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Chapter Ten
Outcomes
Harry woke up with searing headache, though, this time, it had nothing to do with his scar. The source of this headache was two-fold; a result of copious amounts of alcohol and lying awake half the night, his emotions pulling him in opposite directions over Fleur.
The former was easy to solve, at least in the long-term. He'd stick to butterbeer and wine. The latter however, wasn't so easy.
Harry rolled over in bed and moaned. "I am never doing that again."
He fought the queasy feeling and let his mind drift, hoping to ignore the hangover. . .
. . . Before Fleur, it was simple. He was "The Boy Who Lived," not that he cared about title, but the reality behind it had centered his life; he would always find and be found by Voldemort until, one day, one killed the other. Harry didn't need a prophecy to tell him that. The day Hermione, Ron, and he saved the Philosopher's stone, he knew where his life would lead . . . and to whom.
But it sure as hell wasn't a blond-haired, blue-eyed French witch, nor was it lying in a bed in France daydreaming about her. What beautiful dreams they were; he had captured her heart and abandoned all that lay behind him in Britain. Harry would live his life and every day his greatest challenge would be making Fleur laugh and giggle and blush as they grew old together, raising a family where every child was loved; there wasn't even a damn closet under the stairs, let alone a lock on one.
The dreamed future was perfect, but at what point would the current reality destroy it? The prophecy was real and he couldn't run from his destiny—from his nightmare. The hellish vision broke through his enchanted daydream every time: a land once fair now lying in smoke and ruin as Harry looked on over the bodies of those he slew; some nameless place becoming a field of retribution for the killing grounds that had become Hogwarts. This future ended with Harry reaching into his magical core and releasing it in one last murderous explosion, taking Voldemort with him into whatever blackened afterlife remained for the two Dark Lords. There was no mucking about in this future; Harry always ended up a Dark Lord in order to exact the revenge promised against Voldemort on account of the growing number of dead bodies that had once been his friends.
"Hmpht." He took a deep breath, calming himself and willing the gagging to go away.
He so wanted the daydream, but knew the nightmare was his future—and he had to walk it alone. So, why then, was he unable to command his thoughts and feelings away from Fleur? Why was he being driven by something deep within himself to reach for something else that he knew should have been there his whole life—but wasn't until . . . when? Until he lay in a cave and Fleur wrapped her body over his, reaching out to him through her magic to protect him and replacing his nightmares with dreams of a blond-haired angel.
A smile spread across his face at the memory of the dreams.
What dreams they were—Fleur and Harry on a beach, the wind blowing, and no one around for miles as Fleur's ministrations gradually grew more and more intimate. How many times last night did he think about taking all his Galleons from his vault and making that dream become real? They could run away from it all, abandoning everything . . . but the prophecy.
Half the night last night, the two futures chased each other round and round in his inebriated brain until Harry seriously thought about Obliviating himself, just to get some rest.
It was no wonder he had a headache this morning, or felt like he was going to—
Harry forced himself out of bed and made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit in the bathtub. He shook his head, retrieved his wand, and cleaned up the mess before showering.
The rest of the morning wasn't any more enjoyable, either. He spent most of it at the edge of the Delacour property, about a hundred yards from the house, rebuilding the rock fence that surrounded the estate. The section he was working on had to be cleared of the loose river-rock, each one weighing a quarter on average, before it could be rebuilt. Harry set to work on the fence after a trip into town for cement powder. He did however, use magic to wet and stir the cement, but other than that it just felt right to put in the physical effort.
Fleur came to get him a little before lunch so he could clean up. They ate on the back patio. Harry spent the afternoon with Fleur, exploring the property and going into town for clothes. Dinner was eaten in the informal dining room again and Harry spent the evening in his apartment, studying late into the night on Horcruxes, Dark Arts, and even looking through a few of the English books on the shelves, including anthologies written by Percy Shelley.
This became the pattern of his life for the next few weeks, with the exception that he sometimes spent the afternoons on wand-work if he came across a spell that couldn't be practiced in his downstairs apartment. Of course, he was smart enough to wait until Fleur wasn't around to practice anything considered dark, which was pretty much everything he was doing now.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Two days later Harry was sitting in a chair on the patio having lunch with Fleur and her mother again. Gabrielle was still in bed, suffering through her transformation. Harry hadn't seen her since that first night, though Fleur said it would be just a few days longer before she could walk around without pain.
Speaking of pain—
"Ouch!" Harry mumbled as he reached for his glass.
"A little sore, 'Arry?" Fleur asked.
"Yeah, since we didn't have Quidditch this year, I'm not used to the physical work."
"That's something I don't understand," Mrs. Delacour began. "If Quidditch is played on a broom, 'ow is it such a physical workout?"
Harry remembered thinking the same thing after his first Quidditch practice. "Do you fly on a broom often, Mrs. Delacour?"
"Not really. I don't have much need anymore. Obviously I 'ave used them in the past."
"When you were on a broom and you wanted to go higher, you pulled up on the broom right?"
"Oui."
"And when you wanted to go left or right, you would lean that way and pulled the broom in the direction at the same time—or push it down when you wanted to land, correct?"
"That is correct, but it didn't take much effort."
"It doesn't, not when you flying normally. But if you're going all out and have to turn on a knut, it takes a lot of upper-body control and what's called core-strength to manipulate a broom at those speeds without falling off. So, if you're a Chaser, your having to both throw the Quaffle and avoid the Bludgers. Seekers have to be able to change directions at top speeds while fighting off the other Seeker. Otherwise, if you're following another Seeker who is doing, say, a Wronski Feint, you end up planting yourself in the ground like the Irish Seeker found out last year. You have to be very strong at the speeds they fly.
"Is that why Krum looked so good in 'is shirts?" Fleur teased.
"I guess," Harry answered, before realizing that she was trying to interject a little humor. "How did he look in his trousers?"
He had a good laugh at the look on Fleur's face, but before he could continue to take the mickey out of her, a fluttering of wings interrupted them.
"Hedwig!" Harry reached out to the owl as it landed on the table, hooted, and jumped on Harry's arm, nipping him on the ears in a show of affection.
Harry took a few seconds to make sure his owl was okay, before taken the letter from it.
"Stand back on the table girl, so I can use both hands."
Hedwig hopped back down to the table and Harry untied the letter.
"YES!" he yelled.
