it." Harry remarked, "Anything more
you'd like to share?"

"Information is currency coveted in these circles." Sanguini said, "If

you wish for my information, you shall divulge your own in turn."

"You first." Harry demanded.

"What do you seek to know, Harry Potter?"

He thought for only a brief moment, not wanting to give away the fact
he felt woefully out of his depth.

"What do you know about them?" Harry said, nodding towards the
men at the centre table.

"The newly-minted cabal?" He asked and Harry nodded. "Ogden is

old money, the financier of them all. Landon, the fanatic, he is brittle
like fanatics so often are and an ardent devotee to the cause.
Hawksworth and Belby, the intelligence behind their moves and
Slughorn? The connective tissue that binds them all. Think of them
like a fist, together they can clench, grasp - strike. Together they are
everything, alone, nothing."

"So get them alone and they're useless?"

"For all their flaws, they are still powerful and intelligent men alone.
But a wolf without a pack is felled much easier."

"What about a Vampire without its coven?"

"You've got a wit about you, Harry Potter, that I cannot dispute."
Sanguini smiled, "But now, it is my question for you."

"Go for it."

"What is your true purpose in being here tonight?"

The truth would never be allowed to spill from his lips. Though a half-
truth would have to suffice.

"I'm here to convince them to support Dumbledore over Voldemort."

Harry said, "I'm not doing a great job, however."

The Vampire studied his features for what felt like an age before he
smirked. His elongated canines became visible.

"I name you a poor liar, Mister Potter, but I cannot begrudge your
intelligence." Sanguini praised, "You make for far more interesting
conversation. Should you wish to trade again, you need only ask."

"Of course," Harry said, he went to say more but the black-robed
figure had disappeared. Slinking back towards the darkness and into
his domain.

I suppose I did learn something, at least.

It had taken some time, but he had finally weaved his way through
the crowd to meet Fleur.

To say she looked displeased would've been a gross

understatement. She showed the signs of someone thoroughly
irritated with whatever the man was saying, her eyes seemed to be
looking everywhere but the robed man, her arms were crossed and
her lips pursed.

"Excuse me, I was wondering if I could borrow Fleur for a moment?"

Harry asked the man, a particularly plump one at that. The wizard
simply swivelled on his feet and stalked off angrily without a word to
Harry in response.

"What was that about?" Harry asked confusedly. "Fleur?"

Fleur didn't respond immediately, prompting Harry to tear his eyes
away from the retreating form of the man to instead gaze upon her
face.

It was noticeably different, to say the least. Her ocean blue eyes, the
same he'd lament breaking his gaze from were no longer blue.
Instead, they were a cruel yellow, avian and slanted, narrowing at
the last glimpse of the wizard. Her facial structure angled slightly but
seemed to still.

She looked more a bird of prey at that moment than Fleur Delacour.

"Fleur?" Harry asked gently, this time more out of concern than
confusion. That seemed to break her from her stupor, she shook her
head a few times and the ocean blue returned to her eyes and her
jaw detracted.

"Zat, cochon!" She spat at the man's retreating form, in her anger
she reverted to her first language. That alone was more than enough
to worry him.

"What's wrong?" He asked, now thoroughly concerned about what

transpired between the two.

She took a moment, presumably to regain the composure she had

lost.

"Nothing," She assured him, "It appears Slughorn's made friends

with some ardent fanatics." Disdain lacing her tone, her words barely
more than a growl.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing to repeat in polite company." She said, "I won't let him ruin
our victories."

"I've had a pretty interesting night myself," Harry admitted.

"Oh?" She said interested, "Dance with me Harry, it'll be easier to
talk without interruption."

He'd barely noticed the cramped dancefloor decorated with virtually

no one, only a few conversations lingering on the border.

"I'm not much for dancing, Fleur."

"You fared well enough at the Yule Ball." She said.

"I should amend that statement; I don't really know how to dance."
Harry admitted.

"Well," She pondered, "I suppose it's advantageous that you're a

quick learner with a gifted tutor."

His sigh signified his acquiescence on the matter and soon he found
both himself and Fleur on the small, checkered area.

"I fail to see how this will stop people from talking to us." Harry
groaned, placing his hand on her hip at her direction. "Instead they'll
be laughing at us."

"As long as they can't hear us, it doesn't matter." She said, "No one
is going to interrupt two fools in love."

What?

That was the thought he could muster in this situation, his eyes
latched onto hers within an instant, searching for her meaning.

"You're engaged," Harry said succinctly.

"A joke, Harry." She frowned, "Just a joke."

She grasped his scarred hand in hers, holding them in front of them
and then the dance began. An antique gramophone playing an
equally antiquated song - one almost drowned out by loud chatter.
Step forward, step back, turn.

That was the extent of his dancing lessons, but at the very least, it
seemed sufficient. His shoes avoided hers and they spun in a small
circle.

"See?" Fleur smiled, "A natural with me."

"I think I learned this one all by myself." He smiled in return.

"Make any fine acquaintances tonight?"

"Two Weasleys and Sanguini. An interesting conversation all round."

He explained.

"My, my Harry." She tittered. "Trysts with Vampires and redheads,

you've become quite the scandal."

"What can I say," He shrugged, "I had a good teacher."

"I'm quite the teacher, am I? I must keep that in mind when you beat
me next. I'll have to assign detention."

A small recess of his brain was elsewhere, wondering whether the

punishment of detention extended to less intellectual spaces.

"How about you?" Harry asked as they spun, "Meet anyone worth
knowing?"

"I saw Tiberius Odgen again." Fleur announced, "I'm not sure he's a
fan of all this."

"Sirius told me he resigned from Wizengamot when I was on trial."

Harry said, "Think he might be sympathetic?"

"Time shall tell," She said, "I haven't talked nearly enough to discern
that."

"Did you see how Slughorn was looking?"

"I did." Fleur answered, "He was stumbling quite a bit too."

"Maybe now's the time then."

"Still got the wine bottle?"

"Yep." He pulled his hand from her hip and tapped the heavy bottle
through his coat.

"Do you want me to come with you?" She whispered, her voice
solemn.

"No." Harry shook his head, "I think this is something I need to do by
myself."

And at his answer, the dance ended with nary another word. They
separated and the brief detente from his duty left with it.

Now, he no longer had warm skin to clutch. Just a cold bottle of wine
and a single chance.

Guests had begun to leave en masse, partially in part to the hour

growing ever later and largely due to Slughorn quickly forcing
everyone out with his over-excited chatter. They struggled to escape
the attractive force of the man, but soon, they were free. Leaving
only a handful of people in the room and none at the table with
Slughorn.

Not wanting to be seen as a poor host, he quickly decided to

ingratiate himself with those still present, he shot up and made a
beeline for the closest group, which just so happened to be Harry
and Fleur.

"Harry! Miss Delacour!" He exclaimed excitedly. "How lovely to see

you again! Please, join me at the table for a drink."

"I can't, I'm afraid." Fleur admitted, "I've been meaning to check on
the western ward sector. I'm afraid I've neglected my duty for far too
long."
"It's of no trouble Miss Delacour!" Slughorn reassured, "We'll lament
your loss but your duty is indeed paramount."

"In that case," She said, "I'll take my leave, quite a lovely party,
Horace." With that, she headed to the exit and the plan that had
been painstakingly devised began.

"What about you Harry?" He suggested happily.

"I do have this for you, sir," Harry said, fishing the bottle from his
robes.

"Such a nice vintage." The Professor said, appraising it with a keen

eye. "I believe we should return to my quarters! I think such a bottle
should be enjoyed in silence."

"You wouldn't mind sir?" Harry asked with faux excitement.

"It's absolutely, demonstrably fine my dear boy!" He said, "I daresay

there'll be far more dangerous things than sharing a glass with a
Professor!'

"Lead on then, sir."

He peered around the room. He was thankful for having won this
battle, a front where he could finally claim victory. But the room did
not greet him as warmly as he would've liked. Every man and
woman around him was another front, another struggle to be fought,
to victory or defeat.

But that was for another day.

There was no more levity, no more silver-haired beauty to guide him.

Just the crucible.

Unlike Fleur, Professor Slughorn's quarters were not adjoined with

his office as he had assumed. And was in fact, a fair distance away
on the opposite side of the sixth floor. The entire way, Slughorn
regaled Harry with one tale or another; of his days as Head of
Slytherin House, or as an avid Potions Pioneer.

The man stumbled around on the journey as if he hadn't yet gained

his sea legs, but in time, they made it to his office. Also distinctly
dissimilar from Fleur's office was the lack of a door. Instead, it was
protected by an expansive portrait, on its canvas was a siren that sat
upon a rock at sea, flowing red hair falling down her shoulders into
the waters below.

"Lily." The Professor spoke solemnly.

The portrait giggled for a moment before swinging open.

"For your mother, you see Harry? Was the portrait with the greatest
likeness to her I could find." He explained.

"It's charming sir." Harry commented, staring at the back of the

portrait.

"Indeed." The man said with a wide smile, "I bought her myself, quite
the find."

Details seemed to whirl by as he followed the man. Soon, the pair

were sitting in an ornate antechamber. With a flick of his wand, he
uncorked the bottle and the red liquid was exposed to air once as it
had been hours ago.

Harry conjured two glasses for them, pouring a generous serving for
the man and a more conservative one for himself.

This is it.

"Here you are, sir." Harry passed him the glass, clinking the
Professors with his own. The man wore a jovial expression at the
prospect of tasting the fine liquid.
Slughorn gave it an experimental sniff before he bought it to his lips
and Harry's heart stilled in his chest.

"Quite a vintage." He praised and then gulped half the glass in a

single swig, decorum long since forgotten.

"Does it taste good, sir?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes, quite good." He agreed, having another sip.

A vein in the man's neck seemed to bulge after a few more tentative
sips. His gooseberry eyes swivelled from the glass to Harry, and his
face portrayed the shock he clearly felt.

"Harry." He gasped, peering into his glass.

"Sir, did you ever know Tom Riddle?"

"Please." He pleaded, and Harry wavered.

He's fighting it.

No matter how much I detest him for trying to use me, I'm making a
man relive his worst memories.

"Did you ever know Tom Riddle?"

The man paused for a moment.

"Yes." Was Slughorn's simple reply, devoid of emotion.

"Did you teach Tom Riddle about Horcruxes?"

"Yes."

"Did you hide the memory of this from Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes."
"Where?"

"The stone bowl." He pointed lifelessly, "The one with the fish."

Harry walked over to the corner and peered downwards into the
offending object.

The bowl was made of dark marble. Water filled the lower half of it as
a bright, alabaster fish swam around, its fins highlighted with light
pink.

"Where is it?" Harry asked across the room.

"It's the fish." Slughorn droned. "The fish is the memory."

Harry peered between the man and the fish intently before reaching
his hands into the shallow bowl. His hands scooped up the writhing
fish, a fish that slowly transformed into a flower as he drew it from
the depths.

The flower held the same colouring as the fish once had.

A lily.

He reached gentle fingers upwards towards the centre of the flower

and plucked a protruding vial from the centre of the petals.

The memory.

It was a tiny container, meant to meld seamlessly into the flower, but
he had recognised the pale milk glass memory swirling within.

He gently placed the lily back down to the water; it broke the tension
of the water and soon transformed into the same small fish he'd first
seen.

But it did not swim.

Instead, it floundered and sank towards the bottom whilst trying
valiantly to propel itself onwards. But it could not. It fell into the dark
marble depths, dead, a pang of agony biting into his chest at the
sight.

Harry breathed out a hot sigh and turned towards Slughorn who still
sat in his chair.

"He's got you wrapped around his finger." The man commented.
"You know that?"

The potion has worn off.

"I need you to know I didn't want to do this, sir."

"You outmanoeuvred me, Harry." He praised darkly, "I thought you a

fool, as malleable in my hands as the rest. But you were harder than
that, I've grown dull in my solitude."

"Sir…"

"But everything you've done has been at his behest, every footstep
you've ever taken has been intricately composed for you since
before your birth."

Harry could've mistaken him as both inebriated and disorientated.

Both by the drink and the heavy dose of Veritaserum.

A drunk mind speaks true, I suppose. He mused, I'm unsure if that

applies to serial liars and avid socialites.

"Dumbledore isn't manipulating me." Harry said with a tone of finality,

"Not anymore."

"Perhaps." Slughorn agreed, "Perhaps not, but you've done this at

his design. You cannot hide from the truth."

"What's the truth then?"

"He's not the man you'd ever thought he was." Slughorn announced,
"He has never been."

"You lie." Harry said flatly.

"Ask him of his first love. Ask him of his sister."

"I don't care," Harry refuted, "Not one whit."

"Then perhaps you are a fool, Harry." The Professor said, "Be what
your mother always imagined you to be - be smart, Harry. I did not
accumulate this information to lie, not now. "

"Don't talk about her." Harry snarled, "Not after all this. Not after you
plot to put him on that pedestal."

"It was never about light or dark Harry." The man admonished lightly,
"The concepts are antiquated, the definitions are blurred. There is
only power, Harry. We wanted to change the world."

"You want to tear it apart." He spat, "Sit yourself upon the highest
rung to trade favours and people like chattel."

"We only want to change the world for the better." Slughorn
reiterated, his voice strained. "A world your mother would've been
proud to live in."

"You won't."

"I'm sorry, Harry, I truly am." Slughorn confessed, "The memory - all
of it."

"No." Harry shook his head, "I don't think you are."

He's ashamed, but never apologetic.

He retrieved his bottle of wine and returned the cork to its home. He
walked briskly from the room. The man made odd noises as Harry
left the ante-chamber, they could have been sobs or cries of anger.
He didn't know, wouldn't know.

The death of my Mother was all that tempered him. Take that from
him and he'd be the same man.

One that did not yet deserve his pity.

He sacrificed men and women to climb the ladder. Now, maybe I've
shattered that illusion.

Maybe not.

All he could think of was the small vial hidden in his robes, his hand
clutched over it protectively.

And of the withered lily, the fish that had sunk to the depths never to
rise again.

Sometimes innocence is the greatest sacrifice of all. Dumbledore's

words found a way to mock him, even now.

But who's innocence was sacrificed tonight?

Harry made it to Fleur's quarters as the clock tower signified

midnight with a harsh percussion of its bells.

"Do you have it?" She asked quickly.

Harry waved the glass vial containing the memory in front of her, she
leapt at him, bringing him into a quick embrace. What had begun as
his task, became their task. The hours they'd put into it, the
meticulous crafting had come to fruition, giving them a small victory
comparative to what lay ahead.

But it gave them hope.

Hope that it should herald more victories, inspire greater acts and
close the war soon. It was naive, optimistic and foolish - but it was
victory.

"Will you come with me?" Harry asked

Dumbledore's Pensieve had been relocated to her office. The man

had thoroughly insisted on such.

Our meetings are over, but he still has one final lesson left to teach
me.

Dumbledore could seldom accompany him into the pale world below,
so he bestowed the Pensieve elsewhere. It looked of regular size in
his colossal office, but titanic in Fleur's much more reserved space.

"Always." She said solemnly.

Slughorn sat in his office, looking much younger and flourishing a full
head of hair. He sat at his desk, scratching at missives with an
ornate quill.

A quick rap on the door broke him from his work.

"Come in!" He called out, stowing the paper below.

The door opened and beyond it, stood Tom Riddle.

Harry had stood before Tom Riddle enough times to not be

perturbed. He'd seen his dark eyes that would one day turn scarlet.
Seen his smiles that would one day herald suffering, experienced his
mind that would one day succumb to rot.

But this felt akin to none.

"Ah, Tom! Take a seat my boy, what do you need?" Slughorn said
happily, clearly pleased to see the boy.
"Professor, I was just here for something purely academic this time."

"Of course, Tom, I daresay your questions are always the most
interesting, ask on lad." The younger Slughorn smiled, "I daresay
Tiberius and Bob haven't recovered over the last meeting."

They were using him.

They saw in him what they saw in me. He thought grimly, Slughorn
needed a centrepiece.

"I was wondering if you'd ever heard of this term?" He sat down,
sliding a piece of parchment to the Professor, Harry could clearly see
what had written though he didn't need to.

HORCRUX

Slughorn seemed like he had been thrown for a loop. "Where did
you hear that word, Tom?" He asked harshly, which seemed entirely
uncharacteristic of the polite old man.

"I found it in a book, sir, in the Library." Tom explained with a

nonchalant shrug, "On the shelves like any other."

"What book Tom?" He asked.

"The Secrets of the Darkest Arts."

Slughorn seemed horrified. "It'd be best to forget you ever read the
word, Tom."

"So you know the word, sir?"

"I do, it's proscribed in every country that subscribes to the ICW's
charters and ideologies. Very few know of such a word."

"Yet you do?" Tom asked pointedly.

"I do, I learned it purely for its contribution to academia." He
explained defensively. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"That's why I want to know sir, you know how I love knowledge." He
said, flashing Slughorn a beaming smile that seemed to make the
Professor acquiesce. "I've always had ambitions to teach Defence,
you know that. How could I defend against that of which I've never
heard of?"

Slughorn tapped his quill against the desk in contemplation.

"Soul Jars, artefacts that allow a wizard to circumvent death,"

Slughorn explained tersely.

"How?"

"Soul Magic, Blood Magic. Volatile and dangerous, areas of

esoterica most wizards would be wise never to delve into." Slughorn
continued.

"But not you sir?"

"No, Tom, not I."

"But how does it work?"

Slughorn frowned. "There are few records of it, a sacrifice would be

needed of equal importance. It's stated Herpo the Foul committed
self-emasculation in order to create one. For immortality strikes the
notion of reproduction asunder, to create progeny is to extend your
legacy beyond death, which becomes redundant."

"In order to create one?" Tom asked interestingly. "You infer that you
could create more than one?"

"In theory, if you had enough items of sacrificial importance, it's more
than possible should the arithmancy be sound."

"What about seven?" Tom asked.

No.

Harry had a terrible sense of what was coming and judging by the
morbid look on Fleur's face, she did too.

Slughorn pondered for a moment. "I'm unsure of the exact specificity

behind the conditions needed. Seven is a number of power, indeed,
but requires great power to surmount it. I'm unsure, a ritual in the
seventh month, perhaps. The death of a seventh child? It's hard to
say."

"So seven is possible?" Tom reiterated.

"I suppose, why the interest in seven Tom?" Slughorn asked,

confused.

"Just a random number sir," Tom explained with an

incomprehensible glint in his eye. "It was always my favourite
number."

Tom stood up from his chair and bid the Professor goodbye, but
before the door opened Slughorn called out to the boy once more.

"Tom!" He yelled, "Be sure this conversation stays between us. If you
agree to meet with myself and my associates, we may have a more
concrete answer."

"Of course sir," He assured, "Our secret."

Harry and Fleur shared a brief look of despair, cut short by the
Pensieve ejecting them both.

" Seven! " He gasped when the real air hit his lungs. " He split his
soul seven times."

Harry sat on the floor to avoid falling over, catching Fleur as she
stumbled alongside him.

Seven.
Seven.

Seven.
The Longest Night
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : The Longest Night

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 12, The Longest Night .

As always, a big thank you to my beta readers, x102reddragon and

NerdDragonVoid.

This chapter seemed to take me a while, a few trips to and fro to the
cutting room floor, lacked a bit of motivation in the face of a few
things. But we're here!

Next chapter is almost entirely a Fleur POV, so I'm excited for that
breath of fresh air.

Be sure to review!

And as always, stay safe and enjoy!

The Mad-Eye was alone.

He trudged through knee-high snow that tried valiantly to halt his

daunting advance. His protruding wooden prosthesis cutting through
the frost like a knife through hot butter.

Wind burnt cheeks stung as the gale continued its relentless assault.
Ice filled his single boot, cutting into his heel as warming charms
long since dispelled from his clothing offered their protection no
longer. The cold bit at his skin but served to keep him from falling to
drowsiness. Saved him from falling victim to the same lure of
slumber that would surely spell his end as it had Podmore's.

Where did it get so fucked up along the way?

He'd lost Kingsley sometime in the last week. Somewhere in the

pearl-white expanse they had been separated by another ambush,
caught following the same trail he was now.

The same winding, serpentine trail that cut through the thick cold
with little effort. A perilous road decorated with the bodies of deer
and other wildlife. Most sapped of their lifeblood, some with meat
taken from them with precision charm-work.

All of them with the same puncture wounds on their neck - an

embrace of fangs that promised a quick death.

Can't be more than half a mile behind them now.

He'd caught sight of them a few days ago coming over the icy hills
outside of Helmsdale. Any apparition would've sent them hiding,
knowing that he still lived would've heightened them into
hypervigilance. So day after day, wood and flesh began the trek to
follow their twisting path northwards, eager to remain unnoticed.

He'd already met two foes in the freezing clutches of a nearby

ravine. They'd struck, assuming him weakened by the cold and age,
full of bravado and armed with their wands they had played their
hand. They had wanted to fell the Mad-Eye, as so many had -
wanted to claim a bounty of luxuries and galleons.
The black cloak he donned and the silver mask that adorned his belt
wove a different tale.

Courage is a poor substitute for numbers, he mused, Now they rot in

some crevice for the rest of their days.

There's some justice in that.

He had his plan for what felt like an age. Ever since he crossed
wands for the first time when he found himself alone - for all of his
skills, there were six of them.

Seven with the snake.

Reinforcements they had been ensured weren't coming, a fool's

dying breath they mindlessly latched on to without another thought.
They should've known better.

I should've known better.

Should've known to take first watch. Should've known to cast the

wards myself. Should've known not to light that fucking fire.

Before the battles in the snow when they simply tracked a snake,
believing they held the upper hand, he had dreamt of many things.
Of steaming mulled wine in Hogsmeade, of a warm hearth to fend off
the elements.

He had dreamt of spring - of days that rose and fell without the dark
shadow lingering over them.

But now? His dreams were all too different.

There was no more spring, autumn or summer. No longer any sweet

kisses of the warm sun, just the cold cackling of fires and the bitter
chill of winter.

Dreams of Sturgis Podmore, face down in the snow with his back
torn open with a curse. Of Emmeline Vance, tears frozen on her
cheeks as she fell into a bitter rest.

It was the manor come again.

He remembered a time where similar ebony hair surrounded a girl,

younger than she had been. The prospects of a full life ahead of
them and yet it was snuffed, born from his inability to act as he
should have.

His negligence bred death.

History is a malicious bitch. He swore.

The wasteland ahead was nigh invisible in the frozen dusk. His
advance was shielded by the sunlight that had disappeared over the
rolling hills. The air was still permeated with the smell of death, thick
and heavy. It sat in the wind like a trail to be followed.

The world was sparse and barren, cold and unforgiving. Yet, it had
finally granted the man a boon.

A fire in the distance, a lull in the cold. They had made camp, as he
had. They had believed themselves safe, as he had.

Death still lingered in the air, but he could taste a different scent. It
was sweet, a taste that pledged to whet his appetite. Yet, it still felt
bitter on his tongue, acrid and hot. He'd experienced it before, too
similar to many others of the same type to properly discern.

It could've been the same sour of failure, the sharpness of

resignation. Yet, it was more familiar than them all.

It was vengeance in all its bittersweetness - a taste that made no

false pretences, one that did not seek to beguile him into its
embrace. It promised retribution, a taste that would die on his tongue
with their deaths.

Or mine.
There were still seven atop the hill, wrought from harder matter than
those he'd faced raiding hamlets. Hard enough to ambush them in
the cold, hard enough to trek across the countryside at the behest of
a serpent. For all his skills, all his talent - it was a battle he could not
win.

Not conventionally.

He lifted the silver mask from his belt and removed his electric blue
eye. The scarred socket victim to the unforgiving frost for the briefest
of moments before the countenance was donned. It glittered in the
rising twilight, carved lines arcing the moonlight into the snow below.

I cannot beat them. He thought, But cunning can.

The mask seemed ripe with memories of its own; it's cold metal
touched his skin and set a flame alight within him.

Their fire roared tall against the night, as did his - the same
memories of a fire that consumed the manor still in his mind.

Fucking fire, it's always fucking fire. He cursed, But those cunts will
die for this one.

The black cloak fluttered behind him in the wind, and the slope of the
offending hill came underfoot. His vigilant ascent began.

Homenum Revelio .

The spell leaked from his wand, the radiant light fleeing up the hill to
detect his foes. The pulse soon returned, battered against the
haphazard wards they'd erected. He caught a sentry patrolling the
outskirts, aimlessly staring into the darkened snow as he had for
days on end.

Argent Brutum

His wand twisted and sang, a small silver jackrabbit coalescing in

front of him. Another charm had the meagre creature bounding
across ice-laden plains towards the sentry, the glint of metal bound
to catch his eye. The diminutive game was in its element, even if
conjured and soon the sentry was roused.

The Death Eater stepped towards the barrier, daring not to cross the
wards, but the lure had completed its role admirably.

Carpo.

The alarm wards were never meant to defend against spells, only to
alert the occupants to trespassers.

Unlucky for you, lad.

Foraminis

The first spell crossed the distance, pale as the snow it illuminated
below. The second was fiercer, a spitting orange aimed wide from
the first.

The first spell connected, as he had foreseen, and tugged the man
across the ward. A series of stumbles that sent him sprawling off-
balance directly into the path of the second spell. The piercing curse
struck true, tearing flesh asunder as it ripped through the Death
Eater's mask, coating the silver in viscera. A final spell banished the
corpse further down the hill, sending it out of sight.

He dashed forward as fast as his prosthetic would allow him - he'd

exchanged one body for another. Passing the alarm wards with
nought but a tickle against the nape of his neck, desperately hoping
his ploy had seen him through without much trouble.

The wards had detected an individual leaving and it had recognised

one returning - there was equilibrium. He had been fortunate the
sentry did not cast the wards himself, else his attack would've been
foiled before it truly began.
The apex of the hill was flattened, decorated by their raging fire and
a series of small tents and shrouded with a mist of frost. Though his
attention was not drawn to the pieces of cloth and canvas shielding
sleeping foes, but towards the serpent that slithered near the flames.

It basked in the heat, its tongue flickering animatedly against the

heated air. It swivelled its head around with intelligence beyond any
simple beast. It peered keenly towards the direction he had banished
the body, its body slowly shifting over.

It can taste the blood in the air. Moody thought. I don't have long .

The disguise would not fool the snake, the men he could deceive but
the snake was cut from a different cloth.

A thousand plans had been formed, tailored to every situation he

could've found himself in. His thoughts of battle had been a constant
companion, as hardy as any he had fought beside. Yet, no plan
seemed apt, no solution to the problem seemed to fit.

He reached for his staff, or rather, where his staff would have been.
Instead, he clutched a splintered length of oak, the heartstring braid
still hanging from the centre. He weighed it in his hands, as he
considered his options.

His mentor had fought in the First Wars, Grindelwald and his ilk.

Napoleon and his sorcerers too if the old bastard could be believed.

He had taught him many lessons, honed him into something far
greater than he could have ever envisioned when he remembered a
fresh-faced lad, still with two eyes and two legs, free of scars.

But one lesson had always lingered, an anomaly amongst even the
coarse man's rhetoric.

Fear bites deeper than any blade. He had said almost a lifetime ago,
Of bronze, steel or silver, no cut can compare to a man routed of one
who fears for his life above all.

His staff had been a gift from the same man, an oak that had once
been new, a heartstring that was once fresh. Now, it was shattered
by some nameless face, by some unnamed battle in the raging
snows.

He tapped his wand against the staff, it turned to the same silver as
his mask and glittered as it had. With the change, the brown oak
vanished as did the core. Banished to somewhere beyond here and
with it, the last piece of his mentor.

Not quite the last piece. He amended.

Fear bites deeper than any blade, he repeated.

The snake still peered around inquisitively. The rest of the Death
Eaters remained in their tents. They were entrusting their lives to a
guard that couldn't uphold such.

The snake gives them courage. They wouldn't have been half as
bold to attack us without it.

Fear bites deeper than any blade . He echoed again.

He tore the mask off his face, it would not serve him as well as he
had assumed, not against the snake. Instead, he donned the familiar
electric blue eye again, pulling the darkened hood of the Death Eater
robes back over his head.

He waved his wand and held the long, steel shaft aloft like a javelin.
The time to strike had arrived.

A flick of his wand sent the remnants of his staff careening towards
the inquisitive snake. Where spells had failed, his plan had not. The
sharpened steel stake pinned it to the cold ground, blackened blood
spilling from the wound channel inflicted.
It writhed and hissed in wrath, waking the men inside the tents to
rush to its defence. Disorientated and slow from their short-lived
slumber, his advantage despite their numerical superiority could not
be underestimated.

A flick of his wand coated the fire with snow and water as he had
done all those nights ago. But he was no longer the prey, hunted by
a pack of Voldemort's bruisers.

He descended upon them like the first lances of dawn piercing

through the morning mist, invisible save for a glowing, electric blue
eye that shone through the darkness. The snake remained affixed to
the ground, hidden from its protectors in the night.

There were cries of ' Mad-Eye!' The same fear that cut deeper than
any blade was as heavy in the air as the scent of death had been.

He seemed a hundred men, instead of one. Thought himself a

hundred things, instead of one.

He was vengeance, justice, fear, retribution. Thousands of words to

justify the urge, thousands of hours to ponder on such.

He couldn't put words to what he felt. But he knew a single truth at

that moment, hidden amidst the fog of frost.

I am the Mad-Eye.

Seven.

The word had never meant much, it had been as mundane as any
other he had ever spoken. Now it had seemed obvious. The number
taunted him for the fool he was. Born in the seventh month, seven
adorned the back of his Quidditch jersey - he could think of a
hundred situations where the number seemed to mock him.

All in preparation for this very moment.

Victory had been their high, they had relished in it if only for the
briefest of moments. Now gravity had slammed them back into the
reality of the world around them.

"Seven." He whispered aloud, an effort to test that the word itself

wasn't tainted.

There was a glimmer of hope, a fleeting optimism inside of him that

desperately wished it wasn't so. That perhaps in his path to power
he found the soul couldn't be split that many times. That he possibly
had not found enough objects of sacrificial importance.

A ritual in the seventh month, the death of a seventh child.

Those were Slughorn's words, a man who knew the Dark Arts more
intimately than any alive.

Save one.

Perhaps the prophecy could influence the former, but the diary had
possessed Ginny, a seventh child. Maybe the black book that found
its way into her cauldron was not as happenstance as they'd once
believed.

He had wanted to hope. But it was a fool's gambit not to expect the
worse, especially now. If any wizard could have undertaken such a
task and completed it, it was Lord Voldemort.

The silence between them felt almost tangible. Harry wished to

reach out and tear it open. He hoped for words to come to his lips,
reassurance and confidence. Instead, he had nothing; they both had
nothing. Save for the dull echo of the swirling Pensieve and the pale
wisp of a memory they sorely wished they hadn't seen.

"'Ow?" Fleur asked quietly. Her soft voice was the first to cut across
the silence.
His heart ached for her. Her voice betrayed fear. A tone that had
never belonged on the confident witch as she reverted into her
accented English.

I should have never made her see it. Harry lamented, I never should
have brought her into all this.

They sat on the soft carpet for what felt like an age. He willed his
mind to find anything to answer Fleur's question, to assuage both
her fears and his.

But there truly were no words.

Harry swallowed what felt a lead weight in his throat. "I don't know."

"How do we destroy them?" She asked, her composure somewhat

regained after a few more moments. " Can we destroy them?"

He nodded idly, "There are ways."

"How do you know this?" She asked, her eyes drifting to him from
the hole they attempted to bore in her office floor.

"I destroyed one in my second year here - his diary." He explained,

meeting her eyes, "Dumbledore destroyed another, a ring."

"Will you help Dumbledore destroy the others?" She asked, "That's if
even he knows where they are.

He had known from the outset that this conversation was never
going to be an easy one, known this was a topic he'd eventually
have to explain to her, yet, it did not make it any easier when that
eventuality arose.

"Dumbledore's dying." His throat was raw, not from the smoke of the
party nor the copious chatter. "He's been dying for months. He won't
see past Christmas."

" How? "

"He was cursed trying to destroy a Horcrux. He told me he got
careless, didn't give the item the proper respect."

"You didn't think to tell me?" She whispered, her voice alight with
indignation. "After all this time?"

"I think part of me didn't want to admit it." Harry sighed softly, "Didn't
want any of this to be real. Maybe if I didn't tell anyone, it'd die
unspoken."

"That's why he's been teaching you, sending you to Slughorn's

parties." She said - the realisation had hit her. "He's been pushing
you from the nest, he wants you to carry the banner for him."

Harry simply nodded, not wanting to put words to his thoughts.

"What's to say we could even find them?" Fleur asked, "That he's not
just condemning you to die for a lost cause? That they're not just
spread across the continent or at the bottom of the sea?"

"He's not." Harry refuted, "He won't have. He's arrogant, more
confident in the defences he could provide over whatever a random
hole in Europe could offer him. He wants them close."

"You can't think so little of him, Harry," She chided, "He's a Dark
Lord, not a child hiding sweets. If we underestimate the lengths he'll
go to secure such an object; we'll have lost before it even begins."

"I know this, Fleur, it's not a guess."

"Did Dumbledore tell you this too?" She spat, sorrow replaced by
anger at the Headmaster. "He seems to be taking quite an interest in
you."

"No. He's a good man, Fleur." His voice was succinct and soft; he
drummed his fingers idly against the carpet. Desperately attempting
to summon the courage he didn't have. "I- I see them, sometimes. I
can see through his eyes, see what he wants me to see and
sometimes, what he doesn't."

"Harry-" Fleur tried.

"All the headlines in the Daily Prophet about me being the Chosen
One?" He continued, "They were true Fleur. It's been prophesied
since before I was born, I've been following footsteps that were
planned for me since I came to Hogwarts."

He breathed a hot blast of air, and his eyes drifted back to hers.

"It's me, or it's him - it's never both. We're destined to die at the
hands of one another; we always have been."

"Prophecies aren't infallible." She tried again, her wits seemed to

have abandoned her in the moment but had returned in earnest.
"Wizards and witches are forever getting lost in visions, searching for
meaning in leaves and stars. Just because someone wove a tale
doesn't mean it should be read, less so believed."

Some stories are just stories. He'd been told months ago. It's a
shame this isn't such a case.

He lifted his hair from his forehead, his scar on clear view to her.

"It's not that simple."

It has never been.

"So make it simple, Harry." She demanded lightly, "For me, please."

"He marked me that night. I survived as it was foretold. Now I can

see through his eyes. I can hear his thoughts. I can't escape this
Fleur, I never could. Neither of us can live while the other survives."

She reached forward and took his hand in hers, "If I had known-"
"It wouldn't have mattered, Fleur." Harry spoke, "You've given me
more than I could've ever asked for."

Much more than I could've asked for.

"You're going to need more," She replied, "You're going to need

allies, Harry."

He let loose a hollow scoff. "We're alone Fleur." He said sadly, "The
Ministry and the Aurors are in shambles and Dumbledore's dying. No
one will fight for the losing side."

"I'll come with you," She resolved. "We can find allies, Harry. We just
need to search for them, France, Germany - the entirety of the
continent. They remember what Dumbledore did for them. Their
memories aren't so short as to forget Grindelwald."

"They remember Dumbledore." Harry agreed lifelessly, "But

Dumbledore is almost dead."

As good as the man is, that's the hard truth.

"But the world they built isn't." She urged, "And they'll defend it to the
last."

"Or they'll turn us away, leave us to our own war." He remarked

pessimistically.

"We'll only ever know if we seek friends amongst foes and

unknowns." She returned, "Just like at Slughorn's party, Harry. You
said you remembered Dumbledore's lesson? Use it, don't just
remember the words. You have a gift, Harry. I saw it that day in the
common room. People listen to you. You make ten of them feel
double that, you make them feel confident like they never have
before. They'll follow you if you ask. I'll follow you. "

Harry sighed; the offer was more tempting than he cared to admit.
"You'd be better off going to France, where it's safe. Once
Dumbledore is dead, this world is going to go to hell."

"You think I'll just flee?" She said dangerously. "You appear to know
very little of me, Harry Potter."

"I don't think so." Harry tried to placate her, "But you don't need to
get any further into this, you could start a family, be an enchanter -
see the world like you wanted to. This is my fight. It's been mine
since before I was born." He explained. "I've carried too many to
their deaths."

"So you intend to fight this alone? Is that your masterful plan ?"

"No, but I also don't intend to have anyone shoulder a burden that is
rightfully mine to bear." He bit back.

"Do you think us as idiotic to toss ourselves in front of every curse

you face?" She countered, "Do you possess such an opinion about
me?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me help."

"Why do you care?" He asked brusquely.

It was uncaring and callous, as soon as the words left his mouth, he
felt the weight of them. An instantaneous regret filled him and found
a steadfast companion alongside his sorrow.

She seemed stunned for a moment, though her beautiful features

soon turned dangerous. "I promised you I'd help you, Harry, one I've
always intended to keep. I won't just flee because the tide starts
rising."

" Why ?" He urged.

"I have my reasons, Harry." She challenged, "Just as you have
yours."

Her eyes looked to be taking the same avian slant that had during
Slughorn's party. They seemed daring - daring him to refuse her,
daring him to delve deeper into her words.

"If we do have to hunt for Horcruxes, It could take years." He said,

"Maybe decades, I don't know ."

"I'm more than capable of patience, Harry."

"It'll be dangerous."

"You, above all, should not doubt my prowess with a wand." She
scolded.

"What would Bill think? Wouldn't he want you with him?"

It was the first time he'd ever knowingly sought out the gap in her
armour. It wasn't the subtle reminder he would have prefered,
nothing akin to the words she would have wielded. It was a blunt
instrument, one he sorely wished he didn't have to use and one she
didn't expect.

But it was his final gambit to protect her from a life she'd be better off
not living.

The dangerous look she had adopted had slowly reverted to

neutrality throughout the conversation. But the moment that
comment left his mouth her eyes flashed with something
conspicuously akin to pain before she appeared cold again. An
affront to the fire inside of her.

"William will be in Egypt." She said frostily, and despite the situation,
he allowed himself a selfish piece of hope. "And Asia, Australia, the
Arctic. I feel unwilling to extend respect I was never given myself."
At that moment, the shroud had fallen. In her eyes was a pain he
seldom ever saw, a realisation came to him that he had always
suspected.

Bill has left her behind. He thought darkly. She truly is a bride
forgotten.

Perhaps it was her feelings or the gravity of the moment that had
such an elucidating effect. But she seemed more a girl in her office
at that instance than the witch that was Fleur Delacour. She had
been scorned by the Weasleys and left by her partner as he pursued
tombs and curses on other continents.

She had hidden it well, only ever allowing glimpses of her uncertainty
flicker behind her ocean blue eyes. But at that moment, she was not
Fleur Delacour, not the intelligent Veela nor the Triwizard Competitor.

She was as human as he was.

And she was hurting.

Harry had tried to convince her, he had failed. He squeezed the

hands that still held his own gently.

She's a grown witch, He conceded, I'd sooner take her than Ron or
Hermione.

If he had been bolder, if it had all been different, he might've

embraced her, given her assurances he didn't have and held her
close.

"Thank you." He said instead.

"I promised I'd help you. I intend to keep it." She vowed. "I'll always
keep it."

Harry stood up and released his hand from hers. His legs had
regained their strength though he was reluctant to test such strength
against any further bad news.
"Where are you going?" Fleur questioned, her soft palms now her
own once again.

"I need to see Professor Dumbledore." He explained, "If anyone

knows the next move in all this, it'll be him."

"Do you want me to wait for you?" She offered.

"No." He responded gratefully, "It'd be better if one of us got some

sleep tonight. We can talk more after I get back."

She nodded and remained on the floor as he headed for the door.
He shot her one final glance and hoped she might find the slumber
he wished he could fall to, an escape from the night around them.

Harry soon found himself at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's

Office. The sentinel held a weary look on its visage - as was carved
deep into the stone. It's large and ugly eyes lingered upon him as he
stepped into the alcove for the stairwell.

Even it knows I've got bad news.

"Toffee Eclairs." Harry requested softly.

The wings of the gargoyle spread and revolved on its axis, allowing
Harry entrance to the office. Harry ascended the stairs, and
surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore was awake and seated at his desk.
Although not musing on his various missives or sifting through
pieces of parchments as he usually was, this time, his eyes were
locked solely on the entrance, on Harry.

Wordlessly, Harry approached his desk and took a seat.

"Is it done?" The man asked simply, any pretences of civil

conversation had been long forgotten.

Harry nodded to the ageing man.

"Was it done cleanly?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"I got the memory perfectly fine. It wasn't what I would call clean
though, sir."

"As long as you retrieved the memory, the means can be absolved
for the moment." The Headmaster congratulated him, "I trust Horace
told you much?"

"He told me some things, sir." Harry confessed, "I'm not sure what to
make of most of it."

"I do imagine he had some interesting tales to tell." The older man
mused.

"Interesting is one way to put it."

"Some of his words were likely true, Harry, if that is your concern.
But an equal amount were no doubt falsities. The best deception is
often shrouded in truth."

Perhaps I've been overthinking it. Harry thought, I'll ask him, but not
tonight.

"They had wanted to use him, sir," Harry said his mind on a memory
that wasn't his own. "They tried to get him to attend their meetings.
They had wanted him as a pawn."

As they wanted me.

"I imagine they would; they needed someone to fly their colours - to
be their martial might. Tom was an attractive prospect for them, a
chance to wield him and change the world to suit their vision."

"He said as much." Harry confirmed, "They wanted to change the

world, and yet you let him back, knowing he was going to try and do
it again. Why? Why not just take the memory from him?"
"Here, he was under my supervision." Dumbledore explained, "Here,
I could curb his influence and ensure nothing too egregious
happened in his attempts. Had I not taken such an action, he
would've continued his path unchecked and unopposed. He needed
access to Hogwarts, and we needed to remain vigilant of his
workings - a détente that worked in our favour as much as his."

"Did it work, though?" Harry asked, "You let a wicked man into
Hogwarts to ensure he didn't do any more harm, yet he still did."

"Do not mistake his intentions, Harry." Dumbledore lectured, "Not

being kind is not synonymous with being evil. The world is not polar -
it is not clear or easily defined even for one as old as myself. Horace
is not terrible, nor is he good. Yet, he is both. A trait that makes a
man far more dangerous than any who cling to one side of the coin."

"How so?"

"It is a lesson you shall learn in the near future, though not in this
office." Dumbledore replied, his voice and words cryptic, "But we
have deviated from our original topic."

Harry nodded, "He told him about Horcruxes, Voldemort already

knew, but he still told him. He said he found the book in the
Hogwarts library, but how could he have?"

"The library of Hogwarts is truly a wondrous place, Harry." The man

said pridefully, a welcome interim for the news that was sure to
come, "He who asks for assistance shall be sure to receive such.
Some areas within Hogwarts are just so, merely pieces of a castle
long since forged. But mistake me not, Harry, some are truly quite
beautiful."

"So he asked for Horcruxes?" Harry reiterated.

"My predecessors often had a more liberal approach to knowledge

within this school. Many tomes and dissertation lay where they ought
not no." Dumbledore explained, "But while I could no doubt explain
the wonders of this castle, I fear we have more gruesome business
to attend to."

"How many?" Dumbledore asked simply.

"Seven," Harry said sorrowfully.

" Seven?" The Professor echoed. "It is higher than I would have
estimated initially, but not so far outside my assumptions.

"Your estimations?" Harry asked aghast, " You knew? "

"I had assumed." Dumbledore corrected gently, "My research in the

matter has been extensive, enough so that I could leave no single
possibility to chance."

"How are we supposed to find them?" Harry urged desperately,

"They could be anything, could be anywhere ."

He had assured Fleur on the matter, but he was yet to reassure

himself.

"After all you've learned, do you genuinely believe this to be such an

instance?

"No." Harry shook his head, "He's obsessed with his magical legacy,
he's sentimental."

"Precisely." Dumbledore nodded and procured a piece of parchment

and a quill. He began to gently outline rudimentary images, stopping
every so often to wet the quill with ink.

"The diary of Tom Riddle." He gestured towards a simple diagram,

"The Ring of Marvolo Gaunt.", he pointed to another. "And his
familiar, Nagini ."

"That's three." Harry pointed out, "That leaves four left."

"It is my belief that in this quest to prolong his legacy, he sought to
corrupt any who dared outshine him. Could you hazard such a guess
at who he would dare pursue?"

"The founders," Harry answered after a brief moment.

"Indeed." Dumbledore said, pointing to the rest of his drawings,

"Godric Gryffindor died in the Anarchy before wizards and muggles
signed the Treaty of Wallingford. With his death, his breastplate and
staff wound up destroyed, his sword returned to Hogwarts and the
Sorting Hat remained here. He left no legacy to taint. It is my theory
that Tom did not tamper with any of Gryffindor's artefacts."

He pointed to an ornate snake, "Of Salazar Slytherin, he left behind

a portrait, a cloak and dagger and a locket. All of which have
changed hands over the centuries, all of which have been lost to
time."

This time, a raven. "Rowena Ravenclaw left behind the Room of

Requirement, a Diadem and a wedding band."

Finally, a badger. "Helga Hufflepuff forged her goblet and crafted a

book of lineage for the Wizengamot."

Each item described had a crude counterpart scribbled onto the

parchment, Dumbledore began to scratch out his drawings in a
seemingly arbitrary fashion. Soon, he was left with only a few
remaining.

"For Slytherin, the dagger or the locket. For Ravenclaw, the Diadem
and for Hufflepuff, the Goblet." Dumbledore explained, "They are all
that remains of their legacies, the only things left to corrupt."

"If it's the dagger or the locket, that's six." Harry said, "Where's the
seventh?"

"The seventh remains unknown for the moment." Dumbledore said

lightly, "It shall be revealed in time, I'm sure of it."
"So we need to track down artefacts lost to time?" Harry asked, "
Great. "

It was never going to be easy.

"It appears we do." The man confirmed grimly, "However, I do know

the location of one, inside this very castle no less."

"A Horcrux, here? "

"Indeed, but to find it, we must first find another. A spectre long since
passed."

"A ghost?"

"The one remaining descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw still lingers

here, Harry." The man said, "And tonight we must find her."

Those words had brought the pair to Ravenclaw Tower. The full
moon shone a bright light into the antiquated windows of the turret,
bathing the interior in an odd, grey glow. It was reminiscent of
Gryffindor Tower but more austere, darker even.

The moon fell progressively lower as they searched for the spectre.
It seemed a fool's quest, chasing around a figure that could shift
through walls at will. If Harry had the sense of mind, he might've
retrieved the Marauder's Map. But in the flurry, it had been left in his
dorm and now they were relegated to scouring the gothic castle for
any signs of a relative long dead.

And eventually, they had found her.

She had floated past the grey-shrouded windows of the tower and
settled just outside, haunting the battlements on the adjacent. They
approached her carefully; Dumbledore led their journey out into the
cold, open air of winter.
She seemed a widow in that moment, levelling the expanse of the
forbidden forest with her forlorn gaze. A woman staring into the dark
waves for a lover lost at sea - the trees below seemed to draw her
eye and anger her.

Harry shifted from behind the Headmaster and caught a look at her
features. She truly was different from the other ghosts of Hogwarts-
she possessed none of the joviality of Sir Nicholas nor any of the
intimidation of the Bloody Baron.

She simply looked a woman. Her face decorated with aristocratic

features - her face seemed inoffensive. High cheekbones, yet soft, a
long nose and sharper features. She might've once been beautiful. It
was impossible to decipher through her expression, one that seemed
to flicker through rage and sorrow at irregular intervals.

This won't be as simple as I hoped.

Her dress was long and white, though the midsection was stained
brown. A garish sight that tore away from whatever elegance it
might've possessed.

Not brown, he amended, red.

A mortal wound decorated her gut, tearing at seams and skin alike
with a single stroke - a masterful blow that seemed to have sapped
the life around her alongside the pattern of palms and fingers that
decorated her throat.

"Miss Ravenclaw, A lovely night." Dumbledore offered to the ghost.

"I would not be knowledgeable about such." She replied offhandedly,

not turning to face them. "It has been an age since I enjoyed such a
night."

"May I introduce Harry Potter, Helena?" Finally, she tore her gaze
from the dark trees to meet his eyes.
Harry cleared his throat, unsure of how the Professor wanted him to
proceed. "It's nice to meet you." He tried, though the ghost levelled
him with an oddly furious glare.

"It was cruel of you to bring one cursed with such features to me,
Headmaster." She said, disdain lacing her voice. "He looks very
much like he did at that age."

She began to drift off. Dumbledore said nothing as her floating figure
travelled down the battlements.

"Wait!" Harry called to her retreating form, "We need your help!"

She stilled on her journey away from them, the rage on her face
might've betrayed her reaction, he was more than prepared for a
wave of hostilities to follow. Though she did not launch into a rage,
there was no wrath in her voice.

Just a simple, hollow chuckle that seemed out of place on the

woman.

"It was never my assistance you required, Harry Potter." She turned
again to face them, levelling them with a neutral look, "It was cruel
indeed for you to seek me out for such a trivial matter. You covet an
artefact of my mother's design, as they all have over the years. One I
swore never to speak or look upon again. Not for the mighty Albus
Dumbledore, nor you, Harry Potter, of whom I've heard is very akin
to those he detests."

Her hostile demeanour initially, now her responses devoid of emotion

led to a common conclusion. It took perhaps a tad longer than it
usually would've.

Fleur would've already had it out of her, he mused, despite himself.

She must have known him, somewhere along the way she met Tom
Riddle and she clearly doesn't care for him.
Her insinuation wasn't lost on him either.

"I'm not like him. " He echoed her previous words.

"No?" Her lifeless voice turned mocking, "You've not dashed across
the castle nor shivered on the battlements for any reason different
than his own. You seek to beguile me with sweet nothings, attempt
to seduce me into giving you my Mother's artefacts. Is it her wedding
band you pursue or perhaps the diadem?"

Harry could not find the words to answer her probing; instead, she
continued uninterrupted.

"You are forever vultures circling the work of my mother, even now
she holds that above me. Your end goals, however different they
may be, are still laced with the same sickly sweet poison that lies
under the facade of civility and good-doing."

She continued her retreat down the battlements as he continued his

pursuit, Professor Dumbledore walked behind him softly.

"What if I told you we didn't want to use it?" Harry called out. "What if
I told you we needed to destroy it?"

"I'd tell you something in turn, that any such information could be
found within a history book." She countered. "My scorn for my
mother's success is not a guarded secret. I'd say you were an
incompetent liar for trying such an approach."

"But it's the truth." Harry declared firmly. "It's the diadem, isn't it? He
did something to it, something that you don't want to tell anyone
about."

This time, a retort didn't shoot out of her mouth immediately. She did,
however, stop moving forward and remained still, slowly turning on
the spot.
"Your words might be truthful." She spat, a volatile tone in her voice.
"Such a shame you do not know the weight carried in them."

He had pushed where it had hurt and she had pushed back.

I've pushed in the right spot.

He'd have to push all the harder before the night was over.

She could have fled through the walls, escaped him with ease had
she not wanted to talk any further.

Maybe she enjoys being chased, he thought, Or perhaps this is all a

test .

"He did do something, didn't he?" Harry probed again although

softer, this time around.

"Save your empty platitudes. They're woefully misplaced. I neither

want nor need your pity." She said, offended.

"You do know what he did, don't you?" Harry tried again, although in
a much gentler tone.

"Do you take me for a fool?" She shifted her head to the side, eyeing
him with newfound scrutiny. "Of course, I knew precisely what he
was doing. However, I find myself curious as to how you came upon
such knowledge.

"What did he do?" Harry probed again, ignoring her own question.
His voice even softer than before. Treating her as if she were one of
the sparrows that occupied the battlements, scared to raise his voice
for fear of her losing confidence.

"Why do you really want it, Harry Potter?" She asked plainly, and for
the first time since the conversation began, Harry felt like he was
making genuine progress.
"I truly wish to destroy it." He reiterated, "You can watch me if you
need to, but it needs to go, he needs to go."

He heard Dumbledore's footsteps approach behind him. For all his

waning power, he still exerted a presence of tranquillity that wasn't
drained with the rest of his magic. Even long dead, the ghost of
Helena Ravenclaw seemed to feel it too.

She returned to the position she had assumed when they had found
her - merely peering out into the lightening darkness.

It felt like an age before she spoke, to someone who had lived as
long as she had it likely passed in an instance. To Harry, minutes
flew by while he remained content to let the ghost reminisce or
collect her thoughts - whatever she needed to do.

"Do you perhaps know exactly how I died?" She asked, her tone
odd. It was not the wrath nor lifelessness she had wielded before; it
was almost wistful.

"No, I don't."

"I'm surprised the tale hasn't been shared as it once was." She
turned to Harry and parted her dress and wound that decorated her
gut, if she had been alive blood would've spilt and emptied her
quickly.

But she was far from alive.

"Truth be told, I cannot remember my exact death either. That is the

nature of spirits, to be forever haunted by final moments they can't
remember. Was it the hands that wrapped around my throat? Or
perhaps the sword through my navel?"

"I-" Harry tried, for all his newfound skills in conversation, few things
could prepare him for this.
"The Bloody Baron, they call him - a name well deserved. I knew him
by a different name, as did my mother but one long forgotten. A lover
I once scorned, so she felt him best to seek me out when I fled to the
Continent. His temper ran hot, as did his blood when I refused to
return with him and accept his hand in marriage. So, he ran me
through with his sword. A man in full plate against I, a woman. He
near tore me in two and wrapped his hands around my neck. He
killed me and covered himself in my blood. When that failed to fill the
void, the villages and hamlets of Albania were next. Until he fell upon
his own sword."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered.

"So imagine my surprise when I was set upon by a mere boy, who
sought friendship in place of treasure, camaraderie in place of glory.
A breath of air into the stale perpetuity of death, an admirer that
cared for the daughter - not the broodmare of Ravenclaw.

Harry hadn't thought it possible but her eyes seemed to glisten in the
moonlight, tears that would never fall but still manifested themselves.

"He was infectious, his confidence, his smile, his intelligence. Magic
was his dominion, and together, we were equals. He whispered in
my ears of how he loved me, how I was worthy of my own legacy. He
promised to give me everything the Baron could not. And I, ever the
fool, prayed for such."

"During his last year, I gifted him my mother's diadem. It would serve
him far better than I, the one who was little but an affront to the
legacy of Ravenclaw. I knew what he planned to do with it, knew the
implications of such. But what was the diadem against a boy that
cherished me where the Baron couldn't? What were sacrifice and
immortality if we could linger together forever?"

Her voice suddenly cracked and the wrath that had decorated her
face spewed forth.
"Then he brought me to that damned chamber of Salazar's and
showed me the spoils of such a boon - an Albanian peasant, a
whore . He snuck her through an inlet in the forest and decorated the
chamber with her body. He perverted the diadem and had the
audacity to flaunt whatever malevolence he imbued it with to my
face."

"What happened to the Diadem, Helena?" Harry moved a bit closer,

though not enough to disturb her sorrow.

"Afterwards, it was broken. The enchantments were torn asunder

and the beauty lost. A conduit of knowledge turned to one of the
foulest pieces of magic known to Wizardkind. I tossed it away in my
mother's room. Content to let such a historical piece die the death it
deserved.

"It's not your fault Helena." He consoled quietly. "You couldn't have
known what he was, none of us did."

She let out a soft chuckle. "It very much is, but your attempts to
convince me otherwise is sweet."

"How do we get to it?" Harry asked.

"The room will give what you ask. He checked it before he left. You
need only wish to see it." She told him.

"Thank you, Helena, you've done a lot of good tonight." Harry offered
gratefully.

"You needn't thank me." She said, "Just hold true to your word."

She went to float away, but Harry stopped her with his question.

"Do you regret it? Falling in love with him, that is."

"Regret it?" She shook her head, "I had lived without love and
suffered for such, I found it in death, even if it wasn't reciprocated. I'd
do it again if I had to. My only regret was letting a boy who could've
been so much more fester in his hatred."

With his question answered, she began to float away. This time, he
didn't need to catch her.

Words to think on, he mused.

"Very well done Harry." Dumbledore offered from behind him, the first
time the older man had spoken since the conversation began. "I
daresay I couldn't have done a better job myself."

Maybe it was all one big test.

"Have we got all we needed?" Harry asked and the Headmaster

nodded.

Dawn was nigh, about an hour away.

But their night was not yet over.

They made their way to their destination with the same haste they
used to reach Ravenclaw Tower. Despite Dumbledore's debilitation,
he moved with an expeditiousness that looked out of place on a man
over his first century.

Soon enough, they stood outside the corridor that held the room they
had spoken about.

Barnabas the Barmy and his ensemble of trolls were in a fitful

slumber with snores that echoed down the hallway.

"If you'd like to do the honours, Harry?" Dumbledore prompted,

nodding his head towards the door.

Harry paced past the stone wall thrice.

I need to see the Horcrux. His thought passed once, twice and then
for a final third time. His last pass granted results, the stone parted
and a wooden door formed from the stone.

Harry made for the door but was stopped by Dumbledore, his
unblemished hand grasping his shoulder.

"Remain vigilant, Harry. Horcruxes are magic without equal. The

same can be said about the room you're about to enter. The makings
of a volatile mixture - tread carefully ."

He relieved his wand from the confines of his robes and gripped it
tightly in his palm. He shed his outer robe, tossing it to the ground
and steeled himself for what might lay beyond.

Deciding there was little more to prepare for he grasped the handle
in his hand, turned and pulled.

Then, they peered inside.

Beyond them was a spartan room, nothing decorated its walls but
old stone. The only thing that decorated the room was a single,
marble pedestal. Even from the entrance, he could make out the
ornate silver and glittering sapphires.

It's the diadem.

The distance to cross and grasp it had to be less than ten metres.
The lack of obstacles emboldened him, but he remembered the
Headmaster's words.

Tread carefully, he repeated.

He took a tentative step into the room and soon found what the
Professor had cautioned against. As if it was all a mirage, the
pedestal shot backwards at speeds rivalling even the most
extraordinary racing broom. The three walls expanded at a similar
speed, enough so that Harry couldn't see any of the old stone he
observed, save the one the door was against. It gave him an odd
sense of something akin to vertigo at seeing the surroundings
change so dramatically.

The familiar nipping at the nape of his neck alerted him that there
was something yet to come.

He stepped backwards in shock as hundreds of objects fell from the

roof, the ground shaking with the force of what Harry soon surmised
was closer to thousands of items. Though, upon closer inspection,
they appeared to be just junk, haphazardly discarded items and little
else.

Despite the hazardous and surprising landing, the objects had all
fallen into neat piles, or at the very least, neat enough to create a
winding path through the sudden summits.

Harry took a large step into the room proper to survey the piles.
Broken furniture, rusted armour skewered with swords and myriad
other odds and ends. Glass littered the floor, Harry was unsure if it
was from the impact or if it was shattered already. He gingerly
stepped over it and the Headmaster followed suit.

"It'll be almost impossible to find the Diadem in all this." Harry

frowned.

"On the contrary." Dumbledore interjected, "I imagine such a task as

locating the Horcrux will be the easiest of all you've faced tonight.
For all its power, it is still a piece of Tom's soul. One not content to
be discarded in the corner as little more than scrap."

"Shall we go in sir?" Harry turned to the man who to his surprise

shook his head.

"I shall not participate any further than I already have. Without magic
at my disposal, I cannot amply defend my own person. I won't
dampen your own ability with worries for my safety."
"Is that wise?"

"I have not set you upon this path with a haphazard plan. Everything
I have ever done was to better you, Harry, to give you the tools
necessary to dismantle such evil."

Harry simply nodded in response and the man began to walk away.

"Good luck, my boy." He bid, then disappeared from sight.

There was no decorum, no final wisdom that would see him through
the night.

He had hoped for more - more assurances, more assistance,

especially with a task such as this. Yet, he had walked away, leaving
the room to Harry alone.

With Dumbledore's presence, he felt he could accomplish anything.

Now, he was on his own.

I am Harry Potter and I have faced far worse.

His first step into the room was done without a backwards glance,
not even as the door slammed behind him nor as he began his trek
into the room.

The room felt strangely tranquil, a stark departure from what he had
felt mere moments ago. His shoes creaked against the worn
floorboards that decorated the room as he weaved through the
peaks of forgotten items.

He didn't venture too far into the room before the first challenge leapt
up eagerly to make itself apparent.

He passed a rusted suit of armour, it waited until his back had long
passed him until it leapt at him. It held no weapon save for a rusted
longsword pierced through the plate covering its stomach. It freed its
blade with the hideous nose of metal grating upon metal. It
approached slowly as if time had fused its joints together.
Then, it flourished its rusted sword with practised ease that spoke of
its superior enchantments.

The headless suit continued its slow and daunting advance, waving
it's broken sword in unpredictable, volatile arcs. Harry weaved his
wand in a quick pattern and sent off a silent bludgeoner that hit the
chest plate of his foe with all the force of a mounted knight of old. But
instead of falling as its wearer likely did, the chest plate creaked and
caved. It rocked on its heels but continued the approach.

" Flagrate Flagellum ." Harry incanted quietly, the thin tail of deadly
fire spun from his wand like a spider weaving a web, it spooled on
the ground, scorching the stone floor.

He tossed his hand clear of himself like a chaser throwing a quaffle,

the flame followed suit, crackling viciously in the air. The whip
wrapped its way around the midsection of the armour ensnaring the
medieval adversary in its fiery grasp. Harry pulled his wand back
hard and cancelled the charm before the whip could strike his own
body, he twisted out of the way from any counterattack and failed to
see the immediate results.

The two pieces of weakened armour separated under the intense

heat of the flames, its gauntlets groped around aimlessly on the floor
before falling still.

That was deceptively easy, he frowned.

The room seemed to be filled with these same suits of armour, in all
forms of disrepair. His encounter with the attacker had begotten a
sense of great vigilance. He adopted a sedate pace, each suit of
armour receiving the same treatment whether it moved or not.

Then the second challenge had arisen.

The torchlight of the chandeliers and floating candles overhead

seemed to dissipate as he continued further into the room.
Evaporated by some unknown force that seemed to fill the gap with
eager alacrity. Darkness slinked around the corners and seemed to
hide from his scrutinizing gaze.

It seemed almost tangible; as if he could catch the fleeting shadows

that he swore he could almost feel them.

Lumos Solem, he incanted internally, as if the room would sense his

intentions if he spoke aloud.

The spell crossed the air between him and the furthest pile of
rubbish. Its blinding white flared briefly and died a quick death,
striking a barrier he hadn't seen.

Then the dark rose around him with all the fervour of a predator
hunting cornered prey. He cycled through the variants of all the light-
producing charms he knew, though none seemed to dent the sudden
dusk.

Instead, each spell closed the maw of the surrounding shadows.

In that moment, more than any, he had thought to flee. The air
around him felt oppressive; each step he took was laden with
lethargy and forced more breath from his lungs. He fought for each
inch to move forward, hoping to escape the cloud. Each millimetre
gained was more daunting than its predecessor.

Soon, the room was filled. He could feel the shaft of his wand; warm
wood turned cold in the room; he could feel his hand but could not
see it.

One more step .

It was a hopeful plea. Every step brought him closer to the fringes of
the suppressive smog. But soon, even that hope waned as the air
became thinner and the steps got more laborious.

His throat was on fire, his airways contracting, a desperate plea to

regain oxygen.
I'm going to die.

It was a moment of finality that he had experienced more than once.

But this was akin to none of those.

There was no foe to defeat, no battle to win or room for retreat.

Only the crushing of his lungs and fleeting hope he once had.

He clawed at his throat, trying to remove the ironclad grasp that

wasn't present. He was desperate for oxygen, and for the briefest
moment, he received a breath.

Gasping in the sweet life-giving element in long, loud gulps. Though

it was quickly cut short as the choking darkness returned, merely
teasing his final moments.

Though, it had brought something else other than blackened vision.

A cacophony of cries echoed in his eardrums like eruptions. He fell

to his knees, his hands stopping the struggle for air in favour of
eliminating the incessant cries that echoed in his skull.

" Failure." The voice spoke; he recognised it with relative ease; it

was Uncle Vernon.

" Failure." This time, Sirius.

" Failure." His parents joined the fray.

" Failure." The Headmaster added his voice into the plethora that
rang in his ears.

" Failure." This time, it was Fleur.

A voice above them all, the same melody that urged him to action.

I won't die here tonight. A recess of his mind resolved, For me. For
her.
There were conversations yet to be had, days yet to be shared.

It sounded like there were thousands of voices surrounding him. He

was blinded, yet he could clearly see them all surrounding him,
taunting him and spewing obscenities.

Expecto Patronum.

Suddenly, nothing.

His wand was a brief blur of angelic beauty, a concussive wave that
left his wand and tore away voices and smoke alike and left sweet
air behind.

He looked up as he gasped desperately to fill his deprived lungs.

Ahead of him was the same spartan room - the same pedestal that
held the diadem. Harry shakily got to his feet and stumbled towards
the horcrux.

He was within reaching grasp of the object, he conjured a silk bag

and grasped for it. His hands hovered ever so briefly above the silver
circlet.

A creaking noise broke Harry from his action, a chair had fallen from
the height of the mountainous debris piles.

But this time it was different from the first when he had initially
entered the room.

Then, the third challenge rose to meet him.

The objects began to fall en masse as if starting an exodus from

their static positions in the heaps, littering the ground with freshly
broken wood and glass that blocked his retreat once again.

Though the piles did not remain as simple piles.

The debris began to take shape into some far more wicked.
Pieces of furniture, old swords and weapons, broken potion vials and
cracked bricks flung towards the growing pile. Misshapen and
malformed, a creature took to its feet where little more than ruins of
furniture had once lain.

It towered well over Harry; two heads roared ferociously, one of a

stag the other of an eagle. Even in their monstrous forms, their
attempts to imitate life were recognisable.

It shot a deformed claw at Harry, made mostly out of an old book

cupboard. He stumbled back onto his rear to escape the fiend's
swing. It took another swipe, and a prone Harry could not
manoeuvre enough to escape its grasp. It grasped him in its ill-
proportioned fist and tossed him aside like a ragdoll.

Harry was winded as soon as he made contact with the hard

cobblestones of a nearby wall, surprisingly his wand remained in his
grasp. He rolled out of the way as the Stag's head tried to gore him
with its antlers, crashing into the stones with a deafening cry of rage.

It hit the wall and ricocheted off, leaving its imprint in the wall. It
stepped back from Harry in what he initially thought was an attempt
to plan it's next attack.

Instead, it shifted, morphing into a serpent, its mouth full of rusted

and broken blades. It reared its head back and struck, missing a fatal
blow by mere feet. Though one of the protruding edges sliced into
Harry's arm, the rusted steel biting dangerously into soft flesh and
tearing into his chest.

He snapped off a multitude of spells to slow the beast down. His

conjured lion was dwarfed by the serpent and found its home within
it's gaping maw. His fire whip created a small partition that was met
with another startlingly fast strike from the massive beast. His water
spells did nothing to slow its advance on Harry, and the winding
serpent soon found Harry in a corner.
He dodged a further strike and flicked his wand, the floor rising up to
assist him. His options dwindled and his foe advanced.

There was one, single spell that lingered in his mind at that moment.
By fortune, skill or luck, he wasn't entirely sure.

It was one of the few that had been written in Dumbledore's journal
with any great detail, and even then it was fleeting.

Beware the toll . It had warned.

It was the antithesis of fiendfyre. It spoke of a spell wrought from the

heavens themselves, wherever they may be. Born to beat back the
darkness as the Patronus did, forged to bring forth a white-hot
tempest.

If only one could pay the price.

All he needed was a memory.

" Caelesti Perfuro. "

His thoughts bounced around in his head; he grappled with fleeting

memories of Sirius and his parents as he did with his Patronus.

But there was only ever going to be one person that summoned the
heavenly inferno.

He thought of Fleur, of their meetings, of drinks and blood shared, of

detailed plots and wars to be won.

He felt the strength sap from his body in one, sudden wave. His palm
blackened and blistered under the heat. But the flames soon came,
silver as her hair and possessed all of the same grace and poised.

The serpent reared backwards, morphing into various

amalgamations and creatures in a desperate bid to escape the
white-hot confines. It played its final card. It barrelled forward to
strike, to land the final blow.
It went into the flames a beast and exited them nought but cinders
and ash.

The sweltering heat bit at Harry's face and exposed skin, the
exertion became too much, and his arm began to quake with pain.
The power intensified, and Harry lost control of the blazing inferno.

The fire instead sought out the Horcrux as the diadem began to
shake. The pedestal was lost to the flames but soon abated without
his power to fuel them.

The silver of the diadem was blackened, it teetered on the edge of

the crumbling marble before it fell, separating into two pieces.

A tendril of darkness crept from the diadem like a writhing viper. It

reminded Harry of the wraith that fled Quirrel. It slithered along the
floor to Harry, who under the spell of exhaustion was relegated to
attempting to recuperate on the hard, wooden floor.

It reached him and struck, curling around his neck like a noose and
disappeared into a dark mist.

But there was nothing, no pain.

Nothing.

Harry assumed the worst was over.

There was a lull in his guard, a brief moment to ponder something

else as he regained his breath. His mind remained full of memories
he had used to summon the flames.

Maybe I should do something about those feelings. He thought,

seeking out the rafters.

Helena had said it best herself, if only he dared to take her words.

Today, maybe. He decided, Today I might have the courage.

Being in her presence might sap his bravado. He didn't know if he
would ever have the bravery to do it.

But it was a nice thought.

Suddenly, the black smoke took form once again and struck him.
Even his paralysed state reacted to its volatile embrace, throwing his
arms back in defence of himself as his vision was obscured.

He saw again like he had that day, of eyes not his own.

A mountain of gold stood before him, then darkness, then he found

himself pinned to the ground with a silver stake - a demon tearing
through white mists.

Harry was tossed unceremoniously when the smoke exited his body.
A window had emerged in the stone wall. The first swords of dawn's
light shot through the pane glass window. However, Harry couldn't
celebrate the emergence of the light.

For he gave a final gasp and collapsed.

Visions and Vows
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Visions and Vows

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: To the long-awaited Fleur POV, Visions and Vows .

Big thanks to everyone who beta'd this chapter and quelled the
ongoing stress dream of being mobbed like a crowd who disliked my
take on Fleur.

It was equal parts fun and daunting, which is an odd thing for a
chapter, certainly a feeling I hadn't experience before. I stressed
quite a bit about the portrayal, but we're here now. Was it the correct
take? Only the reader knows. Was quite fearful that it wouldn't make
the distance to my usual ten-thousand words, now it's my longest
chapter to date. So… hooray?

We're closing in on the fun bits, certainly the bits I was most excited
to write so the pressure is definitely on.

Be sure to review, otherwise, as always, stay safe and enjoy!

Sleep had evaded Fleur Delacour.

A mixture of many things halted her from closing her eyes and
drifting away. The weakening after-effects of wines both white and
red, the adrenaline of conversations past and dances held in
crowded rooms.

But there's more to it, isn't there?

Even she had trouble convincing herself as her back sank into the
soft mattress. Her thoughts were plagued by a single number, the
thoughts of war and a raven-haired, emerald-eyed man that had
occupied her mind more often than not.

In times like this, her thoughts were little solace to her. She'd stare at
the roof and count manicured cobbles until she could find sleep,
recite complex chants and rituals in her head until her eyelids would
droop.

But no matter how hard she tried, how long she fought, sleep would
not come to her this night.

She had debated the merits of foregoing sleep entirely. Perhaps

there were paintings to gaze upon, wards to cast or sunrises to
observe. But any distraction she could muster would only hold her
interest for a short time. Reality had a penchant for returning with a
greater force the longer she tried to subvert it.

This is my reality.

Unfamiliar stone walls that had become the norm, a bed that would
never truly be her own, a fiancé she hadn't seen for months nor
heard from in weeks and a war that raged across the country.

And another - The Chosen One, The Boy-Who-Lived.

He is all of those things and none of them . She thought, Perhaps

that's what makes me feel so vulnerable.

There was no need to mince words - Fleur Delacour was confused.

It was a state of affairs she was woefully inexperienced with. Life had
always been a simple affair for her - it either made way for her or she
overcame it.

But this was a challenge unlike any she had ever faced, one that
didn't succumb to her nor one she could overcome alone. She could
beguile herself into believing her thoughts were about the war, but
not even she was that naive.

She wasn't just confused; she was conflicted.

She shed her outer robe and threw it across the room, fluttering
harmlessly against the wall. It smelt of smoke and wine; the scents
were a reminder she could do without.

