Breathless:
Bright rays of the sun speared between a mass of clouds, their fluffed edges resembling the pillows of the bed he'd only just crawled out of. Already though, he was in the sky, enjoying the kiss of the fresh summer air.
There wasn't much else for him to do other than fly or sleep. He'd ventured into the library the other day, but that attempt at bookishness did not last long. Reading, and Merlin forbid studying, did not sit right with him at this time of year. It was already July, and he was still at Hogwarts.
No one quite knew what to do with him.
It was every student's dream, having the mountains and the Black Lake and the mysterious expanse of the Forbidden Forest to themselves. There was no curfew, no timetable he needed to follow; ancient halls built upon centuries of secrets lay waiting for him to explore. Yet it all felt distinctly un-dreamlike to him. The reality was very cold, raw, and real in his mind.
A small white speck appeared in the pastel blue of the sky.
"At least you have the other owls," said Harry to Hedwig as she landed graceful as ever on his shoulder. He ran a hand down her neatly primmed feathers and removed from her foot a role of parchment. "My friends are all at home."
He skimmed the letter and its single line of looping letters, sighed, and floated to the ground.
"Best go say your goodbyes," he said to Hedwig, who took off into the air and out of sight.
The walk to the castle was a short one, no one being there to slow his progress. The crunch of grass and gravel underfoot turned to the smooth slap of cold stone, and the moving staircases sat patiently at the foot of the main hall. It's almost like he has the whole castle waiting on me. He rose in swift succession, the staircases displaying none of their oft erratic nature. The many painted eyes and mouths immortalized to canvas on the wall stared and whispered in the wake of the lone student roaming their halls.
Dumbledore's gargoyle leapt out of the way at his approach.
"Welcome, my boy. Come, have a seat."
Harry moved to one of the well-cushioned chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk. Dumbledore stood on the other side; his blue eyes twinkled softly behind half-moon glasses.
"I did not anticipate you to arrive quite so promptly," he said, "I thought you might like to enjoy the freedom of the grounds a short time longer. Very few get to experience this peaceful pleasure beyond myself and the other professors."
"I think I've enjoyed it enough the last few days," said Harry with a shrug. "It's not the same without anyone here."
Dumbledore's eyes melted like the morning frost. "Quite right, Harry. In my many years at Hogwarts, I've found that the true magic comes from the students."
He sat behind his desk and steepled his long, thin fingers together.
"I know how you must be feeling, Harry. I too faced tragedy in my youth, though I recognize it strikes all hearts differently. You must be quite tired of hearing this—but once again, I wish to extend my deepest sympathies. Your father… he was an exceptional man… especially with how he raised you after—" Dumbledore stopped, and his white whiskers seemed to tremble. "I promise you will be well taken care of."
Harry did not say anything.
Dumbledore sighed, and Harry had never seen his Headmaster look so old. "But that is what brings us here today," he continued. "Hogwarts is no place for a child to spend the summer alone, and after reaching out—"
"You've found a place for me," finished Harry.
"Several opportunities have presented themselves," said Dumbledore. He folded his hands in the large shimmering sleeves of his lime green robes. "The Weasley family has assured me that despite their impending trip to Egypt, they are willing to—"
"Not the Weasleys," Harry interrupted again. Realizing what that sounded like, he went to correct himself. "I don't want them cancelling their trip to visit Bill and Charlie for me."
I don't want to have to watch them all summer together, he really wanted to say.
Judging by the look of understanding on Dumbledore's face, it seemed as if he could read the truth beyond Harry's words.
"I had figured as much." He nodded pensively. "The Granger family have also accepted to take you in if necessary; however, they expressed an uncertainty over their suitableness given the situation and your lack of familiarity with them. Your Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are an option as well… but to my knowledge, at least, I appreciate you are not on the best of terms at the moment, which relegates them to a last resort."
That's the understatement of the century, Harry thought.
"Is that all?"
"Not quite," said Dumbledore, peering at him closely from the point of his crooked nose. "I have been informed by Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall that you are quite capable in Charms and Transfiguration."
Harry felt a heat overcome his face. "Er—I'm alright. Mum and Dad were good at them."
"Indeed, they were," said Dumbledore in a grandfatherly way. "It is not something I usually endorse, as I am a strong proponent of the summer break being healthy for the mind and magic of young students. Circumstances do change, however, and I think in this case it can prove to be a tidy solution to our problem."
"What will?" Harry couldn't help but ask.
A kindly grin split the headmaster's face. "There is a program overseas for talented students, such as yourself, to further their education with expert instructors in various fields."
He straightened in his chair. "Where is it?"
"This year it will be held in Beauxbatons," Dumbledore supplied. "That is the French equivalent of Hogwarts—our sister school, if you will."
