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Chapter Four
Conflict Express
The rest of September passed with little to note except for the damp chill that promised a miserable winter. On most days, Fleur lit the fireplaces in her office, classroom, and apartment. Other than the chill, she was enjoying her time at Hogwarts, and the popularity of French club surprised her; four more students attended the second meeting and five, the third.
But that presented a different problem. Fleur only knew a few recipes, and of those, just two were easy to make in large quantities. Her bread conundrum occasioned an international call across the Floo Network.
"Gabby!"
The little girl beamed and dropped to her knees before the fireplace. "Fleur! When are you coming home?"
"Halloween. Is that soon enough?"
"Yay!" Gabrielle clapped her hands.
"Have you been good?"
"No!"
Fleur rolled her eyes. "You get away with everything!"
"Yep!" Gabrielle then changed topics with the speed of a typical nine-year-old. "Do you have a boyfriend yet?"
"Go get your maman."
"Answer me!"
Fleur pursed her lips and squinted at her little sister. "No, I don't have a boyfriend."
"What about that guy you danced with?"
"I haven't spoken to him since the ball."
"And the bank guy?"
"Not him, either."
Gabby's follow up questions always came in threes—it was one of those oddities that endeared her to Fleur. She waited for the final question before asking Gabby to fetch Apolline again.
Gabby's face lit up. "'Arry Potter! He didn't smell like flobberworms last year, how about him?"
Fleur rolled her eyes again. "Go!"
Gabrielle scampered away, giggling, and a few seconds later, her mother appeared.
"Fleur? Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"How're classes going?"
Fleur decided to ignore the question. The quicker she got the recipe book, the sooner she could close the Floo connection. "I need grandma's bread recipes. Do you have them by chance?"
"They're in the kitchen, hold on."
Apolline left, only for Jansen to take her spot.
"How are the robes holding up?"
"Good, and very comfortable," Fleur admitted. "I haven't had to use the winter ones yet, either."
"I'd hope not, it's only the first of October."
"Yeah, well, you can't tell around here."
"It's because you're so far north." He paused for a second. "I know it's not my place, and there's much history between you and Apolline, but she's worried about you. It wouldn't hurt to talk with her a little, would it? Maybe it will provide her some comfort."
Fleur's stomach knotted; her eyes narrowed. "Comfort? Sure, wait a second so I can grab a bottle of Firewhisky and dump it down her throat," Fleur glared at her stepfather. "It's all the comfort she ever needed."
Jansen sighed. "That was a long time—"
"Don't! You weren't there."
"I wasn't, but you can't go on like this."
"No?" Her lip curled. "Watch me. She's lucky I'm still speaking to her."
"Fleur, please, listen to me. Bitterness can eat you from the inside until it destroys you, and I don't want to see that happen."
She snorted. "Why not? Apolline would get her perfect little family with no reminders of the daughter she's pissed on, and you wouldn't have to worry about controlling your desire to pound me in the ass!"
"Fleur!"
She looked beyond her stunned stepfather to find her so-called mother standing there, a fresh copy of an old recipe book in her hands. "Just toss it into the fireplace, and I'll get out of your life."
But Apolline set the book on the mantel instead. "I've had it with your attitude."
"And I care, why?"
"You're a professor now. It's time to grow up."
A mocking smile spread across Fleur's face. "Oh, how precious, you're trying to play mother again."
Apolline froze, except for her quivering bottom lip. "How often must I apologize for something in the past?"
"As if you've ever apologized. And it may be the past for you, but I still live it every day!"
"That's your choice, just like it's your choice to shove my face in it every chance you get," her mother yelled. "And I'm sick of it. Move on."
"Like you moved on to a new husband and a perfect little daughter you get to be best-mommy-in-the-world with, and then dote all over her as if it somehow makes up for what you did to me?"
A whimper caught Fleur's attention. She looked behind Apolline and found her sister, jaw dropped and wide-eyed.