She stood from her bed, grabbed her wand and walked through the
open door to her desk. The air was frigid against her skin, and the
warm blankets of her bed called a Siren's song to her. She ignored it,
a flick of her wand lit the small candles placed on the chandelier,
returning some warmth to the room.

She shifted through the letters on her desk. Most were from
Gabrielle, some she had been too busy to reply to in time, others
that had accumulated over her time at Hogwarts. She fished a piece
of parchment from the drawer and began clearing her work surface.

Then, she crossed a letter she had desperately tried to forget.

She hadn't wanted to open it, so she didn't. She had already held it
up to the flames and read the words within, or those she could make
out, at least. Kind words to placate her, apologies to soothe her, but
they were false platitudes. She often debated the merits of such a
letter finding its way in the fire.

Everything truly was confusing.

She weighed the oddly heavy envelope in her hands, running her
fingers over the red wax seal made in haste. She could peel it open
and read the contents; all it would take would be a healthy dose of
courage.

Courage that she had in spades but refused to harness.

Not this time.

I am Fleur Delacour, and I am worth more than half-truths and

belated apologies.

She jolted in surprise at a sudden noise. A harsh knock at her door

that roused her from her thoughts, she placed the letter back
amongst the pile and turned to the door.

At first, she might've assumed it to be Harry, but the hour was too
early, and the rap at her door too loud. Her wand fell into the centre
of her palm once again, and she crept towards the door. At this hour,
it could be anyone - with the castle in such a state she was unwilling
to leave anything to the harsh mistress of chance.

Homenum Revelio.

The bright, radiant light seeped through the wood of the door and
encircled the occupant on the other side.

One single person.

She often cursed her Veela heritage whenever some piercing noise
sent her head aching or when it sent suitors to her door. But now it
almost seemed like an ill-fated boon - she could hear ragged breaths
from beyond her door and the fist raising to strike again.

She clutched her wand all the tighter and threw the door open.

Whatever she had expected on the other side was not what she
found.

"Headmaster?" She questioned, shock evident in her tone.

The ragged breaths had belonged to Albus Dumbledore, and there
was a fire beneath his blue eyes that looked conspicuously of panic.

"There's little time." He spoke quickly and breathlessly, "Come

quickly."

He fled back down the corridor she assumed he arrived from. For a
man of his age, he moved with surprising agility and swiftness that
seemed out of place on his ostensibly frail form. Despite there being
almost a century between them and not a great deal of height
difference, Fleur found herself having to jog to level herself with the
Headmaster's long strides.

At first, she couldn't be sure of their destination but the further they
dashed through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, the more apparent
their goal became.

The Hospital Wing.

She had never known the man to act with such urgency. She couldn't
fathom why she had been summoned either. Her questions that
hoped to clarify the situation battered against his back although he
never halted to answer any of them.

There was a coldness that grew beneath her breast, an uneasiness

that multiplied tenfold with every step taken behind the older man.

It has to be Harry .

It wasn't an egregious deduction to make. She had wanted to

entertain other avenues - someone else had been hurt, a ward stone
had failed perhaps, another issue with the paintings even. Her
optimism bordered on naivety - beggared the imagination.

The last time she had seen Harry was when he had left to see
Dumbledore. The same man was leading her across the school
towards the Hospital Wing.
Harry was injured, and if his reaction was indicative of his status, it
was grievous.

Harry had said the man's magic was waning, all but gone but he
obviously held some command over it still. The usually troublesome
grand staircase moved at his behest, never once attempting to
deposit them where they didn't intend to go.

The rest of the journey was a blur, but soon enough her tired eyes
were greeted by the harsh alabaster-white of the Hospital Wing,
where Fleur was welcomed to the sight she'd been dreading.

Harry was splayed out on a bed in the corner of the wing, both
Snape and Pomfrey waving their wands over his prone form with
quick movements. Even from across the room, she could smell the
burnt ozone of esoteric magics, taste the bitter copper of blood on
her tongue.

She stepped forward, against her better senses to get a better look.
His body was decorated in runes she didn't recognise, pulsing under
Snape's wand as he burnt channels into the skin of his arms and
chest. A garish wound crossed the top of his left shoulder and into
his chest, that wept watery-blood while the Matron tried desperately
to close it.

Though it was not the unfamiliar, pulsing runes nor the weeping
wound that drew her attention, not the plethora of embedded
splinters or his blackened palm either.

His once bright, vibrant, emerald eyes had dulled and stared towards
the roof with a vacant gaze. If not for Snape and Pomfrey's frantic
work, she'd have assumed him dead already.

Anything that had once made him, him, had fled. There was none of
the strength she had come to admire, nor the tenacity that was
always alight in them. There was nothing.

Merely empty eyes, in an empty gaze.

That broke her heart more than she cared to admit.

The older man attempted to place a hand on her shoulder. Whether

it was to console her, placate her or avert her gaze, she wasn't sure.
She shrugged his hand away and continued staring.

She should've turned away when she had the chance, but she was
bound to the spot by the sight. Snape's dark hair was plastered with
sweat, and Pomfrey was still in her nightgown. The pair exerted
enough magic between them that she could feel the air pressure
fluctuate with each spell and rune.

How?

She turned to the Headmaster only when she felt she had seen
enough.

"How?" She verbalised her thoughts, her demanding tone saturated

with the sudden anger she felt. "I last saw him heading to your Office
to see you about Horcruxes." Even in her anger, she knew to
whisper the final word.

But she was wroth.

A surge of anger the likes of which she'd never felt before. She had
assumed him safe in the Headmaster's hands, thought him capable
of returning him without harm - she had little cause to think any
differently.

Now he's returned to me not six hours later as little more than a
corpse.

There was the recess of her that wanted to allow her rage to spew
forth, an urge to let her avian side reign supreme, to invite a full
change inside the wing here.

It would've been taboo to invite a full transformation outside of battle,

but her thoughts were not on Veela conventions.
She was above mindless anger, and she was very interested in what
the Headmaster had to say.

"There was one in the castle. One that had lain dormant for near fifty
years." He made an attempt to ease her, his tone soft and soothing,
though it did little to simmer her anger. "I had assumed it to be as
safe as it would ever be, but I did not appear to understand the
specificity behind his interactions with Voldemort fully."

He turned back to face the hospital bed, breaking her gaze.

"Had he been anyone else, he would have perished in that room. But
now? Now I simply do not know ."

There was seldom ever confusion in the Headmaster's voice. Never

when they had their infrequent discussions, not during staff meetings
nor when he addressed the school. Yet it was present here, a shock,
but not one that possessed the ability to override her anger.

If he had been anyone else, they would've died. She thought darkly,
Would've died because you rested the world upon the shoulders of a
young man.

"Is that your best attempt to calm me?" She bit back at his words
furiously. "That what happened tonight is all perfectly fine? That your
ignorance is some kind of protection against the fact you almost
killed him?"

"You needn't remind me of my errors, Miss Delacour." He said sadly.

"I'm more than well aware of them."

"Of course." She replied sharply, "I think the fact that Harry lies dying
mere meters away from you should be reminder enough of your
errors ."

Dumbledore winced at her tone and words, but Fleur couldn't find it
in herself to care. Her words felt foul on her tongue, possibilities she
didn't want to entertain and thoughts best left without life breathed
into them.

She watched as the Matron continued to desperately try and seal the
wound on his chest as Snape's wand, laden with bright light, carved
new channels into his legs. His entire body was soon to be marred
with such odd runic inscriptions. He looked less the Harry Potter she
knew and more a canvas destined for an artist's scrawls.

"It was imperative we gained a greater understanding of the

connection between them." He tried again, the same grandfatherly
voice that sent her anger flaring, "It was an ill-made decision, I have
no reservations about admitting such, but it was not one I made
without consideration. It was as controlled a setting as we could
have hoped for."

"Our definitions of controlled certainly differ." She scoffed. "Harry lies

on a bed, fighting for his life, and you have the sense of mind to call
that controlled?"

"Tell me, Miss Delacour, what would have been a preferable

situation?" Any attempts to appease her were foregone with his
words.

Even amidst her anger, she could see why Albus Dumbledore had
been as feared as he had. Despite his waning magic and life, he
commanded respect.

Beneath the grandfatherly appearance, steel.

"That he had been in combat against the forces of Voldemort when

such an incident occurred?" The man continued, "That he be
stranded without support? It pains me more than you could ever
know that I'm as much to blame for him being here as Voldemort.
But I did not make such a choice lightly."

"I'd prefer he didn't have to fight a war that everyone thrust upon
him." She returned, her voice full of scorn, "I'd prefer that I didn't
have to fear that he might not wake from that bed."

"Such is a luxury we cannot afford." He explained, his voice

becoming progressively more passive, "Time is not our ally in the
wars to come and will seldom ever count itself amongst them. We
needed to seize the opportunity while it remained ripe. We needed to
prove it could be done again. In that same vein, Harry needed to
know he could do it."

You needed him to carry the banner while you failed him.

She could have bitten back, traded more jabs to try and gain ground.
Instead, she cast another glance back to desperate attempts to halt
the curses on Harry.

"What happened to him? Truly?" There was no anger in her voice;

she couldn't muster any. Not while she tried desperately to make
contact with the familiar yet vacant eyes.

"A Welsh curse, we believe." Dumbledore explained, "One that stops

the victim's blood from coagulating. Archaic, definitely not from the
last five centuries and usually applied to blades. But it is not his
physical injuries that cause us to worry. His very magic rejects its
own presence. A war within him, if you will. The Horcrux incited
something volatile within him."

"Will he live?"

Those were the words she'd dreaded asking. Even as they left her
lips, she didn't wish to hear the answer, let alone ponder the
question any further.

The man took a moment to ponder, he toyed with the knot in his
beard, seemed acutely interested in Snape's work and then finally
back to her.

It was a trick she knew well enough.

He's trying to find eloquent words for a situation that's anything but.

"The odds are undecided, a coin yet to land." He began after his
moments of contemplation, "Time heals many wounds, with diligent
care and investigation into the impetus it could be days, weeks,
months even. It is a case without precedent, one not written in any
piece of history known to me."

He'll survive, she assured herself. The sorrowful eyes of the

Headmaster weren't conducive to her hope, however.

"An elegant wording of a simple truth."

"Indeed." He agreed, "I cannot be sure he shall survive. His ability to

overcome adversity, however, cannot be underestimated in these
dire times."

"Is there nothing we can do?"

"The odds shall resolve themselves, as they always do. A victor shall
be decided, but not by us - never by us."

"Have you told his friends yet?" Fleur asked, her mind drifting away
to how the Weasley children would react.

"When he is stabilised in the later morn, I shall tell them myself." He

said solemnly, "But they don't need to see him like this."

But I do, I needed to see the costs of it all - what this war will truly
do.

But his hollow words remained in her ears.

We cannot be sure he'll survive.

"You know," Her voice was cold, an affront to the white-hot fire
bubbling within her. "He'd always tell me tales of how he knew the
great and wise Albus Dumbledore. He told me how good you were to
him, about what you taught him. But everything that has ever
befallen him has happened on your watch, at your hands. Teaching
him spells and giving him private lessons won't ever change that."

It was bitter, callous even. The Headmaster winced at her words,

and the urge to press harder was great. She had wanted to hurt him
as he'd hurt Harry, as he'd hurt her.

"As I said, Miss Delacour," He said, his voice weighed down with
sorrow, "You need not remind me. I'm well aware of what I've cost
him over the years. But I have never once subjected him to danger
without cause. Everything he's ever done within these walls and out
has been in service to a singular purpose."

"The death of the Dark Lord," Fleur answered.

"A correct assumption." The man agreed, nodding his head idly, "But
not one made by you alone, I trust he's told you much?"

"Harry had told me nothing." She denied.

"Of all the times to play this game, there has seldom been a worse
time." He chided gently.

"Odd that you, out of everyone, feel inclined to push for the truth."
She bit back, "You want the truth? I know it all . About how he sees
things that aren't there, of how he can hear his voice, the prophecy,
the Horcruxes. All. Of. It."

Everything you thrust upon him.

"Perhaps not all of it." Dumbledore disagreed, "But enough to grasp

at the true importance of it all."

"Importance?" She said, "Maybe that's the crux of it all. You were a
god amongst men. You could've stopped it all before it began. Yet,
you relied upon him, since he was eleven. All because Albus
Dumbledore believed him to be important."
"An interesting point of view," He congratulated, "But by the time any
of us realised the Dark Lord's goals, his strength was too great for a
simple confrontation. His reach too great to lop the head off the
serpent and be done with it. Harry is the greatest hope we have
now."

"There were waves of wizards poised to eliminate him." She said,

"An entire country at your heels, the Aurors, Hitwizards - everyone.
Yet it is upon him to carry the banner that you dropped years ago."

"Take a seat, Miss Delacour, and I shall tell you a tale." He said,
dragging a pair of chairs from the bed adjacent to Harry. The act was
mundane, one that was done without his wand and for good reason.

He doesn't wish to expel any magic unnecessarily.

"I hardly think now's the time for stories." She said, "I'd much rather
the truth."

"I believe, Miss Delacour, that once you comprehend the importance
of what I try and tell you, you'll be quite surprised." He wagered to
her softly. "Perhaps a different mouth may convince you of such,
where Harry's failed."

She was unsure of where he was going but chose to oblige the man
and took the proffered seat. They had drawn heavy, white curtains
around the only occupied bed in the wing.

"Many years ago, I had received a message from a woman, a seer,

requesting a position at Hogwarts. As far as I was concerned at the
time, Divination was a fickle subject, one I certainly put little stock
into as a viable barometer for the future. But due to her heritage and
my desire to give her a fair chance, I accepted. We spoke in
Hogsmeade, and despite my scepticism, she bore a true prophecy,
of the Dark Lord's equal, born as the seventh month died to those
who thrice defied him."
"Harry told me the same." She pointed out, "I choose to believe
neither. Trances are easy to fake without the correct eyes observing,
even easier to find meanings in false words."

"Do you believe me a fool to be tricked so easily?"

"I did not." She said, "But after all this? I'm uncertain."

"There is truth to the Prophecy. I once tried to circumvent it, thought

myself above the words of magic, of gods, of whatever entity gifted
such a vision. Yet, here we are."

"And here you claimed you didn't put much stock into Divination,"
Fleur remarked with a dry tone.

"I did not." He confirmed in turn, "But the interview was infiltrated by
a follower of Voldemort who heard but a piece of the prophecy and
returned the knowledge to him. Hence, I took steps to protect the
families in question regardless of the truth in the matter. I foresaw
Voldemort's inability to let supposed opposition, no matter how
nonsensical, remain alive."

"You and Voldemort both acted upon the words of the woman."

A war because two men couldn't let the words of a false seer lie.

"We did. And I mourned when I heard of the loss of the Potters at his
hands, the destruction of the Longbottom's psyche at the hands of
his followers. But from the ashes emerged Harry Potter, scarred as
he was - but healthy. The destruction at Godric's Hollow had not
reached him; it had left a boy only a year old unharmed where it had
felled the Dark Lord. Only then did I know there was truth to her
words - that the scar wasn't happenstance, his survival wasn't
chance."

"Or you simply played off one another, believing there was a higher
purpose to it all."
Her resolve had once felt ironclad, her words strong, and her
thoughts unwavering.

But even I can see some truth in his words.

Her defiance felt simply for the sake of it, her reluctance to believe
him bordered on impudence. Part of her still wanted to disagree. Her
anger had yearned to make it so.

"Your scepticism is healthy." He assured her, "There had not been a

prophetic vision of such magnitude since long before even I was
born. The Hall of Prophecies is overflowing with predictions, both
terrible and benevolent, bound never to come true. This, regrettably,
is not one of them. Be it destiny or magic, the truth of what she saw
is inescapable."

"So you believe Harry is the key to defeating Voldemort?"

"It is no idle belief," Dumbledore said, his face had aged more in
their discussion than in all the months she had been at Hogwarts.
"The moniker of ' The Chosen One' is no falsehood. Harry Potter has
always been our singular hope."

She cast her eyes over to the thick curtains that hid flashes of magic
behind them.

And she simply pondered.

She was not as simple-minded to persist in her refusal, nor had she
been naive enough to discount the truth in Harry's words initially.

Confirmation is vastly different from suspicion.

She had traded the four walls of her room, dark stone for a lighter
white.

But this is still my reality.

"Why are you telling me this?" Fleur asked sceptically, "You're not
doing it out of some latent sense that you need to make peace with
the world."

"No." He agreed, "I've long since foregone any pretence of being

able to mend my mistakes with the little time I have left. But first, I
believe it is my turn to level a question at you?"

"I suppose." She allowed.

"What shall you do?" He asked, his tone as unclear as the question.

"You may have to be less vague, Headmaster."

"Your tenure at Hogwarts will be finished in a matter of months and

open warfare brews on the horizon. What shall you do?"

She gazed towards the curtains as if she could see who lay beyond.

"I promised I would help him." She said simply.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore, "The world truly is a terrible place, one
would forgive you for seeking shelter while the opportunity was ripe."

"Do you think so little of me?" Her eyes narrowed, and the wick of
anger inside her relit.

"The tide raises all ships, or it sinks them. But the tide is rising, Miss
Delacour, and fleeing for higher ground is as safe a strategy as any."

"I gave him my word."

That was the only response she could give and the only answer the
man required.

"Then, perhaps I have an offer for you." He nodded, a small smile

gracing his aged features, "Tell me, what do you know of the Order
of the Phoenix? "
"Very little," She shrugged, "The Weasleys weren't exactly candid
about their other lines of work. "

He rubbed his hands together, softly, gingerly taking care not to

aggravate his glove.

"It was a resistance group I formed amidst the Global Wizarding War.
We fought against Grindelwald and pushed him back to Germany.
Now, we fight Voldemort in the hopes we can accomplish such a
goal again, this time on the homefront. And you, Miss Delacour,
would be a valuable member should you wish to hear my
proposition."

"You want my assistance? Why?"

"Because you've chosen to involve yourself in this war as much as

anyone. You know the war is not simply waged with the crude matter
of spells and open fields - that there is a greater war beyond it all."
She had thought the man finished and went to open her mouth to
respond.

"And," He continued, "Because I very much believe he will need you

in the battles to come."

His final words had stilled her response at her lips.

"Why me?" She questioned, "Why not his friends?"

"While Mister Weasley and Miss Granger are in their own right, quite
admirable and capable. They remain children still, and I would not
commit any child to this war if I didn't have to."

"Still, why not one of the other members of your Order?" She probed
again. "I'm sure you have enough capable members."

"Because at the heart of it all, you are quite talented. But your
reputation as an exemplary witch aside, Harry cares for you, quite
possibly more than he shall ever care to admit. And you, Fleur
Delacour, care for him greatly in turn."

His words seemed neutral, no different from idle conversation.

Though it was not the words he spoke that made their impact but the
words he hadn't. The ones he let linger behind his lips, the simple
truth left unsaid.

A truth that she seldom thought on, one best left unacted upon.

"I'm engaged, Headmaster." She said scandalously, though she

could feel small tendrils of heat creep into her cheeks. "He's a
friend."

I am engaged, she echoed.

"I, too, once loved another, Miss Delacour. Of course, I'm quite a bit
older now. But not so old as to forget the signs - the stolen glances
and clasped hands. As it so happens, I possess the same heart that
once fell in love and a pair of eyes to match. A fool could see you
care for him, more than you should, but care for him nonetheless."

"Don't." She pleaded softly. "Not now."

"It is not my intention to compel you where I ought not to."

Dumbledore eased, "My wish is only to perhaps interject some joy
where it cannot be found. Happiness has been my goal for him, for
any of my students or staff, including you. If I may leave this world
knowing I was not as remiss in that goal as I once was, the next
great adventure will seem all the more welcoming for it."

He sat back in his chair and nodded, leaving her alone with her
thoughts.

I am engaged.

But even she, in all her conviction, could not stop her thoughts from
drifting.
"If I accept your offer, what does that mean for me?" She asked, if
only to put distance between her and her errant thoughts.

"You'll protect him - guide him." Dumbledore explained, "Harry is

powerful and within the not so distant future, will present a serious
threat to the Dark Lord. But for now, he's a young man caught amidst
a war without full training or understanding. It is an insurmountable
task he faces, one he cannot confront alone."

"To what end would I protect him?"

"Ideally, until the Dark Lord is defeated, though such an instance

may seem unlikely for some time. From the moment I discovered
what would befall us, I've tested the boy. One day, he will lead the
Order of the Phoenix. At that time, I would see you released from
any obligations you felt like you owed to us."

"You intend to thrust him into your position?"

"There are men and men ." Dumbledore nodded, "Harry Potter is
one of the latter, and for that very reason, my legacy shall live on
within him."

He took to his feet and drifted towards the occupied bed, their view
still obfuscated by curtains.

"Of course, you have no obligation to accept my offer. You could, as I

suggested, flee to safer ground and live your life in peace." He
turned to her, his blue eyes locking with hers. "But I don't believe
Fleur Delacour is that kind of woman, no?"

Their eyes remained locked, and her lips remained closed.

"Do you accept my invitation, Miss Delacour?" He urged softly.

Could I really leave them alone?

She had a life here, one that could end at any moment just by being
who she was.
Her entire life she had been encircled in the arms of bigotry by men
made from the same stitch as Voldemort. Beauxbatons had been
sure to stress the importance of Grindelwald - of empires falling and
darkness rising.

Could I make a difference here?

Could I abandon him?

She knew the answer long before she thought of the question. She
refused to entertain any notions of fleeing.

But would I ever be allowed back home?

Could she accept the fact that they might label her a warmonger?
Accept the fact her home might cease to be such if she threatened to
bring war to France?

I have a life here.

Her eyes lingered back to the curtains, her piercing gaze attempting
to see beyond.

I have all I need. She resolved.

"I accept." The conviction in her voice hadn't wavered.

My choice is made.

"Very well, Miss Delacour." The man turned to her. His face was no
longer the aged man that it once was. It flickered away as if it had all
been a facade. It hadn't been, but the change was no less jarring.

Instead, it was of a man determined - there was much to do and little

time to do it.

"Are you ready for your first mission as a member of the Order of the
Phoenix?"
She nodded, her acceptance heralded much yet to come as the man
smiled approvingly.

Time will tell if I've made the right choice.

The curtains had been drawn back, Snape and Pomfrey's work had
been finished. They lingered at his sides and she tried desperately to
make contact with his eyes again.

No, she amended, Perhaps time doesn't need to tell me .

Blizzards were an unfortunate yet common occurrence in the

highlands surrounding Hogwarts. Ambient magic of such strength
could play such a role in ensuring the weather didn't calm, but it
seemed even the sky sensed something amiss in the world.

As did she.

If I had known what he was going to assign me to, I might've had the
good sense to wait another day. She mused, wrapping the scarf
around her neck tighter to ease the cold.

The path to Hogsmeade had been shrouded with the ivory-white of

the snowstorm. The calamity of frost, however, didn't seem to
perturb them enough to charm the path against such a feat of
weather. Without the thestral-drawn carriages for protection or any
form of apparition while within the wards, they'd even shut down the
Floo Network for protection. Hence, she was relegated to trekking
through the snow on foot.

Merde, she swore under her breath, I hate the cold.

The cold made her feel confined, a sense of suppression that

permeated the air and made her feel weak. It sapped at her magic,
trying desperately to keep the cold from snuffing out a core of fire-
made flesh.
Lethargy bit at her legs, her heavy-set boots displacing snow with a
soft crunch with every footfall. She felt sluggish and the long walk to
Hogsmeade did little to soothe such a feeling.

Warming charms could only do so much. The inside of her robes

was hot against her torso, her extremities, however, weren't as
fortunate. Only the dream of mulled wine and a warm fire to
recuperate in front of spurred each foot forward.

And the memory of emerald eyes and what such a journey would
mean for him.

She had long since passed the barren quidditch pitch. The snowfall
made flying difficult, the wind might've been an impediment, but a
broom could've carried her across the distance with ease had it not
been for the cold tempest.

Minutes passed as the repetitive trudge droned on. Soon enough

she had crested a final hill and Hogsmeade Village came into view. A
five-minute journey by carriage had morphed into twenty, but she
had finally made it.

It was far paler than she remembered, bleak even. Snow formed
thick blankets over the taverns, houses and shops. They'd have
seemed invisible if not for billowing chimneys and windows
shimmering with light beyond them.

Even the children that had graced the town last time she had been
there had retreated inside. The scar on her hand tingled as if it knew
her thoughts drifted to the last time she'd been there.

She walked through that same square, one that had not too long ago
been tainted with cursed blood, where she had lain exhausted in the
cold snow despite the pain.

It was a bittersweet memory, more the former than the latter. But
they'd saved the life of Katie Bell, even if she had failed her, she
survived. She had made her contribution and then Harry had made
his, in both blood and words.

Her destination soon came into view as she rounded another corner.
Dervish and Banges hadn't changed since she had last seen it.
Although the last time was far more jovial, it had been graced with
friendship and laughter, even against what came after.

Now it was marred with the sourness of duty.

The green of the shop had perhaps faded a little more, the gold
writing obscured by snow, but it remained relatively similar.

She reached forward and grasped the cold door handle in a gloved
hand, wiggling it gently to open the heavy frame. The top of the door
connected with the mounted bell, letting a harsh noise resound
throughout the room, alerting the owners to a new customer.

She brushed the accumulated layer of snow from her cloak, a flick of
her rosewood wand vanished it before it could melt into the wooden
floorboards. It was far more pleasant inside, wavering candles and
permanent heating enchantments saw to that, though she was
reluctant to shed her outermost layers just yet.

Soon, a woman had emerged from the door behind the counter. She
was middle-aged, a homely face with eyes as warm as the room, her
tied-back hair bobbed as she seemed surprised at Fleur's
appearance at their shop.

"Welcome dearie." She offered to Fleur, "I didn't think anyone would
be brave enough to venture out into this storm."

"Not bravery," She amended for the woman, shooting a disdain,

sidelong glance out the obfuscated window to the frost beyond.

"Are you in search of anything in particular?" The woman probed,

"Or just here to browse?"
"Professor Dumbledore sent me." Fleur explained, " He informed me
that there was something here he needed."

"You'll be needing my Husband then, I suppose." She explained, she

returned back to behind the counter, she lifted a hatch that seemed
to be mounted there and yelled down into it.

"Hen!" She cried, "I need you!"

The woman busied herself behind the counter while whoever was
below made their way to ascend. Fleur grabbed the fingers of her
gloves and freed her hands from their warm embrace. Her hands
remained cold, the scarred skin of her palm had turned purple with
the cold.

She rubbed warm into it with idle fingers as the man in question
began to rise from the depths. It was the same older man that had
served them those weeks ago. Although he seemed different on
closer inspection, his face was an odd shade of red and his hands
were covered in lantern oil.

"Miss Delacour? A pleasure." He greeted politely, extending his

hand.

Fleur took it gently, even covered in oil "Have we met?"

"Not officially, we've never been introduced of course. But I

remember you from the papers and the day of those unpleasantries
." He stepped back and bowed his head, "Henley Dervish, proprietor
of Dervish and Banges."

He's refined his courtesies . She mused, a smile threatening to peek

at her lips at the man's display.

He had mastered his introduction, from the tone of his voice and the
wide grin - both spoke of a man who had rehearsed and executed
such a show countless times.
"Professor Dumbledore said you had something for him?" She
explained to the genial man, "He asked that I come and gather it."

"Gather it?" He seemed surprised. "Oh! That bit of difficulty ? Well,

I…" His voice was stiff and his eyes fluttered back to the hole of
which he emerged from.

"Best follow me then." He finished, anxiety was clear on his face. A

flick of his wand sent the lock of the entrance into position with a
sharp click and the shutter of the windows sailing downwards.

Fleur followed him behind the counter and down the creaking stairs
below the trap door. It was a derelict cellar, small and full of surplus
stock but little else. He crossed behind a pillar that had a lantern
mounted upon it. He quickly waved his wand with an incantation
even she couldn't hear.

A portion of the stone wall dissolved into nothing and revealed a

rough-cut tunnel behind it.

An illusion.

Such a charm was beyond a regular wizard as far as knowledge

went, but he merely walked through the gap and continued down the
tunnel, beckoning her to follow. The walls were lit with antique
torches and the walls were lined with worn cobbles.

"Did the Headmaster tell you exactly what he wanted?" He asked,

taking a torch out of the bracket.

"I'm here investigating a series of artefacts, historically significant."

She explained, "He's a scholar at heart, of course, I'm merely
apprenticing for him."

"Albus has always enjoyed the intricacies of life." The man

commented, ducking below a low-hanging torch, "Though I don't
possess any such artefacts."
"Oh?" Fleur prompted, "Do you have any information on where I
could possibly search for them?"

"I don't, no," He shook his head, "But I know someone that does."

They rounded a sharp corner and found themselves against a dull,

wrought iron door.

"I'd prepare yourself, Miss Delacour, I don't believe this will be a

pleasant sight." The man tapped his wand against the frame and
threw his weight into a heave that opened the door.

Not pleasant indeed.

She was immediately greeted with the stench of bile and excrement
that ignited a rumbling within her stomach. However, it was the lone
occupant of the room that was her foremost concern.

A man was laid out on a bloodstained cot, his body emaciated and
his face pale and gaunt. Each breath he took seemed to grate his
throat upon exiting, turning into a vicious wheeze.

His right arm was severed in a crude amputation and a gnarled

wooden replacement was fitted where a limb once resided. But his
eyes flickered around the room aimlessly, as emerald equivalents
had days ago.

But these possessed no colour, they were a dull, milky white.

"What is this?" She demanded harshly, rounding on the shopkeeper.

"Not what, Miss Delacour," The man corrected politely, "But who -
Caractacus Burke."

This is it. She nodded, There was never a Horcrux here, only a
remnant of one's past.

"What's wrong with him?" She asked the man, kneeling to get a
better look at him.
"Many things, sadly." The man said, moving to stand beside her.
"He's well past his first century, older than the Headmaster even.
He's blind, maimed and a werewolf. He came to the shop years ago,
decades now. He was a friend of my father see? I couldn't turn him
away."

That would explain the scars. She could spot a few of them towards
the man's neck.

The man was jittery, looking for approval for a choice he clearly
hadn't accepted himself.

"Of course." Fleur agreed softly, "Keep going, please."

"He used to own Borgin and Burkes before a deal went sour. Borgin
put a wand in his back and he wound up a werewolf somewhere
along the way. The Headmaster set up a room for him down here,
said he couldn't do much but let a friend live in peace."

Crafty. She nodded, Keeping him safe under the guise of friendship .

"Did the Headmaster ever try and speak to him?" Fleur asked, trying
to piece together a blurry image. "Ever try and ask him any
questions?"

"Plenty." Dervish nodded, "But Caractus detests him, well, what he

can remember anyway. Never answered the man's questions, barely
even wanted to see him half the time."

"Would you have any idea why?"

Dervish shrugged, "Was never my place to ask, though he could

scarcely stand being in the same room as him."

"Even after the Headmaster helped him?" Fleur probed.

"Even then, he's a bit stubborn." The shopkeeper smiled gently,

clearly reminiscing over some memory or another.
"Do you think he'll answer my questions?" Fleur questioned, "Or am I
wasting my time like the Headmaster?"

"Oh, he'll talk." Dervish assured, "He's a bit of an old letch, but he's
not a bad man, see for yourself."

The prone man in question sat up gingerly. The set of scars that
marred his wrinkled visage, crossing his face at odd angles became
all the more visible.

No. She realised, It was no beast that made the wounds, it was a
blade.

Somewhere along the line, he had been tortured.

"Hen?" He rasped. "Is that you lad?"

"It's me 'Cus," Dervish responded, reaching out to take his hand,

"Someone is here to see you."

"Not that cunt Borgin?" He asked, his frail voice was alight with rage,
the likes of which she had never heard.

"No, not Borgin."

The other shopkeep. She assumed.

"Edmund?" He tried again, his voice full of hope.

"He's long dead 'Cus. She's a friend of Albus Dumbledore. You

remember Albus, don't you?" He prompted gently.

"Was he the alcoholic?"

"No, that was Odgen."

"Oh." He nodded, "Wonder if that fat bastard will ever give me what
he owes me."
"Not likely." Dervish smiled, he gave the impression of a man who'd
had an identical conversation with the man many times over. "Keep
your hopes up though, you might get it yet."

She knew that name well enough from Slughorn's party. Tiberius
Odgen, heir to the firewhisky fortune.

"The shop hand from the twenties?" He struggled

"That was Hawthorne and he's dead too, remember the one who
defeated Grindelwald?" He asked.

It was as if a light had switched on behind the man's dark white

eyes. "How could I ever forget? The old prick . What does he want?"

Dervish gestured for Fleur to come closer. "Careful," He cautioned.

"The full moon was only last night. He might lash out, try to be wary."

Fleur leaned down next to the bed, the man despite not being able to
see must have sensed her presence, he propped himself back up
against his pillow.

"Yes?" He rasped expectedly.

"Professor Dumbledore said you might know something about some

artefacts. They, at some point, passed through your hands."

"My, you sound like a pretty one." He snarled lecherously, his

elongated canines still visible from his transformation the night
before. However, Fleur refused to rise to his bait.

The man waited for a response but didn't get one. He sighed before
acquiescing.

"You'd have to be more specific, lass, I traded dark artefacts for the
better part of my life and my memory is not so good these days." He
explained, "Only thing that helps these days is some of Odgen's
fancy stuff."
"A Dagger." She explained, "Goblin-forged, the hilt had been covered
in Runespoor skin and basilisk ivory. The crossguard was shaped
like a basilisk too. A one-of-a-kind piece traded sometime in the
forties."

"Sure it wasn't a sword?" He tried. "I might've traded something

goblin-forged, but it wasn't a dagger. Everyone wants a decent one
of those, you see, easy to conceal 'round Knockturn. Hitwizards will
check you for a wand, never a blade.'

"No, definitely a dagger." She reiterated, "Emblazoned with

Slytherin's crest."

"Sounds like a decent piece." He agreed, "Borgin might've dealt with

it, but I can't remember anything about it."

"What about a locket, perhaps?" She inquired again, "Gold, magical,

had emeralds inlaid in the form of a serpent, same time as the
dagger."

The man seemed to ponder for a moment. "I bought one, from a
woman, around the time you're asking."

"Did it have a decorative snake on the surface?" She pushed, "Could

it not be opened?"

"I can't remember." He shook his head.

"What of the woman?" She pushed again, her voice harsher, "Is she
still alive?"

"I don't know," He admitted through gritted teeth.

"Try and remember, please." Fleur urged.

The man continued gritting his teeth, grinding them against each
other with a soft crack. Threadbare sheets found themselves balled
in his fists and his eyelids fluttered over his milky eyes.
"What's wrong 'Cus?" Dervish asked from behind Fleur, concerned.

"It hurts Hen." The frail man pleaded, "Make it stop. Please! "

"What's wrong with him!" Dervish asked frantically, leaning beside

Fleur.

Maledicta Reperio.

A soft pulse of sable light left her wand and enveloped the old man
who had been reduced to shivers.

He hasn't obliviated . Fleur observed, Something is eating away at

his mind.

It had to have been a sinister curse, one that atrophied his mind
slowly to forget something he shouldn't have. It sole purpose hadn't
been to merely silence the man, but to tear him apart. He had
angered someone greatly, and she had an inkling of who.

She hadn't got the information she required, but she had probed the
right wound.

He wasn't meant to live this long. Fleur deduced. The lycanthropy

might be helping him fight the curse.

"He's been cursed." She explained bluntly, "It's localised to only his
memories, specifically surrounding what he bought all those years
ago."

"He's been cursed?" Dervish whispered aghast while the old man
rocked in pain. "Who could've done it?"

Sopor .

She waved her wand and the man went still, pained no longer.
Instead, he fell into a deep slumber, flopping against the cot
mattress.
"I think you know more than you portray." She countered, "I think you
know precisely who cursed him."

"It couldn't be." He refuted passionately, his face decorated with a

stubborn look, "He's an old man, for Merlin's sake ! What could they
want with him ?"

"To know the answer to your question would put you in far greater
danger," Fleur spoke, her eyes not leaving the man. "I won't subject
you to that."

"That's probably for the best." He nodded nervously, "Do you have
any idea on what we should do? Does the Headmaster have a plan?
Anything?"

His pleading was frantic; the man seemed desperate to be free from
it all.

"The continent would be lovely around this time of year." She said
offhandedly, "Your patrons would surely accept a small holiday in a
time of such turmoil."

"Of course." He agreed vehemently and returned his own gaze to the
prone form of the older man. He adopted a position as a mute while
he tended to his sweat-laden brow. "I've heard Italy is a sight in the
winter."

She nodded and the man gave her a final, anxious smile.

She had left them behind, through the iron door, past the cellar and
up the stairs. She bid Dervish's wife farewell and braved the
blizzard's icy embrace once more.

The lead had been exhausted and she had not claimed any artefact
as she might've hoped.

But she had another now, more avenues to pursue.

Borgin, the shopkeeper.

The Locket.

Ogden, he knew him somewhere along the line. Maybe he can fill in
the pieces I cannot.

The hope of mulled wine and fire would have to wait, Hogwarts stood
an imposing figure in the distance, even against the shroud of snow.

And I've finally got some answers.

He'd been falling.

He'd been falling for quite some time now.

Truthfully, his feet had never really left the ground. But there was a
sense of perpetual motion that lingered - like he was consistently
being launched into a Pensieve memory. Though there was no milk
glass barrier, no silver wisp of memory, just foreign ground he felt
he'd never reach.

Compared to falling, the vision didn't seem so foreign a sensation

any longer.

I suppose I've become accustomed to it.

At the very least, the control of his body was his own. Though, there
was no pain in his chest as there had once been, no feeling of
aggravating raw flesh every time he took a breath.

I was at Hogwarts .

But he was at Hogwarts no longer.

Tapestries were threadbare, artisan-crafted furniture cracked and

rusted, the windows faded to dark green, obfuscating the sunlight
from coming in and bathing the house in a sickly glow. It was exactly
how he remembered it.
He took a few steps forward; it all felt familiar.

Grimmauld Place.

The same Cimmerian surroundings that his Godfather had detested

with every fibre of his being. Flagrant displays of wealth to lord their
superiority, crazed elves, odd ornaments and screeching portraits.

It was not hard to hate the derelict townhouse as much as Sirius did.

But why am I here?

His feet walked towards the main stairwell, his head swivelling to and
fro to take note of the doors on his adjacents.

S.O.B

Sirius Orion Black.

It was a plaque sat upon his door that hadn't been upon his last visit.
Glittering gold that caught Harry's eye with ease, there was one that
adorned every door.

Harry's heart stung at the reminder of his godfather, a remnant of his

parents that his feet slowly dragged him away from as he sought to
find purpose in the vision.

O.A.B

Orion Arcturus Black.

This one was on the door to Sirius's study, or rather, where his
Father's had once been.

What is the point to all of this?

He continued past the rest of the doors; some had been graced with
names where others had not.
Walburga Irma Black, the owner of the hellish screeches they'd
become accustomed to while they had occupied the house.

Harry wasn't sure if purebloods sleeping apart was common

practice, but given Sirius's home life, it seemed odd but he'd been
more than candid about how they'd treated him.

Alphard Pollux Black - Sirius's favourite Uncle.

This is not the Grimmauld Place I knew.

He continued past the named doors and descended the central

stairwell, finding his way to the dining hall. He stood, his hand
lingering over the ornate handle as he debated twisting it.

Anything beyond that door was something he'd have to face either
way. He grabbed and twisted quickly.

It was hot, terribly hot.

Harry could feel it blister the flesh of his palm under the intense heat,
but he could no longer free his grasp from the metal.

It had lulled him in, the false sense of security within his own mind.
Now, upon contact with the door, his body freed itself of autonomy
with nary a protest.

The dining room was not the one that he had known. It was darker,
elongated with a fireplace crackling in the centre.

A myriad of robed figures sat at their seats and knelt as he entered

the room. A passing window reflected a glimmer of his face.

His cheeks were hollow as if he was starving, but his skin was not
too sickly. Lanky hair still sat on his head, on the precipice of falling
out, but his eyes were bright crimson and slit-pupiled as if blood
pooled welled within them.
He was not the Tom Riddle he'd seen in the shade of the diary, nor
the serpentine visage that returned that night in the graveyard. It was
almost as if he was in limbo between the two, some sort of vile
equilibrium he had made a poor attempt to balance.

"Have you done as I had bid?" Harry asked, his voice wavering close
to the demonic drawl he had become accustomed to. Yet, a shred of
humanity remained in his tone.

"Aye, M'lord." One of his followers rose. He was fresh-faced,

carefully manicured facial hair covering his chin.

Antonin Dolohov. The familiar thought that wasn't his own informed
in his head - one of the most capable of my followers since the death
of Abraxas.

"Was it successful?" He growled and the effect of his voice was

immediately palpable, both on the faces of his followers and the air
between them.

"Aye." Dolohov spoke again, "We set the forests alight from Braemar
to Longmorn, they were flushed out and put down."

"The Highland pack is finished, I presume?"

"Scattered." Another voice, long, elegant blonde hair fell past his
shoulders. "Routed. We've slain enough that they fled towards
England with their tails between their legs."

Lucius, son of Abraxas. He killed his father as did his father before
him and inherited his fortune, but none of the steel Abraxas had
within him.

"I take it Romulus Whitehall is dead then?" He folded his hands in

front of him, his wand curved, caramel wand dangling from his
fingertips menacingly.
His knuckles flexed as they found their position threaded amongst
each other, even now his flesh seemed more akin to scales.

He had inundated himself with delusions of grandeur, of propelling

himself above me by uttering a single secret.

"No, my Lord, He fled with a handful of stragglers."

The anger rose and his crimson eyes flared, the caramel wand
dipped further into his palm.

"Who claims leadership of their pack?"

"Fenrir Greyback, my Lord." Dolovoh explained carefully, "A

commoner, a savage. But an effective one."

"Shall he be more receptive to our persuasions then Whitehall was?"

"Most definitely, my Lord. His pack has an inclination for brutality

against wizard-kind." Lucius explained, "If we supply an avenue for
their rage, they'll be valuable allies. They've already sought to bloody
themselves against the remnants of their old pack."

Once, they had been reticent to believe the Werewolves would be

valuable tools. The death of Gilford and Harwell disavowed them of
such questioning inclinations.

"Antonin, extend an invitation to this Greyback, I wish to meet." He

ordered. "Inform him the head of Whitehall shall grant him a place
within my circle and all the flesh he requires."

"Yes, M'lord," The man appeared to be working up the courage to

speak further. "It also appears Caractacus Burke escaped with
Whitehall."

A brief look of fury passed over his gaunt features, but as soon as it
appeared, it was struck from his face.
"You needn't worry about Burke. I shall deal with him alone ." He
stated calmly, "If there is nothing further, continue with our plan."

Set the Scottish Highlands alight, herd our foes into a single position.

"Of course, My Lord." A new voice spoke, it seemed joyful, a

disparity that became immediately apparent in the cold and silent
atmosphere of the room.

Harry didn't need to think hard nor far to place the voice to a face.

Bellatrix, Daughter of Cygnus. The sickly thoughts made a revelation

already realised all the more apparent.

Her violet eyes were bright against the darkened dining room, her
face not lined with the remnants of Azkaban and the corruption of
dark magic.

In another life, she might've been beautiful.

But he knew she was already tainted with the dogma of Voldemort
and the House of Black.

Antonin may be better with a wand, but his superiority in combat

against her is fleeting. She is loyalty incarnate, a true daughter of
Black.

Death Eaters began to pile out of the room with haste at his behest.
As they passed, he could make out a few of the others, albeit they
were quite a bit younger.

Rabastan, Rodolphus, Crabbe, Goyle, Jugson, Avery

He had seen them the night of the Department of Mysteries, saw

their snarling pictures in the Daily Prophet. They too looked healthier,
somewhat, the hard years of Azkaban were erased from their
features.

But even from this distance, he could see the rot had set in.
"Not you, Regulus," He said quietly, "I've need of you."

"Of course, my Lord." Harry's head turned briefly, caught by his

sudden words.

He seemed similar to Sirius in many ways. Shorter, but more robust,

his face and features longer and his hair short. He'd seen a similar
picture when they'd gone to retrieve Slughorn, one of the Slytherin
Quidditch team that sat proudly upon his mantle.

He died in this war. Harry thought He couldn't have been much older
than this when he died either.

Bellatrix lingered behind him, and he seemed to let her.

She must need something or know what's to be asked.

"I require your elf." He demanded simply, Regulus' dark grey eyes
betrayed his surprise and he turned to summon the requested elf.

He was not privy to the rest of the conversation as he saw a house-

elf apparate into view.

Kreacher?

It could've been him, or one of the other elves whose head now
remained in Grimmauld Place, adorning their mantle.

Though he had enough information, a brief glimpse of bat-like,

drooped ears and familiar bloodshot eyes.

He could still feel a lingering rage within him, born from the failure of
his followers. Voldemort was wrath and yet, he had not let the wrath
break out. It had neither manifested itself across his cold, serpentine
features nor within the caramel wand that laid just below his
fingertips.

He has something more important on his mind.

He had been shown this vision in particular, for a reason, it couldn't
have been mere chance. He wasn't able to fathom the intent of why
he had seen it, save for Dumbledore's words.

Maybe he was correct, Maybe I can see the Horcruxes.

Perhaps he had seen something significant.

Caractus Burke

Romulus Whitehall

Kreacher

Bellatrix Lestrange

They were the links to whatever they had tried to show him, likely
knew whatever Voldemort had wanted to keep on check with the
murder of his foes.

He had no further time to ponder his situation, there was the

suppressing darkness, and the scenery faded.

Then, he began falling again.

Fleur found herself in the Hospital Wing yet again.

Between his underwear and the thick, white sheet that covered his
lower torso, there was nothing to protect his modesty. They'd had the
good sense to close his open eyes, but they had left the ghastly,
purple wound across his chest on display.

She had bought a parchment and quill, whenever she dared she
would peek closer at the runes flaring on his chest. Looking beneath
the cloth that covered his lower body to get a brief glimpse of what
lay beneath.

But, at the very least, he appeared at peace.

She had never been much of an artist, but she'd sketch them on the
piece parchment, off to scour the library for answers to the questions
neither Snape, Pomfrey nor Dumbledore would answer truthfully.

The quill scribbled against the coarse surface of the parchment with
a soft, grating noise. It was one of the few idle distractions that
worked. Fleur could fool herself into thinking her scrawls were a step
closer to figuring out the riddle.

She traced a sickle-shaped rune that pulsed with every beat of his
heart from memory. She had seen why her father had loved drawing
so, even if they were both terrible at it.

It had been nearly a week since Harry had found his home behind
the curtained section of the Wing. Most of the children of Hogwarts
had long since gone home, and Christmas was on the close
approach.

Yet, she remained.

She could not bear the thought of a return to the Burrow. To leave
him to fend for himself against such a curse, to leave him alone. She
simply sat at his bedside, observing the horribly slow beat of his
heart and rise of his chest.

Ronald and Hermione had wanted to stay too, Ginevra as well. But
both Dumbledore and Molly had come to an agreement that seeing
him in such a state would not be beneficial for them.

They had left with teary-eyed and hushed goodbyes and soon
returned to the Burrow. They had made vows to his still figure that
they'd return to see him, shooting her sharp glances while she had
sat there.

I got to stay where they didn't .

But their glares didn't perturb her. She formed an idle conversation
where possible with them.
Hermione and Ginevra really do detest me.

While their hatred wasn't warranted, nor the blame they'd inevitably
try to shift on her for some part she didn't play.

But, they were hurting.

As was Fleur. She would never claim to be friends with the pair, but
they did not deserve to hurt alone.

Even I can admit that.

True to his word, Dumbledore had come in days ago to carve a litany
of his own runes. The majority of which were still in a dialect
incomprehensible to Fleur. But he himself charged them, despite his
magic reserves being nigh depleted. The rune scheme was flowing
up and down his body with a red, periodic glow that looked vile to
Fleur.

She didn't dare touch him, the runic circle they cast to ensure the
energy he leaked off wasn't fatal had contained the worst of the
backlash. She had stuck her head in once, to merely ensure he was
breathing, and the experience wasn't one she would care to repeat.
The air inside was corrosive and foul.

It stung her skin and made her feel filthy, filling her mouth with an
acrid taste and her head with a dull ache. The runes seemed to hiss
at anyone that braved their barrier as if they were guarding him
against some evil.

The Matron came every few hours if only to voice the unneeded
confirmation that he was still unresponsive - as if his prone form
wasn't enough of an indication.

Between such visits and her sketches, she had taken a series of
books with her. The first a romance novel that her mother had
ensured she took.
Ever the hopeless romantic, Fleur mused, peering at the cover.

She had made a few, forcible efforts to try and read beyond the first
page, but had produced no results. Every attempt to turn a page was
met by a soft breath she couldn't block out, a glimmer of sunlight that
caught her eye or rustling from the Nurse's office.

She had stowed it away for good. Even if she had pursued the tale,
Fleur doubted she'd care for whatever nonsensical romance she'd
find inside.

Life is rarely so simple.

"Hello, Miss Delacour." An older voice spoke from behind her.

She stowed her parchment and quill below her chair and turned to
face the approaching visitor. As expected, Albus Dumbledore had
arrived, bedecked in outlandish robes and his single glove.

"I take it nothing has changed?" He asked, stepping forward to

border the markings on the floor.

She merely shook her head, not willing to voice the reality.

The Headmaster drew his wand and braved the runic circle. He
tapped at one of the runes at the bottom of Harry's breastbone and a
scheme that covered his body flared with new life. Fleur could feel
the magic leak from the barrier, but she couldn't comprehend any of
it and didn't dare to ask the Headmaster for fear of what she may
find.

He withdrew from the circle looking paler and weaker. Fleur thought
that he looked little and less the legend that had vanquished
Grindelwald this past week and more a frail, ageing man crushed
under the weight of his mistakes.

A punishment not entirely undeserved.

The runes pulsed with new vibrance and the deceptive signs of hope
crossed his body, the twitching of eyelids, bated breath, attempt to
roll over. They'd been happening for days, and each time nothing
had ever arisen, a cyclical series of events that only ever resulted in
her hope being crushed.

"Has anything new arisen?" She asked. It was the same question
most days, an attempt to find hope in the man's visits.

"My research, no matter how expansive, has yet to yield results." He

said, his soothing tone did not assuage her fears at all. "But every
day is a step forward to a cure. You can take solace in such a small
miracle."

No, I can't.

"Have you established what the next course of action for the Order
shall be?" She asked quietly.

"We shall continue our investigation of areas that may produce

information on the whereabouts of any other artefacts." He
explained, "I depart for the continent in a matter of days, I shall seek
the counsel of a friend there who may have answers where my
research has failed."

She merely nodded, not wanting to prolong the conversation any

further.

She didn't want to talk to anyone at the moment.

He still waited for a while, merely observing Harry. The Matron too
came later and cast her diagnostic spells and then invited the
Headmaster into her chamber to converse on his status as they
always did.

Beyond my ears, she scoffed, As if I can't be trusted.

She cast a glance towards Harry, leaning forward in her chair.

I shouldn't be.

She shouldn't be. But Dumbledore's words had rung true, a truth she
had been avoiding for quite some time.

I'm engaged. She tried.

To a partner who has been home for days but can seldom escape
the clutches of the Goblins to visit me.

It was a war between her rational mind and her emotions, one she'd
been having for an age. A battle brought to the forefront the minute
she had entered the Hospital Wing all those days ago.

I shouldn't be. She repeated. But I have.

I've fallen for Harry Potter.

For These Hearts Awakened
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : For These Hearts Awakened

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Welcome to Chapter Fourteen, For These Hearts Awakened.

As always, a massive shout out to my Beta Readers,

x102reddragon, NerdDragonVoid and Triage, who were forced to sift
through this behemoth of a chapter.

Speaking on length, this is the longest chapter I've ever written, last
chapter held the record for a brief moment, but this behemoth of
sixteen-thousand words usurped it with ease. I felt a slower, more
elongated pace was more appropriate and soon, it wrote its own tale.

I debated splitting it into two, but here's the entire piece.

Also, I haven't really advertised it, but alongside the Harry/Fleur

discord myself and some authors run, I have an ADKOW specific
discord, which can also be found in my profile. I post glimpses of
new chapters and the likes over there, so check it out!

As always, enjoy and stay safe!

For the first time in over a week, Harry Potter awoke.

The first few conscious breaths were difficult, a laborious task for his
aching lungs, but not a foreign sensation. His eyes flickered open to
the sudden light, squeezing them tight once more to block the
sudden brightness, opening again once he felt confident to try and
gain familiarity in the well-lit surroundings.

The room smelt of all things foul, of burnt ozone and the metallic
tang of blood scorched his nostrils with every breath of the acrid
scent.

White curtains surrounded him, heavy sheets that obfuscated his

view of the outside world. He had dreamt many dreams under the
spell of slumber, far more pleasant than forcible submersion into
vignettes of Voldemort's life.

He had dreamt of a shroud of snow, the very same that enveloped

Hogwarts outside as he laid there. Those same curtains looked the
dream turned real, pierced by the same lances of light that heralded
a new day.

He had a hard time discerning whether or not this was simply

another dream, another vision with incomprehensible intent that
drew him in against his will.

He had made an attempt to push himself up onto the pillows behind

him, only for a searing pain to arc through his chest, quelling his
effort where it began.

Well, that hurt. Harry mused dryly. Maybe it's not a dream.

He hadn't dared to look to his body for fear of what he may find.
Though, with a healthy dose of gallantry, he shifted his gaze
downwards.

A white sheet had been placed upon his chest to ward off the cold. It
obscured whatever laid beneath that could cause him such pain.
He steeled himself and lifted his sore hands to clutch the edge of the
sheet and pulled it from his body quickly as if it was a bandage.

It was the cold he noticed first, without the sheet's protection, it

encompassed him with ease. He lacked his glasses, but even with
his blurred vision, he could see enough.

His chest was marred with a thick scar, coloured sable - standing as
a stark contrast to the pale skin surrounding it. It was long and
jagged but seemed recently healed and deterred him from racing a
finger along its length.

Another scar wasn't significant amongst the litany of others he

possessed, it might've been more prominent, but skin marred black
and purple didn't concern him as much as it once might've.

I'd hate to have one on my forehead.

Beneath the scar was another matter entirely. Clad only in his
underwear; his body was decorated in something that looked akin to
tattoos. They hissed in pain with each movement, prickled at the
provocation of him being awake once more.

They were foreign - markings like he'd never seen before. Motley
colours, odd shapes and painful positions brought a single question
to the forefront of his mind.

What happened to me?

His knowledge of what led him there was clear enough. No mist
obscured his memories, no haze that had him furrow his brow in
confusion.

He remembered, but that did not mean he understood.

Fighting the pain in his chest, he propelled himself backwards with a

weak push, flopping unceremoniously against the pillow that laid
across the steel headboard. The pain intensified tenfold for a brief
moment, relegating him to heavy breathing while the white-hot
knives of agony retreated back to their sheaths.

Muscle memory was quick to make itself known, his arm grasping for
his glasses without consideration for his pain. The short lance of
agony was harsh but bearable as his hand groped around the small
bedside table in search of them. Grasping the frames between his
fingers, he restored his vision with a gentle hand.

Beside his bed was a chair, beneath it a small stack of books and
parchment. He couldn't make out the title of the book, but he
recognised the bright silver quill that sat next to it.

Fleur was here.

But the chair was empty, though he could faintly smell her lingering
scent in the air. Fighting a losing battle against the heavy, caustic
scent already there.

And now she's not .

It was not the scar that pained his chest, but the heart beneath.

He returned for his wand to conjure himself some water. With the gift
of sight, he stretched once more and his fingers tickled the holly
shaft, sending it rolling from his grasp. It moved in an arc, the handle
hanging off the edge, it teetered for a moment, as if unsure if it
should fall.

Harry stretched his arm a little further, and the wand gave a jiggle as
if to leap into his grasp. For a moment, it seemed possible, wanting
to spring into his outstretched fingertips.

Then it fell, clattering towards the floor of the Hospital Wing with a
noise louder than it had any right to make.

The rattling seemed to alert someone in the wing, for it immediately

prompted footsteps from across the ward. The footfalls neared,
closer and closer before the curtains split, allowing the sun an
unadulterated glance behind them.

The stern countenance of Madam Pomfrey emerged afterwards,

giving some relief from the unforgiving beams.

"Mister Potter?" Pomfrey gasped, her matron's headdress shaking

as she reeled back. "How long have you been awake?"

The look on her face betrayed her continuous state of shock as if

she hadn't expected him to be awake or rather, couldn't comprehend
it.

Not very reassuring, Harry thought, but it's a piece of the puzzle.

"Too long." He tried, it was meant to be joking, a brief moment of

levity while he sorted out his head, but it came out in the same
hoarse tone as when he'd tried before. The words seemed to
possess an identical effect on her ears as it did his throat.

"Very well." The matron declared with thin lips and soft eyes, drawing
her wand, "Prepare yourself, I imagine this shall be quite
uncomfortable."

Contrary to her words, it was a warning he could not prepare for

other than sinking lower in the bed.

Her willow wand was alight with dull red magic, tracing elegant arcs
in the air. A soft chant was at her lips, not melodic like Fleur's, but
guttural, a language indiscernible to Harry with his lack of knowledge
on the matter.

Each stroke imbued the barrier with a new colour, startling contrasts
that left an afterimage in Harry's eyes. The barrier finally turned a
dull green, then disappeared, fading from existence without the
promised displeasure.

Then, there was a sudden heat.

There was no gradual ascent to the heat, no indication it would
begin, it routed the cold around him with a single strike. It prickled
against his skin as if he was standing too close to a fire for comfort.

It was overpowering. Before Harry knew it, his hair was slick with
sweat, beads ran downwards against his forehead and below to
sting his eyes, the acrid smell increased tenfold.

Then, it simply vanished, the stones of the ward sizzled with heat,
but the energy lost the battle quickly.

Uncomfortable is the wrong word for it.

"I could go without doing that again." Harry swore, "What was that
supposed to be ? "

Each word still scratched his raw throat, but the cold air soothed it
with each breath.

" That, " She enunciated in an identical tone, "Was a runic circle,
Mister Potter, a Circle of Merlin to be precise. It, alongside your
injuries, was the reason you weren't supposed to wake for some
time."

It's another piece of the puzzle, I suppose.

"Just leave me injured next time," Harry mumbled, pushing himself

back onto the pillows again. "I'm sure I'll manage."

"If you're so inclined to see yourself in my care, you can at least

brave the treatment." It was a jape from the ever-so stern matron,
one that seemed almost out of place as it broke through her
perpetually stern tone.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's happy to see me awake.

"I don't think I've ever willingly come here." He argued.

"You're usually carried if I remember correctly." She retorted, the
back-and-forth returning a shred of normalcy to the odd situation.
"I'm sure it's an honourable task."

"Who had the honour this time?" Harry queried, hoping to reunite
with another piece of the puzzle.

"Professor Dumbledore." Pomfrey nodded, "You'd have sworn the

man had forgotten magic existed, sprinted in here with you in his
arms, a man possessed."

She doesn't know, he thought sorrowfully, The matron of Hogwarts

doesn't even know the Headmaster is dying from a curse.

There was an irony there that he did not wish to explore.

At least the mystery unravels.

"I'm sure it was a sight." Harry's face morphed into a smile that did
not reach his eyes, "I'm not as small as I once was."

"No, Potter, you've indeed grown over your years here." She smiled
as he had, but hers was likely much more sincere.

Whatever pleasure Madam Pomfrey derived from seeing him awake

once more was overridden by her matronage. Her wand was up
again, and a flick floated a silver tray laden with vials and flasks of
varying liquids to his lap.

They soon found a home, as all potions she demanded he drank,

first in his hand, then his stomach, all assisted by her piercing glare.
Heavy, viscous liquid coated his throat like ice-cold mucus, but at the
very least the dull pain of talking disappeared.

"You'll be on potions for a few days." Pomfrey declared, moving

forward to probe some of the runes with a soft finger, "The runes will
disappear within the week, the scar will fade with time, but you'll
likely carry it for the rest of your life."
"What happened to me?"

The night was clear, but the wounds had gone unnoticed in the
Room of Requirement.

"To be honest, Potter, I'd hoped you would possess the knowledge of
what exactly led you here." She said, a slight frown forming on her
face.

"Not particularly." Harry said meekly, "Must have been the

adrenaline."

"Adrenaline?" She pursed her lips, peering down at him, intently,

"Dare I even ask what led you here?"

Her eyes seemed to deter any attempts to lie, even though he had
to.

She'd never accept an answer like 'Quidditch Accident', He thought.

"Quidditch Accident." He decided after a brief few seconds, it

wouldn't work, though it was fun to infuriate her.

The humour in his attempt didn't raise her lips; instead, they
worsened into a frown.

"Perhaps it's better I don't possess the knowledge." She agreed, and
Harry let out a soft sigh of relief, "But you were cursed, Harry."

I've never heard her call me by my first name.

"By what or who, I'll never know." Pomfrey continued, "But you were
cursed, the muscles in your chest atrophied, your hand burnt to the
bone. Professor Snape and the Headmaster worked for days to keep
you alive; they surely know a secret that I do not. I healed what I
could, but the curse was nasty business. Split your skin again, and it
shan't be a pretty sight."
That doesn't sound healthy, though Snape working on me must've
been a sight.

Her tone was terse - having someone in her ward that remained out
of her full care perturbed her greatly.

Harry made to speak, to perhaps add some assurances for the older
woman into the fray, but he was quickly cut off.

"In fact, the Headmaster wished to be notified immediately if you

woke." She reminded herself.

She flicked her wand once again and conjured a small piece of
parchment, another wave saw the paper fold at odd angles,
morphing until it was unrecognisable as a page.

Instead, it was a small bird. Pomfrey summoned her quill and wrote
something on the wing, folding the wing back into its original
position; she tapped it once with her wand. As if caught upon a
sudden gust, it drifted gracefully towards the doors of the Hospital
wing, off towards its destination.

"How does your arm feel?" The matron turned to him and
questioned.

The top of the wound had crossed over to the top shoulder of his left
shoulder. Braving the pain once more, he rolled his shoulder, testing
the joint. The agony, however, was all but absent.

Must've been a pain reliever in there somewhere.

The wave of medicinal draughts forgotten, his arm reached its apex,
and the skin of his chest pulled taught, the wound felt as if something
grasped either side and pulled it close, scared at the provocation of
movement.

"A bit sore." He said after a moment of continuing to probe the

wound, "But nothing terrible."
"Good." She agreed after probing it with her wand, "Be careful with it,
lest it reopens. Sealing it once was difficult work, doing so again will
be far more troublesome. I'll be sure to retrieve some salve for you
before you leave."

"You're letting me leave?" Harry asked sceptically, "Are you sure it's
me that's meant to be in this bed?"

I've never known her to release me without adding a few days onto
my stay.

"Not of my own volition." She admitted bitterly, "The Headmaster has

made it very clear your tenure here is subject to your health and not
my personal misgivings on your condition."

"Thank you for everything then, Madam Pomfrey," Harry said

sincerely, meeting the stern witch's eyes. "I'll try and stay out for a
few more months this time."

"You needn't ever thank me for doing my duty." She said although a
slight smile flashed on her face before disappearing. "If I may,
Potter?"

It was phrased as a polite question, but her face made it clear she'd
say whatever she wanted without his consent.

"Of course." Harry agreed, his words and the following nod all the
consent the healer needed.

"You've been inside this ward for serious matters more than any
student I can remember. Take all the bludgers to the head you want.
I can knit wounds and mend cracked skulls, regrow bones and heal
curses. But this was of an entirely different breed, Harry . If you
persist with such a career in danger, it'll soon lead you to a
destination one as young as you should never visit."

I'll likely end up there anyway.

It was a grim thought, but one he had not already entertained. Once
upon a time, it had haunted him.

But not any longer.

He gave a nod of affirmation to placate her, and she returned with a

calmer smile.

"Maybe I just need a partner," Harry suggested.

"I do believe you already have one." The Mediwitch's eyes flickered
towards the empty chair and back to him.

That I do.

"I'll be in my office if you need anything, the Headmaster should be

here shortly."

Her headdress fluttered as she walked away to her office, her shoes
clicking against the stones in the same fashion as when she'd
walked over.

There was an odd comfort in her bustling, one that he couldn't place
as he settled in the bed. A subtlety that he couldn't describe - as if
the noise of her shoes brought some degree of familiarity back to the
world.

A feeling that at least, for the moment, it was all okay.

Seconds morphed into minutes, from minutes into near half an hour
before the Headmaster finally arrived.

Dumbledore's wizened countenance held nothing that it once might

have, the sage appearance to his old features, the wisdom that
usually shimmered beneath his blue eyes were both conspicuously
absent. Instead, it was replaced by a volatile mixture of emotions.
Relief, guilt, pain and a plethora of other indecipherable emotions
flickered across his face and eyes in a way Harry had seldom seen.

He seemed to still for a moment, struck by the full weight of his

thoughts, enough to render him rooted in his position.

Until the corner of his lips curled ever so slightly upwards and he
stepped to the foot of Harry's bed.

"Harry, my boy." He voiced wavered, the final few syllables did not
seem as firm as their predecessors. "It is an excellent gift to see you
returned to us."

"It's good to be here, Professor," Harry replied.

He blames himself, Harry thought. The look on his face made that
fact more than apparent.

There was a tension that settled in the air with the man's arrival, it
was not, however, one born of hostility. It was cut from a different
cloth entirely, it was the bracing before a tidal wave, a promise that
truths would soon be aired.

And not truths either would be particularly amicable with.

"I've come to offer my apologies." Dumbledore said, clutching his

withered hand close to his body, "I'm so very sorry, Harry, your
presence at the Room of Requirement was a danger I failed to
comprehend, and for such, you suffered at my hands once again."

"I feel fine, Professor." Harry assured the old man, "Just confused
with it all, I suppose. The diary didn't attack me, but this did. Why?
Why did all this happen?"

"Your confusion is more than warranted." Dumbledore agreed, "And

a state of mind, I shall do my utmost to rectify."

The Headmaster walked over and procured the chair from beside his
bed, the one he'd assumed Fleur had once sat in.
"Your appearance here is, as I said, a failure cast at my own feet.
That much I can admit." He nodded idly but did not meet Harry's
eyes. "As I've explained many times, the connection between you
and Voldemort is one far too complex to convey with mere words as
an explanation. We needed first-hand knowledge to fully
comprehend the dangers of such an encounter, to know best how to
subvert it in the future."

He reached beneath his chair to pluck Harry's wand from the floor.
Harry had long since forgotten about it, but the man seemed to
cradle the holly in his hand for a moment.

"Magic itself is perhaps akin to a wand, and there exists no better

example than your own." He held it between the fingers of his
healthy hand, "How does a wand know who seeks to cast it? How
can wands switch allegiance upon defeat? How does it know when it
crosses its brother? Magic is many things, Harry, but above all, it is a
gift we've long since hoped to understand, not unlike how we hope to
understand the power of a wand."

He placed the wand on the bedside table and continued.

"Your connection, despite all my research and all our experience,

remains little but a mystery, one that we cannot fully understand.
One I could slave away for years and still gain no significant ground
in, simply, because it is a case without equal. But, we have learned
over the years that Horcruxes, to some degree, are sentient pieces
of magic - able to defend themselves as their creator best sees fit.
Part of me believed the Horcruxes' sentiency would be their
downfall, that your connection might prove to be as ample protection
as your mother's own. Perhaps, they'd be unwilling to strike against
you while the connection remained."

"But it didn't?" Harry asked.

"I don't believe so. I erred in my judgement, and you paid the price
for such a mistake. The Diadem was many things, but it remained a
container for Tom's soul above all. Each Horcrux persists for a
singular goal beyond prolonging Tom's existence - corruption. The
Diary corrupted Ginny Weasly, the Ring, myself and the Diadem,
Hogwarts. But when such a task failed, it turned to corrupt you
instead."

"Do you think it succeeded?" Harry inquired softly, "In corrupting me,
that is."

"No." The man shook his head, and Harry breathed all the easier for
it, "It imposed upon you a sojourn into your mind, attempting to tear
your magic asunder, but you triumphed, in the end. And your ability
to triumph against such odds was the reason you truly needed to
accomplish this task alone. You command much more power than
you did previously for having accomplished such a feat."

"More power?" Harry furrowed his brow, "As in the Horcrux boosted
my magic?"

Soul magic is a power I could do without.

"No." Dumbledore disagreed, "No magic imparted from a piece of

Tom's soul would be worth possessing. But there are strengths
outside of your ability to cast spells, strengths far greater. You
fought, and you won, the importance of such should never be
understated."

"So it's all over then?" Harry asked, "Whatever the Horcrux tried to
do has failed?"

"You're awake and in good health." Dumbledore offered, "That is

more than we could have ever hoped for, in such a short period. But
only time shall tell us if the scars that linger are merely physical."

"So we can't be sure?" Harry pushed. "There has to be more to it

than that."

"We cannot. Even in its simplest form, the magic is simply beyond
us."
"Did we destroy it, at least?" Harry asked, "Is it completely gone?"

"You did." He confirmed to ease Harry, "The wards of Hogwarts

alerted me to incredibly destructive magic being practised. By the
time I arrived, both the room and the Diadem were little more than
charred stone and ash. Which makes me wonder as to how you
accomplished such a feat?"

"One from your journal." Harry explained, " Caelesti Perfuro. "

"That is what I feared." Dumbledore frowned, despite it being only

slight, it highlighted the creases in his wrinkled face. "I would caution
against the use of such a spell."

"Yet it was in the book." Harry frowned, in turn, "Which means, at

some point, you used it as well."

"I have, many times." The man nodded, "Though, my counsel is

based on such experience. Perhaps you read the warning I
provided?"

" Beware the toll ." Harry recited, the words scribbled in ink a distant
memory.

"Indeed, and such a warning wasn't crafted idly." Dumbledore's eyes

seemed to bore a hole through him and far beyond him.

I've seen it before. Harry realised - the look wasn't challenging to

place. He's reliving his failures.

"Power is not without its price, Harry," Dumbledore explained, his

voice hardened with a tone he couldn't recognise. "To wield such a
power, in the same vein as the magicks of blood or soul, is to be
willing to pay such a price. Be it blood, magic, soul or something
more; the toll is forever paid. It is addictive, beyond any single
person to subvert, that is perhaps why the Dark Arts are truly so
dangerous. Each spell cast withered at their minds, the price for
such power was their psyche. Soon, their rational mind departs, and
the power tastes sweet - the urge is all there is."

"This." He took Harry's wand once again and wielded it as if the spell
was still contained within, "Is a corruption of the same stitch, yet so
very different. Hidden behind the need for pleasant memories, it too
tears something away. The memory used is irrevocably dampened,
deadened . Such a memory will cease to contain the joy it once did
until it is but a wisp, one that you can scarcely recall."

And I used my memories of Fleur, he thought grimly.

"I've only used it once." Harry returned, "Will I feel the effects?"

"After a single-use? No. But continued use invites the rot;

persistence allows it to settle and to fall to the urge sees it reign."

Harry merely nodded in return.

"My intention was never to chide you on the matter." The man
assured, "Outside of my apology, my purpose here was to explain
my plans for the coming weeks."

"Is the Order planning something?" Harry asked eagerly. "Have we

decided how to find the rest of the Horcruxes?"

"We've determined the most likely avenues to pursue in such a

goal."

So have I, he thought, the vision still fresh in his mind.

"But I shall not be offering my assistance." He finished, and the

thoughts of such a vision were foregone in favour of deciphering his
meaning.

"Sir?" Harry's confused voice followed shortly after.

"I shall head to the continent for the duration of the Christmas
Holidays. There is much to be done. You shall head to the Burrow to
spend your Christmas amongst family and friends."

There's a war going on, and he's leaving.

The people look to him, and he's fleeing the country.

"How can you leave?" Harry was quick to bombard the man with his
thoughts, " There's a war . If you leave, Voldemort knows there's
nobody left that can repel him."

"My journey is not a pleasurable one, Harry." Dumbledore said,

"There are strings that remain untied, such strings would benefit Tom
greatly should he choose to pull them."

"Do you not think Hogwarts will be attacked in your absence?" Harry
posed the question, but the man seemed poised to answer it quickly.

"For all his power, Tom understands that he is outmatched, for now."
Dumbledore explained, "He holds Azkaban, that is true, but he is
also well aware of the dangers. Attacking Hogwarts would be a
costly endeavour, one that would leave him open for the Ministry to
advance on lost ground."