"What?" both Delacour Veelas asked in surprise. Harry almost laughed when he realized Mrs. Delacour was still holding on to the table, her knuckles turning white.
"It's Sirius! He, Remus, and Charlie are still alive! So is Tonks!"
Tears of joy threatened to overflow and Harry had a hard time reading the rest of the letter. "I can't believe it . . . how did . . . ?" He tried blinking a few times to clear them, but it wasn't helpful.
So much for clamping the lid down on his emotions.
Fleur ran her fingers through the back of his hair. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
He didn't get a chance to answer as Hedwig snatched the letter out of his hands with her beak and fluttered over to Fleur.
"Hello, are you okay?" Fleur asked, taking the letter and giving the owl a little of her lunch. "If you're done nipping at 'Arry, our Owlery is at the top of that building over there." She pointed to a building next to the house.
The owl nipped at Fleur lovingly and flew off to the spot she pointed at.
"Sirius says to not use 'Edwig as she is too easy to spot," Fleur read, "much like last year. He also wants to come visit sometime this summer if it's okay with my parents."
Mrs. Delacour nodded. "Is this the Sirius Black that was accused of those murders 'e didn't commit?"
"Yes, Maman, and 'Arry's godfather, and the same person that helped save a bunch of lives at 'Ogwarts, and—"
"It's okay, Mon Fifille, I take your word that he's a good wizard. I was just making sure I was remembering the right person. Of course he can stay if he comes."
"Thank you, Mrs. Delacour." Harry answered, "I guess I should find a way to send a message back to him."
"You don't 'ave to," Fleur said. "Listen to the rest of the letter. 'Someone else will send Pig to you soon and you can reply with 'im. Hope you're doing better in France and remember what we talked about at the Leaky Cauldron."
She folded the letter and put it back into the envelope before giving it to Harry. "You feel better, no?"
He tenderly held the envelope, savoring the news. "I can't believe their live . . . I thought they'd all be dead."
He excused himself a minute or so later and escaped into his apartment for the afternoon.
~ . ~ . ~
Fleur and her mother watched him leave in silence.
"How are you two doing?"
"Pardon?"
Fleur's mother shook her head. "Nice try. I taught you how to read facial expressions and body language. Every time 'Arry walks into a room you tense up and he's uncomfortable sitting next to you, but when you run your fingers through his hair or take his hand, he relaxes almost as if he's taken by your Veela magic."
"You don't think that's what I'm doing, do you?" Fleur asked a little defensively.
"Of course not."
"So if you know everything then, why ask me?" Fleur questioned petulantly, with a look to match.
"You are my daughter. If I see something wrong, I worry. When you have a daughter that you love as much as I love you, you'll understand."
That took the fight out of Fleur. "Sorry, Maman. I guess, the answer is, 'I don't know.' When we were in England, all I could think about was getting here so I could talk to you about him. Now, I wish we were back in England. It all seemed so much easier there."
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
"I don't think it matters now."
"Why not?"
Fleur closed her eyes. "I've already lost my heart to him."
The only response Fleur received was a slight smirk that she saw a few seconds later when she looked back at her mother.
"But I don't know if he feels the same way for me."
Fleur's mother reached over and laid her hand on Fleur's. "I think he feels quite a bit for you. You've noticed how protective of you he is, especially when we go into town."
"He's protective of everyone and that's part of the problem. 'Arry is the type of wizard that would throw himself in front of a Killing Curse for someone he cares about."
"Is that so bad?" her mother asked.
"When there's a war happening and his friends are in the middle of it? When there's an active prophecy that 'Arry will fight against Voldemort and one of them will die? Yes, it is very bad, Maman."
"Ahh, but that's also part of who he is and probably part of what attracted you to him. If it changed, he would be different and I don't think you'd see him in the same way."
"Great," Fleur said sarcastically.
"I've also noticed that he seems hesitant around you, almost afraid, though not quite. Do you know why that would be?"
It was a topic Fleur didn't want to discuss, but who else could she go to for help? Her cousins would be more interested to learn if she had done Harry, not what she did too him. As much as she loved her Papa, this wasn't something she really wanted to talk about with him. Gabrielle was not yet experienced enough to understand, though in a couple more years that'd change—another topic Fleur didn't want to think about now. The only person she could really talk to was her mother. With that decided, Fleur pushed on.
"I think I might. Remember what I told you the morning I came home?"
"Not really. I was too worried about you to think about anyone or anything else."
"I wonder how many times that has happened to him," Fleur mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Do you remember 'Arry telling you about the morning we used the Portkey?"
"Oui."
"He left out the part where we were flying directly over the battle and 'Arry and I were casting curses from his broom—"
"Fleur! Why would—"
"You weren't there! You have no idea what it was like!"
Her mother thought about it for a second and nodded for Fleur to go on.
"The house we were staying at was his best friends' house. The father and six siblings, including his best friend were killed the first night at 'Ogwarts. The night we took the Portkey here, 'Arry and I saw his best friend's mother killed. She was the closest thing he ever had to a mother."
Fleur's mother shook her head, looking down at her hands now in her lap.
"I convinced 'Arry to fly to a safe place and take the Portkey with me—"
"TELL ME you didn't use your Veela magic to do that!"
"No Maman, NOW STOP INTERRUPTING!"
Fleur took a few deep breaths to calm herself. "Sorry for yelling. This is hard enough, please!."
Her mother reached over and took Fleur's hand again. "I won't interrupt again, I promise."
Fleur nodded and waited a few more seconds before she could build up enough courage to continue. "I did something worse. Just before the Portkey activated, Harry let go of it. He wanted to go back to the battle to save what was left of his family. I jumped on him and pushed the Portkey against his neck as it activated.
"We landed here and both fell to the ground. I got up first. And when Harry stood, I. . . I slapped him—hard—across the face. I was scared that he was going to go back and get himself killed, that I was going to lose him, even if he did survive."
Fleur couldn't stay seated any longer, so she got up and gestured for her mother to walk with her.
"Have you explained that to him?" her mother asked as she took Fleur's hand in hers.
They walked into the garden.
"Oui, but the next day, I reached up to touch his cheek and he, he flinched." Fleur choked back the emotions. "He flinched like he thought I was going to hit him again. I knew his relatives didn't treat him right, but I never thought it was that bad." She stopped to face her mother. "Why did I have to hit him? Why did I act like that? I have never something like that before."
