"How were your classes, Mr. Potter?" Harry fidgeted in the chair. It was a straight-backed, narrow thing with no armrests, impossible to find comfort in.
"Good. Well, pretty regular, actually. Professor Binns put his classes to sleep, Neville melted a hole through his cauldron with an improper amount of fire dust in his Gibbot's Elixer-" The antidote to Spattergroit, mess it up and I shall infect you with it and see how well your mixture fares. Harry idly recalled, mimicking Snape's sneering voice in his head. "-and Umbridge-"
"Professor Umbridge." Harry pointedly ignored her correction.
"-acted like I didn't exist. Literally. I had to attach my essay to Ron's before she would collect it."
"Why do you think that is, Harry?"
"I don't want to talk about that."
That was one of the rules governing their conversations, agreed to mutually. He didn't have to talk about something if he didn't want to. But she'll mark it as an issue and bring it up next time, Harry mentally finished.
It had been over three weeks since his eruption in the DADA classroom. Harry stoically ignored the harsh whispers and stares not-quite-behind his back, the expected social repercussions of his loss of control. Everywhere he went, people seemed to suddenly encounter pressing matters that required their presence elsewhere.
Hermione was always a few seats away in class, a couple of steps in front or back of him in the corridors, an invisible wall separating them. She ignored him in a manner similar to Umbridge, avoiding eye contact, speaking as little as possible to answer, and leaving quickly enough to stress the line that would deem her retreat rude.
Ron stayed with him, but his closeness felt more token then genuine. There were long silences between Harry and the bloke his considered his best friend, and their few exchanges were strained. Harry had a very difficult time fighting off the persistent thought that he had essentially rewound to a time before Hogwarts, when there was only him, a dark cupboard and a world of cruelty outside of it.
"Very well. How is your life outside of class?"
Harry scowled, knowing that Madam Pomfrey could not see it with his back turned. It had been her suggestion for him to face the wall, so it would be less uncomfortable for him to be 'confronting his feelings', as she put it. What life? Harry was sorelytempted to retort.
To be fair - something which he was not particularly inclined to at the moment ñ McGonagall had warned him there would be punishment. It didn't stop the ban from Quidditch and Hogsmeade visits 'until further notice' from stinging any less. Harry would have rather had endured detentions until he grew a beard than have his two favorite pastimes taken from him.
However, Madam Pomfrey wasn't responsible for any of it and he refused to vent it on her, 'confronting his feelings' be damned.
"Fine."
There was a brief pause, as if the elderly Mediwitch were examining his terseness and seeing through it. Harry studied the lines in the stone of the wall and tried to remember when exactly this hour of therapy was over.
This mystery was solved by her next words. "That will be all, Mr. Potter." Harry rose from his chair, stretching, and turned around. He blinked, a new entrant to the room catching by surprise.
"Fleur?" It just slipped out, before confusion and slight anger took over. "I thought you said these were private." Harry said, a bit harshly, nearly glaring at Madam Pomfrey.
"Mr. Potter, don't fret yourself. Ms. Delacour is here as an observer, bound by the same confidentiality agreement that I am."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Fleur was already there to block him. "I do not speak during ze session, 'arry. I am only observing ze Madam's method. It is as if I am not even zere."
He caught her eyes, two bright sapphires staring expectantly at him. Though Harry was still reluctant and not favorable to the idea of spilling his guts to someone so close to his own age, he shut his mouth.
Dear Harry,
See? As I foretold, you arrived safe and sound from the clutches of your enemy. But I fear that I have only fulfilled half of my promise. Come to Hogsmeade, to the Shrieking Shack. Your questions can be answered there.
Yours,
Lucienne
P.S. : Do keep those glasses on. We wouldn't want any accidents to occur, would we?
Harry reread the note for what seemed like the tenth time. As he read, the edges crinkled under frustrated fingers. He had been thrilled, delighted, exultant when the letter came. Finally, fucking finally, he could ask someone about these powers. And about the damned Voice, too...
But that was before he found every effort to make it to said answers thwarted.
Normally, the ban on his movement by his Head of House wouldn't have been a problem; He owned an Invisibility Cloak, after all. But every night, every single fucking night, he muttered those magical words, solemnly swearing to be up to no good, and found Filch standing right outside the chamber room entrance. Literally, right outside. Leaving no chance for suspicion, considering there was only one student in Gryffindor with a means of invisibility and penchant for leaving at late hours.
Harry wanted to scream in frustration. He had no way of knowing whether Lucienne was even still waiting, now, nor any way of contacting her considering the lack of return address on the letter - or any knowledge beyond her first name.
Faced with frustration, annoyance, and mounting desperation, he turned to the only possible source on veela he had.