I suppose there's some logic in that, even if I don't like it.

"How long will you be gone?" Harry asked.

"You need not worry, Harry. I shall return in good time."

"I take it our lessons are over then?" Harry frowned.

He's taught me all he can and yet; it still feels too little. I still feel like
a child.

"They shall conclude, for the moment. I have given you the tools for
you to craft your a own path, as have many others. But there is one
more lesson I've yet to teach you, Harry. Our tale has not yet finished
weaving."
"I suppose it's goodbye then?" Harry couldn't shield the glimmer of
pain that came out in his words.

Before him was a man, one he'd worshipped for years. Who sat
there, wasting away for months as he tried desperately to keep the
legacy of a better world living on within him.

And there's a chance I might not see him again.

That, despite all he had faced, stung.

"We shall part ways for the moment, but not forever," Dumbledore
assured, although his words did not have the soothing effect that
once had. "I've no doubt my absence will go unnoticed. You appear
to have much on your hands, Harry. Miss Delacour, for instance, was
quite the persistent visitor."

The sly smile that followed seemed out of place on the man.

"I suppose I'll see her at the Burrow," Harry responded lamely.

"Oh. You mistake my words, Harry. She remains at Hogwarts."

"She's still here?"

Bill is at the Burrow and yet, she stayed here.

"Indeed," The older man confirmed with a sly smile, "She remained
by your side the majority of your stay here, so did Mister Weasley
and Miss Granger until Molly was adamant they depart."

"Do you know why she stayed?" Harry asked with a hope-saturated
voice.

"That is a question that will no doubt have to be posed to Miss

Delacour herself." Dumbledore said, "Who I have no doubt will follow
my visit shortly."
Dumbledore stood up, brushing off his robes and placing Harry's
wand back onto the bedside table.

"Sir," Harry said - the man was getting ready to depart.

"Yes, Harry?" The Headmaster turned to regard him, already risen to

his full height.

The words were swirling in his mind, spoken by a man well-regarded

for uttering only half-truths and manipulating children.

"Is something bothering you?" Dumbledore prompted, clearly taking

his silence as reluctance.

So, he leapt.

"It's just…" Harry struggled for words to phrase his coming question,
"Were you ever in love, sir?"

His brow furrowed and he cocked his head, but Dumbledore's face
did not betray any emotions beyond the surface, lost in the blue mist
of his old eyes and the wrinkled creases of his face.

The reaction was nothing like Slughorn would've led him to believe,
nothing to betray there was deceit soon to be hidden behind the
Headmaster's words.

"That's an odd question, Harry."

"It's just…" Harry began again.

"Just curiosity, I take it?" Dumbledore smiled.

Maybe Slughorn tried to deceive me again, tried to drive a wedge

between us.

"That sounds right, just curiosity, sir." Harry agreed.

"I did." Dumbledore confirmed, "Many years ago, in simpler times
when I was yet a man grown."

"Did you…" He didn't have to finish the question, although he knew it

would've sounded callous anyways, but the Headmaster seemed to
have made his peace.

"Did I lose them?" He finished, and Harry nodded, "I did. Lost to a
war, we never should've been in."

"I'm sorry." Harry offered meekly.

The man continued smiling, "They are memories long since past,
Harry, you need not apologise for raising ghosts already set to rest."

"Was it worth it, sir? Knowing how it ended, knowing it wasn't going
to end well?"

That was perhaps the question he had yearned to ask.

"It was." The man confirmed and his smile widened, "Despite it all,
despite the end. To love and be loved in turn is perhaps the greatest
magic of all, Harry - you need only seek your mother's protection for
evidence of such."

Silver-hair and ocean eyes were in his mind at the man's words. He
had leapt once already. He was unsure if he could leap again.

"You were happy?"

"I was." The man nodded, once again trapped in his thoughts.

"Are you still happy, Professor?"

That seemed to send the Headmaster reeling from his thoughts, off
to confront Harry's words.

"I am." Dumbledore said, highlighted by an idle stroke of his beard,

"Happiness, however fleeting, should be grasped. It is not something
to be gifted to you. Happiness, Harry, is a duty to oneself."

He can't be, could he?

"It is truly an egregious sin to live without such a feeling." The man
finished, "Though, I imagine you know what I speak of well enough,
Harry."

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

The blush, he managed to hide, it was his words that betrayed him.

"Everything and nothing, Harry." The man smiled once more,

"However, the pieces fall, I wish you a truly Merry Christmas."

With a final look, the man departed towards the exit of the Hospital
Wing. With him, he took the tension that had slowly abated and the
fear of harsher truths yet to come, replaced instead by counsel he
wasn't sure he could heed.

And the wonder of whether he could make such a leap once more.

The one visitor Harry anticipated had yet to arrive.

Madam Pomfrey had supplied him with the aforementioned salve,

and he tried diligently to apply it to the wound, all to little avail.

His probing fingers were knocked away by a sudden sound, the

massive doors of the Hospital wing were thrown open, fast footfalls
followed until the heavy curtains were tossed asunder with little
decorum.

And there she stood.

His breath was bated, momentarily unable to tear his eyes away
from her. She was dishevelled. Her perpetually elegant hairstyle was
shed in favour of a more ruffled look. Bags marred her beautiful
features, with the dark skin beneath her eyes and the red that
surrounded her iris.

She'd throw a fit if she ever saw herself like this.

It was the flaws in her features that endeared her beauty to him, as it
had that day in the snow. The imperfections served only to amplify
the perfections they tried to obscure.

There was but a brief moment of silence between the pair, a

desperate battle between ocean-blue and emerald-green, one he
was unsure who would emerge victorious from.

Without warning, she bounded across the short distance with longer
strides, and her arms found their mark, wrapping themselves around
him tightly. His chest stung despite the potions he had taken, but it
was ignored in favour of the silver-hair that overtook his vision and
the face that fit into the crook of his neck.

He threw his arms around her and pulled her towards him that little
bit tighter. It was a prolonged contact that was less than strictly
appropriate with an engaged woman.

But of all the times to care, Harry seldom thought this was one of
them.

They sat there in an embrace for an age before they separated,

though too soon for Harry not to lament the loss of contact.

"You're awake." Her voice was breathless, filled with persistent

disbelief.

"I'm awake." Harry repeated, grounding his state in reality.

"I can't believe it." She continued. It was a far cry from the cocksure
Fleur Delacour he'd once seen. "They told me you wouldn't awaken
for some time."
She was forever impervious; she was Fleur Delacour. Yet, she was
speechless.

"I didn't like the solitude." He laughed lightly, his voice seemed to set
her at ease, "I'd much prefer it out here."

With you, He wanted to say.

"I stayed." Fleur said.

"I know." Harry replied, "But you didn't have to."

"But I did. I always will. Because that's what I promised."

"You might have to wait beside me a few more times before this is all
over." He joked, but it did not raise her lips as he might've hoped.

"Is this what we have to expect if you try and do everything by

yourself? Is this what I have to expect?" Her voice was soft, but the
fire beneath her words was plain. "That you'll only ever be destined
to live in a hospital bed?"

"You know I didn't want or mean to end up here." He defended.

"Is that insinuating you ever purposefully end up injured?"

"Well, not strictly speaking, no." He offered meekly.

"You weren't smart about it, Harry." Fleur said, "You could have
found me, we could have done this together."

"I needed to do this alone, Fleur." Harry returned.

"No." She shook her head, "Dumbledore said you needed to do it

alone. Just because he said, it doesn't make it so."

"I'm capable of fighting my own battles. I don't need to be coddled."

"I waited a week by your bedside, not knowing if you'd make another
night. Don't talk to me as if I've coddled you. There has not been a
single year where you haven't ended up here at the hands of Albus
Dumbledore . It does not beggar the imagination that he may not be
as infallible as you believe him to be."

Her voice was strong, implacable. Harry was unsure if the words at
his lips would do anything.

There's little love lost between them.

"He's not a bad man." Harry defended, "I'm not going to defend the
fact he's made a good portion of my life terrible, but if he truly cared
so little he would've left me in that room."

"He may not be evil, that does not make him righteous, nor does it
mean he has your best interests at heart."

The situation itself was odd. Here, her distaste for the man was on
full display yet; she unknowingly echoed some of his wisdom.

"You don't need to remind me." Harry stressed, "I lived it, Fleur, I'm
well aware."

"And yet, I find you here." She retorted, "You lived it, but didn't learn
anything from it."

He had thought of a hundred ways their reunion could go, and

somehow, it had circumvented all of them.

"I destroyed it, at least." He sighed, "The Diadem of Rowena

Ravenclaw, another one is gone. We can be thankful for that."

"A scant mercy, Harry." She whispered, "You're worth more to us,
more to me than any artefact, Horcrux or not."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything." Fleur said, "I want to not have to
fear for your life. I want to not wonder if I won't see you again should
you choose to pursue something alone."

"I promise you won't." He offered, "I'll carry you along with me next
time, once we find the next Horcrux."

"This is the last time." She demanded.

"This is the last time." He echoed, and with his promise, her assault
finally relented.

"Well, I do have some better news." Fleur offered, "I've done some
investigating, we've got a lead."

"On Horcruxes?" Harry shot up in his bed, "You found something?

How?"

"The Headmaster and I had an interesting conversation after you

were admitted." Fleur began. "We had quite a few, in fact."

He has a penchant for that.

"I'm sure that was fun." Harry laughed.

"Maybe not." She smiled, "You're looking at Fleur Delacour, the

newest member to the Order of the Phoenix."

He sat up straighter in an attempt to see if he misheard her. She had

only just finished a tirade about how the man's judgements were ill-
made.

"You joined the Order?" His brow furrowed, "Why now, of all times?"

"Because I'd prefer not to waste away doing little and less while I
could be making a difference." Her voice was alight with a ferocious
tenacity, and her blue eyes glimmered. "They have the information
we'll need, they hoard it, but they've given enough."
If anyone was deserving of the title, it's her. He thought, at that
moment she looked a firebird herself.

I suppose she is a Phoenix, in a way.

"So they had you following leads for the Horcruxes?" Harry asked,
"Did you find anything noteworthy?"

I have some leads of my own.

The names were still in his mind. He'd been able to forget some of
his fever dreams, but not the vision. They always remained ingrained
in his mind.

Caractus Burke

Romulus Whitehall

Kreacher

Bellatrix Lestrange

"I did, but we can discuss that later." She answered, "Suffice to say,
armed with our knowledge, we'll make quite a formidable duo."

"Will we now?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yep." She chirped back, almost bird-like.

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"Do you believe you deserve one?" The arching of an elegant

eyebrow seemed challenging.

"That's a loaded question." Harry remarked dryly, "I suppose the

position of Team Leader is off the table too?"

"I might allow you to earn in." Her lips curled into a half-smile. "With
time and obedience, of course."
"So we're an official team now?" He joked. "It's us versus the world?"

"It's beginning to seem that way."

"Let's win this time." Harry said, "I'm starting to dislike hospital beds."

Fleur reached beneath her seat to procure her books and

parchment, filling her arms with the objects that held her attention, in
only briefly, for the past week.

"You were reading?" Harry smirked, "Was I not interesting

company?"

"Not particularly." She laughed, "Quite dull, in truth."

"I'll try and be more engaging next time," Harry said, catching sight of
the book she cradled in her arms. "What were you reading?"

"Nothing," Fleur said quickly, too quickly, and Harry instantly knew
where to push.

" Secrets with Sirens." He recited, spying the title through her arms, "
An Unforgivable Romance."

She moved her arm quickly to cover the title, a cross look appearing
on her face.

"Reading romance now are we?" He could feel the corners of his lips
tug progressively higher as she attempted to feign nonchalance,
though it had quickly given way to annoyance.

She had always been quick to detest such concepts. To her,

romance could never be so simple as to be written .

"I was not reading it." She scowled, anger evident in her tone.

He shot the book a look, then sent another in her direction.

Then, he laughed.
He couldn't help himself - no matter how terribly he ached, no matter
how the outlook seemed, he simply laughed.

And so did she.

Despite it all, they laughed - together. There truly was nothing like
the struggle to breathe as they laughed, nothing like a sore stomach
in the right company.

And there was no one like her.

With her, it was natural. With her, he could find both the normalcy he
yearned for and the excitement he craved.

Soon, the laughter died off, and he was relegated to nursing a chest
sore from their joke. The laughter had been at nothing, and yet
together, it was everything - it was intoxicating.

The tension that had been in the air carried in by Dumbledore and
then strengthened by Fleur when she had arrived had completely
thawed. It was normal again, or at least, as normal as it would be for
now.

"I hope you've completed your Christmas shopping." Fleur said,

"You've lost your opportunity to do any more."

Despite Dumbledore bringing it up more than once, his thoughts had

been anywhere but Christmas.

"How far away is it?" He groaned, putting his head back into the
pillow.

"It's Christmas Eve, Harry. You have impeccable timing." He couldn't

see her face, but the smugness in her voice made it clear enough
she'd be grinning.

At least I can give her my present on time.

"Well, I've got your present, I suppose." He shrugged.

"I hope it's quite good, recompense for having to sit here for a week."

"Here I thought you said you were happy to do it?" Harry said, faux-
pain lacing his words.

"I said that I promised." She amended, "Not that I enjoyed such an
activity."

I'll concede that.

"I suppose it's back to the Burrow then?"

"Soon." She nodded, "But you might want to fix that first."

The salve on his chest remained unapplied, and he sat up once

more, procuring the small container from beside him.

He broke contact with her eyes, as much as he yearned for the

ocean within it seemed almost unbearable to him. To have what he
sought so close to him, only to remain forever out of reach. It was a
thought he didn't wish to entertain at that moment.

He instead found a sudden interest in laying the paste over the scar
tissue of his chest. Sadly, however, with the way the scar ran
upwards, he couldn't crane his neck adequately to apply the viscous
paste, he probed gently around the tender area as Fleur watched on,
amused.

It took a moment of watching him aimlessly attempt to tend to the

wound before she chimed in.

"Give it here." She offered, snatching the glass jar from his hands
before he could muster any form of argument.

She retrieved a generous amount of the balm with two fingers,

reaching across his body to slather it on blackened skin. Gentle
fingers ran to and fro, leaving a soft layer of the translucent paste
behind.
He had tried to convince himself that the gesture was chaste,
although part of him quickly warred against the judgement. Unsure if
anything she did was intentional, purposefully crafted to
communicate something beyond her words and actions, or if it was
just a desperate overanalysis of her.

He yearned for something beyond platonic, though he was unsure if

he would find it.

Every touch of her hands seemed to linger far longer than it should
have, their eyes made tentative contact throughout the ordeal, and
once the salve had fully been applied, her open palm remained upon
his skin, idly resting just above his heart. It remained for a few
moments before she retracted it, returning it to her side.

It's all so confusing .

The manner in which she had mounted the side of the bed had left
little to the imagination. Pressed tight against him alongside the work
of her hands elicited a reaction within him he didn't much care for at
that moment.

Thankfully protected by the thin sheet that covered his navel and
below, such a reaction remained inconspicuous, if it had drawn
attention, she didn't acknowledge it.

She placed the lid on the container and descended back to the
ground.

"Did Madam Pomfrey know how long you have to stay before you're
discharged?" Fleur questioned. Perhaps it was a trick of the glittering
sunlight, casting a glow against her, but her cheeks seemed to carry
the slightest of red tinges.

"I'm not too sure," Harry said, glancing through the gap in the curtain
to see if Madam Pomfrey was present. "Professor Dumbledore was
meant to decide if I was ready to leave, but he's been gone for some
time."
"Shall I go speak to her?" She asked.

"Nah," He waved her off, "I should be alright, not the first time I've
snuck out of here."

"More stories to tell me, no doubt," Fleur said.

"I've kept a few of the good ones to myself."

A lot of them.

"The Headmaster had some elves send your trunk along to the
Burrow." Fleur explained, "Are you ready to leave?"

Am I?

He shifted his legs over the side of the bed, they screamed in protest
as he provoked the numb limbs, but they yielded to his commands.
He momentarily forgot he was clad only in his underwear and
covered in runes. Procuring his wand from where the Headmaster
had left it, he balled the bedsheet up with one hand and waved his
wand around it. It soon became a robe decent enough to wear, and
he draped it over his shoulders.

I'll have to return the sheet . Harry mused Madam Pomfrey won't be
pleased.

It was an oddly daunting prospect, walking after being in bed for so

long. The distance to the ground seemed far larger than it had any
right to. Fighting back a brief sensation of vertigo, he crossed the
distance to the floor. His feet met cold stones, and the limbs relished
the restored blood flow.

The salve did much to stamp out the discomfort in his chest, but as
for the rest of his body, the pain relief potion struggled to beat back
the ache. The runes prickled with discomfort as his legs took the
weight of his body for the first time in a long while. He took his first
step forward tentatively, possessing all the grace of a toddler, the
second was more refined, and the third was normal.

He peered out of the curtains, the coast was clear for the moment,
gesturing Fleur to follow him, he slipped out of the cordoned-off area
and made for the door quietly with her in tow. Their espionage
endeavour worked well enough, and soon they slipped the door
open and squeezed through the small gap.

Hogwarts was as he remembered, the morning light shone through

the windows in a way that produced a familiar warmth only the
Castle could boast. The sun's beams were a gentle caress; the snow
had long since stopped. It was a welcome change from the perpetual
coldness the Hospital Wing had permeated.

It was his turn to follow her; she led him through the halls until they
arrived at a familiar destination - Professor McGonagall's Office.
Their belongings were already at the Burrow, and it was now their
turn to follow suit.

The journey, however, had begun to perturb him. On the other side
of the floo awaited Bill and with him, a truth he did not want to face.

There was the briefest moment of hesitation from him. He could stay
at Hogwarts, feign he wasn't feeling well, that perhaps the curse
pained him still. It'd hurt the Weasleys, but he wondered if that'd be
preferable to seeing Bill and Fleur together.

He had dreaded the arrival of the eldest Weasley since the night
Ginny had told him, though up until now it had always seemed
peripheral. He hadn't seen them together, so their relationship was
inherently incomprehensible to Harry, as if it didn't exist because he
hadn't seen it.

His optimism was childish, as was his desire to cause pain because
he was being hurt.

Because I was a fool .

There was a turmoil within him before he could reach a conclusion.

I'll need to confront the truth somewhere along the line. He

rationalised, It's better I do it sooner, rather than later.

Professor McGonagall's office was empty, likely already having

relocated to the Headmaster's office for the tenure of her position as
Headmistress. Fleur was the first to go through, throwing her powder
into the flames and ascending in a plume of fire.

Harry stepped up to the mark to follow her, grasping the ornate urn
from the mantle and pouring a generous amount of glittering green
powder into his hands.

He weighed the sand-like grains within his hand, letting some slip
through his fingers as he stepped into the clutches of the tall
fireplace.

"The Burrow."

His voice was clear, though it lacked the resolve it might've

possessed earlier. The flickering flames were pleasantly warm until
the powder fell from his hands and turned a deep emerald.

Within the shortest of moments, he was sucked through the chimney

and beyond into the floo network.

He closed his eyes to shield himself from the motley colours that
flashed beyond his eyelids and steeled himself against the air that
shot past his ears.

As green flames faded around him and Harry stepped into the
familiar surroundings of the Burrow, Harry had hope, if only for the
briefest of moments.

Fleur stood only a few feet ahead of him, conveying all the signs of
someone thoroughly annoyed. Her arms were crossed in front of her,
as he advanced, he could see her narrowed eyes and tense
shoulders.

Following her eyes had not been a difficult task, the lounge room of
the Weasleys wasn't small, and the line forming dominated most of
the space available.

The Weasleys and Hermione had soon formed their ranks in full and
at the Vanguard was the one Weasley he had hoped to avoid. Bill
Weasley stood at the forefront, awaiting their arrival from the
fireplace.

He wore a cocky smile, one levelled at the pair. He was tall, but not
overly so. Long red-hair fell behind him, and his ears were adorned
with jewellery he couldn't make out from this distance.

If Harry was vain, he might've argued that he was better looking than
him.

But he was not.

Instead, he was engrossed in the tension that sat between both him
and Fleur and the Weasleys.

He felt selfish, hoping that perhaps that the gap between them had
grown too great, the rift too large to surmount with a single meeting
alone.

Despite the tension, despite the rift - imagined or not, Fleur crossed
the gap with a few belated steps and met Bill in the middle with a
hug.

It was not the chaste kiss that he'd seen in Gringotts all those
months ago, nor was it the outlandish head-over-heels reinvigoration
of passion he feared. But they were together, and with their union,
the truth of the matter had become apparent enough, punching the
air from his lungs in a single, swift motion.
He hadn't the time to ponder where it had gone wrong, for he was
met with an embrace of his own. A brown-haired figure hit him in the
chest; it didn't possess enough force to stagger him but enough to
shoot a flare of white-hot pain through his chest - courtesy of the
provoked scar tissue and runes.

Harry, however, did not have the courage to dishearten Hermione;

instead, he wrapped his uninjured arm around her.

"I'm okay." He whispered in her ear to assure her, a gesture he was

sure to repeat many times before the affair was over.

Hermione pulled away from him, her eyes shimmering with water
and joy. But despite the same visible delight, there was the hardy
glint of determination. He'd seen such a look in her brown orbs
countless times, though, there was no exam to finish, no spell to
learn - no riddle to crack.

Except for me. Harry thought. I'm the enigma.

They certainly hadn't spoken a word of why Harry had been in the
Hospital Wing, for reasons that were abundantly clear. That, more
than anything, perturbed Hermione Granger. Her methods, austere,
her intentions, less so.

But she seldom came across a problem she couldn't solve.

And when she looks at me, she sees a problem.

That was how she dealt with such issues, wielding rationality rather
than empathy. From the education of grieving methods to the look in
her eyes at that very moment, she never failed to push such a point.

A conversation would ensue - that much was certain.

Could I tell them the truth?

The conversation would come, but not now.

Ron shuffled forward and embraced him. Their gesture didn't last
nearly as long as Hermione's, a quick hug and a short pat on the
back, careful not to disturb the sensitive skin.

"You alright mate?" He asked, concern lacing his voice although in a

way as if he was unsure how to express it aptly.

"I feel as good as I look." Harry joked.

Ron, for all the mocking of his teaspoon-sized emotional depth and
their fair-weather friendship, held an emotional tact that Hermione
did not. He sensed the insincerity within Harry's words but relented
at the banter. Assured that if he could still joke, the wound wasn't
mortal.

"Best not let mum hear you say that one." He japed in return, "She's
likely to cart you off to St. Mungo's if she knows you feel that badly."

With Ron's departure, the rest of the Weasley's flooded in earnest.

Ginny was first, following with a short embrace and some quick
pleasantries. After her, followed the persistently exhilarated forms of
Fred and George, who animatedly shook his hand and congratulated
him on another lengthy stay in the Hospital Wing.

Such a gesture earned the ire of Mrs Weasley, who dispersed them
quickly with a harsh glare, followed by her infamous bone-crushing
hug, despite his injuries. Mister Weasley was sure to swing past,
incapable of not ensuring he had Harry's assistance with some
muggle gadgets he'd reverse-engineered.

Then, the last Weasley present emerged.

Bill stood before him, with the close proximity Harry could get the
measure of him. Harry's head came just above his mouth, and the
glittering jewellery seemed to be earrings, small fangs that pierced
his ears.
He looked, despite Harry's feelings, good-natured, wearing the same
grin on his face as when they'd arrived.

I detest someone I've barely met.

He hid the contempt he felt for him under the veneer of a well-
meaning greeting.

He abandoned Fleur, left her here at the Weasleys where they hated
her . Harry rationalised.

Though it did not make him feel any better.

"Good to see you again, Harry." The redhead said, extending his
hand.

"Likewise." He replied tersely, grasping his hand and giving it a solid

shake.

With the final shake of Bill's hand, which he might've been squeezing
too tightly, the pleasantries concluded and the haphazard reunion
ended.

The fanfare of Harry's arrival dispersed into the air as quickly as it

had manifested, he was then ushered further into the confined of the
Burrow as everyone dispersed - presumably to whatever task they
had before his arrival.

He made his way further into the lounge room. The Weasley
Christmas tree rose tall into the ceiling of the Burrow. Adorned with a
variety of baubles and ornaments that lit the room brightly, some
displayed each of the Weasley children. Others merely whistled a
festive tune at sporadic intervals. It's thick branches danced to the
same music - it wasn't the prettiest of sights, but it was far from
garish.

In some ways, it was reminiscent of the Weasleys - It was unrefined,

yet it was a display of family as much as it was festivities, rough-
edged but warm.

At Ron's direction, they sought out the corner table for a game of
Wizard's Chess, which, if nothing else, would provide a meaningless
distraction for the moment.

They set the board up, and within the first few moves, Ron's superior
game sense had manoeuvred him into an equally superior position.
If it wasn't already a futile endeavour battling Ron in chess, Bill and
Fleur had also sought out a corner, talking in whispers that could've
been harsh, though he didn't turn to see. Between that and his
already inferior skills, Ron made short work of him.

They set the board up for another game and had begun in earnest,
or at least earnest for Ron, for Harry it was more akin to
prevarication, desperately trying to prolong the game. He started this
round in a much better position, although still nowhere near Ron.

"Take his pawn, the leftmost one." A voice whispered behind him,
acting the coach.

It was an almost tantalising tone from Fleur, who had abandoned her
conversation to assist him. He did as he was bid, manoeuvring his
pieces at her behest, a move that had Ron furrow his brow in
confusion.

She began to offer prudent advice to Harry, telling him where to

move and what to take. It developed an ebb and flow that saw Harry
almost tie with Ron. Though his close game mattered little to him, he
played only to hear the whisper, to send the pleasurable shiver down
his spine.

The game finished too quickly for Harry; her coaching was both a
blessing he wished to keep and a curse that haunted him. Soon, she
returned to the lounge and Harry feigned tiredness, setting off
towards Ron's room.
The Ghoul in the attic beat a sorrowful tune on the pipes above, the
clangorous clash of steel echoing through the house as it wailed in
grief.

The next day rose and with it, Christmas.

It rolled around with all the decorum of the flying bludger Fred and
George managed to arc through one of the windows. The Weasley
Household bustled with an energy more befitting a rowdy pub than
any mundane family. Shouting rang through the walls, and the smell
of an early breakfast wafted up the tall stairs, filling the house with its
delicious aroma.

Ron slipped on a pair of worn slippers once the smell of food awoke
him from his loud slumber, he tore down the steps at a speed
rivalling any decent racing broom. Whoever was left asleep was
surely woken up by his furious pounding down the wooden steps.

Harry followed him down, carting his hastily wrapped presents in his
arms. He had initially planned to wrap them before he left Hogwarts,
but that plan had been forgotten in favour of his duty . With a quick
hand from Mrs Weasley, they covered them promptly; it wasn't the
prettiest affair, but for a decoration that was going to be torn off, it
would do.

He descended to the lounge room where everyone was assembled

around the tree, where he was forced to raise the facade that
everything was pleasant. Bill and Fleur sat on the worn lounge, that
was almost enough to spoil Christmas morning for him.

"Merry Christmas," Harry announced, forcing himself to sound

cheery from the bottom of the stairs.

He was met with a resounding echo of returning wishes. He took a

seat on the floor next to Hermione. The entirety of the Weasley Clan
was present, sans Charlie and Percy and the room was packed to
the brim, almost bursting at the seams as indicated by how he was
thoroughly sandwiched between Hermione and Fred.

Then, the sudden exchange of gifts began.

From Mr and Mrs Weasley and surprisingly Ginny, he received the

annual sweater, the same maroon and gold as last year, although a
fair bit bigger than last year and this time had an animated snitch
that flew around the midsection.

In return, Ginny got a broom polishing kit and Mrs Weasley, a new
skillet he had mail-ordered from Diagon Alley. Mr Weasley received a
plethora of ballpoint pens that he had stolen from Uncle Vernon with
that exact intent.

Hermione came next, and a wand care kit found its way into his hand
after she cited that ' Broom Polish was no way to take care of a
wand.'

He had gifted her various disquisitions about wizarding theory, it was

too convoluted and specific for Harry even to make it through the first
page, but Fleur assured him it'd be an exciting read.

If anyone was ever going to get any use out of them, it's Hermione.

Ron followed, from Harry he received the Terror Transceiver and a

Chudley Cannons jersey of his new favourite player, Bailey. In return,
he got the various weird sweets, Liquorice Locust, Amber
Amphibians and various other novel foods. Ron seemed thoroughly
pleased with his present, swinging the jersey over his head without a
second thought.

Fred and George gave him a plethora of experimental products that

he was assured that he'd have quite a bit of fun with, in return he
offered to endorse a few of their products for them and pay for some
adverts. He remained unsure of their present for an age and decided
to cater to their only true passion in life.
Harry hadn't bought anything for Bill, given the fact he didn't know he
was coming until it was too late and the fact that he didn't really want
to - but the man seemed to understand.

Then, the main event had arrived.

Fleur's gift.

Hers was wrapped far better than his, each gift found its way into its
intended's hands, and he was delegated to opening it first. He tore
carefully at the surrounding paper, forming a tear large enough to
pull the present from its confines.

It's us.

It was a photo frame - ornate, burnished wood that smelt strongly of

lavender. Within the frame was an animated photo, from one of
Slughorn's parties from the looks of it. Both of them held a drink in
their hands, appearing to laugh good-naturedly before she leant
down to rest her head on his shoulders.

The gift meant much to him; he shielded it from the view of the
others as they continued opening presents.

He likely didn't give it the due it deserved, instead trying to find

meaning in aromatic wood and the animated memory.

"Thank you." Harry raised his head to make eye contact, his voice
thick but drowned out by the boisterousness of the room.

"It took forever to find someone to take a picture who wasn't already
drunk." She smiled softly, "I enjoyed your company that night."

He returned the smile and nodded towards the present within her
hands.

It was her turn now, the gift he'd spent hours deciding on and many
galleons in pursuit of.
But she meant more to him than stamped gold coins or the tedious
writing of letters. He'd liaised with Gabrielle and Fleur's mother for
the better part of a month and a half, which took courage in and of
itself. But in good time, their plan had worked.

Fleur tore the paper open with the same respect for the item inside
that he displayed, eventually freeing it to appraise it with a keen eye.

It was a book or more aptly, a journal of her own.

On the face was an illustration, one he had struggled to remember,

but the craftsmanship seemed masterful. It was Fleur and Gabrielle
when they were both younger, on the stuffed Griffin that she had said
was her favourite memory, in-flight around a willow tree in their yard.

She had often reminisced about moments with her sister, and now, it
was immortalised in a book of her own.

Gabrielle had provided the memory, and her mother sought a man in
Lyon to charm and paint the journal. It had taken much effort to
convince the stalwart Apolline Delacour to assist him, and for some
time, he thought the plan was destined to fail.

Though, the look in her eyes justified it all.

She turned it over, observing the other cover, the adjacent picture
was of them the first time he had won a duel. Worn from spells and
bad news, they laid side-by-side on the cold ground, a moment he
remembered fondly.

Inside the covers were decorated with artistry of a different kind. He

breathed life into some of the pages with Dumbledore's spells, or at
least, the ones he had tested and known well enough to detail.

He had spent most of his time perfecting his quillmanship to ensure it

was neat enough to be legible.

"How?" She questioned, looking up to meet his eyes.

"Gabrielle helped me." Harry explained with a smile that threatened
to split his face, "She got your Mother on board too, they provided
the memories, I just paid for it."

"Dare I even ask what Gabrielle made you do for this?"

"Not too much." Harry assured, "Just a few galleons."

And the command to come to France in the near future.

"Thank you." She spoke softly, gazing upon him with ocean blue
eyes that he blinked rapidly to be free from.

She moved from the lounge, crossing the crowded distance between
them before kneeling to embrace him tightly as she had the day
before.

She held him longer than she should have if only to reignite the wick
of hope within him once more.

It felt as if they were the only pair in the room, thought of redheads
long since forgotten.

She separated from him and returned to the lounge to gaze at the
present once more. Harry, on the other hand, bathed in their close
contact, foolishly allowing that same wick to burn unimpeded instead
of snuffing it out.

With the final presents dispensed, the gift-giving ceremony

concluded, and they all retreated outside in the pursuit of breakfast.

The picnic table soon filled to capacity, so another was conjured. The
tables soon became filled with boisterous laughter and the clanking
of silverware. Fred and George had brought balls of confetti that
danced around and formed into various creatures. Mrs Weasley had
sourced enormous crackers that spilt out various magical novelties,
glasses that gave the wearers a bushy moustache or made their
ears huge.
The legion of Weasley's present had slowly devoured the large,
hearty breakfast. Progressing through bowls of food with practised
ease before a noise from inside the Burrow drew the table's
attention.

A flare of green light against the windows and the roar of flickering
flames sent Mister Weasley into the house, wand drawn to discern
the source of the noise.

He had entered as one and returned as two.

"Hope you lot are still taking late additions." A voice announced from
behind Mister Weasley that sent the Weasley's into a fervour.

"Charlie!" Ron called out, rushing to give his brother a hug. Soon all
the assembled Weasleys followed suit and were up to greet him.

He was as tall as Bill, taller even, but clearly carried the evidence of
his employment much worse. His hands were discoloured, a
leathery, dull scarlet, highlighting burnt tissue. His red hair was likely
short for the same reason for the burns, barely making it an inch
from his scalp.

Charlie Weasley - the dragon handler.

"Don't start swarming." The man swore with a grin, "I couldn't take
presents through the portkey, no need to start looking so interested
in me."

Harry came over to meet the man; he'd never met Charlie properly
before, the only Weasley with that distinction now.

"Harry Potter." Charlie announced, "I've heard a lot about you." He

made to shake his hand, which was understandably hardened with
callouses, reminiscent of Hagrid's behemoth fists

"If Ron told you anything about me, I wouldn't believe it," Harry
explained to a smattering of laughs. "Can't trust that bloke."
"Oi!" Ron cried, "Get out of it!"

"He reckoned you were a good mate and a bloody decent wizard."
Charlie returned.

"Most trustworthy one among the lot." Harry amended quickly, "Best
mate you've ever seen, believe it all."

"That's more like it," Ron muttered, and Charlie laughed once more,
off to greet Hermione.

Breakfast resumed with the newest addition, as the morning

progressed, Harry found he quite liked the second Weasley son. He
seemed very jovial, not cut from the same cloth as the twins, but
enough to have the table laughing more often than not. Regaling
them with tales of his work in Romania, the majority seeing Mrs
Weasley launch into a bout of scolding, but he took it in his stride.

With the excitement over for the morning, everyone retired inside to
take stock of their presents. Harry followed their example and
retreated to Ron's Room, desperate to combat the section of
Christmas Day that always seemed tedious.

Harry took his position in his bed, placing his gift from Fleur on the
bedside table. Ron followed soon behind him into the room.

He didn't say anything as he entered the room, but Harry had known
him long enough to know something lingered beneath the surface. If
his face wasn't any indicator, his drooped posture was.

He's sulking. Harry noted he'd seen him do it countless times over
the years, from championship debacles to breakfasts cut short.

Pushing him won't get me anywhere.

"Harry?" Ron spoke after a short while in the room, clearly having to
gain the courage to speak.
"Yeah, mate?" Harry returned, turning his eyes from the roof to the
Redhead across the room.

"Do you…" He paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, or

more courage even, "Do you think the Chudley Cannons are really
that bad?"

Harry paused for a moment before he let out a loud chuckle.

"You're terrible at lying. You do know that, yeah?"

"Absolutely no clue what you mean." He murmured in response.

"What's really eating you today?' Harry asked, about to feign

knowledge on a subject he was no doubt just as inept at as Ron.

"It's nothing, just, you know?"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't?"

"Sod off." Ron blew a breath of hot air past his lips. "You know,
Hermione and me?"

"I think I could've seen you once or twice." Harry teased, "Why's
that?"

"Do you reckon we could ever really work together?"

His question hung in the air for a moment, catching Harry unaware.

Wasn't what I thought he'd ask, or at least, not in so many words.

"I reckon you could." Harry assured him after a moment, "What's
brought this on?"

"She's been on me since Slughorn's party about the Prince's spells,"

Ron explained.

"Did you stop practising them?"

"No." Ron admitted, "How could I?"

"So you're on the outs now I take it?"

"That's one way to put it." Ron nodded, "It's just… how would we
ever work when all we do is argue?"

"You'll never know unless you try, I suppose." Harry counselled, "You
could always ask her."

If only I could take my own advice.

"No, thanks." Ron let out a forced chuckle.

"I'm serious." Harry pushed, "Remember what I said at Slughorn's

Party?"

"Vaguely."

"You're never going to be happy if you waste away thinking about it.
Either it works, or it doesn't, but there's not much use in agonising
about it."

More sage advice spilt from his lips that he didn't have the
confidence to follow himself. His words seemed to give Ron
something to think on, the conversation fading as he immersed
himself in his thoughts once again.

"How do you reckon I should do it?"

Harry shrugged, "I'll be honest mate, I've never given plans to ask
Hermione out much thought.

"Oh, you don't say?" Ron returned sarcastically, "Seriously, I'm going
to need something."

"I don't really know Ron. Why not ask Bill or Charlie?"
"Definitely not." Ron snorted, "Charlie prefers dragons over birds and
Bill? He's not that down-to-earth, you know? Romance isn't his style,
adventure and glamour are, won't get much use out of that here."

"I thought you told me Bill was a casanova ?"

"Yeah, he is." Ron nodded, "But she's worth more than one of Bill's
lines."

So is Fleur, he thought.

"I doubt curse-breaking will help you." Harry said.

"What do you reckon about mistletoe?"

"Yes." Harry drawled, "I'm sure we'll love being taken advantage of
because of a plant, sounds exactly like Hermione."

"Then what?" Ron asked, frustrated, tossing his pillow about.

"I don't know." Harry said, "Why not try and do something after
dinner? Like a walk in the garden or something - something she'd
appreciate."

Ron seemed to consider it for a while. "Brilliant mate, bloody

brilliant." He exclaimed, "You know for a bloke who's only girlfriend
was a disaster, you're pretty flashy with this romance business."

"So the Apprentice becomes the Master," Harry spoke, his tone
imitating something Dumbledore would wield.

His words seemed to set Ron at ease, anxiety abated from his form,
and he landed against his pillow with a content sigh.

Maybe that's what I needed, someone to talk to.

Someone to assure him as he had Ron, that perhaps Fleur felt the
same, offer some wisdom where he felt he had none.
But that was wishful thinking.

"Hey, Ron?"

"Yeah, Harry?"

"Just for the record and all, I do think the Chudley Cannons are that
bad." Ron let out a little chuckle at his words.

"I know mate, I know. It's not my fault you're too daft to see it."

"That's us, isn't it mate? A pair of daft wankers."

"Trust me. You've got absolutely no idea."

"I've got some idea," Harry responded jokingly.

They returned their gaze to the roof, the beams offered little comfort,
but there was no harm in trying.

Lunch passed as a comparatively dull affair, highlighted by a

quidditch game he neglected to join out of respect for his injuries.

Dinner, however, was not content with being outdone, within hours
the Burrow was back in full force, eager to embark into the further
festivities of the evening.

The picnic tables were transfigured into a single, larger table that
housed the entirety of the family and their guests, alive with chatter
and laughter as always.

The twins had charmed the turkey to dance an Irish Jig in a valiant
attempt to evade capture from Mrs Weasley's wand, Ginny and Ron
tried their best to destroy the table with a game of exploding snap,
one that had already cracked the wood beneath them.

Charlie embarked on another tale to Mr Weasley and Hermione

engaged Bill in conversation about curses. The Christmas tree
whirled and whistled a festive tune. Even the Ghoul did it's best to
supplement the festivities with his orchestra of pipes.

It was very much the spirit of Christmas.

Fleur sat opposite to him, engaged as far in the festivities as she

dared, bouncing through conversation in an attempt to find common
ground. She was currently entertained by Charlie, whose story
happened to contain the same dragon she had charmed in the
tournament.

"A fang?" He could hear Mrs Weasley sigh as conversation switched

once more, " Really? Bill, what would they think at the bank?"

"Surprisingly, the Goblin's aren't interested in my appearance, Mum."

Bill tried to placate her, "I could wear whatever I want, as long as I
ensure there's gold for them to pilfer."

Fleur had overheard that conversation if the sudden frown that

marred her face was any indication. Mrs Weasley joined her with
such a scowl and instead, began fretting over Bill's long hair.

They had feasted yet again on well-cooked food, but it wouldn't have
been Christmas with Harry Potter if it wasn't ripe with interruptions.

A bright-white figure had emerged from the treeline in the distance,

illuminating the grass beneath it. It contained its approach until the
entire household was peering intently at its advancing form.

It was a Patronus - a cat.

No, a Lynx . He'd seen it before.

" Arthur, bring Bill and report to Headquarters as soon as possible."

It was the thick, accented baritone of Kingsley Shacklebolt that came

from the Patronus's mouth, distorted by the magic that carried it. Its
appearance alongside its message seemed to sedate the
atmosphere of the table before it disappeared into a silver wisp.
Bill and Arthur rose and gave their farewells, bound for the floo while
Charlie took off after them, offering his assistance.

The joyous spirit The Burrow possessed mere moments ago had
fallen silent, disappearing with Kingsley's Patronus. Lively chatter
turned to mutters as festivities were forgotten in favour
acknowledging the truth that everyone had strived to ignore.

There's still a war going on.

He felt guilt rise within him, surging to the forefront of his mind. The
entire time he'd wished for nothing more than Bill to be gone, to try
and restore something he once had.

Now, he was gone. Off to help the Order while he remained at the
Burrow. No amount of anger, righteous or petty, could stop him from
feeling that guilt.

I'm a coward.

It suddenly seemed bleak; the griseous-hue of the moon seemed

overbearing. The twins, true to their form, attempted to restore the
festive mood, but despite their efforts, the sombre silence still lorded
its dominance.

Mrs Weasley seemed disinterested in her cooking; Hermione had

forgone eating entirely. Ron had continued to eat.

Though I doubt anything would tear him away from a plate .

Though, to his credit, he also looked worried. Ginny, however,

replaced her worry with anger, her fist wrapped tightly around the
stem of her fork as she skewered potatoes.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" Hermione asked gently.

Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, scared of disturbing that

uneasy equilibrium that was the silence of the table - unsure if her
words might shift the balance from silence to panic.
No one seemed sure of how to answer, and Harry was going to try
and contribute something though Fleur beat him to it.

"You needn't be worried, Hermione," Fleur told her, though it

appeared her words didn't have the placating effect she seemed to
intend.

Molly looked aghast, Ginny tightened her grip, choking the fork with
a white-knuckled grip as she skewered another potato with a vicious
and violent swing, even Ron looked up from his roast beef.

"Excuse me?" Ginny asked, her voice daring Fleur to speak against
them.

"Do you truly think so little of them?" Fleur posed a question, pushing
the idea that they'd return in good health. "Bill is a talented Curse
Breaker, Charlie, a Dragon Handler. Kingsley, a veteran Auror and
Arthur, a respectable wizard in his own right. I've little concern for
their martial might should the need arise and all the concern for any
who should try and interdict their plans."

Molly's face seemed to return to worry, as opposed to furious and

Ginny's fist opened slightly, letting her fork down but not her scowl,
though, if nothing else, it saved another potato from a vicious death
at the hands of Ginny Weasley.

The twins gave a final attempt to lighten the mood, they charmed
Ron's shoes to tickle his feet, but no one was under the impression
that the dinner could be salvaged.

Harry excused himself from the table, all the while, Fleur watched
him intently.

I think some time to myself might do me some good.

He made his way to the Burrow's orchard bordering the small creek.
It was peaceful there, somewhere he could leave it all behind.
The stream trickled down the slight incline with a serene melody, the
trees were coated with a thin layer of sleet, caught up in the
branches, the ground too was cold, but at the very least not wet.

In Spring, the trees were filled with apples and other assorted fruits,
the wind swung a delicate song through their branches, and the
Weasleys liked to swim where the water was deeper.

But in the depths of winter, it was barren, almost skeletal.

The sky, however, was incredibly beautiful tonight, the full moon cast
a luminous glow on everything beneath it. The trees cast soft
shadows, it made it a little less cold somehow, though he was less
concerned with the temperature, he just stared skywards.

The stars shone brightly, seeking out his favourite almost

instantaneously, the Dog Star - Sirius . It twinkled a light purple in the
sky, almost as if it was winking at him. Sirius had shown it to him,
from the window of Grimmauld Place one night. It was the only
astronomy lesson Harry had ever loved, and it certainly wasn't from
Hogwarts.

It felt like there was almost an inherent connection between Harry

and the Star, it felt like one of the last tangible links between him and
Sirius. He liked to gaze upon it whenever he could as if Sirius could
still hear him.

He was up there, in Orion's Belt. He talked about his father very little,
but he got the idea that he was a good man, like Sirius.

His mother, on the other hand, held the whip in the House of Black.
Every time she cracked it, Sirius was driven further from them until
he found James Potter.

Maybe you're happy up there, with your father and your family. Harry
thought. Hopefully, you've found that peace that you couldn't find
down here.
He continued gazing at the violet star.

A bit of advice wouldn't go amiss, you know? I'm in a bit of a

predicament, you see.

"So this is where you've gotten off to?" A voice questioned from
behind him approaching from the Burrow.

A voice he cared for.

Fleur was bundled tightly in her winter robe, the one that had been
laden with snow and blood the day Katie had been attacked.

"I like it here." He responded, breaking his gaze from Sirius, the
moonlight highlighted her silver hair, giving her an almost ethereal
glow, it shone down her cascading hair and blue robes.

"Even in this cold?" She asked, "You'll catch your death out here,
Harry. Who shall save the people should you die to the winter?

It was a light joke, but the last thing he needed was the reminder that
there was far more trouble beyond his heart.

He merely shrugged.

She took a spot beside him, laying down and too, looking up at the
stars,

"What are you looking at?" She questioned.

"Sirius." He answered. "The star."

"Show it to me." She asked gently.

"See that there?" He directed her gaze with a finger to the purple
glow that shined brightest.

"It's beautiful." She said, "Your Godfather's name?"

He merely nodded his head.

"Do you like it out here?" Fleur asked, "Watching the stars that is?"

"It's nice," He clarified, "Makes you realise how small all our
problems are." He turned on his side, looking to her. His tone was
terse, even pained if he was honest. However, he couldn't help but
let it escape.

"You're being moody." She said bluntly, misinterpreting his pain for
brooding.

I like to think of myself being above moping. He thought sourly.

Even if he wasn't.

"No, I'm not." He defended himself.

"You are." She reiterated strongly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He tried lamely.

She didn't believe him for a moment.

"You're lying." She said, "Don't make me get it out of you." She
threatened.

"Oh yeah?" He scoffed. "I'm sure I'd love to see that."

Her fingers probed his side, at first he thought she was just poking
him, but the fingers wriggled in his side, and he squirmed to avoid
them, letting out an uncharacteristic giggle.

She was tickling him.

"You tickled me." He said, confounded at the sudden contact.

"I warned you." She said and reached for him once more, tickling his
side, he tried to roll away, but she was ready.
Like a beast stalking its prey, she pounced on him, straddling him
just above his waist to pin him. Harry was more shocked than
anything, but soon her fingers found his side, and she kept him in
place.

It was child-like, but she had the unique ability to make him forget
the war, forget everything that troubled him.

"Going to tell me yet?" She asked. "Or shall I be forced to interrogate

you further?"

He was ready this time, she tried again, but he threw her off and
began to tickle her sides in return. It was a short tussle, but with a
few graceful moves, she was back on top of him. He was fearful of
testing the limits of the scar tissue or healing salve, and hence, she
overpowered and mounted him with ease.

"Do you yield?" She offered. Her face was only inches away as she
mocked him, close enough, her breath tickled his face.

"Alright, Alright." He relented, "You win."

"So what's wrong?" She asked again.

Ocean met Emerald as they had so many times before. Every piece
of counsel he'd had was in his mind at that moment, each thought a
contribution to the maelstrom, from Dumbledore's advice to Helena's
lament in death.

He felt both a man tall and a boy before her.

He looked past her for a moment, Sirius was shining brighter than
before, twinkling greater than any other star in the sky, as if
beckoning him to confess.

"You." He said hoarsely, "You're the problem."

The words were said - the barrier burst.

Happiness is a duty to oneself. Harry recited, I owe it to myself to try.

It felt like a betrayal; in some ways, it was . He could've held his

mouth closed, refrained from speaking any further, saved himself
from further betrayals.

But he wouldn't - couldn't .

"Me?" She asked, confused, "I'm the problem?"

"It's you. It's always been you."

"What do you mean Harry?"

It seemed little but a dream, a star beyond his grasp, silver-hued as

the hair that enshrouded his vision. He could not reach out, for fear
he would fall.

And yet, he reached.

"I love you."

They were simple words, ones he'd imagine speaking half-a-hundred

times.

So he did, he leapt, as he'd always feared to do.

But their impact was anything but simple.

His heart thumped harder than ever, warring against his head until
the former came out dominant.

His words felt scary, exhilarating, intoxicating. He could've spoken

them again and again, relishing the feeling of such a weight being
lifted off his chest.

It was what came after, however, that replaced the weight that
discouraged him from that - the same knife of sorrow that pierced his
breast.
She seemed stunned, remaining straddled against his midriff.

And remained silent.

The heart that had leapt at the opportunity had sunk back into his
chest, every second that past was merely a step closer to the
inevitable confirmation that he had failed.

He had played his hand and come up short, his lips dried and his
throat constricted. Now, he desperately wished to be anywhere else.

"Harry, I'm engaged." She offered weakly, her first words and ones
he had dreaded to hear.

"Don't," He pleaded. "Please, just don't . We've shared magic, we've

learned, we've plotted, we've drank, we've laughed. Don't use Bill as
an excuse as if it erases everything - it doesn't, it can't ."

There was the briefest of pauses. Fleur's eyes shone in the light
moonlight. Her breath quickened; he could feel the short bursts of
hot air on his cheeks.

" I love you. " He announced again, "I can't pretend like I don't - like I
never felt anything. I won't pretend, please don't ask me to try."

"Harry…" She said in a breathless voice.

The gap between his lips and hers was far from insurmountable. If
he was gallant, he could reach up and capture them with his own.

If only he dared.

But he wouldn't.

"Please, just… don't." He didn't want the words to leave her lips, that
the feelings were unrequited, he shifted his head to break their gaze,
hopeful that he found the solution.

He didn't dare look at her now, for fear he might fall again.
"Look at me."

Her voice was soft, yet hoarse, wavering with unspoken emotion.
Whatever courage he had left was spent on meeting her gaze once
more.

Then, Fleur moved.

She closed the distance between their faces with a swift motion and
met his lips with hers.

His face erupted with the heat of passion akin to the warmth he had
from holding his wand, amplified tenfold.

She wrapped her arms around his neck to deepen their kiss. There
was no taste of fruit as he'd been led to believe, save the brief
glimmer of wine at her lips. She tasted of Fleur Delacour. She tasted
unique - like no one ever would.

It was addictive, and when she pushed for more, he obliged. Her
tongue peeking from her lips into his own, a delicate dance that
sparked something within the pair. Their bodies ground together in
an almost desperate fashion, trying to nurse the flame in their lips to
beat back the freezing cold.

She was fire made flesh, beauty made ethereal and love made
magic, and in that moment, she was a goddess to be worshipped.

They soon broke for air, leaning their foreheads against the other;
their heavy breath made his heart race all the faster.

Her body and soul enraptured him, every so often he'd reach up to
steal her lips once more, or she'd press down upon him, reigniting
the flame - the duel of desire.

Then, they'd return to staring into the eyes of the other. He finally
allowed himself to be fully submerged in the ocean depths to see her
heart and soul beyond.
She was not Fleur Delacour. She was not the Veela, nor the
Triwizard Tournament Competitor. She was not the woman of wit that
had been a godsend to him, nor the enigma that he could never
decipher.

She was his.

And he was hers.

Even if it was just for a night, it was enough. Even if the war would
strip him of whatever he had left, he had this.

They stayed that way for some time as the moon above them
continued its path. No words passed between them, as they held
each other. There would be time for words later, but for now, the
silence was pure bliss.

Their tangled limbs and beating hearts provided a hearty buffer

against the cold, enough so that he wished he could have stayed
there as long as he lived.

The slow thump of her heart was melodic, an artisan's piece that
signified everything that had arisen between them and everything
that had promised to come.

But soon, the beat of her heart was conquered by another noise,
sending their passion in full route.

Ping.

The noise resounded through the orchard, a hellish screeching that

pierced through the air, making it seem far colder than it was - a
noteworthy feat amidst the winter night.

Ping, it sounded again.

Ping.
Fleur was roused from his chest, breaking their embrace to peer
around inquisitively. There was a bright light that radiated across the
landscape, though dawn was not yet set to rise.

The moonlight crowned her hair as she rose, silver glittering into his
eyes as he broke from her beauty to stare past her.

Just as the moon crowned her hair, a sickly scarlet glow crowned the
Burrow.

END OF ACT I - NEWFOUND BEAUTY

BEGIN ACT II - RESISTANCE RISING.

A War Within
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : A War Within

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Welcome to the beginning of ACT II - RESISTANCE RISING, A

War Within.

Perhaps it isn't the most pleasant start, though war rarely is - even
fictional. A big thank you to my beta readers - NerdDragonVoid,
x102reddragon and Triage, alongside the support from my discord.
Speaking of which, the discord is currently on my profile, there you
can get early access to upcoming chapters, teasers and
announcements.

Outside of that, enjoy the next stage of the story and as always, stay
safe and enjoy!

ACT II - RESISTANCE RISING

The scarlet sky was hot and luminous, the backdrop of shining
constellations obscured by the flarings of heated colours.

Life is rarely so simple.

The glow could have been innocuous from this distance, leafless
trees hiding the Burrow with their branches. There was no way to
glean anything from the sky; it could've been the twins' fireworks - a
final gambit to restore dwindling the festivities.

It could be anything.

Harry stood rooted to the ground, little different to any of the

surrounding trees, her hand clasped in his - a remnant of the warmth
they just shared.

A warmth replaced by the glow they both observed. Harry cocked his
head in an attempt to understand the image before his eyes; it was
an action that imitated something a child would've done - one that
yielded no results.

"Harry." Fleur breathed, enshrouded in her words, a tone he'd

seldom heard from her.

Fear.

Her feet carried her towards the Burrow at the behest of something
he couldn't comprehend, he followed suit, seeking answers just as
she was.

It wasn't hard to find what had drawn her, his ears strained for
anything to give away the situation, and soon, he found it.

It was the taunting cackle of flames that met his ears, the roar of a
rushing inferno that forced tension into his shoulders. A grievous
song spun with fire that cut through the cold air.

The passion that had emboldened them mere moments ago was
shattered, a tenderness left at their backs as they pushed forward.
Harry's head lowered, the muscles in his legs recoiled, then fired.

And he ran as fast as his feet would carry him.

The distance between the orchard and the Burrow wasn't terribly far,
a little under a kilometre if he was to guess. Close enough to see the
sky darken as they approached but far enough to obscure the tall
house.

Fleur had been in front of him for a brief moment but had soon fallen
to his rear, long strides and fast feet born from a lifetime of fleeing
heavy hands finally paid its dues, even if he sorely wished they
hadn't.

He could still hear her footfalls behind him; however, the crunch of
worn, dead leaves and snow under her feet ensured she wasn't far
behind. They were impeded by the thicket of barren trees and shrubs
that concealed the perimeter of the Burrow. Errant branches reached
down menacingly to halt their rapid advance, their inopportune
positioning rewarding Harry with a plethora of small scratches across
his body.

Despite such impediments, he soon broke into the clearing, then the
pair stilled, confronted by the sight before them.

The Burrow was alight.

It was a ghastly sight, one that chilled him to his very core. The
scarlet sky born at the behest of the crimson inferno that encircled
the wooden house, the harsh howling of the wind formed a morbid
tale of mourning.

It appeared almost too late.

Flames shrouded the structure, surging and rolling like rushing

waves higher into the atmosphere. It fought against the dull blue
ethereal barrier that was the Weasleys' wards until they flickered and
fought one final time.

Soon, the blue dulled to nothing and gave a final forlorn screech
before it fell apart, descending towards the earth slowly. With their
target free of its protections, the structure creaked ominously, listing
back and forth under the concussive force of such magic.

Magic-born gales whipped through the surroundings, scattering

ashes and smoke around him to obscure his view.

In spite of such efforts, he could still distinguish figures beyond the

flames. Darkened cloaks and glittering masks glimmered in the heat,
misshapen beasts emerged at the apex of the inferno, encouraged
by lit wands held aloft. Imbued with the desire to dominate, to
destroy and attempting to swallow the Burrow whole with their
gaping maws. Succeeding only in tearing pieces of the structure
asunder.

A cacophony of cheers rang out, the Death Eaters gleeful in their

attack, a grating sound that stung Harry to his core. A dissonance
supplemented by the roar of fiendfyre then finally, a dangerous chord
had been struck.

The blood was in his ears as he stepped out from the foliage. Fleur
reached forward, a hand that tried to counsel caution, urge care over
recklessness, or at the very least, form a plan.

A rational Harry would've listened; he'd learned enough over this

year to know his haphazard inclination to rush to battle was only a
disservice to him. A rational Harry would've seen the odds. The
Death Eaters had numbers near twenty. Despite all his leaps and
bounds in martial magic, the odds seemed insurmountable.

But he was anything but rational. His emotions ran high. Magic
thrummed through his tendons; a crescendo was being built, he
shedded her reaching hand, rather than heeding it and took one
more step.

With his approach, a final note was played.

The war drums made themselves known for the first time in months.
He had once prepared himself for the eventuality that they might
arise once more. Yet, they failed to make themselves known against
the Horcrux, that was enough for him to believe it might be an
isolated incident.

And here, he paid for his naivety. The savagery called to him,
welcoming him into its embrace as if he was an old friend. His scar
burned as if he'd been branded, the familiar dull throb echoing in his
forehead.

Rend, the primaeval voice urged.

Maim.

Tear.

If he was of sound mind, maybe he could've curtailed the murderous

intent that brewed and boiled within him. For a moment, the drums
stopped, the compulsion haltered.

He was free from the spell.

The forefront of his mind was conquered by a single thought.

Fleur.

She's using her allure.

It was not a difficult deduction to make. His neck craned of its own
accord, turning to peer back towards her. The foreground faded from
view; his peripheral became a blur. The heat against his face was of
little notice against the one beneath his chest.

Her silver hair shone in the light of the fire, but her eyes seemed to
burn brighter.

Come back to me. A voice whispered, urging him to flee.

She had never used her allure on him, at least, not consciously.
Now, he was enraptured by the soft melody in his ears, called home
by a Veela's song.

The war within was eased until his feet stood rooted to the ground
once more, a second voice spun its tale.

They are cowards, are they not? It mocked inside his head. The
Weasley family was of little harm to anyone, now they've been razed.
Their superiority is born from preying on the weak, forged from the
ashes of trampling innocents underfoot.

It could have been Fleur, it sounded like her - but it wasn't .

They think themselves superior, born to believe sharing blood with

lives long since past gives them the right to spill it. The blood in his
ears pounded harder in an attempt to block out the competing
melody.

Show them the toll of such actions, let them know the feeling of
fighting true power.

Strike back.

The final sentence rose within his mind as an almost indecipherable

command, a serpentine hiss following the demand. Fleur's hold on
him wavered for a moment, a final plea echoing within his ears.

" Fight it."

And he tried.

A spell arced across the distance between them, as hot and vengeful
as the flames. It cast their silhouettes brightly, painting their figures
clearly against the trees.

They had been seen.

The spell struck true, a bright flash of crimson, a spill of ichor and
Fleur fell to her knees, nursing a wound on her shoulder. He did not
comfort her as he once would have, did not seek to ease her agony.
He instead took position in front of her, shielding her from the curses
that would soon come.

Harry Potter was wroth.

His wand was hot in his palm, hissing as the voice in his mind had.
He held it aloft as they had, power pooling at its tip.

He stood, a man tall, emboldened by his own mind's words and

perverted by wrath.

The war drums had reached their apex, the pounding in his ears long
passed the crescendo.

Then, the chaos that the recess of his mind yearned for erupted.

Another spell fired towards them. The rest seemed intent on

controlling their beasts made of flames. The sickle-shaped curse
flew skywards, assisted by Harry's own wand in a quick parrying
motion.

Water issued from the tip of Harry's wand, a thin stream that
coalesced into something far greater.

The tempest had been summoned, the muscles in his forearm pulled
taught, tendons threatened to snap under the release.

He flicked his wrist, and the torrent reared backwards as if it was a

serpent poised to strike. Another flick of his wrist sent it arcing
forward towards his foes, carving a water-soaked path through flame
and flesh alike.

Another spell came towards Fleur only to be redirected once more.

His counter-attack had gained the attention of some, but not many.
The others were forced not to allow the inferno free reign.

His next spell was conducive to its predecessor. A tendril of lightning

pooled at the tip of his wand, casting a bright light on the
surroundings, enough to garner the attention of the more attentive
Death Eaters that could afford to break from the fiendfyre. Each foe
that moved their wand from the Burrow dulled the scarlet glow,
freeing one of the many beasts from attack.

The ball of lightning arched forward faster than any could

comprehend. It struck the outskirts of the group closest to Harry,
scattering earth and darkened robes alike. The brown plumage of
dust and dirt that rose into the sky earned the attention of even
more, and soon, Harry found himself thoroughly engaged.

Two had fallen to the thunderclap of lightning, sending them writhing

to the ground with the acrid smell of burnt flesh in their nose.

Salvos of spells crossed the distance, their attention now affixed to

Harry. It was far too many to shield conventionally; enough flew wide
as they attempted to aim true.

He weaved under what he could and shielded what he couldn't.

Throwing his wand forward in an underhand turn, an earthen barrier
rose to protect what he could not. Immediately battered by barrages
of curses, Harry turned to confront the foes on his other flank.

He had been forced to remain static, his face sweltering under heat
and exertion.

It was a simple, yet difficult truth - he was outmatched.

For all his strides, leaps and bounds, for all his knowledge,
experience and practice - the task before him was too great. Slowed
by his injuries, his senses dulled by inactivity, this was not a fight to
be won.

A spell pierced through the barrier as he fought another, scattering

him with chunks of hard earth. He responded in turn by banishing the
remnants of his barricade back towards them, sending foes toppling
over to be free from the debris' path.
He swivelled in time to block another onslaught, weaving on his feet
to avoid what he could - which was never destined to be much. His
wand was out of position; his body contorted off-centre. The inbound
curses would have struck true, consigning him to the fate that lay at
the end of his enemies wand.

If not for a sudden screech and a heavenly barrier that leapt to his
defence.

He braved a look behind him.

It was Fleur, although not as he ever knew her.

She stood tall, whatever few precious inches he had wielded over
her were long-since forgotten. Her robes were torn and tattered;
instead, she was cloaked in fine feathers, as silver as her hair. Her
hands extended beyond their reach, crowned with a series of sharp
talons, as did her feet, finely honed claws bursting through her
shoes.

Her silver plumage glittered in the light of the fire, feathers fluttering
as wings formed from her back, dispersing air as they tested their
newfound limits.

The heavenly barrier remained stalwart for the moment as her face
began to contort. That was perhaps the most notable to Harry. Her
eyes were no longer the dark blue he knew, nor her features
recognisable.

It had morphed beyond familiarity, her already sharp features

became sharper, forming a keen beak where her mouth once laid.
Her eyes were what caught his own; they glowed a cruel bright-
yellow that shone brightly against the night.

She's transformed, Harry recognised.

Fleur Delacour was a Veela.

It was an easy thing to forget; beyond her beauty, she rarely allowed
any indication of such. Now, he was confronted with the full weight of
such a revelation. Now, she balanced the equilibrium of avian and
human.

He had seen it from afar at the world cup, though none seemed as
refined as this. The irascible Veela fought the leprechauns, but none
sprouted wings as she had nor possessed the same beautiful
plumage. He had seen remnants of it in her eyes at Slughorn's party
- when she allowed anger to reign over her features.

She had schooled her features and beat back the urge, though such
a compunction was not present here. She ruffled her feathers
against the wind and expanded her full wingspan.

A few tentative beats of her wings ensued, lifting her off the ground
and buffeting both robe, grass and hair with each wave.

" Harry. " Her voice was scarcely legible, rather than her accented
voice it was instead a sharp, avian wail that wanted him to nurse his
ears.

Though she did not need to speak any further, her wand was gripped
gently between her talons and the barrier between them and their
advancing adversaries fell. In her other, a fireball plumed into
existence, radiating a pulsing blue heat.

They had fought enough against one another that fighting alongside
was a change less jarring than it might have been.

Where he failed alone, together, they would triumph.

She took to the air, her wings forcing her upwards into the ash and
smoke hazed sky. Wand and flame threw spells and heat downwards
towards their foes. Harry followed close beneath her, capitalising on
eyes cast from him to the angelic figure spiralling through the
twilight.
This is her element, Harry thought, the air is the dominion of a Veela.

One of the few thoughts to break through the haze of his own mind.
She had spoken of their mastery of the air, but he had taken it as
pride more than fact.

He had been so very wrong.

He parried an incoming curse, returning a chain of his own that

resulted in a spray of crimson and a pained shout. A gust of wind
sent a group off-balance as his wand sung in his hand, leaving them
exposed to the blue inferno that rained down.

Another torrent of water flung from his wand, debris transfigured to

steel and earth turned to weapon. All sent with the intent to separate
flesh from bone, to batter down their offensive.

He worked his way to the Burrow, routing enemies with arcing

sweeps of his wand, thrusting blows of magic.

Though power had its price.

Each piece of magic he cast sapped his strength, tore at his core
and flesh. His arm ached, muscles stretched to tearing point to
sustain his offensive.

Though, each Death Eater downed removed power from the

fiendfyre. Now, after the offensive of their own, the scarlet beasts
struggled to remain tether from whatever hell they had been
summoned from.

Another gust of wind battered his opponents against the ground,

sending two in front of him sprawling. His aching arm made to cast
another spell until he was struck from behind.

One of the downed Death Eaters had regained his feet, brandishing
his wand once more. His dark wand had been flung towards him, an
incantation unheard at his lips. Harry made to avoid whatever
followed, but couldn't.

Countless splinters and shards of blackened wood were torn from

the remnants of the Burrow, embedding themselves in his chest and
legs.

His hand was not his own at that moment, his wand acting of its own
accord.

In hindsight, it had all seemed far too easy.

Muscle memory came to the forefront, a spell unspoken, a swipe of

his wand and a flash of magic. It had all seemed a blur.

Timber tore from the Burrow, as his opponent had done seconds
ago, ashen, burnt and following the tip of his wand. Striking through
his foe with a visceral thud, a second spell left his wand before he
could stay his hand.

The cloaked figures mask shifted slightly, a bright silver countenance

that wasn't engraved as the others were. A uniform piece of armour
that covered all save his eyes, which widened under the mask,
before it fell.

Beneath, little but a boy.

Older than Harry, most likely, but not by much. Fear was alight in his
eyes for a brief moment before a bloody swath formed across his
throat, a tear that ran from ear to ear.

Whatever stupor Harry was in dropped the moment their eyes met.

I killed him.

He had no doubt maimed many this night, possibly killed as well. Yet,
that was an evil he was never forced to confront in such a fashion.
Quirrel had been little but ashen remains cast to the wind.
Green eyes met brown, a gaze more visceral than any bloodshed.

The wind seemed to whisper to him, a mocking howl.

Killing is easy, should you be able to pay the price for such. And you,
Harry Potter, have enacted quite the toll here tonight, have you not?

The Death Eater - the boy, fell to one side, his side pinned to the dirt
by the wood. A pang of agony emanated from the boy, his magic's
final gambit to save itself.

His final gasp for breath was audible, eyes once brown now nought
but an empty gaze that bore through him and onwards.

The battlefield seemed still for a moment.

He was my age.

He didn't recognise him. It didn't matter. He killed him; he could've

disarmed him, could've stunned him. But he didn't. He killed him
because he wanted to. Because he was too weak to fight his own
emotions.

He did not recognise him - he did not need to. For he had killed him
over any other manner of battle. He did not seek to incapacitate nor
disarm, sought harm instead of healing.

All because he could not win the war within.

His mind was a whirlwind, attempting to rationalise his own actions.

He would have killed you, had you not killed him.

But his thoughts were little solace.

He was probably coerced into this, the opposite side of his mind
argued.
A boy dragged into a war of bigotry, as he had been. Born with no
dogmatic inclinations against Muggles, Muggleborns or Half-Bloods,
instilled in him by a society who needed him as fodder for battle.

The war was never meant to be theirs, yet Harry had lived where he
hadn't.

No words could take the edge off of such a thought.

He reached a gentle hand down and closed the boys' eyes, the first
he'd ever truly closed.

They will not be the last. The wind mocked once more, You shall
close all manner of eyes.

With the final words uttered, the presence left with the wind, the
remaining attackers seemingly fleeing towards the forests in pursuit
of it.

The smouldering wreckage of the Burrow remained alight, though

the beasts had fallen silent.

Stinguio baratrum.

Alabaster-hued water spewed from his wand, circling around the

structure before falling, snuffing the remnants of the fiendfyre that
encompassed it with a sharp hiss and a burst of smoke and steam.

The structure was all but cinders. The uppermost section of the
building was subject to the beast's ire; hence, it merely ceased to be.

Suddenly, a loud screech brought him back from his thoughts.

Fleur.

That single thought had him bound to the other side of the structure
as she began her descent from the skies. Her grey visage and
feathers covered in blood and darkened with ash.
Her feet met solid ground once more. Her fine silver feathers
retreated back into her skin as she winced in agony. Talons became
appendages once more and wings faded into her back.

Fleur's robes had become tatters, doing little to converse her

modesty, he averted his gaze as he stepped towards her. Weak legs
faltered beneath her; scratches littered her body as it did his.

Tentative steps seemed to come from her newly reverted form,

managing a few before she fell downwards, his arms leaping forth to
steady her.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked.

His voice was hoarse, turned raw from smoke and ash. His words,
all he could think to ask.

She opened her mouth as if to speak. But she knew as well as he,
no platitudes would amend the situation, nor what had transpired.
They feared to speak, lest it cement the tragedy that had befallen
them.

He took a few shaky steps forward, but Fleur remained behind.

The Death Eaters that had not fled with the rest were either
incapacitated or dead, in a single instance. There were eight of
them, maybe. More than half of what they brought, that alone was
improbably enough.

He braved a journey into the Burrow, what was likely the last,
stepping through the charred remnants of the door into the
blackened lounge room. The roof and every floor had been toppled,
allowing a gaze into the constellations above.

And the colossal skull he hadn't noticed, green-hued with a serpent

protruding from its mouth like a tongue.
There was little to be seen in the wreckage. Somewhere along the
line, he found the body of the ghoul, whatever magic still clung to it
had protected its blackened corpse from immediate incineration. It
could no longer beat its sorrowful tune on the pipes, although the
situation so desperately called for it.

Maybe they escaped.

That hope would have to sustain him for the moment.

A glimmer in the corner caught his eye, contrasting itself against the
moonlight and burnt house. He dashed over, eager to see what may
have survived the onslaught, dispersing rubble and charcoal with his
foot to see what lay underneath.

His shoe caught fabric, clinging to his foot as he kicked it forward.

My cloak. He thought in a brief moment of shock.

It was covered in ash, but the silver cloth remained whole.

It must've fallen when my trunk burnt.

But how did it survive?

Though there was more than one object of importance within his
room.

Hedwig.

He peered upwards. There would be little way to discern if she lived

or died, that alone sent a pang of pain through Harry's heart.

Dumbledore's journal, Dad's handbook.

They were ash.

Lumos.
His wand shook in his hand, desperate for light to better search with.
The apex shimmered slightly before it died.

Lumos.

He tried once more, his arm stung at the magic but did not light. He
did not bother pursuing the avenue any further, merely placing his
wand at his belt.

The floo powder was knocked from the fireplace. The sand-like
emerald substance had burnt into the foundations and left behind a
sickly-green mark of corrosion. He didn't want to think of the
implications of having it scattered among the ash.

Reparo.

He retrieved his wand once more, a naive attempt at trying to restore

the house to its glory. But it yielded similar results to his attempt to
light it.

He stuffed it back into his belt and with a final glance backwards,
exited the structure, leaving behind a house of the family that had
been like his own.

Fleur was outside, sitting on the ground with her robes somewhat
repaired, gazing into the forest. Harry wanted to comfort, but nothing
witty or comforting made itself known.