A summer away? A place where I don't need to wait months to use magic? It sounded too good to be true. The idea of doing work throughout the summer still left a strange taste in his mouth, but he was sure he could manage.
Harry knit his brows. "Who goes to these?" he asked carefully.
"Students all over Europe. I imagine you will be the only one from Britain there."
He was sold.
"I'll go."
"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed, the twinkle returning to his eye. From his sleeve he pulled out a letter marked with a pale blue stamp with two golden wands crossed at its center. "All the information you need is enclosed here."
He'd never seen mountains like these, not even those pasted to the front of cheap Muggle postcards. They rose along the horizon in a great wall, the white caps of their summits vanishing into the heavens. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the ones at Hogwarts but to him they were nothing more than molehills.
The air is so sweet. He sucked in a deep breath, finding that it reminded him of how some of the older girls at Hogwarts smelt on a Hogsmeade weekend.
Two powerful beats of wings burst behind him, and a moment later there came a harsh rattle. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see a pair of mighty white horses and the opulent carriage he arrived in vanish into the sprawling green valley below.
Hagrid would love those, Harry thought with a smile, only for it to waver uneasily over his lips at the memory of the ride up. He enjoyed flying, but not like that.
To his right, a group of students conversed in French with some familiarity. No one had paid him any notice. Dumbledore failed to mention the fact that he would be a good deal younger than the other students here.
Harry pulled at his robes which felt suddenly very loose over his scrawny frame.
They marched down a long winding path, lined by matching gardens on its either side; pinks and reds, yellows and purples burst in stunning arrangements. The scent was much stronger here, and Harry felt his head go a little fuzzy.
It was perhaps this disorientation which delayed his reaction upon seeing the palace of Beauxbatons for the first time. As the flowery terraces, the gold tipped gates, and the fountains which shot twisting ribbons of water through the air came into focus, the breath slipped from his lungs.
"Ahem. Monsieur?"
Harry shook his head. He must have been standing there, staring, with a stupid look on his face for quite some time, because the students he'd been following were nowhere in sight.
A thin man with a funny little mustache was peering down at him as if he were a particularly curious bug.
"Bonjour. Monsieur…?" He was holding a long piece of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other; his foot tapped impatiently on the cobbled path. "Your name, s'il vous plaît?
"Oh. Er—it's Harry."
He rubbed at the back of his head, unknowingly sticking his hair up at impossible angles.
"Monsieur Potter?" The man scanned his list and scratched at it with his quill. When he talked, he pursed his lips in a funny way, as if trying to keep the black dash of his moustache from sliding off his face. "Very well, zis way, please."
The entrance to Beauxbatons was a set of doors carved from pure gold, and inside, Harry's eyes trailed over every surface in wonder. Gold statues ran along high-arched windows which opened over the mountains; their hands were raised cupping flames that flickered in an unseen breeze. Even higher, above the grand crystal chandeliers, was a painted ceiling depicting the radiance of heaven, with angels and cherubs and tall, elegant avian women who left Harry hot in the face and his throat thick.
This place can't be real… He'd never felt so out of place in his life.
"Now zen, your classes will begin tomorrow afternoon." The man led Harry through the palace at a hastened pace, forcing him into an awkward jog to keep up. "You will 'ave Madame Bacri for Transfiguration, followed by Monsieur Allard for Charms class."
A courtyard opened to their left, dotted with various soft-bubbling fountains.
"Classes run until supper, leaving ze mornings and evenings free for study and—"
He stopped suddenly, and Harry nearly tumbled into the back of him.
"Mademoiselle Delacour. Combien de fois…"
The man was speaking in a clipped tone. Harry didn't understand much French, if any, but it didn't take much to realize he was chastising someone. He'd been on the receiving end of Professor McGonagall's ire enough times to recognize that.
Turning, expecting to be met with some typical schoolyard foolery, he was shocked to see nothing of the sort. Even more shocking was the girl, who was sat, reading, on the edge of one of the fountains.
To Harry, she looked just like one of the feathered women painted on the ceiling, only without the feathers, and clearly a good deal younger. She was tall, willowy, her hair a pale blonde, which shimmered silver at the touch of the summer light. Eyes blue as the ice over a freshly frozen lake peered above the pages of her book.
"Désolé, Monsieur Léon," she said in a soft voice. She closed her book, smoothed her skirt, and stood to leave; her gaze brushed over Harry for no more than a fraction of a second.
He felt his throat do the same funny thing as before.
Who on earth is that?
A part of Harry wished he'd paid more attention on the whirlwind tour Monsieur Léon had taken him on. After being left in his chamber with a spinning head, he'd spent the rest of the afternoon exploring, getting lost, finding his way, only to get lost once more.
It was a miracle he'd made his way back before dark.