Harry was nearing the door of the Hospital Wing when he heard muffled shouting, and the sound of crashing objects. Nonplussed, he curiously moved forward to press his ear to the door, but was halted as the door burst open of its own accord. Fred and George Weasley darted out of the gap, grinning ear to ear and hastily dodging several metal bedpans that were pursuing them, swatting at them and hovering like angry hornets.
"So that's a yes for this weekend, love!" George hollered, ducking under a vicious swing from a bedpan.
"Sortez d'ici, vous des dÈbiles!" The enraged shriek was feminine and young, marking it as Fleur.
"Six sounds perfect!" Fred was struck soundly, producing a dull gong. "Ouch!" Behind him, the door shut, drowning off another shout from Fleur.
"I've got it, guys." Harry smiled despite himself, fishing his wand out of his sleeve and pointing it at the magicked bedpans. "Immobilus." The bedpans froze in midair. "Finite Incantem." They dropped to the floor with a clang.
"Many thanks, Harry," Fred said gratefully.
"No problem." Harry collected the pans off of the floor. "She seemed pretty angry," he noted.
"Only at herself." George assured him, puffing out his chest. "You see, when a Weasley man moves to court a woman-"
"-there's absolutely no way she can resist. It's our animal magnetism, you see." Fred nodded sagely. "Am I right, fabulous and handsome brother of mine?"
"Too right, my spectacular and irresistible twin."
"Wow, it seems to be working great so far." Harry smirked. He lifted the bedpans and dangled them. "Are these usually part of the Weasley courting process, or for the mating dance afterward?"
"Oh. Yes, those..." George tapped his chin. "It is quite the paradox we face," he said thoughtfully.
"No paradox here, Fred." Fred told his brother, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Why, she must have simply taken in too much of our manly musk and gone mad!"
"Aha!" George crowed. "A genius you are, George, to have deduced that."
"No more than you, Fred."
Harry chuckled. He had missed light-hearted banter like this. Harry grasped the handle of the door. "Any tips for me?"
"Bite her on the neck, it's a good way to show dominance. Do the ear if you can reach it."
"No, no, pulling the hair is much better for that."
"Hair-pulling? Fred, my brother, are you mad? That'll set her right off!"
"Nonsense. There's nothing wrong with some good old fashioned hair-pulling, birds love the classics."
"You're a loony."
"I'm loony? Well, I say, I have some things to contest about your particular methods..."
The twins' banter eventually faded to complete silence. Harry laughed softly in the quiet of the corridor, before pulling open the door and going inside.
The Hospital Wing was nearly vacant, save Madam Pomfrey, tending to Neville, who was staring in a terrified manner at the other female on the opposite side of the room, Fleur, who was changing the sheets on a bed with a decidedly stormy look on her face. Harry noted with definite alarm that her wand was out, emitting spurts of silvery sparks tinged with volcanic red every few seconds.
At the sound of the door, Fleur looked up from her work, her lips curled, before she recognized him, and her expression softened - slightly. Harry dangled the bedpans, a questioning look on his face.
"Thank you." Fleur said stiffly, accepting the bedpans and returning them to their homes.
Harry verbalized his question.
"That was quite the reaction," he said carefully, watching her expression tauten.
She tore the dirty sheets rather roughly off of the bed. "Idiots like zem come in here every day, just to bozzer me. Zey are a dime a dozen, and I am used to zis. 'Owever, last week, zey have wised up, and started coming with actual injuries." Fleur's eyes narrowed. "Self-inflicted! Wasting zeir and my time! Zose idiots actually were a bit more clever, zey cursed eachother so I couldn't dismiss zeir claims zat zey were pranked. I swear..." She didn't finish her sentence, her growl dwindling off. It was obvious from the agitated effect her accent had on her English that she was quite vexed.
"The Weasley Twins are alright guys, just a bit...er, mischevious." Harry spoke up, defending them.
"Mischievous? Oh, I will give zem mischief, those stupid, troublesome..." Her full lips tightened. "I am sorry, I am pushing my problems off on you. What was it you needed?"
"..." Harry was silent a moment. Now, actually with expectant face in front of him, his idea seemed a bit foolish. Still, he forged onwards. "Your grandmother was a veela, right?"
Fleur's shoulders rose a little. "...yes, why?"
"Did she...?" Weak. This is a stupid connection, a weak one. So what if her grandmother was a veela? It doesn't mean she knows anything. Harry floundered for what to say. ...it's my only link. Got to try. "How much do you know about veela? Personally?"
"Some," she said slowly. "Why do you ask?"
Now, what was that story I thought up...? "My grades are usually a little behind in History of Magic. I was thinking about doing an extra credit project."Harry said, giving himself a pat on the back as Fleur's tension seemed to fade.