Words would not do their pain justice.

Silence reigned between the pair; Harry made to sit down beside
her. But something drew his attention away, that same nipping at his
neck, the boiling in his naval.

Something was brewing.

The full moon shone brightly, illuminating the path ahead, however
unsure that path was.
He tensed, the feeling of something arising was palpable.

Silence.

Then a howl, at first one, then many.

They haven't retreated, he thought shakily. They've regrouped.

He brought Fleur to her feet as flares of red shot into the sky in the
same section of the trees the Death Eaters had retreated into.

Werewolves.

They had survived by the grace of surprise; every element save

numbers had been on their side. Now, they fought against those who
knew their strength and sought a weakened foe. There was a
phantom pain in the scar tissue of his hand as he reached to grasp
her own, leading her towards the orchard.

There was nothing left for them here, whatever purpose the Burrow
served died in that fire.

If they weren't quick enough, they'd surely follow suit.

With bounding steps, he leapt into the water of the river, Fleur soon
behind him. He paddled across with relative ease, although Fleur
experienced more difficulty then he. The river was not deep, the
Weasley kids would often swim there as children, but it was wide.
Wide enough that by the time Fleur had crossed, their pursuers had
reached the other side of the bank.

He could not count their numbers, but it was five, at least. The leader
of the pack stood taller than the rest by a head-tattered fur wind-
swept and his face a cruel amalgamation of human and lupine
features.

A lumbering step forward towards the water of the river followed his
appearance, muscles rippled beneath the matted hair of his chest,
held together by the blood that dripped from his maw.
They must've made other attacks tonight .

The moonlight caught his features; it was a face he had seen before.

Fenrir Greyback.

He'd never seen him transformed, but he supposed few had. But the
same features carried into his transformation, he'd seen them
plastered across enough posters to recognise.

The werewolf bared his fangs in some form of a menacing smile

before it struck.

To Harry, he was little but a grey blur. He shot across the water
without touching it in a mighty leap. With relative ease, he tossed
Harry aside, his muscled form making easy work of the
comparatively skinny teen. His hand lost Fleur's as he stumbled
backwards.

" Master wants you, not her." He growled.

It was a testament to his power over his lycanthropy that he

maintained a semblance of sentience in his transformation. His voice
was animalistic, grating - coarse enough to make Harry wince as it
entered his ears.

" A good meal." He finished, eying Fleur menacingly to the position

she was knocked to.

Even in his broken English, Harry could clearly understand the

insinuation. He rose to his full height, his legs shaking with
exhaustion.

Greyback had foregone his pursuit of Harry in favour of the prone

form of Fleur.

" Pretty."
Harry's wand shot into his hand from his robe pocket without a
second thought. Fleur reached for her own, tired eyes widening as
she earned the Werewolf's attention. The rosewood barely met her
fingers before it was struck from her grasp, a mocking paw batting
her hand away.

He made to grab her. Harry rolled his wrist: the wand felt heavy and
without warmth. His arm still ached, but magic came to his call once
more.

Power rushed to his unknowing call, and finally, he had expended

enough. The tendons in his forearm tore, Harry cried out as muscle
and ligament fell to his spell.

The thundering crack had been deafening, echoing throughout the

valley. A sudden flash of magic. Elegant, graceful, angelic . Wrought
from the same holy beauty as the Patronus but possessing none of
its grace.

It struck the stagnant form of Greyback and tossed him across the
land, scattering the rest of his pack as he tumbled across the ground
with a sick thud.

It sent them flying over the hill. He felt powerful, his wand, however,
could not sustain the energy. The crack was not the magic alone; the
holly had split, fragmented. The shaft had been separated down the
invisible seam.

The Phoenix feather lay dormant in its casing.

His wand was broken.

He could hear the werewolves howl over the hill, not in eagerness
like earlier, but pain. A sorrowful rallying cry. They were beaten for
the moment, but their pursuit would be ensured.

He stuffed his broken wand back into his robe pockets, another
painful revelation for a painful night. He ran over, taking Fleur's hand
once more.

Together, they took off into the Forest.

He wasn't sure where they'd go.

On the continent, the life of Albus Dumbledore was different - very

different.

The Alps were terribly cold during the winter, frigid winds and snow-
shrouded skies stretched as far as he could see. A sudden flash of
flames deposited his feet on familiar ground, a soft trilling following
their appearance.

"Thank you, old friend." Dumbledore offered to Fawkes, the Phoenix

perched upon his uninjured arm, presenting his crest to be
scratched.

They'd come to the foothold of the smallest in a trio of mountains

and the small town below lay ahead, a shadow cast over them by the
peaks.

Berg de Dunkelheit, a fitting name if ever there was one.

Fawkes trilled once more before vanishing in a plume of smoke and

flames.

It was Christmas Day, and although the village was relatively small, it
bellowed with a festivity of a population far greater. Many forms of
decoration adorned the streets and buildings. As the day
progressed, as would those same festivities - the present-giving that
he had admired so much as a child.

He began his path to the town and to the passage beyond, a journey
that would be relatively short.
The children played in the daylight and regarded him little as the
man dressed in eccentric clothing cut through the town. Some briefly
stopped, if only to think of him as the Muggles' Saint Nicholas. They
tossed lumps of snow to and fro, decorated small trees and made
sculptures from the frost.

He had crossed to the other side of the village in good time, this side
considerably less decorated than its counterpart. The buildings
seemed more derelict, chipped and worn at the edges, the area
wearing fewer festivities and the children merely ambling around with
little joy.

The atmosphere and position closest to the mountain was not

happenstance, becoming progressively worse as he neared the
boundary of the village.

Frowning, he walked closer to one of the walls. The bricks were

chipped and the grout blackened with time. With a cursory glance
over his shoulder, he tapped the worn stones with his wand and
willed a change.

Soon, a wreath appeared at the apex of the wall and began to

spread. The lengths of holly and baubles weaving themselves
through the cracks and crevices of the considerably lighter wall. He
stowed his wand back into his robes and took a moment to compose
himself.

One upon a time, he could've done such a piece of magic with ease,
he wouldn't have even needed to draw his wand. But times had
changed, he was no longer the man he once was, for better and for
worse.

It was the least he could do, given this was his fault.

Soon enough, he'd passed through the village onto a winding stone
path that decorated the alabaster-coloured mountain.
He began the ascent upwards. It was relatively uneventful. Birds flew
overhead, chirping animatedly in the cold breeze, one of the only
signs of life within the peaks.

Soon enough, the hard path beneath him ended, the darkened stone
revealed for the first time. Had he been ignorant of such things, he
may have passed over it without a second thought, only to be
redirected by magic.

But he walked a familiar path.

He wasn't kept waiting long, a barrier emerged in front of him,

although not one of conventional creation. It flared brightly, heat
melting the stagnant snow at his feet before it disappeared and a
man appeared from beyond.

" Herr Dumbledore." The man said in a faux-cheerful tone. He was

short, stocky. A thick brown beard enshrouded his features and
scars littered the parts that were unmolested by the thicket of hair.

He was resplendent in his light blue robes, a pair of white lines

bisecting his robe down the middle and a pair of epaulettes adorned
each shoulder, denoting his rank and membership as an agent of the
International Confederation of Wizardry.

" Warden." He replied in the same tongue, although his attempt wore
the rust of time and sounded more foreign than it once might have.

Dumbledore stepped forward, and with a quick flick of the Wardens

hornbeam wand, the opening in the barrier closed, another motion
cleared the snow from the path ahead, and the true height of the
mountain above became visible.

It was now the tallest of the mountain range, although not only in part
to its tectonic superiority but also the castle that sat at the apex.

Nurmengard.
The castle rose in a single, impressive tower. Wrought from black
stones in a way that seemed it was carved from magic alone. Sharp
architecture and few windows made it more austere than the winter
could ever be.

It held much significance in this world, even if it went unnoticed by

most. Here, Gellert Grindelwald began his quest. It was here he
rallied acolytes and Lieutenants. Here, he launched a campaign that
plunged the magical world into a war that tore apart countries.

Here he had lost a friend.

It was here, that their paths diverged, where ideologies collided and
the disparity became too vast.

I sought to change the world with tolerance, and he sought violence.

Albus thought, And in the end, we both failed.

Even now, their ideals seemed righteous.

But in the end, the approaches they chose were so very different.
Grindelwald was enticed by war and Albus, morality.

And the better world was never built.

The boy he once was, the one that held bright hopes for the future
had disappeared somewhere along the way.

Where did that boy go, I wonder? He mused sadly. When did he
perish? Was it when I killed my sister? Or when I shared a bed with
a man that would almost tear the world apart? That same boy that
had once yearned to be Merlin, somewhere in his journey, became
Morgana instead.

He had nearly a century to make peace with such a life, but time did
not make such a thought any easier.

But it would do no good to brood on the roads not taken and the
choices he made. That was the vice of old men - long done with the
world. While his age was undeniable, his path was not yet finished.

Soon, they made their way into the grim fortress. The stone doors
parting with nought but a screech of the hinges as he stepped into
the castle beyond. Given he had put the man in here, they humoured
him and allowed his infrequent visits. Despite him losing his position
as Supreme Mugwump, they still allowed him that respect, although
he rarely chose to exercise it, until now.

They ascended the central staircase and began passing other cells.
They were too once filled with the Lieutenants of Grindelwald who
would neither renounce leader nor ideology. The most dangerous of
those individuals found themselves where they begin, in a rare
element of poetic justice from the ICW.

The Frank Twins, Bischoff, Eisler.

The names could be droned on for quite some time, suffice to say,
that time had long since passed. They had all since perished save
one man, the staff of the castle soon departed too, dwindling from
the respect they once commanded to guarding one man. A posting
detested by new enforcers of the ICW.

Soon, he found himself in the tallest tower, the last surviving prisoner
in its clutches.

The Warden looked at the door. Before tapping his wand in what
appeared to be some arbitrary code, although Dumbledore knew
better, it swung open after a moment, and the Warden ushered him
in.

" Gellert Grindelwald." The Warden announced disdainfully, without a

second look, he left back through the door, the wall sealing where it
once was.

The cell was spartan, a hard bed and toilet were all that furnished
the cell. Outside of that, a thin blanket that covered a thinner man.
The man swung his feet over the bed and for the first time in some
time, Albus saw the man that was once a good friend.

Time had taken his hair from him. His once handsome face was
marred with age, wrinkles, age spots and sagging skin. His face was
gaunt-a shade of the man that Albus once knew.

"Hello, Gellert." Albus offered gently.

"Albus." He said coarsely, although not unkindly. "It has been a great
many years, and I sense such a visit is not born from your need to
see an old friend."

He is anything if not to the point. There was comfort in that

familiarity.

"I came to seek your counsel." Albus admitted.

"You imprison me in my own castle for decades, and you want a

favour?"

"Humble, I know." Dumbledore joked, for all the animosity one

shared, they were still tentative friends.

"What has led you here?" Grindelwald asked, although lacking the
coarseness, rather out of curiosity now.

"Voldemort has returned." He began, the story was long and

arduous, so he chose there to begin.

"I have seen it." The man returned. "I had not dreamt for some time.
Now, all I am allowed to glimpse is a brown wand and my death
encircling me with many arms."

It was easy to forget the man saw with more than eyes.

Dumbledore simply took his glove off, rolling down his sleeve,
bringing the necrotic tissue to light. He had long since lost feeling,
the necrosis corroding the nerves and with it, his ability to feel, pain
or otherwise.

It was an action without thought, remembering a truth he had

forgotten as the man in front of him stared aimlessly towards him.

Gellert Grindelwald was blind.

"I'm dying." Dumbledore announced for him, "An old curse, necrosis.
It has taken my arm and soon, my core."

And soon, me.

"Tell me, did you not think to merely cut away the rot?"

"By the time I could stifle it, It was already in the marrow."
Dumbledore explained, "Agitating the corruption merely would have
expedited it."

"If you had come to me when it began, I might have been able to
give you longer."

"If my time is near its end, I won't seek to prolong it." Albus
answered, "There is little taste living past your time. Though, I have
always wondered what lay beyond this ."

"All wonder, at some point and all find out. I'm afraid once you learn
that truth, there is no forgetting it."

The undertone to his words was clear.

You're making a mistake.

"I have lived a lifetime; I shall seek no more. I have made mistakes
and triumphs, the former perhaps more than any man might ever
know." Dumbledore laughed though his old voice carried no humour.
"Would you speak the truth if I asked it from you?"

"Have I ever done anything less?"

A great many times if I remember correctly.

"Was I a good man?" Dumbledore's voice waved.

"No." Grindelwald decided after a moment of thought, "But you were

better than most."

"If a choice presented itself to change the world as we had once

tried, would you pursue it as you once did?"

"You needn't try and shroud meanings with ornate words, Albus."
Grindelwald laughed, "Would I begin a war once more?"

"Would you?" Dumbledore agreed.

"Is there anything left to fight for?" Grindelwald asked, "Are there still
muggle machines trampling us under heel and tread? Is our
countryside still littered with craters? Are we still bartered like
livestock?"

"The wounds have healed, but the scars remain."

"Then, I won," Grindelwald answered, it was a conversation that had

taken place in this same cell more than once. "It is a point too fine to
be comprehended by ears unwilling. I fought their world to save ours,
Albus. After all these years, asking the same question will never
yield a different answer."

I don't think any of us truly won.

"Thank you."

The man sat forward on his bunk, milky eyes once blue seemed to
bore into him despite possessing no vision.

"And you seek my counsel, on what? War?"

"Not war." Dumbledore shook his head as if he could see, "There's a

boy."
For all his rehearsal, this was a conversation that preparation could
seldom make easier.

"I was never one for romantics, Albus."

Albus chose to ignore the man's jape, as uncharacteristic as it might

have been.

"There was a prophecy, one I never spoke of - a child destined to

defeat Voldemort."

"And I'm to make something of this revelation?" Grindelwald asked.

"Soon, I'll be gone - a month, if luck persists and I had planned to

give him the wand."

"Even you could not be so cruel," Grindelwald said, his anger rising.
"Heavy is the hand that wields that thing ; it has turned hardier men
astray in search of something greater. You'd be best off snapping it
and burying it with yourself. Let its legacy die with us."

"If a choice had been more favourable, I would have sought it out."
Dumbledore placated, "But you know as well as I the ICW will offer
no help, our advantages against Tom are few and far."

"Nothing good will come from that wand passing hands."

"Then help him." Dumbledore pushed, "Let him build the world we
once sought. No blood-born hegemony, no cyclical wars."

"Your efforts to grasp hope seem naive, Albus, even for you."
Grindelwald waved off, "A fanciful dream, one you cling to foolishly, it
seems."

The truth behind his words was, once again, abundantly clear.

We failed.

"Dreams shape the world, Gellert."

As ours once did.

"And what would you have me do in this situation?"

"Stay here." Dumbledore answered, "Await him - temper him, as I

have. Help him seek allies and help him change our world. The best
of me lives within him; now, he needs something else."

"Tell me, what do I provide this boy, by this theory of yours?"

"Contrast."

"Contrast?" Gellert scoffed dismissively, "There is little I have left that

should be taught to anyone."

"If there were any other way, any other opportunity, I'd grasp it. But
our legacy dies with us, yet it could live on within him. The best parts
of our vision, with none of our errors."

"It dies with us." Grindelwald said, "That is for the best."

"After all this time, you'd be content with dark flags reigning over our
world forevermore?"

"If I cannot see them from my window, the banners they bear matter
little."

A twitch in his cheek, the squint of milky eyes was a clear enough
tell.

"You are a good man, Gellert Grindelwald, but a poor liar."

"What would I gain from such an arrangement?" Grindelwald asked.

"Your dream, a fleeting joy?" Albus said.

"My dream will not warm me in winters like these, nor will joy."
"Who would sacrifice their life for a chance, only to wail for the
remainder of it when the possibility became a reality once more?"

Grindelwald pondered that question and after a long moment of

contemplation, a sudden sigh.

Perhaps it was acquiescence, or was it anger?

"What is this boy's name?" Gellert questioned.

"Harry Potter."

Their conversation droned onwards as the day progressed into the

night-a brief detente in the turbulent life Albus Dumbledore.

They had been running for what felt like an age.

The full moon had been high in the sky when they began. Now its
gaze had lowered nearer to the dawn - but not quick enough. Hope
seemed to await them at the horizon, but the moon's descent only
emboldened their pursuers. They were emboldened by their fear of
returning to their master empty-handed.

Every hundred meters or so, Fleur would scatter their scent to throw
off their pursuers, to little avail. Each spell she cast alerted the
wizards and witches pursuing them, they had attempted to apparate
only to have Death Eaters appear directly behind them.

They tired quickly. No further apparitions were feasible lest they be

trapped. Instead, somewhere along the line, some Death Eaters had
retrieved brooms. Pursuing them above the thick forest canopy to
ensure they were not lost.

Death Eaters had tried to herd them into an advantageous position,

flames ensnared the trees, ensuring their directions were limited.
Enemies would apparate within feet of them to try and catch them
unaware, most being dealt with by Fleur's wand, others fleeing for
assistance.

But the groups grew bigger, their attempts to locate them more
accurate - the outcome seemed bleak.

A tree behind them splintered, cracked and fell under the force of a
blasting curse. Salvos of spells pelted their rear as the Death Eaters
caught up once more. Fleur shot a gust of air backwards to scatter
fallen leaves and loose foliage, obscuring their attackers' view.

Fleur passed her rosewood wand to him, trading to minimise the

exhaustion they felt. It could not offer him the same warmth, for it
was not his own. Though the holly shaft was now shards, rattling in
his pocket with each stride.

It was a pain that would have to wait. For now, they were trapped.

A group of broom-mounted foes passed overhead; lighting leaves on

fire to alert their allies to their position.

Acrius Aerem.

Fleur's wand was held aloft in Harry's hand, targeting foes passing
skyward. They swung around on brooms in another attempt to hail
curses towards them.

It overshot the leader, who manoeuvred outside of the path of the

purple spell but connected with the second in the formation. The
broom shook violently before the rider careened towards the forest
floor with a sickening thud.

Bile rose at his throat; the voice hadn't spoken true. No matter how
many spells they cast against him, no matter how close they came,
the killing was not easy - not for him.

That, perhaps, was the defining factor.

Accio.
The fallen broom shot into his hands, and for the first time that night,
he felt like they might have gained an advantage - regardless of how
slight that advantage might have been.

The wooden shaft shot into his outstretched hand, an older Comet
model he wasn't familiar with - though familiarity was the least of his
concerns. He shuffled forward on the shaft and stuck his feet in the
stirrups, Fleur followed him and wrapped her arms around his midriff
and together, they shot forward, weaving through the foliage as the
Death Eaters shot back around from making their failed pass.

He didn't dare emerge them above the treetops, from here only his
direct pursuers could see him, whereas if he went any higher, the
entirety of the Death Eaters mounted on brooms may see.

He could hear the telltale crack of trees falling under the barrage of
curses behind him. He weaved to and fro to avoid them, the forest
alight with purple, green and red hues.

Eventually, the distance began to shrink between them and their

mounted pursuers. He had clearly taken a broom that was inferior to
the others, the bristles had taken a few curses, and the speed
suffered as a result.

What I wouldn't give for my Firebolt.

Soon enough, a rider was alongside them and Harry was forced to
manoeuvre and duel simultaneously. The Death Eater shot a sickly
purple curse towards him, forcing Harry to pull hard upwards on the
shaft, his head tickling the top-most branches.

Flagrate Flagellum.

The thin tail of flames coiled from his wand as he twirled it around his
head, careful not to clip Fleur or his own broom. Once the tendril had
fully extended, he dove near his opponent, circling over him in a
move that made Fleur give out a little squeal of surprise.
Had the situation been any different, he might have called it cute.

His wand flicked forward, and the flame whip coiled itself around the
wooden shaft of the Death Eater's broom, pulling his hand back the
searing flame tore through the few protective enchantments on the
broom and tore it in half.

The ebb and flow of the airborne duelling continued for some time
and soon, a second flier emerged with a third-Harry dove low in an
attempt to separate them. The one to his left appeared to be less
skilled than his counterpart. In an effort to isolate the weak link, he
plummeted to the ground below once more, twisting to the side to
emerge meters below him.

The man tried desperately to fend Harry off, his curse, presumably
dark, met Harry's bludgeoner in the middle. Blue met yellow in a
sickly mingling of motley coloured power. Harry clearly overpowered
the man although he didn't need to worry, in his concentration of the
duel, his foe clipped an errant branch, sending him sprawling to the
forest floor.

The only remaining foe was the leader of their sortie. He had the
better broom and was better skilled than those he dispatched prior.
They traded spells intermittently, back and forth for what felt like
hours but in reality, was a few crucial minutes-braking to manoeuvre
from spells, spinning to avoid the hail of curses.

The comet began to show signs of its damage, ill-placed branches

and curses took their toll on the broom. It began to lose speed
slowly, their window to escape was closing. Eventually, an
inopportune set of trees forced him to emerge from the cover of the
canopy into the open air, exposing him to a wealth of other mounted
attackers.

A single red spark flung from his pursuers wand and the pursuit
began again in earnest. Tossing spells from a great distance meant
inaccuracy. Soon enough, a rogue spell struck not them, but their
closest attacker. He seemed to fall still on his broom, before
slumping off towards the earth.

Eventually, the inaccuracy that had been a boon initially soon spelt
their own doom. A curse landed, the bristles tore, the broom shook
and spluttered. Whatever waning power clung to the enchantments
was torn away in a single spell, Harry and Fleur spiralled downwards
towards the hard floor.

Harry grasped Fleur tightly and turned his feet from the broom as
they spiralled. The descent wasn't terminal, but the landing wasn't
going to be pleasant.

He turned to ensure he would impact the ground first, the rough

ground knocking the air from him instantly. Fleur fared better than he
did, crashing into him rather than the ground.

She stumbled frantically; they'd landed on the edge of a rockface, a

startling drop hidden in the forest. The rockface of the decline was
loose, and within its midst, it held a small cave, but enough to
conceal them for the moment. She took her wand from Harry's hand
as he struggled to contend with the lack of oxygen.

She sent a gust of wind towards their landing site, scattering the
dead leaves and dirt to hide their landing site.

Harry struggled with consciousness, a battle against exhaustion and

pain, one he was quickly losing. Fleur slowly dragged him into the
cramped atmosphere of the cave.

" The cloak." Harry wheezed, his eyes drooping. Fleur took a brief
moment before she reached over him, taking his invisibility cloak and
throwing it over the pair.

He began to drift into a world he desperately wished to avoid but was

unsuccessful in that endeavour.
The last image he could grasp from closing eyes was a lance of light
peering brightly through the foliage, obscured by platinum hair and
blue eyes trapped in a frantic gaze with his own weary ones.

Dawn had come; a new day had risen.

For better, or worse.

Dead Ink
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Dead Ink

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Hey all, welcome to Chapter Sixteen - Dead Ink.

Big thanks, as always, to my Beta Readers, x102reddragon,

NerdDragonVoid and Triage and also a big thank you to Honorverse,
who helped me format a few ideas for this chapter.

Usually, I like to keep a bit of brevity with my A/N's but I have

somewhat of an announcement to make.

Over the past three months, I've surprised even myself, managing to
write 170k words, even if they weren't all from scratch has been a
huge personal victory and a learning experience that I've come to
thoroughly enjoy. However, in moving forward I need to ensure my
vision for the remainder of the story is ironclad and hence, I shall be
taking a break from the story as I finish writing my outline in its
entirety.

This is not me abandoning my story, to be perfectly clear. As my first

work, I want to ensure wherever I decide to go, that I can actually
finish it. I shall be on both my discord and the main Harry / Fleur
(both of which can be found on my profile.) to provide regular
updates on my progress.

The hiatus should not last too long, ideally, a month but I have no
knowledge of where life will lead me. I do feel comfortable, however,
in saying that as far as the plan has been written, the story
encompasses five separate acts. None quite as long as the first act
and they'll vary somewhat in length, as will chapters moving forward
as I attempt to move to more concise, effective storytelling, though
I'm excited for the future.

So thank you, for being a part of the journey and I'll see you when
I'm ready to head to the finish line.

There he was again.

It had been a familiar sight, though not as he might have expected.

His dreams invited no taunting inferno, no flame to highlight black-
cloaked foes, no howls to send his blood cold and no Fleur to make
the ordeal somewhat bearable.

The Ministry of Magic was a familiar sight. A peacock blue roof that
imitated the sky above, dark wooden floors that his feet resounded
across quietly and a steady influx of civil servants, bounding from
gilded fireplaces to complete their day.

Men and women emerged from the floo network behind him, clad in
the scarlet robes of the Auror Corps. They did their best to blend in
amongst the growing crowd. A feat that, if accomplished, would not
last for long.

Their advance was unimpeded, bolstered by the ignorance of the

witches and wizards around him. His cloak hid crimson eyes and
pale visage as he weaved through waves of rushing workers.

This was a strike at the homefront - no one expected enemies within

their walls nor a gate breached by deceit.
That same ignorance will be their undoing.

The atrium still wore the damage of a skirmish long since passed, a
colossal encounter that felt more akin to an eternity than the less
than a year it had been.

The floor was still scored in some places by mismatched colours,

pockmarked by magic so foul that even months later, the wood still
bore the scars. The fountain was reconstructed in a way that made it
seem haphazard, rather than divert more galleons into the piece they
let it waste away into squalor.

Soon enough, he stood before the booth of the guard, dispensing

visitor's badges with a disinterested expression.

"Wand." The man requested. He was young, or at least, his voice

sounded of youth.

A caramel wand peeked through the gap in his booth as the wizard
went to grab it, before being stilled by a dull, yellow spell.

Imperio.

To the guard's credit, his mental resistance was not non-existent.

Whatever training the Hitwizard Academy gave him was sufficient
enough to not fall immediately to the urge, but such an effort was
futile.

His mind was flooded with yet another flurry of thoughts that were
not his own, the man's bewilderment at the situation came to the
forefront of his own mind.

What is happening?

Even internally, the man's voice seemed frantic. His iris flashed with
a dull yellow hue before the curse settled.

Open the gate and allow us passage, demand the hitwizards report
to the atrium.
The man complied, the barrier before them shimmered out of
existence, and a message spell of some variety shot from his wand.

Red-robes fluttered through the opening, flooding in behind him. He

took only fifteen, a token force by any definition.

His forces had a task of their own. Deception would fell his foes
where numbers could not.

Hitwizards came to investigate at their colleague's request, brown-

robes forming ranks trying to discern the disturbance that brought
them there.

The yew fell into his hand as scarlet robed imposters turned to
engage the coming foes. He lifted his hands, one armed with his
wand and the other, a clenched grip. His body twisted viciously in an
arc, his intent soon becoming apparent.

The Fountain of Magical Brethren melted at his wands behest,

melted gold and steel swirling, dripping slag as it coalesced into a
crude ball.

The atrium was soon alight with the crossing of bright curses and the
cries of flesh torn.

Fight.

The guard from the booth rose from his position, joining his followers
in their unyielding barrage of unsuspecting foes.

The molten metal of the dissolved statue flew towards the

Hitwizards, a twist of his wand encasing them in a red-hot grasp,
levitating the witches and wizards to sit atop the plinth of gold that
once stood for equality.

Then, the alarms went off.

Caterwauling charms rang out, blasting an ear-screeching noise

throughout the Ministry that could not be ignored. Cracks of
apparition augmented the cacophony of wailing that sounded. Battle
was near, that thought alone thrilled him.

There was a detente once the Hitwizards had fallen. Shock as they
grappled to come to terms with the sudden situation.

Until a rallying cry rang out.

The ivory wand sang in his hand, weaving an intoxicating tale as

brown cloaked men and women rushed to the forefront, wands in
hand. They were little more than a nuisance, bees against the
swarm, an ant to a human - a gnat to a tyrant.

The first man stepped forward, courage alight in his eyes. It mattered
little; his bravado served only to hasten his demise. Black ropes shot
from his wand, heavy and hardened by magic. Within seconds the
man choked his final breath through a purple face turning black, the
ropes constricting that final breath.

Another rushed through the breach, although this time a woman and
noticeably more apprehensive about her chances than her
predecessor. Although, she still had enough courage to step forward
amidst the battle.

She barely had the time to lift her wand, an almost haphazard flick of
his wand followed her gallantry. Her body split into two, falling with a
slowness that seemed almost false, another flick of his wand sent
the body careening backwards into the lines of his enemies.

That continued for some time, like a practised ebb and flow of
brutality. Each man and woman that stood to the line was refuted,
sent backwards with a spell that made the one prior look tame. For
suffocation and bisecting relented to boiling blood and white-hot pain
that tore through his enemies with all the enthusiasm of a giddy
child.

Soon, they stopped standing, stopped rushing forward. Soon, he

was through their lines, the final survivors held in a destitute room,
wearing signs of fatigue and battle. Upturned tables and furniture
lined the room as they hid behind them.

A single flourish of his wand turned those same fortifications to ash

and soon, the remaining men and women in blue cloaks and robes
were beaten.

"Bow ."

It was a simple command that carried a resonance that beget

obedience, that demanded servitude. Some went to their knees, but
they numbered few. He had to applaud their tenacity, he supposed.
They held their convictions close; many men talked of bravery, but
he found it a pitiful concept for old men to encourage others to do
their bidding.

He cared not for bravery, only obedience.

" Bow!"

His second command was unlike the first, he did not command, he
forced. Rage lit his nerve endings alight, power thrummed through
his muscles. There was a euphoria born from his command of the
weak.

With a twist of his wand, they all fell to their knees. The air above
them becoming oppressive enough to force them down, like slaves.
He held their position with his magic for a fleeting moment, then
released. Eager to see who would remain in their servitude.

He stilled briefly, awaiting the more courageous amongst them to

stand.

So one did.

A man wearing what looked to be four decades, his brown beard

flecked with grey, and his cheeks blemished with wear and judging
from his eyes, a man who at some point, had seen war. There was a
tension in his posture like he was a snake looking to strike for prey,
he was anything but prey, a tension borne from combat, of looking
death down. His eyes almost stared through him, a steely gaze that
may have perturbed lesser men.

He was no lesser man.

"We shall never kneel to things like you." He said gruffly, rolling his
shoulders back.

Harry smirked, it was an almost comedic affair.

"Take solace knowing you die a braver death than most."

He did not applaud the bravery, but his willingness earned him a
quick end.

Another twirl of his wand and the room flared green if only briefly and
the man stilled, his steely gaze falling still before he followed suit.

The man had seen war. Now he would see no more, war or
otherwise.

The body contacted the floor with a soft thud, a foreign voice once
again making itself known.

This is my boon to you, Harry Potter, a gift of great importance. To

stand is to fall, to rise, is to be put down and to resist, is to be
conquered.

Let it never be uttered that I am not a kind Lord.

Harry rose from an uneasy slumber, shooting upwards into a sitting

position. Where his veins had been alight with rage and euphoria
only moments ago, now they echoed only pain. His efforts to rise
were stifled in their infancy, a strangled gasp and a back roaring in
protest halted his attempt.
"Be gentle." A quiet voice intoned, the cloak having slipped off her
from Harry's movement. "You need to rest."

It was dark, dark enough that he couldn't make out her face although
he knew well enough who it was.

"No." He croaked, trying to rise again. "Voldemort-"

"Will have to wait for the moment." She cut him off, a soft hand
pushing him back down to the hard rock below.

"The Ministry… attacked."

She seemed to still in her effort to push him down for a moment
before that same gentle hand pushed him to lay flat on his back.

The vertebrae creaked and ground against one another. He didn't

have the strength to argue as the urge to fall back under the spell of
slumber became apparent.

Then, she sang.

It was a soft melody, one that slowly eased him of his aches. A
harmony that didn't seem legible in his fatigued state.

I wonder if this is how she charmed the dragon. Harry thought

wearily, his eyes wavering in their battle to remain open.

This time, there was no Ministry, no Voldemort. There was no fiery

maw or burning home.

Nought but a vision of silver hair and blue eyes, and a soft calling
that invited him to sleep.

His eyes fluttered open, and his raw throat breathed in the frigid
morning air, alongside an unfamiliar tickling sensation.
His glasses remained on his face, the lenses cracked and the frames
warped - but they allowed him to retain some semblance of vision.

He looked down to the head of platinum hair that was currently

occupying most of his face.

His arm was curled over her chest tightly, the cool silk of the cloak
draped over them. He'd have liked to relish in the contact, but they
remained injured, their world alight and fleeing for their lives.

He found less pleasure in the union of skin than he would've liked.

It took him a moment to break from the confines that his body had
shifted to. He extricated his arm from her own and after a brief
moment to let the pain simmer and die, he shifted his entire body to
flop back onto the stone floor.

The sudden contact sent the roaring pain through his nerves again;
he let out a sharp hiss of pain at the sudden contact. In hindsight, it
would've been advantageous to just wake Fleur and save himself the
pain, seeing as his movement had her twist from her slumber, wand
in hand with a shimmering tip.

Her eyes widened slightly at seeing him move, a moment of silence

passed over them that seemed to linger a moment too long while
they studied each other.

Scratches littered her beautiful visage, not deep enough to detract

from her beauty nor scar, but ones that remained unhealed.

Their eyes made contact, and he desperately wanted to give some

assurances - anything, but none came to his aid. His mouth opened,
then closed without anything rising from it.

She seemed to sense his apprehension, shared it even.

He continued his struggle to find the words to set the world to right,
but how did one heal a wound they could not sew?
"Hey." He croaked, a lame attempt to ease the worry that bunched
itself at her brow, his voice still rough from the smoke inhaled and
the spells shouted.

So that's what we're going to go with.

Despite his poor attempt, her lips curled upwards slight. Even if such
a smile did not reach her eyes, it was a start.

"How do you feel?" Fleur asked tenderly.

Terrible, he was tempted to say but settled for something tamer.

"Sore, but alright." He offered, "How do I look?"

"Not as good as you once did." She said with a modicum of

amusement lacing her voice, "What shall Harry Potter ever do
without his looks?"

"You'll have to be good looking enough for both of us, I suppose."

"That might be a challenge, even for a Veela ." Her voice wavered on
the last word, a sign that the facade of normalcy was just that.

He looked around gingerly, careful not to disturb the sensitive bones

in his neck.

"I might just stay here then."

He was gifted with another small smile in return.

He turned his neck back to true, however, this time the bones
creaked like a door that lacked oil, enough to reignite the pain on the
compressed nerve endings and send him wincing once more. Two
warm and gentle hands reached up to his face, then to his neck.

"Would you like me to try and heal it?" Fleur asked softly.
"Yes, please." He returned, not feeling gallant enough to nod his
head.

Her rosewood wand was procured once more, switching his torn
shirt for some gravel off to the side, scattered rocks falling around his
person harmlessly.

"What happened to you?" Fleur whispered, her voice aghast and

thick with emotion, her eyes shimmering in the low-light of the cave. "
Harry. "

He dared to agitate his sore back in order to see what had her
fearful, at the end of his gaze was a sight enough to make his throat
twinge with anxiety.

His skin was no longer pale, whereas once upon a time Ron ribbed
him about his similarities with a vampire, such a joke would fall short.

His torso was littered with broken blood vessels, motley patches of
bruises and discoloured skin painted his body in an ill imitation of
camouflage. Pieces of wood, some as wide as his little finger were
embedded in his body, coating their surroundings with a thin layer of
watery blood that had refused to dry - but were not mortal.

"The wood, was it from the trees?" Fleur asked, her voice quiet as
she peered over his navel.

"No." He shook his head, struggling for an apt way to bring up the
events of the Burrow.

He felt a coward. He danced around the subject, fearful of having it

confirmed to him. The Weasleys could be dead.

And he, Harry Potter, had killed someone.

It was him, or us.

That was a thought he had entertained countless times since it had

happened. He had more at stake than morality. Had he died, a
chance to defeat Voldemort would have died with him.

Perhaps war does make monsters of us all.

Though, he did not feel a monster in that moment, just a boy. A boy
who knew a sad truth - he could not cling to morality when there was
more at stake than himself, could not shield himself from the horrors
at his doorstep.

Maybe my innocence died with Slughorn.

Maybe it died at the Burrow.

Regardless of the answer, he knew the truth of what was needed in

war, knew that the toll the wind spoke to him would have to be paid.

But there would be time to ponder the price, time to deal with the
tragedy that surrounded them. The Ministry and the Burrow could
wait, cowering in an unfamiliar cave seemed neither time not place.

She stilled for a moment, trapped in her own thoughts as he was

before her wand touched his tender chest.

" Accio." Fleur incanted softly, one of the wooden splinters freeing
itself from the confines of his skin. Each retrieved shard was sent
sprawling behind her with another flick. Each piece removed opened
a small wound, a channel from which the watery blood flowed free
once more in pale rivulets.

" Conrigo Lacrimam."

Gentle power pooled against his skin, a cool sensation against torn
flesh. The small wound seemed to fight against the pulsing blue light
of the spell.

The curse, Harry realised. Thankfully, the sable scar on his chest
had remained intact, not torn by their nocturnal battle.

That was a small miracle he could appreciate.

Fleur continued her attempt, the wound continued its resistance and
shrank, but did not close. Another spell shrank it further, and the third
sealed it entirely, leaving bright red skin where the wound once was.

"Does it hurt?" Fleur asked, tracing the skin gently with her wand.

"No." He lied, the stinging sensation only abating slightly.

She cocked her head and placed a finger against the wound,
pressing down gently but enough to elicit a grimace in pain.

He met her eyes, a stern frown and an arched, elegant brow met his
gaze.

"Doesn't hurt?" She reiterated, Harry offered no answer in response.

Her stern glare morphed to a slight smile then relented into a giggle.
Despite his own injuries, he joined her, a smile that reached her eyes
was enough to forget the lances of stinging pain.

Soon the musical laughter died down, and she began healing
lacerations and punctures in earnest, casting the same spell thrice
on each wound before ensuring it would not break. After the wounds
were healed, broken blood vessels and bruises were next.

Soft spells and warm spells abated the pain of most of the
discoloured skin, the lighter shades returning to the normalcy of the
rest of the skin and the darker shifting towards the former.

"How does it look?" He questioned quietly, now laying on his chest

on the cold floor of the cave.

She began a small chant, pressing her wand gently on each

individual vertebrae, ascending every thirty seconds or so. A radiant
heat began to pulse at each bone as if to coax them back to their
positions.

"It doesn't look amazing." She said at his prompting. "But it's not
terrible, you've cracked something."
"That's vague." Harry noted dryly, "Do you think you can heal it?"

Her chant finished, and her wand lingered over a specific spot.

"Can you?" He asked again, her silence letting his mind run.

"It'll hurt." Fleur finally answered, "I've never performed the charm
before."

It's either waste away in a cave or take a chance.

"I'll yell." Harry returned.

"I wouldn't recommend that."

"I suppose crying will have to do," Harry japed nervously.

She tapped the bones in the centre of his back this time. She
seemed to be tracing some pattern that prickled his skin as she
drew, then, the wand lifted.

" Spina recta."

The two words elicited a pain far worse than extracting the splinters.
His shoulder blades arched backwards, and his chest puffed out,
frozen in place to stop him from aggravating the nerve endings as
his spine returned to true.

After only a few crucial seconds, he returned to the cold grasp of the
stone beneath him, his back striking the rocky surface with a soft
thud.

But instead of the pain he had been feeling, there was only the sharp
cold of the ground beneath him.

"Are you okay?" She asked worriedly, the levity of their previous
conversation long forgotten.

"Better, thank you," Harry said, thankful for the reprieve.

"It's not a permanent solution, Harry." Fleur offered as he rolled his
shoulders. "With your other injuries adding up, we need to get
somewhere safe."

With my injuries adding up. Harry echoed internally. I was a day out
of the hospital wing before I needed to go back.

This is a pace I can't keep up forever.

He sat up to his full height, the pain in his back fading to nothing.
Daylight shone from outside the narrow cave, illuminating its depths
with ease. He snatched his shirt from where the switching spell had
deposited it, the old fabric decorated with a plethora of holes and
scorch marks.

His hand instinctively fell to his belt, reaching for a wand. Instead, his
pocket was filled with only shards and a bright, red feather.

"Fleur," Harry called, drawing her attention from the entrance, "Could
you please…" A gesture to the torn shirt explained his call.

The loss of his wand was a vulnerability he was not ready for, nor
one he accepted with open arms.

And I don't know why .

He'd never heard of a wand shattering, not without snapping it or

using it while broken.

"Of course," Fleur responded, turning around to face him.

" Necto." She said firmly, tapping his shirt.

Threads emerged from the tears and burns to mend the wounded
cotton. He soon threw the shirt over his head, confident that all the
holes were remedied, a second spell returned his glasses to right.
He gave his shoulders and neck an experimental roll, ensuring there
were no further kinks before he turned to Fleur.
She seemed to return her gaze to the entrance, lost in thought as if
her eyes tried to decipher something.

But it was not idle thought she was lost in.

Memories. Harry recognised, he'd seen a similar look on

Dumbledore's face often enough. She's lost in her memories.

He gave a little frown at her, not that she noticed.

"Are you okay?" Now, it was Harry's turn to ask. "Fleur?"

That seemed to break through her stupor.

"Fine." She offered offhandedly, an ill-born attempt to seem more

confident than she felt.

Her eyes returned to the entrance, unflinching to the soft breeze that
flowed against her face.

"We could talk." Harry offered, his voice barely above a whisper. "If
you want to, that is."

"Harry…" She sighed softly, hot breath displacing wisps of

dishevelled silver hair.

He'd only just finished counselling himself against dealing with such
tragedies at an inopportune time and yet here he was, betraying his
own resolution once more.

If it would benefit her, he could manage it.

"You hurt," Harry said, the shimmering behind her ocean eyes and a
ragged breath he could hear from across the small distance was
indicative enough. "I hurt too."

He extended a hand to her, scarred from that day in the snow.

Harry would never possess the elegance she held in a conversation.
Each of her words held a story, a dream hidden amidst her voice that
inspired. He could never match her, nor ease her sorrows as he
would have liked.

Though it was not words that defined Harry Potter, but actions.

He was a man like any other with his words, but with actions? He
stood a head above the rest.

She reached out with her hand to grasp his own, an action that as
mundane as it may have seemed, was more than a union of scarred
flesh.

Words unspoken that reassured them both that, despite it all, the
world was not at its end. That, for the moment, they still had each
other in the face of what they might have lost.

And that was enough.

"When we're safe." Fleur resolved quietly, "We'll talk when we're
safe."

He gave a small half-smile in response as he allowed her hand to be

free from his own. It was a promise that a conversation would indeed
come; that was all he needed at the moment.

"What's our plan then?" Harry asked, eager to get their minds back
to the matter at hand.

Her gaze had returned to the entrance, peering keenly at something

Harry could not yet understand.

Suddenly, a crack.

A pair of Death Eaters emerged in full daylight in the clearing,

looking around briefly with their wands drawn.
" Homenum Revelio ." One of the cloaked figures cast almost lazily,
the glowing white light slinked towards them. Despite having no
wand, Harry prepared his injured body best for the fight that would
come.

But no fight came.

The spell revealed nothing, falling short at the entrance with a barely
visible blue glow.

Wards.

"They've been searching every quarter of an hour." Fleur explained,

"Somehow, they know we haven't left the forest."

"How?"

"It's possible it could have been a tracking spell." Fleur said, "I
dispelled anything that could have been on us, but they know we had
to have been static to remove it."

"For how long?"

Fleur shrugged, "Five hours or so."

"Five hours?" Harry questioned, "How long have we been here?"

"You were unconscious for the better part of a day." Fleur answered,
"We can't stay here for much longer, they've been getting closer for
hours now. It won't be long before the wards fall to scrutiny if not
magic."

"What's our plan then? Apparition?" Harry asked.

Fleur shook her head in response.

"I've already made an attempt, they've put up wards of their own."

Fleur said, "If they believe we're still inside them, they won't stop until
they've found us. I'm surprised they've yet to set the forest alight."
"What if we get clear of the wards?"

"We'd be able to." Fleur said, "But we can't know where the ward
lines are. With enough ward stones with just an Anti-Apparition
ward? It could be miles, with no way to key ourselves into them or
take them down, we'd have to go on foot."

"Could we apparate directly to Headquarters once we're clear?"

Hogsmeade was the closest he could get to Hogwarts and still too
far away. The Burrow was ashes.

Grimmauld Place is all we have.

"If they get close enough to our apparition point, they can follow us."
Fleur shook her head, "We'll have to lose them before we head
anywhere populated. The Fidelius isn't infallible, if we lead people to
Order's Headquarters, there's a chance, however unlikely, that they
could uncover it."

"Do you have anything?" Harry asked.

"They shouldn't bother anyone wearing a mask and cloak." Fleur

surmised, "If we can take those of the next patrols, we might have a
chance of fleeing unharassed."

"Think it'll work?"

"It's not ideal, but it's the only option we have." Fleur assured,
"Nothing I can imagine gets us past the patrols, let alone the ward
line. As long as we remain inconspicuous, we can make for the ward
line."

"I'll take the patrol." Harry announced.

"You're injured." Fleur frowned, "It's best if I do it."

"You'll have to apparate us around the countryside; you need to

conserve what strength you have left."
It was not ideal, but it was true. She had already expanded energy
healing him, if she was forced to apparate them around the country
to lose their pursuers she'd need all the energy she had left.

His forearm still bore the injuries of the Burrow, but Fleur must have
tended to his lesser wounds while he was unconscious. Clenching
his hand stung, but he would manage.

"Are you so eager to rush into the fray once more?" Fleur asked,
"Such an attempt will matter little if your spell lands wide or if they're
more vigilant than the last."

"Do you trust me?" Harry asked.

"Of course I do." Fleur said softer than she had previous, "But you're
injured, Harry."

"I can do it." Harry assured her, "You need to conserve your energy
more than I do."

"Harry." Her voice was still soft, yet shaky.

It did not take hyper intuition to understand the fear that lingered
beneath her words.

She doesn't want to lose anyone else.

It was Fleur Delacour once again laid bare.

However implacable she seemed to be, their eyes met, and she
relented. Passing her rosewood wand to him.

A final smile was his parting gesture, throwing his invisibility cloak
over his shoulders, he crouched from the cave's entryway and
awaited the next patrol in the clearing.

The time before their next appearance wasn't long, a swirl and a
black cloak coalesced into a pair of figures. He clutched the wand
tightly despite the pain and readied himself.
Their feet touched the ground, and Fleur's wand peeked eagerly
from the cloak under his guidance.

The wand flared red, as did the ground beneath the rushing spell.
One of the Death Eaters made to try and cast the human detecting
spell once more but crumpled under the weight of a stunner.

The second was quick enough on their feet to weave out of the way
from the second spell that followed.

The attack left the Death Eater surprised enough to allow a short
window, Fleur's wand flared to life in his hands once more.

" Mors..!" A female voice screeched before Harry responded, his

wand rose the earth in a small wave that sent her sprawling, wand
from hand into the same abyss of unconsciousness her partner fell
to.

Fleur soon emerged from the cave and followed Harry over to their
stunned foes.

"I'll take her." Fleur nodded, pointing to the prone female.

Well, the idea of stripping a female Death Eater isn't exactly

appealing.

He walked over to the other Death Eater, shedding him of his outer
robe and mask. He threw the blackened cloak over his clothes and
peered downwards to the mask.

It was silver, simple etchings on the countenance as if they had been

done by a shaky hand and a wand.

He weighed the object in his hand, debating tossing it into the trees.

This felt a challenge of an entirely different magnitude.

But he donned the mask, placing it over his face as cold metal bit at
his cheeks.
Fleur had placed the black cloak of the woman over her shoulders.
They were roughly the same proportion, so there was little need to
resize the cloak, whereas the male had a good few inches over
Harry. A few choice charms from Fleur had the cloak sitting relatively
near what would've been appropriate.

A brief idea flashed over him. He reached down to pluck the man's
wand from his hand. A long, dark, blunt instrument. He gave it an
experimental wave and hoped.

Nothing.

Just deathly cold.

He snapped the wand in two, a heartstring peeking out from the core
before throwing it towards the cave.

He walked over to the woman, plucking her wand from her hand. It
contrasted her partner's in every regard. A petite affair, short and
flexible, light ivory crowned with pearl.

Another experimental wave followed.

This time, there was hope. A reaction, if only slight. A gust of wind
bellowed from the tip, enough to warrant him keeping it.

It was not as good as his own, but anything was better than an
empty hand.

Harry levitated the two across the opening to an area near the cave
that they'd be less likely to be seen. He would've liked to ensure they
wouldn't be found but time was working against them.

"We've wasted enough time." Fleur said quickly, "This has bought us
ten minutes, maybe. We need to go."

That was enough of an impetus for him, he righted his robes, and
they chose the direction they had apparated towards, bounding off
on foot.
They had been running for a short while, weaving through branches
and bounding over fallen logs in search of reprieve.

Far sooner than they would have liked, dark clouds formed in the
sky. The same emerald constellation was formed once more,
infamous skull and serpent writhing skyward, befouling the world
below with its intention.

The bodies have been found.

It made them run all the faster.

The cracks of apparition made themselves known in the foreground,

distant enough away not to cause immediate concern, but he didn't
want to dwell any longer.

A dull red barrier wasn't far off; the ward line was in reach.

Then a voice called out to them.

A lone Death Eater.

"Oi!" He called out from his position; his level wand raised to the fore
as they approached, "What are you lot doing here, Avery said no one
out of the wards!"

Harry approached him, "Avery said they might be coming this way."
He said succinctly, lowering his voice on the odd chance the Death
Eater would recognise it.

His tone felt ironclad, the return seemed to send the cloaked figure
into cautious thoughts. If only for a moment their story seemed
anything less, it was soon forgotten in favour of the dark mark
lingering in the air.

" Shite ." The man muttered audibly, turning his back to the pair
before he began weaving his wand in some predetermined pattern.
His magic having an effect on the ethereal barrier that shimmered
with greater intensity at the movements of his wand.
Whatever he seemed to be doing, Fleur took umbrage to the
repercussions of it.

She raised her wand and snapped off a stunner to his back; it sent
him careening sideways. He seemed to roll for some distance before
he passed through the wards that flared brightly at his exit.

" Merde!" Fleur shouted at the sight, before sprinting at the barrier.

She had never sworn. Had the situation been mundane, he might've
found the humour in such; instead, he took off after her.

Fleur crossed through the barrier first, Harry tailed shortly behind
her.

A flurry of curses shot behind them, impacting the barrier they

crossed through mere seconds ago.

" Fumos," Harry whispered, dispersing a cloud of smog behind them,

enough to obfuscate the vision of the pursuing Death Eaters.

" Praecuro." He followed, debris moulded together, forming

sharpened amalgamations of sticks and rocks before a flick of his
wand banished half a dozen objects directly into his foes. Hopefully,
the kinetic force would be enough to halt their advance.

He grabbed Fleur's hand, and emerald eyes met ocean blue in a

brief glance before a deafening crack sounded and the surroundings
rapidly shifted.

First, it was the park in Little Whinging that he'd visited in the
Summer.

Fleur must have seen it somehow.

Pulled from his gaze or not, the park was deserted in winter. Fleur's
hand still firmly in his own; they ran another ten paces before the
scenery changed once more.
He could see a town in the distance as they trudged through foreign
snow, they followed a similar tact and ran a short distance before a
crack signalled their pursuers were close.

Another apparition brought them to a non-distinct forest that Fleur

must've known.

" Incendio." He shouted, the flame charm lighting the debris and
foliage of their arrival site alight in an attempt to slow down their foes
even further.

Now, he made an attempt of his own.

Deliberation, Determination, Destination.

Apparition lessons weren't scheduled until after the Christmas

Holidays, but it was a lesson that would have to go unlearnt.

Deliberation, Determination, Destination. He echoed once more.

He hadn't taken the lesson, but any student of Hogwarts could

scarcely go five feet without hearing it when the upper years had
their lesson.

Deliberation, Determination, Destination.

With a pull on his core, a thrum of magic within his chest, the
suppressive iron band formed around his body. An invisible gap they
were forced to slip through as he swirled quickly across the country
in another leap.

A beach he had once visited with the Dursleys long ago, shrouded in
snow and covered with sharp rocks.

"Harry?" She probed, short of breath.

He didn't bother explaining himself; he wrapped his arm around her

midriff and pointed his wand towards the cold sand and snow.
Impello.

The repelling charm forced its way through his battered arm to
propel them into the air. The force of such a spell cracked the stolen
wand at the seams as it had his own.

His spell had the desired effect, sailing backwards over crashing
waves, careening through the cold winter winds with all the force of
cannon shot. They had reached the apex of their height within
seconds and began plummeting towards the icy ocean below.

Their eyes met briefly again, and another crack sounded out.

With any luck, they wouldn't find them now.

Harry was a novice with apparition, in all his limited experience, no

one had deigned to him you retained momentum.

Whether it was inexperience or the norm, they sprawled and skidded

down cold, frost-ridden asphalt until the snow acted as enough of a
buffer to bring them to a relatively soft halt.

Thankfully, the festivities and heavy snow remained from Christmas

day, acting as enough of a deterrent to those who might have been
walking the streets.

He rose to his feet, brushing snow from his robe before turning to
Fleur, helping her to stand.

"Where are we?" Fleur prompted, brushing frost from her own stolen
robes.

The hum of suburbia was soft around them, even in the street the
distant roaring of cars and laughter of families was loud in his ears.
Even knowing his destination, he peered around to take stock of his
surroundings.
Fleur knows about Headquarters, but she must not have been to a
meeting yet.

Once the robes were safely hidden, he looked back to the house in
front of them, or at the very least, him. It had never occurred to him
that she hadn't yet been here, that would cause some problems.

"Follow me," Harry said simply, weaving through the stationary

vehicles to step onto the pavement. A few subtle waves of his wand
deposited the Death Eater robes and mask behind the wheel of one
of the static cars.

Before them was a row of identical buildings, identical copies that

spanned the length of the street without fail.

A step towards the building was all it took, a memory of a piece of

paper once shown and burnt. Light bricks separated to make way for
another, moss-covered walls met clean, clear windows turned laden
with grime and finally, a door emerged, the number twelve adorned
vividly on the door.

"Grimmauld Place." Fleur surmised, whispering from behind him,

sharing a secret they both knew.

Harry merely nodded and stepped towards the door, reaching

forward to hover his hand over the ornate handle.

Mere days ago, he had grasped a door handle identical to this and
burnt his hand in the process. Now, he reached forward once more
to grasp the manicured steel.

But there was no heat, no blistering flesh.

Just cold.

His hand remained on the handle, not willing to twist it just yet and
expose himself to whatever truths might lie beyond. But soon
enough, even gravity seemed to urge him forward, his hand twisted
and the lock receded into its chamber with an audible click.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the house beyond, one
he'd seen so recently in an ashen-hued dream.

It was as he remembered it and so very different. There was still the

smell of dust and dirt heavy in the air, an aged stench that no charm
could dissipate. The house was still dully lit, casting odd shadows
throughout the hall.

And there's no Sirius.

Confronting that truth seemed more daunting with each step forward,
as did the eerie silence. He strained his ears for any wisp of sound.

But there was none - no chatter he could make out from the dining
room, no footsteps from upstairs, even the dogmatic spouting of
Walburga Black was absent.

Homenum Revelio.

The pulse of magic left the stolen wand and seemed to seal its fate,
the cracked seam split open further, and a braid of white hair
became visible.

He could see it pass through floors and walls alike before it struck
the wards.

The pulse returned after a few seconds of bated breath. A hope that
someone might be able to shed light on the world around them.

But nothing.

"We're alone," Harry confirmed sadly.

"Kreacher!" Harry tried again, in hopes that the ageing elf might hold
a piece of the puzzle.
Again, nothing. A mere echo of his voice carried through the
hallowed halls of Grimmauld Place before it fell silent.

"The Order isn't here?" Fleur asked.

"No." Harry replied, "Just us."

"Are there any other safe houses they could have fled to?" Fleur
continued, "If there were more attacks, maybe they needed to
spread out?"

It was a better thought than anything he was entertaining.

Maybe they fought at the Ministry.

"Sirius told me some of the older families sympathised with the

Order, let them use their properties." Harry said, continuing his slow
advance, "I don't know where any of them could be, though."

Or how to contact them.

Eventually, they reached the junction to ascend the main stairwell or

continue to the kitchen.

"Why don't you head upstairs?" Harry suggested, "Try and find a
room and get some rest."

Her lips inadvertently quirked at the thought - rest sounded

advantageous on all fronts.

Fleur's eyes peered up the staircase and beyond. "What will you
do?"

"I'll try and see if there's anything left behind in the kitchen." Hunger
had been tickling their stomach for some time. "Then we can talk
about what to do next."

If the thought of conversation seemed to perturb her, it did not rise to

the forefront. Instead, she turned to depart.
"Be careful!" Harry advised to her retreating form, "There's not much
in this house that is strictly friendly ."

She swivelled on her feet to turn to him, a look that was decidedly
Fleur Delacour sat upon her beautiful visage.

"I'm a curse breaker, Harry." She scoffed, "I have faced threats
greater than boggarts and charmed curtains."

Some things never change, Harry smiled, and she continued her
journey upwards.

Harry made his way to the kitchen, pressing the door open with a
ghastly screech of unoiled hinges. The room lacked light, forcing him
to navigate tactilely over countertops and through cupboards.

He dared to reach into one at random, groping around aimlessly to

procure a loaf of bread, barely protected by preservation charms.

The rest of the food was gone.

If they managed to take the food before they left, they can't have left
in a hurry or with a struggle.

There was a small glimmer of hope in that revelation.

He made sure to check the remainder of the kitchen in hopes of

something else but to no avail. Food in hand, he headed back to the
junction and headed upstairs.

It was not hard to guess which room she had occupied, a lance of
light making its way outside via the slightly open door.

Regulus Arcturus Black . The plaque read, one of the few still
standing. Corrosion had eaten away at the corners, but it was still
legible.

He remembered the face of the dark-haired youth, from errant

pictures around the house, Slughorn's boasting of him on the
mantlepiece and even his vision. A tale that could have been Sirius's
own, of a boy that played the hand his parents had dealt him and
come up short.

And a puzzle piece.

He'd never been inside, Sirius was not one to raise the ghosts of his
past, the room of his brother paramount amongst them.

And now, he stood before it.

Harry had once been told that history written was dead ink, though,
in that instance, it was malleable. Now, it could not be changed nor
struck from the page. They either confronted it, or conformed to it.

He raised his knuckles and rapped at the door.

He had chosen to confront it.

"Come in." Fleur called from inside.

She was sat upon the bed, a book in her hands, likely to keep her
thoughts from wandering.

Though, it was not any book in particular.

The diary. Harry recognised, It survived.

"Your present?" Harry asked, shocked, "I had thought it would be

ashes by now."

"I was reading it before I came to find you." Fleur explained quietly, "I
kept it in my robes."

It was indeed a bit worse for wear, frayed edges and torn pages, but
it was nothing that time could not fix.

Dumbledore's journal had been burnt, but theirs had survived.

Dogma and ideology had been lost. Now, only spells remained - the
worst part of his legacy culled.

"I lost mine." Harry apologised, the photo frame had stayed in his
room and suffered the same fate.

It felt as if he had lost the memory of them together with the picture
gone, even if it was irrational.

He was unsure if she saw it on his face or if her response was

merely chance.

"It was just a memory, Harry." Fleur placated, "We can make more."

He moved to sit beside her on the bed, and for a moment, both
seemed more content with silence.

Fleur had closed the book and drummed on the torn cover with
shaky fingers.

It was her that began a conversation they both knew needed to

happen.

"That was my first transformation." Fleur admitted softly, "We're not

really…"

Such a revelation was sudden, she had seemed in her element that
night. Beauty and grace born from silver feathers, the fire made flesh
he had always thought her to be.

Perhaps it was not beauty as I imagined it.

It was abrupt and unsure, lacking the decorum any conversation with
her promised. That had already set the tone for the words yet to
come.

"Fleur-" Harry tried.

"Veela are told from birth to never transform; the Covens shun it."
Fleur continued, "Not fully transformed, that is. ' Sanctioned wars
only' they'd say."

He forewent the attempt to stop her; instead, he let her continue.

"And it hurt, Harry." She said, her voice seemed broken.

Once again, Fleur Delacour was laid bare before him. There was no
armour of intelligence to protect her, no rapier wit left to defend
herself. She was clad in nothing but sorrow.

"I wanted to do it too." Fleur said, "And part of me wants to believe I

didn't, that I had no choice in what happened, but I know that's false.
I wanted to fight, to see what I could do."

"You were injured, Fleur." Harry broke through finally, "You were
justified ."

Perhaps, this was what his own struggle looked like from the outside.
The knowledge that such an action was warranted, but feeling
anything but.

"I'm not sure that'll ever help, Harry. I lost control. It wasn't the Veela,
it was me. "

He was short of words.

"They say the Covens merely have to glance at a Veela to see if

she's transformed in anger."

It seemed beyond her, she had never truly been a Veela with him,
now she seemed afraid of the same heritage she seemed intent to
separate herself from.

She was perpetually in control and now, the one aspect she had
seemingly little control over brought itself to the forefront - and that
scared her.

Fleur Delacour was truly shaken.

"The Covens aren't here, Fleur." Harry placated, "And if you hadn't
transformed, hadn't done as you had, I don't know if we would be
either."

Though a question arose in his mind.

Why is she so fearful of the Covens?

Fleur had always seemed divorced from life as a Veela, even if she
took pride in it.

She was an enigma.

But it was not his duty to solve her, not unless she asked.

"It's okay." Harry said, it was all he could offer.

Perhaps, it would never truly be okay. It was a problem he did not

know how to fix - but he could try.

Silence reigned once more, she leaned towards him, resting her
shroud of platinum hair on his shoulder.

From the outside, she struggled as he did. The grapple with morality,
the hope to cling to a shred of themselves admits the turbulence of it
all.

He knew what she felt, perhaps he'd taken the first step where she
lingered behind.

"I killed someone at the Burrow." He began his own admission.

Maybe it would draw her from her own thoughts, maybe it would give
her perspective. Together, they had surmounted Katie being cursed
in the snow, he held hope they could surmount this in such a fashion.

She did not say anything, but he knew she was listening.
"Quirrell was something entirely different, I guess." Harry continued,
"With him, I didn't have to do anything. He tried to kill me, and when
he wrapped his hands around my neck, he burnt to ash. But it wasn't
me."

Fleur remained silent.

"But this was me - all me. Maybe I wasn't fully in control, maybe I
was. Either way, I have to live with the choice I made." Harry said,
"Part of me knows it was the right choice, knows that fighting evil is
not the same as sowing its seeds."

Even if it doesn't feel like it.

"Do you remember what you told me about the Veritaserum?"

She nodded her head against his shoulder.

"We made the right choice, it might not feel like it, it might never feel
like it, but we did." His voice was softer now, almost inaudible, "If we
didn't, there might have been another raid, another wand for
someone else to fight. I killed someone, and you transformed, we
can't change that. Only take comfort in the fact that we did it for the
right reasons."

He hoped his words rang true, for he had no others.

"Where do we go from here?" Fleur whispered from his shoulder,

and Harry had no answer.

It was hard to shake the feeling that they had lost the war before it
had begun. It was equally difficult not to profess he was just as lost
as her.

"We need to find the Order." Harry decided after a pregnant pause,
"We need to try and figure out whatever happened here and what we
can do to help."

"What about the Ministry?"

"I saw it being attacked by Voldemort." Harry answered, recalling the
vision, "There weren't any Aurors to defend it when he arrived. He
won, but I don't think he plans to keep it."

He already has Azkaban, keeping the Ministry might stretch his

forces too thin.

"If the Ministry falls, the people will scatter." Fleur pointed out.

Dumbledore was quick to level such a point in his office.

"They will." Harry agreed, "Voldemort will put the country on its
knees, it's our duty to ensure they stand on their feet again;
otherwise, they'll stay forever kneeling."

"How very sage of you." Fleur laughed, a soft giggle that heralded
some warmth restored to the world. "Had I known we had a
philosopher in our midst, I would have been a far harsher teacher."

"Between you and Professor Dumbledore, I'm bound to pick

something up." He smiled.

"Well, I'm sure no one will begrudge us a pause from saving the
world." Fleur said, "Maybe rest will grant us a new outlook."

"I bought dinner for us, at least," Harry said sheepishly.

Fleur perked up from his shoulder, only to scowl at what was in his
hands.

"Bread?" She questioned simply, levelling it with a disdainful gaze as

if such would make it anything better.

"Mouldy bread." Harry corrected with a laugh of his own. "Not the
fine French Cuisine you expected?"

"This validates everything I've said about your food."

"Hardly." Harry scoffed.

There it was, the normalcy, the levity. A hope that tragedy had not
broken them, but the inverse.

She broke free from his shoulder and kicked her torn shoes from her
feet, depositing herself on the worn pillow.

That seemed dismissal enough for Harry.

Maybe I can try the room I had last time.

He stood from the bed, content to let her rest for the moment.

"Harry." Her soft voice called to him as he made for the door.

He craned his neck, peering back to her.

"Stay."

What might have once seemed a demand from the cocksure Veela
seemed more a plea in the light of such events.

But he obliged and returned to the bed with a sedate pace, unsure of
the water he waded towards. He kicked his shoes away as she had,
sore feet meeting threadbare carpet. He made his way to the side
opposite her and slowly laid beside her.

His head met the adjacent pillow, and their eyes met, perhaps it was
for comfort's sake, but they simply locked their gaze and held it as
time passed.

"Fleur?" Harry asked after what felt like an eternity.

"Yes?"

He hadn't meant for the next words to be given life, he was more
content with mulling it over in the safety of his head and await better
days.

"What are we?"

But they came out, all the same. Now, they were off to confront yet
another truth.

He was unsure why he asked. Perhaps quantifying whatever they

had together in times such as this would ground him amongst the
whirlwind or maybe he simply had no other words to say.

Whatever the reason, he felt childish as soon as it left his lips.

"What do you mean?" Fleur tried, but the feigned ignorance did not
pass as seamlessly as she would have liked. He'd spent enough
time in her company to know it was avoidance rather than anything
else.

She was as unsure as he was, and she was woefully unprepared for
such an affair.

"You know what I mean," Harry said.

"What do you want me to say, Harry?" She blew out a soft sigh, her
breath hot against his face.

It was as if he was playing with fire, begging not to be burnt.

"I want to know what you feel."

"Humour me then." Fleur requested, "What do you want us to be?"

"I care for you." Similar to the simple words he uttered a day ago
rang true again, he just hoped they had the same effect.

Her features softened at his words.

"I know." She said, barely above a whisper. "I know."

"Then what do you want us to be?"

"I care for you too." Fleur said, and his throat constricted, "And I want
us to care for each other."
"But?"

"Whatever labels they put on me, whatever they'd scorn me for being
isn't true, Harry. I'm human, just as you - and I'm confused."

She was laid bare once more. She was no seductress as the songs
would paint her, nor the enslaver of men the Wizarding Wireless
would write tales about. The whispers at Hogwarts of an enchantress
couldn't seem further from the truth.

She was Fleur Delacour, and he was Harry Potter, and neither of
them were immune to the whims of the heart.

"Bill." Harry guessed, and his heart sank at her small nod.

"He taught me there was more to Fleur Delacour than simply being a
Veela or the failed Tri-Wizard competitor. He shared my passions
and valued my strengths as my own." She seemed to take a brief
second to compose herself. "And then he forgot me. He left me
behind with people that hated me, ignored me in favour of seeking
gold at the world's edge. He forgot I was not a trophy wife, that I am
Fleur Delacour."

"And me?" Harry asked, his heart raising from the depths of his guts
to his mouth.

"You're everything that he isn't. Less in some regards and so much

more in others."

Leave him - Harry wanted to say, to shout it even. To give life to

thoughts that felt a betrayal.

But Bill had betrayed her in turn. Perhaps, that softened the blow,
perhaps, it didn't. He couldn't help but ponder such a dangerous
thought as they lay on the bed.

"But I'm confused, Harry." She repeated, "I'm…"

He prepared for what felt like the inevitable.

"Just be with me, please."

That, he could do.

Even if it was only for the moment, she was a forgotten bride no
longer.

They met halfway; her silver hair shrouded her face as their lips met
once more. It was not the fervent craving of the night at the Burrow;
the kisses were soft and tender. A promise, more than a display of
passion. That they would care for one another as long as the war
allowed, and beyond that still.

They soon broke for air, leaning their foreheads against one another.

"I never expected this to be so…" Harry struggled for the words.

"Exciting?" Fleur suggested, her arms circled around him in a

passionate embrace.

" Scary ." Harry corrected.

"It's always scary." Fleur laughed softly, "It never gets less
frightening, not if you don't stop thinking about it."

"So I should stop thinking about it?"

"No." She smiled, "Never stop thinking about it."

I won't . He promised internally.

He'd spent so much time looking outwards, to the war that raged at
their doorstep. He'd been so focused on victory that he'd been
unable to comprehend the simple truth at the forefront, failed to see
the battle before him.

Love is a different kind of war.

Their lips met once again, stealing kisses and sealing the union
between them.

It was true. The ink was written - dried, dead . The tragedies of the
past had been cemented in history, and there was little sense in
lamenting what might've been lost. It was time to move forward, to
ensure the future was well written.

Tomorrow would be different, that, he would make sure of.

Old Wounds
TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming

over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But
when an enigmatic French beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in
preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters
of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Old Wounds

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Hey all, welcome to Chapter Seventeen - Old Wounds.

This is the first chapter I've properly written in quite some time, it was
a bit challenging in some regards but I think it came out alright,
reviews (as always), are greatly appreciated.

Also, thank you for all the kind messages you've sent me. I know the
world is a bit of a shitty place at the moment, so I'm glad I can
provide something to escape to, if only briefly.

As always, stay safe and enjoy!

The ascent to consciousness was soft.

It was not the jarring, sharp pain of the morning before, lacking the
taste of dust in his mouth and the metallic coating of coppery ichor
that stained his tongue.

Instead, it was the ever so soft patter of snow against the window,
the early glimmering sunlight that shone through the snow and grime
obfuscated glass, casting an iridescent glow against his waking
eyes.

And the figure that curled within his arms, the warmth of fire
bellowing beneath her skin. Every breath boasting a soft scent of
vanilla unique to only Fleur Delacour and exhale parting the curtain
of silver hair before him.

She had moulded herself to fit his embrace, her hand clutching his
own possessively as if she feared to let it be free.

But soon enough, just as he had, her breath hitched and her hand
squeezed his own. Rubbing the pad of a soft thumb over the ritual
scar that crossed his palm.

It was a difficult task to try and balance the feelings within him, there
were no doubt battles still being fought, wounds being licked and
graves being dug. Yet here he was, embracing an engaged witch in
a warm bed, under a roof and free from danger.

The Weasleys were missing, Albus Dumbledore was gone, the

Ministry attacked, and the country set alight.

But he swore to himself today wouldn't be cut from the same cloth -
today was a day of victories.

Defeat had taken its toll.

For now, he banished such thoughts, content to peer at the rising

sun once more as it cut through heavy clouds. But even such a
mundane mercy as watching the sunrise was destined to be cut
short by the duty that seemed to await them beyond the door.

Eventually, Fleur turned in his arms, dropping his scarred hand in

favour of turning to face him.

It felt a common occurrence to be speechless in her presence, his

mouth opened and this time closed of his own volition. There was
nothing to be said at the moment. There were no thoughts they had
not already thought, no words that would benefit them by interrupting
the silence.

The events of the day before, the truths told and love shared would
have to wait.

Today was all that mattered.

Her face morphed into a small smile, and she rose, the new sun
crowing her silver hair with a halo of orange hues that sent his mind
reeling to mere days ago in a similar situation.

Harry's muscles betrayed him, tensing and reigniting the dull ache
that permeated his entire body. His hand curled under his pillow and
grasped at empty air.

Where his wand would have once laid was empty, his fingers graced
only by dusty sheets and the thin pillow. The real one had remained
in his pocket, a holly shaft shattered and broken and a phoenix
feather exposed to the elements.

He did not dare remove it from his pocket, fearful that gazing upon it
once more might confirm yet another harsh truth.

If Fleur had in any way recognised his reaction, her face betrayed
little. Ocean orbs shone in the snow-shrouded light, and she rose
from the bed, arms held aloft as she stretched sore muscles.

Harry, however, was reluctant to believe his body's urging to draw a

wand was simple vigilance.

