Chapter 1

How Harry Potter is British

There is something to be said about mum, and that is, she's never not here. Harry could never say his mum wasn't by his side. And that bothered him in a way he couldn't quite put into words, not quite yet. Just for the last day was she working overtime.

"Harry, get your trunk down, we're taking the portkey!" Dad's voice was loud and ever-present as, well, ever. It seemed like it was never quiet in the Potter home. Silence was an enemy that was battled and held at bay. Today, Harry, a small (averagely so!) boy of 14 years was heading off to Hogwarts.

This is an important thing to mention because Harry Potter had never been to Hogwarts and he was frankly really excited. He had heard countless (really) stories of the adventures in Hogwarts' worn halls, just in the last month. It was still shrouded in mystery for him, as much as his dad and mum and their friends talked of it.

His parents seemed to talk a lot about the past.

"Harry, haven't got all day, it's a portkey," Dad calls again.

"Alright then, a minute." Harry shoved his worn copy of Arithmancer Graphicals Vol. 4 into a satchel. A dry, but necessary tome for his school studies. Hoisting the trunk up would be futile without the Feather-Light Charm so cheers to mum for that. The Potter home was suspectible to the British Trace for Underage Witches and Wizards. Harry was feeling rather useless again, a feeling he had been getting accustomed to over the past few weeks. Gently making his way down the hall he stops at the top of the stairs.

"Thought I wouldn't see you off?" Sirius Black was grinning like nothing new, teeth sharp. His eyes belied his exhaustion, and when Harry looked closer, it was drawn into the lines of his shoulders and legs. Stoutly stubborn, he remains at the bottom of the stairs, hands by his sides, holding on to nothing but his pride.

"Sirius!" Harry smiled gleefully. "I thought department had you seaside?"

"Couldn't keep me from the big day." While his dad seemed to always fill the very air when he spoke, Sirius was a softer sort of occupation- his wild eyes darting back and forth looking for rebuttal to squash, but waiting. "This should have been ages ago."

Harry couldn't help but feel dejected, although-

"It's not your fault, kid. Just how things went for us." Sirius was a lot of things, one of them was not terrible at reading a room. Harry's drop in mood was very clear, even for his usual stoic look.

But, despite Sirius' words, Harry couldn't help but think that it didn't go that way for Sirius- or even most of the rest that participated in the skirmishes. (His teachers in his old school were boldly against calling the civil war of the Isles just that).

Even his parents stayed. He was the one that had to leave, when the war was still unpredicatable. Thing is, they seemed to have forgotten him over in France, or rather as the years went on bringing him back simply became less and less of a priority.

A few kids of Aurors or prominent Muggle champions did leave the country during the Cardiff riots of '84, simply because of the specific targets being children. Mum and Dad used to whisper about that, long ago in France, how the nobleties of war did not last long. Then children of the purebloods were safehoused when a revenge march took place in Mactosh, Ireland. I don't think my parents knew much about that, because I never heard them talk about that, nor the McKinley fire, or even the Greater London battles. And as for now, I couldn't imagine asking. I feel too far away from it all to be worthy of any answers. I felt angry about it, and guilty, of my life lived thus far. And yet, Harry knew next to nothing of his parents' political inclinations, although they seemed to have certainly supported something.

They visited often when he was younger, Harry was sure. He was placed in the care of a family friend at age 4, Pierre, for some years, and his parents were almost consistent fixtures then. Harry remembers hot chocolate, tinfoil, loud laughter, and lots more hushed voices.

After his ninth birthday, his father was in trouble of some sort (he had something of the such overheard Pierre speaking about with his Thursday "tea" buddies, who would meet each Thursday without fail and discuss everything at great length. And everything was always followed by a strong "For Fuck's Sake" from most of them). A long time later, as it felt, his mum came by Pierre's home. Many Thursday teas had passed by then, the longest time yet since Harry had seen his parents.

"Harry sometimes," Mummy sighed heavy in a way her tone carefully avoided. Harry liked his mum's voice, she always spoke English and it sounded very good on her. He wondered if she even spoke French, like Pierre and himself. "Adults do things that don't make sense. They- we- make mistakes too. Remember when you broke Auntie Marion's backdoor latch?" Harry had the good sense to look abashed at the memory, the shouts, and shamefully hung his head."When adults do things like that, it's not as quick to fix."

His mum put a single finger under his chin, and when Harry looked up she took both of her palms and pressed them to his cheeks. "Daddy, he can't visit you for a while. And Mummy can't either. And Harry, I'm so sorry-"

Now Mummy's face was screwed up, ugly and drawn, and Harry realized it looked as if she were about to cry. Sympathy tears of a young child welled up in his eyes, not needing more prompting than that.

"Harry, you have to say goodbye to Pierre now. And you have to be very brave. Oh, Harry, it could be very long, don't think about mummy and daddy because we will be thinking all the time of you." Harry closed his eyes in pain to the words, although not quite getting the severity. When he opened them again, it didn't look like mummy would cry anymore. He didn't recognise the look of her face right then at all, but it was fierce.

Pierre was standing in the doorway and Harry began to wonder if he was there the whole time, and felt rather uncomfortable with that. He felt closer to the man then, than in the four years he had lived with him. Maybe he and mum can work it out. He gave a little wave and his face was soft, but Harry could not do much more other than stare.