"Gabby! I didn't mean—"
But her little sister fled the room.
Apolline grabbed the recipe book and tossed it at Fleur, then went after Gabrielle.
Fleur turned to her stepfather, only to realize he had left as well. She closed the Floo Network and stomped into her kitchen.
An hour later, flour covered the counter, the floor, the sink, and Fleur. She hefted a large ball of dough into the air, then slammed it against the surface. Cupboards vibrated with the impact.
How dare she tell me to get over it!
I bet she doesn't even remember the night she was so drunk she broke my arm and Uncle had to come heal me!
Her cupboards rattled again.
And what about when she fell and knocked me into the fireplace! I had burn-blisters for a month! And now, she expects me to act like it's all okay?
A knock interrupted her.
"Come in," she barked.
Hermione stepped through the doorway and dropped Fleur's books on the table, just as Fleur slammed the dough against the counter again.
"Are you okay?" Hermione asked.
Fleur spun on her heel. "It's none of your business, and why are those books thrown there?" A small voice in the back of Fleur's head reminded her to reign in her temper, but she ignored it. "In France, we use a bookshelf. You should try it."
Hermione's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, she gathered the books back up and shelved them before speaking. "I could come back later if this isn't a good time."
Dough slammed against the counter again, knocking a plate into the sink with a crash.
"You do that!" she said, then pounded the dough three or four more times before catching herself.
She turned back to Hermione but didn't see her.
"'Ermione?"
Only then did she notice the door opened to the outer hall. Hermione had quietly left while Fleur's back had been turned.
She slumped down to the floor, her back against the cabinets, and buried her face in flour-covered hands. Can this day get any worse?
It could, and it did. French club had to contend with ten, three-foot-long clubs that bore little resemblance to bread. And, worse yet, Hermione never showed.
When the meeting let out, Fleur pondered heading to Gryffindor tower, but with the way her night was going, she'd just make it worse. Instead, she found Septima. And, an hour later, they sat in Fleur's office eating pastries that Septima had liberated from the kitchen.
". . . At least you proved you could still be a bitch. That has to be worth something."
Fleur threw the rest of her crumpet at the witch.
"What's got you so worked up?"
"The woman claiming to be my mother."
"Claiming?"
"Yeah, well, she was at one point, but it's not worth discussing."
Septima opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged before banishing crumbs from her lap and changing the subject. "I can't believe Quidditch season begins in a few weeks. I missed it last year."
"How good is it?" Fleur asked. "I don't mind watching, but I get bored if it's not a good game."
Septima helped herself to the last treacle tart. "Unlike the European leagues, a decent portion of the British professionals are home-grown, and since we're the only school in Britain . . ." she trailed off. "Not that you could tell from our last World Cup team. Then again, we lost our best Seeker in a generation to the bloody dragons in Romania. At least his replacement is on the way."
Not that Fleur cared about England's Quidditch team, but the conversation kept her mind occupied. "Who's that?"
"Harry Potter."
Fleur choked, shooting Treacle Tart crumbs across her desk.
Septima raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so red?"
"My pissant of a little sister asked me if I was dating him earlier. Don't get any ideas. She was just listing all the wizards she knew over here who were close to my age."
† ~ † ~ †
"I don't know," Fleur said a week later, sitting in the headmaster's office. "After Umbridge gave 'Arry detention, he changed."
The Ministry Witch had tried baiting him into more detentions, but so far, Hermione, Ron, and to everyone's continued surprise, Neville were successful in diverting attention to themselves. It was taking a toll on Gryffindor's house points, however, as they now occupied the last place. No wonder Snape was in a good mood—strike that—a less foul mood these days. "Could it be regular teenage wizard stuff?"
"It's possible," Minerva said. "If you add in rumors around Cedric's death and what happened in the graveyard. It never ceases to amaze me how vicious students can be."