Visions were commonplace, nightmares even more so. Taking things

at face value was no longer a commodity Harry possessed. He
remembered well enough the events of the past, of how closing his
eyes could reveal any manner of terrors, from Professors turned to
ash to Voldemort's ascent from a bubbling cauldron, eyes a volatile
crimson.
He'd seen Sirius teeter backwards behind an ethereal, velvet curtain
and now this .

His eyes cast themselves back towards the window, and beyond, an
unyielding gaze as words once spoken seemed to echo in his ears.

War fosters many wounds; some refuse to heal.

It was yet another piece of advice from Albus Dumbledore. Counsel

that had seemed almost innocuous when being spoken but was
destined to ring true. The man rarely told him anything by
happenstance.

Perhaps this was a wound that would never heal, one that would
always refuse to be stitched or sewed.

It was a thought that scared Harry more than he'd care to admit.

Trapped in his thoughts, his mind ran from the room and with it, he
did not notice Fleur moving from the bed. His obliviousness
continued until she crossed the room and took a seat at a worn
dressing table, a tall mirror standing vigil in front of her.

He shook his head and moved his eyes to her, content to let ghosts
rest for the moment, rather than remain to haunt him.

Much like anything that occupied the room, it was laden with years of
grime, borne from neglecting the space while they cleaned. Dark
wood spanned elegantly, artisan craftsmanship turned dull with time
and interrupted only by cracks that revealed light wood beneath.

The normalcy of his morning ritual returned, a hand procured his

glasses and placed them upon his nose. Donning them as he rose
from the bed, with clarity restored once more he could make out
what Fleur was doing.

A hair brooch sat on the dressing table, an ornate bronze gleam that
caught his eye, reflecting the light. This distance was close enough
that he could see what adorned it; a trio of static ravens, pictured in
flight, ending in a long, sharpened point that made it seem more akin
to a dagger than an accessory.

Despite his gaze, the brooch did not seem long for this world. Fleur's
rosewood wand rose and fell towards the bronze; a single wordless
flick sent it morphing into something else.

A hairbrush.

The transfiguration did not seem extensive; it remained the same

bronze as it rose to her silver hair. Bristles disappeared into the
platinum curtain and snagged in an instant, caught up on the dirt and
sweat that had no doubt caked it at some point.

Fleur continued to make valiant attempts to free the tangled hair, all
to little avail. Eventually, she relented with an aggravated sigh, the
hairbrush finding its way onto the table.

The great Fleur Delacour, bested by hair.

The thought put a smile on his face.

"Harry?" Fleur asked, the first words that she had spoken all
morning. They were not steeped in annoyance as he might've
assumed. Instead, her voice seemed small.

"Yes?" Harry returned, turning his eyes from the brush to her own.

"Could you…" Fleur paused for a moment as if she debated opening

her lips any further. "Would you mind helping me?"

It was yet another departure from the cocksure attitude of Fleur

Delacour just as it had been the night before. She was hesitant
where once she was sure, wavered where she was once steady.

"Of course." Harry obliged quickly, landing on sore feet as his body
ached in protest, an objection he chose to ignore.
Crossing the distance in a few strides, Harry was yet to understand
just what she needed him for. An outstretched hand held the brush
and her request became instantly clear. He gently procured it from
her grip and rolled the cold metal in his hands, taking stock of the
task ahead.

A task as mundane as merely brushing hair should not have been as

daunting as it seemed to be. Whether by unfamiliarity or intimacy,
Harry was unsure, the brush seemed heavier than it had any right to,
and the distance from his hand to her hair seemed insurmountable.

He gently grasped a generous lock of hair and lifted it towards him.

He had never inspected it with any degree of scrutiny, certainly never
held it as he was now. It seemed impossibly soft and shimmered like
the sunlight only moments ago, the griseous gaze of twilight given
physical form.

His hand rose with the brush and ran it through the strands, tugging
through knots softly enough to not disturb her. The bristles seemed
to sing as it dragged through her hair, a melody that seemed
reminiscent of her own song in the cave.

It was a call that beckoned for him to continue, an allure to caressing

her soft tresses that seemed natural. His eyes flicked upwards to the
mirror and saw Fleur's were closed. He continued unsure if such a
reaction spoke of a job well done.

"What's next?" Fleur asked suddenly, her eyes fluttering open from
his ministrations.

"Lots, I suppose." Harry shrugged as he continued brushing

absentmindedly, "There's information we need to learn and leads we
need to follow."

"Our leads?" Fleur asked as another knot fell to Harry's increasing

prowess, "I had thought we'd make an attempt to find the Order
first?"
"I wouldn't even be sure where to look." Harry admitted, "I think we
have a better chance of trying to find them along the way; the
Horcruxes should be our priority."

The pragmatism seemed a knife in his breast, to act upon seemed to

twist it.

We don't have any other choice . Harry assured himself, wherever

the Order was they would be safe. The Horcrux Hunt needed to be
their priority, even if only for the moment.

"I take it Dumbledore informed you of something else then?"

"No." Harry shook his head, "Not Dumbledore… a vision."

Fleur's head righted, and her eyes opened fully, peering at him in the
mirror with a concerned gaze.

"In the cave?" Fleur guessed.

"The hospital wing." Harry corrected, "It was a meeting with

Voldemort and his Inner Circle, I saw people and heard names."
They were still fresh in his mind, only days old. "Caractus Burke,
Romulus Whitehall, Bellatrix Lestrange."

He debated whether or not Regulus Black or Kreacher warranted

mentioning; the former had been dead since before he was born and
the latter did not heed his commands. There were likely better paths
to follow for the moment.

"Did you not think speaking earlier could've been an advantage?"

Truthfully, it had fallen to the wayside in pursuit of other things.

"I was going to wait for everything to be a bit less festive ." Harry
defended, "I thought we deserved a chance to settle down."

That seemed to soften features destined to be marred with a frown.

"I've spoken with Caractus Burke before." Fleur admitted,
"Dumbledore sent me to Hogsmeade to investigate while you were
in the Hospital Wing."

"I've heard of him in a vision," Harry said simply, as if mentioning the

glimpses into other eyes was mundane. "A different one, he acted
against Voldemort somehow, enough that Voldemort wanted him
dead."

"Do you know why?" Fleur asked.

Harry shook his head. "They never mentioned specifics, just that he
gave Abraxas Malfoy a rat with Dragon Pox to kill his father."

"They did come quite close to killing him," Fleur explained.

"What do you mean?"

"He's an ageing, blind werewolf hidden in the cellar of Dervish and

Banges." She explained, "He knew very little."

"But he knew something?"

"He ran Borgin and Burkes, Borgin apparently ousted him. But he'd
been cursed, forced to forget something and be pained if he tried to
remember it."

"And you assume it's Voldemort that did it?" Harry asked. "I would
assume killing him would have kept his silence much more
permanently. "

"I do," Fleur replied, the confidence returning to her voice. "I asked
him about some artefacts, namely the locket of Salazar Slytherin.
Their shop had it at some point, whatever spell or taboo he'd been
cursed with ensured he could never recall it. Forced to live in
constant agony from being cursed alongside being a werewolf,
someone wanted him to suffer and had the power to accomplish it."

It does sound like his style.

"And we're confident it was Voldemort?" Harry queried, "If they've
been trading dark artefacts for decades I'm sure there's plenty of
people who would want them to keep quiet."

"He'd have vows in place - old magics." Fleur answered, "Few would
trade with a man who divulged every secret to passing strangers or
when the Auror's came to question him. This took power; it was
more than just an idle obliviation or a contact curse - this was
complex ming magic."

"Let's assume it is Voldemort's work then," Harry said. "So Burke

can't say anything, do you think Borgin would?"

"I can't say for certain." Fleur shrugged, "If they were truly partners,
they'd have taken the same vows of silence. However, he might
have another lead, another piece to the puzzle. Even should the
curse be in place and he cannot tell us where to look, he can tell us
where we shouldn't."

There's some truth in that, I suppose.

"Romulus Whitehall is a werewolf." Harry continued discussing their

leads, "I heard about him in my visions a few times. Apparently,
Burke was sent to him as a punishment, outside of that I know
nothing of him and Bellatrix Lestrange is out of our league for the
moment."

"So this Whitehall could have been the one to turn him?" Fleur
asked.

"It's possible." Harry said, "Though I can't say for sure, they never
mentioned specifics."

"We might have to pay a visit to Caractus Burke once more." Fleur
decided, "He might have more answers, ones that he can actually
speak."
"Agreed." Harry said, "I imagine he isn't going anywhere; we can still
deal with the matter at hand."

"Tiberius Ogden is another." Fleur offered in turn.

"Slughorn's friend from the party?" Harry furrowed his brow, "The
one you said wasn't as ecstatic as the others."

The financier, if Sanguini could be trusted.

The sallow vampire was another enigma for another day.

"The very same." She nodded, causing the brush to swivel in his
hand. "Burke was owed something by him, or so he said - it seemed
nothing more than babbling. Even if the connection is tentative, it
exists."

That sent Harry into his thoughts once more. A plan needed to be
formed.

He continued brushing through strands of silver; a tapestry had

begun to form in front of him.

Time was finite, each day, their strength waned, and Voldemort's
grew. No thought was more prevalent in his mind than when he took
solace in small moments like this. He'd been burdened with paths he
was forced to follow; each face, name and purpose was a thread
falling loose from that same tapestry.

If he pulled correctly, he could unravel the image entirely. If he erred

in choosing, the thread would come loose, and he would have
gained nothing for it.

The threads were all that existed; the choice was all he had.

And I can't make an error.

He didn't need the thought. The doubt had already been instilled in
him. Each step he took was one that he feared, each possible
misstep one that could lead to his ruin.

And his ruin seemed to haunt him with each defeat.

"Diagon Alley." Harry decided. The doubt persisted, it was something

he could not yet shake. But a decision needed to be made all the
same.

"Diagon Alley?" Fleur echoed, "Do you have something else in

mind?"

"I'll need to replace my wand." Harry admitted, "From there we can

scout Borgin and Burkes if we have the time."

"Is that wise?" Fleur asked.

Harry knew of alternatives, Ron had spoken of them often after his
wand had broken when he dreamt of a replacement. Some wizards
produced wands en masse, wrought from bamboo and balsa with
cores of odd things, coral, bones and virtually anything he could
imagine.

But it was not just a wand he needed; it was answers.

The chance of finding them with Ollivander had disappeared with the
man himself. Though part of him still clung to the hope, however
naive it appeared to be, that he might find something amongst
whatever was left behind. That maybe he could find answers, rather
than produce more questions.

"Why wouldn't it be wise?" Harry queried.

"The Alley is deserted, Ollivander's shop left empty for months. We

won't be inconspicuous for long." Fleur explained.

Harry frowned, but withheld an answer.

"They're winning, Harry." Fleur intoned softly as if a louder voice

would aggravate old wounds. "Victory does something to people,
makes them feel like the world itself is just another obstacle. They'll
be quick to parade that fact to anyone and everyone who can see,
people will be equally as quick to report anything out of the ordinary
to curry favour with the Death Eaters."

And Diagon Alley is the best place for exactly that, Harry surmised.

"Like people lurking around Ollivander's." Harry guessed.

"Like people lurking around Ollivander's." Fleur echoed,

Searching eyes could be their downfall.

The cloak would be ideal, if not for the fact it was too small to fit both
of them, paired with a disillusionment charm could work.

But we'd be too slow.

"So, do you think they'll try and move on the Alley? Or Ollivander's
shop?" Harry asked.

That was a concern of its own, if the Alley was already fully under
their grip.

"Maybe not, but we can't know for sure." Fleur said, "We can't
discount any possibility. They might already control Diagon Alley,
might now have full control of the Ministry. There's a chance that
they could be searching for us -"

It was a morbid thought, but not one he hadn't already entertained.

Fleur, on the other hand, seemed content to keep her slowly forming
tirade flourishing, directed more by thoughts than actions.

"Fleur," Harry tried. "Let's not -"

He was cut off in turn, just as he had to her.

"We need to accept, however unlikely, that we could be some of the

last ones left."
"We're not," Harry said resolutely.

But it was one he refused to entertain any further.

"And if we are?" She continued, probing fresh emotions. "At some

point, we're going to need to confront the truth, Harry. We can't run
forever."

"It's not the truth," Harry assured once more, attempting to placate
the dawning emotions within her, even if only for a moment.

"But what if it is?" Fleur continued, "Humour me."

"If we're the last ones, we'll rebuild." Harry tried, "We'll keep fighting -
we'll try ."

Truth be told, he didn't know what answer she wanted from him.
Whether it was confirmation or hope, Harry wasn't sure he spoke
correctly - but it was all he had.

"It won't be safe, that much we know." Harry finally said, taking a
pregnant pause to give both her words and his own the proper due.
"But there aren't any alternatives, I need a wand to defend myself,
and we need information. I don't know if it's wise, but it's necessary."

His eyes rose from the task before him to the mirror once more, her
eyes already staring where his were destined to be. A soft smile
graced her features, one that he sought to coax from her in times like
these.

She favoured the plan - Fleur was happy, and he was learning, it
was the best either could hope for given the situation.

"We'll need access to gold." Fleur pointed out, "We're not going to
get far fighting a war without it."

"Sirius might have left something behind." Harry shrugged, "But

visiting Gringotts doesn't seem like an amazing idea at the moment,
the Goblins were on high alert before the Ministry was raided, now? I
don't know."

"The Goblins will remain open as long as there remains a profit to be

made." Fleur said, "Charging witches and wizards exorbitant sums to
withdraw gold in times of crisis is an old trick of theirs; everyone will
be vying to remove their finances from the Goblin's control."

It was easy to forget she had once worked for Gringotts too; her
knowledge on the Goblins far exceeded his own.

And war leads to rebellions.

If Binns had taught them any lesson, it was that. Blood and gold
were similar scents to the Goblins; they'd chase either with equal
fervour if they thought they'd come off better for it.

It really has all gone to shite.

"So no Gringotts for the moment." Harry decided, "We'll wait for it to
calm down, hopefully."

"I take it you plan to steal a wand from Ollivanders then?" An arched
eyebrow levelled at him through the mirror.

"If I can." Harry returned, "I'd rather steal than be without."

She had said something similar to him, a day in bloody snow that
seemed a lifetime ago, of finely crafted wands and how he would
grow attached if he continued to use it.

And how only a fool would die rather than use his hands.

And Harry Potter was no fool.

Not any longer.

The ornate brush has already traversed the platinum expanses

enough to free the knots and remove hidden vestiges of soil. Harry
released it from her hair and somewhat reluctantly placed it on the
dressing table, Fleur's hand rose once more, and a wave of
rosewood soon morphed it back into the brooch.

With practised ease, the reigns of her silver mane reverted to her
control, grazing through his fingers with a warmth that felt like it did
not belong. The silver strands balled themselves into a bun, the
same two elegant wisps framing her face as they so often did.

Deciding the brooch would suffice, the trio of ravens found

themselves in her hair. She turned to him and rose to her full height
which had, somewhere along the way, slowly become shorter than
his own.

Her wand rose once more, though this time towards his face.

Harry had not anticipated a movement of his own, his jaw clenched,
and the muscles of his cheeks pulled tautly. His hand rose sharply
towards her own, clasping her wrist within the ironclad grasp of
white-knuckled fingers.

As soon as his fingers made contact and marred pale skin scarlet,
he released it.

His hand, however, lingered in the air. The lapse of control had gone
unnoticed the first time; the second would not. A smile that hoped to
defuse the tension came out as something more akin to a facial tick,
the hand that attempted to return to his side shook and jittered.

The battle was long-since over, there were no more spells to be cast,
lives to be taken or foes to flee.

But that did not mean Harry Potter was alright.

"A glamour charm," Fleur whispered melodiously with the intent to

calm him.

I don't think the answer will ever be that simple.

In truth, he had little idea of what was happening to him. Only that
this was not the first time, such an event had occurred. Perhaps, the
familiarity gave him comfort, or maybe it simply made it all that much
worse.

"We won't remain inconspicuous for long looking as we are." Her

explanation continued as if she was justifying the need to raise her
wand once more.

And he understood her rationale, even if the rising wand still sent his
brain whirling into thinly veiled dread.

Then he felt it.

It was not the wand nor spell, but another familiar sensation.

A song.

Had he closed his eyes, he could have envisioned a Siren upon the
rocks, a call insurmountable that would lead him shattered and
plummeting towards the seafloor. But this was not a song spoken,
rather one in his mind.

It was not the song of a Siren, but the allure of a Veela.

His jaw unclenched, muscles relented in their stalwart attempt to

stop her advance. The tension pooled in his form ebbed away, and
his hand fell still.

He had been calmed. It was a scant mercy, but a mercy all the
same.

Though even still, it seemed like a charlatan's trick, delaying the

problem rather than confronting it. But there were greater evils to
face, worse dangers to overcome.

It would have to be another battle for another day.

He did not feel the spell that landed upon his cheek, but it was surely
soft. A sensation akin to someone pushing his cheeks together.
Before he knew it, his eyes were back on the mirror, and Harry
Potter no longer stared back.

His cheeks turned sallow as if the slow attrition of starvation had

warded off muscle, his hair lengthened and morphed to auburn,
falling straight and lank to his shoulders. His eyes became a dull
grey, and his jawline became sharper.

He did not appear good-looking in any sense of the word, but he did
seem entirely unremarkable.

Soon, Fleur turned the wand towards herself, but despite her best
attempts, her ethereal beauty could not be dampened as much as
she would have liked. The pale spell that left her wand had little
impact on the colour or length of her hair. It fared little better against
changing her features.

But, a change did happen. Her eyes changed shape, but the colour
remained, cheekbones moved from aristocratic to drooping.
Eventually, the changes had finished, from a distance she could
simply be a beautiful woman, one who, albeit stood out amongst the
crowd, was not Fleur Delacour.

Closer scrutiny, on the other hand, revealed the flaws in the adopted
visage but it would have to suffice.

Had the cloak been bigger, less cumbersome it would have been
preferable. As would disillusionment charms, if not for their penchant
of being easily visible in the light.

Harry offered her a slight nod, swallowing a lead weight of anxiety

that tried to escape through his throat while the opportunity was ripe.

"Shall we begin?" Harry asked.

And so they did.

Apparition greeted him like an old friend, just as the Pensieve did -
ease born from rapid practice and necessity.

The apparition point of Diagon Alley was situated in a side street, a

few shops down from the Leaky Cauldron. The sharp crack that
foretold their appearance would have once been lost in the convivial
atmosphere of rushing waves of people. Without the crowds to
dampen it, the thunderclap echoed down empty streets without
resistance.

It had been quite some time since he had last been to Diagon Alley,
his appearance merely confirmed a truth he had feared.

It was all but abandoned.

He was first greeted to a growing number of windows covered with

heavy curtains and decorated with motley coloured pieces of timber.
A desperate act, a declaration that they only wished to continue with
life and an effort to save their livelihood from the suffocating grasp of
Voldemort.

Some people just want to move on.

The banner above them mattered little if they kept their heads
bowed. It was a fact that infuriated him greatly.

Some people just want the world to go on.

Even if it would never be so simple.

He progressed onto the manicured cobblestones of the Alley, taking

in the sights would have to wait. Ollivander's was in the near
distance; a wand was paramount.

Fleur trailed behind his quick strides, a hood transfigured and

donned to shroud the startling silver beneath.
He had crossed perhaps half of the distance before a familiar scent
assaulted his nostrils.

His head swivelled, and a scene that should have been visible from
the outset came barrelling into view.

A shopfront that once stood proud, brightly coloured against the

austerity of war. It had sold smiles and laughs, currency coveted in
times like these and now, it had been gutted by flames.

The Twins' shop had been decimated.

"Sympathisers." Fleur surmised, tracking his vision to the sickly

sight. "They're targeting sympathisers, patrons, anyone they can get
their hands on that might be helping the other side."

Fleur seemed to be correct in that assumption, many shops were left

untouched, but three or four joined Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes in
the embrace of smoke and flames, decorated with blackened beams
and ash.

Flourish and Blotts, Florean Fortescue's, Obscurus Books.

They were all he could make out, and they were more than enough.

They had sought to take hope from them in a world already deprived
of such. Though, it did not force Harry to the depths he once might
have gone. They had been burnt - true. But even now he could still
make out faces peeking through curtains and owners who operated
despite the war, those who would not yet be cowed.

People, no matter how dangerous it was or how few they numbered,

still held hope.

That was enough for him.

"Let's go." Harry offered, a renewed vigour instilled in him that led
the pair to the front of Ollivander's.
There was little point in searching the joke shop; the Twins had been
at the Burrow. All he would gain from searching ashen rubble was
splitting healed skin once more.

In similar fashion to the majority, blinders were pulled down, and

glass windows were enchanted and boarded to ensure the contents
remained. Gold detailing that had stood resplendently seemed to
have bore the brunt of the hard months, if not for prior knowledge of
where it was he would have no doubt struggled to find the
wandmakers shop.

His hand groped for the door handle into the shop front. Rather than
yield under his command as he would've liked, it jammed as he
assumed it would, his hand biting into the resolute, burnished
handle.

He had no wand to draw to make an attempt to unlock it, but such an

affair did not matter, he lingered a moment where he should not
have.

It was vaguely reminiscent of Slughorn's own defences, though the

ageing professor had been more concerned with wayward students
than fully-trained thieves. His arm blistered for being beyond the
hidden barrier for too long, hair singed within an instance as he
dragged the appendage free from the handle.

Leave.

His mind screamed internally, one that sent him reeling. There was
the hot feeling of revulsion in the back of this throat, a harsh
amalgamation of indecipherable emotions that culminated in one,
single thought.

Get out.

He stumbled backwards clutching raw flesh, the purple scar that

crossed his palm prickling as he came to nurse his burnt arm.
"A deterrence ward." Fleur noted, her rosewood wand rose to the
fore as she seemed intent to begin her investigation in earnest. "Are
you okay?"

"Fine." Harry offered, the burns were superficial, but little more than
that - it was the feeling that had shaken him. Her worried voice did
much to ease the sudden discomfort. "Slughorn had something
similar on the potion cupboard; this one was a bit more unpleasant. "

"Slughorn's were cast by his own wand." Fleur said, her voice
interest laden as she stared at the nigh invisible, ethereal barrier
before her. "This one's powered by a ward stone somewhere on the
property. Did Ollivander have family?"

That seems like an odd question. Harry thought, rubbing sore skin
softly.

"Not that I know of." Harry shrugged, throwing a cursory glance over
his shoulder to ensure they were still alone or at least, unharassed,
"Why's that?"

"Ward stones are expensive, especially ones that already come

enchanted." Fleur explained, probing her wand forth, "A large
investment for someone to make if they weren't sure of his return."

"Could've been the other Alley owners." Harry said, "There are lots
of people who wouldn't want to see Ollivander's robbed."

"If you were going to purchase something to defend a neighbour,

why not choose something a tad more peaceful?" Fleur asked,
"There are other, less expensive options to achieve the same goal. I
think someone was angry about him leaving."

"There's only one way to find out." Harry offered, "Can you take them
down?"

"I'm Fleur Delacour."

Where once, the words meant little and less, now? It was all the
assurance he needed.

He turned from her, scanning either end of the alley to ensure no one
attempted to impede their entry.

By the time he turned to her, she had continued her efforts to

disperse the magic, weaving wand to and fro as if she was
orchestrating a symphony, the barrier before her wavering with each
learned, precise movement.

And with her knowledge, the barrier seemed anything but, with sweat
beading at her forehead, the first fissure materialised. Soon it
appeared as if her magic was acidic to its mere presence, corroding
an entryway.

She was quicker still, her wand never leaving the motion as another
spell arced towards the door. The lock that shielded the beyond from
them did not open, but broke. The same burnished bronze that had a
dull shine moments ago now decorated the stones below with a
harsh, clangorous percussion that would have drawn eyes, had any
been present.

The door was thrown open, bodies were ushered in, and the stale
room beyond seemed a resounding victory.

It was a victory shrouded in details, and the devil was somewhere

amongst them.

The scent of mould and water-saturated wood was pungent,

permeating the air with the stench of time. Together, the pair
advanced to the counter, behind where the old wandmaker once
seemed a permanent fixture, a similar trick broke the lock on the
door behind the counter.

And soon they found themselves in the den of an artisan.

Which understandably was beyond either of their comprehension.

"I don't imagine you put much thought in how you'd find a wand, did
you?"

"You don't want to help me search?" Harry smiled despite the task
ahead, "What happened to partners?"

"When I offered my services, I had imagined something with a bit

more decorum."

At least her vanity remains, Harry mused.

"I think that was your first mistake." Harry laughed, turning to survey
rows of shelving, boxes containing wands haphazardly arranged
upon them. "I don't know how I'm going to find one amongst all this ."

"As I said, perhaps you should have thought about this before we
left?"

"Not particularly useful wisdom in the present, is it?" Harry sighed.

"If I tried to stop you from making mistakes, I'd have my work cut out
for me." Fleur chirped, "Just learn from this one."

"Learn how to steal from Wandmakers with more efficiency, got it."
Harry said, "Even Ollivander couldn't match my wand the first time,
and he knew every wand in this place."

"I take it you've got nothing then?"

"I think I'll have to try them all." Harry replied though it was likely not
as joking as Fleur would've liked.

"Do you not think that seems a tad laborious?"

"Is there a better idea?" Harry asked, and Fleur conceded the point
with an arched eyebrow.

Signs decorated the end of each row of shelves, though they did little
to help him. Anything that could've helped him identify what might be
best suited for him was written in an ugly, shorthanded scrawl that
spoke more of urgency than eloquence.

Harry stepped to the mark and plucked one of the black boxes from
the shelf, sliding the top cover away to reveal the wand beneath.

It was close to the length of his forearm, a rough-hewn piece of light-

brown wood that seemed more akin to a branch than any wand he
had ever seen. He plucked it from the confines despite not being
filled with optimism at the sight of it.

It felt heavy in his hands, too weighted to be comfortable. However,

he chalked that up to it being unfamiliar.

He gave it an experimental wave and waited.

Nothing.

There was no telltale heat, just cold wood that soon found itself back
in its casing and then the shelf.

Another took its place in his hand, rigid and dark, crowned with
mother of pearl. The differences, while visibly ostensible, did not
elicit anything different within him. Nought but the same cold feeling
that saw it retake its position on the shelf.

Harry blew a breath of hot air past his lips as he delved into more
boxes as the minutes waned on.

From ebony to ivory, rigid to flexible, petite and lengthy, he seemed

to sift through shelf after shelf to little avail. A large pile of discarded
boxes formed on the shelf, a far smaller pile at his feet of wands that
provided even the smallest reaction.

It seemed a process far longer than what it actually was; Harry would
have sworn it had been hours when in reality it had been far closer to
half of one.
Yet another box found itself discarded and Harry reached for one
more before a harsh noise broke him from his monotony.

" Harry," Fleur whispered, her voice sharp enough to cut through the
air, gaining his attention in an instance.

Harry's eyes turned to Fleur, and she held a single finger to her lips,
something had perturbed her. He strained his ears in an attempt to
discern whatever sent her into vigilance, all the while reaching down
to pluck a wand from the boxes at his feet.

Then he heard it.

A footstep, gentle but still barely audible. The roof above them
quaked slightly.

Harry trained his wand upon the door; they'd neglected to check the
apartment upstairs. Fleur had lingered past the doorway, but lost in
their hyperfocus; they hadn't sought to clear their surroundings.

A mistake in hindsight, an easy one to avoid.

Though no foe entered, instead the door simply vanished into

smoke, a smog-shrouded mirage of Ollivander flew towards Fleur
who waved her wand in an attempt to disperse the foe, scattering the
smoke.

A figure entered behind it. A man obscured by that same dispersed

fog who moved to strike at Fleur, a disarming spell that she very
nearly dodged if not for the close quarters.

The unfamiliar wand rose in Harry's hand; the wall morphed into a
crude imitation of a serpent's tail that sent the man sprawling.

He had taken Fleur out, which no doubt spoke of some level of

aptitude, but his movements seemed clumsy. He made to cast
another spell, but the wand, like many, had refused to answer his call
any further and was torn out of his grip by the man's next spell.
They'd been bested.

Harry went to reach for another, if he dove he could likely retrieve

another chance to fell their attacker.

"Get out of my shop." The figure said, slurring his words.

He's drunk.

The man's wand had been trained on Fleur, but his eyes were split
between them, catching Harry's subtle attempt to procure another
wand.

"Try it, lad, I dare you." The man said, his voice almost pleading,
"Have a crack if you think you're hard enough. Wonder how far your
little partner-in-crime will make it?"

"Alright." Harry relented, trying to position himself with soft steps

between the man and Fleur.

He inadvertently got a better view of the man in his journey; his eyes
were grey and bloodshot, his hair a soft silver, a chain of keys
around his neck.

"We're just searching for a wandmaker." Harry tried to placate, "We

thought we could find something here that could help us, times are
too dangerous to be without a wand."

His attempt to appeal to the man's sense of community seemed to

miss its mark.

"So you took it upon yourself to pilfer through my father's stock?"

The man near shouted, the alcohol-induced haze forgone in anger.

"Father?" Harry asked, "You're Ollivander's son?"

"Oh," The man chortled, a noise that seemed forced. "How very
astute of you, such intelligence does not befit a thief."
He bristled at the man's barb, eager to respond.

"Our intention was never to steal." Fleur tried her own attempt to
placate the man taking shape, but one that did not hold him for long.

"Forgive me for thinking tearing down my wards and searching

through our stock was done in bad faith." The silver-haired man said,
"Of course, you meant to pay for them, didn't you?"

"We just need help." Harry tried again, "Please."

"Find it elsewhere, fuck off. "

"I can repair your wards." Fleur offered, "Improve them even."

"The only reason they need repairing is because you broke them."

"Because they were made by a simpleton." Fleur scoffed, "I can cast
far more comprehensive ones, ward off anyone else - in exchange
for your services . "

"Yes." The man nodded in faux-acceptance, "Because trusting

thieves is excellent form, thank you for your counsel. There are two
wandmakers in Knockturn Alley, another near the healer's tent on the
other side of Diagon. Now, fuck off."

"If you want proof of our reasoning for being here," Fleur said,
apparently the final gambit of the exchange. "Cast a revealing charm
on him."

"Why?"

"You'll see, then you can decide if you'll throw us out."

Fleur had made to do as he had, to reach towards the floor in pursuit

of her wand. Irrespective of what happened after the revealing
charm, Fleur would have an opportunity.
The spell sailed across the distance, and he fought against a similar
reaction to the one that had happened only that morning.

His features painfully morphed into his own, and the man studied his
face for a pregnant moment.

" Harry Potter ." The man recognised, his voice above a whisper and
silver eyes that mimicked the moon above widened.

Harry's voice was quick to affirm his realisation.

"I am." Harry nodded softly, "And we need your help, please."

Soon with few words and at the man's behest, their glamour charms
dropped and hey were ushered upstairs towards the same
apartment they had neglected to check. Introducing the pair to a
spartan room, decorated only by a bed and a small table.

"Geraint Ollivander, son of Garrick." The man introduced coarsely

and succinctly, taking a seat across from them. "Sit."

Not one for small talk, Harry thought. Beyond the man's
understandably unfriendly demeanour, he likely owed the vitriol to
the scattered firewhisky bottles alongside their break-in.

"I find myself interested in what brings the great Harry Potter and
company into my father's shop." Geraint began, taking his seat
across from them. "A wiser man would call the Aurors, better yet,
there's likely a great many people who would pay a fine price to
know the location of Harry Potter."

Seems like there's no love lost between us. Harry noted, the man
already seemed to dislike him.

"But, as I said, I find myself interested in why such an esteemed

guest finds his way here. Be it bad decisions or benevolence; you
have my ear for just a moment."
"I broke my wand and needed a replacement; this seemed the best
place to try and find a new one," Harry spoke, the simple truth laid
before him.

"So you chose an abandoned, warded wandmaker's shop over one

still operating?" The man frowned, "The papers lead me to believe
you possessed significantly more tact than that."

"Clearly not abandoned." Fleur shot back.

"No," The man conceded with what seemed to be a rare smile,

"Clearly not."

"Ollivander - your father, said there was a connection between my

wand and Voldemort's. Something important, I thought if anyone
possessed any further knowledge on it - any hope to repair it, they'd
be here."

"My father sold wands to children, Harry Potter, he was a man of

theatrics. To every child, their wand was unique, a power
unparalleled within. He sold them stories as much as he did a
gateway to magic. This was their first step into our world proper, and
he wanted to make it special. That does not mean his stories held
even a grain of truth."

The rough-edged man seemed soft-spoken when his father was

concerned, yet another old wound laid bare.

"It's true," Harry argued.

"The truth of such matters little to me anyway." The man brushed off,
"I am more interested, however, in whatever rationale you felt was
worthy enough to deserve my help."

"With all of Voldemort's attacks, people are going to be displaced;

they're going to need help," Fleur interjected. "If we want to provide
that help, Harry needs a wand."
"Forgive me for perhaps not seeing a connection where I likely
should." Geraint offered a faux-apology, "But I can't fathom how that
connects us nor burdens me with duty."

"If you repair it, we'll leave." Harry offered, "We'll repair the wards
and no one will ever have to know you're here, or that we were."

"And tell me, Harry Potter, will you be here tomorrow?"

"I don't know." Harry offered, unsure of the course of the

conversation.

"Precisely." Geraint nodded, "But I shall still be here. I'll be here

when Thorfinn Rowle and his bruisers return of an evening to
squeeze the galleons out of every shop on the Alley. Which will no
doubt include mine, given just how many eyes saw you enter the
shop."

"So, you're scared?" Harry goaded, in an attempt to change

approach, "You'd rather they win, do you?"

"Yes, I am." Geraint agreed, "There should be fear, witches and

wizards should be terrified. Don't bandy about that as if it were an
insult, most do not have the luxury of Ministry protection and the
walls of Hogwarts. We are beneath your ivory towers, and here, on
the ground, the nail that sticks out soon finds the hammer."

"If anyone saw the two of us enter, they'll assume we were thieves,
nothing more, nothing less." Fleur pointed out, "If you can help us, I'll
repair the wards, or we could leave them."

"Don't try to beguile or blackmail me, girl ." Ollivander spat, "You put
my life on the line by coming here, don't presume to think I owe you
anything save a cursing."

"There are people we need to find," Harry said, he thought himself

above pleading, but he had learned more than a modicum of
cunning. "People we need to help. If you were in my position and
could save someone close to you, would you not want help?"

Seeing how the man had reacted to a previous mention of his father,
Harry, however unscrupulous the jab felt, plunged himself between
the man's armour of vitriol.

"Had I been in such a position to help, I would have entertained

more intelligent avenues."

"We're here now." Harry urged, "Fleur can repair your wards, make it
look like no one ever broke in. We can glamour ourselves and
disappear from the shop before anyone notices, all you have to do is
help us."

"And what do I gain from this arrangement?"

"As I said, Fleur can repair your -"

"Wards that you broke, as I have already reminded." Geraint said,

"Tell me, do you have any galleons?"

"Not at the moment." Harry offered somewhat meekly. Though it

wasn't strictly true, they had found a coin purse left behind at
Grimmauld, filled with only a handful of knuts and sickles. Money
he'd rather save for a dire situation, at least until they could get
more.

"So I'll be paid in goodwill, shall I?"

"I can get you Galleons," Harry offered, "I just need time and a
wand."

The wandmaker leant forward to rest on his elbows, a scrutinising

gaze emanating from moon-like eyes that made an attempt to
perturb him into acquiescence.

Once upon a time, I might have fallen to a harsh glare. Harry mused,
I might have left when he told me to.
But to come all this way only to misstep was a luxury he could
seldom afford. He'd seized a thread, and now, all he needed was to
pull hard enough to release it.

And so he pulled, returning the man's stare.

"Your wand," The wandmaker nodded towards Harry, "Show it to

me."

Harry reached into the pocket of his robes and procured the object in
question. Two main pieces came out; a bright, crimson feather
protruding from one side, followed by a shower of splinters.

He hadn't bothered to peer at the fragments since the night at the

Burrow, only patting them with his hand to ensure they remained.

Now, they were laid before him, a wand that had seen him through it
all seemed little better than splinters and sawdust.

"I had presumed it was snapped," Geraint said, pale brow furrowing
as he plucked a piece from the table. "This is shattered; how?"

"A duel," Harry said succinctly, content to forego the memories of the
Burrow aflame.

"A duel would not suffice, Mister Potter." The man chastised harshly
after examining the broken wood for a moment. Harry could smell
the faint whiff of alcohol on his breath. "Shattering a wand requires
power and emotional impetus - the former may have been present,
the latter less so, but still possible. The full truth will be ideal if I am
to survey the extent of the damage."

Harry swallowed against the irritation in his throat.

"Do I have to?" Harry asked, his voice raw.

"It's clearly unpleasant." Geraint offered, his features seeming softer

for having heard Harry's voice. "I shall not force you to tell me
anything you wish to keep hidden. But I am not the wandmaker my
father is, the devil of wandmaking is in the details, despite how trivial
those details might seem."

A familiar, emboldening hand found a place atop his.

"We were attacked, Christmas night." Harry began, "Death Eaters

burnt down the house we were staying at, and I killed one."

The final words seemed an addendum, rather than the bulk of the
statement. Said quickly as not to allow the truth to linger in his mouth
for too long.

But it lacked the ever-present bitter taste; it did not bite at his lips as
it once did. Now, they felt like words, just as any other.

"Butcher's work tends to be nasty business." Geraint offered, his

voice softer to match his features. "Especially for young eyes, my
condolences."

"We escaped." Harry continued, nodding at the man's platitudes.

"Fenrir Greyback and some werewolves attacked us; I didn't know
what I was casting but I -"

"Shattered your wand." Geraint finished, "A burst of flames, a flash of

light, a fissure beneath your feet. You needn't look so worrisome,
Mister Potter, you are far from the first to burn your wand out in
exigent circumstances."

A soft sigh weaselled its way through barely parted lips at his words,
a breath Harry hadn't known he'd been withholding.

"I assume it's repairable then?" Harry asked, allowing a glimmer of

hope into his voice for the first time in an age.

"That, I am unsure of." The man regarded the remnants of the holly
shaft carefully, "Wands are snapped by hand but shattered by magic,
the latter is a fix significantly more difficult. You'd be best off
replacing it, rather than hoping for a repair."
"Is there truly nothing you can think of?"

"Why do you seek to repair your wand, Harry Potter?" Geraint asked,
his eyes swivelling between Harry's own and his wand.

"Like I said." Harry began, "I need it -"

"Not why you need it, why you want it." Geraint reiterated.

Harry furrowed his brow, "Is that really relevant?"

"Humour me."

That seemed a question he was ill-prepared for.

Why do I want it?

"It's my wand, I suppose." Harry said, "It's seen me through a lot,

and I'd like it back."

"Oftentimes we must forego sentimentality in favour of duty," Geraint

said.

"Is that insinuating that you can't fix it?" Harry asked.

"There are complexities with dealing with such, few we foresee. If

you wish for a possible repair, leave it with me," Geraint decided, "I'm
unsure of the exact nature of such amending or its possibility, but
time may yet yield an answer."

"I'll still need a wand." Harry pointed out, "Is there any way you could
match me with another?"

"I could, easily, in fact." Geraint nodded, "Though such an endeavour

may dampen your connection to your current wand, a decision not
made lightly."

"May?" Harry asked.

"Wandmakers deal in magic, something very rarely measured in
definitives and absolutes. Your reaction is unique to you only, but the
risk remains regardless."

"I take it I don't have much of a choice in the matter then?" Harry
sighed, reaching forward to pluck the handle of his wand from the
table.

"There always remains a choice, the intelligent choice, on the other

hand, is the one I believe you've already chosen."

Harry reached forward to pluck one of the pieces of wood from the
table, rolling once warm holly through his open palm.

You've seen me through a lot . Harry mused, as if the splinters could

hear his call.

Through trials and tribulations, adventures and adversity - it had

never failed him.

And now it's time to part.

The choice had already been made, truthfully, he'd never entertained
any other, though that did not soften the blow as he had hoped.
Geraint sat silently on the other side of the table, seemingly
recognising the apprehension leaking onto Harry's features.

The man's coarseness, as deserved as it was, was absent. Refusing

to push the agenda while Harry let the old wood free from his hand.

Then Harry nodded, seemingly all the response the younger wand
maker needed. Geraint left, bound for the storage room downstairs,
Harry guessed. Fleur remained silent, whether by design or lack of
words he was unsure, but he remained content to let her hand rest
atop his own and silence reign supreme.

Soon enough, the man returned, arms ladened with motley coloured
boxes that found their way onto the table.
And with his reappearance, the mission to match a wand began
again in earnest. Arms were measured, boxes were opened, and
familiar wands were wielded once more. Every wood he had heard
off and more made its way into Harry's hands. Dogwood and Alder,
Unicorn Hair to Hippogriff feather.

Until the final one had come out.

"Cypress, ten-and-a-half inches, phoenix feather, like your holly

wand. This one, however, is from a younger phoenix if memory
serves correct - one of the last my father collected."

It was a pale wood, near white that found its way into his hand. It
lacked a handle as his holly shaft had, instead opting for a
minimalistic, uniform smoothness that tapered into a point.

"Cypress?" Harry queried as he grasped the handle with gentle

fingers.

"My namesake, many centuries ago, was quite fond of it, or so my

father would boast." Ollivander nodded absentmindedly, "Sacrifice
given tangible form, matched to men and women destined to lay
down their lives, to rush towards ruin in pursuit of a goal, however
noble."

To rush towards ruin in pursuit of a goal, Harry repeated internally.

"Sounds morbid," Harry commented, extra vigilance of the pale shaft

born from his words.

"Tales, that's all they are." Geraint shrugged, "Scholars said one of
the three brothers from the tales of old once wielded a wand of
Cypress, I've also heard they never wielded wands at all - but staffs.
We are predisposed to theatricality, forever seeing falsities in place
of fact if only to boost our own prowess. A generalisation, however
accurate, does not make the norm."
And with the man's final words, he allowed the handle to contact his
palm proper.

Whereas the others had been a slight match, this was anything but.
There was warmth within Harry's hand as if he had stuck his hand
into a hearth and grasped the coals beneath, though it did not blister
his skin or brand him as he might've thought.

Instead, it felt right.

With a familiar motion, he levitated the wand's box above the table
and lowered it softly, the exhilarating feeling of magic coursing
through healing tendons and muscles, a pleasurable ache that
tugged the corners of his lips upwards.

"This one," Harry said, the smile gracing his feature widening, a
similar one mirrored on Fleur's face.

"If you believe you've truly found your match?"

"I think so." Harry nodded, weighing the new instrument in his hands,
"Will I have to worry about it being as powerful as the last?"

"A wand is not the sum of what it holds in its core. It is not measured
by rarity, but with your own connection with it, the struggles you have
with it in hand." Geraint lectured, "Many a witch and wizard have
grandiose dreams about rare wands and the power they may wield.
A wand does not make the user, Mister Potter, in fact, it often makes
them much, much less."

"How much for the wand?" Harry asked.

"Improve the wards as you seemed to adamant to do, and we shall

call it even."

"And for my old wand's repairs?" Harry continued, describing the

wand that had led him to that moment stung, "If you're able to fix that
what do you want? Galleons?"
The man was in thought for only a moment, his closed mouth shifting
to and fro.

"Free, for the moment."

"Free?" Fleur questioned sceptically, "I had assumed you needed to

make a living? Why?"

"Call it belief, if you are so inclined." The man said, "Just know that if
you ever hear a word on my father, regardless of his state, I'd like
word of it."

Payment to find his father.

He wouldn't be a priority - couldn't be . But Harry could ensure he did

what he could.

"I'll try my best." Harry offered, "But I can't be sure we'll find him."

"I don't seek idle promises, just the knowledge that you will try."

"You have my word," Harry said, and Fleur nodded beside him. "I'll
do what I can."

"Return to me in a week, maybe two." Geraint decided, "With any

luck, I should be able to repair the wand though I make no promises
on the matter."

Harry nodded once more, peering at the Cypress wand that he could
now call his own.

I have a wand again; he allowed himself to feel the high of victory,

even if it seemed small.

But it was not the sweet tang of victory that lingered nor the fresh
warmth in his hand, but the man's words, even if offhand and
chalked up as little but superstition.

Towards ruin.
The conversation had tapered off beyond, Fleur had repaired the
ward stone she had drained, and with a short exchange of farewells,
they found themselves glamoured and back onto the main alley.
Distancing themselves from the seemingly abandoned shop as not
to draw any further attention.

He had pulled the thread and came off better for it; the picture had
unravelled that much more. Now, he stood at a crossroads as they
plotted their next move.

"Where shall we go now?" Fleur asked, scouring the alley with a

keen gaze. "Borgin and Burkes?"

"Geraint seemed to think Rowle was active in the alley." Harry

pointed out, "If that's the case, he'd be operating out of Knockturn
Alley."

"Where Borgin and Burkes is." Fleur said, "I take it you don't favour
the plan?"

"We might find the rat, but the pack would be smarter for it." Harry
parroted, and Fleur gave a soft laugh.

"Reiterating my own wisdom is a poor way to win an argument."

"It works." Harry returned, "Or are you going to argue against your
own wisdom ?"

"Not today." She shook her head, "Borgin and Burkes does seem far
too risky for the moment, especially with so much still unknown. Our
concern should be finding out what has transpired over the past few
days."

"Perhaps we should have pushed Geraint, see if he knew anything."

Harry frowned.
Fleur scoffed, "He was a man staring down the bottom of a
firewhisky bottle, by the looks of it, he'd been at it for days - I don't
think he'd heard much of anything save for snores and belches."

"He might have lost his father." Harry defended, "Go easy on him."

"But rather than do anything about it, he turned to drink and lost
himself somewhere in his cups." Fleur argued, "He possessed the
means, but fell short, turning to apathy instead of doing something,
anything . The bad lose themselves, the good get up once more, and
try again."

Seems I'll never be free of her wisdoms, Harry smiled.

"By the looks of it, he might be doing some good," Harry said.

"He might be." Fleur shrugged, "Time will tell if his words yield
anything save more firewhisky, he didn't seem the sort to get up
willingly."

Harry frowned once more, peering at the back of her silver hair. Fleur
had remained conspicuously quiet during the discourse with
Ollivander's son.

I wonder if she's bitter because she thinks him a fool, or because

she got bested by surprise.

Now he was forced to glance at the tapestry once more, a task had
been completed, a name learned, and a wand gained. Now, he was
forced to choose again.

Bellatrix Lestrange .

Harry was not naive enough to believe he could defeat her in a

single battle; she outshined both him and Fleur where duelling was
concerned. But there would be no single battle, any conflict with her
was destined to include legions of Death Eaters at Voldemort's
behest.
Romulus Whitehall.

A werewolf, unknown to them and likely dead if the proclivities of

werewolves were anything to go off. But even Caractus Burke
survived against the odds; he knew something - a secret Voldemort
didn't want to be let loose.

Regulus Black and Kreacher.

The former was dead before his birth; the latter would not heed his
calls.

Tiberius Ogden

The Firewhisky Financier - a lead that wasn't his own.

And the only one lead that remained to them, the only one they could
truly pursue without fear of greater danger.

He could not err in his choosing, for there was only one thread that
remained to him, only one avenue to pursue.

Harry looked to Fleur, hoping to find counsel in her eyes, acceptance

on her features as he broached his plan.

His mouth opened and spoke, and a plan formed that saw them exit
the alcove, bound for unfamiliar territory.

Fleur's knowledge of the Alley far exceeded his own, where she had
worked in the area for almost a year, his visits were mostly limited to
the frantic rush for school supplies, the Weasleys at his back.

Although she had never delved down the unscrupulous, cramped

alleyways of Knockturn, this was clearly a path she had walked
before. A thoroughfare past the apothecary led them down a
spiralling path, past apartments blocks and eventually to their quarry.
Housing units parted, identical buildings on the adjacent gave birth to
a wide opening. Harry's nose was assaulted by a pungent smell that
was soon dissipated by freshening charms that saturated the air.

Alcohol, Harry guessed as they stepped further into the opening.

"The Distillery District," Fleur announced as Harry was allowed a

proper glimpse of the section before him.

"Dare I even ask why you seem so familiar with the path here?"

"It's one of the only places that sell a somewhat palatable wine on
this island."

"I'm sure it was very hard for you to live on sub-par alcohol."

"You'd mock my struggles?" She scoffed, her voice alight with faux-
indignation.

"No, of course not." Harry placated, "I imagine it was such a fall from
grace to be debased by my country."

"Is that an insinuation that I've fallen from grace?"

"Of course not." Harry shook his head, "It takes a remarkable
amount of grace to whinge in public about just that."

"I was not whinging." Her scoff and subsequent facial expression
overtaken by a scowl, "I was educating - there's a marked
difference."

Had they been less acquainted, Harry might have mistaken her tone
for anger, her words as an argument. Instead, their shoulders
brushed, and she wore an infectious smile on her glamoured face.

Even wearing false features, Fleur Delacour couldn't be stamped

out.
It was all a brief piece of levity that helped confront the daunting
sight ahead.

First, Harry noticed the dull whine. It was a familiar enough noise,
but one that seemed out of place here. The Distillery District had
marginally more people present, a monotony of shoes rebounding off
of manicured cobbles as they went about their business.

Duty. Harry noted, They're only here for duty, to try and move on.

The passage of workers stretched down the length of the street,

culminating in the tallest building present, large, ostentatious
lettering crossing the front of the building.

Ogden's Distillery, Makers of Fine Whiskey since 1693

With their destination found, they began to weave through the small
crowds that occupied the centre street. With ease they found
themselves at the foot of the tall building.

The guard at the door posed little challenge to Fleur, a wand hidden
beneath her robes, a muttered spell and a false cough to hide it.

" Confundo. "

The pale spell crossed the distance in an instance, imbuing the grey-
robed wizard with a newfound interest for the cobbles before him,
slipping behind him with relative ease and into the distillery beyond.

The workers inside cared little of their presence, feigned confidence

seemed well-placed enough to ensure it looked as if they had a
place within the building. Intuition served them well enough, leading
them up flights of stairs and over the work floor, their journey ending
with a single door.

Tiberius R. Ogden

A receptionist's desk sat empty but was not inactive as evidenced by

fluttering pieces of parchment that flew from the desk to other areas
of the building.

Whatever our window, it isn't long.

Fleur undid her charmwork, and once more, Harry wore a real face,
his hand reaching to twist the ornate handle - off to pull a final
thread.

Keep them off balance. Fleur had once told him in her quarters,
nursing spell wounds. It had been a lesson applied to duelling.

What was this if not duelling of another kind?

He seized the handle and pushed it open; his appearance alone

should have been enough to keep the man off balance.

Information. Harry repeated. That's what we're here for.

The familiar man sat at his desk, the space before him occupied by
missives, quills and what Harry assumed to be a healthy serving of
his own liquor.

"Harry Potter," Ogden said, the telltale signs of shock absent from
the man's stern visage, but the same subtle gregariousness from
Slughorn's party was missing. Instead of shock, it looked like
calculating - the same look Ron would get whenever Harry made a
move in chess he hadn't anticipated.

"And Miss Delacour, of course," Ogden added, it seemed more an

afterthought to allow him more time to formulate a proper response.

They had succeeded, the man was off balance.

That part of the plan was simplistic - it was keeping the man that way
that presented a task far more daunting.

For all their flaws, they are still powerful and intelligent men alone.

"Mister Ogden." Harry returned the pleasantries.

"Harry Potter." Tiberius repeated, "I had expected many a person
through my door today. I did not count you amongst them."

"I'm a man of surprises, I suppose," Harry said with a noncommittal

shrug.

"Indeed, you are." Ogden said, "But my courtesies abandon me, and
please be seated."

Harry obliged with Fleur alongside, taking the proferred seats.

"I think I'll forego the pleasantries." Ogden explained, "Because I find
myself more than surprised at your presence, not a particularly
unwelcome surprise, that is - but one all the same."

Providing reasoning was not something he had rehearsed on the

trek to where they currently sat. Harry wracked his mind for logic that
did not seem as transparent as he felt at that moment.

"Information." Fleur spoke where Harry could not, "The world's state
of affairs has evaded us for the past few days."

"Truly?" The man asked, "And you've sought me out rather than
asking some a tad more familiar?"

Ogden was probing for further information on their own situation;

Harry refused to play into his hands.

"We thought it best to find a reputable source."

Perhaps flattery would serve him as well as it did with Slughorn.

Ogden seemed outwardly pensive for a moment, enough that Harry
was unsure if the expression was truthful or a facade.

"For the love I bore your grandfather, Charlus, I shall offer my

assistance - this once. He was a good man, and though you may
never have met him, I see much of him in you, beyond your
colouring, that is."
"And my grandfather has what bearing on the situation?"

As much as Harry wished to push the issue of his Grandfather, a

man he had scarcely ever heard of, it was not the time. Derailing the
conversation for familial pursuits wouldn't serve anyone but himself.

"None in this particular instance, truthfully." Ogden admitted, his face

remaining impassive, "But it was his memory that saw me resign
from the Wizengamot in your support, at the very least I'd consider
myself a friend."

He is trying to ingratiate himself as familiar, just as Slughorn did.

Harry had observed their tricks firsthand, as had Fleur, they would
not fall into his hands so meekly.

"Friend enough to support Voldemort over Dumbledore?" Harry

asked pointedly, a jab that was likely best left unsaid.

Derailing the conversation seemed to happen despite his wishes, but

it seemed to their advantage.

Finally, there was but a flicker of emotion across old, caramel eyes,
but it was not one conducive to their discussion - it was anger,
subtle, but present.

"Do not take me for a fool, Harry Potter," Ogden warned softly.

"You'd support a madman over a chance of a better world, is there a

more apt word?"

Harry's penchant for letting a temper reign free had never been more
apparent, there was nothing to be gained by not holding his tongue,
and yet, he had let it loose.

"I am not Horace Slughorn, stumbling from one act of idiocy to the
next." Ogden continued, "A man led by a council of demagoguery
and fanaticism."
Harry had thought it once before, but this was confirmation of such a
thought.

They're business partners, certainly not friends.

"Yet you're a part of that same council." Fleur interjected, "Yet you
remain a part of it, claiming your views are so atypical?"

"I am not a man who finds satisfaction in war." Ogden admitted, "But
war is a business venture, one that is not destined to last long, but
an opportunity still. Few have the luxury of virtue in times like these.
We have little choice but to move with the times."

"And profit," Harry said.

"And profit." Ogden repeated, "The two are not mutually exclusive."

"Not destined to last long?" Fleur questioned, taking particular note

of the man's words.

"Has the Dark Lord not already shown his hand enough?" Ogden
countered, "He's taken Azkaban, set the Isles alight from Scotland to
Wales and raided the Ministry, decimating the Hitwizards, all that
remains is Scrimgeour and a battered Auror force and ashes up and
down the coast."

It took a moment to internalise the man's words.

The Ministry was truly lost.

And there were more attacks than just the Burrow.

"Neither the Prophet nor the Wireless will report on it, so long as
they remain under Scrimgeour's grasp, even if he is displaced."

"Why?"

"Most already know, what good will further fear mongering

accomplish?" Ogden asked, "Most can taste the tension in the air,
know it's a war already lost."

"Do you know if there was any resistance?" Harry asked, a question
filled with desperate hope.

"As I said, Scrimgeour and an Auror force still seem to be alive."

Ogden said, "If they escaped, I assume they did so through
violence."

"And despite seeing all this, despite seeing what he is capable of,
you'd still support Voldemort?" Fleur asked, "I suppose you still
believe you have any assurances you won't end up amongst those
burnt?"

"War makes for strange bedfellows." Ogden said, "We balance

probabilities in this business - Landon and Slughorn are foolish
indeed, but they do not lack cunning. If they believe they have
assurances for the moment, however tentative, I have little reason to
believe they speak falsely."

Harry turned to Fleur, a brief glimpse of recognition in her eyes.

Because he once taught him, thought himself using Voldemort rather

than the inverse.

Even after he killed my Mother, Slughorn still thinks he could pull

strings through subtly and support.

A better world, he had said.

But the portly Professor had reached too far. He was a man used to
having few insurmountable obstacles in his way. Then one had risen,
forcing him to measure his aspirations against his actual capabilities.

He had reached too far in pursuit of a star.

And he fell.
Harry turned his gaze back to Ogden, who seemed interested in the
unfolding scene between the pair.

Old habits die hard.

"What if I told you they were lying?"

"I'd call you a liar in turn." Ogden said, "A particularly poor one if
such an attempt is any barometer."

"And if we have proof of such an accusation?" Fleur continued,

"Would you still name us poor liars?"

"If I possessed such evidence of malpractice, what makes you

assume It'd even warrant investigating?"

"You're a businessman." Harry echoed, "You'll protect your business

ventures."

"Which is entirely dependent on whether I place your word on a

higher rung than theirs."

"You'd put a remarkable amount of stock in the words of men who lie
for a living," Fleur said, the edge in her voice could not be mistaken.

"Assumptions are a deadly thing." Ogden countered, "If I believed

your words over theirs, I expose my back for a blade - it is the lies
we least expect that deal us the greatest harm."

Harry did not need to glance at Fleur once more; he had a plan of his
own.

"Thomas Riddle Junior," Harry said simply, leaving the statement in

the air as if it explained it all on its own.

There was little sense in not uttering the words. The knowledge was
not commonplace, and he could not anger Slughorn, speaking them
could offer them a boon, or nothing at all.
It was a bargaining chip.

"A name." Ogden said, "But not one I recognise."

"Voldemort's birth name - a student of Horace Slughorn decades

ago."

For the first time that meeting, Ogden allowed a glimpse of the
evident shock beneath his hardened features.

"Point being?" Ogden spoke after a brief moment, "Pedigree and

power do not always go hand-in-hand, the knowledge of such a
name does little for me."

But even a layman could hear the truth beneath his voice, spy it
below the surface - the man was confused and shocked but above
all - he was intrigued.

"He'd rather see you dead than share the spoils." Harry explained,
"Slughorn tried to use him once before, thought he could outsmart
Voldemort - he couldn't. Voldemort won't be as quick or eager to
forget that as you may like."

"I take it you claim to know the mind of Voldemort more intimately
than anyone else?" Ogden asked, a question meant to push him off
balance but Fleur was quick to interject.

"Even Albus Dumbledore thought little of you." Fleur bluffed, "He

allowed you access to Hogwarts, gave you an avenue to plan
because even he knew if you continued down this path, you weren't
long for this world."

Neither is he, Harry thought sadly.

The bluff appeared to have worked, sending the man into his
thoughts once more, the upper hand seceding to them once more.

"And I take it you have evidence of these claims?"

"We've given you the avenue." Fleur said, "Our claims are true; you
need only investigate them."

"And you've laid such at my feet for what reason?"

"Because we needed allies and information." Harry said, "And

because Slughorn is deceiving you like he deceived everyone."

"This is done in hopes it would convince me to abandon my allies?"

Ogden asked.

"You seemed the least hostile of the group." Harry shrugged,

deciding candour was likely the best approach, "And the only one
who we had any idea about."

"Leave it with me." Ogden decided after, "I shall decide whether or
not your words are worth anything at a later date."

It was not the reception he hoped his confession would have yielded.

But I suppose that's the best we could have hoped for.

"As it stands, despite the shock of such revelations, I think you've

overstayed your welcome."

"I agree." Fleur decided, standing from the chair, Harry copying her
movement a second later.

"Wait." Harry all but shouted, realisation hot on his lips. "Caractus
Burke."

It had been their primary purpose, yet Harry had erred and pursued
an ally rather than the truth.

Odgen arched an old, bushy eyebrow.

"Does that name mean anything to you?" Fleur probed.

"A co-proprietor of Borgin and Burkes, of course, I know the name,"
Ogden said, a glimmer of indignation shining through at the
insinuation that they assumed he hadn't known.

"But what does it mean to you?"

"This seems like a fairly odd line of questioning, Caractus Burke has
been dead for years."

"Just answer the question." Harry urged.

"My dealings with him weren't extensive." Ogden explained, "It was
my father who financed their shop, I can't claim to know either Borgin
or Burke in much more than passing."

"Did you owe either of them anything?" Harry asked, "Anything at

all?"

"Maybe a bottle of firewhisky?" Ogden shrugged, "It's been

decades."

Harry could not hear dishonesty in his voice, nor the shimmer of
deceit in his eyes.

Doesn't mean it isn't there. Harry thought, They're far better at it than
I am.

A quick glance to Fleur seemed to confirm she was equally satisfied

that the man was telling the truth or at the very least, didn't
remember.

Their true purpose had come to an end. The tread had come loose
but not in the way he intended.

They searched for a Horcrux but might have gained an ally instead.

"Alright." Harry nodded to Fleur, and the pair began their departure in
earnest once more, leaving the older man to their backs, pondering
their words.
Harry had assumed a witty remark to follow them out the door, a
threat to solidify his control of the situation, an assurance that he had
not been bested.

But there was nought.

Tiberius Ogden merely downed the glass of hickory-hued liquor and

fished out a piece of parchment.

Harry allowed himself to smile; it felt like a victory.

Even if it was destined to become much more, or much less.

The telltale crack of apparition heralded the day's end, the derelict
exterior of Grimmauld Place coming into view once more.

The remainder of the day had been uneventful, a quick trek to the
apparition point and they found themselves amidst safer grounds.

Fleur leaned against him as he twisted the door handle, allowing

them access into the house beyond.

Harry had not expected any figure to be beyond the door.

Least of all one with red hair and a lit wand.

Survival Misnomer
A/N: God, it feels weird to be here again after being absent for so
long.

I apologise for the long absence, lots of things have been happening
on my side of the fence. I lost a family member, I wrote a lot of one-
shots, ignored the chapter a fair bit, collaborated with another author
and even started a charity in a fanfiction community to raise nearly
$2000. Suffice to say it's been a weird couple months for me. But I
wanted to get a chapter out before the new year, admittedly rough
around the edges, I wanted to give the people that enjoy the story a
little piece of ADKOW amidst a shit year.

If I'm honest, I've been struggling a fair bit with writing and not so
much on the idea side of things. This chapter was particularly difficult
in that I had to portray emotions in a manner that I hope doesn't feel
synthetic, which is always hard. But as a writer, I'm being hit pretty
hard with trying to change my style and meld what I've learnt so far.

My troubles aside, the chapter is here and I hope you enjoy it! Stay
safe!

The levelled wand before him was hot and lucent, a pale, iridescent
glow bathing the hallway before them, daring him to edge closer.

Fleur remained to his rear; her wand brought to the fore in a

defensive effort - not content to be caught off guard twice in the
same day.

Though it was impossible to not seem on the back foot.

Their vigilance had not extended inside the walls of Grimmauld

Place, reserved instead for old men with hidden agendas and
drunken wandmakers. Harry had expected much less beyond the
door, a place where the intensity of the day's events became muted
and the high of victory lessened to a dull ache.

Where dark thoughts were faced once more, and painful

conversations were had; where they dared to speak the harsh truths
that lingered beneath the facade.

But be it boon or bad luck, life was never destined to be so simple.

A rational mind would have realised from the outset that while the
Fidelius charm remained intact, there was little chance of an enemy
lying inside.

Harry traced the unfamiliar wand with his eyes, from apex to source
and up a gnarled forearm to familiar, red hair.

"Charlie?" Harry asked, his question laced with the shock of

realisation.

"Harry?" The familiar voice returned, the glowing wand seeming

duller for having recognised him.

It was a mundane exchange, all things considered, but one

burdened with the duty of having to convey the lance of shock they
had no doubt both been struck with. Though it had little chance of
breaking them free from the sudden stupor they found themselves in.

They're alive.

A simple thought, the voices that surrounded him were soon lost in
the peripheral haze of such a resounding truth.

They're alive.

Even if in reality it spoke only of Charlie being alive, it lit the wick of
hope within him. In retrospect, it seemed foolish to cling to such.

And then, came Ron.

He rounded the corner with as much decorum as he could muster, a
stutter step followed as their eyes met. Surmounting the distance of
the hallway with long strides, he stood before Harry. Ron's lanky
form was rigid as if he was a soldier forming ranks, blue eyes boring
down upon Harry.

Christmas had been only days ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime had
passed between them.

Harry thought there was little use in not letting his eyes drift to the
new feature that adorned the familiar face.

Scar tissue ran the length of his right cheek, painting cheekbone to
chin in a pale reddish hue. The skin seemed leathery - as if Harry
had dared to reach out and touch it, his fingers would come away
bloody from having grazed the rough surface.

Truthfully, it was an odd affair.

They were best mates, they had been best mates for years. Why
was now any different to any adversity they had conquered in the
past?

Yet there was a marked difference; no words sprang to speak of his

relief or even his defence. Harry merely withered under the
scrutinising gaze that could have been accusatory in this light.

The same lifetime that had passed between them spoke of far
greater tragedies, expressing a far louder sentiment than words
alone.

They were alive, but not unscathed.

Uncomfortable silence reigned no longer, the doors behind Ron and

Charlie burst open and started to teem with life - life that had been
absent only hours ago. From Order members coming out to check
the disturbance to the rest of the Weasleys spilling out to greet him
with glassy eyes and broad smiles.
Eventually, Hermione had wiggled through the crowd with open arms
to envelop him. Harry might've said something, offered some
platitudes. But if he had any, they soon escaped his mind. Lost
somewhere amidst the maelstrom of cheerful cries and suffocating
embraces, Harry's mind was filled with joy. Despite the events of the
last few days, they seemed whole once more.

It was a joy not set in stone, the harsh grip of gravity took him by the
ankle and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to earth.

There were absences.

The differences were subtle at first, as faces both familiar and

unfamiliar flew by. Subtle yet noticeable.

Ginny, Fred, Bill, Mr Weasley, Mrs Weasley.

It was a sombre mantra in his head, there were faces new and old in
the fray, though it was the absences that sung a song louder than
the rest.

Had Harry entertained optimism, searched for other avenues of

thought, his mind could have yielded a plethora of different results.
Perhaps they had been injured and sent to Saint Mungo's or off
helping to douse the flames of a country alight.

Then, another face emerged from the mix.

Remus Lupin.

The last time Harry had seen the man, there had been a rift between
them, one beneath the surface, Harry could sense it all the same.

He had sulked out of the Burrow as Harry had arrived with Professor
Dumbledore, Tonks in tow, sparing him nary a second glance.

Harry couldn't blame him, not truthfully - not anymore. Harry had
killed Sirius, it was the bitter truth, but the truth all the same. He had
been responsible for the man losing the last remnant of a time
beyond his own.

A happier time, maybe, Harry thought.

Though, Harry could forgive; he had to.

There were enough foes outside the walls, he did not need another
enemy within.

"It's good to see you again, Harry," Remus said, the first words they
had spoken to one another in an age. "We're glad to have you
returned to us safely."

"If it's anything, I'm glad too." Harry joked, or rather, tried to.

He succeeded in raising the corners of the man's lips ever so slightly,

though he could feel the tension remain.

"Are you injured?" Remus asked, looking over Harry's shoulder to

address Fleur as well.

"Nothing that hasn't already been fixed," Harry answered, "I was a bit
bad for a while there."

"We've managed to muster some healers, should that change, you

need only ask," Remus said, finishing the short exchange of
pleasantries. "A mind healer too, should you - well, should you need
it."

The implication was clear enough.

"I think we'll be fine for now." Fleur added politely, "Though we'd like
answers on what's happened since Christmas."

The scars on Remus's face lengthened and bristled with the man's
expression, clearly weighing his next words with care.
"Truth and answers seem a complicated beast in these times."
Remus confessed, "I'm afraid I wouldn't even begin to know how to
tackle it."

"By the horns, perhaps," Fleur suggested.

"I'm afraid life is rarely so simple." Remus offered softly in return.

If there was ever an understatement, that was it.

"Try and make it simple." Fleur implored, "We deserve answers at

the very least."

"You'll get them," Remus promised, his reticence seeming out of

character. "Just bear with us for the moment, there are pressing
matters to deal with. When the Order meets, you will have your
answers, Harry, that I promise."

If there was one thing Harry had come to loathe over the years, it
was being treated as if he was an aside to the conversation - as if
age alone made him little more than decoration when dealing with
such business.

Harry swallowed the dreaded ball of anxiety that seemed to lurch up

his throat at the mere thought of the questions forming.

I shouldn't.

And yet, his mouth moved of its own accord.

"Stop it." Harry demanded, "What is going on? Where is everyone?"

The flurry of questions fled his mouth, seeking safety in the open air.
Even Harry had to cringe at how the words sounded, hoping facial
expressions alone would dull their impact.

It was callous, perhaps cruel with all that had seemed to happen, but
it was not without a reaction of its own.
The flame-atrophied muscle in Ron's cheek clenched, fibres
becoming visible in an act that was no doubt painful. Charlie's full
stature shook with sudden tension, Hermione's eyes began to glisten
under the low-light of the candelabra.

They were signs that heralded terrible news yet to come.

Yet, it was staved off for the moment.

"Perhaps it would be best for you to rest first." Remus offered, his
tone soft as if a louder voice might frighten him. "The both of you
should, the past few days have been long and arduous, take what
time you can to recuperate."

He's avoiding the question, was his only thought.

It was yet another piece in the puzzle, an image he wasn't sure he

should finish.

Maybe stalwart adamance had been the wrong approach. All their
reactions had been telling, but Remus had remained impassive,
tight-faced and tighter-lipped in the face of a barrage of difficult
questions.

For the first time since they had reunited, it was not Remus that
came to Harry's assistance with an answer.

It was Ron.

"They're dead."

And the world spiralled forever further downwards.

The simple act of walking to the dining room seemed anything but.
Now a sullen affair more akin to a funeral march had led them into
the lengthy room. Ron, Charlie and Hermione had parted ways with
them at Remus's behest, off to get the rest he'd begged of Harry
moments ago.

Even the very room told a tale of what had already happened in days
past. Dust motes hung precariously in the air, the last vestiges of
flickering daylight highlighting them as it died a gruesome death,
forced to flee over the horizon and leave them to bloody business.

And with the last vestiges fleeing, the remnants of the Order had
arrived.

They were a sorry bunch indeed, in truth, Harry supposed they all
were.

We'll all be sorrier before it's all said and done.

Faces, old and new, scarred and fresh, familiar and unknown filed
through the empty door and with their ranks filled and the last body
through, the door made to close behind them.

And with the door shut, a truth already known was exacerbated.

The Order was missing too many, the days prior had taken more
from them than any cared to admit. They had gained some, at least,
in the form of new faces, but not nearly enough to offset the deathly
deficit.

Soon chairs were pulled out and seats taken, a poor council forming
around the stained mahogany table. Though Harry could not take full
note of the faces that sat on the side that Fleur did not occupy,
instead, he was left to dance with a dangerous thought.

They're dead.

Harry had known who Ron had spoken of, or at the very least, he
assumed he did - their absences once again spoke to what words
could not.
He had remained optimistic, perhaps naively, that the flames had
been little more than a mirage, fooled himself into believing that
while dry, the ink was not what he thought it was.

At some point we're going to have to confront the truth, Fleur had
told him, We can't run forever.

And she was right, as she always is, Harry thought grimly.

Yet, he had thought to run still, and his legs faltered beneath him,
and he landed in something altogether different.

And now this was his reality.

In such a time, Harry could only think of one other.

He wondered if the strings the man claimed to tie were worth it - in

times like this, he wanted to know if whatever the continent held for
Albus Dumbledore was more important than this.

More important than saving the lives of those he left behind.

While people finished their shuffling in and taking seats, Remus once
again moved to the foreground, taking prominence as the de facto
leader of whatever remnants they had mustered.

He had hoped his first Order meeting, if any, would be under kinder
circumstances.

"Now that we're all present, we may begin." Remus stood from his
position at the end of the table, "I know many of you are confused,
questioning our - your position in all of this, of the war."

All is a poor choice of phrase, Harry remarked sadly.

"Truth be told," Remus continued, "I don't have an answer to all your
questions and I likely never will. The lack of faces around the table
should speak to the exact toll the past few days has enacted."
Murmurs seemed to erupt at Remus's words, quiet and morose at
first until they coalesced into a single, braver voice.

"And just how high is that toll?" A vaguely familiar man asked,
blonde hair fell to below his chin and a short beard patched with
what seemed to be whiter spots. He wore something conspicuously
similar to Auror robes. Harry struggled to place his face.

Remus bit his top lip with his bottom teeth, seeming to weigh the
next words carefully. An action that seemed to age the already worn
man considerably at that moment.