The next morning, he went out to search the grounds; he'd learned those colossal white horses were called Abraxans, and there was an entire herd that lived near the palace. Amusing himself with their proud antics and detailing their love for single-malt whiskey in a letter intended for Hagrid, the morning slipped by like sand through his fingers and not for a moment did his mind dwell on matters back home.
A rich, mouth-watering scent wafted from a silver platter on his desk when he returned. Answering the call of his stomach he finished the lamb stew with gusto. Quite stuffed, he lay on his bed and took out his Transfiguration textbook, thinking it would be a good idea to get ahead.
He woke with a jolt sometime later.
I didn't realize I was so tired. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Fixing his glasses which slipped from his nose, he rolled from his bed to check the time.
Oh no…
Ignoring the fact he knew his hair stood up in all directions, he grabbed his bag and his textbook, stuffed a handful of parchment and quills inside, and bolted from his room.
He remembered Monsieur Léon mentioning the Transfiguration classroom was in the West Wing, and took out his wand. "Point me," he said, and stopped, immediately spinning on his heel. He'd been running the opposite way the whole time.
Somehow, someway, Harry found his way. The room stuck out in his memory, because it looked nothing like the classrooms he was used to, with marble, gold trimmings, and six-foot candelabras. Then again, nothing in Beauxbatons looked quite like it did Hogwarts.
"Thank Merlin," he panted between breaths. The professor had yet to arrive. He wasn't late.
But peering inside, something else caught his eye.
Seated in the corner, he could make out a familiar curtain of silvery hair. The girl from yesterday sat at a desk with her nose wrinkled, surrounded by a gang of boys.
"Don't be shy."
He could hear they were bothering her.
"Vy don't you help me vith my homework?" a brutish looking one said, as he took the quill from her hand and brought it under his nose.
Other students watched the scene from the safety of their seats around the room.
"Sit vith me, Fleur. I know you vant to."
"Is everything alright?" Harry asked. He placed his things on top the empty desk next to the girl. "I reckon this seat hasn't been taken yet."
"Who's this?"
"A new kid," one of the boys answered his friend. "He's English."
"Yeah, I'm English," Harry said, "And I'm not deaf either."
"What are you, her boyfriend?"
The others found this particularly funny.
"Do you think dis is fairy tale?" the one holding the quill said. He had a thick neck and a thicker nose, but his head was thickest of all. "Dat you are knight in shining armour?"
"Would that make you the troll under the bridge then?"
The boy's dark eyes narrowed and he stepped forward menacingly. "Vat did you say, little boy?"
"To your seats!" A stern voice cut overhead. "I will have none of this foolishness in my classroom."
The gang quickly dispersed, the ugly one barging past Harry on his way.
Not to be outdone, Harry muttered under his breath and subtly flicked his wand; the quill slipped from the boy's grip like a wet bar of soap before floating back down to the girl who continued to stare out in front of her, unimpressed.
Harry took his seat next to her.
"That was unnecessary," the girl said after a pause.
Harry turned from Madam Bacri who'd started a review on Vanishing spells. "Are you alright?"
She blinked. "Oui, of course I am alright. That was never a question."
Harry simply shrugged and turned back to the lecture, making a mental note that he rather liked the sound of her accent.
"I do not need a saviour," she continued, pressing her pale lips into a thin line. "Not from boys like them who think they are amazing because their family name, and not from boys like you, who think I need protecting because I am a girl. I am not some fragile little flower."
"That's your name isn't? Flower," he said. "I heard one of them say it earlier."
She nodded; a splash of rose delicately colored her cheeks.
"Fleur," she said, holding out her hand. He took it and found her skin to be as soft as down feathers. "Fleur Delacour."
"Quiet!" Madame Bacri sent them a sharp glare.
A moment passed before Fleur leaned in and asked softly, "Did I not see you with Monsieur Léon yesterday?"
Her blue eyes were startling, and Harry found it much easier to speak, and breath, glancing off to the side.
"He was cursing you for disrespecting the art for almost an hour."
He thought he saw the edge of her lip twitch, but before he could be sure, her normal placid expression returned.
"What use are fountains if you cannot read next to them," she reasoned.
The dull drone of the lecture carried over the sound of scratching quills. Harry tried to focus but found it difficult to do so. Fleur's attention was on him again, and it felt like he'd been put under a heat lamp.
"Will you not tell me your name? It is rude, non?"
"It's Harry," he said quietly, seeing the ear of Madame Bacri twitch in his direction. "Harry Potter."
The firmness around the edge of Fleur's face seemed to soften. She bit her lip; pity swirled in the cold depths of her eyes.
She knows…
"I read about your father," she said, sounding almost unsure. "I'm sorry."
Harry's eyebrows dug together. His quill pressed harder into his page, leaving behind a large blot of ink. "Don't worry about it. It's why I'm here."
"Mademoiselle Delacour." Madam Bacri halted the class and placed her hands on her hips. "Will I be needing to separate you and Mr. Potter already?"