"Oh. Well, I am not ze best person to ask about ze history of veela. I only know a leetle, since I am only a quarter veela. I only know a bit of practical knowledge, how to manage my small amount of veela magic and such. I am barely connected to zeir society." She kept her attention on her task, bundling up the sheet and tossing it into one of the laundry bags, before removing a cleaner one from under the bed. "You would have better luck in a textbook."
Harry blinked, having went searching for gold and discovered a diamond.
"The practical knowledge could be helpful too," he said quickly, almost blurting it out.
"How is practical knowledge of veela magic useful in History of Magic?"
Oops. Err... "Our usual teacher for Care of Magical Creatures ñ Hagrid, big fellow, remember him ñ is absent this year. The replacement, Professor Grubbly-Plank, is alright, but I'm not used to her teaching method. I might want to be ready for extra work if I need to." Will this hold water?
For a moment, it seemed like it wouldn't. Fleur looked at him with a sharp eye, as if he had transformed into a Hogwarts ghost and she could see right past him. But then, she cocked her head sideways, and said, "I only have ze basics, you know. You'd still probably be better off with ze book."
"I'd rather hear it straight from the source," Harry assured her.
"Fleur? Fleur, will you get-oh, blast it all." Madam Pomfrey's mutter drew both of the teenagers' attention to her, where one of the larger boils on Neville had burst, coating her smock and the floor with yellowish pus. Neville bowed his head in red-faced shame and offered something that might have been an apology. "Fleur, you had best get a lancing needle ñ and a bucket. It seems we are dealing with Eurasian Bubotuber pus. I told Pomona that breed was unnecessary, but..."
"Yes, Madam." Platinum hair slid out from where she had tucked it behind her ears as Fleur bobbed her head demurely. She shook her head quickly to clear her vision. "We shall have to finish zis conversation later, 'arry." Fleur withdrew a quill from one of her pockets and tapped it with her wand, Transfiguring it into a rather long and sharp-looking needle.
"When?"
"Fleur!" The Mediwitch's voice was waspish and harried at the same time.
"Later." Fleur hissed. A wide pail flew from the closet at the back of the room, and she scooped it up under one arm. "Ze Astronomy Tower, tonight, in a few hours. Now go!" Fleur shooed him with one hand.
And in Greece, upon the banks of the Asopus River, a celebration raged, spirits soaring ever higher as the sun sank below the horizon. Women and men beautiful beyond mortal right danced and sang. The best wine and food affordable (and no funds were spared) flowed like water, begetting cheer, excitement, and lust. Thick incense hung heavy like a smog upon the large gathering of colorful pavillions and canopies, blurring vision and inhibition in a single breath. The Great Daedala came only once every sixty years, and as such, nothing was held back.
Quickly, the man named Alkaios pushed his way through the thick crowds of his kin. He found himself touching more flesh than clothing. All around him, veela raged, nearly out of control. There was very little regulation on this day, and when the sun fell, it would vanish completely. Alkaios himself shivered slightly in anticipation. Night...night was when the festival truly began.
Many times as he slipped his way through the crowd, he found himself touched, prodded, caressed, and outright groped in ways that would be considered scandalous and improper in society. Luried offers were made, blunt invitations that would leave most civilized people reeling in shock. But as was everything on that night, it was for the simple purpose of fun and enjoyment, and Alkaios smiled politely and declined. Inwardly, he yearned to join them, but a stronger, more important purpose held his attention like a vice, and his will held like steel as he was buffeted by veela auras from all around him.
Overlooking them all stood a towering statue, tall and imposing, in the center of the vast expanse of tents, sculpted into the visage of a stern woman, clad majestically in fine cloth and wearing a high, cylindrical crown, bearing a pomegranate in one hand. Hera Argeia, the All-Mother. Alkaios kept a steady eye on it through the multicolored haze of incense.
As he neared the center, the crowds became sparser and sparser. It was unwritten, yet stronger than ink upon paper, law that the First Matriarch was not to be disturbed until the sun went down, to allow her time for quiet preparation. Alkaios only dared due to direct orders delivered from her own exalted lips, and still felt uncomfortable as he passed the large wooden podium raised before the All-Mother's statue, where her new avatar on earth would be chosen that night, the newest person to assume the title of First Matriarch of the Veela Nation, the Mother.
Inside the tent, Alkaios was surprised ñ and outraged ñ to find her not alone, but with company. Human company. His lip curled with indignation as he looked upon the man seated on one of the fine chairs, finding the newcomer's own long blond hair akin to an insult in and of itself. The expensive robes and almost undoubtedly ornamental snake-headed cane only served to further lower his opinion of the mysterious wizard.
The Mother, snow-haired and even more stunning adorned with the white and gold Robes of Passing, smiled gently at him. As always, her eyes were soft, luminescent orbs of pale white. "Alkaios." Her lilting voice was warm and inviting. "Young Lucius has decided to pay us a visit, again. Why don't you introduce yourself?"