"As most have already heard and helped with the matter, the
Ministry's fall is common knowledge," Remus said, the room
remaining silent as a crypt. "Voldemort and his forces drew out the
Aurors with a series of fast-paced raids to lure their full might from
the Ministry. While the majority of his followers kept the forces of the
Ministry occupied, he led a sortie against the Hitwizards remaining in
reserve at the Ministry, defeating the token force left to protect the
Ministry."

"And we lost our own forces trying to protect the Ministry?" A

feminine voice called from down the table, though Harry couldn't see
its source.

"No." Remus shook his head, "Order forces made an attempt to try
and learn of Voldemort's plans beforehand, we believe the raids
were limited to believed members of the Order or possible
sympathisers."

"Such as?" The voice prompted once more.

Remus seemed to debate the merits of speaking of their losses but

eventually relented under the weight of a room full of glares.

"Safehouses in Bedford, Cambridge and Ipswich were razed,

perishing alongside those we were housing inside." Remus said,
"Podmore House in Laburnum Gardens, which was understandably
empty, likewise with Diggle Manor in Tutshill."

Words seemed to linger at Remus's lips before he continued.

"The Burrow." Remus said, "Resulting in the deaths of Ginny, Molly

and Fred Weasley."

Remus continued listing unfamiliar places and fallen names, but they
were lost in the white noise of loss.

Ron's words began to make all the sense they needed to.

Ginny, Fred, Mrs Weasley Harry repeated internally, scared to utter

the names as if thought alone would shatter the facade of denial.

It had been only days ago he had seen the pair of them, Ginny joyful
despite her dislike of Fleur for having Bill to herself at the Burrow.
Fred perpetually joyful, making it his goal alongside George to
spread cheer despite the war that raged. Mrs Weasley worked deftly
in the kitchen and outside to ensure the night had both food and
love.

And now they were gone.

Fleur's hand sought his own beneath the table, snaking her fingers
into his grip to squeeze his hand softly, bringing him back to reality.

He turned his eyes to Fleur, her ocean irises shining with what he
could only assume to be unshed tears.

"It's a simple question, I suppose." The blonde man said, "What do

we do next?"

"We concede." A man said, closer to Remus than Harry was.

Dedalus Diggle, Harry recognised, One of the members that took me

from Privet Drive.
"You're a fucking coward, Diggle." A heckling voice called as Harry
peered at the familiar man, his violet top hat static in his lap.

"Have some wits about you, for Merlin's sake" Diggle returned, his
excitable attitude that had once been easily recognisable was
dropped. "Voldemort sought us out at our best, between us and the
Ministry he outsmarted us both and struck us where it hurts, despite
our efforts."

Harry could understand the lack of hope, the sentiment was likely
more common than he hoped.

"You'd have us lie down instead?" Elphias Doge wheezed from

further down the table, "You'd have us muzzled in the hopes he
might step over us gently?"

"I'd have us live." Diggle argued, "Resistance will make a good story
on a tombstone, I'd prefer to stay out of the ground."

"Different words, same message." The familiar man in Auror robes

said. Harry still struggled to place him. "You're scared, and all you've
got is ideas of turning tail."

"You were at Azkaban, weren't you Griffiths?" Diggle posed, and the
members looked on, Harry couldn't say as to why no one stopped
the man's tirade.

Maybe more than a few of them agree with him.

"You already know I was." Griffiths said, "Stop the run around, get to
the point."

And it was there, Harry finally placed him.

The man from Azkaban, from the vision. Harry recognised, the man
that Voldemort let live.

"Do you think we could have stopped the Dark Lord? Even with a
hundred men?"
Griffiths, if Harry heard correctly, looked taken aback even if only for
a moment. He seemed pained as if the mere mention of Azkaban
split the seams and exposed raw flesh once more.

Sometimes a name was all the provocation needed to send you

reeling back, Harry knew the feeling well enough.

"This isn't Azkaban, Diggle." Griffiths spat, his voice now alight with
rage. "Don't you dare raise that ghost with me."

"Aye, you're right." Diggle conceded, "It isn't Azkaban. But if we're so
keen to jump back into hot water and not learn from what we've
already lost, it'll just be Azkaban after Azkaban."

Harry felt himself speaking up despite wishes to do otherwise.

"Voldemort already knows who we all are, we're targets no matter

what we do," Harry said.

Like the Weasleys were, his mind seemed to taunt. Pushing down
the thought, he soldiered on against his wishes.

"When Professor Dumbledore returns, we'll be more than able to

fight back then."

Diggle levelled a finger at Harry, bolstered by an exclamation of

affirmation.

"Exactly!" Diggle said, " When . For all we know that should be if . I'm
as much a supporter of Albus as any one of us, but at some point,
we've got to be realistic about our chances."

"Have some faith."

"Don't tell me to have faith!" Diggle exclaimed, banging his fist on the
table in an act that made the short-statured man seem far larger than
he was. "I was as faithful as any, stood by our cause through the first
war. Now Sturgis is dead, Emmeline is dead and for what? We've got
nothing to show for our efforts but bodies and scorched earth."
"Need I remind you of all we've done over the past years, Dedalus?"
Remus asked, "We've saved a great amount that would've been lost
otherwise."

"I'm not saying the cause isn't just." Diggle sighed exasperatedly. "Or
that we haven't done any good. But Albus is gone, and we're on the
back foot, what's the point in fighting a losing battle any longer?"

Harry would be lying if he said the question didn't have merit,

indicated by the silence that followed. A room mulling over the words
as if their lives depended on the matter - because they did.

Remus himself seemed to struggle with an answer, bristling as eyes

looked to him for an answer. As decent an orator as he was, the man
was no Albus Dumbledore, though they looked to the chair he
occupied as if he was.

Harry did not envy him.

But luckily, Remus was saved from making a response. The grating
percussion of wood scraping against wood filled their ears as the
room remained silent. Eventually, the door to the room swung
inwards, hinges squealing in sudden protest.

Behind it emerged a scarred visage and a single, electric blue eye.

Alastor Moody, the Mad Eye.

His arrival heralded silence still, observing the man as he hobbled

towards the seat across from Harry.

"You can quit rousing the rabble, Diggle." Moody ordered gruffly as
he reached the other side of the table, "You've spewed enough shite
for the day."

"I had thought your hearing had abandoned you, Moody." Remus
joked, "It's good to have you with us."

Moody grunted in response, offering nothing in return.

"It's not shite, Alastor." Diggle argued, "We're useless without Albus."

"You? Maybe." Moody shrugged, "You remember the vow you made,
as well as I do."

"A vow made -"

"A vow." Moody stressed, "A fucking vow ."

"And what would you have us do then?"

Moody didn't seem to be one so easily outdone by Dedalus Diggle.

"Albus Dumbledore isn't here, but the world he built still is, and we'll
defend her to the last." Moody said, taking the seat across from
Harry finally, the legs screeching against the floor."The door is the
same place it's always been, run if you want, see how well that
works out for you."

When the old, grizzled man leant back in the wooden chair proper
silence reigned once more. Uneasy and indicative of Diggle's
acquiescence, the short man turned red but said nothing more.

Harry, now allowed an unadulterated glimpse at the old Auror, drank

in his new appearance.

Alastor Moody had somehow returned to them even more scarred

than before, which was certainly no small feat.

Moody rested his hands on the table, his signature staff

conspicuously absent. The smallest finger of his left hand was
absent, a gangrenous stump that extended only a few short
centimetres above the first knuckle.

Even Mad-Eye Moody had gone against Voldemort and didn't come
off unscathed. Part of him relished in that fact as if it absolved him of
blame.
Moody's electric blue eye whirled to Harry, then to Fleur, before
focusing on him again. It whirled and whistled softly in its socket as if
it could sense his thoughts. Harry broke his gaze before the eye's
dissection of his person could continue.

Where Remus seemed more content with letting voices be heard

and decisions made, Moody had no such compunction.

"No?" Moody mocked, even if Diggle wanted to leave, Harry doubted

he would under the gaze of the entire room.

"Now if you pisspots want to quit wallowing, we've got a war." Moody
growled, "Aye, we lost. We'll lose a good few more times before it's
all said and done. You'll gain nothing from rolling over."

His words seemed to embolden some and saw the opposition wallow
in yet another defeat.

"Chances are when the lads we've sent to assist Scrimgeour are
done, we'll have enough wands to make a counter-attack," Moody
said.

"But they'll never be enough." A woman spoke from down the table,
unfamiliar with short-cropped hair, "Dedalus makes a valid point, we
had all them and more and still failed."

"Aye. You're right." Moody conceded, "We got complacent, let

ourselves get comfortable with our feet rooted to the ground.
Azkaban meant fuck all for us because we learned nothing from it.
Tried to make our approach from the first war fit the second, not any
longer. "

"I take it you've got a plan then, Alastor?" Hestia Jones asked with a
hope-laden voice.

"I have." Moody nodded, "Mercenaries - Sell Spells, Free Wands;

whatever title you want to call them. Snag what's left before
Voldemort starts setting his eyes on them."
"What's to say the Malfoy money didn't buy them already?" Remus
asked, "They had full access for a year before the accounts were
seized by the Ministry."

"They were trying to avoid detection." Moody pointed out, "Moving

masses of men and galleons draws more attention then they
would've liked."

Harry turned his head ever so slightly to Fleur to glimpse her

reaction. Rather than the observing scrutiny like he'd have expected,
the telltale drinking in of words to search for weakness, she just
stared.

Fleur's gaze drifted to and fro slightly, a rocking ship in the waves,
but her eyes did not seem to focus on much, staring at the wall and
thousands of miles beyond.

She was trapped in her own thoughts.

Harry returned the squeeze of the hand, shaking her from her stupor
and back into the land of the living.

Though it was likely little better than wherever she was.

"How can you listen to this?" Diggle broke back in, "Is that what you
think we need? More marauders running amuck in the countryside,
do you think we need men bound only to gold, of which we sorely
lack, to be the ones to protect the Isles?"

"That's goblin piss, and you know it." Moody all but shouted, "Strong
wands and harsh spells rule this world; you're a fool to believe any
different."

"Mercenaries are nobody's men." Remus pointed out diplomatically.

"So they're potentially everybody's men." Another voice supported

Diggle. The table seemed to lengthen every time a face, both familiar
and unknown chimed in with their own opinion. "Chances are we'd
just get stabbed in the back soon as the tides looked like turning."

"The high road is pretty to walk, but down here on the ground, there
isn't much of a choice." Moody spat. "We either make the leap, do
some things that mean we won't sleep so easy at night or we lose.
Then none of it matters, ever mattered."

If Diggle's argument hadn't been enough to convince him, the

murmur of agreements and disagreements, the lingering tension in
the air did.

The world isn't the only thing fractured, Harry realised, the Order is
too.

Everyone had their own ideas of how the insurmountable should be

tackled, dreams of fear and grandeur, war and death were all that
ruled now.

"Alastor's point has merit." Remus said softly, "Despite it being

somewhat crass. This is not the first war, we can't go back. We need
to adapt to survive, and survive to overcome."

The silence that followed did not lure Harry into thinking an accord
was reached, the fissure was clear even if the future was not.

"I think that's enough for the moment." Remus interjected, "We'll
have a greater accounting of our possibilities moving forward once
Arthur and the rest return with whoever they could save."

"What would you have us do now?" Griffiths asked.

"Return to your safe houses; guard your charges." Remus said, "A
meeting will likely take place tonight, if not, tomorrow. Until then
contact no one, we'll devise a stronger method to ensure we're not
infiltrated in the meantime."
And with a dull alacrity, most slipped quietly from their seats,
desperate to flee from the hostilities that warred within the dining
room of Grimmauld Place.

Harry would've liked to do the same, had he anywhere to flee.

His hand remained joined with Fleur's, though it was not destined to
stay that way for long. Duty assaulted them from both sides and
soon dragged them away from one another.

Charlie came from one side, Moody the other and in the pursuit of
more noble efforts, they were forced to separate.

Moody reached them first, crossing the short distance to stand

before Harry.

"Potter." Moody said, "Up now, with me."

"Professor? What do you need me for?" Harry questioned.

"Never have been, nor ever will be your Professor, Potter." Moody
snorted contemptuously as if he abhorred the very thought.

"Present from the Headmaster." Moody snorted, "Less talking, more

following."

Harry quickly turned back to Fleur, "You'll be okay until I get back?"

"I'll be fine, Harry." Fleur said, "I'm not made of glass, I haven't
shattered yet."

Despite her saying that, Harry wasn't so sure.

I'm not even sure about myself, he frowned, let alone others.

"Alright then," Harry said, not knowing what else to say as Charlie
began to make his way to them. "I'll find you later then?"

"Always." She promised.

Where Harry was being taken, he couldn't say.

They walked, or rather, walked and hobbled through the bustling

streets of London. Caught amidst the exodus of workers making their
way home after their day, Christmas Day seemed to be nothing but a
mirage behind them.

A cold wind blew through the Borough of Islington, forcing Harry to

tuck his neck into his chest in an effort to shield his face from the
biting gale. Although the light snow had stopped falling for the
moment, the frigid breeze was a persistent reminder of colder days
yet to come.

Though the soft howling of wind dulled the deafening cacophony of

humming suburbia, drawing more attention away from the harsh
clack of Moody's wooden prosthesis.

Moody had taken off his electric blue eye, stowing away the
apparatus in his top pocket. With a deft, almost unnoticeable flick of
his wand, he conjured a patch. Black and minimalistic, inoffensive
even. The Auror's darkened robes changed to a more muggle
appropriate coat.

He looked almost inconspicuous, if not for the scarred face and

persistent hobble.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked beneath his breath, trying to

avoid drawing any further errant glances.

"Somewhere important," Moody growled in return, "You best have

your wand on you, lad, where is it?"

"Of course I have it." Harry replied indignantly, "It's in my pocket."

"Move it to the front of your belt." Moody ordered, "Better wizards

than you have lost a duel for reaching too far."
I usually do. Harry thought. He had moved it so it wouldn't dig into
flesh. Now, he felt like a chastised child in the presence of a strict
teacher as he moved his wand where he was told.

"That's a good lad." Moody praised roughly, "Head down, keep up."

Suffice to say, Harry was at wit's end, ushered into the cold outdoors
with vague orders and no explanation.

Nothing that day had been simple, no answer had been straight, and
no problem had been solved easily. Even now, despite it all, he was
forced to shift the guilt and loss to a recess of his mind, not even
allowing him the luxury of mourning in peace.

With more rounded corners and stalwart advances against wind and
people alike, they seemed to reach their destination.

Essex Road Station, Harry read.

"We're catching a train?" Harry asked, confused, "As opposed to

apparating?"

"Oh, we'll be apparating alright," Moody replied succinctly.

"At a train station?" Harry asked, still puzzled, "Could we not do that
from outside of Grimmauld?"

"Albus has been spewing praises about you for the better part of a
year," Moody grumbled, "Figure out this riddle then."

Harry wasn't sure how learning magic and deciphering odd actions
went hand-in-hand, but he tried all the same.

There were enough pieces to outline the puzzle but not grasp the
image. Moody has tried to remain inconspicuous, but from who?
Why trek across streets to reach a train station they weren't going to
use?

"We're losing someone?" Harry guessed, "Or something, maybe."

Moody snorted, "Closer than I would've thought, you'll learn yet lad,"
The Auror nodded his head towards the station, "Fair few people,
wouldn't you say?"

"I guess so."

" Exactly so." Moody corrected, "We could apparate wherever we

wanted before they took the Ministry."

"And now?"

"Department of Magical Transportation's probably fucked by now."

Moody swore, "With the Ministry under control, Voldemort has
access to things he didn't have last time, old magic. Detecting
accidental magic, portkeys and apparition, unorthodoxy sensors they
call them, monitor the comings and goings."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, letting it take the full brunt of the
winter air. "And wizards coming and going in big groups isn't a good
thing?" he guessed.

"Aye, one or two in a muggle area are a regular occurrence,

Voldemort will write it off. But a pattern of people apparating where
there's no registered wizard dwelling? That'll draw eyes. The Fidelius
isn't infallible, and those bastards aren't stupid."

"But a train station?"

Moody sped up his hobble, closing in on the station, "A train station
sees hundreds of people go through it a day, thousands even. Hard
to track someone from there."

"We'll have to walk here every time we want to leave?" Harry asked.

"Some will apparate, some will fly brooms and apparate, some will
walk a mile and apparate, some will use a floo. Hundred different
ways to achieve the same thing."

"For how long?" Harry said.

"For as long as it takes." Moody answered quickly, "Constant
Vigilance isn't just a saying any more, lad, it's a lifestyle now. Think
two steps ahead because we're racing against the clock now."

Wordlessly they entered Essex Road Station and located the nearest
bathroom. Leaving it behind them with a soft crack.

Their feet touched fell on unfamiliar ground bereft of snow, they were
far away indeed. However, the wind persisted, and although it was
lesser than that of London's, it whistled sharply across the broken
edges of a house upon the hill. The distant rumble of the sea was
faint but recognisable.

It was derelict, windows little more than shards of broken glass and
wood rotted by time. Though not strong, the wind still rocked it to and
fro as if it was nothing more than a leaf on a branch.

Harry's hand fell immediately to the wand in his belt, unsure of his
new surroundings.

Harry rounded on the man as he began to walk up the hill, "Where

are we?" he said, his voice demanding.

"For your sake, lad, it'd be best if you learned nothing of the sort."
Mood said, continuing towards the house.

"You've been leading me around by the nose this whole time." Harry
said, "I have a right to know what we're doing."

"Aye, you do." Moody agreed, "We're going to that house."

"You know what I mean."

Moody nodded slightly, "Now there's that vigilance you need,

should've planted your feet sooner. Now, there's something in that
house, something Albus wanted you to see."
"Alright," Harry nodded, "Then where are we?"

"The way I've heard it, you've still got Voldemort rooting around
inside that head of yours," Moody said.

"And?"

"And if he decides to take a look, he'd find this place." The grizzled
Auror said, starting to walk away.

"But you can show me what's inside?" Harry said, confusion marring
his features.

"Trust me, Potter, he already knows what's inside." Moody laughed,

a noise that sounded as if it grated against his vocal cords, "But if he
decides to look inside that mind of yours, you make sure he looks
elsewhere, you hear me?"

With that, the man trudged up the hill without another word, leaving
Harry little choice but to follow him, though he kept a firm hand on
his wand.

They approached the door that looked ready to tumble off the hinges
and with a muttered incantation, the time-tarnished handle turned,
and it swung inwards inaudibly.

The room was ordinary, mundane even. Filled with broken furniture,
water stains and dust, it spoke of no great secret, certainly nothing to
trek across the country for.

"There's nothing here," Harry said, his voice laden with suspicion.

Though there was something, the taste of ozone that fell softly on his
tongue and a heat greater than the broken room had any right to be.
Moody stepped in front of him, and in a swift motion, tore his wand
downwards as if he was tearing down a curtain,

And he did.
Furniture shifted, and the wall in front of him shot back though only
by a couple metres, a simple deception and one that didn't take
much magic.

It was not the sudden widening of the space that caught their
attention but a piece of malformed steel.

A cage, Harry realised.

Harry took a tentative step forward to get a better look, peering

downwards into the inexplicably dark confines only to pivot back
when the thing inside lashed out. There was a brief glimmer of ivory
before runes flared to life, glowing all manners of colours carved into
the twisted steel of the cage.

A sharp hiss of pain accompanied the motion, both from the creature
and Harry, who's scar lanced in pain at the sight. Fangs bared once
more to try and bite her perceived attacker, to quash the common
pain they both felt.

Harry staggered backwards a few feet, "That's… that's…"

"Voldemort's familiar," Moody completed for him, a flick of his wand

flared the rune again, and the snake slinked backwards.

"How.." Harry said, stumbling to put his momentary shock into words,
"How did you catch it?"

"Voldemort gave him to Yaxley, along with a handful of Death

Eaters," Moody said, flicking another spell at the snake though this
time, out of anger. "Tracked them for months and now? Well, now
we're just about all that's left."

Yaxley, Harry thought, the name was vaguely familiar. It wasn't on a

wanted poster from Azkaban, so he'd hadn't been captured.

"And Yaxley?" Harry asked, a question that allowed reprieve while

he sorted out the sight in front of him.
"Cold." Was all Moody offered in return.

"I don't understand," Harry said, taking a step closer to get a better
glimpse of the snake in the hopes it would bring clarity, "Why not just
kill it? Why go to the trouble of capturing it?"

"Because Albus told me to," Moody said, "Said you'd know what to
do with it, or you would, eventually. But that fucking snake- :

"Nagini," Harry corrected absentmindedly.

"Cunt's a more apt name I reckon." Moody spat, "You wonder why
that table seemed a few faces short? Here's one of your reasons
and I think I have a right to know why."

The Horcrux.

Dumbledore had thrown the idea out the night they had discussed
Horcruxes, and now the proof stared him directly in the face. Headed
by two serpentine eyes filled with a rage that did not look its own.

"Nothing," Harry answered quickly, the lie slipping easily off his
tongue "I don't know… Maybe Professor Dumbledore was wrong,
maybe he didn't teach me something yet."

The mechanical whirl of Moody's eye was audible in the silent shack,
Harry dared not to meet his eyes for fear the magical scrutiny might
be his undoing. Instead, his eyes remained locked on the snake,
acutely aware of the soft prickle of pain.

"I've chased that snake around the country, I lost good witches and
wizards trying to get that thing. On second thought, maybe I don't
need to know, maybe I don't particularly want to either. But don't look
at me, Potter, and tell me a lie."

Harry turned to him and nodded.

"So why not just kill it?"

"Albus wants something with it," Moody shrugged. "And by the way
he talked, you'll figure out the why soon enough. Or wait until he
comes back - I don't have the answer to everything."

"Why show me?" Harry said, finally meeting the man's eyes, "If
you're worried he'll look into my head, there's a good chance he
might see this."

"Try and make sure he doesn't," Moody replied gruffly, "You're a risk,
Potter, but a calculated one. Or as calculated as this shit business
can get. If we keep you around doing nothing, you're a liability, if you
learn too much, you're a risk."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"If he looks into your head, try looking back." Moody suggested,
before walking to the door, "The snake'll keep for now, but don't take
too long or I'll kill the fucking thing myself."

Moody stalked towards the exit before firing a spell backwards at the
snake, the illusion rushing back into place. Harry cast a final glance
to the now empty space before he followed them out.

Harry tried to catch up with quick steps while the man barked back,
"You'll be with me again when I call you, Potter."

"Why?" Harry said, shivering as he met cold air once more.

"You're a risk or a liability, and despite what I told Albus, he wants

me to train you to be less of one."

"Train?"

"You can connect the dots, I'm sure," Moody said before stepping
down towards their apparition point. "You'll come when I say, for as
long as I say."

His mind was a whirlwind. The day had been far too long already,
and too much information to process for any person had found its
way into his mind.

The nights not over yet, Harry lamented, taking Moody's

outstretched arm.

"And for what it's worth, lad." Moody added before they were
destined to disappear, "Condolences where they're due, war is
bloody work."

With a mind that flew backwards to the sudden announcement to

mourn, they vanished with the same soft crack.

It was a different story for Fleur Delacour.

Harry vanished through the door with Alastor Moody, leaving her
momentarily to her thoughts. But only for a moment, as Charlie
approached from the opposite side, clearly hoping to make
conversation.

"Hello, Charlie." Fleur offered, her voice soft against the fear her
regular tone might scare him away.

"Hey, Fleur." Charlie offered meekly in return.

The man who wrangled Dragons for a living seemed small before
her, courage abandoning him in the throes of loss.

"Bill… Is he-"

Charlie shook his head, "He's fine, at least he was the last time I saw
him."

"Where is he?" Fleur whispered, her voice hoarse, "Where did you
go?"

"Me, Dad and Bill got called off to help with the raids, the ones we
knew about, anyway." Charlie answered, "But by the time we got
back, well, you know how that went."
"Yeah, I do." Fleur said simply, "And Bill?"

"With Dad out searching."

"Searching?" Fleur asked, "For survivors?"

Charlie shook his head again, "For them ." he said.

Fleur couldn't muster words to answer for a moment, letting an

uneasy silence befall them.

"I should see him," Fleur resolved, breaking the pregnant pause,
"Will he be back?"

"I don't know," Charlie shrugged lightly, "But, well… I'm not sure…"

Concern lit up her features, "What? Charlie?"

"It's nothing, not really anyway, just a thought." He brushed off, but
she could still see he clearly wanted to say it.

"Not if it means something," Fleur refuted.

"Well, he gave me this," Charlie said, procuring a piece of parchment

from the pocket of his robes.

"He wrote a letter?"

"I suppose he didn't think he'd be back for a while, or maybe he

didn't expect to come back. Maybe he doesn't want to, I don't know.
It's just…" Charlie trailed off.

"Yes?" Fleur said, prompting him to continue.

"He was angry when he wrote it," Charlie sighed, a breath of grating,
hot air that seemed to make him deflate even further. "We all were,
are, I guess.
"You have a right to be," Fleur said, her hand resting gently on his
knee.

"I think so," Charlie agreed, "Sad, angry, silent, I guess we've got a
right to feel any way we want, we all do." he said, nodding to Fleur,
"But it might not make what he wrote any easier."

"Did you read it?" She asked gently.

"Of course not." Charlie refuted, though without any heat, "But he's
my brother, and well, you know him."

As the days progressed, Fleur doubted both herself and the last
statement more and more.

"You should read it," Charlie said, "We left the room you stayed in
how it was."

She hid a wince, hoping they did not realise she had shared a bed
with someone else.

"Yeah, I should" Fleur agreed, "You'll be okay?"

"No, I probably won't," Charlie smiled, though it lacked any joy, "But
I'll hold for now."

Fleur retracted her hand from his knee before standing, "Call me if
you need something, even if it's just to talk." she said.

"Will do," He smiled again, though only for appearances.

She made it as far as the door, her hand quickly pulling it open to
leave Charlie with his thoughts for the moment.

"Fleur," Charlie called to her retreating form, she turned her head to
lay eyes on him once again. "They would have loved you."

"They didn't though, did they?"

"No," He admitted, "But they didn't know you, they would have
eventually."

"I think…" Fleur struggled with the words, "I think I would have loved
them too."

"I reckon Mum would've liked to hear that."

Fleur swivelled her head and closed her eyes to shield them from
view, the sudden sting of salty tears creeping at the corners of her
eyes. She found the stairs and ascended them with languid steps,
clutching the piece of parchment tight enough to crumple in her fist.

Opening the door to the room she had occupied the night before and
closing it quietly behind her, she made her way to sit on the bed. Still
gripping the message with an iron grip.

Open it, her mind willed.

Her body, on the other hand, seemed less eager to do her bidding.
Her thumb nursed white knuckles gently as if to coax it from her grip
and she grazed her teeth persistently against her bottom lip.

Open it .

She released her grip and plucked the parchment, swallowing the
rising tickle of anxiety in her throat. Their correspondence had
already been shaky enough while they'd been separated but this she
could not ignore.

I owe him that much.

With a brief burst of gallantry, she unfolded it to read the words. The
words were coarse and angular, the quillmanship deliberate and
furious in its sharp strokes.

And as Charlie had prepared her, the words were little different.

Her eyes lingered on the last two lines.

You never cared for them, I see that now.

I'll be back soon, I need time.

Bill had a right to be angry, to be furious at the world and all that it
had cost him. That did not dull the word's impact. She brushed her
finger over the ink, hoping that it would reveal it as a mirage, that
kinder words would be written underneath.

They were not.

There, in the old room of Regulus Black, Fleur Delacour came into
conflict with herself once again.

He had chosen revenge over her, just as he had chosen Gringotts

over her and his family over her. The revenge she could understand,
sympathise even.

I'd do the same if they hurt Gabrielle, Fleur assured herself.

Or Harry, her mind mocked with a distant thought.

Fleur glanced down at the letter again. Too much had passed
between them, too much had happened to the both of them. He was
mourning a lost family, she was preparing to fell a Dark Lord,
entrusted with secrets she'd be forced to take to her grave.

And she had kissed another man.

It had been right, she had been scorned and yet she had never quite
hated herself as much as she did at that moment. Fleur Delacour
was caught in the crossfire with her heart laid bare.

She wanted to scream, to tear the letter to pieces and throw furniture
around until she felt something other than this . It wouldn't work
though, it never worked.

Especially when she already knew what she had to do.

But having the strength to do just that was a different story.

Harry tiptoed down the hallway, eager not to disturb those who had
taken refuge at Grimmauld Place as the night had grown late and
houses still sat alight and ashen.

Moody had taken him back to a new location, New Islington and
walked him back with nary a word and certainly no fanfare. Only a
haphazard piece of advice from a source he'd never expect it from.

Talk, you'll feel like shite for ages, we all do. Won't feel like it'll do
much good either, but it will.

So he talked, knocking on doors as he went down the hallway. First

had been Hermione, the easiest of the lot. She was too shellshocked
to try and decipher the mystery of where he was or what he had
been doing. Making sure she was okay had been easy enough.

George was less so and hardly talked, it was a quick affair. He did
what he could, and while that wasn't much, he left the room with the
hopes that he did more good than harm.

Save for Fleur, Ron was the last. From the outset, he knew it was not
destined to be so easy.

It'll be alright .

No, that didn't sound right. Despite two previous attempts, the
rehearsal did not give him the right words or a sense of where to
start.

My condolences.

That sounded too formal, it all sounded too formal. Words alone
couldn't convey what he wanted them to, and his feet lagged behind
in an effort to try and give him the time to make them.
The words never came, and soon enough he reached the door to
Ron's room. He could still walk away and have the time to think.

Don't, was all the counsel his mind could offer him.

Harry raised his fist to the door and let it stay there, swaying in the
invisible wind as he tried to gather courage he didn't quite have.
Eventually, he let his hand fall against the door, knocks that seemed
far louder than they had any right to be echoed down the hall.

Nothing. Nothing roused beyond the door, no footfalls or moving

covers.

Harry tried for the handle, twisting it slightly only for it to meet the
stalwart metal of the lock.

Tomorrow, Harry decided, moving to return to his room. He swivelled

on his feet and made to step away as the door opened.

Ron peered down at him, eyes red-ringed and the burn marks on his
jaw flaring with tensed muscles.

All his words had abandoned him.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted.

You idiot, he cursed himself.

Ron neglected to respond.

"I… I know I'm a bit late," Harry tried, "But… well, I guess it'd be
good to have someone to talk to if you want."

Ron was silent still but moved aside to allow him access into the
room.

The floor was littered with trinkets and pieces of furniture that had
once decorated the walls now adorned the floor as shards and
splinters.
"Sorry about the mess," Ron offered, walking back over to his bed,
his voice was hoarse and scratchy as it tore into the open air and set
the tone for words yet to be born.

Harry shook his head, "It's fine," he said, "Sirius would've liked them
better now anyways."

Harry followed Ron over to the bed, drifting slowly as if he was on

the wind. Once again, Harry was at a loss for words.

"Are you okay?" Was all he could think to say.

Ron snorted aloud, it seemed almost derisive. "People keep asking

me that. Were you fine after Sirius?"

"No, I wasn't," Harry admitted, "I guess people are telling you it'll go
away."

Ron nodded, the burnt muscles in his jaw rippling in anger.

"It doesn't, not really," Harry said, a sigh bursting from his lips. "It
gets easier, sure. You'll stop thinking about it as much, you'll
remember the world didn't end. But…"

"But?"

"Well, sometimes you'll wish it did," Harry said, cringing at how

terrible the words sounded.

'I'm just… " Ron tried, but couldn't finish as he battled with his words
for what felt like minutes, "I don't know what I am, what this is."

"You can be angry," Harry said, "Or sad, you can scream if you want
too. No one will care if you do."

"I think I've done my fair share of that already," Ron said, his eyes
looking around the room.
"There's still some walls and some odds and ends," Harry said, "You
can have another round if you want."

"Will it help?" Ron asked, "Because it hasn't so far."

"I don't think so," Harry shook his head, "I tore Dumbledore's office
apart, and that didn't do much for me. I… I guess feeling something,
anything is better than feeling nothing."

Silence befell them, and Harry stepped back and forth on his feet,
searching for platitudes and helpful advice by gazing at the roof.

"Where were you?" Ron asked suddenly, Harry's gaze snapped back
to him.

"I…" Harry stilled, it was a simple question, but the accusatory lacing
was clear, "I went to clear my head, Fleur came with me after a little
while. By the time we came back, well…"

"And after that?"

"I fought them," Harry said, glimpses of spells still alight behind his
eyes, "Got them pretty good too." His mouth felt dry as he came to
the last words, "Killed some too. Greyback came, and I got him good
too, broke my wand doing it. Then we had to hide, you?"

"A safe house for most of it," Ron shrugged, "We couldn't do much."

"I… you know I loved them like my own," Harry said, closing his
eyes, so he didn't have to see Ron's reaction, "They were a family
when I didn't have my own."

"Now I don't have one either," Ron spat, his voice bitter.

Though not at Harry, he was bitter at the world.

"No," Harry shook his head, "You've always got a family."

Ron exhaled a rough breath, and then, finally, the emotions came.
Midnight was upon him by the time he finally made his way back to
his or rather, their room.

The door creaked open, and he slipped himself inside, careful not to
alert anyone else to his movements. Fleur was sat upon the bed, dim
lamplight illuminating the silver strands of her hair that covered her
face.

Now, he could finally share the piece of news that would be a benefit
to them. He moved to the other side of the bed and sat down,
shimmying across to be close enough to whisper.

"We've caught a Horcrux," Harry said, his voice almost lost in the
gap between them.

"Which one?" Fleur whispered back, though her own voice was
smaller than he expected.

"His familiar, the snake - Nagini ."

"Is it dead?"

"Not yet," Harry confirmed, "Dumbledore needs it for something."

There was no answer.

"Fleur?" Harry probed gently.

Her face moved up, and the artisan-crafted silver strands parted to
reveal puffy eyes and reddened cheeks.

"Fleur…" He repeated, his words sounded more a gasp.

She looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her, a sight that
broke his heart more than he cared to admit. There was no wit in her
eyes, no fire that he'd come to love: just sullen defeat and quiet
acceptance.
With a sudden movement, Fleur fell into his chest and wept quietly.
Arms moved to gently embrace her, unable to stop errant tears of his
own. It was not the stolen kisses and scorned brides, it was love of a
different kind now as they battled with shared tragedies.

They wept for what had happened, for who they had lost and those
they had left behind.

And they wept for each other and the life they could have had if only
it had all been so very different.
Casual Affair
A/N: Hey all, welcome to Chapter 19, the chapter that finally pushes
us over the 200k mark, and what a ride it's been. Thank you all for
coming along on my little journey.

I wrote the chapter in virtually a night, I've had a lot on my plate so it

was both therapeutic and mind-numbing to be able to write
something like 8k in a night, which I wouldn't recommend. So any
mistakes that slipped in are definitely my fault and not those of my
betas, x102reddragon or NerdDragonVoid.

Writing connective tissue for the plot is a bit monotonous, but

hopefully, you like it and the return of some old characters.

For those looking for updates for when chapters should be done, my
discord is always open eN5ZtpN .

Otherwise, I always appreciate reads and reviews, stay safe and

enjoy!

The air in Grimmauld Place was perpetually stale, in the moments of

silence in the old townhouse Harry could find no truth more
universally known.

His hand held tightly to the door handle, twisting it open with a gentle
vigilance befitting an act far more exotic than opening a door. A cold
draught hit him head-on as he stepped out into the hall, his
destination already known. He pulled the door behind him closed
with a faintly audible click.

Then the act of espionage began.

His feet moved deftly if perhaps a bit too quickly to keep the dull
footfalls from ringing in the empty hall. Too slow and the deliberate
steps would seem to anger the house itself, groaning and creaking
floorboards desperate to loudly herald his efforts. Too fast, on the
other hand, and someone would peek their head out of their
respective room to search for the disturbance.

Harry had adopted the middle ground, and within a matter of short
seconds, he found a familiar door, knocking twice.

It was almost vaguely reminiscent of their time at Hogwarts. Though

the sense of urgency was far, far greater.

Fleur opened the door from the other side, quickly glancing to ensure
it was him before seizing his hand, pulling him inside. When he
stepped past her, she drew her wand from her pocket, flicking it
towards the door with a murmured incantation.

" Eicio Sana," The frame shimmered gently with a pale orange glow
before she stowed it away, turning back to him.

A silencing ward, Harry recognised.

"The Horcruxes," Harry said, almost breathlessly for having to speak

the word.

"The Horcruxes," Fleur echoed, nodding ever so slightly, "His snake

was one? Are we sure?"

He'd scarcely mentioned it, save for the short discussion the night
before and there had been far more pressing matters to tend to
there.

Harry nodded in return, "Positive," he said, "I saw it - felt it even."

Fleur looked taken aback, "Felt it?"

Harry's eyes flickered upwards as if to look at his scar, despite not

being able to see it. Fleur got the message clear enough.

"So it's still alive?" Fleur asked, "Why?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't know," he said, "Neither did Moody, so he
seemed to think Dumbledore had a good enough idea. He said, well,
he said I'd have a good enough idea in time too."

"Do you have any idea? Any idea at all?"

"No, none at all." Harry said, "We talked about possible Horcruxes,
but nothing else."

"Do you think you could get into contact with him?"

"I don't think so." Harry said, "I… since I lost Hedwig," he stopped to
swallow against the painful memory, "Well, I don't have an owl, and if
the letter got lost I don't know what would happen. Not that it
matters, if the way he explained it to me what he was doing was
anything to go off, I think he's too busy to worry at the moment."

"I still don't understand, if he had an idea, why not just use the
Horcrux from Hogwarts?" Fleur asked.

Harry furrowed his brow, "Nagini has a… connection to Voldemort, I

suppose. I don't know how to explain it. When she attacked Mr
Weasley, I could see it happening through her eyes."

"Maybe…" Fleur trailed off in thought, gently grazing her teeth

against her bottom lip. An act that, despite the subject matter, made
his heart beat ever so faster.

"What?" Harry prompted gently, not too loud as to break her thought.

"Maybe that's how he thinks we can find the other Horcruxes."

Her words hang in the air for longer than he would've liked, every
possibility doing its best to cross his mind in the seconds that felt
more akin to hours.

"What do you mean?"

"Like you said, the snake and Voldemort have a greater connection
with each other than he does with the diadem, it's alive. "

"From what I can tell, yeah," Harry nodded, "But I'm no expert on the
subject."

"Obviously Voldemort didn't mean to make whatever connection you

two have, but what if it goes both ways?" Fleur asked, "What if that's
what Dumbledore thinks is different between them, the connection
being greater, then he surely must want to use it."

"As a way to get into Voldemort's mind," Harry surmised, "Or maybe
to try and throw him off the scent of our hunt."

"Exactly," Fleur agreed, "But whatever it is, only he knows. I doubt

we'll find whatever he knew before he gets back."

If he gets back, part of Harry's mind reminded him that the man was
dying - a piece that was quickly quashed.

"We'll have to prepare for it if that isn't the case though," Harry
frowned, "If we're wrong we can't waste time assuming we're right."

"That makes how many we've found then? The one at Hogwarts -"

"The diadem," Harry cut in.

"The diadem," Fleur corrected, "The snake?"

"His diary and his family's ring."

"Four," Fleur declared, and when the words were said aloud, it filled
Harry with a healthy degree of confidence.

More than halfway there, just a little longer.

"Dumbledore seemed to think there were some artefacts that he took

from Hufflepuff and Slytherin left. A dagger or a locket for Slytherin,
A Wizengamot book or a cup for Hufflepuff."
Fleur nodded, "I imagine the Wizengamot book would be with the
Wizengamot," she said, "If it is, then I don't think it would be a
Horcrux."

"Or he hid it there, expecting us to think that." Harry shrugged,

"Though we still know where one might have been."

"Borgin and Burkes," Fleur said.

"Right, maybe we should rethink our plan," Harry agreed, "If

Caractus Burke knew something and now can't talk about it, maybe
it extends past vows of silence."

"It's not impossible, I suppose, as we said before." Fleur said, her

voice uncharacteristically unsure, "But the story we keep hearing is
that he betrayed Burke. I get the feeling there might have been more
than greed behind that decision."

"Burke did something to anger Voldemort, maybe Borgin betrayed

him to save himself? Or maybe it's all a lie." Harry shrugged, "All I
know is we can't discount anything, we need to make a move
against them."

Two steps ahead, Moody's fresh advice echoed in his mind.

"It's our best bet, only bet really."

Harry disagreed "There are others, other leads from my visions."

"Have you entertained the possibility that maybe you're seeing these
things for a reason?" Fleur asked, "But not one that'll be beneficial to
us."

It was a thought he'd pondered countless times though he was no

closer to an answer.

"If Voldemort possessed you and came off worse, I wouldn't put him
past it to try something more subtle."
"That would mean he knew we were on the trail of the Horcruxes."

"Or he wants us to think something else entirely, we can't know. But

like you said it yourself, we can't discount anything." Fleur said.

"Then whatever Nagini's purpose is…"

"Might be a chance to go on the offensive." Fleur continued, "And we

need to attack, desperately."

"We'll have to figure something out then," Harry agreed, "But…"

"But you need to meet with Moody," Fleur continued for him.

Harry disliked leaving her alone in the house. If he could avoid it, he
would have. But learning from Moody was a chance too important to
pass up.

"I'll be back as quick as I can." Harry promised, "I don't know how
long I'll be though."

"I'll be fine," Fleur promised, "I'll try and figure out a plan for
everything before the meeting, we can talk about it later."

"Have you heard if Scrimgeour is coming?" Harry said, wondering if

the man who imitated a lion so well still seemed so after all that had
happened.

"Could be, I heard Kingsley talk about it briefly. No communication

between anyone makes it difficult, no one is even sure when they'll
arrive - if they'll arrive."

"I'll see if Moody says anything," Harry promised, "If they're not here
by the time I get back, that is."

There was a pleasant awkwardness between them born from unsure

love. Even after kisses and nights in the same bed, it had still only
been days.
Love was still frightening.

And he hadn't stopped thinking about it, just as she asked.

Harry pushed his head forward, mirroring Fleur's actions a

millisecond behind her. Their lips met in the middle, lost in the silver-
hued dream he could still scarcely believe.

It was quick and tentative, but it was enough.

"I'll see you soon," Fleur said, their foreheads leant against each
other.

"I hope so," Harry smiled, and Fleur let out a giggle. The small,
infectious melody made separating an action all the more lamented.

Though forced to do so by duty, he abandoned the contact and with

a final glance backwards, he disappeared out of the door-the pale
orange flickering as he passed through the opening.

Closing the door behind him quietly as to not disturb the other
residents, Harry stepped out into the early morning air once more.

The path towards the stairs seemed momentarily clear, he made to

tackle them quickly and be out of Grimmauld Place before he could
be stopped.

"Harry!" A voice hissed behind him, and Harry knew within an instant
he was destined to be late for his meeting.

His wish to be out on time was just that - a wish.

"Harry!" The voice hissed again, careful not to rouse anyone else
that may have been sleeping.

Harry turned his head to look behind him, taking note of the familiar
face.

Hermione.
She was clad in her regular attire, either a testament to the fact she'd
been too busy to get changed.

Or she'd planned this.

Judging by the look on her face, Harry assumed the latter.

"We need to talk." She said, simple words that echoed down the
corridor despite the low volume, stepping ever closer to him.

"We talked last night," Harry replied gently, slowly backing towards
the stairs, "It's going to have to wait, I have to be somewhere."

"Wait?" Hermione scoffed, "We've been distant all year, Harry, and
now I've barely said a word to you since before you went to the
Hospital Wing. It can't wait."

"Do we… do we have to do this now?" Harry sighed, letting out a

gusty breath.

She peered across at him with her characteristic scrutinising gaze,

desperately trying to figure out the enigma that had only grown
bigger.

"Ron's been reading that book again," Hermione said, letting her
words hang in the air.

"Book?"

"The potions book," She clarified, "He's been learning spells from it
all year, you know about it as well as I do."

"Clearly not as well as you do," Harry said, "Did this really require
you stopping me?"

"He's… he's not in a good place, we both know that." Hermione tried,
the confidence in her voice substituted for wringing her hands, "I've
seen the things in that book, and I'm scared what'll happen if he gets
angry enough to use them."
Harry pushed his tongue against his teeth and struggled to find an
answer to placate her.

"We can't take it from him," Harry decided after a moment, the
chance to placate her clearly lost.

"Of course we can - we have to! " Hermione declared, "What if he

decides he's learned enough and thinks it's time to take the fight to
them?"

"You're asking me to take away something that means something to

him, that's teaching him spells in a war, because you're afraid he's
going to use them?" Harry asked, "I'm scared he'll have to use them
too, but it's better he knows them than knows nothing."

"That's not my point, and you know it," Hermione refuted, "What he's
learning? It's what they use, I've seen it. What if the urge finally gets
too much and he decides he'd rather take his anger out on
something else?"

"What's the alternative, Hermione?" Harry shot back, exasperated,

"We take the book away and leave him nothing? Then how angry will
he be with absolutely nothing to do? At least he has something to do
with the book, something to take his mind off this ."

"You know that won't go well," Hermione said, crossing her arms as
if to make her presence more stalwart.

"Maybe it will, maybe it won't - I don't know," Harry shook his head,
"What I do know is that we're his family and he hasn't got a lot of that
left. That book means something to him, if we take that book away, if
it's even a danger to him, he'll be just as angry, just as dangerous
and have two fewer family members for us having tried."

"What do you propose we do then?" Hermione said expectantly,

"Because, from my point of view, it seems like we're letting him hurt
himself worse because we're too scared we'll hurt him instead."
"I don't have the answers, Hermione, I really don't."

"We need them."

"Just leave him be, please ." Harry begged, "We can talk to him
when he hasn't just lost half his family. Sometimes doing something,
anything is better than doing nothing. Maybe this isn't one of those
times, we can watch him and tell him if he heads that way but just…
leave him be for now."

"Harry…" Hermione said, her voice losing even more volume as it

finally relented, meeting resistance where she assumed she'd find
acquiescence had finally taken the wind from beneath her wings.

"I have to go, truly," Harry offered gently, "We can talk later, but not
now."

Harry managed to descend to the next landing before her small

voice called after him.

"Harry… what happened to you, to us, to… to… everything? "

Had it been louder, more powerful it would have been accusatory.

But in her sullen state, fighting her own thoughts as she tried to fight
Ron's it seemed dull .

He had promised to tell them the truth once upon a time, but now
that seemed a lifetime ago and exposing them to the true troubles at
hand seemed a poor choice.

"I don't know," Was all he could offer, and he meant it.

The harsh gale that raced across the uneven ground of the
unfamiliar area was enough to put him on the backfoot. Deafening
silence hurt his ears almost as much as the howling wind, speaking
uneasy volumes about the early morning mist surrounding him.
"Block!" An oaken voice called through the mist.

A haphazard shield wove itself into existence at the end of his wand,
barely stopping an arc of red light that tore across the unknown
distance between them. The impact sending a shockwave back
through his aching arm that had not yet fully healed.

"Parry!" It yelled again, although this time from the opposite

direction.

This time, a rapier of green light careened through the mist, the
briefest window of opportunity allowing him to flick his wrist and send
it skywards, illuminating the mist as it fizzled out above.

An apparition of smoke flew at him from behind, the following motion

of his wand, allowing him to bisect it with relative ease, only for the
smoke to obscure his vision.

It had been only minutes, ten perhaps, fifteen at most. Yet, he ached
with each movement like he'd been fighting for far, far longer.

There had been a sense of familiarity in his practice duels with Fleur,
she was elegant and graceful, lithe and precise.

Moody was her antithesis in every way; If she was the rapier, Moody
was a warhammer. He tore through the mist with ease, firing spell
after spell in an effort to catch him off guard.

Every so often he'd catch a glimpse of an electric blue eye peering at

him, swivelling out of existence silently before another spell came to
snuff out his resistance.

Harry waved his wand around his head in a wide arc, the mist
circling as he whipped it around in circles, forming a vortex around
him. With a final flick, he attempted to dispel the fog.

It vanished for but a moment before it returned, permeating the air

even thicker than before.
A cruel laugh mocked him from afar.

"I know tricks too, lad." Moody called out. Harry took the brief
detente as a moment to catch his breath.

Before he could fully prepare himself, a trio of spells flew at him. He

made a brief attempt to shield himself, rolling out of the way to little
avail. The first two knocked his roll off balance, turning it into a
sudden stumble.

The third sailed directly into his stomach, knocking the wind from him
as he scattered across the dew-soaked ground.

" Tricks might help you from time-to-time, they won't save you
forever."

Moody finally emerged only feet from him, both eyes peering
downwards.

"There's a reason we almost lost the first war - there's more to

duelling than tricks, and there's more to war than showmanship and
fancy footwork."

Harry struggled to get to his feet, but he eventually made it.

His body wrought with aches and pains, Harry walked through the
front door of Grimmauld Place, Alastor Moody hobbling far ahead.
Harry did his best to mask the limp he'd acquired, awkward shuffle
steps leading him into the dining room.

The scent of faint ozone lingered in the air when he opened the door,
wafting outwards to greet him as he stepped inside. His eyes were
immediately drawn to the corners of the room, expansion charms
had enlargened the room yet again and flickered in dull pulses.

It'd be a short meeting - magic had decreed it so.

Most of the occupants were red-robed and packed together tightly
enough that the remainder of the occupants were lost amongst the
small sea of crimson.

Aurors, Harry recognised and to their rear an oddly welcome sight.

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic.

He was ushered to the back of the room, and surrounded by his own
men though still visible. His posture had slumped, and the attrition of
war had taken its toll on his face, but he was alive.

Harry's eyes continued to scan the room, looking for faces he

wanted to find and those he sorely didn't.

No Bill, no Mr Weasley, Harry noted. In fact, there were multiple

absences from the first meetings. Missions, he presumed, the Order
likely couldn't afford to stay static, even when gaining their bearings.

Then his eyes caught the glitter of silver, and the familiar breathless
sensation arrived as he laid his eyes upon Fleur. Weaving through
the small crowd to find the seat by her side.

"Hey," Harry whispered, pulling the seat beside out to sit on.

Her blue eyes gazed upwards to spot the intruder before a small
smile graced her lips, "How was training?"

"Sore and hard," Harry winced, plopping unceremoniously onto the

seat.

"Worth it?"

"I think so," Harry nodded, "Moody knows what he's talking about."

"You'd want to hope so," Fleur said, her eyes tracking over to the
pair of scarred men at the front of the room - Remus and Moody.
"The way people around here talk about him he might as well be
Merlin come again."
Harry snorted lightly, "After what he did today, I'm inclined to agree
with them. The way Ron told it, half the cells in Azkaban are
occupied by his handiwork, he was something else in the
Department of Mysteries too, but this was…"

"Painful?" Fleur laughed.

"Sounds like a decent enough word," Harry agreed, "How long has
Scrimgeour been here?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe more," she guessed, "They came in waves,

tried to make sure they wouldn't draw any more attention than a
crowd of Aurors usually would."

"How'd that go for them?"

Fleur shrugged, "They haven't talked much, a few whispered in his

ear, intelligence maybe, counsel? I can't be sure. But they've been
silent, trying to get a measure of the Order, I suppose."

"Reckon we're satisfactory?" Harry asked, peering around to gaze

upon the 'Old Lion'.

"What choice does he have?" Fleur said, "We're the only option left,
satisfactory or not. It's either the Order or they fight alone."

Harry nodded absentmindedly, "Scrimgeour's full of pride, though,

chances are fighting alone is exactly what he wants."

"Remus looks like he's going to talk," Fleur said, nodding towards the
man as he stepped up to the mark, "We might just have an answer."

Remus continued until he was at the head of the table, the excess of
members huddling around to hear what he had to say.

"The risk you all took in coming here today was… significant to say
the least," Remus began, hands stiff at his side, "I appreciate the
collective trust we've mustered, and although we might have once
worked against one another or at the very least, certainly without
knowledge of one another, war makes for strange bedfellows."

Most of the people in the room nodded attentively though Harry kept
his eyes on Scrimgeour's own pale gaze which seemed to hold
contempt and disinterest in equal parts.

"Alone, we can do little, together, however, presents a unique

opportunity to strike while the iron is hot. Voldemort and his followers
are high on victory, assured a beaten dog won't bite back. If we want
to make use of our newfound footing, we must strike in the interim."

Order members and Aurors alike banged their hands stridently,

clearly eager for a fight.

"How do we plan to do that?" Griffiths, the old Warden of Azkaban,

said, clearly not sold by Remus's speech.

"We use their own tactics against them," Remus said, and out of the
corner of his eye, Harry watched Scrimgeour lean in.

"Go on."

They were the first words Scrimgeour had spoken, the man's voice
coarse and grating but still held the predatory glimmer Harry once
saw.

Remus, to his credit, had the ghost of a smile on his face.

Maybe this is exactly what he planned, Harry thought offhandedly.

"He's more cunning than Scrimgeour gives him credit for," Fleur
whispered, and Harry found confirmation of his suspicion in her
words.

"Between the two wars we've fought against one another, we've
always had more ground to protect - stretched thin across the
country. Now, the roles are reversed, and they're ill-prepared to
defend against such tactics. For instance, Minister, who do you
believe will replace you under Voldemort's reign?"

Scrimgeour contemplated for a moment, "Thicknesse most likely,

he'll want a sycophant and a pureblood figurehead. He knows using
one of his fanatics won't end well, he'll find a new breed."

"And Pius was the Head of which department?" Remus prompted,

"Before whatever he's become now? Magical Transportation."

"Precisely my point." Remus smiled, "No skill in Administration and

he's left the Department of Magical Transport without proper
guidance."

"So we're free to move around for a while," Harry interjected,

remembering Moody's lesson.

"Exactly, Harry." Remus nodded energetically, almost looking out of

place on his tired frame, "We're free to move, we strike where we
can, as quick as we can. We gather intelligence and more wands,
and then we can take the Ministry back."

Scrimgeour, as hard to please as he seemed to be, straightened up

at the final words.

"We'll need a plan." Was all he offered in response.

"Aye, we do." Moody agreed from behind Remus.

"And we have one," Remus assured them, "Individually, you will all
have a role to play in the collective. But security has already made
itself a thorn in our sides, you will each operate independently from
Grimmauld Place. You'll have a team, but you will not meet here."

The Order's splitting up.

"The Fidelius isn't infallible, the final moments of the last war taught
us as much." Remus offered a sidelong glance to Harry that seemed
mournful, even after all this time. "In order to minimise the risk of
unorthodox behaviour being located, you'll be provided a safe house
and a mission that only you and your team shall know."

"Reckon it's a good plan?" Harry whispered to Fleur, "The Order

splitting up, that is."

"Anything is better than staying still," Fleur said, "At least this way
we'll be harder to find."

Remus seemed to pause to allow reprieve for everyone to ruminate

on the plan, hushed whispers filled the room. Scrimgeour nodded
idly while an Auror whispered in his ear.

It didn't take much to fully confirm this is precisely what Remus had
planned if the subtle but present pleased look on his face was any
barometer.

"Think Scrimgeour will agree to help?" Harry whispered again, Fleur

swivelled her head to look at the man. "I suppose he could still
disagree, but he looks… interested ."

"He needs something avant-garde, something new ." Fleur said,

drumming her fingers on the table in random patterns, "His little
'army' will only stay with him as long as they feel like they've got a
fighting chance - this is the only way for him to get one."

He remembered what the man said all those days ago in Diagon
Alley.

To put it in the simplest terms, you need the Ministry, and we need
you.

Harry didn't think the statement could be any truer than at this
moment.

"Potter, Delacour," Moody barked, from across the room, breaking

Harry from his thoughts.
Remus began marshalling the rest of the occupants, dividing them
into groups with a loud voice that echoed through the kitchen, no
doubt audible to the occupants in the rooms above.

Fleur shot Harry a quizzical look, but Harry merely shrugged in

response, unsure of why he'd need the both of them. Moody limped
out the door, followed closely by both Harry and Fleur.

He stepped into an empty room, an old storage cupboard Harry

assumed, but large enough to fit the three. Moody flicked his wand to
silence the room, his spell a different colour and carrying a different
effect than the one he'd learnt from Fleur.

"Right," Moody barked, "I've got no clue whatever mission Albus has
set you upon and as we've covered, I don't particularly care to know
either. Whatever your plans, I received a message from a Phoenix
this morning."

"A message from Dumbledore?" Harry said, his mouth becoming

conspicuously dry, "And you didn't think to tell me before ?"

"I must've missed the meeting where my mail became your

business, Potter." Moody growled, his tone conveying a warning
against any further outburst, "Whatever your feelings on the matter
are, I've been told to let you pursue your mission on your own, and
to let Delacour help you."

Harry swallowed the ball of anxiety rising in his throat, "Does he

know about… well, everything ?"

"No," Moody shook his head, "I've told him about our losses but
nothing else. From the way he talks, he'll be back soon enough to
take the reins."

If he's alive, Harry couldn't stop the bitter thought.

"I don't need to know what you're doing, but I do need to know where
you're going." Moody said, "Not specifics, but an area."
Harry's eyes flickered across to Fleur, and she nodded, "Diagon
Alley," She said.

"Have you got a plan?"

Harry nodded, "The makings of one," he said, trusting Fleur had

something, "We'll refine it when we've got better information on
what's going on."

"We don't have a safe house in Diagon or anywhere even close to

that, Apparition points will be monitored." Moody looked blank for a
second, before nodding to Fleur, "You worked at Gringotts, yes?"

"Curse Breaker," Was Fleur's simple reply.

"Good, get inside, get to Potter's Vaults and try and rent somewhere,
anywhere in the Alley. It'll be far safer than trying to apparate to the
Alley every day."

"Do you think that's wise?" Fleur asked, "What if Voldemort has
Goblins on his side?"

"Work it out, make it seem like a casual affair -he outlandish draws
eyes." was all the advice he could offer, "Whatever happens, you'll
need to go soon. Don't try and contact anyone at Grimmauld for the
time being.

Hermione and Ron will have to fare, I suppose. Harry sighed

inaudibly.

"And if we need to contact you?" Fleur asked, her eyes squinting

ever so slightly in concentration.

"Potter, remember the train station from yesterday?" Moody asked.

"Of course," Harry replied easily, it was only yesterday, "Essex Road
Station."
"I'll put an ad on a platform, the one with the train to Hertford North.
It'll have the date on it if you need to contact us, raise the day. The
higher the date, the more urgently you need to speak with us."

"And if you need to speak with us?" Fleur asked,

"I'll raise the month, the same system," Moody explained, "I'll check it
in the evening, I suggest you do the same." Moody glanced down at
a worn pocket watch, clearly taking stock of the time, "You'll need to
go, and quickly. Good luck, Potter, Delacour."

Moody stalked off abruptly, likely off to help Remus.

"Well, that wasn't much," Fleur said softly, letting her words hang in
the air.

Harry snorted in return, "That's saying something."

"We best be going," Fleur said, "I'll pack whatever we need and take
it with us."

It wasn't saying much, the majority of their belongings had burnt with
the Burrow. But they had something, at the very least.

"I'll stay down here…" Harry said, his voice lightening as he spoke, "I
want to see Scrimgeour."

"What purpose does seeing him serve?" Fleur queried, her perfectly
sculpted brow marred in confusion.

Harry shrugged, "I'm… I'm not completely sure, curiosity maybe."

"They said curiosity killed the Kneazle." Fleur returned, smirking.

"I reckon I might just survive this one," Harry said, "See you soon."

With his parting words, Harry left the storage cupboard with Fleur
following shortly behind. She departed to head up the stairs where
Harry moved towards the lounge room.
Scrimgeour was sitting in one of the chairs, his back straight
although his posture spoke of a man tired. Aurors dotted the room,
presumably for protection.

Harry approached, his footsteps light as not to disturb the man from
his thoughts - Harry was sure that would happen soon enough. An
Auror from the corner stepped forward, signal enough for
Scrimgeour to raise his head towards Harry.

A hard nod sent the Auror walking backwards.

"Have you come here to gloat, Potter?" Scrimgeour spat, his voice
still grating. "Come to jockey your rights over my wrongs?"

He seemed oddly defensive; clearly he wasn't well acquainted with

failure.

"No," Harry offered, "Just… talk."

"So you say, but I've been seeing that same look in different faces
since I took this job. You might as well just say it, boy, the Old Lion
lost."

"I haven't come here to mock you." Harry repeated.

"Oh? Forgive me then, I was so eager to make conversation."

Scrimgeour spat.

Rufus Scrimgeour seemed a man broken, the old lion looked

sorrowful in defeat.

"If you want the cold, hard truth? You can have it. We're fucked.
There's no one this side of the channel that can stand against him.
This is what defeat tastes like, might as well get used to it the way
we're all going."

"Thank you for standing up to him." Harry hadn't intended to say

anything, not really. He'd only come to get a measure of the man
who had seemed so stalwart all those months ago.
Scrimgeour gave a harsh nod in return though his eyes softened
ever so slightly, they certainly weren't destined to be friends.

But maybe he could help them become allies.

With a crack that mimicked a muggle gunshot, Harry Potter and

Fleur Delacour appeared at the apparition point of Diagon Alley.

The glamour on his face itched, wearing the visage of an older,

brunette man with acne scars that hadn't fully healed. The Alley was
still desolate, distant shufflings of suburbia sounding in the
background, contrasting with the barren street.

In front of them sat a marble-white building, an askew set of pillars

flanked by Goblins in ornate, gilded golden armour. Alongside them,
spears that rose a considerable distance above their diminutive size,
their lengths pulsing with runes that Harry didn't recognise. As they
walked towards the doors, the Goblins turned inwards, eyeing them
carefully.

"Just like you remember it?" Harry whispered, doing his best to
watch the Goblins without making himself seem overtly suspicious.

"I've never seen them on such high alert," Fleur said, "I doubt the
glamour charms will hold up against the Tellers."

"And if they don't?"

"I didn't think they'd get us much further than the front door. Goblins
are fickle, but if they're intrigued with why we're here, they'll hear us
out."

Harry frowned, "So we're risking our lives on intuition?"

Fleur let out a humourless laugh, "You've risked your life on far
worse."
"I'll concede that, but I'm not filled with confidence," Harry said.

"Have I ever led you astray?"

"Not yet, though there's always a first time." Harry joked.

"Do you trust me?" Fleur asked as the static Goblin Warriors seemed
to become all the more menacing with the distance closed.

"Always."

The main doors parted, opening in a gesture that seemed almost

inviting, beckoning them in. They stepped through the burnished
bronze doors before a second, newly minted set of silver ones led
them into the main atrium of the bank.

Then, they were flanked yet again by Goblins although this time,
tellers, rather than guards. They sat at tables that towered over even
the tallest wizard, letting them stare down menacingly at those they
believed lesser.

Harry couldn't say he was ever particularly partial to Goblins. He'd

met amicable ones, and on the other hand, he'd heard more than
enough stories of how the less-amicable treated Wizards and
Witches, especially Veela.

Maybe they weren't all bad, maybe they weren't all good. But the one
constant was the vein of cunning and greed that ran through them
all, emphasised by the black, beady-eyed scrutiny they were
subjected to.

Harry had learned enough of them from Binns, biased as he may

have been. It wasn't as if the attempts hadn't been made to bridge
the gap, but centuries of wrongdoing on both sides of the coin
seemed to eradicate any possibility of a peaceful conclusion. Now,
they were relegated to hoarding Wizards gold in the event that every
so many decades, a charismatic goblin would lead them into
rebellion only to be crushed by Wizards.
Now, in those exact circumstances, Harry needed to pull his gold out
of their bank.

He doubted the day was destined to go well.

With careful eyes the pair deliberated as they walked, slowing their
pace to barely above a sedate stroll, careful not to make it seem
purposeful.

They chose a teller after a brief moment, one that didn't seem as
frightening as his colleagues. Heading through the empty queues
and peering up into the gnarled peach-coloured visage of a goblin.

" Yes?" The Goblin growled, toying with the golden scales sitting
upon his desk.

"May the seven blessings of Ug shine upon your coffers." Harry tried
after a brief moment of silence befell them all, angering the Goblin.

He read it in a history book, though he couldn't remember the

context. Maybe it was a saying, or a mantra or an… insult.

"Empty platitudes." The Goblin growled again, emptying a bag of

assorted coins onto the teller desk with a harsh, clangorous
percussion that indicated there was some force behind it, "What do
you want?"

Well, there goes that chance to diffuse the tension, Harry thought.

They'd rehearsed this plan moments before they arrived, but Harry
knew it well enough.

"Shiverbane," Harry said, his voice clipped as to now give the Goblin
any reason to doubt his intentions.

Shiverbane was the only Goblin he really knew, Fleur knew none
that worked with Accounts.
You can always count on having allies within this bank. However few
we may be.

Their gambit surrounded a phrase that could have very well been lip-
service or platitudes given to ease a grieving mind. But they were
here now, and it was time to see what his words were worth.

"You don't need to see Shiverbane, little wizard." The goblin snorted
in derision, weighing coins out on the scale.

"Here, I was under the impression I was allowed to see my Account

Manager?"

This was the first time the Goblin had even deigned to look at him,
peering down a set of half-spectacles to fix his person with an icy
stare.

"Do you need to be explained the implications of lying about your

accounts?"

"No more than you need to be lectured about the dangers of keeping
Wizards from their accounts." Fleur interjected though it was a bluff
and in truth, a particularly poor one. There was nothing left to
enforce the Goblin Treaties but goodwill, something the Goblins
weren't renowned for.

The Goblin searched for Harry's eyes, he only hoped the average
teller wouldn't be so interested in his features or know them from the
posters well enough to divine the fact he was indeed, Harry Potter.

Beady black eyes met his magically altered brown as he tried to

discern something from his newly forged brunette visage.

Then, the teller rang a bell, a high pitch melody that seemed to rouse
his counterpart from across the bank, who began a little huddle over
to the request.
This one looked very much identical with the appearance of a patchy
white beard that covered his thick skin, they seemed to converse
with guttural noises and clicking tongues. It was what he could only
assume was Gobbledegook before the teller seemed to shrug and
gave the seat to the other goblin before stalking off to another
counter, continuing the measuring of coins.

"I need to see Shiverbane," Harry tried again, willing to see if this
Goblin was a little more amicable then his predecessor.

"I care little for what you want, Wizard," The Goblin growled, and
Fleur bristled in anger beside him.

Yep, entirely amicable.

"What I wish to know," He continued, "Is why a wizard under glamour

charms is requesting an Account Manager that's been out of the job
for months. An Azkaban escapee, perhaps?"

The Goblin seemed furious, and one of his guarding brethren

seemed to be marching lengthways down the bank's foyer directly
towards them, his spear rebounding off the manicured marble with
each step.

Fuck, was the only thought Harry could muster.

Goblins were fierce fighters in close quarters, or so Harry assumed.

Arming themselves with a spear and shield led him to believe they
must know how to use it. Harry shook his leg to ensure his wand was
still there, a small action that reaffirmed the fact they may have to
fight their way out.

"A thousand galleons," Fleur blurted out and the Goblin, who had
adopted a menacing look, seemed taken aback.

"Two thousand." The Goblin wagered back.

They're bartering my money to not kill us, Harry thought,
dumbfounded. This wasn't how he expected the day to go.

"Three and a half and you take us to see Shiverbane." Fleur

declared, staring off against the Goblin.

"Deal," The Goblin declared, and Harry let out the stubborn breath
that refused to leave out of his lungs. The spear-wielding Goblin
continued his approach, now beckoned by the teller to come closer.

"Take these two to Shiverbane, and be mindful of them, they're

glamoured." The Goblin grinned with greed, showing a mouthful of
pointed, dagger-like teeth, "I expect my coins in full."

The guard grunted and stalked off, motioning the pair to follow him.

"You almost had us killed," Harry hissed at Fleur, quiet enough to go

unnoticed by the Goblin leading them.

Fleur grinned impishly, "But did I get us killed?"

"Well that's a bit self-explanatory, I'd think."

"Precisely, Harry, I know Goblins," Fleur said, "We would have been
fine anyways until you insulted their deities."

"Is that what that means?" Harry sighed, exasperated, "I blame
Binns."

"You listened to a ghost that hates Goblins, who's really at fault?"

The conversation trailed off as they followed the guard deeper into
the bank.

The bank was startlingly akin to a labyrinth, twisting corridors that

seemed to stretch into the distance meshed with sudden, tight twists
that had Harry lost for directions.
Eventually, hidden amidst dusty marble pillars and rough flooring,
they met their mark.

Shiverbane, Accountant.

Likely former, after today . Shiverbane's words seem to ring true, an

Account Manager with a prestigious office no longer, instead
relegated to a derelict office in the bowels of the bank.

"Shiverbane," the Guard grunted as if they couldn't read the plaque

on the door.

Harry nodded to him and opened the door, stepping inside with Fleur
close behind. Shiverbane clearly wasn't accustomed to guests in his
new office, tracking them with beady, blackened eyes.

"Who are you?" The Goblin demanded, his small-stature

straightening in his chair to greet them.

With a flick of Fleur's wand that caught Shiverbane off guard, enough
so that he shot up in response, she dispelled the charms
surrounding them.

The persistent itch of magic that covered his face dissipated and his
features became his own, morphing back with jarringly soft motions.

Shiverbane looked taken aback, his diminutive form rocking back

into his chair at the sight of them.

"Gods above…" The Goblin whispered, pale green-hued cheeks

became paler and dark eyes that were nigh indecipherable seemed
to be laid bare before them in shock. "Harry Potter."

"Sorry to drop in unannounced," Harry offered meekly, stepping

forward slowly, "It's just… well, we didn't have anywhere else to go
for this."

"So you came to me?" Shiverbane asked, his tone questioning and
his face still betraying shock.
Harry nodded lightly, "You said we'd always have allies in the bank, I
need to know if you were telling the truth."

"There might be, there might not be." Shiverbane replied cautiously,
"I told you that in a different time and," he took a moment to take in
his new office as if it was the first time he'd seen it "a different place
."

"And what about you?" Fleur asked, stepping towards him just
behind Harry.

Shiverbane shrugged, "What about me?" he said, clearly feigning

ignorance to draw them closer.

"Are you an ally?" Harry prompted, "If not, we can be going."

"I'm afraid if you had delusions of grandeur when you walked

through the door and into my office, " the final word uttered with
disdain, "then you should have left them there. I have nothing to offer
you. No clandestine meetings with council members, no secret
vaults to be unearthed. I'm simply an Accountant of Gringotts,
disgraced as I may be, and I am still a Goblin."

"Disgraced?" Harry asked, "Because Sirius died?"

Shiverbane nodded, fingers topped with vicious claws meeting below

his chin, "To lose a family is a terrible thing, to lose an Ancient
family? Even more so. Had I been able to keep the Black Family
Assets undivided I might have clung to my title and simply moved to
a newer vault. But divided as it was the Directors felt I was no longer
suited to my position."

The Goblin sounded bitter, though Harry supposed he had a right to.
Last he saw, Shiverbane had an office thrice the size as this,
displayed and guarded proudly for all to see. Now he was almost
destitute, hidden away in the innards of Gringotts to hide their shame
.
Ripe for an alliance, at least, Harry mused.

"We don't need anything outlandish," Fleur interjected in an attempt

to assuage the Goblin's evident fears, "We need to purchase a
house, and quietly. Or at the very least, as quietly as possible."

"Is property truly the primary concern in these times?" Shiverbane

asked, almost flabbergasted.

"We need it for something," Harry explained, "We don't intend to sell
it, if that's what you're worried about, can you help us?"

"That depends, Mister Potter, on if you remember the contents of the

conversation we had not so long ago, albeit in a vastly different
setting to our current one."

Harry racked his brain to remember the odd interaction while Fleur
stared on from behind him, attempting to discern meaning through
vague words.

He nodded after a pregnant pause, "You talked about my coin…"

Harry said, searching the Goblin's face for an indicator of where the
conversation might go.

"And?" Shiverbane prompted.

"And what?" Harry said.

"Which way did that coin land?"

That was a question Harry was ill-prepared to answer.

Which way did my coin land?

It had been a year of many things, triumphs and failures, losses and
wins.

Malevolence and benevolence are merely adjacent sides of a single

Galleon.
He'd destroyed Horcruxes, he'd saved a life, he'd come so far .

And yet, on the other hand, he'd killed, he'd manipulated and lied. He
cast an errant glance to Fleur to take in her features.

And he loved an engaged woman.

Maybe there was justification for it all, maybe it was in pursuit of a

greater good, to end the war or to finally be happy . Or perhaps it
had been anger and greed that led him to where he was, sometimes
it felt both and other times, neither.

Which way did my coin land?

Harry Potter did not know.