"You were scared. I can't condone what you did. I've always believed that if a witch doesn't want her husband to hit her, then she shouldn't hit her husband either, but that doesn't change the fact of how you were feeling at the time."
Fleur started back down the path. "Anyway, that's probably what you see and I don't know how to fix it. I've never cared for someone like this. I've never felt this deeply. I don't even know what to call it."
"I may," her mother hinted.
"Don't say it's love, please?"
"Why? Are you afraid of being in love?" her mother asked, gazing out over the ocean in the distance as they walked.
"No, yes, I don't know."
"Hmm. That clears it up."
Fleur gave her a small laugh and stopped walking as they came upon the newly repaired fence. She dropped her mother's hand and reached out to the wall that Harry had been fixing, running her fingers across the stone. "He's doing it by hand. The only time I see him using magic is to conjure water or stir the goop that he's using. Why would he do that? If he used magic, he'd almost be done. It'll take him all summer this way."
"I can't answer that, but those are the little mysteries that make relationships interesting. Have you asked him?"
Fleur shook her head. "No, I'm afraid that there's a story behind it that'll cause him too much pain. He seems to have a lot of those."
Her mother leaned against a part of the wall that Harry had finished a few days ago. "Listen to me. Some things happen in a wizard's life that he must keep secret. I've learned that from your father. After the first war, he never talked about what happened. I still know only scant details. It seems 'Arry has many similar stories. If you really care for him, then you also have to show him that he can trust you to tell you the stories—without you overreacting."
Fleur quirked an eyebrow at her mother. "So how are you doing with that, Mademoiselle Veela?"
"Moi?"
They both laughed.
"I'm still working on it," she finally answered, "but that doesn't change anything. He needs to be able to trust you."
"Yeah, have you heard his stories though? He fought a sixty-foot basilisk, with a sword. How is a protective Veela not supposed to overreact to that?"
"You're—you're serious, aren't you? A basilisk?"
Fleur grinned at her mother and started walking again. "I saw the memory in a Pensieve. He was only twelve at the time."
"TWELVE?" Apolline Delacour's voice shot through three octaves.
"See what I mean about overreacting? And yeah, twelve. He faced it alone while his best friend's little sister was dying a few feet away."
"I see what you meant the other day about him not being a young boy."
They continued in silence, eventually making the circuit and coming back to the house in the late afternoon. The meeting at the Ministry was set for Friday of the following week.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
"'Arry? Wake up 'Arry." Fleur came into his room and sat on his bed, speaking in a sing-song voice. "'Arry, it's time to wake up."
Harry rolled over and hid beneath the covers.
Fleur smiled and slid them back down. Seeing his eyes still closed, she reached out and drew her fingertips across his cheek. "'We 'ave to go to the Ministry today with Papa."
He moaned.
"Staying up late? Is there something I need to know? You're not taking my gorgeous Veela sister for midnight strolls in the garden, are you?"
Harry rolled back over and gave Fleur his best "are you serious?" look. She started to laugh.
"I haven't even seen her since the first night." He shuddered to her amusement. "I stayed up 'till the early morning reading." He pointed to the books on the nightstand and gave her a sad smile. "Hermione would be proud of me."
Fleur heard the hurt in his voice, but had no idea what to do about it. She settled for sitting on the bed and reading the book titles, recognizing a few. They were classics written by both wizards and Muggles, but she was surprised that her father had a couple of Muggle autobiographies in the house, including one by an American she'd never heard of before.
"I'm impressed, there's not a Quidditch book to be found."
Harry lifted another book off the bed and handed it to her with a smirk. "I can't read French so I just look at the pictures." The smirk turned into a grin as he sat up.
Fleur noticed his facial expressions, the skin around the eyes was relaxed and the smile was more genuine, the set of his shoulders and position of his arms indicating openness. Hoping that maybe they could get beyond whatever it was that still stood between them, she offered her translation services. "The title is: The One-hundred Best-Ever Quidditch Players. Maybe I'll come down and read this to you one night before you go to sleep."
His body language changed immediately. She watched as he almost jumped at the chance before catching himself, mumbling something incoherent and getting out of bed, heading into the bathroom.
She waited, not wanting Harry to see any ill emotions. But as soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she slammed the book down on the bed so hard it to bounce back up almost waist level. Fleur paid it no mind as she stormed out of the room, frustrated and upset at herself—and Harry. Had he not forgiven her yet? What if he never did? What if he never got over it?
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Standing in front of the mirror, now showered and almost dressed, Harry noticed that he was beginning to fill out a little more in the chest and arms. It wasn't too perceptible and the shirts he wore covered it, but working with rocks weighing two and three stone was starting to give him a little bulk and definition.
He put on his shirt and light summer robe that he bought with Fleur's fashion help and thought again about the decision not to cut his hair. He wasn't sure why, but for some reason he'd decided to let it grow. Maybe it was just another example of the minor things in life that really shouldn't bother him anymore in the short time he had left.
Harry waved his wand over his hair to make sure it was dry and tried to tame it with a brush. At least the length weighed it down enough that he didn't have hair sticking up in the back anymore.
He exited the apartment, walking through the hallway, past the library and second downstairs bedroom, and then taking the stairs to meet Mr. Delacour and Fleur in the informal dining room.
"Good morning, 'Arry," Mr. Delacour welcomed him. "Thanks again for coming with me to the Magical Government today.
"Bon matin, Monsieur Delacour, Avec plaisir," Harry said as he sat at the table.
He couldn't help but notice Fleur's surprise and the small smile. Her father called a house elf and Harry ordered breakfast.
"I'm glad to see you're taking an interest in the French language," Mr. Delacour said once the elf left, "but, we say bonjour until it is evening, then it's bonsoir."
"Oh."
"Don't worry 'Arry," her father continued. "There are differences like that in every language. French 'as so many idioms that is difficult to keep track of them sometimes. I take it you found the French grammar book in the library?"
"Yes sir."
"'Arry, please. I have enough gray hair as it is. If you keep calling me sir, I'm afraid the rest will follow. I think my wife 'as already said that you do not need to be so formal around us."
"Sorry, Mr. Delacour, I'm not use to addressing adults informally."
"That's okay, 'Arry. Let's talk about what's going to happen today."
Half an hour later, Harry stepped out of the Floo into a very large hall, almost falling to the Floor before Fleur caught him.
"I think I see why you prefer to fly on your broom, than travel by Portkey or Floo," she teased.