"That they are." Albus stared beyond Fleur to a large, spinning cube on top of a bookshelf. "Sadly, I believe it's more than a schoolmate's death; Tom Riddle may have access to Harry's mind."
Fleur noted Minerva's fingers turned white against the armrests of her chair.
"Why haven't you informed me of this?"
"It was conjecture at first, so, I tasked the house elves to watch him as he slept. They reported disturbing news to me this afternoon, and now, I fear I am right, and worse, he may be affecting Harry in other ways."
"What other ways?" Fleur asked.
The indomitable headmaster's eyes shifted from the spinning gadget to bore in on Fleur. "There is a—a link would be the best way to describe it—between them created the night Tom Riddle attempted Harry's death. If I am correct, which, unfortunately, I usually am, Tom is directly or indirectly affecting Harry's emotions through it. If it is indirect, Tom may not yet know, but if he ever learns, he'll exploit any such weakness. It's time we educate our young wizard in the mind arts."
Fleur reflected on the discussion they had a few weeks ago. "Alright, I'll teach him, but it really shouldn't be just he and I."
"Me," Minerva corrected.
"Pardon?"
"Sorry, force of habit," she apologized. "But it's me in the predicate. And I agree, it shouldn't be the two of you alone."
"What if I invited 'Ermione and Ron?"
Minerva shook her head. "Hermione picks things up fast, and then immediately begins correcting the other two. If I understand the mind arts, such interaction would only hinder Harry."
"You're right," Albus agreed. "But, Harry doesn't have to be the only student. Let us hold off on this discussion, however, until later. For now, we shall dismiss our Beauxbatons professor"—he tipped his head in her direction—"and move on to the Ministry's latest desire to educate our students."
Fleur took her cue and rose. "Before I leave, how serious should we take the Ministry's Educational Decrees?"
"Very," Minerva said. "We'll discuss it more this afternoon. Stop by after observing Defense, if you would. We'll figure out your Occlumency lessons with Harry as well."
An hour later, Fleur and Boudicca were again watching the Defense class.
"Dolores Umbridge better hope I never figure out how to cast a curse from this painting."
Fleur glanced at Boudicca, floating six feet above the classroom floor, but said nothing.
Below them, Umbridge continued lecturing her students. "All right, class, say the words with me again: 'Subsisto Ignes.'"
They did, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that Umbridge ignored.
"Superb. Now, that's a much more useful defensive spell."
Hermione raised her hand. "What good is learning about a spell if we don't practice casting it?"
"You'll have plenty of time to practice it throughout your life, although I must admit, it's a shame it's too late for Cedric Diggory to learn."
Up popped Harry's head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Fleur sighed. "'Ere we go again."
"The Flame Stopping Spell would have been beneficial in the first task; do you disagree?"
Harry mumbled and slumped in his seat.
"It would not have helped in the second task, however, and as for his fate in the third, well, no spell can forestall an accident."
Harry sat up again. "Cedric's death was no accident."
"Come now," Umbridge countered. "You needn't blame yourself."
Hermione touched Harry's shoulder, but he ignored her. "Blame myself? I told Fudge that Pettigrew was alive at the end of my third year! Why didn't the Ministry do something about him?"
A dangerous light flashed in Umbridge's eyes. "The Ministry has neither the time nor resources to chase people who died over a decade ago." She leveled a glare at him. "Only liars and madmen see dead people. Which one are you?"
Ron, on Harry's right, cleared his throat. "So, you're saying you can't see Professor Binns?"
"What?"
"The professor is a ghost," he clarified. "Each house has a ghost as well."
"I'm well aware of that."
"So, they're dead, but we see them every day."
Umbridge glared. "I don't remember giving you permission to speak." She focused once more on Harry. "This foolishness needs to end. It's time you stopped spreading lies—"
"Lies?" Harry shot up out of his seat. "I heard Voldemort order Peter Pettigrew to kill Cedric! I don't care what you—"
"Harry!" Hermione yanked him into his seat by his arm, ripping his robe's stitching.