"Milord." Alkaios bowed just a hair too short, not quite enough to meet civility. The Mother's knowing smile only widened. "I am Alkaios. I am the Mother's servant." He kept his introduction short and terse.
The wizard ñ Lucius Malfoy, now he could recognize him, after a second glance ñ only nodded quickly, dabbing at his forehead with a green handkerchief. He seemed to be sweating slightly. Alkaios briefly wondered how many potions he had to have taken in order not to go mad the minute he stepped within ten miles of the gathering.
Suddenly, Lucius's hand shifted, and Alkaios caught a flash of light upon precious stones, quite a few of them. Diamonds. Ah. So that's how he avoided temptation. The human is knowledgeable.
"I shall have the donation sent to Elisaveta then, Mother?" Alkaios wrinkled his nose at the familiar address of the Honored Second.
"My son, my son, you need not bring gold every time you come to see me." The Mother chided him gently, smiling. "I want only for your company."
"My apologies."
"You are much like your father. Of course, Abraxas became much more agreeable once he was married. Tell me, how does he like those peacocks I sent him?"
The wizard blinked, momentarily surprised. Lucius wet his lips. "He...enjoyed them, very much, Mother. There are still many left on the Manor. My father paid for the best caretakers."
"Enjoyed?" A frown momentarily appeared on the Mother's face, before it vanished. "Oh, yes. He died, did he not?"
"Yes, Mother. You attended his funeral."
"Dear me, I suppose it truly is my time to Pass. My memories are such a mess these days..." The Mother laughed softly, before her expression became regretful. "Lucius, I wish we could talk more, but the sun is nearly gone."
"But of course, Mother." The wizard nearly leapt out of his seat. It was clear he was eager to depart. "My apologies for keeping you so long. I will leave the premises immediately."
A spark of wisdom, Alkaios thought. Or perhaps survival instinct.
"Come see me, after my Passing. I would love to talk further then."
"Yes, Mother." The wizard said quickly, drawing his long fur-lined over-robes around himself on his way out the door.
"Oh ñ and Lucius." With obvious reluctance, Lucius paused in the flaps of the tent. The Mother smiled serenely at him. "Please inform your master that my allegiance is not a slot machine. You will not get lucky if you keep coming back with more Galleons. My children will take no part in a wizard's war."
Lucius's mouth instantly snapped open, perhaps to issue a reflexive denial, but whatever it may have been, Alkaios watched it die with pleasure in the human's throat as he stared into the bright glow of the Mother's eyes.
"A mother always knows, Lucius," she said quietly. Death's silence fell upon the tent. For all their innocence, the Mother's words sounded as much an ultimatum as a platitude. Abruptly, Lucius's mouth snapped shut, and he turned and stalked out of the tent. Not a second later, a crack was heard, like a ruler slammed hard upon a desktop. The wizard was gone. Alkaios released his grip on his hidden weapon.
He turned to the Mother. "Mother, I-"
A jubilant horn sounded, and in recognition of the signal shouts abruptly enlivened the camp, howls of glee and exultation that heightened until they were nearly deafening. A steady drumbeat began, pulsing like the heart of a giant, to be heard all around the camp. The Mother sighed and rose from her seat.
"You may give me your report after the ceremony, my son," she said, in a tone that allowed no room for argument. Alkaios merely nodded, the idea of complaining never crossing his mind.
Harry shivered atop the tall battlements of the Astronomy Tower. The first frost had come a few days ago, and the weather seemed to celebrate an early start to winter. He watched his breath freeze in the air, white trails of vapor, and thought that he should have asked Fleur to be more specific about the time, so he wouldn't be waiting out here like an idiot, so cold that it felt like he was going to get frostbite in his -
The door of the tower creaked loudly. Harry turned hopefully to the door. Ernie MacMillian poked his head out, and seeing the scowl of disappointment, blanched and shut the door immediately after. Harry shuffled his feet, wriggling his toes to keep them warm. Growing impatient, he cast a Warming Charm on himself, spurning the warnings about its artificial comfort.
Harry shifted restlessly.
Why was Hermione acting so distantly? Could she suspect something? Harry recalled his one brief encounter with veela aura, at the Quidditch World Cup. All he had remembered was a warm feeling, and suddenly finding himself about to jump off the rafters. She wouldn't remember anything she said. I haven't slipped up except the DADA incident, so...Harry considered ...she probably doesn't suspect me. Or at least, doesn't suspect me to be anything other than human, which is the crucial part.
More importantly, what was he going to do about Filch? He needed to get to Hogsmeade. Believing that Fleur's 'basics' might be enough to control his rampant powers was straining optimism to the point of lunacy. Why was Filch stationed outside the Common Room so often, anyway?