"Maybe it's landed," Harry said, his voice shaky from being thrown
from his thoughts back to the situation at hand, "Maybe it's still in the
air - or maybe I'll never know. I… I can't say."

Shiverbane nodded absentmindedly as his eyes trailed off to the

roof, clawed fingers clashing together that filled the silent room with
a soft 'clacking' noise.

"Goblins are not cheap fiends," Shiverbane said after a moment,

"Quite the contrary actually, I've lost count of how many times I've
heard us referred to as nought but greed incarnate."

"Your point being?" Fleur asked, "We didn't come to be lectured on

societal views."

"I'll help you," Shiverbane nodded, "But in return, I expect a sizable

gratuity in exchange for services rendered."

Harry scoffed, "What happened to allies ? I don't remember paying

any before."

"An offer made when I was on a higher rung, now I find myself
secreted away in squalor." Shiverbane said, "It is only the promise
that I once made and a desperate hope that I even entertain the
notions you put forth to me. The best alliances, however, are those
forged in gold - alliances are about mutual benefit."

It sounded very much like a lecture Harry had already heard once
before.

"Two per cent," Fleur offered, taking the reins as she bartered with
his money.

"Three." Shiverbane demanded, "I'll have to pay off Tellers, the

sellers, the Goblins working the carts. Secrets can be measured with
coins, and there is no Goblin who doesn't know the weight of the
right word in the right ear."

"Two and a half or we risk the tellers again."

Shiverbane laughed aloud, an almost guttural screech that sent the

hairs on Harry's neck standing to attention. "You have no room to
bluff here, no cards not laid bare. Though I'm generous, as a token
of goodwill, two and three quarters."

"Done." Fleur declared, and Harry watched more of his money slip
down the drain. "We need something in Diagon Alley, discrete and
small, preferably something that overlooks the Alley."

"A particular hard ask, even more difficult on short notice with
secrecy being paramount."

"Can you do it?" Harry asked.

"I am a Goblin." Was all Shiverbane deigned to give them in

response.

By the time they finally escaped the labyrinth of Gringotts's

accounting section, they did so in search of a new flat that had
sapped more than a decent portion of Harry's bank vault. Another
decent portion tied up in bottomless bags that weighed the pockets
of his robe down.

All-in-all, a successful endeavour.

They crossed the alley and tapped a series of patterns on the drain
pipe, exposing a new path to walk. Ascending stairs and passing
deftly through cramped corridors, they eventually found their quarry.

A set of old keys let them into the flat proper, closing the door swiftly
behind them to shield from any prying eyes.

It was bare, nought in there but walls, floor and a roof. Furniture
could be bought or transfigured as needed, not that they were there
for leisure.

It was empty, but despite the circumstances that had led them there,
it was theirs. Their first home together.

"Don't you think it's a bit early to get a house together?" Harry joked,
breathing life into a thought that made his heart thump and tumble in
turmoil.

"Harry Potter, vanquisher of Dark Lords, scared of home life." Fleur

chortled, the mirthful noise filling their new home with something far
more valuable than furniture, "I'd never expected this."

"If you're that eager to trap me, just say so." Harry replied, "One look
at my vaults and you're eager to stick around."

"My, if only you had such wit when dealing with the Goblins."

"I was perfectly capable of dealing with the Goblins," Harry said,
murmuring dramatically.

"Oh yes, the parts where you insulted their gods and almost had us
impaled notwithstanding," Fleur smirked in return, her eyes alight
with victory.
Harry snorted good-naturedly, "Any time you wanted to jump in, that
would've been alright with me - for future reference, of course."

"Did I not save us?" Fleur said.

"By bartering my gold away?" Harry answered, "Quite the save."

Fleur laughed again, "You're being moody,"

Harry stilled in the memory of ecstasy, they were the same words
that had delivered him to their first kiss and led them down this
current path.

"I'm not being moody," Harry replied, the scene was almost identical
save for the fact their feelings had already been laid bare.

Fleur stepped closer to him, almost a saunter in the light of passion,

pushing her forehead into his.

"We make quite the team, don't we?" Fleur asked as Harry found
himself slowly falling into the depths of ocean-hued irises.

"I think we do," Harry agreed eagerly.

"Ready for another victory?" She asked.

"Always," was Harry's hoarse reply.

The griseous-hue of the moon above painted the world in the dull
gaze of the twilight, highlighting displacements in the cobbles and
two, robe-clad figures that made their way down the Alley.

They'd watched the Alley for the few hours until night fell, a single
window allowing an unadulterated glimpse of the comings and
goings of Knockturn Alley's mouth. Not the most eloquent of
solutions to their problem, but enough to gather knowledge about
Death Eaters in the Alley.
Or possible resistance when they finally struck. Voldemort's forces
were bold now, saturated with a feeling of invincibility that only loss
would dull.

And Harry swore to deliver just that loss.

Now they walked down the winding roads of Knockturn in hopes of

gathering intelligence. Glamours and transfigured robes donned in
order to best meld into the small crowd that wasn't cowed by the new
status quo but welcomed it.

Even with a glamour, Fleur's beauty could not be fully dulled. A man
blocked their path, leaning over an alcove with shaky legs. They
made an attempt to pass him without any trouble.

The man slurred something unintelligible and reached forward, a

mutt with a dirty paw trying to grasp with his double vision. Fleur
seemed to be familiar with such an event, a practiced ease saw her
wand knock the man back into the alcove before he could even
reach her, nursing a sore stomach.

The alcohol makes them weaker, Harry realised, doesn't bode well
for where we're going.

Progressing past him and around other small nuisances, they found
themselves at their destination.

The pub seemed derelict, a crude image of a man at the gallows

hanging from a wooden board. The smell of pipe smoke and
firewhisky was strong, even from such a distance.

The Inn of the Hanging Man, the sign read proudly.

Harry pushed open the door with Fleur close behind, entering the
boisterous atmosphere of the pub, laden with cheers and loud
chatter. A sedate pace led them towards the bar, Fleur separating
from him so they could try to maximise whatever effectiveness they
could find.
Two seats were open to the right-hand side of the bar, the only other
occupant a middle-aged man, or so he looked. A wiry frame crossed
with dirt and small scars.

Harry took the far seat, leaving one open between the two of them.
He didn't want to seem too eager.

"Firewhisky," Harry demanded when the pretty bar-witch walked

past, trying desperately to make his voice seem deeper than it was.

A glass with amber liquid found his hands and the man's gaze drifted
slightly sideways to get a measure of him. Curiosity getting the better
of him.

"Couldn't get this in Azkaban," Harry commented lightly, swirling the

alcohol as he looked down into it. His voice loud enough so only the
other man could hear him.

He scoffed loudly into his own drink "I reckon you look a bit too small
for prison, Dementors would've eaten you alive and spat out what
they didn't want, seen it happen before."

Harry struggled to find the words to continue the lie, he merely lifted
the glass of amber liquid towards the roof.

"We're all small after Azkaban," The last word mustered with a
contempt that clearly shocked the man into assuming it wasn't a
deception.

The wizard smiled and raised his own glass.

"Isn't that the truth," The man chuckled humorlessly, "Haven't seen
you around here, you get out in the breakout?"

"Months before, been busy," Harry shrugged nonchalantly, "You?"

"Year back, got done for assaulting a Hitwizard, you?"

"Trying to make a quick galleon."

"That'll get ya," The man laughed into his glass, "Bailey."

An introduction that heralded a deal to come, Harry raised his own

glass again though careful not to seem too eager to make the man's
acquaintance.

"Dursley," Harry introduced, the fake name passing seamlessly into

the air.

The plan had worked. Now Harry could only hope the man knew
something worth knowing.
The Curse
A/N: And we're back again, I've been pretty sick these past few days
and it's taken a lot out of me, but I finally managed to get a chapter
out.

A big thank you to Taliesin19, x102RedDragon and NerdDragonVoid

who looked over the chapter, without them it would definitely not be
where it is.

This one was a pretty big one to write outline wise, so I hope I did
the matter justice, though that's up to you to decide.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy, reviews and feedback are always

suggestion and stay safe!

Welcome to Chapter 20 - The Curse.

It had been a long week.

The world still stank of pipe smoke and whisky, his robe marred with
inadvertent stains and a pungent smell he wasn't sure even the
hardiest of charms could remove.

"You still looking for work, Dursley?" Bailey asked, his voice only a
drink away from slurring.

Someone hasn't got their sea legs, Harry mused, watching his
newfound drinking partner grapple with the side of the bar in order to
keep from toppling.

Bailey had become a permanent fixture in his life this past week or,
at the very least, the nights that he ventured into Knockturn Alley.
Idle information gathering filled their nights while days were spent
pursuing their true goal.
But more intelligence would only help them all. They got less sleep
for having done it, but tonight, it might just be worth it.

"I'm always looking for work," Harry yawned, dragging his glass
towards him, "Family's been struggling a bit, you know how it is."

Alcohol made them all boisterous, and few things worked as well in
helping him hear what he wanted to hear than firewhisky and
friendship.

Loose lips sank ships, or so they said, and Bailey, who heard quite a
bit skulking around Knockturn, was a weapon like any other. His use
felt a bit unscrupulous; the ease of lying felt wrong .

It was in pursuit of something larger than them all-that was his

newfound mantra when the world seemed content with testing him.

Sometimes it made it easier; sometimes, it did not.

"Aye, I know how it can be," Bailey grumbled, knocking his glass
against the wooden bartop. A few echoed his action, lost for context
but happy to join in. "No bastard around here wants someone that's
seen the inside of Azkaban. Shame, too, bet we'd be twice as
dependable."

Harry shrugged. "World's a shit place sometimes," he said, "Best to

just move on."

Maybe the lying really has gotten too easy.

"And you wanna know what I say to the world? Bugger that." Bailey
said, slamming his glass hard against the counter before downing a
decent portion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Anyway,
like I said, I heard about some work, but there's a bit of a caveat ."

The last word was uttered with a long drawl, mimicking an aristocrat
before downing the remainder of his glass with an audible gulp.

It was a contrast to be sure.

"And what's that?" Harry said, staring across to the fringes of the
room to Fleur who was conversing with an old hag in a small booth.

Bailey checked over his shoulders in an action so overt, anyone

looking for a secret surely would've known who to seek out.

Eventually convinced the coast was clear, he spoke, "Well, I got a

way to make a quick few galleons, but you'd have to… well, get back
into the old life ."

"Get back into it?" Harry prompted, eager to finally hear something of
use, "How so?"

"The way the wind has been blowing, an honest day's work is about
to get a whole lot easier," Bailey said, his voice laden with pride. "Not
many people around with a compunction for do-gooding these days."

Harry nodded intently, motioning for him to continue.

"Well, I know some lads get out and want to go on the straight and
narrow," Bailey explained lightly, trying to tiptoe around the topic,
"Not that we all have the luxury, you know? But I reckon I shouldn't
say too much unless you're willing to jump back in."

Harry swirled his glass, searching guidance in the amber liquid - to

sell the performance if nothing else. "Rent's not getting any cheaper,"
he said eventually.

"Nah, it's not," Bailey agreed, a smile evident in his voice without
Harry even having to look at him, "Knew you had it in you, mate."

"What's the job?" Harry asked, catching Fleur's eyes from across the
room. A small wink indicator enough that he had finally found
something worth learning.

"You remember Ackley, right? Little fellow, big moustache?"

Harry cast a glance to a far stool where the mentioned man had
once been, though he was absent tonight.
"Splinched his fingers off a couple months ago?" Harry said, "Yeah, I
remember the story."

"Well, he was making the rounds out past the old Apothecary, the
one that got done in for selling belladonna under the table. Anyways,
the way he was telling me, some of You-Know-Who's men are
looking for wands."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Wands? Or the people attached to them?"

"Both from the way I heard it," Bailey continued, "What with everyone
breaking out they need new wands, heard theirs got burnt to a crisp
by the old guard. Looking for people to join 'em and try and squeeze
some money out of Knockturn and protect what they've got here."

That didn't sound good.

Great, Harry thought, That's precisely what we needed, more people

that want us dead.

He was more than willing to bet Borgin and Burkes were caught up
in the protection scheme.

"You know who's in charge?" Harry asked.

Bailey nodded energetically. "Course I do, none other than Rowle

himself."

Harry bit his top lip in idle thought, "I've seen the posters,"

"They don't do him justice, I reckon," Bailey shook his head, "I was in
Azkaban with him, though he was on a different level."

"Naturally," Harry agreed.

"He's a big fucker, not too bad with a wand either the way I've heard
people talk about him," Bailey said, "One of those lads that Azkaban
couldn't take much from. Went in an Ox, came out an angry one."
"And if I wanted to join up?"

Bailey shrugged, "Never heard the name Dursley before, never

asked if you were a Mudblood, not too polite, you see. If you are, I
don't need to know about it, you're nice enough - they don't need to
know about it either if you get me?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "I get what you're saying."

"They're working out of the Starry Prophesier, that crackpot seer

down by Shyverwretch's, you know the one. Go there and ask
around."

"Right," Harry nodded, "I best be getting home then, sleeping on it

might do me some good."

"See you tomorrow night?" Bailey asked, his voice deceptively

hopeful. In a way, they had become friends.

"Should do," Harry said, his succinct reply met by a raised drink and
nothing else.

Harry nodded his head towards Fleur, they'd leave separately just as
they'd entered - an effort to hear the most without making it so overt.

It'd be the last time he visited the Hanging Man for quite some time.

Tonight was a different night.

The heat was unbearable.

It prickled against his skin, made the possibility of sleep

unfathomable-not that he would be able to anyway.

Worst of all, the heat was not real.

It was the crucible once again. The mind's illusion of fire at his heels,
flames licking his robes to urge him ever onwards towards his goal.
Tonight differed from the weeks before. They had learned what was
against them, planned for what they could, but time was almost out.
Each day they allowed to pass was another to benefit their foes.

No, tonight was the night that marked a change in the war.

For better, or for worse.

But for now, even against the nigh intolerable heat, he laid against
the soft fabric of their transfigured bed.

She was with him.

Beyond tonight the war would begin in earnest for them, it had taken
all it would from them, their offensive would begin. The future was
unsure, as was their love. For the moment, they could rehearse their
plan and enjoy the pause before the plunge.

"If Rowle's in Knockturn, there'll be more… a lot more."

It was Fleur's soft voice, laden with an odd mixture of anxiety and
tenderness, a fear of things to come.

"I know," Harry whispered, the plush bed against his back the
anathema of the harsh truths that left her mouth. "We… I don't think
we've got much of a choice, not anymore. It's tonight, or it's never."

"And if it has to be never?" Fleur asked, stoking the crucible beneath

him and the fire of indecision in his gut.

Harry shrugged. "Then it's going to be never," he said, his voice still
soft, "We can find other leads, other ways to win, but we'll win. We're
always going to win."

With a sigh, Fleur shook her head. "It won't matter," she said,
pessimism or pragmatism he didn't know, "This could be it if we
misstep, this could be us done; the war over."
"I know," Was all Harry offered in return, his voice sounded meek
and small. Making a desperate gambit to give her answers that
instilled a courage in them both he didn't quite feel.

She shifted on the bed to be closer to him, edging ever so slightly to

rest her head over his chest. Beneath his breast, his heart beat
painfully, thumping hard against his ribs. Definitely hard enough that
she could hear it.

"You're nervous," she sighed, a gusty, hot breath that blew through
the fabric of his robes.

"Of course I am,"

His words met the air and silence followed, Fleur seemed content
with trying to muster an answer.

She absentmindedly traced patterns across his chest while he

sought solace in the roof above "I'm nervous too," she said finally,
her voice barely above a whisper

Words were all they were at face value but beneath the surface was
a glimmer of what lay beneath the stalwart facade-the briefest
glimpse of the flaw beneath and all that came with it.

Fleur Delacour was scared.

And so was he.

If it was just himself, perhaps he'd be less fearful of the future and
what may come. But it wasn't just him anymore.

"We'll be okay," Harry mumbled, staring into the white roof above,
hoping it'd provide something, anything .

"We'll be okay," Fleur echoed.

Harry swallowed the lead weight that did it's utmost to spring free
from his lips along with words he barely had the courage to speak.
"I… If…" Harry grappled with finding eloquent phrases to ensure his
next words wouldn't seem so naive, "If something happens to me,
not just tonight… but, well, at any time, you don't have to keep
fighting."

Blue eyes became alight with determination, "I will,"

There was a defiance in her voice, an edge that cut through

whatever meekness her thoughts had forced her to adopt. It dared
him to challenge it.

"You don't have to," Harry whispered, "You won't ever have to, not
for me. Go home, become an Enchanter, do what you've always
wanted to do."

Don't die for me.

"I know," She returned again, her voice still defiant.

"I love you," Harry said, his voice almost lost to the harsh beat of his
heart, he leant down to place a gentle kiss through her platinum
tresses.

"I know."

The call to slumber was soft and sweet, a chance to dream of better
days and forget things not yet born.

But the night was not yet done.

Albus Dumbledore landed on old, familiar ground, the soft crackle of

Phoenix flames heralding his arrival.

The sky was pastel blue, bathing the world in a soft, pleasant heat
that did not befit the winter. A soft wind buffeted his robes to the
audible delight of Fawkes, who trilled animatedly as he basked in the
warmth.
It was a breeze that spoke to a spring only just arriving and not a
winter already in the throes of frost - to the life-bearer he hoped to
find and the chilling cold he hoped to avoid for as long as he could.

But his time dwindled yet.

Albus held his uninjured arm aloft. Fawkes circled high above him
twice more before finally descending. Sharp talons met the fabric of
his robes in a gentle embrace, feathers ruffled to signal permission
to pat.

"Thank you again, old friend," Albus said, and in response, Fawkes
sang.

It was a song of mourning, in his limited comprehension of matters

beyond himself, even the Phoenix knew Albus Dumbledore lacked
time. The sombre tune continued as Fawkes nuzzled his head into
the soft robes, saddened by the fact that not even his tears could
reverse the clock.

"I'll have need of you soon," Albus said, his voice softer for having
heard the tune, "Stay near."

The Phoenix nodded in what could only be construed as affirmation

before leaping upwards, disappearing in a bright flash of flames.

"To the elements be free," he said, though Fawkes had long since
disappeared, leaving him to face old friends on his knees.

Albus stepped lightly towards a thicket of trees, passing through a

barely visible opening laden with the grip of strangling vines and
dense foliage. Had he a wand or any magic left the obstacle would
have been surmounted with the utmost ease.

Yet he had access to neither, forced to thrust himself uncomfortably

through the errant branches that struck at exposed flesh like snakes.
Wearing a plethora of thin crimson scratches, Albus finally worked
his way through the overgrown entrance.
Only to be confronted by a sight he hadn't thought he'd see again.

The house before him was simplistic, mundane even. It would not
look astray nestled in suburbia, dated perhaps and worn in places,
but in no way uninhabitable.

It was a humble affair, not the ostentatious display of wealth the

stories had sung nor the flagrant flaunting of gold born from old
magic. Any indicator of their substantial wealth was lost beneath
cheap, white house paint and cracked roof tiles.

The Flamels looked more akin to paupers than princes - a house of

scholars and a family, not of riches.

Albus stepped to the front door, unable to shake the feeling of boots
being weighed down by lead. His good hand fell upon the door
thrice, stirring sedate footsteps within.

The distance between wherever the inhabitant was and the door
could only be short, but it was surmounted in what felt like a lifetime.
Even in his advanced age, all the wisdom he'd been praised for and
battles he had fought, these were the hardest of all.

Looking his mistake in the eyes and lacking the means to set it to
right.

The door opened a crack and old, wrath-filled eyes stared him down.

She looks older than when we last met, Albus thought, though that
had been five years ago.

Skin was cracked and creased, the Stone's destruction had played
its part well. Amber eyes had turned to a dull grey, marred with
cataracts, brown hair once vibrant had been sapped of its life, a dull,
lank white left in its place.

"You."
A single word had seemed so simple, yet he had never heard it
uttered with such contempt - a mere disgust at his person.

"Hello, Perenelle," Albus said softly, fearful that a louder voice might
result in the door slammed shut.

"Nicholas made it more than clear you weren't to return here,"

Perenelle said, "Do you care so little for our wishes- his wishes that
you'd flagrantly ignore the final desire of a dying man."

Albus sighed, a gusty, sorrowful breath, "Had there been any other
option, any choice more feasible, I'd have taken it and respected
your wishes," he said, "Best you left to your life and me to my
mistakes."

"The world is rarely so kind," Perenelle said.

"The world is rarely so kind, indeed," Albus agreed.

The gap in the door widened slightly, and Perenelle stalked off
slowly, seizing the door he stepped through and back into the house
of his old mentor.

She seated herself in an old armchair, leather torn from the body in
an ill-imitation of camouflage.

Albus lingered at the fringes of the room, almost too timid to find
himself amidst old ghosts, but despite the feeling, he stepped
forward.

He has expected a forlorn gaze from the ancient witch, he'd seen it
before. But now her old eyes were filled with hatred and loathing, a
wand clutched in her frail hand exacerbating a feeling for him he
already knew.

Expecting to see it, and actually seeing it, however, were concepts
with a vast divide between them. He had hoped time might ease her
pain, futile but hope all the same.
"For the love Nicholas once bore you, I'll hear what you have to say,"
Perenelle declared weakly, still clutching her wand as if she was
ready to use it. "Then you'll swear to never return, to never utter our
names again."

The distance between them had grown so insurmountable that she

wouldn't accept anything less.

"You have my word, I'll respect your wishes."

A sudden, cruel laugh followed his words, "Yes, because respecting

our wishes has always been such a high priority of yours. I want
more than idle lip-service, I want words aloud that you'll never
return."

He loosened the glove on his injured hand, Perenelle sending her

gaze downwards inquisitively. With a final tug, the black leather
came free and exposed the wound to the air.

"I doubt I'll get the chance," Albus sighed, brandishing the
gangrenous flesh as an example, "A necrotic curse, I've a week left
at best, a couple days at worst."

"Good," Perenelle nodded with grim satisfaction that stung him to the
very core, "But it wasn't a curse that killed you in the end, was it?"

"No, it wasn't."

"Then what was it?" Perenelle urged, nodding in a fashion that

seemed almost eager.

"Hubris."

"Yes, your hubris does seem to end a lot of lives, does it not?"

She was hurt, so was he. He had single-handedly taken all she still
had in the world after hundreds of years.
The plan had seemed foolish before he had even arrived, now he
was confronted with such an obstacle of a scorned, wrathful widow
he wondered why he even entertained the idea.

"I have never been more sorry, Perenelle-"

Another cruel, humourless laugh met his words halfway, "You can
save the platitudes, you've given enough of them. Your apologies
cannot restore my love to life nor warm a hearth gone cold. You
killed him, Albus, all while thrusting a child into danger."

That was the final thrust of sorrow into his breast, leaving nought but
cold dread in its wake.

"Was it…" Albus struggled with the right words, "At the end, was it
peaceful?"

Perenelle seemed to mull the words over for a moment, "As peaceful
as it could be, given the circumstances. Seeing his life's work broken
broke him in turn. You broke him. Had you the sense to keep him
alive, he might have been able to heal that curse of yours. But he
could never heal your pride, never disavow you of the thought that
only you knew what was good for the world."

It had become a regular occurrence in these past months, those he

failed recounting that if he had just been faster, quicker, better, then
he might have had a chance to live.

"I've begun to pay my dues," Albus said softly.

"It's not nearly enough, and it never will be."

A loud silence befell both of them, he averted his gaze for fear of
angering the woman even further.

Perenelle's hands went to her face, trying to rub the weariness away.
"Why are you here, Albus?" she said, her voice dulling ever so
slightly.
"I made a promise that I wouldn't… couldn't dwell on the battles I lost
and the mistakes I made, that I wouldn't lead another Arianna to be
killed, another Gellert led astray or another Tom to darkness."

That I wouldn't let the dream of a better world fall apart.

"But you did," Perenelle guessed.

He nodded, leaving his head to hang, "But I did," he said, "They

sang songs of my prowess, of my titles and wisdom and yet, I still let
a child suffer to fit my vision of a better world."

"The same child you tested with our stone?" Perenelle asked.

"The exact same."

"Is he a good child? Despite it all?"

His uninjured hand came up to his face, desperate to release the

thoughts that pooled at his temples and the weary tension that built
at his brow.

"The best of us," Dumbledore said, "He has Gellert's power and my
lessons and magic, the product of us both with the heart of a man far
better."

"Then why, pray tell, Albus Dumbledore, are you here and not with
him?"

"My actions have cost him far too much to face him again and yet, I
must," he said, "I have no wand, no magic and no time."

Perenelle had lived for far longer than him, she was not a lackwit.

"And you hope to find the last with me,"

"I need to do what I can, for as long as I can, to sew wounds closed I
caused while I have the time. Once I thought I could do it alone, and
I can't."
"You're a different man, Albus, I can no longer tell whether it was
gallantry or foolishness that led you here, hoping for a dose of Elixir
from a stone, our stone, that you allowed to be destroyed."

"I would not dare even ask if I had any other option. I had preferred
to leave you alone, never knowing my name again." Albus said, "All
that was left to me were terrible choices, but that didn't absolve the
need to choose."

Perenelle smiled wistfully, the first indication of something beyond

utter contempt, "That was one of Nicholas's lines."

"It was," Dumbledore nodded, "There's rarely a day that I don't

lament that loss and whatever justification I thought I had in order to
sacrifice your wellbeing in pursuit of my own goals. But he was still
my mentor, and I carry with me what he taught me, even if it's taken
the better part of a century to realise."

In a way, remembering his lessons was a magic of a different kind,

one that filled his core that the curse couldn't suck dry.

"He was a wise man," Perenelle said, her eyes trailing upwards
caught in a distant memory.

Albus lifted his head to face her, "He was," he agreed, "And I have
no doubt he'd detest what I became."

Perenelle nodded, "On that, we find rare agreeance," she said, "And
if you were a wise man, what decision would you make?"

"If time has proven anything, it is that I am not a wise man."

"Your life wanes, and I hold the only means to prolong it," Perenelle
said, "Humouring me would be your best choice."

Once upon a time, he might've sought an answer to appease the old

witch, but now he was stripped barren, and the truth was laid bare
before them.
"Had I been Nicholas, or anyone wiser than myself, I'd pour it out,"
Albus said, wringing his good hand against his forearm.

"And I shouldn't follow that exact course of action because…?"

Perenelle said, her wizened face leaning forward to observe him with
acute interest.

"Then pour it out, stain the floor with my last days if that would
please you so," Dumbledore offered, "Though if my last days have
taught me anything; what is wise and what is right are not always
identical."

"And giving you the means to prolong your life would be right?"

Albus shook his head, "No, it'd be foolish, and I might fail still."

Perenelle leant back gently in her chair, "Then perhaps death has
taught you something."

"Indeed it has," Albus agreed, "In some ways, I'm still the young man
you taught all those years ago."

"And in others?"

"In others?" Albus said, "Well… I'm still the boy that killed his sister,
still the fool that fought the world thinking he'd save it somewhere,
somehow, along the way."

Perenelle rose from her chair, shaky arms struggling to support her
diminutive frame.

"Maybe I spoke truthfully then," Perenelle said, her lips graced with
the ghost of a smile that seemed too fickle to last, "Somewhere,
somehow, you might have also truly learned from your mistakes, but
not nearly enough."

"No," He said, "Not nearly enough."

Her movements were deliberate and slow, each soft footfall eliciting
a sharp exhale from the woman. Hands grappled with pieces of
furniture to assist her short journey, swaying to and fro from every
object like a ship battered by harsh waves.

Eventually, she came to the fireplace and the picture frame that
spanned the top.

Nicholas, Albus recognised, it had not been present the last time he
had been allowed in the Flamel household.

Though that was long ago.

It did not interact nor seem sentient, the hallmark of many portraits in
their world. It was a different man to the one Albus last remembered.
A thin frame tapered into a strong face crowned with light brown hair
that fell in thick rivulets to tickle his chin.

He was painted with a smile, a rare enough occurrence in real life.

Now in death, he wore it proudly, the man who had lived beyond his
years was static. Life had been enough for him, he need not prolong
it any further.

It was poetic, perhaps, but Albus could not shield the agony of
coming face-to-face with a man that would by all rights still live if he
had made the right choice.

Perenelle shakily rose to her tiptoes and whispered something

unintelligible to the portrait, he chose to distract himself with
something else - to allow a widow her moment.

A sharp click drew his eyes suddenly back, and she reached up to
kiss the lips of the painting, her lips staining the canvas before she
pulled away. Another click echoed through the room, and the smile
was marred by a frown before a slot opened in the burnished bronze
of the baroque frame.
Perenelle reached up and plucked something from the frame before
closing the receptacle shut, turning back to Albus. This time, he
stepped towards her.

In her hands, a thin vial.

A golden liquid shimmered in the light of the glass, twinged with a

sepia hue. Her wrinkled hand stretched towards his own to pass the
vial, he let her drop it into his palm as opposed to grasping it. He did
not want to seem eager as he weighed the Elixir of Life within his
hands.

It couldn't reverse the past, but it would ease the rot, even if only for
a week.

It was time given liquid form.

"Why?"

He had expected to be thrust out the door, his plan neutered in its
infancy. If nothing else he came to do what he preached, to mend
another wound - to let the woman batter against him until he felt
whole.

For all his losses and tragedies shared, even Albus Dumbledore
knew it did not work like that. Though he tried it still, for he had no
other ideas.

"I don't do it for you - never for you," She said, eager to, if nothing
else, let him know her feelings did not die with a glass vial, "But so
another innocent will not suffer entirely for your mistakes, not like
Nicholas."

"Thank you," Was all Albus could offer. It seemed meek, unprepared
and ill-fitting like words would never be enough.

"Sew the wounds you made and do as you preach," Perenelle said,
"It will not erase the curse nor dampen it. It will buy you a week,
maybe more, maybe less. Even the Elixir has its limits."

It put a stopper in death, for now, that was enough.

"I'll do my best," he promised, "I'll try."

"Your best means little to me," she said, "Save the boy and let the
man die. The world has little need for men of Albus Dumbledore's
calibre anymore."

It was a sentiment he'd echoed a hundred times before, and yet the
words cut as deep as the first, leaving skin raw and his gut full of
lead. Perenelle offered a final gesture, a nod to the vial as if to drink.

He did as he was bid, his thumb wiggling the cork free from a vial
that seemed too mundane to house such a liquid. Lifting the
container to his lips, he inhaled gently, the smell of copper, no - gold
filling his nose.

Tilting his head back, he let the liquid pass through his lips, tasting
the metallic tang that coated his tongue and sent his taste buds
alight as if he had swallowed his own blood.

There was no instant fix, no sudden elation or healing.

But there was hope.

And time.

Knockturn Alley was still following as the night edged onwards, an

exodus of witches and wizards funnelled around him, parting like a
sea of bodies. The very street seemed to sway in the twilight.

It once again operated as usual.

His glamoured face itched incessantly, and an invisible hand

clutched the back of his robes. Fleur, covered by his cloak and her
own disillusionment charm huddled close behind him as to not
collide with anyone.

The winding alleyway was still full, far too packed for any true
espionage to take place. Voldemort had tightened his grip, some had
no doubt been caught, but most seemed to have slipped through the
clenching fist - living life as usual.

With himself unconcealed, he could distract anyone as Fleur made

an effort to break into Borgin and Burkes. As ineloquent as it was, it
was the best plan to be had.

Weaving past a group of drunks that stumbled aimlessly in a

desperate attempt to keep themselves from colliding with the
cobbles beneath them, their trek onwards continued. Following the
rehearsed path led their objective came into sight.

13B, Knockturn Alley, the hanging sign read, beneath it, Borgin and
Burkes, "Confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient
wizarding artefacts, such as may have been inherited by the best
wizarding families".

Behind it was the myrtle-coloured shop front, the windows obscured

by dust and grime that seemed strategically placed. The dim light of
old, bracketed torches on the bricks lasted only a foot beyond the
glass before fading, leaving only ominous silhouettes in its wake.

Harry felt the bracing hand on his lower back rise to his shoulder, a
mouth closing near his ear.

"Make a distraction," Fleur whispered, he had to strain to hear over,

"I'll work on the wards when there's an opportunity."

"Be safe," Harry whispered back, using his mouth to cover his hand
so no one would see him speak to himself. Though, he doubted the
population of the Alley would think anything amiss.

"And you," she said in return, slowly slipping away.

Harry nodded, and the whisper left, presumably to linger in an alcove
near the shopfront, ready to dismantle the protective charms halting
them.

Moonlight's gaze bathed the street ahead in a griseous hue, Harry

continued a sedate pace in the hopes of finding the ripe chance of a
distraction. Once again dodging bodies that swayed in his path, only
to change course in an instant into someone else.

Much like that near the Inn of the Hanging Man, the air was
saturated with the smell of alcohol, think and pungent of a night that
masked whatever other illicit activity might've taken place. He
imagined the apothecaries were more than thankful for such a boon.

It was there he spotted an opportunity. A drunken man leant against

the cracked wall, a hag beneath him. Her lank, dark hair the product
of far too many charms. The man, on the other hand, was thin and
short, pinning her against the wall with a bottle glued to his palm.

He gestured wildly, swinging and sloshing the liquid back and forth
until it stained the stones beneath him with the dull, crimson liquid
that glimmered with the help of the moon.

Odgen's Rage Rum, Harry recognised, he'd become more than

acquainted with the alcohols of the wizarding world over the past
year. While Fleur instructed him on the finer points of wine, Bailey
had given him a more than ample course on the lower sorts,
Firewhisky, Gigglewater, Dragon's Breath, Rage Rum .

Though it gave the drinker heightened courage, which seemed to

bolster the fidgety man's efforts in seducing the hag, it did as its
name suggested - it built a rage. A wrath within eager to spill to the
forefront, it was a dangerous drink to be sure.

It was there that Harry spied his plan.

He let the long sleeves of his robe fall to his belt, slowly sliding his
Cyprus wand into his hand and hiding it with the dark cloth. He
walked past them slowly, errant bits of conversation making its way
to Harry's ears.

"- hoooo want it, don'tcha?" The man slurred, the woman's reaction
didn't seem to betray much, but at the very least, it didn't seem an
attack.

Harry situated himself on the wall not too far past them, letting his
wand slowly rise to the fore while he did his best to make the action
seem inconspicuous.

" Confundo," Harry said, his voice lost to the hum of the crowd,
though his mouth was once again covered by his off-hand to shield
from any watching eyes.

The spell was nigh invisible, certainly so with the moon surprisingly
bright overhead in the cloudless sky. The man stumbled against the
woman for a second, who took is as a further advance, though Harry
had his plan in mind.

There was a tickle against his mind, the charm begging for a
command. It was weak, untamed and likely wouldn't work if he
wasn't thoroughly drunk. But with the stars aligned and a slight pang
of remorse, Harry directed the man to do his bidding.

Start an argument down the alley.

Ideally, him starting one with the woman would have been easiest,
but they were far too close to Borgin and Burkes. The man shook his
head as if fighting off a daze, clearly even amidst the haze of red
liquid, he had willpower enough.

Start an argument down the alley.

Harry willed it again, this time stronger, in a way. His thought was
more forceful, and his wand held aloft to urge the man on further if
needed. The target let his bottle fall to his side and peered around
for a little, teetering on the edge of obedience.
Harry covered his mouth again and cast the spell to try and force
some compliance if that was even a possibility. It impacted his open
side, fluttering his robes and forcing him back again.

Start an argument down the alley.

And with the final command, the deed was done. The man roused
himself from the woman, gulped a heavy dose of the remaining liquid
and with slightly magically-instilled decorum, stumbled down the
alley.

Harry lacked finesse or experience in the matter of the mind arts and
their spells, but he did not want for power nor will - a decent enough
substitute.

The now red-faced man passed him and shouted a string of

profanities down the street.

" Any wizard or witch…" he stopped to regain his breath, "Any cunt
who thinks they're hard enough to have a go, come try me!"

Charm-controlled and full of rage, he brandished his wand around as

if it was a sword, eagerly demanding an opponent. With a suddenly
fuelled alacrity, people rushed down the alley for the entertainment of
a brewing fight.

And then, the distraction was set.

There was a new exodus in Knockturn Alley - not out, but in. People
rushed in droves, most in their cups, to see a fight or have their own.

I might have started a bit more than I intended, Harry thought but put
the man to his back. There were greater dangers tonight.

Harry pushed back through the crowd to the now far more desolate
front of Borgin and Burkes, he crossed the Alley and lingered near
the circular, protruding display of the shopfront. His eyes gazing
upwards to peer at the apartment above.
Borgin was no doubt up there, asleep, but not for long. Despite
Fleur's prowess with erecting wards and breaking them, this was not
a job that would be done with ease. He would awake, and combat
would ensue, the thump of his heart and tensing of his shoulders
heralded as much.

Harry didn't speak for fear of breaking the concentration of his

invisible partner, though he could hear the swishes of deft wand work
and the barely lucent spells that collided with the barrier ahead.

Cacophonous roars from down the street worked into a fervour that
drew more eyes and drowned out any attempts to break it up, though
they were few and far. With no Hitwizards to police the streets, this
was the end result, his hand in the matter notwithstanding.

As time waned on, the cries grew in intensity as did the methods
Fleur employed. Dull colours turned bright, the soft thud of spells
against the walls morphed into a noise akin to a gong, though only
for a minute it was destined to draw ire.

"We're in," Fleur said, just loud enough to be heard.

Harry peered over both shoulders, trying to spy anyone watching,

"Reckon he knows?"

"If he sleeps here, he's probably silenced the flat from the noise,"
Fleur said, though invisible he assumed her eyes were dragged to
where the crowd was, "When we enter? He'll definitely have
something to alert him to intruders, the ward stone might have extra
enchantments?"

"Can you get through them?"

"Not with ease or little time," Fleur said, "We'll have to be quick
before anyone else is alerted if they're alerted."

Harry remained vigilant, watching their backs, "Think he'd contact

Rowle?"
"If he can get a Patronus off in time? Maybe." She said, "Though
then they'd run amuck in his shop, I don't know. He'd want to keep
his wares away from anyone that wasn't buying something."

The logic was sound, though they relied on chance and optimism in
that regard. There was nothing else they could do.

Harry turned to face the door, "Are you ready?"

The crucible was there again, and it was boiling.

"I'm with you," was her reply, words that emboldened him ever so
slightly.

Saeclum, Harry thought, the spell leaving his wand, dissolving the
bell that hung above the door in the hopes that any charms
disintegrated with it.

Harry threw open the door and rushed inside, Fleur also did so, still
clinging to the invisibility cloak.

Lumos, he cast, his wand flaring with a soft, white light.

Fleur was active behind him once again, charming the windows
opaque, conjuring shutters for good measure and then enacting a
silencing ward while Harry walked ahead.

The inside of the shop looked as he remembered it, even if only

briefly for having stumbled in all those years ago. Rusty blades and
cursed objects lorded dominance above them, tall pedestals with
shrunken heads, empty eyes managed menacing glares.

Glass cabinets seemed to make a slow advance to the counter,

noting the plethora of other objects in his possession. Bloodied tarot
cards sat before him as he weaved his way around the obstacle.

Yet, they seemed to call to him for just a moment.

Harry moved his wand to the cards, looking Intently at the faces.
Bloodstained as they were, the crimson was dry and faded and the
face beneath visible. Dark purple and bright gold artistry decorated
the front, an alluring sight that drew him in.

Two cards sat upwards, beckoning him even further.

The first was a man and a woman, nude and staring upwards into
winged flames overhead. A snake off to the side that seemed to
speak to them, even while immortalised as static.

The second was a figure on a warhorse, clad in armour plate and

bearing an unfamiliar banner - his head a grotesque skull, marred
with old ichor.

An urge beckoned still, almost calling him to reach past the class
and keep them for his own.

Then the danger struck.

An unintelligible cry sounded, and the room lit up, blinding Harry.

Fuck .

He threw himself to the floor to avoid a second spell, a shield

snapping up to his back as he crawled away for cover.

"Thieves," the voice cried, "You've no idea who you're stealing from,
be gone!."

Borgin.

Another spell crashed into the floor of Harry's last location,

splintering the dark floorboards and sending them sprawling.
Deprived of light save for Borgin's next spell that turned the shards
to what he could only assume was rats, judging from the squeals.

Serpensortia, Harry cast internally, a snake he couldn't quite see

coalescing from his wand. He didn't even need to command the
serpent if the squeal of the rodent was anything to go off.

Fleur was still active, though he didn't know where.

I've got to keep his attention, Harry thought, make him think there's
only one.

Borgin was somewhere on the stairs to the second floor, a higher

position and waiting for any sign of movement. Harry flicked his
wand like a whip, a thunderclap sounding that sent his ears ringing
but allowed him to move without being heard.

Harry peeked up behind a cabinet, throwing his wand in an overhand

gesture that sent a stunning spell near where he last saw him.
Radiant red light bathed the room and in return, a spell from Borgin
that shattered the glass of the cabinet, forcing Harry to shield his
face with his arm.

"Hominum-" Borgin began, and Harry leapt up to cast a spell, though

his words had been a feint, instead Borgin cast another curse that
very nearly hit Harry.

Finally, Fleur made herself known, ensuring she could get close
without missing.

" Stupefy!" Harry heard her cry loudly, desperate to push whatever
power she could into the spell.

Borgin was blasted back, toppling over the bannister and into the
wall, slumping down as Harry relit his wand.

"I got him," Fleur declared, using her wand to dispel her
disillusionment charm and allowing him to glimpse her glamour once
more.

"The ward stone?" Harry said, using his wand to light some of the
torches in the shop.
Her wand flicked out another charm, a radiant light that she seemed
to understand. "Dormant, I don't think they alerted anyone," she said,
"We need to move quickly, he could have sent a Patronus or
something I can't detect."

Harry, at her words, bounded over to the slumped form of Borgin.

Fleur reached down to check if the man was breathing, "Move him
upstairs," she said, "If he's keeping something, it'll be up there."

With a flick of his wand, Harry levitated Borgin while Fleur took the
lead upstairs, with spells he didn't recognise she managed to open
the door to what he assumed to be an office. With the lights already
on, a chair was summoned, and Harry levitated the unconscious
form into it.

Expelliarmus .

A blade loosened itself from Borgin's belt and some other sharp
object from his boot.

Incarcerous.

Thick, winding ropes secured him to the chair, ensuring he couldn't

be free without their assistance.

"Are you ready?" Harry asked, pointing his wand towards Borgin.

"I'm with you," Fleur said, "Remember to be quick, try and get what
you can out of him, as quick as you can."

Enervate.

With the final spell, Borgin awoke with a start, surveying his
surroundings in an instant.

"You," he spat, nearly foaming at the mouth, "I've no clue who you,
but you're treading where you ought not. Release me and walk."
The man seemed so engrossed in his own importance that he truly
believed them to release him.

"Not tonight," Harry said, disavowing the shopkeep of the notion,

"You've got something we need, something of great importance, and
you'll tell us where it is."

Borgin struggled against his bindings in a futile rage, "If it's

something you couldn't get during the day, then it's nothing I'm
selling," he said, "I'm not about to barter with fucking thieves."

Fleur made herself known, "And what about bartering with your
captors?"

"Untie me and we'll see how long you keep that position," Borgin
snarled, resorting to attempting to goad them into a confrontation.

"A sales ledger, where do you keep it?" Fleur demanded, "Anything
recording sales so far back as the twenties?"

"Go fuck yourself," Borgin said, spitting at Fleur.

"We've got Galleons," she offered, "More than enough for any
untoward damage we might've caused and enough for your silence."

Borgin let out a loud, boisterous laugh that seemed forced, but an
attempt to balance their power, "Can you not fathom how far out of
your depth you are?" he said, "If you steal from me, you steal from
him . Unhand me."

"We're counting on that," Harry said, "Will you take Galleons?"

"I've seen a man reduced to nothing more than a mass of muscle at

his hands," Borgin said, "There is no amount of galleons or trade you
can make that will make me rescind a deal or cross the Dark Lord."

Fleur ground her wand into his cheek, "Tell us."

"Do you need another invitation? Go fuck yourself."

Confundo .

The spell hit the bound wizard though he looked unfazed, a grin
rising.

Tell us where the ledgers are.

His grin grew even wider, "It may work on simpletons, but not me,
lad, you'll have to try harder," he said, "Quite new to this, aren't you?"

Confundo.

Nothing.

Confundo .

Nothing.

"It won't work," Fleur said, her voice terse, a tone as unyielding as
the magic and resigned as he'd ever heard it.

Even magic had its limits, he could not force a change through a
medium too weak to handle it.

"Oh, quite right." Borgin taunted, "Perhaps a new line of work is an

ideal choice?"

Fleur walked over to Harry slowly, keeping her eyes on Borgin while
she pivoted to whisper in his ear.

"He's not going to speak," She said matter-of-factly, "We need

something else -something stronger."

His mind raced, searching for alternatives, "Your allure, do you think
that would work?"

Fleur shook her head in an instant, "If it truly worked like that, I
would've used it," she said, "It won't quite elicit what we want from
him."
"It's worked on me before," Harry pointed out.

"Because we're close, we share a bond," Fleur explained, "You

weren't so guarded around me, at least, your mind wasn't. His will
be."

"Right, can we still get Veritaserum?" Harry asked, "It worked for
Slughorn, it'll work here."

"Too expensive, too rare and too late," Fleur whispered hoarsely,
"There's only one thing left-"

"What we planned," Harry said, finishing the sentence he wasn't sure

she'd make it through on her own.

Fleur nodded gently, her eyes swivelling to look at Borgin, "I can do
it," she said, "It doesn't have to be you, not if you don't want this."

He'd tainted himself with one, it seemed an ill-choice to taint her too.

"I'll do it," Harry declared, feeling iron weight down his feet, lead fill
his stomach and copper fill his mouth.

The Cruciatus had been a simple affair, he had been in pain and not
felt worse for it. Dark hair and panting cries seemed almost a lifetime
ago.

But Borgin was no Bellatrix Lestrange, he was something different-

there was no malice, just disgust at a man who had hands with sticky
fingers in such vile business.

There's no coming back from this.

He'd made peace with such a fate, but being confronted with it again
tore a little from him.

You're making the right choice, Harry.

Those were the soft words he grasped onto in this moment. If he
was remiss in his pursuit, let the knowledge slip through their fingers
and see the opportunity disappear, there'd be more at stake than
morality.

And that was perhaps the moment Harry realised the war had once
again taken its toll.

Perhaps there wasn't a way back from this. Maybe Harry did speak
the truth. But it mattered little if he spoke the truth and Borgin didn't.

Harry raised his wand and uttered the words that once again made
his soul feel rotten.

Imperio.

He wanted to know what, needed to know. In that moment he never

needed anything more, he needed to take control.

A spell, golden-hued, crossed the distance and struck the man in the
chest.

Suddenly the world was an echo chamber, firing voices towards him
- thoughts that weren't his own bombarding him. His feet were on
solid ground, but he felt afloat.

Voldemort had done the same with ease, but Harry could not.

Let me go, a voice that sounded like a poor imitation of Borgin

screeched, Be free.

Be free! It echoed.

Be free!

Harry closed his eyes and let a hoarse breath escape his lips,
grating as it passed a throat raw with anxiety. In his mind, a single
thought.
Retrieve the ledger.

It was simple, far too simple. The necessity felt dark and dirty, the
ease of which the man rose as if a puppet on strings, disgusting. A
wall was panel removed, and a book retrieved that passed in a
moment while Harry reflected the price and beat down the dull cries
of resistance.

It felt addictive, like pushing down his voice was an ecstasy without
parallel.

Borgin gave the book to him, but Harry didn't free him. He wanted to
dominate him, to twist him to every will and whim until a voice
echoed in his mind.

This is what Voldemort felt.

Exhilaration became disgust in an instance, the spell ended, and

Borgin collapsed to the floor. Harry hadn't even fully realised he'd
seen the book, let alone grasped it in his hands.

"How do you feel?" Fleur dared to ask, stepping closer, "Does it…
does it hurt?"

Harry shook his head, "No…" he said, struggling for words, "It…
wrong. It felt wrong, like I wanted to control him forever."

He didn't even want to speak of what had happened. The air tasted
foul as he opened his mouth, permeated with a foul taste assaulting
his tongue.

"It's done," Fleur said, "It's over."

Her voice carried the same soothing melody as her singing, an effort
to calm him and remind him where they were and why they were
there. But no magic, no charlatan's trick or quick fix could stamp out
the disgust.
Harry's eyes fell to the book in his hands, it was small, nondescript
and bound in black leather. It was the vision of normalcy, errant
pages worn from time peered out, astray from their intended place
as if it was well-used.

He didn't even need to open it to know it held secrets within.

Harry pried the cover open after Fleur flicked her wand at the book,
ensuring nothing dangerous lurked within.

The grime-laden page held a labyrinth of words though most made

little sense to him. Fleur peered over his shoulders, their eyes trailed
together through poor quillmanship and shorthand, sifting backwards
through pages and years until they found their quarry.

SERPENT EMBOSSED LOCKET - 400 GALLEONS - HEPZIBAH

SMITH

"The Locket," Harry whispered, "Salazar Slytherin's." He tapped his

finger against the ink, ensuring there was nothing hidden beneath.

That had to be it, the chances it wasn't were little although present.
Though this wasn't a coincidence, it couldn't be.

Another Horcrux had been found. The sweet nectar of victory was
dulled by flicking through more pages, searching for more leads.

Hepzibah Smith seemed to barter often with Borgin, there seemed to

be a few listed assistants over the years - Sixsickle, Wrent, and
myriad names he could not recognise that seemed to hold little
importance.

But there was another, a name blacked out by quill and magic. Harry
ran his thumb over the ink to try and loosen it, but it was dry, the
name hidden. A name was absent from the trade of the locket, but a
blackened name present at the sale that caught their eyes.
ENCHANTED CUP, ENGRAVED WITH HUFFLEPUFF HERALDRY -
3200 GALLEONS - HEPZIBAH SMITH .

The name was blackened, but it took no sleuth to guess who it

belonged to.

Tom Riddle Junior.

"Helga Hufflepuff's Cup," Harry whispered again.

"Two?" Fleur asked.

"Looks like it," The rest of the book trailed further backwards in time
though nothing spoke to them, they had their information. "There's
nothing else here, nothing bartered by him ."

Fleur flicked her wand, a copy of the book falling into her hands
seamlessly. "Two," she repeated, a smile evident in her voice,
"That's one left that we don't know about, one ."

It was hard not to feel exhilaration, they'd finally won a victory of their
own. Her words made sense now, the world did feel like just another
obstacle like if they kept the momentum they could win the war by
night's end.

There'd be a time and place for celebration, but it was neither here
nor now.

Harry turned his eyes from Borgin to Fleur, "We need to get back,
quickly," he said, "If someone notices something, we still might not
make it out."

"Agreed," Fleur said, nodding, "We need to deal with him first before
we leave."

Harry prodded Borgin with the toe of his shoe, the prone man was
thoroughly unconscious.
"We could capture him," Harry suggested, "He could have something
we need."

"We don't have that luxury." Fleur disagreed, "We cannot haul him
out of here unnoticed, disillusioned or not. It would only take until
morning for them to notice. If he goes missing, they'll start asking
questions, questions might lead to answers."

Voldemort knew far more than the both of them combined. If

something seemed off, anything looked amiss, he'd search,

And he might just know how to get the answers.

It seemed an evil in of itself to let the man live as though he hadn't

enabled wizards to maim and kill one other for decades. But morality
was a luxury he did not have, though this time the inverse.

He had killed a few, to save many and that had been hard enough to
rationalise, to try and come to terms with himself.

Now he had to save the few and possibly sacrifice the many, the
choice wasn't any easier.

"If we do anything outside of making it all seem normal, they'll know

something is up," Fleur said, trying to rationalise her point, "They
own the Alley now Voldemort is in power. If they find out he's
attacked they'll know it's people fighting against him, not thieves."

His wand fell to his side, and he nodded.

The pack would be smarter for it, Harry echoed old advice.

Fleur continued, breaking him from his thoughts, "When he's here,
we know where he is, who he is." she said, "If he disappears, he'll be
replaced with someone new, and we'll be worse off for it."

Borgin was a rat. That was all he would ever be. Killing or capturing
him would spell a smarter pack. Perhaps to allow such evil to persist
disallowed a greater to rise where the head had been lopped off.
"Do it."

The disgust in his voice was palpable, but Fleur knew what she
needed to do, she'd clearly already rationalized it to herself though
she likely felt little better than he did.

" Obliviate. "

Her rosewood wand was against his temple, swaying like a

metronome. With each pass, the silver wisp of a memory dragged
itself from the confines of Borgin's mind, coaxed like a cobra from a
basket.

With a twirl, it lost some of its shimmer and was replaced back into
his mind. She vanished his ropes, healed his open wounds that
littered his face and levitated him back into bed.

They'd repair the damage and disappear back into the night until
they were safe in their apartment.

They had won, the war edged towards its end. But Harry couldn't
shake the thought that barreled through his skull until it was all that
remained.

You're making the right choice, Harry.

Even if it never felt like it.

Morning came, and Essex Road Station thrummed with eager life, to
their train onwards. Harry navigated to the platform to Hertford North,
searching pillars until he found the ad.

The Vanishing Professor, Islington.

Maybe Moody does have a sense of humour, Harry mused. His eyes
falling to the bottom of the worn page.

1st of December.
It was the last month, the highest priority. Moody clearly needed
them now.

Harry practically dashed for an empty cubicle, disapparating with a

soft crack.

Harry fidgeted with his hands mindlessly, "What're the odds it could
be another attack?"

"Low, I suppose," Fleur said, attempting to placate both him and her,
"Even now they'd be trying to make sure their footing is strongest,
they wouldn't risk that to try and take us out now."

I hope so.

Grimmauld emerged into view, and Harry practically threw the door
open, Fleur bounded up the stairs behind him. Quick feet, practically
a jog lead him to the dining room where they'd all be.

Harry threw the door open, Remus directly in front of them.

"We came as quickly as we could," Harry said, words spewing from

his mouth as quickly as they came to him, "Is everyone okay? What-
"

His eyes surveyed the room, searching for a chance of losses

amongst them. Rather than empty seated, however, he found an old
one filled.

Albus Dumbledore had returned home.

Moral Imperative
Hey everyone, it's been a while.

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone that beta read this chapter;
Taliesin19, x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid. Their work, as
always, helps shape the chapter into what you get-their assistance is
invaluable.

It's been quite a long time since I last posted and sadly, I can't see
that delay getting any shorter as I progress with university. I can
promise, however, that I'll do my best to get something down
(assuming I have the time and ability).

Virtually all of my writing in the interim was geared towards more

light-hearted storylines, coming back to ADKOW felt very tonally
dissonant from a personal perspective. Hopefully, I could do the next
step of the story justice.

Also, be sure to read 'Grow Young With Me' by Taliesin19 on FFN

and AO3. It's a masterful post-war story following Harry and his
struggles, it's my favourite piece of work on the site and I highly
suggest you read it.

That's all from me. Until next time, stay safe and enjoy!

Severus Snape was not a kind man.

In fact, no argument could be made that he was even a good man in

any sense of the word. He was an abhorrent, twisted man wrought
with old pain he chose not to mend.

But he was a man all the same.

A man was not what his line of work demanded. No, it wanted
something far, far less-something worse .
It was a thought that arrived with harsh clarity every time a telltale
crack sounded and the ostentatious exterior of Malfoy Manor came
into view. It was the seat of power, so to speak, no matter how much
countryside was trampled underfoot, Voldemort lingered in the home
of the Malfoys.

It was a smart move; even Snape could grudgingly relent that much.
In the halls of the Ministry, he was embroiled in a different world,
tearing at the seams of a waning bureaucracy as the regime rose.

But while present at Malfoy Manor, he served as a constant reminder

to all. He struck without regard. He stole the homes of his inner circle
without worry. He was the hand that withered all it touched, the one
that grasped the world as they knew it within pale, bone-white
fingers.

And it was that thought that made resistance seem futile, that made
the hope of a life without war seem too distant to grasp.

Voldemort knew that. Snape knew that. So did every Death Eater,
young or old, fresh or veteran that walked through the tall doors.

Those same tall doors passed him by and beckoned him beyond into
what was once a world of luxury-marbled pillars with gold accents,
paintings and antiquities spanning long walls in a way that screamed
garishly.

Now it was marred with something foul, not that the house was ever
particularly pleasant. The air seemed stale, magic felt stagnant, and
death's bitter taste hung in the air like a pestilence.

Regardless of how it felt or the thoughts that arose within him, he

pressed onwards into the manor.

He had a duty.

A good man, he was not. But a dutiful one?

I suppose it's all I've got left, he thought, all I've had for a long time.

Listing to the side like a ship sinking at sea, his arm came to rest
against one of the ornate pillars. A heaving cough followed, wracking
his hunched form with pain. Snape tried a few tentative steps before
he was forced to grapple with the wall again, his coughs inviting
blood, metallic and foul, into his mouth.

His hand rose beneath the mask, cold to the touch, to run a gentle
fingertip over the inside of his lips, coming away wet with
confirmation.

It wasn't much further to his destination. He lifted the mask and spat
the viscous blood to the ground. Stumbling past the rest of the decor,
he fumbled with the door handle, ornate artistry painted with his dark
lifeblood and fell inside.

The figure inside cradled her hands in her lap and was roused
immediately at his sudden entrance.

"Severus," the figure said in a hushed whisper, a tentative step

taking them from their chair as they stared at one another.

His response died at his lips. He stumbled left, then right. Soon, his
descent began, uncontrolled and flecked with darkness as his
eyelids fluttered and closed, unconsciousness taking him whole.

"Who was it this time?"

The figure caught his rousing as his eyes, blinded by even the
lowlight, fluttered and cracked open. A hand automatically groped
around for his wand beneath the sheet that was haphazardly tossed
over his body. It yielded nothing.

But he knew the voice, after a slow moment of staring at the pale,
white roof, he answered.
"Does it matter?"

Snape could hear the frown in her voice but didn't dare risk
aggravating his injuries to turn towards her. "No," she said. "I don't
suppose it does."

His hand reached for his tender side, tracing the edge of fresh scar
tissue that disfigured his torso. The wound was still raw and open;
despite the effort made to close it, the seam was still split open.

A finger that ran too close came away wet. Snape chose to ignore
that for the moment.

"I did my best," the figure commented on his inspection. He assumed

she leant forward as the voice sounded closer than before.
"Whatever spell they used was beyond my knowledge, and
capability to remedy."

A breath, hot and hoarse, left his mouth in a slow sigh. "You couldn't
have found me a healer?"

"Was I not good enough?" she practically spat, indignant at the

insinuation her care hadn't been sufficient.

He tapped his side gently to draw attention to it. "I'm bleeding from a
hole in my side," he scoffed. "You're a poor healer."

"And the alternatives?" she posed angrily. "Carrying an Inner Circle

member on the verge of death, through the manor, past those who'd
want you dead for your seat." That same indignation was back, rising
to a fever pitch. "I didn't come collapse in your quarters, bleeding all
over your floor. I should've left you there."

The final few words left her mouth with biting vitriol, the chair she
occupied squeaking harshly as she slumped back into it.

"You wouldn't," Snape said, sinking his head into the pillow. "You
need me."
"I do and not a waking hour passes that doesn't stop to mock me of
that," she said, shifting her eyes away. "I hate it."

Silence followed her admission, tense and abrupt. The room empty
save for two breaths-hers laboured with emotion, his-pain.

"A Centaur," Snape admitted after several moments.

"Pardon?"

He gestured towards his wounds in an act he assumed she could

see. "A Centaur did this." He said, "they knew the forest better than
us-they knew we were coming. He sent us to die."

"The Centaurs? " she asked, her voice laden with confusion. "The
herd of Hogwarts… why?"

"Because they see things we can't." Snape explained, "they find

meaning in Mars, visions in Venus. They look to the stars and see
futures we can't comprehend-see defeats they could inflict against
him ."

"Is he truly that paranoid?" she asked.

"He's of the mind that the prophecy was magic itself trying to
manifest against him. That the world's natural order could not
stomach him at the apex. He fears that the world might yet try and
right itself before he conquers it, that someone might get a glimpse
of the means to make him topple."

She snorted, though it lacked humour. "So he is truly that paranoid."

Snape shrugged, the action sending molten led down the nerves of
his injured side. "He fashions himself far smarter than he was in the
first war."

"And is he?" she asked.

"No," he said. "He's no smarter, just more dangerous."

Then the silence came again.

"So you…"

"Did what was ordered of us."

"Oh…" she whispered. "They're… gone ?"

"Yes…" The emotions threatened to overwhelm even him.

Generations upon generations of Centaurs had settled in the

Forbidden Forest for as far back as there'd been a school. They'd
taught children, protected unicorns-they harmed nought, asking only
for a clear, unadulterated view of the night sky. They'd fought against
bigoted bureaucrats and kept the dark creatures at bay.

And he'd lead the raid that killed them all.

The arrow didn't feel recompense enough.

"Yes…" he echoed with a shaky, hoarse breath. "They're gone."

"And us?" She whispered, "Are we-"

"Mostly dead too," Snape answered and followed with the barest of
breaths, "good riddance to them."

Snape shifted in his bed; it wouldn't be long before the world

demanded he get up-injured or otherwise. He roused his limbs into
action and tried to twist his legs towards the ground. His entire body
screamed in pain at the notion.

A few more minutes then, he decided lamely.

"Someone is going to have to pay for it." She sighed, her words
tentative as if she barely wished to say them. "And I think you and I
both have a firm grasp on who that someone is."

"Yes," Snape deadpanned. "I think we both do."

There was that ever-persistent, fickle reminder of his mortality.

"You'll die if you go, you do know that, yes?"

He snorted mirthlessly, "I've got an inkling." He said, "The alternative

is I flee and live a life with my eyes always cast to where I've left
footprints. If I disobey, I die for certain. If I go, there's a chance of
life."

"No," she disagreed fervently. "There'll be no life, you'll be dead or

he'll ask something of you too great to give-something he has no
right to. Even Bellatrix keeps more to herself than usual, especially
after Rodo-"

"Tell me this," Snape interrupted, "would you have any care for my
life, in the slightest had I not agreed to save your son?"

Narcissa took to her feet and crossed the room with light, languid
steps to face him. Her face was enfeebled, wearing the dark, shallow
lines of the constant barrage of stress and attrition of the man who
occupied her home.

He remembered once thinking of her as the most beautiful woman

he'd ever seen, not that he thought much of her beyond skin deep.
Such a claim, however, was unfounded now.

Composure had sat on Narcissa Malfoy's face like a second skin.

He'd seen her during Lucius's trial after the first war, pale eyes the
colour of morning mist a shroud for whatever happened behind
them. The facade impenetrable, the flaws hidden.

Yet here, for the first time he could think of, Narcissa Malfoy looked
truly horrified at what had become of the world.

"No." Narcissa admitted, "I'd sooner sell you to him if it could mean
our freedom. I'd kill you myself if it meant he was safe." Her next
breath was hoarse and shallow, the stubborn kind. "But you made
the vow and now I do care. There needn't be anything beyond that-
you're a good man to help me."

"And you're a terrible liar." Snape said, "Cygnus didn't deign to teach
you much, did he?"

The jab was harsh and bitter, but it settled him into the natural tempo
of things, even with the hole in his side.

Narcissa shook her head and gazed solemnly at the floor. "You're a
terrible man, if it's the truth you seek." She said, "But you could be
far worse. If there was ever such a thing as a good, terrible man it is
you, Severus Snape."

The Malfoy matriarch rose to her feet and flattened out the creases
sitting by his bedside had inflicted on her dress. Once the fabric was
suitably unruffled she gestured towards the table, golden and ornate,
against the far wall.

"There was an owl while you slept," she said. "Hogwarts business
from what I could glean."

His lips thinned into a line. "You opened it," Snape accused.

She shrugged as if she couldn't see the problem. "Consider it a fee

for services rendered." Narcissa smirked. "You ruined quite a good
gown."

With that, Narcissa Malfoy glided gracefully from the room or as

gracefully as she could muster in the situation. After a few seconds,
the door closed behind her with an audible click, leaving him alone to
his thoughts.

It took a few more moments for him to muster the courage for a
second attempt to free himself from the confines of the bed. With a
heave, a hiss of pain and another shot of molten lead, he took
tentatively to his feet and shambled slowly to the desk.
Taking him far longer than it should have, he practically fell into the
chair at the desk and groped for the letter. Snape tore at the
Hogwarts seal haphazardly, procuring his prize from within.

Class schedules, that was all it was.

Until he drew the page closer to his mouth and whispered a phrase,
shallow and rough.

" Always. "

Words began to morph.

Severus, the page read. His eyes trailed down the familiar hand he
hadn't expected to see again.

He read each line once, then again for good measure. Taking in a full
account of what the man had asked of him before his eyes lingered
on the paragraph.

Hero, villain, traitor, spy.

You are all of these things. You are none.

Teach the world a kinder way.

Atone.

Albus Dumbledore asked too much of him-atonement was a

prospect too far gone for the likes of him. He sighed, placing the
letter back on the desk.

Adapt or perish. That was nature's inexorable imperative.

But what if there was another option? he pondered, his finger tracing
the final line.

Atone.
The room was quiet for a moment, the silence given a duty far too
great-saying all the things that words couldn't. Harry lingered
towards the edge of the room with Fleur by his side. Dumbledore
stopped to give them a small ghost of a smile before turning back to
address the Order.

Albus Dumbledore did not look as he last knew him, not truly. Slightly
sallow cheeks had filled out, weary eyes turned bright once more
and the ever-present grandfatherly smile beamed.

Harry was unsure of what to do. Rather than seek a seat, he stood
rooted to his spot on the fringe of the room.

"They've bloodied themselves in enough raids!" A voice called from

the back of the room, "we need to seize the initiative while they're
gathering their strength!"

"But where?" another echoed in response and, at the provocation,

voices formed a sudden cacophony of ideas.

An unfamiliar face stood to the rear of the group, "they've got

homes!" He slammed his fist on the table, "if they wanted to burn
ours, I say we let them know we've got teeth too. Burn every manor
we can find from Falmouth to Orkney."

Remus's hands rubbed wearily at his face from beside Albus. "What
does that stand to gain us?" He asked, "burnt homes? Dead
families? There are fa-"

A hand from Dumbledore on his shoulder silenced him, the older

man stepping to the fore.

Remus was a decent orator, such was true, but few compared to
Albus Dumbledore. He was a presence, tangible and powerful as he
addressed them. "We will not enact a senseless doctrine of
retribution and revanchism," he declared, resting both hands, gloved
and bare, on the table. "Burning them from their homes and sending
them sprawling only does us a disservice. While ancestral homes
stand, we know where they are-we know they won't expect us to
strike where they believe their greatest strength to be. That's a boon
to us, but not one to be exploited when we don't have the
manpower."

"Then what?"

There was the infamous question once again, the one at all of their
lips. What do we do next?

Dumbledore rose back to his full height, looking confident in his plan
before he even spoke it. "We continue on the course of action we
agreed upon." He explained, "as we speak, Voldemort herds
displaced magicals; Muggleborns, Aurors and Ministry Workers into
camps before he plans to break their spirit in Azkaban. He won't risk
magical blood, regardless of 'purity'. Not when there's so little left."

The air of finality in his voice bred the same silence as before.
Dumbledore gently clasped his hands together.

"Very well," he said. "You all know your part in the plans yet to come.
Return to your safehouses and wait for the next correspondence.
Alastor will handle any questions you have."

With the dismissal clear, Order members began to file around him
towards the exit. Some offered him congenial little smiles as he
pushed against them towards the older man, Fleur on his tail.

Soon the crowd thinned, and his advance became unimpeded. Fleur
leant down close to whisper in his ear.

"I'll leave you to it," she said, softly squeezing his hand. "I won't be
far."

Harry nodded to her, and she drifted towards the exit, casting him a
final glance before she left the room, and he found himself before the
old, familiar face.
He looked better, that much Harry was certain of. But the charlatan's
trick couldn't fool him, not even if he desperately wished with all his
being that it could. Beneath the glove would still be rotted flesh, and
beneath his chest, a heart soon destined to stop beating.

The reality was harsh, but it was reality. It cared for no man.

Then, there was that silence again as they stared at one another.
The one that tried to say it all and never could. His eyes were still
blue as they caught the low light, then stared down upon him. Blue
but… different . Some small part of his brain wondered if it was still
him in there.

They were greyer than when they'd last met-wrought from some
deep, Atlantic trench far beneath the waves where they lived under
terrible pressure. The sort born by the world bearing down upon you
on all sides, where the only way was further down.

Nothing ever stayed the same for long. The world had a penchant for
making sure of it.

But he was alive. Sometimes the clouds had silver linings,

sometimes just rain.

"You're alive," Harry breathed, his first words subconscious and

echoing his only thought. They stood alone in the air between the
two, acclimating to the silence that preceded it, and followed again
soon after.

It took a few moments for him to speak.

"I am," Dumbledore said, simple and succinct-not made to carry the
enormous weight he forced it to.

Harry swallowed a mouthful of anxiety, "you told me you'd be dead

by Christmas."
And Christmas had passed them by in a haze of snow, flames and
loss. It made him naively wonder what else the man had been wrong
about.

Albus brought his hand up between them, inspecting it with gentle

turns of his wrist. His sleeve fell, allowing Harry to glimpse the
malignancy that atrophied the skin of his arm and sent it black with
rot. "And by all rights, I should have." He said, "sometimes fate has a
hand in rescuing the wretched, no?"

"How long do you have?" Harry asked. "Do you know?"

"No." Dumbledore sighed and shook his head, "I don't. I fear no one
does. That's a truth that, once learned, can never be unlearned." His
arm had fallen back to his side, and, at being confronted with his
own mortality, he subconsciously cradled his dead limb. "Whatever it
is-whatever I've been given, it's far too little for what comes next."

Harry furrowed his brow. "And what does come next?"

"War, Harry," Dumbledore said, and that terrible pressure from his
eyes became his words. "And all the terrible tidings it brings. Ours is
a world alight."

"I'm aware," Harry mumbled, a hint of bitterness seeping into his

voice. "I've been fighting in it. Now we're losing it, and badly." He
toyed with the cloth of his robes for a second, trying to occupy his
hand-and thoughts. "No one knows what to do next, they've been
arguing about it for days. I- we all want to do something after-"

He let the words hang. He didn't think the man needed an

explanation.

"-I guess we all just want to know what comes next. We need to
know what to do ."

Dumbledore looked pensive for a moment before he sought a seat

and rested his deadened arm. "I have a question for you, Harry." His
good hand gestured for him to take the seat adjacent.

Harry pulled the chair from beneath the table and furrowed his brow.
"Alright then," he said.

"Tell me, when you attended Hogwarts, how many Purebloods were
there?"

"Sir, I don't see how-"

A halting hand stopped Harry in his tracks, "humour me for just a

moment, if you will."

He bit his lip as he thought, "I dunno," Harry shrugged. "A few a year,
per house? More in Slytherin."

"And the rest?" Dumbledore prompted.

Having foreseen where the man planned to take the conversation,

Harry bounded ahead of where they were. "You plan to find
Muggleborns to fight with us?" he asked.

"Voldemort's doctrine of hatred alienates more than it allows. It

wasn't sustainable in the first war, and the Pureblood cause has
suffered even more since then. Their numbers will atrophy before he
sees sense." Dumbledore gestured between himself and Harry.
"People will fight if we give them reason to do so, and we need every
fighting man and woman to win this war."

"How do you suppose we do that?" Harry questioned. "You said it

yourself, the country is alight and I don't think many of us have a lot
of reasons to share." He sighed and toyed with his fingers against
the table. "They're tired, I don't know how we're supposed to
persuade others when we can barely persuade ourselves
sometimes."

Albus exhaled in humourless mirth; Harry thought it was woefully ill-

fitting. "As we speak, Voldemort seeks to try and herd those who
don't fit into his vision of the world en masse." He turned to him. The
terrible pressure behind his eyes made him feel small and
insignificant.

It made Harry remember this wasn't Albus Dumbledore's first war.

It would be his last, however.

"We take some of what we've lost. We find hope in the small
victories. We rescue who we can, find those who will fight with us,"
Dumbledore said. "As terrible as it seems, you will find no better
fighting spirit than in the man or woman that must fight, or perish."

"Speaking of small victories," Harry said. "Mad-" he stopped to

correct himself, "-Moody took me to Nagini. He told me you said I'd
know what to do with it, or I would eventually."

"And did you figure it out?"