"Tut tut," Umbridge's bubblegum voice belied baneful words. "You dare insult a professor? Perhaps another lesson in truth-telling would—"
"Oh, close your hole!" Ron interrupted again. "You couldn't grasp the truth if it chomped down on your fat arse."
A bright red flush overtook Umbridge's plump cheeks. "How dare you! I am the Undersecretary of the Ministry!"
"But I thought you wanted the truth?" he shot back. "So, here's two more truths: you're a bloody incompetent professor, and your class is a joke."
Most of Gryffindor and half of Slytherin gazed at Ron in awe. Hermione, however, watched wide-eyed and dumb-struck as Ron lifted his textbook.
"What are we going to read when we're finished with this? Incompetence, and How I Obtained It by Dolores Umbridge?"
"Out!" she screamed. "Out of my classroom, now!"
"Fine, I'll head to the library and get your other book. The Larger the Arse, the Greater the Farce."
Umbridge trembled with rage. "A hundred points from Gryffindor and I'll see you for a week's detention, you got that?"
Ron shoved his books in his bag. "Yeah, I got it. I'm not a blooming idiot; I don't work for Fudge as undersecretary."
A collective gasp sounded followed by a pink spell sizzling at Ron's head. He ducked just in time.
Fleur sprinted into the hall and down the stairs, hitting the first-floor landing as the end-of-class bell rung. Students poured from their rooms. She had to fight upstream to Umbridge's class, but gave up halfway there and instead, sidestepped a gaggle of third-year girls to hop on a bench.
Her charges were ten yards away, safe, thankfully. She started towards them, but they turned into another hallway. She followed, then stopped when Umbridge's voice echoed from the classroom.
"I'll yank his Prefect badge; that'll shame him. Good luck getting a job at the Ministry after that, Ronald Weasley!"
"Um, Professor," a witch began. Her voice sounded familiar, but Fleur couldn't place it. "Only heads of house or the headmaster may revoke a Prefect's position."
"What?"
"She's right," a second witch agreed. "Our first year, his brother was a Prefect. The seventh years in our house wanted to get rid of him, they researched it and learned they couldn't."
"Well, we'll see about that!"
A door slammed a few seconds later, followed by the two girls emerging from the room.
Fleur recognized the Slytherins from her class—and French club.
"You're leaving late. Trouble?"
"Not ours, but, yeah, I guess so," Tracey said.
Daphne hoisted her backpack onto a shoulder. "I can't believe I agree with a Gryffindor, let alone Ron Weasley." She shrugged. "Come on, I don't want to be late to our next class. Have a good day, Professor."
"Enjoy class." Fleur walked back up the stairs to her classroom to fetch Boudicca, then started back to her office. But halfway there, she heard voices from an intersecting hall and stopped.
"Well, I . . . Look, you're right," Hermione was saying. "But you can't do that. I don't care how bad she is!"
"Can't do what?" Fleur asked as Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned the corner.
They stopped in their tracks. "Um, nothing, Professor," Harry answered.
She noted Ron's anger still boiled. Hermione, on the other hand, reflected a Scottish winter's warmth.
"I 'eard two other students discussing Professor Umbridge's class. Would you care to explain, Ron?"
"Not particularly, Professor. I need to get books for my next class if you'll excuse me." He stepped around her and left.
Harry glanced at his friend's retreating back. "I should . . ."
She waved him passed. "Go ahead, I'd like to speak with 'Ermione a moment anyway, if we can."
Harry shot the young witch a look. Only after her barely perceptible nod did he leave. Fleur watched him round a corner before turning back to Hermione.
"I—"
"I'm meeting a study group in the library, may I be excused?" she asked.
Fleur took a deep breath to control her rising anger. "I want to talk with you sometime soon, but if this isn't convenient, I understand."