Engrossed in the dilemmas dominating his thoughts as he was, Harry jerked violently as a hand rested his shoulder. Fleur was standing behind him, wrapped up in a thick fur-trimmed robe, staring at him inquisitively.
"How long were you waiting? You have no color." Fleur moved her hand to his cheek, fingertips pressed gently against the skin. Harry moved back, his entire face flushing quickly. "You are like ice. Yet not shivering. Warming Charm?"
"Got it in one." Harry said, quelling a nervous laugh.
Fleur drew out her wand and poked him in the forehead. Instantly, he felt the freezing chill come back, twice as strong.
"H-hey!" He stammered, his teeth already starting to chatter.
The French witch ignored him and rapped him smartly on the top of her head with her wand, before quickly waving a circle around it. He opened his mouth to protest ñ at least Hermione made a pretense of courtesy before she bossed him around, Fleur just did it ñ before he felt a long, warm rush of heat. Curiously, he watched as color returned to his fingers.
"Ze real Warming Charm, it is a bit more complex." Fleur stowed her wand away, smiling slightly. "Perhaps you will learn it next year, when zat horrid Ministry woman is not here, non?"
"Maybe," Harry said agreeably. He reached into his robes and produced a notebook and charmed quill, making the former float with a swish and flick and a muttered incantation. As soon as the quill touched the paper, it stood vertically, as if poised by an invisible hand. "So, err-"
On the paper, the quill quickly scribbled So, err.
Fleur turned to face the lake. "Veela magic does not resemble ours in any way you would immediately recognize." Her voice was flat and emotionless, as if she was concentrating on getting this over as quickly as possible using the least amount of words. "Zere are no words, no incantations or wand movements. No magical tools at all, for zat matter. Zere is only emotion."
"...sort of like accidental magic." Harry said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He watched her subtly shift her weight, perhaps an involuntary reflex to keep herself warm. Or perhaps a sign of displeasure. I'm over-analyzing. Probably.
"Parallels can be drawn, yes, in zat both can use sudden bursts of emotions as fuel. But that is where ze similarity ends." Fleur's arms disappeared in front of her as she crossed her arms under her breasts. "Human magic is versatile, and virtually limitless in what shape it can be twisted into, what effects it can produce. With veela magic, not so much. Zere are only three branches of magic." She turned back to him. Harry wondered if she was aware of the bitter look on her face. "Floga, Soma, Parousia." Fleur's mouth twisted, as if the words tasted foul in her mouth.
"I'm sorry?"
"It is Greek. Flame, Body, Presence. Ze formal terms for our branches of magic. You know of our abilities, non?"
"I've seen a veela throw fire and...morph into a bird-ish...form." Harry winced inwardly at his own inability to properly phrase his memory. "I've also been under the aura once or twice, too. That would be the Flame, Body and Presence, in that order, right?"
"Yes." Her eyes flashed downwards briefly in ñ shame? Guilt? Some other tumultuous emotion? "As I am only a quarter veela, I know nothing of Soma, seeing as I am unable to assume the true form. I apologize."
"Don't worry about it." Harry said reassuringly, sensing issues that the former champion did not want pressed. Some kind of stigma attached? Or does she just wish she could? he silently wondered.
"I am, however, endowed with ze aura, and can ñ barely ñ access ze flame."
"Let's start with the aura." It was the only one he had had positively no luck with. "Is there a ceremony, or is it just a mind-trick you use, or something?
Fleur leaned back against the steely-grey stone of the Astronomy Tower. "It was mostly mental exercises," she admitted. "Imagine yourself in a bubble, zen pulling inwards or 'Pretend you are a chasm, pulling every thing into your depths. Since I have so little aura, I never needed much more zen zat."
The quill scratched furiously against the parchment. "And the flame?"
"Oh, zat." There was venom in her voice. "She who taught me was always going on about zat." Fleur removed one hand from the crook of her elbow and clenched it into a fist. Slowly, she opened it, as if pulling the air apart. A small, greenish-blue flame burst to life in her palm. Harry was mesmerized. "Zis is ze largest I could ever make. My teacher was very disappointed, let me tell you. Embrace the flame, pull it into yourself, she always said, Imagine yourself a flower, opening your petals to ze sun." Fleur said, her tone exaggerated and mocking. It was obvious she thought little of her teacher.
"Embrace?" It sounded like a mad notion. "Embrace a flame? Wouldn't it be a better idea to...I dunno, control it? Seize it? So it can't burn anyone you don't want it to?" That was how he had done it. "Wouldn't it just burn you from the inside out?"