What kind of trouble is so big that daddy and mummy can't come see Harry anymore? And Pierre with his terribly dull bedtime stories that Harry still asked for as many nights as he could get- why did he have to leave Harry too? It felt really unfair.

His mum, with hands still pressed to his face, smushed the palms non-too-gently together and sucked a sharp breath in. She stood fluidly and walked past Pierre, who remained standing as one with the doorframe. He gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder that looked rather painful. She looked at him and he at her, and Harry couldn't see the look they shared but he now felt like the outsider.

"Mum!" Harry meant to shout but his voice was even quieter than usual, as if he had been speaking for too long. She didn't turn around, only stopped short of the front door at the end of the hall. Harry remembers that foyer, cramped, and that day it was a million miles long. But she opens the door and walks out anyway.

It was less than half an hour later that Pierre took a silent Harry to the muggle bit of Colmar. Harry wasn't sure if they lived near Colmar, but they seemed to visit a lot by floo, so it was at best the closest magical community. Harry had only been to the muggle town with his mother, he thought to himself. When dad couldn't make it they would go to the cinema in English and drink muggle fizzies.

Pierre also then grasped Harry's shoulder, once he motioned for them to stop. Harry looked at it, unaware of what that was supposed to translate. "Harry, you're a good, calm kid. These things will blow over if they don't work out. Keep your cards close to your chest and when you do speak do it with purpose." It was a surprisingly condensed speech from the wordy man.

Harry knew Pierre was a halfblood, he had told him as much, and that meant he spoke like a muggle sometimes. Harry may not have been versed in muggle sayings, but he grabbed onto the guiding words. He especially was not sure, however, what "these things" that would "blow over" were.

When it looked as if Pierre needed confirmation, Harry nodded with as much intensity as his nine-year-old solemn face could manage. "Thank you, Pierre."

"Work hard, study hard, become all that you can. You never know what will come to your path, and it's often what you can overlook that becomes important." Pierre crouched down, bounciing lightly on the balls of his feet. Harry noticed he had very shiny shoes. Harry remembered clearly, that while Pierre was quite old to a 9-year-old, in that moment he looked young.

His face was free of lines, with a dark brown bread growing in to cover a fresh scar on his protruding jaw. It looked as if it had a permenant clench to it. Harry looked directly into his eyes, which danced the line of gray and the same light shade of brown that the waters in Colmar were. His mouth was pressed thin from habit, then tightened to a smile even little Harry felt the lie of.

"We'll see each other sooner than you think," but he didn't smile anymore. "A distant cousin of mine will be... taking you in to her home. She's never been a reserved woman, but likes children and well-behaved ones. She'll appreciate you, and leave it be." Harry's French was fluent but he didn't really understand what Pierre thought of his cousin.

"The car will take you from here, to Trieste. My cousin lives close to the town. It's very beautiful. You will love the water." Harry hated swimming. Or at least now he did. He had never ridden in a car before, but had seen them, and had never before been to Trieste. He didn't even know where that was. Suddenly that sad feeling mum left him with was gone- and Harry was feeling cheated.

An older man was approaching quickly up to the road behind Harry's back, and had Pierre straightening up, the pressed line of his mouth becoming more pronounced. Harry was disgruntled and feeling tired (in mind not body, for he was thrumming with nervous energy). He knew know was not the time to be ungrateful or childish. He learned early on to be good, and out of the way of important matters. A child has no place in a lot of things really.

"Pierre, come sta Marjane?" Il Galles ê stata una mossa rischiosa." Harry was a bit startled by the foreign tongue, but he likened it quickly to French more than English.

"Devo provare di nuovo il Belgium. Abbiamo poco tempo per le formalità. Il Liverpool ha avuto un altro caso la scorsa settimana e il Wizengamot si blocca di nuovo." Harry was a little wide-eyed at Pierre's duality. However the language transition left him feeling alone. "Harry this is Gio, and he lives at my cousin's."

For the first time, Harry turns to face the stranger. He's tall, taller than Pierre and has white hair peppered with a deep grey that was likely once black. The frizz makes him look a bit mad, but Harry found it more likeable. His tan face stood out boldly from the pink faces of Colmar's muggles, a face framed by thick black and wiry eyebrows. "Hello, Harry. This is nice to meet you."

Harry smiled small in response, suddenly shy. The man spoke to him English, not French, and he thought of his mother. He had something like an American English accent like in the cinemas, and Harry thought of his mother once again. "Hello, sir." An intelligible sound came from the old man.

He escorted Harry to a light blue car shaped like a ball. Pierre walked with and Harry was grateful for that. Inside, Harry watched, face not quite pressed up against the cloudy glass of the backseat, as Gio and Pierre exchanged rapid words, gestures, and a slim package to Pierre's hand.

And when Gio maneuvred the car out of the narrow cobble street, Harry looked back for the hunched outline of four years of his life. Hands in his pockets, Pierre's face was just too far to make out. Harry didn't wave-, he was too focused on being tired and confused- and he was not sure the Frenchman would even see. He really wanted his parents right then, as he sunk down into the seat.

It was the last time he saw Pierre alive. He died before ever making it to his conference in Belgium, a mere day later.