Hermione offered a noncommittal sure, then hurried away, leaving Fleur staring at her back and wondering if she had ruined her chances of befriending the witch.
Probably.
Frustration surged, but she only had herself to blame, so instead of wallowing in it, Fleur headed to Gryffindor's Head of House—who would not be happy with the day's events.
Not happy at all, Fleur thought an hour later sitting in Minerva's office, listening to her rant. Thankfully, they had already settled the issue of Harry's Mind-arts lessons—she'd start teaching him the following Thursday.
". . . And if I thought Mr. Weasley would survive the aftermath, I'd give his mother a visit. It's like he's trying to get expelled," the older witch finished.
"Is that possible?"
Minerva took a breath and settled herself. "No, thank Merlin. It's not. The Board of Governors decided thirty years ago that expelling students from Hogwarts would drive them to the Muggle world since we're the only magical school in the Kingdom. Ireland has one, of course, but it's only for Irish wizards. Seamus Finnegan can't even attend because his whole family is Loyalist."
"Wasn't Hagrid expelled?"
"Years before the rule went into effect, unfortunately."
"Ah, so what will happen to Ronald?"
"Little to nothing. And Dolores can't remove him from class, either. It's a mandatory subject for fifth years." She stopped and pegged Fleur with a stare. "That goes for you, too. None of your younger students may be removed. Truth be told, if Lucius had pressed, he could have had Draco re-enrolled in your class as well. Please remember that in the future."
"I will. But honestly, I still think it was the right thing to do."
"It probably was, which is half the problem. And, speaking of problems, we've received an official Request for Removal from a parent. Would you like to guess who it is from?"
Fleur didn't have to guess. "What do I do about it?"
"Nothing," Minerva said. "It's a token gesture, at best, and Lucius is aware of it after his years on the board. But you would do well to remember that someone with his connections has noticed you. So, be cautious this weekend with Tonks."
"Always."
"Good. By the way, has Dolores observed your class yet?"
"No. Should I be expecting her?"
"I'm not sure. Your position makes you almost untouchable. Regardless, keep a close eye on the decrees. That whole bit about becoming Grand Inquisitor is disturbing."
"I will," Fleur promised. "But, I thought she was High Inquisitor."
"Ever read The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky?"
"No."
"She's a Grand Inquisitor, regardless of what she calls it. And that reminds me, Rubeus is back, so I need to warn him as well—probably should do it now while I'm thinking about it." Minerva rose and reached for a thick robe hanging in the corner.
"One last thing. As a Gryffindor, you're required to cheer our Quidditch team to victory next week."
Fleur stood. "I swear, 'Ogwarts is addicted to the sport."
"And proudly," Minerva answered as they left.
† ~ † ~ †
Three days later, Fleur grew nervous as the evening approached. Teaching the Mind Arts was a serious affair, and painful for the learner. She arrived a half-hour early with Septima and built a fire, hoping to chase the evening chill from her classroom. "Thanks for doing this with me."
Septima eased back in her conjured chair on the other side of the fireplace. "What are friends for? Besides, I haven't spent much time around Harry. So, it'll be interesting to watch him interact in a more intimate setting."
Fleur put the poker away and faced her friend. "Remember, Occlumency is hard without any distractions, and the two of us are already distracting enough for him, we need not add more."
"Are you admitting I'm a distraction?" Septima batted her eyes.
"Sod off."
"I see you're getting more familiar with English, you're not missing as many h sounds as you used to, either."
Fleur dropped on her stool behind the lectern and pulled a book from her bag and placed it on a small table. "Sorry. I'm a little nervous, to be honest. I've never taught Occlumency, and I hope I don't screw it up."
"You'll be fine."
The classroom door opened, and Harry entered. "Professor?"
Fleur noticed his wand hidden in his sleeve, ready to drop at a moment's notice. She gestured to his arm. "You can put that away. I take it you received the 'eadmaster's letter?"