"You are talking about forcing ze flame." Fleur shook her head firmly. "Zat is ze very first thing we are taught never to do. Veela can burn zemselves, badly, if zey attempt to muscle zeir way into Floga. No, the flame demands ze utmost caution, and must be gently guided in ze direction you want."
Harry remained silent, contemplating this.
Fleur's advice had seemed completely logical up unto this point, but no matter what perspective Harry took, trying to draw in the flame in the manner she described seemed like a bad idea. For one, his way had been working fine. In fact, it had been when he had tried to calm down, let go of his control over his emotions, that he had been seared. And secondly, it just felt wrong. The notion of leaving his fate to the whims of a fire, subjecting himself to an magical force whose purpose was solely to destroy, struck him as counter-intuitive.
Could the methods used to access Floga differ depending on gender? For that matter, could they be different with Soma and Parousia, too? Had this entire exchange been rendered pointless? Frustration built, and Harry's question slipped out without thinking.
"Fleur, have you ever met any veela named Lucienne?"
Perhaps it was the bluntness and oddity of the question, but Fleur's face went blank for a few seconds. With shock? Surprise? Am I over-analyzing again? Harry could not help it, as he watched her compose an answer.
"Lucienne is a common French name, 'arry. And zere are many veela in France."
That would make sense. But why was Fleur so flustered by the question? Did she know her personally? Or was he just now grasping at straws, now that the value of all her information had been placed in doubt?
"Why?"
Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid... "Just wondering. I think I heard the name in a history book somewhere." Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, yanked the door of the Astronomy Tower open and grasping his wand. "Accio." The floating notebook and quill flew to hand. "Thanks you for help. Have a nice night."
The torches upon the walls of the winding stairs cast dancing shadows as he passed them. A total bust. Or was it? Harry wondered. Nothing more to be done at the moment, I suppose. I still need to find a way past Filch, though...but there's nothing to be done for that, either. Ugh. An odd thought wandered into his head. I wonder what Fred and George would think of me, having a night-time rendezvous with Fleur Delacour. On the Astronomy Tower, no less...heh.
A lightning bolt of inspiration struck him, connecting the two thoughts. A grin rose fiercely upon his face, and he quickened his steps.
Harry waited with baited breath, his Invisibility Cloak draped around him and an ear to the way out of the Common Room. He fought the urge to shake with excitement, but did nothing to dissuade the eager smile that had stayed firmly on his face the entire evening.
The Twins had been dubious of the idea, but Harry still had plenty of gold left over in his vault. Harry had noticed how money had a way of erasing doubts and subverting reasoning in the Weasley family, and the theory proved true once again. Harry stared down at the Marauder's Map, watching as the two dots labeled Fred Weasley and George Weasley came closer and closer to the corner of the corridor of the Fat Lady, where Argus Filch moved around sluggishly, and -
A loud ruckus erupted outside the Common Room. Harry counted the sound of a few Dungbombs, and the ignition of some minor Filibuster Fireworks, before his knowledge of the magical joke goods ran dry. Harry heard Filch curse wildly, and watched as the crotchety Squib's dot pursued the swifter dots of the Weasley Twins down the corridor. Wishing his two rulebreakers-in-arms good luck, Harry pulled the portrait aside and disappeared into the corridors of a slumbering Hogwarts.
Everyone watched the Mother ascend the platform at the All-Mother's feet, the rest of the Matriarchs in a circle behind her in robes of plain white.
Those that could not see from the ground transformed and watched from the air. Most of the males watched from the ground, powerless to take flight as they were, and the females respectfullyascended into the air. Every single veela present could see the Honorable First as she knelt before the burning altar, and waited. Baited breath did not begin to describe the tension in the air; the males could have very well walked upon it.
No one knew precisely when the Passing would come, but they could taste its nearing presence in the air. The moon was high and glaring in the sky, and it was impossible to predict what position was its exact zenith, even with their enhanced eyesight. For nearly an hour they had already been waiting, motionless but for the movement of their wings. The temperature was unfelt, none of the assembled ranks reacting to to the unforgiving heat.
The fire gave a particularly fitful pop, sending a tongue of viridian flame arcing into the sky. There was almost a collective indrawn breath as the fire sorted itself out. It had been nothing, merely timber collapsing as it supplied fuel until it could give no more. T
heir attention did not wane.
Abruptly, like the snap of a finger, the green fire exploded from its fragile confines, a terrific gout of flame scorching the sky and lighting the entire small army of veela like a sustained firework birst. A low sound began among the ranks of the veela, a growl, a low hiss, rising steadily in volume and pitch.
The Passing had arrived.