"It's one of them ?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore nodded grimly. "It is," he said. "I believe we could use it
to discern the knowledge of other such… artefacts ."

The room was empty, though Harry still ensured he looked over both
shoulders throughout the conversation. Though he was sure the
other man wouldn't allow any listening ears.

"You really think we could use it- her ?" Harry prompted. "I… it just
sounds too good to be true, I suppose."

"We deal in the sort of magic no man ever should," Dumbledore

said. "Whether or not my suspicion yields results is beyond my
capacity to say. We lose nothing by trying, however."

Harry leant forward, "What do I need to do?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I appreciate your willingness to help, Harry," he

said. "But without a knowledge of arithmancy or ancient and modern
runes, I'm afraid your skills are best utilised elsewhere." The man
weighed his options for a moment, "Perhaps Miss Delacour could be
of great assistance, possibly even Miss Granger."

Looking at the man with confusion, "Hermione?" Harry said. "You

want me to tell her?"

"She needn't know the subject matter to help with the work." Albus
said, "Though this can be a discussion for another time, I'm sure."

Pushing himself from his seat with his healthy hand, Dumbledore put
his back between them. "Our plans will soon be ready and we'll find
our victories, Harry. I promise you. For now, however, I must bid you
goodbye."

That's all?

It was abrupt like the man wanted to avoid something . Harry just
didn't know what.

But he didn't have his answers yet, and he wasn't so keen to let the
man go without them.

Dumbledore stood tall and made for the door quickly as if he didn't
want to confront something. Though he stilled halfway in his journey
asHarry's voice made a sudden call to his retreating form.

"Sir!" Harry yelled, though he had no words to follow.

Just tell him it was nothing, Harry's voice urged.

How he sorely wished it was nothing.

"I-Sir…" Harry tried again, still not having the capacity to put what his
mind urged and fled from into words. Eventually, with enough time, it
overcame its deficit. "About the Weasleys…"

A haunting thought that had made its way to live in the air between
them-sullen and biting. It wore at the old man's face, sending it
falling more than he'd ever seen it. It made Harry regret ever trying
to bring it up, had it not gnawed at him during every waking hour
he'd have let it pass.

But it did. It was a wound in his gut that wouldn't mend.

If the man had an answer for everything, maybe he had an answer to

this too-to the feeling he wasn't sure he'd ever shake.

Dumbledore's voice was hoarse as it left his lips. Whatever

tranquillity resettled in the air in the sullen silence was torn to pieces
and replaced with pain. "Another mistake of mine," he half-
whispered. "I wept when I heard of their loss. There could be no
better people and the world is so irrevocably darkened for their loss."

Yes, Harry rationalised it stood to reason that the man with an

answer to everything would have an answer to this. Even if it was
destined to never be so, Harry pushed for them.

"Was it worth it?" Harry prompted. "Whatever you had to go to

Europe for, was it worth what happened?"

There was that bitterness again, the sort he couldn't stop or perhaps
didn't want to.

Albus shook his head. "No," he said. "Nothing ever could be."

Perhaps it was vindication he felt following the answer, he couldn't

be sure. Whatever it was didn't heal that wound as he hoped.
Instead, Harry was left wondering if the answer did more harm than
good.

"Are… are we doing enough?" Harry whispered. "Because it doesn't

feel like it's enough for them. It feels like we got them killed and
just… forgot."

Dumbledore sighed a soft, grandfatherly sigh. It seemed almost

parental. "Sometimes you can't do much more than seek solace in
the knowledge that it has to be enough, whatever you can muster."
His eyes fell on Harry, softer and saddened. "The words are far
easier to hear than to put to action. Grief is a terrible thing, Harry. It'll
make you focus on all that could've been and never on what is, or
will be."

Harry turned his head towards the man, sharp and swift. "I want to
do more," h said, his voice filled with tired, grim determination. "I
want to find who did it. I want to find them all."

There was another sigh, but it lacked the parental softness-it was
coarse as it confronted the inevitable. "And you will, in time,"
Dumbledore promised. "It's not what you want to hear, but it will take
time. Some things must be of greater priority if we wish to survive-it
wouldn't be of any service to search for a justice of our own and
leave the world without it."

"I've stood through all your lectures this year," Harry bit back. "But I
don't think I can stand to listen to this one. You weren't there, I had to
watch the house I stayed in, where my friends lived, get burnt to
ashes with them inside."

Turning his head to the side, Dumbledore looked contemplative for a

long moment before he turned back.

"Some months ago, I told you something in my office," he said.

"Something I told you in preparation for a moment like this. Do you
remember what it was?"

Harry shook his head.

"Once upon a time, I stood where you stood," Albus began. "I fought
wars too, I felt everything you do. At the time, I didn't have the good
sense to stop myself-didn't possess the ability to know where right
met wrong."

"Sir-" Harry tried to interrupt.

"-I told you that war makes monsters of us all. I meant that-I lived
that." Dumbledore continued, though softer. "You'll live your entire
life wanting to change the past. You'll feel like vengeance will give
you what you lost, that it'll give you control. That you could've made
it different if you could do it all again."

Harry remained in his seat, his eyes unsure whether to be on the

man or the ground.

His voice was no longer soft now; it was pleading- begging .

"Instead, you'll find that one day, you blurred those lines and you
start wondering why you even began fighting in the first place. Don't
become that monster, Harry. Don't meet their hate with your own.
Meet it with purpose."

With that, the man left.

Fleur stole a final look towards the room as she crossed the
threshold of the door and stepped into Grimmauld Place proper. She
surveyed the room and the few lingering faces that hadn't yet
vacated the Headquarters.

There was one face in particular she sought, a journey that dragged
her further in, searching for familiar features.

"Fleur?" Charlie called from behind her, leaning against the back of
one of the lounge chairs.

She swivelled on her back foot to face him-he was a bit dirtier,
certainly more tired when she'd last seen him, however long ago that
was. It was easy to lose count.

"Charlie," Fleur breathed, "I was just looking for you."

His eyebrow raised, "I'm the messenger again, I suppose?"

Fleur winced and closed her eyes, shielding his face from view. "I'm
sorry about this," she said. "He just… I haven't seen him in I don't
know how long and-"

Christmas. It had been Christmas. Though she wasn't sure a single

day in the sea of many was balm enough to heal the wound of a year
left alone.

No, she amended. Not alone .

"It's fine, really," Charlie said, holding up a hand to stop her mid-
sentence. "He's still away."

Biting her lip, Fleur quelled whatever it was she felt at that revelation.
The motley mixture of emotions that rose at his words-relief, guilt,
anger, sadness. It was hard to figure it all out.

It was hard to figure any of it out.

In place of saying what she felt, Fleur opted for, "Where has he been
sent now?" she asked, "and for how long?"

Charlie shrugged, which definitely wasn't the reaction she'd hoped

for. "I'm not sure, last I heard he was on the Belgian border,
searching for anyone that had a wand and wanted some gold when it
was all over."

Fleur furrowed her brow, "Do we have gold to give?"

"Oh, we're broke alright," Charlie laughed. "But either we win and
can worry about paying debts later, or we die and it never mattered."

Wonderful.

"Well, do you know how long he'll be?"

Do I want him back sooner or later?

Or maybe not at all.

Fleur pondered the thought that had settled on her slender
shoulders, it was just another excuse to feel terrible.

He blew a breath out that fluttered his lips, "Two or three days?
Maybe?" he said. "It's not like it's that far to travel, I just can't imagine
he'll be getting back in the magical way."

"You…" The words lived and died on her tongue as she searched for
better ones. "You did tell him he could talk to me, didn't you?"

That put a tension in his shoulders, more than there was already. His
hands drummed on the back of the lounge in indecision.

"You're his fiancee, Fleur," Charlie broached tentatively. "If he doesn't

know that by now, I don't know that whatever I'll tell him will be worth
the ink."

She wrung her hands together over her lap; the anxiety felt like
anathema. "I… I need to tell him something. It's important. If you
could… let him know?"

The colour in his face vanished. "O-of course," Charlie stuttered

before his eyes flickered down to her stomach. "You're not…."

"What?" Fleur cocked her head as he stumbled through his words.

"You're not… you know…." He looked her up and down. She arched
an elegant eyebrow. " Pregnant. "

"No! No! " Fleur practically cried out at the word. "Merlin, Charlie,
nothing like that. Like I said, we haven't really… seen one another all
that often."

No. It was never destined to be something as beautiful as bringing

life into the world, even in such a terrible time.

Instead, it was the burrowing feeling in her gut. She'd kissed another
man, she wasn't sure she was still in love with the one she'd sworn
to marry. No matter how many miles Bill put between them, or the
number of times she fled and hoped to never see him, the issue
remained at her heels.

Her mental battle warred for what felt like an age but didn't seem to
escape to her face if Charlie's relief over her words was any
indicator.

He nodded and the tension residing in his shoulders ebbed slightly,

"Oh good, I was scared that, well-" Charlie's eyes flickered up to her
to give a quick survey of her features before darting away. "-Err,
nevermind."

"You can say it, Charlie." Fleur pushed, the small gnawing in her gut
desperately wanted to know if endorsement would spring from his
lips.

Perhaps that was the part that stung worst of all-not knowing if what
she did, what she was doing was right.

Charlie nodded again and made to speak, "I… I know it can't be

worth much but I'm sorry about him."

Fleur's voice was soft and withdrawn, "I know, Charlie. I promise I
do," she said. "I try to understand what I-"

His voice was louder, more dominant than her near whisper. "You
shouldn't have to, though. I guess that's what I'm trying to say." He
breathed coarsely. "I'm sure it hasn't been easy on you either. You're
away from home for him, you stayed here for him. Mum would belt
him around the ears if she knew what he was doing."

When his mouth spoke mum, the words wavered and came out
choked. Even if Charlie wore it better than the others it still hurt more
than words could ever do justice.

"Charlie-" Fleur tried to stop him in the hopes she could stop the
boiling pot from spilling.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, "Merlin," Charlie swore. "I
don't mean to ramble or… or say something that might upset you. I
just want you to know, whatever happens, I understand. And…"

Whatever he chose to say next clearly tore him at the seams. He

swallowed his anxiety, his eyes darted anywhere but her and his
hands seemed unsure on what they should do.

"And," Charlie continued in a pace far more sedate and soft. "You'll
still be our sister-all of us, if you want. Mum couldn't help but try and
get more, like the seven of us weren't enough already."

It was pleading, and despite everything she had done, Fleur couldn't
help the tear that escaped and ran wet down her cheek. Her arms
outstretched and encircled Charlie in a gentle hug.

"Sister." Fleur nodded into his shoulder. "I could do that."

Fleur frowned, pacing the opposite side of the room. Her soft
footfalls rebounding off the old, threadbare carpet-each step
threatening to break her from her rumination.

"You're sure this is a good idea?"

Harry shrugged and leant back into her bed, a soft sigh fell from his
lips as weary muscles met the soft bed, "No," he said. "For the
record, I really think it's a terrible one."

Even from across the room he could see her arched, elegant brow,
"so we're going through with it because?"

"Because Professor Dumbledore thinks it'd be the most beneficial

course of action," Harry said. "I don't like it either, but all we've got
are terrible options. We have to choose something ."

Her frown deepened as she edged closer to the bed, "I don't know if
it'll work," she said. "She could figure something out she shouldn't…
or refuse to work with me."

"You're just looking for excuses," Harry pointed out, turning on the
bed to face her properly.

Fleur scoffed, "can you blame me?" she asked. "To consider this, I'm
not even sure what to make of it."

Finally, Harry threw his legs over the bed and edged his way towards
her. With her back to him, he wrapped his arms around her midriff
and settled his chin into her collarbone. Fleur bristled at the sudden
contact, caught in her own thoughts. She leapt but calmed in the
span of a few short seconds, settling into his arms with a cursory
glance towards the door.

"I know it sounds like the worst plan," Harry admitted. "I see what
you're saying just… for me, try?"

His hot breath scattered strands of platinum across her cheek,

caressing the soft skin in a way that made her shiver. There was a
long pause before she spoke again, contemplating the path forward.

With a short exhale he only heard by being so close, Fleur

acquiesced, "for you."

"Thank you," was Harry's succinct reply.

"But I reserve the right to stop any time I want," she demanded. "And
I mean it, Harry."

He chose to be placating rather than push the issue any further, "Of
course," Harry agreed. "But give her a chance, she's so incredibly
bright. You really are more alike than you know." His soft voice in her
ear turned to a sharp sigh, "what's the time?"

Fleur cast her eyes to the dresser for a moment, eyeing the small,
artisan-crafted clock that sat upon the bench, "Half-six," she
announced.
"I need to go."

The revelation wasn't an easy one; Fleur turned in his arms, their
noses brushing on the pass.

"I'll come with you."

Harry laughed gently, "I need you to find those runes," he said. "The
sooner we figure out how to use Nagini, the sooner this-" he
gestured around them, "-all ends. I'll be fine for a night."

She leant in closer, "I don't trust them."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed closer too, "I'll have Moody with me.
It'll be quick, I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."

"I always know you're gone."

"Well, I am quite a presence."

With the cocky smile that followed his words, Fleur pressed her lips
to his. Sweet and succinct, she pulled away before the taste had the
chance to live on his lips.

It was her turn for a small smile, "you'll get another if you make it
back."

"I've never wanted to win this war more," Harry joked to her tinkling
laughter.

"Be safe," she said. "Come back to me."

"Always," was the simple reply.

If she had been smarter, she might've lightened the books before
she gathered the pile and trekked silently across the house.
But she hadn't. There was this sort of pervasive nervousness in the
air, one she assumed she would've shed in school.

As it so happened, she so clearly hadn't.

Eventually, she came across the door, similar to all the others save
for the knowledge of what lay behind. With her hands full she kicked
the toe of her shoe into the door to knock, hoping it'd open so as to
rest her burning arms.

After a short moment of readjusting her hands to keep them from

toppling from her arms, the door pulled open, and Fleur stumbled
quickly inside. Not taking heed of the occupant in favour of placing
the books on the chest of drawers.

Then, Fleur pivoted on her foot and faced the music.

Or rather, faced Hermione Granger.

Her hair was perhaps a bit more dishevelled than Fleur last
remembered, not that she ever paid particular attention to the girl's
features beyond glances. In fact, she could remember ever being
alone with the other girl. There had always been another party.

There was a schoolgirl awkwardness between them she didn't really

know how to break-she never cared enough to try.

But now Fleur supposed she had someone to try for.

"Did Professor Dumbledore speak to you?" Fleur asked, turning

around to rifle through the books she'd brought.

"He… did," Hermione replied; Fleur could hear her step closer to her
turned back. "What's this all about?"

"Did Professor Dumbledore tell you?"

"No."
Fleur made a hmm'ing sound beneath her breath, "Well, I suppose
you've got your answer then."

She didn't seem to take too well to that proposition, a huff came from
behind her. "If I'm going to be spending time on this, don't you think I
should get some idea?"

"Nope."

She huffed again.

Fleur bit back a sigh as she toyed with a page. It had nothing of
interest on it save her own indecision.

Try, echoed in her mind. Just try .

A year ago she wouldn't have even bothered. Maybe time truly did
change her. Maybe she'd grown up a little along the way.

Maybe, it was the people.

"Listen… Hermione," Fleur couldn't even remember addressing her

by her name. She winced at the thought. "I know I'm not being the
most personable at the moment."

"You don't say," Hermione muttered beneath her breath.

Try .

Blowing out a hot breath and continuing as if she hadn't heard, Fleur
closed the book and passed it across to Hermione, "Some things are
just too delicate-too… large to be understood from where we're
standing. Sometimes things get worse the more people know."

Well, that sounded melodramatic.

"I suppose this is one of those things?"

"Yeah," Fleur nodded. "This is one of those things."

Hermione took the proffered book in her hands; the cover was
leather-bound and aged, cracking at the corners. Lithe, silver artistry
spanned the cover in broken patches. The title scrawled across the
front like a distant afterthought in what she'd been told was Ancient
Greek.

" Μοιραίο ." Hermione whispered, her best attempt to test the foreign
words on her tongue. "It's… Greek? "

"It is."

"What am I supposed to do with it?" She opened the dusty cover, the
pungent smell of water-stained paper wafting into the air. "I hope I'm
allowed to know that?"

Fleur turned and procured a book of her own, "they're translated,

vaguely." She said, "We're looking for specific mentions of objects,
concepts or individuals through them."

Hermione flicked ahead a few pages, taking stock of the translated

words. "What phrases in particular?" Her voice trailed away,
enraptured by the old page.

"Mentions of death, life, artefacts or…." Fleur paused for a moment,

unsure of whether or not the final few words were worth speaking.

The other girl looked up, eyes large and inquisitive. "Yes?" Hermione
prompted.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek in the hopes it'd give her some
guidance, " Herpo," Fleur whispered.

"Sorry?"

"Herpo the Foul," Fleur pronounced louder; Hermione's eyes

widened further, her lips opened and bared her questions within.

A hand stopped her, Fleur's gaze that perhaps felt a little harsh given
the situation. "Whatever connection you just made, keep it to
yourself," she demanded. "This isn't the sort of thing to barter around
to ensure everyone knows you're smartest of your age. It's the sort
born from years of people practicing magics so foul they've been
remembered for centuries. They put trust in you not to tell anyone
whatever you think you know, and I have to trust you too. Don't make
us regret that."

With that, her lips closed, and suddenly, the book seemed even
more interesting than it once had. Hermione shuffled over to her bed,
and Fleur breathed a soft sigh of release.

Hermione read along in silence; Fleur could barely muster the

willpower to make it past the first few pages.

Was I too rude?

She wanted to beat the thought out of her head with the book. Am I
really doing this now ?

The indecision already in her life had decided it wanted company

and extended to such trivial matters as if she'd been too rude in her
dismissal.

It really is like I'm back in school .

It took her some time to muster the courage to break the academic
silence, even turn of the page. Every scraping of paper against
paper was an opportunity she let pass by.

Finally, there was a brief burst of bravery, "Hermione?" Fleur called

across to her.

"Yes?" Hermione returned, her voice breaking free from the page
long before her eyes.

Suddenly, all the words she'd thought to say vanished, vanquished in

the same rush of indecision. She'd never been good with apologies.
Fleur cleared her throat, and in lieu of what she planned to say, she
opted for, "have you found anything of interest yet?"

The other girl shook her head, "not particularly, no." It took a few
seconds before a shrug followed, it seemed out of place on her small
form. "Vague mentions I suppose, the symbolics of death-nothing
more."

"Just make sure you mark them down," Fleur offered and turned
back to her book.

What am I? Five? Fleur lamented.

As the opportunity vanished and the detente of pages began anew,

she decided the next that arose would be the one. The rehearsing in
her head rather than reading would be sure of it.

There were a few more idle turns of the pages as the clock in the
corner droned ever onwards before her next chance rose, and she
leapt.

Hermione coughed and threw her legs from the side of her bed, "I
think I've found something."

That caught Fleur's attention in an instant. She peered up and

crossed the distance in a few, quick strides.

"Theta," Hermione pointed out. "I'm not sure I recognise the rune,
the passage says something about death though. It's all a bit too
difficult to make out through the translation."

Fleur seized the book and turned it towards herself. It was a butterfly
drawing-crude but effective enough to recognise and on its wings,
theta.

She nodded, "it could be something, excellent work," she

congratulated, and the younger girl beamed and blushed, marking
the page for later review. She turned to her own seat before she
stopped, turning back to the girl who hadn't yet engrossed herself in
the pages ago.

"Hermione… I…" Fleur began, stumbling through the apology. "I

wanted to apologise for before, if I was a little too direct with what I
said. It wasn't my intention."

The apology was for more than just harsh words to put the fear of
telling others into her. It was for a year's worth of glares and words
that, in hindsight, were harsher than she intended.

"It's alright," Hermione offered in return. "No harm done."

The returning remark was just as weak as the apology. It erased

nothing, but, at the very least, it gave Fleur the confidence to push
for more. She returned to her chair and took a seat, mulling over a
new page, her eyes darting over the cover to the other girl.

Closing the book a fraction to give Hermione her utmost attention,

Fleur tried again, "I… I hope I'm not being too forward when I ask
this." Hermione's eyes rose in confusion, far quicker than before, her
finger marking her page. "But… how are you?"

"Pardon?"

It wasn't the response she'd expected and left her struggling to push
for more.

Try, his ever-persistent voice sounded in her mind. Try.

"How are you?"

"Oh," Hermione blinked. One, twice, thrice before an answer came,

"Alright, I suppose."

Fleur sighed gustily. If any of this could go to plan, I'd appreciate it.

"Well," Fleur returned in a rounder tone. "It's okay to not feel alright,
contrary to popular belief."
She could feel the glare against her cheek, "Did Harry put you up to
this?"

"No," Fleur shook her head. "Just thought I'd ask, the hard times
don't often leave someone untouched."

"I'm fine," Hermione brushed off with a sudden turn of her page,
reopening her book to avoid the conversation. "The Weasleys need
your concern far more than I do."

That made the Veela laugh softly under her breath, "I don't have a
finite amount of concern, Hermione," Fleur said. "They're going
through a terrible time, we all know that. But just because someone
else is feeling something doesn't mean you can feel it too."

If only I could take my own advice.

"Of course, I know that," Hermione replied quickly, her voice alight
with indignation.

With a subtle shrug of her shoulders and a dramatic return to her

page, "just making sure," Fleur offered.

Now, her trying was at the end of its tether. She wasn't sure she
should or even could push any further.

Time continued to pass, though she could devour the pages with a
greater fervour now that her task had been completed.

"Fleur?"

Her platinum hair was brushed out of her view as she looked up.

"Thank you."

Maybe it's not quite at its tether yet.

An early twilight fell over Ipswich, frigid flakes of snow ushered in on
the wings of the seaswept air, buffeting skin that couldn't be covered
by his cloak.

They'd crept along the River Orwell until the call of the channel was
close, and salt spray didn't seem so distant. The rousing crack of
apparition had Harry stand at the ready, clutching his wand for the
warmth it gave him.

"Spotted 'em," the new figure said, kneeling in the dirt next to them.

Graham, Harry recognised. He'd been a Junior Auror, or so Harry

thought, his crimson robes turned a faded black with a colour
changing charm that didn't quite seem to be as masterful as the man
assumed.

Graham's cheeks were windburnt, his breath streams of hot air as he

panted and waited for a reply.

Moody's bark back was quick and biting, "Where, lad? How many of
them?"

Chewing on his tongue, Graham began to recall, "Couldn't get too

close, counted around ten, maybe a couple more out on watch," he
said. "They seemed like they were following scent charms, looks like
the wind was fucking with 'em though."

The grizzled Auror nodded, his electric-blue eye whirled on its axis
as it scanned the near horizon. "How far?"

"Dunno the exact distance," Graham said. "Didn't want to risk being
too close for too long, it was right on the coast, looked like they're
hiding the muggleborns in some cove."

Harry furrowed his brow, the skin prickling with cold pain, "why so far
out of the way?"
"I'd wager they're tracking another group trying to flee across the
channel," Moody said. "Sticking the rest of them on the coast, in the
open, just keeps them cold and weak. They can divert their power
elsewhere while they're sure the rest won't get away."

Ten, Harry thought, We've got six.

He didn't want to ponder the dubious quality of outcasts tracking

down defenceless Muggleborns across the country. The numbers
were against them. Despite the disparity in skill, it was a deficit in
their foe's favour.

"Right then," Moody shouted and roused the rest of the party. "Make
for the horizon!"

With a sudden crack, the cold world vanished, and he propelled

himself forward towards the coast.

Ten was closer to fifteen.

That was the only thought Harry could muster as he threw himself
behind an old, forgotten rowboat, shielding himself from an incoming
curse.

" FORM RANKS !"

Moody billowed and cried spells from the centre of the beach,
sending dirty, gritty sand skywards as a shroud before his curses
crossed the distance and found purchase in flesh. Sans the moon
and spellfire, his eye was the only luminous glow on the beach-it
drew in foe's like a siren's song and repelled them just as easily.

A second spell shattered the other side of the boat, sending splinters
across the sand. Harry rose before a third could strike, parrying it
across to his right into the dark waves.
' Contusio! ' Harry cried internally as he crouched suddenly beneath
a wayward spell.

The shockwave scattered the broken bits of timber, sand and air and
battered his foe, sending him sprawling. There was barely a moment
of reprieve before the second came, launching more bright beams of
light.

A spell from Moody bisected him before Harry could even muster a
counterattack.

" Advance!" Moody cried and apparated forward, getting within feet
of his next foe.

Crack .

As it so happened, they realised they could apparate too.

The beam of purple light couldn't be dodged from this distance, his
foe made sure of that. Harry's own spell flung from his wand with a
sharp upwards motion, the first spell that came to mind.

' Expelliarmus!'

Sometimes, the greatest strategy was reverting to what you knew

best.

Spells met in the air and formed a connection, scarlet met violet, and
the beam cackled with volatile electricity.

His enemy pulled up to break the connection. Harry mirrored his

movement as his spell slowly pushed towards the other man.

With a sudden flash of light, the scarlet reached the opposing wand,
drawing it from his grip. The spells collided at their apex and blasted
the man across the beach, allowing Harry a chance to breathe and
turn back to the battle still raging.

A glance towards the waves convinced him of what was next.

Harry gripped his wand tightly, the muscles rippling at the exertion;
he calmed and breathed a soft incantation.

"Procella Mare."

Magic was there again, rippling through his tendons and begging for
use. He could taste it on his lips, sweet and moreish-that bittersweet
promise of power at the cost of self.

The tempest rose from the water, vortexes of sea and salt formed a
serpent that stood across the waves like a damning effigy. His
forearm stung with the pain of forcing the magic into the air between
them as he orchestrated the dangerous symphony.

Then, with a vicious arcing of his wand, the serpent swallowed the
beach whole.

Harry crept down the halls of Grimmauld Place, careful not to rouse
the house by thumping against the worn floorboards.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

He could hear the running footsteps from within before the door was
thrown open and he was dragged inside.

"You're here," Fleur breathed as if she hadn't expected him to return.

Harry laughed, "I told you I'd-"

His reply was cut off by her lips as he kicked the door closed behind
him, the passion was warm and fervent, claiming his lips as her own.

He was home. It didn't taste of fruit or exotics, she didn't leave vanilla
on his tongue or holly in his nose.
Home tasted of her; the uniqueness of warm flesh, the feeling of
hope in chest.

Harry found he rather liked home if it was with Fleur Delacour.

The struggle to breathe soon necessitated breaking apart. Their

foreheads naturally came to rest against one another-hot breaths
caressing the skin of the other as she smiled.

"So you won?" Fleur spoke through her smile.

Harry nodded as best as he could against her own forehead, "Yeah,"

he said. "It was harder than we thought but it's over."

"And the muggleborns?"

"About a quarter came with us," Harry said. "The rest we helped
across the channel."

He couldn't help the little, dejected tone that his words were steeped
in.

"It's better than zero," Fleur said.

"It's better than zero," Harry agreed. "I should go shower."

Fleur held him just the slightest bit tighter. "No."

"I stink," was Harry's deadpan response.

"I'll survive," she promised. "Besides, I missed you."

His breath scattered platinum tresses, "I missed you, too," Harry
whispered. "How'd it go with Hermione?"

"About as well as could be expected," she shrugged. "It wasn't

ground-breaking by any means, but we got somewhere-I tried."
"I'm proud of you," Harry said before separating from their embrace.
Fleur wasn't so quick to let him go. "We'll get something out of it, I
promise."

"I don't know where you think you're going," she scoffed and
dragged him back.

"To have a shower?"

"Nope," Fleur declared. "Stay here, with me."

Harry laughed again, "I've got things I need to check on first."

"They can wait."

He shook his head, "they can't."

"Well, they're going to have to," Fleur said as she pecked his lips
gently.

Smiling against her lips, "Alright, you've convinced me."

"Dance with me."

Her request was sudden, catching him off-guard. Harry cocked his
head back, looking at her inquisitively as she peered up at him, hope
in her eyes.

"I can't really-" Harry began, her eyes still wide and pleading and she
nuzzled her body against hers. "-I suppose I could try."

" Everyone can dance," Fleur refuted his half-statement. "You

danced well enough at Slughorn's party, I certainly didn't hear any
complaints then."

Harry scoffed, "dancing drunk amongst a bunch of old men is

definitely different."

"I suppose it's lucky you've still got the same gifted teacher, no?"
Harry looked around the room as she adjusted her hands to his
shoulders, "What are we supposed to do for music?"

She giggled. It was endearing and child-like-she was enjoying

herself. "Am I not harmony enough?"

"You're an idiot, that's what you are."

"Your idiot." She corrected and adjusted his hands for him.

The carpet, threadbare as it was, was soft on their feet as she began
to spin them in circles. Her head found his shoulder as they turned,
she let out a soft exhale of pleasure. He could feel her constant
smile through the fabric of his shirt.

Fleur Delacour loved to dance.

They'd never really talked about it, not that he could remember.

It was a revelation that seemed almost childish as they spun in the

old room, but he would not have traded it for anything.

They were happy.

They spun around on the carpet, trying to make sense of victory and
defeat-to try and figure out the world around them.

They danced to try and feel all the things they shouldn't, all the
things they were too afraid of. At that moment, it all seemed just that
little bit easier.

The war, the love, the world seemed more bearable in the arms of
the other. The right company just had that effect.

Fleur leant back and captured his lips once more; the kiss was
deeper and laden with the ardour of passion. Her tongue swept
across his lips and met his own, duelling with hers, and the spinning
stopped, and they swayed idly in the arms of the other.
The kiss deepened, his hands lowered past the curve of her hips to
her arse, she moaned softly into his mouth.

Harry couldn't savour the moment for what it was worth. A noise
sprang to the right and drew him from their coupling.

"Fleur," Hermione cried as she opened the door, "I think I might
have-"

Eternities lived and died in the time it took Hermione Granger to

raise her eyesight to the pair of them, embraced and in love.

There was no dramatic dropping of her book, no screaming or tears.

She backed slowly out of the room, not breaking eye contact with
them as she fled.

The last thing Harry heard was her footsteps bounding down the
corridor.
Dancing Infinities
Hey everyone!

I know it's been a while, I hadn't meant for it to be so long but life got
in the way. University started back up, I lost my mum and a whole
host of other things hit me in the meantime.

I want to give a huge thank you to the army of people who beta read
the chapter and helped shape it into what it is today; Taliesin19,
x102RedDragon, NerdDragonVoid, Liberty Prime and Honorverse
fan, without their suggestions and help it wouldn't be what you have
here today.

I hope you enjoy the long-awaited chapter, Dancing Infinities.

She knows.

Breathe.

Blink.

Breathe.

She knows.

The harsh clarity rang loud in a hollow head. Her distant, percussive
footsteps were the only reminder to breathe.

Blink.

Breathe.

Harry worked to extricate himself from the passionate embrace and

furiously smoothed out his robes, desperate to hide any evidence of
what he'd done.
Maybe, the naive thought rose with all the hope he could muster,
maybe if there was no physical evidence, he could convince her
nothing happened. It was a mirage, she was tired-they were just
friends, that was all.

Her door slammed from down the hall, hard enough to shake their
own and it became quickly apparent that the naive hope was just
that- naive .

He didn't have the courage to see what Fleur's expression was, he

could envision every possibility, every catastrophe, it was never
destined to be quick, easy or clean. But, eventually, that courage
came slow and sure in the silence, his eyes drifted to hers.

The breath that met his skin was hoarse and laboured, the thoughts
let loose, the adrenaline flowed in aching rivulets and his breath
quickened.

" Harry," Fleur whispered, a noise so quiet and quick he wasn't sure
if it was imagined.

He didn't have the breath to speak words he wasn't sure he even

had, they'd both have to make do with the soft nod.

" What do we do?"

Her following question was one he'd expected to come, one he'd
lamented for all the short time he'd been allowed reprieve to think a
thought beyond what lay at their feet.

"I don't know," Harry whispered to her. It was simple, succinct and
not at all what he'd intended.

In truth, he wasn't sure what he'd intended.

Was it to hold her close and proclaim his love yet again? Was it to lie
and say it'd all be alright, just to make it all seem bearable for a
moment or two?
In the arduous search of self to discover what best to do, he looked
at her again and found her worse than he'd left seconds ago. Eyes
red and raw, a tear track that ran a single, solitary river down to the
crest of her cheek.

Has this all been my fault?

Out of the thousands of thoughts that swirled in chaotic droves, that

was the sole one he managed to grasp and cling to. Even if it was
the wrong one.

Was this all a horrible outcome at his hands? He'd orchestrated it all,
the parties, the kiss, the love they shared. He'd taken her care and
love and given her a war in return. Both with wands and hearts.

He'd been the snake that slithered into Eden. The forbidden fruit
hadn't even been a temptation, it'd all been peaceful, tranquil until he
arrived. He'd cared, he'd asked about her day and been a
companion to beat back the coldness of isolation in the distant hope
the fruit would be all the more appealing.

It'd been wrong, it had always been wrong.

Then, at his direction, she'd taken her bite. The grass had
disappeared beneath their feet and they plummeted-the sudden and
harsh descent to earth.

"I'm… I'm sorry," was his meagre response as anxiety rose at the
thought of her response.

At his words, she busied herself with the arduous task of tracing the
corners of the room with her eyes.

Though she dared not to look at him, her reply came all the same.
"What for?"

Fleur's voice was as muted as the bedroom lights, a phantom of its

former self. He was certain it was the sort of pain that would haunt
him as his heart tore with the shuddering breath that followed.

Harry swallowed against the rising words. "You… you know what
for."

He didn't want to say the words aloud and, clearly, neither did she.
They'd never spoken of the truth that lingered at the perimeter, the
one that threatened to tear their little piece of happiness apart. How
could they? Had words yet been invented that could possibly be a
balm on such a wound?

The silence was stagnant, it left them in the room wondering as their
final point of contact dwindled to barely touching hands.

It was stagnant, yet safe. Words served no purpose and platitudes

garnered no gain, all that remained was the waning illusion that it
would all be fine.

It wouldn't be-it couldn't . But, for now, he could stomach the lie.

"I-" Harry opened his mouth and the sound escaped before he had
the good sense to neuter it.

Time, he realised. She needs time .

"I'll talk to her," he whispered, the illusion erupting with every word.

In lieu of words she didn't have and that he didn't want to hear, she
nodded and drifted towards the bed. A pale, ivory-skinned spectre of
what once was.

There was no outspokenness or candour, no passion or pride. Just

the dull realisation that it'd all come to a head and that, one way or
another, the facade was at an end.

It had died a sudden and gruesome death.

He staggered down the hallway as if he were a man going to war,
each step falling with the sort of grim determination only mustered by
someone who knew the destination, and knew it didn't end well.

Every door on the second floor of Grimmauld Place looked the

same, crafted with a sort of austere symmetry he had never been a
fan of. Every door looked the same except hers- Hermione's . It
seemed ten feet higher than the rest, crafted with steel, not oak and
weighed more than he could ever hope to lift. There was this fear
that even if he was able to push the door aside, he'd simply be met
by a hole in the floor-the kind where you'd fall forever.

But, he supposed, he'd already been falling for quite some time.

It was that thought, fleeting as it was, that made the door seem just
that little bit smaller, and allowed him to step before it.

"Hermione?" Harry tried, though it wasn't loud enough to truly rouse

any attention from within. Rather than call to her again, he tried to
knock, two fingers falling gently on the door.

Though, perhaps too gently if the lack of response was anything to

go off.

He waited a few short moments in the hopes she'd come to the door
before his first call was followed in turn by a second, slightly louder
than its predecessor. However, part of him relished the idea of his
calls going unheeded.

How did you answer the questions when you didn't have the words
or answers yourself? Better yet, how did anyone expect you to
answer them?

Whether or not he had the answers was irrelevant, he supposed,

when the soft call finally came from within.

"Come in."
He stood in limbo for a few seconds that felt far too brief, his hand
hovering dangerously close to the handle. All it'd take was gravity to
run its course and the door would come free, inviting him into the
room and all that awaited him.

But despite all his courage in matters of war, it was a battle he was
wholly unaccustomed to.

Not a word had been spoken of his tryst with Fleur to anyone but her
and even their chats about their state of affairs had been hurried and
soon brushed under the rug. There had always been another topic
more tasteful or an issue more pressing. Past a point, there seemed
no purpose to even bothering about it.

He found himself wishing that for all those times he'd allowed her to
brush it off, to move onwards to more pleasurable pursuits and forget
what truly existed between them, that they hadn't. That anything
might prepare him for this.

As inevitable as the gravity that tugged at his outstretched hand,

courage came in tiny, fleeting measures to do the right thing as he
always had-until he hadn't. The handle warred against his hand for
but a moment before twisting with an audible click, the door pushing
open and allowing him inside.

The room was as it had been last year, save the painful memories of
Ginny at the corners of his vision, the hopes she might be
somewhere she'd never be again. Harry's eyes soon fell on
Hermione, sat upon her bed with a book closed and draped lazily
over her legs. That was sign enough, he supposed, Hermione had
never been lazy when it came to books.

It served to give the room a measure of feigned normalcy, it made

him crave the more sincere form. Her eyes, much like the book,
trailed to him lazily and in the light of the chandelier he could spy a
few errant tears left shining within them.
Between them the detente began, bolstered at either side with the
sudden and unwelcome turbulence of emotion as their eyes met.
Harry searched one final time for the words-the right ones but came
up blank.

"Hey," was his meek offering, just loud enough to be classified as

something beyond a whisper.

Hermione sat up straighter and the book slid down her legs, "Hey?"
she questioned hotly, "that's all you've got to say? Hey? "

The sigh that left his lips was unintentional, coming out tired and
worn, "What do you want me to say, Hermione?"

Their fights were usually always quick, he'd acquiesce and unlike
Ron, refuse to start a war of attrition over every minuscule infraction.
Though he knew this was no such instance, the war had begun and
no simple 'I'm sorry' would beget an armistice. He'd have to weather
the trenches and simply hope.

"I don't want you to say anything," Hermione said, the book sliding
further until it bounced from the bed and hit the floor like a starting
pistol. "I need you to tell me it wasn't true. That what I saw wasn't
real, that it was just a momentary weakness- anything, tell me
anything and I'll believe it."

This wasn't like her, once upon a time she'd have yelled him down
and marched to Bill herself to explain what she'd seen but with all
that had happened. He supposed even the toughest ships rocked
when they met unsteady seas somewhere. Yet here she was,
offering him a ticket out if only he could lie.

And he couldn't, it had never even been in the cards.

"It wasn't," Harry said, his voice hoarse around the edges as the
words came out hurried. "I… Fleur and I have been together since
Christmas. We've been having an…" The words he thought to speak
sounded like venom on his lips, "affair."
"Oh."

The word had felt like venom and landed like it too, such an
infamous word made her recoil in bed. Silence fell soon after his
words, crude and ineloquent met their mark and found the soft flesh
of the heart.

"I…" Hermione began and paused, then began again and paused
once more for good measure. "I can't even… why? "

Why had he begun this affair? He was the driving force behind it, it'd
been him with the declaration in the orchard. He had been the
oxygen to reignite embers that burned all around them when they
raged with passion.

Had it been because she was beautiful? Because she was witty?
Had it been as simple as needing someone after everything?

"I su-" Harry began but Hermione cut him off before he could
stumble for answers.

Hermione huffed and he could sense anger bubbling over, "I'm not
even sure I want to know why, I'm not sure I could even fathom it. All
that's been going on, the war and the bur-and poor Bill." She took a
moment to compose herself, "I want to understand why, we're in the
middle of a war, we've lost so much and you went and took her ."

The accusation rang like a gunshot, leaving the same sort of

disorientation as he felt each dagger made of words fling into his
chest.

Harry's next breath came out ragged, "I hadn't meant for it to happen
like this, you've got to believe me."

"Maybe," she said, "but I find it hard to believe that while I had to
research something so important," tiny specks of spittle shot from
her mouth as she said the word, "that you couldn't even tell me the
purpose of it. Only to find you kissing an engaged woman, to your
best friend's brother no less, so excuse me if I'm in no rush to accept
that."

So came the reckoning, what he always feared.

"These things happen and we can't always control them," Harry tried
placatingly. "Do you really think if I had any choice in the matter I'd
have done it like this? That I'd have to be in secret every time I want
to talk to her? Or that I'd hurt so many people in the process?"

"I thought I knew, I'd have staked my life on knowing. But now I'm not
so sure."

Those words stung like a whip and he knew his face betrayed what
he felt and if she had noticed, she'd cared little for it which set the
sting off again.

The war, what little she had been exposed to, had changed her-it'd
changed them all.

His next breath was harsher, forced through the thin gap between his
clenched teeth. "I didn't want for this to happen," he reiterated. "I
swear on my life I didn't, but it did. I can't change that it did, maybe I
don't want to. But it happened this way and I can't explain why."

Legs swung towards him and propelled her to her feet, perhaps to
see if she could find answers at a closer distance or maybe to
appear threatening-he wasn't sure.

"Well, maybe I want you to explain!" Hermione cried, "I don't

understand any of this," her hands were outstretched as she
gestured around the room. "Your best friend lost his family, we lost
so many people. People outside these walls are herded into groups
like cattle and killed and you," she jammed her finger into his chest
once, then twice and again and again, each time losing a little more
force.
" You," she spat again, "were here, while people were fighting and
dying, kissing her, that… that… slut ! So help me understand, help
me understand what made you betray us. Because I want to, I want
more than anything for you to have a good reason."

That accusation, the implied cowardice, sent his own blood hot. "You
think I haven't been fighting too?" Harry bit back, "I've fought more
than anyone, lost more than anyone. So excuse me for trying to find
happiness somewhere, anywhere ."

"Happiness at the cost of someone else's isn't happiness," Hermione

returned, her riposte sharp, "it's just shifting pain."

As much as he hated it the line was not without its gravity and, under
the crushing weight of the pain he might've- must've caused, they
both paused for a second to regain a semblance of composure.

It was Harry that broke the silence.

"Hogwarts," Harry whispered and her eyes flickered from wherever

she sent them, as if she couldn't bear to look at him, back to his
face.

"Pardon?"

With eyes closed and a final forlorn sigh he embarked on the

journey, "You wanted to know how it started," he said. "It all started
at Hogwarts."

"Is this something I'm going to want to hear?"

"No," he said. "But I think it's something I need to say."

She was pensive for a moment, though he wasn't sure why. Her
contemplation ended with a brief nod after what felt like an eternity.

"Go on," she acquiesced.

"Like I said," Harry began, "it all began at Hogwarts. She needed
someone with knowledge of the castle to help map the wards,
personally, I think she was just a bit frightened with everything. But
then, I don't know how you'd describe it, we got… closer . Fleur
asked for help with more and I accepted, eventually, we became
friends, and then we duelled."

"I don't know if duelling is the height of romantic activities," Hermione

commented as she stared at him.

That made him snort, even if only a small one. "It doesn't seem like
it, no. But I guess you get a feel for the person, you get to know their
weaknesses after a while and that scares people more than anyone
cares to admit."

Hermione cocked her head to the side and peered more intently at
him, "and then Slughorn's parties?" She guessed.

"Yeah, I guess so," Harry agreed. "I never really meant to take her
but I needed her help, and she's good company."

"Needed her help with what exactly?" Hermione inquired with a bitter
edge in her tone as he internally cursed a poor choice of words.

"Something…" Was the eloquent reply he chose, "something

important. So important I can't tell you, something I don't want to tell
you even if I could, it's something so terrible even the world forced
itself to forget."

His clear refusal seemed to stoke the flames further, rather than
douse them. "Have you forgotten what secrets got you last time?"

"Some secrets are terrible when they're held," he replied, "some are
even worse when they're told."

"Yet you told her."

Harry met her eyes in an attempt to convey all the sincerity he felt,
"because I needed her to know, I needed her to help. I need you and
Ron too, but I don't need you in the same way. It's not a lesser way,
just a different one."

He searched her face for some indication of acceptance but found

none.

"And in this story when do you kiss and forget she's engaged?
Before or after the secret?"

Biting his tongue from a more venomous retort, he continued.

"Christmas, I was hurt, that's why I was in the hospital wing. She
helped me some more and when I woke up we went to the Burrow.
I…" His breath hitched and he flicked his eyes back to her face, "I
loved her and I wanted to tell her on Christmas but she was with Bill
and everything seemed so happy for them, so I didn't. Instead, I
went to the orchard to be alone, mope and move on, I suppose. And
then she followed me."

"The night the Burrow burned," Hermione whispered and stared at

him with unbridled emotion, a volatile cocktail of hurt and hatred that
flared and flamed in the light.

The role he played that night or lack thereof, was burned into his
mind like a brand. Thoughts could never stray too far for fear of
feeling the guilt crushing him underfoot. How was he to know it'd
happen? Could he have stopped it if he was there?

But he'd learned some time ago from someone he trusted dearly that
lamenting the mistakes we made was a vice of men who were done
with the world. The better got up, they tried again, and they tried to
do it better.

Harry's nod was soft and almost lost as an idle movement of his
head. "The same, and I might be the reason they died, I've spent
enough nights thinking that. So yell that at me if you want, tell me I
could've saved them, you can't do any worse than I've already done.
But she followed me there and then I fell, we fell together. I wish it
was in a different way, I'm forever wishing it was easier on her, but I
don't regret falling. That's what happens in the end, you care so
much you just can't help it. Knowing it might be the wrong person
doesn't help, nothing does, only them."

"You've been together since Christmas," Hermione said, "Over a

month. You've been having an affair for over a month and no one
thought to tell Bill? To break the engagement? She could've left him,
what good did it do anyone to try and hang on to the two of you?"

The words sat in the air while he thought on them, "maybe in a

perfect world that would've happened," Harry said. "It would've been
ideal but love isn't like that, maybe that's how it works for you but not
for us all. She was confused and scared and maybe we made some
choices that weren't so smart but love will do that to you, I guess.
We're people too, we made mistakes and we're paying for them, that
doesn't change how we feel."

The truth had come tumbling out. They were human, he knew well
enough they had made mistakes, more than anyone had any right to.
He'd hurt people, he'd done things he'd never dreamt of and it had
led him here, to a room in Grimmauld Place with his heart in his
hand.

But they were human, their rationale would likely never be

understood by another, such was the way of things.

"It should," Hermione said. "Because it'll change how Bill feels, it'll
change a lot and I don't know that you understand everything that
co-"

That made his own anger rise to a sudden fever pitch. He'd lived it,
he'd had to suffer the truth every waking hour, eased by her love but
never truly forgotten or lost. If anyone understood, it was them.

"You don't know a thing," Harry spat. "I understand perfectly, I've
lived this. It's not a fairy tale or a dream I think I'm living- it's my life,
and it's all I'm going to get. I'm the one who had to wake up to this,
wake up to her scared about what the future holds, scared that one
day she'll decide she was better off with Bill, it's me that has to wake
up knowing I've hurt the people I care about. You pretend to know,
you might even think you know. You don't."

Hermione simply stared at him intently, as if prompting him to go

further.

"You don't even know the courage it took to talk to you, to not lie
about this. Don't tell me what I don't understand. I understand I love
her, I understand all I've done and the mistakes we've made, what
they cost and I understand how that sits in my heart. You've never
loved someone like this, everything you know came out of a book
and it's wrong, all of it. Books aren't everything and they're definitely
not here. Don't try to tell me- us otherwise."

Her intent staring wavered and in lieu of the sharp response he was
expecting, he got one wrought with hot emotion.

"You're different," she said, looking him in the eyes as if she saw
something beyond them. "You've changed… and I'm not sure it was
for the better."

How such a simple statement could make you wonder about your life
up until that point.

"I have," Harry agreed. "We all have, they made me fight a war
before I could buy firewhisky, it was expected. It feels wrong to me
too but when I found her, she was a forgotten housewife in a foreign
place with no friends and a husband who barely wrote. It doesn't
take the blame away from us, we did bad things. But we were all
wrong, it's too far gone to start arguing about who was right."

And then, nothing.

"That's it," Harry admitted, averting his gaze. "That's all there is, all
we've done. Whether you want to talk to me or not, I get it, but it
won't change how I feel for her."

Harry looked to everything but her, the roof, the walls, the decor. The
confidence that came with finally speaking the truth had wavered
and died such a quick death as he had finished. In its wake, the
anxiety rushed to meet the situation and twisted his gut with its
claws.

When he finally looked back to her, her eyes glistened with tears that
hadn't spilt. "I don't know if I want to," her words were soft but held
the bite of finality. "I just wanted my friend back, the one we'd been
missing all year. Suddenly I almost had him back and then I found
someone else in his place. I don't know how to feel about that."

Have I really become so different?

He supposed it was hard to know how you'd change, you were

usually always you, for the most part. But clearly, he was different
and the war had its part as had Fleur in moulding him into someone
new. People had forever said that change was good, that it
happened with age, though those people had mostly been friends of
Aunt Petunia's who swore he'd 'become a good lad with time'.

Though this change left him unmoored and with the knowledge the
old Harry would never have done what he'd done now. Now a single
question followed his train of thought wherever it went, eager to find
an answer in idle thoughts.

Am I a better person? Or worse?

"Feel however you like about it," he said. "If you want to talk again,
I'm here, but this is me. I'm sorry you expected someone different
and I missed you too, for what it's worth."

"Everything and not much now, I guess," she responded in a tearful

half-smile that seemed forced though for whose benefit he was
unsure. "This, all this, it doesn't feel right to me and I don't think it
ever will. Maybe I can accept it one day, maybe I can understand
somewhere downthe line. Maybe I'm wrong about all of this, I don't
know. No matter what though, Bill needs to know-

And there it was, the world reminding him that the future was still so
difficult. This had been a hurdle, but the easiest of the race ahead.

"-and so does Ron."

This would be their final act, there would be no second chances-the

truth was faced here, in full, or it wasn't faced at all.

"Okay," Harry agreed and closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him
and end this terrible day that only looked to be getting worse.

It hadn't, but he supposed it was worth a shot.

But she was right, they deserved to know. Their lie had gone on too
long, even if a part of him wished it hadn't ended here. They
deserved to know what had happened, all they had done, all they
had felt and all they had wanted.

And Fleur deserved peace after all this time.

They all did.

Telling Ron had been a different beast entirely.

He'd expected them to trade places, that Ron would be loud and
angry that like every other fight they'd ever had he'd explode. He'd
be large in rage and try to bring that anger, righteous as it was,
against him.

But he hadn't.

Ron had sat and stared as he talked, knowing Hermione waited just
outside the door waiting to tell him if he hadn't. He was quiet, letting
every word fall against him with the same expression as his eyes
looked at the wall in a hard stare like he was seeing through it. It
made him feel like a child, confessing bad behaviour to a parent who
didn't expect much else.

"So we had an affair."

Harry hated how easy saying that word had started to get. It
should've felt dirty, like his own anathema-instead, it felt like an
inevitability. That, with each revelation the full weight of what he had
done would become wholly apparent and leave him even more
unmoored than what he felt now.

For all his subpar academic work and perhaps occasional teaspoon
depth emotional intelligence, Ron had changed over the course of
the year, and Harry had missed most of it. The exact catalyst he
didn't know but he could see the fruits of its labour. From every
interaction he had seen over the year to why they had been
separated at the Burrow, he watched the picture form in his eyes and
reach his mouth.

"So you had an affair."

The reply made Harry bristle in discomfort, clipped and quick his own
words came back at him and somehow they felt even heavier when
another mouth shared the burden of admitting it.

Harry nodded, not that Ron would've seen, "We did," he said. "I
know what I say isn't worth much anymore, but I'm sorry."

"It's not worth much, no."

Were the replies succinct and swift because he didn't care? Because
he didn't want to talk? Or because he viewed him with such disdain
that even simple replies were too arduous? The thoughts plagued
him and filled the tense air between them.

With a face full of the indiscernible, Harry pushed for his own
answers. "Are you angry?"
A shrug that was almost apathetic followed, "I want to be," Ron
admitted. "I want to be mad, I want to hate you for it-The Burrow,
spending such little time with us this year but… I'm tired."

"Tired?"

"What do I have left?" Ron asked in a voice devoid of anything but

reality. "I lost my home, half my family, everything we owned. I wish I
could be mad, but what's that going to get me, though?"

"Ron-" Harry made to speak but was interrupted.

"Nothing, and I've been angry enough," Ron continued. "You fucked
it up good and proper, Merlin knows you did. But if I get angry are
you going to stop seeing her? Is it going to fix everything?"

"No."

"If nothing is gonna change and I'll just end up more tired by the end
of it then I don't see much of a point."

A sad sigh left Harry's lips, "I'm sorry, not just for this, but e-"

Being cut off again made him think it was best to just make sure Ron
had said all he needed to.

"I know," Ron replied simply. "It's too late now to do much."

"Well, I've missed my best mate," Harry confessed, trying to steer

the conversation into calmer waters. "There's… something I need to
do, something important to the war. I could use my mate's help, if
you wanted to."

He felt like a hypocrite, he'd already told Hermione she couldn't be

told and here he was, inviting them along as if simply knowing the
secret would mend the wounds he made. It was selfish, childish and-

"I'd like that," Ron interrupted his chain of thought. "But I think I'm
going to go back to Hogwarts."
Desperate.

"Oh."

Ron turned to him and there was the slightest twinge of undeserved
sympathy, "I think we should have some time away-proper time, that
is. You still did what you did and I don't want to tear it apart by having
to side with my best mate over my brother."

Harry nodded, "I get it, I do," he assured Ron. "You don't have to
explain it to me."

"I know," Ron said. "Plus she'd want me to finish school, despite
everything, that's where she'd want me, all of us if she could
manage."

That made him laugh a little in spite of the gravity of it all, "yeah,"
Harry said, "I'll miss her."

"I'll miss her too," Ron said. "She loved you like you were her son,
which is good right about now. If she found out what'd happen she'd
flog you like you were one of us too."

His laughter went up a gear, "I'd take it too, I deserve it."

For just one brief, distant moment with the laughter and the jokes it
felt like he had his friend back.

Ron shared some of it, if only briefly. "But she'd want me where I
was safest," he said. "Plus she'd want me to finish school and not be
the next Fred and George. All I've got left is making her proud, I want
to do that."

"And Hermione?" Harry asked. "Will she go back with you too, you
reckon?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," Ron answered. "Someone needs to save the
school every once in a while, it just won't be the same."
"Maybe one day," Harry said.

"Maybe one day," Ron replied. "But not today."

Fleur had always envied her parents.

Their love had always seemed both so effortless and flawless. She
could barely remember any argument that lasted for more than a few
hours and, contrary to her mother's insistence that love wasn't like
the storybooks as she grew up, the prime example in her life was
fairy tale enough.

Though she'd never broached the subject to her mother, there was
always some mysticism to her parents she didn't want to dispel.

Now she wondered if theirs had been a love like this. If it'd been a
fight for every inch, if perhaps her father wasn't the first or if it'd been
so confusing.

"Is it true?"

Bill's voice broke her from her stupor and she sorely wished she'd
had a chance to ask those questions somehow. That they might give
her an ounce of guidance when she felt like she was a teenager
again.

He'd only recently returned from the lowlands, searching for anyone
that'd help them. He'd barely set foot into headquarters before he
was interdicted by Ron, she hadn't had the courage to be the first
thing he saw. The door had closed, the truth had been told and she
slipped in, silently, after him.

"It's true," she confirmed.

Tears rose at the corners of her eyes and she tried desperately to
blink them away and maintain some semblance of control. She'd
done this, she was an adult and she knew better. The muscles in his
jaw clenched in what she assumed was anger, his whole person
seemed to carry a sudden, titanic weight in an instant and his blue
eyes found her own.

It was hard to not relive her entire life in a moment like this,
everything she'd sacrificed to get to where she was. Perhaps she'd
gained more with Harry, but cutting off your finger for a smile still
meant you lost something and it was a pain she felt fully.

Their first meeting hadn't been love at first sight or anything of the
sort. Bill sat at his Gringotts' desk and she dropped some papers off
to him on her way to her department. Besides the slight touching of
hands and the glint of recognition behind his eyes, it wasn't
noteworthy.

But love wasn't built upon solely by first meetings.

Then it'd been polite conversations in the halls that slowly morphed
into longer, work-oriented discussions that held them for minutes at a
time. Soon, work had all but vanished from their talks, left to the
wayside as they began the far more interesting pursuit of who they
were as people.

Dinner had slipped into the mix somewhere along the line and then it
had begun, the late-night chats, the jokes, the constant care for the
other. Meetings in the alcoves at Gringotts, adventures to the
seaside, meetings with different family members.

Before she knew it, she'd been engaged and thought she'd found her
place in it all.

It was clear she hadn't, instead, she'd taken all he'd given her and
torn it into pieces. He had been a good man, not the best-he'd made
mistakes too but he was better than most.

Now she wondered if she had her part in the death of a good man,
there were so few left.
"You know, I thought he'd lied to me," Bill admitted, letting the weight
settle. "I trusted you over him, for some reason, and now I'm just
wondering what I did to deserve this."

Fleur swallowed at the pain that rose in her throat and tried to seep
into her voice, "nothing," she said. "You didn't do anything."

"Clearly, I did," Bill said. "Affairs don't just appear out of thin air."

The word made her bristle, even if it shouldn't have. There'd be far
worse said in the future and she'd have to weather that storm too.

Harlot, Hag, Whore, Adulteress-Veela .

She supposed that in trying so hard to be anything but, that

somewhere along the way she'd become what she'd always feared,
what they'd always accused her of.

She had become the other woman, the seducer of taken men, she
had become what everyone had thought of Veela. Perhaps that was
what was always meant to be.

With a shake of her head to free herself from the thoughts that
wouldn't help her here, she relented. "Lots of things then, I suppose,"
she said after a second's hesitation, "Some were your fault, some
were mine, some weren't either."

"Well, tell me then," Bill demanded. "Tell me because I want to

understand, I want to know how I could somehow push you to… this
when I was half a world away."

"That's just it," Fleur replied in turn. "You were half a world away and
here I was- alone ."

That put a sharpness in his voice, "What happened to ' I'll wait for
you?' ."

Fleur almost wanted to scream, "and I would have," she bit back, just
as sharp. "But you made me wait with people that hated me and-"
"- They did not hate you! " Bill spat at her, she'd hit a nerve and had
she been in her right mind, she would've ceased pushing any further.

But she wasn't, this was the culmination of all their time together.
The baring of all their faults and problems, perhaps the first and last
chance she'd get to release the pain in her chest that'd held her
captive all year. Once the words spilt from her lips, the dam burst
and there was no pushing the water back through the breach.

"Yes. Yes, they did," Fleur disagreed. "Maybe you were blind to it,
and maybe it was my fault just as much as theirs, but do you have
any idea what it's like to be surrounded by people who don't want
you there? To have every conversation just stop when they notice
you? To hear them talk about you through the walls even though
they think they're being subtle? You don't because you weren't there.
"

"You say that like it absolves you, it doesn't."

She nodded, "it doesn't, I did more wrong than anyone here but I've
got emotions too, I've got needs and wants and I was alone, maybe
if I was stronger, smarter, I could've figured something out. But I
wasn't, and I made a mistake."

That made some form of incredulity appear on his face as if he didn't

understand or accept her reasoning. "You were alone because I
needed to work," he said. "We wanted a house somewhere, we
wanted to see the world-what did you expect of me?"

"I expected something, anything," Fleur practically cried at him and

finally, the first tear slipped beyond her lashes to trace her cheek.
"Instead I barely got a letter, I had to hear about your new location
from other people-from Horace Slughorn of all people. My own
fiancé couldn't be bothered to even tell me, do you understand how
embarrassing that is? To not have any idea where you are and have
to hear that from strangers?"
Bill didn't seem to have a response to that, instead, he averted his
gaze in brief shame before something, maybe anger-she couldn't
tell, brought his eyes back.

"So yes, I made a mistake," she said and, even with tears in her
eyes, she felt she could stand just a little taller as the weight on her
shoulders eased. "I was scared, I was alone and I was out of my
depth. I felt terrible-"

It was a sharp response that cut her off mid-sentence, not that she
really knew where she was going. "And how do you think I feel?" Bill
said. "Do you have any idea how this makes me feel as a man? To
not be able to care for the woman I loved? Do my feelings not matter
here?"

"Of course they matter!" Fleur yelled, "but so do mine. I had to worry
that maybe I'd forget who you were, maybe you'd never come home-
maybe you didn't want to. I'd hear these whispers that maybe you'd
found someone else, a Romani, an Egyptian."

"I'd never even think about it."

Now it was time for her own sharp remark, "you didn't think about
writing to me either. A portkey for the weekend, a letter, a photo-
anything . You could've quit and I'd have lived in a shack with you."
Fleur's voice trailed off to only just above a harsh whisper. "But you
didn't, and I fell for him. I tried not to, I tried with all my heart but I did
and I had to wake up every morning, knowing what I'd done and how
that would hurt you. I'd feel ill, I wouldn't even want to get out of bed
because I was scared of doing more."

He stared at her intently, filled with some silent emotion that didn't
reach his eyes or lips, not even his cheeks flared with changing
feeling. He just stared.

"But I fell for him," she declared again. "And as terrible as it is, if I
could do it all over, I'd fall for him again."
The words hadn't meant to come out like that, but they had and she
cursed herself for it.

Finally, some emotion, but not what she craved. His eyes widened in
pain, visible and unable to be passed off as anything else. She
wanted to relish in making him understand what she felt, but not like
this.

When he spoke next, taking her words in for the caustic truths they
were, it was not with the same anger and emotion-fuelled replies.

It was broken, it was tired and it was… old.

"Did you ever love me?"

That just served to break her heart a little more.

"Of course I did," Fleur promised and took a tentative step closer. "I
don't think I'd have hurt so much if I didn't. You're a good man and I
loved you, I just think I fell out of it somewhere, sometimes these
things just don't last."

Bill made to speak, his mouth opening and closing a few times in
preparation as if he didn't know what to say, "I don't suppose I really
want to know but… is he better than me?" He asked, "Was I that
terrible to you?"

"You're not comparable," Fleur said. "Don't try to be."

"I want to know," he pushed. "Is he good for you?"

A question that didn't require much thought, "He is-you both were,"
she explained. "You're more than him in some areas, he's more than
you in others. You made mistakes but I didn't do this because you
were terrible to me, you just weren't what I think I needed. That
doesn't mean you're less than he is, it just wasn't right for me."

"I suppose just because the puzzle looks good doesn't mean we
know where the pieces go."
"Yes," she agreed. "Something like that."

Hot breath billowed from his mouth and his form seemed to deflate,
"I just wish it'd come at a better time," Bill said. "Not that any time is
any good for this kind of thing."

His voice wasn't angry, it wasn't even sad, just defeated. It bore the
scars of losing all he had known, of losing the ones he loved and of
the future, bittersweet as it was, that he had hoped would come. It
had all been taken from him as had the will to fight.

"I didn't mean for it to come at such a terrible time," Fleur promised,
her voice small. "But it did, and I'm sorry. You were angry at me last
time and I understand that, you don't deserve any of this."

"But I got it and there's not much use pretending I don't."

With another small step forward, she embraced him gently. Chaste
and the sort they were once sure they'd never give the other. The
sort where you said goodbye-not to each other but to a piece of
yourself you'd nurtured into life. It was a solemn thing, it held its own
beauty as they parted, those pieces finally disappeared and they
lamented their loss.

"I'm going to miss you," Bill whispered into her hair, his voice
wavered as his arms tightened.

"I'll miss you too," Fleur replied and she meant it. She loved another,
she loved him more, but that didn't erase the love she held for him
nor all the good times they had. The good times that'd never return.

It wasn't explosive like she feared, or violent as she dreaded. It

could've gone better, it can always go better. But they parted on
terms more generous than she deserved, they were adults and
sometimes these things simply did not go to plan. There was no
guarantee of a happily ever after, you just owed it to yourself to
search for your own-high and low.
She'd spend a lifetime full of wonder at what could've been and bear
the brunt of what she'd done.

But she made her choice, now she needed time alone with it.

To know if she'd found hers.

He'd searched high and low for her before he'd thought to look to the
roof.

The passageway to get there was thin and narrow, Harry didn't
suppose the Blacks were much for stargazing, naming their children
after them had clearly been enough. It twisted and turned, a sharp
ascent through the attic where he was forced to navigate Kreacher's
handiwork or lack thereof.

Eventually, he came upon a door slightly ajar, through its gap the
frigid night's air fluttered through, flakes of snow occasionally on its
wings. Harry stepped gently to it, pushing it open and peeking
beyond. He managed a cursory glance around the perimeter of the
roof before he heard her, rather than saw her.

She was singing.

It was a soft melody, a tune carried on the cold wind that caressed
him and beckoned him onwards even though he wondered if it'd be
best to give her time alone. Harry rounded the corner to see her lying
on the ground, a heavy coat beneath her to protect her back from the
cold roof, her hair splayed around her like a halo.

Her song was one he couldn't make out, he assumed it was French.
It was beautiful, though not as one would come to expect of a song.
Even amongst words he couldn't understand, it said things he hadn't
expected and, in a way, bared her heart to the night. It was the sort
of melody that drew him closer.
His footsteps had gone unnoticed until he had gotten closer, just a
few feet away before she turned her head gently and took in his
person. Fleur's eyes were red-rimmed as if she'd been crying but not
any time recently. A small smile was offered to him as he kept
approaching slowly as if she was an animal he could somehow scare
away.

"Hey," Fleur offered after she observed him for just a second longer.

"Hey," Harry returned, he didn't have much else to give her. Instead,
he wordlessly took a seat beside her, she shuffled slightly to the side
to offer the coat's protection against the cold ground. Their shoulders
brushed as he nestled into position and he looked up to the sky.

Fleur took a similar approach, she spoke no word as he settled,

content to simply stare upwards into the dark sky. Her eyes shining
with the slow dance of the infinities above.

Harry turned to her, taking in the soft angles of her face as she
turned back to him. He had always relished being this close, each
time felt like a little victory in his own heart. From this distance, he
could see the remnants of her tears more clearly, the slight blush to
her cheeks, the little tear tracks that extended onto her pale skin and
fought against the feeling to reach up and run his finger across their
journey.

Eventually, the silence broke when he found the courage to speak,

only after reciting his line half a hundred times so as not to drive her
away.

"How'd it go?" Harry asked.

There was a bit of indecision in her face, "Better than I deserved,"

Fleur eventually decided on. "But still terrible, you?"

He blew out a long breath, "yeah," Harry agreed. "I reckon about the
same, I'm not even sure if we're still friends."
"They'll understand eventually."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I hope so… you okay?"

Fleur nodded lightly, "I think so." Harry nodded back to her and her
lips parted as if she wanted to continue. "It's just… do you think we
did the right thing?"

It was rare that she ever came to him for guidance, she had always
seemed so self-contained and sure. If nothing else it was a reminder
that, despite titles, she was just as lost as he was.

She had loved, she had gotten lost, she'd been confused and she'd
been hurt. She just wanted to know it was for something and not
nothing.

Harry had come to realise there were plenty of parts of love no one
bothered to explain, this was one of them.

He grappled with the question while her eyes traced his face, "I think
so," Harry eventually said. "I think we did what was best for us,
maybe just not in the best way."

Happiness at the cost of someone else's isn't happiness, it's just

shifting pain .

He supposed that'd be a sentiment that'd haunt him for more than a

few nights to come.

"It depends though," he continued. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," she answered quickly as if the answer hadn't required much

thought. "I'm happy."

"Then I think we made the right choice for us."

Then the silence returned, but it had been different from all its
predecessors today. It was calmer-softer. In place of talking, Fleur
had resumed her singing under her breath and for its duration, Harry
let himself fall into the melody.

"You have a beautiful voice," Harry breathed when she finished.

"What was that?"

"Just a lullaby my mother sang to us when we were little," she

explained. "She used to sing it to us when we were scared of
something. We got a new owl, years ago, and it frightened Gabby to
death, it got its fair share of use."

Harry blinked a few times, taking in what she had said, "Are you
scared of something now?"

"Yeah," she admitted and he felt his breath quicken. "A lot."

"Like?"

"It's complicated, I don't know if I can just put words to it."

"Could you try? For me?" Harry asked.

Fleur let out a gusty breath and the words stilled at her lips for a few
long moments, "How I feel about you, for one."

"Why does that scare you?"

He could feel his heart in his mouth as he spoke, perhaps it had

finally become too much for her.

"Why wouldn't it?" she asked, "You've been in my life for all of a year
and look where we are, look what we've become and all we've
done."

His throat tightened, "Do you want it to stop?"

Fleur shook her head and it eased for a moment, "No, never," she
assured him. "But so much has changed, I had dreams, I had my life
planned out in my head. I wanted to go east and see the sands and
the stars. I wanted to go see the snow and the mountains, I wanted
to see the world and then, all of a sudden, I realised I wanted to see
those things with you."

Harry didn't want to speak, not that he could. He wasn't sure he'd
have the words to try and reassure her of anything at the moment.

"And it's not even just that," Fleur continued. "It can be anything, now
my dreams are just us, doing nothing, sitting somewhere and having
a picnic. They're not these grand adventures where we see the world
anymore. They're just us, together. And that scares me."

"I don't mean to scare you," he whispered.

"It's not you," she whispered back. "But you're in my life now, and I
want you here, I can't even imagine you not being here. Maybe it'll
make it all less scary, maybe it won't." She laughed beneath her
breath, "this would be so much easier if we had wine."

"I'm sorry you didn't get your dream," he tried next.

A little smile followed his words, "Don't be," she said. "Dreams are
fragile things, they're not made of much and, just sometimes, you
find something better instead."

"I take it I'm something better?"

"I'm fairly confident I was talking about Ronald."

That made him laugh in turn, the easy sort you didn't even realise
came out until you heard it. "Maybe that's what we can do when this
is all over," Harry said. "See places and drink wine. I've always
wanted to visit Spain. No particular reason or anything, I just think
the world's a big place and you know, if you wanted, maybe we could
see it together."

She smiled harder at the thought, "I want to show you home," Fleur
said. "It's not much, but Maman and Papa would adore you."
"Even after everything?"

"Even after everything," Fleur confirmed. "You make me happy,

happy like I haven't been. They'll love you for that alone. But…
you've got this gravity to you, it draws people in, they just can't help
but love you."

"If someone could get that memo to half the British people every
other year, I'd be thankful."

A little snort followed, the sort that made him smile. "They're fools,
and anyone that spends time with you can see that."

"I don't know that I'm all that," Harry shrugged, "but thank you."

"No," Fleur said. "You're so much more."

He shuffled a little closer to her, their shoulders now sandwiched

against the other and her head came up to rest upon his chest.

"Someone's being awfully nice tonight," Harry joked.

Fleur put her hands up in a gesture of 'I don't know' and giggled
slightly. "I guess that's something, I was scared to tell you what I
thought."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not scared anymore," she whispered before looking up to

the sky. "Sirius is up there again, just like last time."

Harry breathed a soft breath as he sought it out, "I guess it's our star
now, after all it's seen…"

A little blush came across her cheeks-he'd rarely ever seen her
blush. That was just the benefit of finding the right person, he
guessed.
She spoke as they stared at the star, breaking his gaze, "You know
how I'm not afraid anymore?"

"Yeah?"

With her own gaze broken, their eyes met and he marvelled at the
blue that had enraptured him. Searching her iris for imperfections,
following the different shades of blue as they melded and faded like
waves seamlessly into the next.

"I love you."

Once the words had left her lips, she tilted her head upwards to meet
his own. Strands of silver hair falling over his cheeks like thin
gossamer strands that made the moonlight seem so much more. Her
lips had searched out their counterpart, softly brushing against his to
allow him to taste her, if only faintly.

"I love you too," he whispered. "So much."

And he did, with all his heart. It was the sort of feeling you could
never describe until it happened, certainly one he'd never expected
he'd feel. She was his constant companion and soon he too couldn't
imagine a day without her funny jokes, her witty insights or support.

He didn't want to, he never wanted to go another day without the

small smiles she cast at him from across the room, the laughter at
the most insignificant things that seemed massive when he was with
her.

Then they fell, like they had always been falling, into each other. It
hadn't been like their first kiss, needy and addictive, full of fervour
and laden with the hope that more would follow.

This was a promise, a promise that more would come. That the
difficulty of their love only made the fruits it bore sweeter, a promise
that everything would be alright and a promise of love-of all the
things they wanted to say but didn't know the words for.
Every kiss, glittering in the moonlight, was a piece of their heart they
relinquished to the other, willingly. Gone, never to be seen again only
to welcome a piece of the other's in return.

And it was there, on the roof of Grimmauld Place, that all their
tomorrows began with a kiss.