The fire flashed again and Mr. Delacour stepped out of the Floo into a Main Hall that looked to be three times as large as the Great Hall at Hogwarts and at least three stories high.
Harry turned from him to look around, amazed at the marble Floor, walls, and ceiling. Massive tapestries hung from their holders, stacked two high across both walls that ran lengthwise down the hall. The eight outside (four to each side) and four middle (two to each side) tapestries were royal blue, with a red rectangle as its border and a white stripe running from the top left corner to the bottom right. In the middle was a bright, gold Fleur-de-lis. The same design was imprinted in a fifty by one hundred foot section in the middle of the marble Floor.
The other tapestries held designs and pictures of French origins that were lost on Harry. He craned his neck back to look at the ceiling and found a painting of a wizard, a Veela, and a giant moving across it, in deep discussion.
He felt a hand brush against his and looked down to notice Fleur standing next to him. Before he could stop himself, Harry reached for her hand. Fleur took it quickly as she gestured towards the ceiling with her other hand.
"Those are the founding members of the Council of Magicals. It was the first magical government in France, starting at the turn of the last millennium. The council ruled until the first Vulgaire French Republic. The giants sided with the Vulgaire king and the wizards and Veelas sided with the republic. In 1792, the wizards and Veela participated in the Reign of Terror and the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was virtually forgotten. The next year, it extended to the Wizarding world. The wizards and Veelas cleared France of Giants. It is the reason the Giants hate wizards that side with common Muggles and probably why they fought for Voldemort in the last war."
Harry had stopped looking at the ceiling, taken in by the gorgeous, intelligent witch that had been holding his hand. "I had no idea things went back that far. I mean, I always thought it was strange that the giants would side with Voldemort even though they weren't Pureblood wizards."
"There's a lot of 'istory behind the wars, 'Arry. Didn't your 'Istory of Magic professor teach you that?"
"Professor Binns? The ghost? Most of us usually fell asleep in his class."
She rolled her eyes, but the effect was lost in her smile. "Then let me educate you!"
"The French wizards tried to meet and constitute a new government after the first one fell, but they were too selfish. One wizard murdered another at the third meeting of the Council of the Magical Republic in 1804. The whole council—over ninety wizards—turned their wands on each other. The Veelas tried to stop it with their magic, drawing the attention to themselves, but it only made it worse. The Veela magic was so strong that in the wizard's 'atred, they fought each other to claim domination, then turned against the Veelas, raping and killing most of them.
Since then, Veela and 'umans have never been under the same government in France. The wizards have made overtures but the Zekānōt have a very long memory and oppose it. The Magical Government of old is just a memory now."
Harry looked back up at the ceiling. Strange, he thought, I never enjoyed a history lesson this much from Hermione. But an implicit moral to the lesson wasn't lost on him either. The Wizarding world in general had problems, not just Britain, and this wasn't the first time that it had led to war either.
Bu what good was that lesson for him? He really had no control over what was happening. He was just another nameless, faceless person that would barely be remembered in history when the current British war was recounted.
I'm frightfully full of cheer today, aren't I? he thought to himself.
"I have never heard of the Zekānōt. What are they?" Harry asked, hoping for a distraction.
Fleur looked down from the ceiling, seemingly lost in her own thoughts now. "'Who', not 'what'. They are the Veela Elder council. Since the Veela 'as an avian nature as well as a human nature, Veela stay in their flock. You would call it a clan, no? We flock together and the elders of their then make up the council. The flocks and the council have been stable for three millennia. The Zekānōt are the ones who decide which Veela go through the Gegenumenou making them full Veela.
"What in the world is the Gegenemememum- u."
Fleur laughed. "Gegenumenou? The Zekānōttook control of deciding which Veelas get to become "full" Veela in—
"What?" Harry asked, stunned. "You mean you could be full Veela if someone else just decided you should be?" He spat out the last few words, disgusted at what he just heard. People in his homeland were killing each other over being Purebloods and here, his . . . Fleur had been rejected by her people. His anger seethed.
"It's not that simple, 'Arry. There are many Veela who are happy and don't want to go through the ceremony, though it is very seldom turned down if offered. It is a great privilege to be asked to go through the Gegenumenou. There are also many great things about being a full Veela."
Harry shook his head, overwhelmed at the education he was getting. "What's so good about being a full Veela compared to a part Veela?"
Fleur was quiet for a few seconds, looking at the tapestries before she began. "Think of it like this. I have my magic, which is a mix of Veela and 'uman. Every Veela is born with that. Now, if you go through the ceremony, it's like taking a potion that wakes up another part of your magic. Every Veela, down to the eighth generation, has the magic and the ability to become a full Veela if the Zekānōt allows it."
"But why wouldn't they?"
"Were you at the World Cup last year, 'Arry?"
"Yes."
"What 'appened to you when the Veela started dancing?"
Harry blushed and Fleur grinned widely. "Exactly, imagine tens of thousands of full Veela. The 'uman race would end within four centuries—they would all be linked to the Veela, that's if they all didn't kill each other off fighting for a Veela's love."
"Oh."
"That's why there are usually only seven to nine thousand full Veela at any one time and around fifty flocks. The leaders become part of the Zekānōt.
"Flock leaders?" Harry asked, looking around trying to figure out what happened Mr. Delacour. He took some comfort that Fleur didn't seem to worry.
"The Zekānōt are more than just elders. They are the flock leaders, which make them the strongest of their flock. When they become part of the Zekānōt, even more of the Veela magic awakens."
A nasty grin crossed her face. "You've seen me mad. If you were at the World Cup, you've seen just the beginning of an angry full Veela. Be warned, you never want to see a member of the Zekānōt angry."
She had Harry's full attention again. He stopped looking for her father and his curiosity got the better of him. "I guess Hermione rubbed off on me a little too much, because I really want to know why, now."
"You've seen Veela throw fire right? Now imagine a Veela that can still take to the air and hurl fireballs infused with magic that are three and four the times the size of what you saw the full Veelas throw. There are some Veela stories that say the destruction of Atlantis was caused by their king killing a flock of Veelas. The flock leader arrived to find them dead and became angry."
"I thought you said Veelas came from young women being murdered in Eastern Europe or Russia or somewhere?"
"I said that is where some of our legends come from, not where Veela originated, but enough of Veela culture and French history. 'Ave you thought about school this year?"
"Not really," Harry said. "By the way, where is your father?"