The Mother lurched to her feet, drawn by invisible puppet strings. Her eyes, no longer pale, glowed a fierce, blinding white, and when she opened her mouth, light emanated from there as well, drowning out whatever scream or passionate cry she might have voiced. The light built within her, her skin slowly glowing, warming up. Then, the brilliant light exploded from her every pore. The light poured out of her body like an unstoppable flood, lifting her up onto the tips of her toes. Then, just as it seemed the light would keep on coming unto infinity, the Mother form collapsed to the wood of the altar, a glassy-eyed corpse. No one paid attention to the body. It was insignificant blood and bone now, a spent and soulless vessel.
The low sound that had begun earlier had reached its peak, veela screaming, thrashing, howling, sobbing, on their knees, staring up in rapturous terror and awe at the enormous body of light that now floated above them, a shifting, changing mass.
The Mother of Veela, in her true form. The souls and minds of all the veela that had ever lived, gathered and meshed together in a single, flawless being. The deity's presence was palpable in the air like water, in the roiling emotions that rattled the trembling frames of every veela present.
It towered above them for several moments, bathing them with light and power, almost hesitant. The noise continued below, as the precious few veela minds that retained some semblance of sanity entertained a single question. Who? Who would be the next to house their Mother's presence?
Many would be surprised afterwards, as one of the veela floating in the air, near the bottom of the large cylinder that surrounded the statue of Hera Argeia, suddenly jerked, her breath leaving her in a whoosh and her golden eyes going cloudy white. The veela near her all moved away, watching as her body suddenly arched in a spasm, suspended in the air despite the fact that her wings had stopped beating. Most of the time, it was one of the Matriarchs that was chosen as the next vessel. But veela chosen outside the ruling body was not unheard of, in cases of particular strength or potential.
The Mother of Veela stiffened in the air, as well, before the lights swirled up into a river, and shot towards the new chosen avatar. The new Mother's arms opened wide to receive it.
Suddenly, from the crowds on the ground, rivulets of green light shot upwards, catching the newly chosen Mother in midair. The excitement and euphoria of the veela gathered turned to screams and shrieks of agony and grief as the vessel fell to earth, and landed, spread-eagled on the ground, like a dead bird, the lights following her downwards.
The veelas' horror turned to rage, which turned inwards upon themselves. Soon, the mass of veela became a snarling riot, limbs thrashing around, searching for the offenders, flailing desperately to try and inflict the full punishment of their sin upon them. The once-organized people had become a roiling sea of anarchy and animals.
That was, until a titanic aura came crashing down upon all of them, like the fist of an angry god.
All those near enough found their eyes drawn inexorably to the broken form of the new Mother, who rose anew from the ground, eyes glowing brightly in the darkness, with mud and sternness mixed on her face. Cries of joy strangled in the throat were all that even the strongest-willed veela could manage, crushed flat as they were under her colossal parousia.
"HUMANS, REVEAL YOURSELVES."
The voice reverberated throughout the crowd of veela, each hearing the Mother's voice as if it were from a loudspeaker planted on the inside of their skulls. There was the soft sound of Invisibility Cloaks fluttering to the ground, and suddenly, there were males present who had not been visible before. Human males.
"STAND ASIDE, MY CHILDREN."
The veela all parted, stepping away from the wizards who stood rooted to their respective spots, all staring blankly at the Mother, as if she were the only person, only thing that existed in the entirety of the world. A thousand upon a thousand eyes watched as she approached the nearest wizard, a stocky, young fellow of sandy hair and brown eyes. He held a wand loosely in one hand, but there was no threat of him using it. Upon his chest,was a tunic embroidered with dozens of large, weighty diamonds. As the Mother approached, each precious stone cracked, and fell from the shirt, turning to sparkling dust before they hit the ground.
"Who sent you here, my child?" The Mother asked, her voice, even quiet as it was, warped by her parousia.
The human blinked blearily. When he spoke, his voice held a strong English accent. "I...don't know."
"Can you remember anything?"
He smiled innocently. "Pretty red lights."
The Mother sighed, her sternness fading to sorrow as she stared at the Imperius-ed man. "You are going to die now, my child," she informed him sadly.
His lips twitched downwards for a fraction of a second ñ some glimmer of what he truly thought of the idea under all the weight of her aura ñ before he smiled again. "Okay. Will it hurt?" The man's voice was filled with childish curiosity.
The Mother reigned in her parousia, bundling it into a tight sphere as she had done so many times before, and turned away.
"Considerably." She answered.
The Mother then walked away, towards her tent, leaving the helpless assassins to the whims of her children. It didn't take long for the screaming to follow her.
Halfway through the tunnel under the Whomping Willow, heading towards the Shrieking Shack, Harry abruptly screamed and collapsed, as pain unlike anything, anything, he had ever felt before coursed through him like a flood. Thinking back on it later, he would equate the sensation to what he thought death would feel like.
The pain vanished eerily quickly, leaving behind only the memory and a headache, which was comforted by a sudden cold rush as the Voice, which had been uncharacteristically silent for quite a while, hopped aboard his consciousness.