He nodded.
"Good. Professor Vector will observe our lessons since she too is interested in the mind arts."
Septima shot a look at Fleur, then leaned forward and waved. "I hope my being here is okay."
"I guess."
"Let's get started," Fleur said. "Pull up a seat."
"What do you know about Occlumency?" she asked once he had made himself comfortable.
"I've heard of it. One of last year's books mentioned it."
"Can you remember anything it said?"
"Just that it's good to learn if you want to protect yourself."
"It is, and the 'eadmaster believes it is a good idea to train you with everything that's happened over the last few months. They—he and Professor McGonagall—thought you might learn better from me than Professor Snape."
The corner of his lip twitched.
"A word of warning: there are two ways to teach Occlumency. The first is subtle and takes years to learn, and it's not that effective. The second is brutal and feels like someone's kicking you in the head the entire lesson. That's how I learned, and how I intend to teach you. Are you all right with that?"
He shrugged. "Better than learning from Snape."
Fleur let the breach of student-professor etiquette pass and instead, raised her wand. "Legilimens!"
She intended to jump in, give him a small taste of the art, then back out so his mind could begin building its natural defenses. But his mind was wide open, missing even the most natural barriers. Fuzzy images of Voldemort floated by, followed by clearer images, beginning with Cedric's body. Then, a bedroom with inverted locks. Harry in pain and bleeding with a quill in hand. Memory after memory raced by, each as bad or worse than the previous, and Fleur was overwhelmed with all that she saw. A basilisk and a little girl, a mirror and a possessed prof—
"Fleur! Fleur, stop! You're hurting him!"
She pulled back and cut off the spell. Harry slumped to the floor, his scar bright red and set in a pasty canvas of skin.
"What . . . what was that?" he managed.
Fleur didn't answer. She tried to understand the images and emotions that poured through her spell, but couldn't even process them. So, she defaulted to what she knew best.
Bitchy Fleur. "Potter!" She set her fists firm against her hips. "If that's your best effort, we have a long journey ahead. Your mind is too easy!"
His face flushed. "It'd help if you told me what we were doing first!"
"I did! Occlumency training, remember? Now, clear your mind. Push aside your thoughts and cram your emotions down. If someone can sense either, they can tug on a thought or emotion like a piece of yarn from a blanket, unraveling the entire thing and stealing every secret in your head. Now, get ready.
"Legilimens!"
This time she eased in, trying to pick off memories before sensing a flash of emotion. She followed it to find a cute little third-year witch on a broom smiling at Harry as someone yelled at him to run over her. The scene jumped to her rejecting him for the Yule Ball, explaining that she was going with Cedric. It jumped again, and now they were facing each other. Tears welled in Cho Chang's eyes. Her friends glared at him as he tried to explain what happened. Then, everything turned black.
Fleur blinked and found Harry lying on the floor again.
"Rennervate!"
"You must do better than that," she said when he awoke.
"Tell me how and I would!" he snapped back.
She crossed her arms. "It doesn't work that way. You learn by building a resistance to someone drawing your memories up, just like a child learns how to resist getting sick by getting sick. Take a couple seconds and relax, then we'll start again."
When he was ready—and in his chair—Fleur raised her wand a third time. "Empty your mind. Push your thoughts away and don't let me pull them up.
"Legilimens!"
At least a slight resistance greeted her this time, but it was less than she'd hoped for on her third try. Harry's natural defenses should have worked harder to push her out.
Something sparked, and she moved toward a memory.
Before her, the Gryffindor common room materialized. Hermione sat on a run-down red sofa facing a fireplace with books spread along the coffee table. Harry, perched on the edge of the couch next to her and his books untouched, rubbed his hands together. "He should've been back by now."
Hermione glanced up from her notes. "Your detentions with Umbridge last four hours, he should almost be finished."
"I still don't get why he did that." Harry stood and paced. "He knew what Umbridge would do."