"He was met at the Floo and taken away to an emergency meeting, he should be back shortly. Come; let's go to his office.
Still hand in hand, Fleur led Harry to the elevators at the end of the hall. They took it down to the fifth Floor and exited in a room with so many wards, charms, and physical partitions that Harry started feeling claustrophobic as he walked through the center of the room to one of the three offices on the other side.
Fleur put her hand on the door and held it there for a second before it opened. "Papa has it set so that when he's in the building, Maman, Gabrielle, or I can get into his office," she explained.
Harry went in and found it somewhat spacious, with a desk about the same size as Dumbledore's at one end of the room. At the other end was a small fireplace with chairs and tables situated around it. Fleur led him to that end of the room and sat down.
"'Arry, you do not need to go to school. You can 'ire a tutor for most of your subjects. I can even tutor you in Charms and Transfiguration if you want. Beauxbatons tests earlier then Hogwarts. I already finished my Seventh Year tests and scored the highest grade possible in both subjects."
"I don't know," Harry said cautiously, the dream of him on a beach with Fleur began to dance in his thoughts. "Like I said, I haven't really thought about it. I know I need to learn, certain things"—he hoped she didn't hear the slight hesitation—"but I haven't really thought that far."
What's the use? He wondered as the nightmare chased the daydream away again.
The door opened and Mr. Delacour walked in. "Sorry to leave you in the Main Hall."
"Is everything okay Papa?" Fleur asked.
"No, but it's nothing we didn't already know. Anyway, you were supposed to be meeting Philippe and Anselme, but since we're late, we're all going to meet in the Pensieve tenue chambre—excuse me, the Pensieve holding room."
Harry and Fleur followed him out of the office and back to the elevators, which they took to the second Floor. When the doors opened, Harry saw a normal hallway with three doors on the right side, but only one door on the left side, which was the one Mr. Delacour led them to. Harry stepped into the room after Fleur and found it decorated almost to the point of being extravagant.
"They've realized that when people are comfortable, they are able to give memories with the most texture and detail," Mr. Delacour said when he noticed Harry looking around at the furniture.
"Sit down, 'Arry, let me introduce you. This is the Deputy Minister of Security—Foreign."
"Hello, Harry. It is very nice to meet you. Please call me Philippe or if that is too informal for you, Minister Philippe is fine."
"It's nice to meet you, Minister Philippe."
"And this is Anselme," Mr. Delacour continued. "Anselme is the Deputy Ministry of Security—Domestic. I believe it's almost the same position that your Madame Bones 'olds."
"Zhat ees yes," Anselme answered. "I am 'appy to meet you 'Arry. There ees much to know from you. If you are comfortable weeth naming heem Minister Philippe, name me Minister Anselme."
Harry bit his tongue before he corrected the Minister on his English. He realized just how much it must have hurt Mr. Delacour to hear him mangle French.
"It is nice to meet you too, Minister Anselme."
Fleur gave both deputy ministers a hug and then sat down on the couch with Harry, taking his hand again. Harry noticed both men fighting their own grins as they quickly looked up at Mr. Delacour.
"Alright, Harry," Minister Philippe said. "The two young ladies in the room with us are the best Integrative Memory Workers in France. Have you ever used a Pensieve before?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," he answered. "These ladies are going to copy your memories, place them in a Pensieve, and view them. Then, they will synchronize them with anchors—don't asked, I have no idea what it means."
Harry laughed, as did the two young ladies.
"Once they do that, if you would be so kind, we would like you and Fleur to step into the memory with us and give us a commentary."
"Uncle Phil—Minister Philippe," Fleur corrected herself. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea. What happened that night was traumatic and—"
"And they need to know," Harry cut in. "I'm not sure if you need both of us, so Fleur doesn't have to see it again, but since this has pretty much been my life I can probably give you more than enough commentary myself."
Somewhere in Harry's response, he noticed that Fleur had withdrawn her hand and crossed her arms, but he paid it no mind as the two IMW workers stepped forward and began their work of retrieving the memories.
Three hours later, the two workers stepped out of the Pensieve. While both of them had very pretty olive skin, they were currently as white as a ghost. After locking eyes with Harry for a good ten seconds, the taller one turned and spoke to the Ministers.
"The integration is finished and in excellent quality. If you need us for anything else, we'll be at our desks."
The assistant or at least she seemed like the assistant to Harry, began to leave, but the other twenty-something witch stopped in front of him. "If you ever wish to remove those memories permanently from your mind, come to me. I will clean out every one of them. I can replace them completely, or leave you the knowledge, as if you read it in a book so that you know what happened, but don't have the first 'and memory. I will not charge you for the work either."
She waved to the other worker and they both walked out of the office.
Minister Philippe glared at the retreating backs of the workers as he spoke. "Harry, I don't know what's in that Pensieve, but what you were just offered costs on the order of fifteen thousand Galleons—mainly because it is very illegal, except in the most extreme cases and then, only with ICW approval."
He faced Harry. "To offer to remove your memories in front of Anselme alone could get her arrested and she knows that. To offer it for free. . . . What I'm trying to say is, you do not have to revisit the memory."
"I don't understand, Obliviate is heard almost as much in Britain as Accio is," Harry said.
Minister Anselme shook his head, "Non, 'Arry, zhat not what she offered. She said 'remove' not 'Obliviate.'"
He suddenly understood. Instead of blowing up the memory, leaving bits and pieces behind like a bad dream that cannot be remembered but still felt, she would literally remove the memory so he would never have to feel it, think about it, or see it again.
If only life was that easy.
"I'm sorry, 'Arry, but we are on a bit of a tight schedule," Mr. Delacour reminded him. "I think Minister Philippe needs an answer about viewing the memory."
Harry thought about it for a second and then concluded that he needed to see the fully restored memory. Maybe, if he were lucky, he'd be able to see something that would help him the next time he met Voldemort.
"Thank you sir," he said to Minister Philippe, "but if you need commentary, I guess I'm the one that can provide it the best."
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Fleur was sitting at the table in the private room of the restaurant, gazing at a menu and trying to figure out why Harry continued to resist any attempt for her to help him. She was just trying to have him not relive what had to be the worst moments of his life, or at least those that he could remember. Instead, he dove head first into it. Why?
She listened as Uncle Philippe—not her real Uncle, but a very close friend of the family—recounting the memory to the deputy head of her school. At least they were speaking in French so 'Arry didn't have to hear it again.