"What...what the hell was that?" The Voice answered with extreme satisfaction.
A good start.
It took a good couple of hours before Alkaios judged himself recovered enough to disentangle himself from the heap of warm bodies he woke up in, and another good half-hour before he could conquer his terrible hangover to the point where he could stumble his way towards the Mother's tent, his head buzzing with pain and panic. There several veela like him, strong of body and mind, that were wandering around too, and they let him pass without comment, recognizing him on sight, or perhaps too sore themselves to care.
He found her preparing her morning tea ñ blueberry, for some reason, it was always blueberry tea ñ humming contentedly under her breath. Alkaios gathered his wits, trying to formulate a method of telling how wrong it was that she was so relaxed the day after she had nearly been killed, but was cut off, as she glanced at him and smiled wryly.
"In a hurry are we, my son?"
Alkaios looked down at himself, and felt whatever was left of his dignity shrivel up and die an ignominous death. He had been in such a hurry to reach the Mother that he had come in what he had fell asleep in. Which was nothing. He squeezed his eyelids shut, and tried to ignore his embarrassment in order to address the issue at hand.
"There's a robe on the chair."
Of course, it would be much easier to remain professional while clothed. Alkaios snatched the robe and wrapped it around himself. He was the Mother's personal servant and spymaster. He would not blush like a downy hatchling.
"Mother, are you well?" He asked, distinctly feeling the dent in his pride as he asked.
"Hm? Oh, you mean last night." The First waved a hand. "People have been trying to kill me for years. It's nothing to fret over. Though, I must say, that was the most successful attempt they've made so far. They could have chosen a better spell, however."
Alkaios felt his gut twist into a hard knot of guilt and self-loathing. The Mother sent him a stern look.
"It must have been that wizard's master." He muttered darkly. "His arrival was too coincidential to be anything else. Those men were positioned too close to the altar, and you know how difficult it is to get a place that near. The human must have been distracting you in order to give them time to move in." Meanwhile, his fce was getting steadily darker and darker. That human has just earned himself an appointment with me.
"None of that, now. There's no need to get rude. I'll have you know, I am in perfect health. Of course-" She added, glancing at herself, raising one arm and lifting one of her own now richly golden locks of hair. "-I will have to pound this new body into shape. I chose young Faye here for her potential, not for her existing skill."
"Of course, Mother," Alkaios said, breathing deeply, running through a quick mental exercise. He tucked away Lucius Malfoy for another time. "I will work on tracking down those behind this at once."
"Yes, you will," The Mother replied bluntly. "Now, I believe you had something to tell me, last night, did you not?"
Alkaios pulled the details of his previous assignment to his mind. "Yes. And it is as you suspected. The situation in France has not changed." A brief flicker of disgust came and left. "The previous Honorable Third, the Lady Delacour, still rules in all but name. The new Honorable Third is nothing but her puppet. The living conditions of my brethren have not changed."
"Was that all? Carry on then. We need to identify who sent those assassins. I suspect the Dark Lord, moody young brat as he is, but this seems a tad too obtuse to be him. Also, I somewhat doubt he would try to shine my palms with gold and then try to stab me in the back. Unless perhaps Lucius was trying to warn me, or perhaps sway me before it became neccesary...hm..."
Alkaios blinked at the sudden dismissal. Feeling indignation rise up before he could quell it, he spoke. "Will you simply let it go? Mother, what she does to them is torture, it's-!"
"Alkaios!" Her voice was like a whiplash, and for all of his years he jumped. Her brow was set in a hard line, that could have made and had made men much harder than him quail. "I have never intruded upon how my eldest daughters look after their own children, and I do not intend to start now. You will mind your place."
"Y...yes, Mother. Forgive me." He whispered, mortified.
"You know your duty," she snapped.
Alkaios made a passable rendition of a bow, before turning to leave. Just as quickly, the Mother called him back.
"Alkaios?" Her voice suddenly had lost all traces of ire, and was now vague and flighty. But that was her; moods came and left the Mother like quicksilver. "Do you think it at all...ominous, that such a successful attempt took place on the day of the Great Daedala, our most sacred holiday?" She sounded for all the world as if she were making idle conversation.
He licked his lips. "I do not place worth in baseless superstition, Mother; I am already paranoid enough as it is." Alkaios joked weakly.
He was unnerved when the Mother did not respond, merely lifting her teacup, examining the fine blue cornflowers painted on the rim.
"Hm...well, start your search in Britain. Determine whether it truly was the Dark Lord that organized this attempt upon my life, for if it is, then we will very soon be at war." She spoke casually, but there was a definite hard note, where there had not before. The Mother was angry.
"Yes, Mother."
What else could one say in the face of an enraged goddess?