"Ron was protecting you."
He turned and glared. "From what?"
Hermione put her book down and returned Harry's glare. Fleur got the distinct impression she wanted to say, "From yourself," but she could tell Harry missed it.
The tension broke as Ron slid out from the portrait hole. The memory faded, but before it did, Fleur glimpsed Ron, blood dripping from his hand.
She dropped the spell.
"What was that about?"
"Nothing. He scraped it against the stone wall while cleaning her office."
She crossed her arms. "That is not what I saw."
"Then I'm getting better at blocking you."
"You think so? Let's try again."
Harry raised a hand, palm forward. "I've had enough for the night."
"This isn't a game!"
His jaw clenched. "You don't have to tell me that."
"Then let's go again."
"Fine," Harry answered. "But you asked for it."
Fleur's disappointment abounded as she sank through his thoughts before picking at one. Then, suddenly, a wave of memories flooded her—memories she never wanted to see: preteen wizards in the showers, changing for Quidditch, getting ready for bed. It shifted, and Fleur felt Harry losing control of the images he pushed at her. And then, undulating shadows churned and a face appeared, unrecognizable and colorless at first. Was this Voldemort? Her heart thrummed as the image took shape and emerged from the steam, and the rest of her body followed.
It was her—scantily dressed and soaking wet. This wasn't Voldemort, it was Harry's fantasy!
She ripped herself from his mind and tried wiping the picture from her head even as the smell of institutional shampoo lingered in her nose.
Harry fell to the floor, red and gasping. "What did you . . ."
"Nothing," she said. "You lost control, which is why that method is never taught."
A moment of quiet had passed before he spoke again. "Is the lesson over?"
"I think so."
"Good." He ran for the door.
"What was that about?" Septima asked.
"Like he said, nothing."
Septima glanced at Harry's retreating back. "I doubt that."
† ~ † ~ †
Fleur finished her lecture a few minutes early the next week. "Since this weekend holds the season's first Quidditch match, I'll take mercy on you. Eight inches of parchment on your final assessments of Vehomin, but remember to include all three species: werewolves, vampires, andghosts. And be sure to discuss the similarities and distinctions of the conversion process a human undergoes to become a Vehomin class Sentient Being. You're dismissed."
The usual rustling of bags and restarted conversations filled the room. She ignored them and made her way through the narrow pit.
"Harry, would you stay for a moment?"
He blushed and refused to make eye-contact. Then again, he hadn't made eye-contact all through class. "Um, yeah, sure."
Hermione and Ron hesitated.
"Go on, I'll catch up with you in a second," he assured them.
Thankfully, Boudicca's frame rested by the lectern; close enough to witness, but far enough not to hear.
Fleur waited until the door closed. "I wanted to talk to you about our Occlumency lessons."
Harry's head dropped. "I—I'm sorry, I never meant . . . I don't even know how that happened."
"Images and memories are linked in our subconscious, but how they're linked is a mystery. Overloading an attacker with them is a dangerous countermove because we don't know what will be pulled up. Once you lost control, I could have pulled the memory that was forming when I cut off the spell and seen everything connected to it, or even jumped to other memory sets. It is why you will never try that method again, okay?"
His head bounced back and forth.
She let it sink in before continuing. "And, 'Arry?"
He peered up at her, his face blazing and horrified.
"I stopped the memory the second I saw my face. So, except that I now know you thought about me last fall, nothing has changed." It wasn't the full truth, but she had to give him something to cling to and move past the other night.
"Thank you, Professor." He shoved his books and quill into his bag and started to leave the room.
"Oh, and one other thing?"
He turned around and faced her again.
"Good luck in tomorrow's match. Since I'm a Gryffindor now—you better catch the snitch!"
"Yes, Professor," he answered, looking her in the eyes for the first time. "That, at least, is something I'm good at."
"You'll get better at Occlumency, too. It just takes practice. We'll get you there."