Shaking her head, Fleur peeked up at Harry and noticed him quickly looking down at his own menu. What was she going to do with him? Despite what she said to her mother, Fleur knew that the word she used was exactly what was beginning to happen.
She was beginning to fall in love.
But why? Did she enjoy taking care of someone? Did she like the feeling of being older and taking control in a relationship in a way other than through her Veela magic? Or was it that he presented a challenge to her?
None of those really represented love, nor did they explain what she felt.
No, this was more like . . . destiny. Fleur snorted. Destiny, like the silly fictional Veela-bonds that half of the Wizarding world reads about in trashy romance novels. Right.
But she wondered if something like that was possible. Not a Veela bond, but rather the fates pushing them together—only to what, see her destined love die at the hands of a Dark Lord? Was that it?
Whatever it was, there was no escaping the fact that Fleur was falling in love with Harry; the way he laughed, the way she caught him looking at her at times, how he blushed, they were all things that had become so important in Fleur's life in the last two weeks—or was it since the Second Task?
Fleur decided that if she had to be honest with herself, it was probably somewhere around March that she started to fall for him.
"Zut," she whispered to herself.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
"Hello, my name is Professor Sirko."
Harry reached across the table and shook his hand before the professor introduced himself to everyone else.
Since three languages were represented now, English was spoken, as it was the only one everyone had in common. Fleur was pulled back to the conversation when she heard Harry's voice answering the professor from Durmstrang.
"Thank you Professor Sirko, but Krum was just as much a hero that night." He turned to the Deputy Head of Beauxbatons. "As was Fleur, they both battled Voldemort and his Death Eaters to save my life."
"And you battled to save their lives, eh?" Professor Sirko asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Why would a person do that?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"A person could walk away. Why go through the entire process? Why not grab a two-four and work on your Molson Muscle instead?"
Harry pulled his eyebrows together, confused. "I don't follow, sir."
"To put it bluntly, why didn't you get your ass out of there and forget about everyone else?"
Harry had to remember to keep control of his anger, but that didn't stop him from addressing the Professor in a clipped voice. "They saved my life, how in the ruddy hell could I have done that?"
"Is that all? Just tit for tat?"
Harry was quickly growing not to like him. "No! It was just . . . I don't know. The right thing to do. Why? Would you have just ran off?" Harry challenged, trying to stare the professor down.
After a tense few seconds, Professor Sirko nodded. "I like you, Harry."
"Pardon?" Harry was definitely confused now.
"I was late because I stopped off at the Government building and watched all the memories before I came here. I watched how you fought; the power, the intensity, I like what I saw; but wanted to know why you did what you did."
"Why should it matter? Harry asked."
"You will find, Harry, that intent is even more important than wand work. So when are you going back to Britain to fight him?"
Harry was dumbfounded, but Fleur came to his rescue. "Why do you think 'e would do a thing like that, Professor?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Why are you going to go back with him?"
The table grew silent, except for the Durmstrang professor chuckling under his breath. "Harry, you don't fight like that only to abandon your home and never go back." He gestured to Fleur. "And you don't fight like that to save your wizard only to let him go on his own back to the very place you had to save him from."
Now, Harry was gobsmacked, and could see that Fleur was as well.
The Professor continued. "Harry, I want you to come to Durmstrang. My apologies if this is in bad form," he said to everyone else, particularly the professor from Beauxbatons. "But I believe I have something at Durmstrang that Harry needs."
"What's that?" Harry interrupted.
"Me, Harry. I know what it's like to go back to your homeland seeking revenge. It's how I ended up as a Professor at Durmstrang."
"Pardon me," Minister Philippe cut in, "but I am very familiar with your 'work' in the Ukraine—including the Dark Arts you used there. I can see why you're a professor at Durmstrang."
Conversation ceased for a few minutes as the waiter came in to take orders, but even he noticed the chilly atmosphere that seemed to settle over the table in the silence. When he'd left, the Professor nodded to Minister Philippe. "I do not deny my body of work in the Ukraine, nor the methods I used. I do however; dispute Durmstrang as a Dark Arts school.
The huffs and 'hrmphs' around the table told Harry that everyone else's opinion was about the same as his.
The professor turned to Mr. Delacour. "Pardon me for being so forward, but I understand that you are married to a half-Veela, correct?"
Sitting to Harry's right, Mr. Delacour stiffened at the question. Harry reached under his table and drew his wand. Whatever was about to happen, Mr. Delacour had opened his home for Harry—and he was Fleur's father.
"Why do you ask," Mr. Delacour said, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Please, I don't mean to offend. A third of Durmstrang's students are from Bulgaria. Do you happen to remember who the Bulgarian National Quidditch team's mascots are?" Professor Sirko inquired.
"Veela," Mr. Delacour answered.
"Yes. Germany, Poland, the Ukraine, and a couple other countries in the area provide another fifty percent of the students. Each of those countries has a far better relationship with the Veela flocks than France, wouldn't you agree?"
Minister Philippe cleared his throat. "Since you have just insulted France and inquired at quite a personal level about both Monsieur Potter's future and Monsieur Delacour's wife, may I suggest you get to the point rather quickly?"
"Yes," the professor continued. "I can see how that would be wise. My point is, there has never been a documented—or even rumored—case of a Veela engaging in the Dark Arts. It is impossible for them as their magic is incompatible, correct?"
Heads around the table nodded. Harry was surprised to see Fleur's nodding as well, though now that he thought more, it did make sense that she knew.
"So explain then, how the school that has a third of its students from a country that idolizes Veela like Bulgaria, and another half filled with students that are brought up in cultures much more accepting of Veela than western Europe, can be a school of the Dark Arts?"
"That would be true," the Beauxbatons professor answered, "if the Dark Arts was about blood purity and their disgusting fallacies about those they call 'half breeds', but the Dark Arts and blood lines have nothing in common, except that the oldest of the Purebloods usually have dabbled, at least, in the Arts."
Professor Sirko shook his head. "A full quarter of the students that come from Bulgaria have some amount of Veela in them. Usually, five to seven percent of the witches are full Veela. You know as well as I do that Veela are uncomfortable around those who practice the Dark Arts. It agitates their magic. So, if the school really promoted Dark Arts, why would any Veela go there? Why would we have so many Bulgarian students?"
"But they have a reputation!" Harry practically yelled.
"Yes," the professor answered him. "A well cultivated one at that. We all know what happened at Hogwarts a couple of weeks ago. The same thing happened at Durmstrang in the forties. After Grindelwald, the Board of Governors decided that it would be a good idea to have a 'talking head'—as our last Headmaster was—so that those who wanted to know about the Dark Arts would have a place to attend and the school might be safer for being perceived as the darkest of the three major European institutions. However, what most people don't know is that we teach not just about the Dark Arts, and how to use a few of them, but also about the damage it does to the soul. How it destroys people and is never worth the path a person has to take to become proficient enough in them.
"No, I think you would find that Durmstrang takes a more 'practical' approach to the Dark Arts, but that practicality is all the way around, including how impractical it is for most people to try and wield them."
He turned to Harry. "You do need to know however, that I have used them. I was born in the Ukraine and immigrated to Canada many, many years ago along with a multitude of other Ukrainians. When the Soviet Union broke up, many of us returned. I stayed in Canada, not wanting to move. My parents and my much, much younger sisters moved back however. Three years ago, I received an owl that all three younger sisters were kidnapped for the sex-slave industry that the post-soviet Ukraine is known to export."
Professor Sirko took in the ministers sitting at the table. "I returned to the Ukraine and hunted down every last damned wizard that was involved. Eventually, I found my sisters, but it was too late for two of them. They were already so addicted to potions that they died while trying to recover. My youngest sister made it, but after finding out just some of what she went through and the nightmares she still has, I often wonder if she wouldn't have been better off dying like her sisters."
He looked back at Harry. "I know the desire you have to go back to your homeland and seek revenge. I know what it's like to own a blood debt and want to collect. I also know the toll it will take on your soul, Harry. A line exists that you must not cross. I can teach you that line if you come to Durmstrang."
Harry lay in bed hours later, with a whole lot more to think about.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
That next evening, Mr. Delacour threatened Harry before he went to bed.
"You will not spend time on the fence tomorrow. I didn't intend for you to literally spend two hours every day working on it."
Of course, the threat was delivered with a scowl covering a grin, so the next morning, Harry wasn't too worried about it, but he thought it wise to obey. That was how he found himself in his little sitting room to the side of his bedroom, reading a book when the sound of a knock on his door surprised him. Fleur was visiting her grandmother so Harry wasn't expecting any visitors
"Come in."
The door opened and to Harry's surprise, Mr. Delacour walked into the sitting room next to his bedroom. "'Arry, I'm headed into town today and wanted to know if you would like to come along."
Harry gave it a moment's thought before agreeing. "I would love to, si—um, I mean, yeah, I would love to."
Mr. Delacour chuckled. "Good, ready to leave then?"
"Not really. Could I have twenty minutes to take a quick shower and change?"
"That should be fine," Mr. Delacour thought aloud. "What book are you reading?"
Harry showed it to him. He was smart enough to study his Dark Art books at night when he knew he wouldn't be bothered.
"That's one scary Vulgaire," he said to Harry. "I read the entire autobiography the weekend I brought it home."
"Vulgaire?" Harry asked.
"I believe you the English phrase is 'Muggle'."
"Oh, okay, that makes sense. Yeah, he is. I had no idea there were people like this. Imagine what he could have done if he had magic?"
"We have some wizards in the French Muggle army that have gone through special forces training like that. They are a scary lot. That man you're reading about, 'owever, is in a completely different class."
Mr. Delacour told Harry he would wait for him in the large main room of the house and left. Harry put the book down, undressed, and climbed into the shower. As the hot water flowed over his body, he thought back to all he had read about the Muggle.
The guy started out as just another kid, but after joining one of the branches of the American military and going through special training, he went with a small group of similarly trained Muggles to some small country in the far-east. The things he did there, the things that man learned, were lessons that Harry needed to include in his own plans, things such as using the geography to his benefit; always doing things differently; copying those he was trying to kill, and always, always use the back door to gain the element of surprise.*
The more Harry thought about it, the more sense it made as well. Twice now, he had conjured snakes in battle. What would happen if he did it again? What if they knew that he would conjure a snake? What if they found a charm that would turn the snake or snakes back on him as soon as they were conjured?
Then there was the idea of being active rather than passive. Take the fight to them, and not waiting for it to come. Harry still couldn't believe a group of Muggles could sneak into a house full of Muggles and take one without waking anyone else up, but by the sounds of it, that's what the guy and his group did and it was very effective.
Harry shut off the shower, stepped out, and dried himself off as he continued to think about what he was reading.
Would it work for Harry? He had magic on his side so he could silence himself and whomever he was after. What would happen if Death Eaters started disappearing out of their homes in the middle of the night, never to be seen again?
Could he do that though? It's one thing to kill someone in a battle, but like that? Then again, weren't they at war already? The only difference between a battle fought which someone else started and one he began, was the fact he was able to choose the place to have it.
Dried and dressed, Harry put it behind him and went upstairs to meet Mr. Delacour, but when he got to the top of the steps, Harry froze.
"Hi, 'Arry." Gabrielle said a little shyly and blushing.
"Hi Gabrielle, are you okay now?"
"I'm getting there. You don't feel any of my magic, do you?"
"Um, no." Harry answered and blushed himself, remembering the night two weeks ago when he saw her. . . Harry blushed even more.
Gabrielle giggled. "I should apologize," she said. "You surprised me and my magic . . . exploded?"
"Ah, yeah, I guess exploded would be a good word for it."
She flashed a brilliant smile at him, still tinged with the blush in her cheeks. "Fleur and I are going to The Wizarding street and Vulgaire Paris in a few days. She thinks I'll be fully in control of my magic by then, so I promise, no more explosions!"
Harry could tell she wasn't trying to flirt. Matter of fact, he could see a lot of the little Gabrielle he had rescued from the lake still. The only problem was that she also had a very adult body and the sweet, cute looks she gave him, were anything but sweet and cute now.
That thought alone convinced him. "Yeah, I'd love to go with the two of you."
He would make sure he had his wand ready, and any male, wizard or Muggle, that came with twenty feet of her was going to get hexed to within an inch of his life.
"So how did you end up at our house 'Arry?"
"Fleur and I, um. . . ."
Gabrielle gasped and jumped at Harry, squeezing him in a big hug. "You're Fleur's boyfriend?"
"No, well, kind of, I guess. I don't know, ask Fleur."
The laughter from the other end of the room caught Harry's attention.
Mr. Delacour addressed Gabrielle in French before asking Harry if he was ready to leave, but he couldn't get out the door without Gabrielle hugging him again and squealing loudly about the possibility of him and Fleur.
An hour later, Harry found himself sitting across an outside table having lunch with Mr. Delacour in the Muggle town of Collioure. He had to admit, the view from the terrace enabling him to look over the bay was breathtaking.
"I want to be honest with you, 'Arry."
He put down his drink, feeling the Bludger coming straight for his head.
"When you first showed up at my house, I didn't know what to think. But seeing what I did in the Pensieve Friday, and the way you've handled yourself around the house with my daughters, I am very impressed."
"Thank you."
Mr. Delacour took a long drink, obviously preparing himself for the next part of the conversation. It made Harry even more nervous.
"Professor Sirko was right, you are going back to England, aren't you?" he asked.
Harry sighed, deeply. "Yes, sir. I can't tell you why, but I have too."
"I know why you think you have to. Fleur told my wife. Don't worry, Apolline may come across a little glib at times, but it covers a very deep, very serious Veela. Your secret is safe with her. The only reason she told me is because she's worried about you."
Harry remained quiet, not knowing what to say.
"Is Fleur going back with you?"
"I'll curse her all the way back to France if she does. There's no reason for her to involve herself." Harry noticed the surprised look. "I take it you thought she would go back with me."
"I did."
"She might try. But please, Mr. Delacour, don't let her. Do everything you can to keep her here."
"Thank you, 'Arry. I do not want to see my daughter involved in a war, especially one over blood purity."
"I tried to get her to leave England before, but she kept staying around. I don't understand why, when she could come home to a place like this."
Mr. Delacour sipped from his glass before answering. "That, I think, is for you to find out for yourself."
"Then I'm doomed. I have no hope to understand witches."
"Welcome to being a wizard—or more likely, welcome to being male."
Harry grunted in amusement.
"Anyway," Mr. Delacour continued, "What I was saying was that I wasn't sure I wanted you to stay with us. I was afraid you would attract Death Eaters and I will not have my family threatened."
A ball of lead formed in Harry's stomach. "I understand, sir. If I can stay tonight, I'll find a new place tomorrow."
Mr. Delacour broke out in laughter. "'Arry, if I kicked you out of my 'ouse, do you think I'd be able to survive the wrath of two—make that three—Veela?"
The ball of lead lessened, but didn't go away.
"I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I know you have no family. I know how much the war has taken from you. Last night Apolline and I agreed that we want to offer our home to you permanently, or at least until the war is over and you are able to catch up with all your schooling and get on with your life. Also, the offer isn't contingent on your relationship with my daughter."
"I . . . thanks, I guess. I really don't"—he paused for a moment—"I'm sorry, Mr. Delacour. I can't accept your offer."
"Why not?"
"You know what happened to my parents, or the Weasleys? People around me die, Mr. Delacour. It's the reason I don't want Fleur to follow me back to England. It's why I am going to face Voldemort alone when the time comes."
"Alone? No, 'Arry. If you face him alone you will only assure that you will die alone. You will tell me when you are planning to face him."
"Why? So you can come across the Channel and be killed like everyone else?"
"You speak as if I have not seen war. Look back up towards my 'ouse. See the flat of that valley? October thirty-first, it will be fifteen years to the night that I watched six of my friends fall to wands held by wizards in black robes. That night, I took the lives of five Death Eaters. Fleur was four years old and they were coming for her, 'Arry; they were coming for Fleur, my wife, and all the Veelas in my wife's family that were hiding with us.
"Why, what did they do?"
Harry was shocked at the grin that spread across the older man's face. "My wife and the rest of her flock were trying to rally the Veela to support the French government against the Death Eaters. She doesn't know that I know, but that's why she was targeted. She's a hell of a woman, 'Arry, witch and Veela combined, and her daughters take after her.
"Anyway, consider the apartment downstairs yours. We'll let the current agreement continue until fall, then you're going to stop paying for the room and I don't want to hear about it, understood?"
"Yes . . . cur!" Harry said in a cheeky voice.
Mr. Delacour smiled widely. "If you're going to call me sir, I much rather you do it like that. By the way, that autobiography is a great book."
They both laughed and finished their lunch. But before they left, Mr. Delacour had a couple more surprises for Harry.
"Do you know what my job was before the last war broke out?" Mr. Delacour asked.
"No."
"I was an Apparition teacher. I asked Fleur about your magic last night and from what she told me, I think you're ready to learn how. You are going to need it when you go back."
Harry opened his mouth to thank him, but Mr. Delacour put a hand up. "There is a cost. You will tell me when you are going back to England and, if you need me, I will go with you."
Before Harry could argue he continued. "You have lived in my house now for two weeks, 'Arry. In that time, the only thing you have done to upset my wife is show her too much respect. You have treated Fleur honorably even though I know you are struggling in a relationship. You actually resisted Gabrielle's magic on the night we will never talk about again."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle darkly.
"For all those reasons and more we have invited you to live under our roof. That means the protection I afford my wife and daughters, I now afford to you as well. I know you are your own man, 'Arry. More so than most, in fact, but please don't let your pride get you killed. If you need me, let me know.
Harry nodded his agreement, not wanting to say anything to give away that he had just silently sworn that he would never tell any of the Delacour family when he was heading back across the Channel. He refused to allow death to visit this family as it had so many others.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Over the next week, Harry continued to work on the fence and read the books, including the Dark Arts books he had brought with in him, and fight his internal battle about Fleur. If he could just make it to the beginning of September, maybe he would go to Durmstrang. But did he want to? The answer, truthfully, was no. He wanted to stay here with Fleur.
But that was all the more reason to leave. Yet, somehow, no matter his plans nor how tentative their relationship seemed, every night he lay in bed thinking about the blond-haired, blue-eyed Veela that would not let his heart go.
The only change to Harry's routine, was an owl from Cho. Neville and Su Li were still together and doing well, though they worried about Neville. He was involving himself more and more in the war.
A few members of the Order had died already in skirmishes; no one Harry knew, though that didn't make it any better.
But it was the last lines of the letter that put a smile on Harry's face. Sirius and Charlie had decided to visit a courtly flower and maybe even get to see its potter in France the following week, if Harry thought it was a good idea.
He thought it was a great idea.
*Sourced from Marchinko, Richard. "Rogue Warrior."