"Non, non," Fleur replied, her eyes shifted to Harry with a hidden sparkle. "That will not be necessary, Madame."
Harry grit his teeth, fighting back the urge to gasp. A cool rag brushed against his skin.
"You do not need to pretend to be tough in front of me," a voice teased. Blue eyes were fixed in concentration on his brow.
He grimaced at a fresh stab of stinging pain.
"Stop moving out of the way." A soft hand held his head in place, burning at his skin with a different type of heat. "It is only your fault, you know."
"I think you might have told me that already," he said dryly.
"I have, and I will continue to," she said. "Because I am not the one continuously picking fights with them."
"I just like proving that I'm more talented," said Harry, trying to sound unruffled.
"Ah, yes, so talented." Fleur jabbed him none-to-gently with the rag. He swore that was on purpose. "That is why you are locked in the girl's bathroom having me treat your wounds. A true prodigy." She rolled her eyes. "I still do not understand why you did not go to the infirmary."
Because this is better than any infirmary. If he had the choice between Fleur and Madam Pomfrey, he knew who he would choose.
"Because I don't need to get into any more trouble," he said instead. "I was almost kicked out after last time."
"Such a shame," said Fleur, and he couldn't tell if she meant it or not.
He spent a lot of time with Fleur, between being desk partners in Transfiguration and Charms, and working through assignments, but she rarely smiled. She was in her fifth year and he was going into his third, and often times he wondered if she simply felt responsible for him given the way she acted when mentioning his father.
A tingling on his brow drew him from his thoughts. The cool tip of her wand traced his cut, and much of the pain disappeared.
"There. Parfait!" She spun her wand in a flourish and put it away. "Good as new."
Harry looked to the mirror across from the toilets and saw that his right eye was still slightly swollen. Vainly, he attempted to pat down the wild tangles of his hair.
"Anton and his crew will not stop," said Fleur after a pause. "It is a game to them."
Harry kept quiet. A slight crease formed along Fleur's forehead.
"If anything, you constantly feeling the need to go out and protect me only makes them worse."
"It's not right," muttered Harry.
"Of course, it's not right," Fleur scoffed. She tossed her hands in the air. "But that is the way it is, the way it always has been for me. You cannot change that. I have told you countless times before, I am not helpless. I can look after myself."
Harry frowned, and dug his hands into his pockets. They were treading dangerous waters.
"I know you can," he said stiffly, "but—"
"But what?" Fleur's eyes were sharp as icicles. "Just because you are quick with a wand does not mean I cannot handle those connards myself!"
A silence fell between them, and Harry continued to stare into his own glum reflection. Fleur sighed; the flash of her temper being let out like the air from an old tire.
"I… tolerate you, 'Arry. You… you are not annoying like the other boys."
"Gee, well, thanks I guess," he joked, and the corner of her lip turned.
"You are quick witted and easy to get along with, as well. But this mission you have to defend my honour… I—nothing offends me more."
Harry turned to her. "I'm not trying to offend you, Fleur. It's just who I am." He ran a hand through the back of his hair. "I'd do the same for any of my friends."
He looked down to his sneakers, feeling embarrassed. Friend. What a silly word for him to use. What if she didn't even return that much?
"'Arry…"
The soft touch of his name caressed his ears. He didn't want to look up but found himself doing so anyway, and when he did, he was glad. Though her lips were still, the inviting blue of her eyes smiled down at him. "Then as a friend, I can forgive you."
The sun cascaded down the mountains, their snowy peaks glowing like mighty torches in the sky. Beneath his feet were the cobbled streets of Lourdes, rising and falling in a twisted path along the water.
I'll miss this. The program was finally coming to a close, the weeks having flashed by quicker than a blink. To celebrate, the students were invited out on a daytrip before packing into the carriages and returning home the next day.
Home. It was a strange concept for Harry. He never expected to feel so at ease in France. Only a little while ago he would have called himself mad if he thought he'd enjoy a summer of extra study. Don't pretend you don't know the reason behind that…
Now, he was returning to a world completely different than the one he'd left.
To his right rose a cathedral nested upon the crest of a small hill, its spires piercing the sky like a trident. Muggles swarmed around its stone arches in droves, and he wove through the crowds, stopping in the middle of a public square.
Sitting on the edge of a shaded fountain, her toes tickling the air, was Fleur.
"It is beautiful, non?" Fleur closed her eyes and dipped back her head, sending her hair spilling into the sunshine; it gleamed like spun gold.
Harry watched her and nodded his head.
"It is a shame we can only stay one day."
Harry nodded again, silent.
Fleur peeked open an eye. "What is troubling you?"
She can read you like that book in her hand, Potter.
"Nothing," he tried to dismiss. "Really, m'fine."
She quirked an eyebrow. "You are telling me it has nothing to do with what I read in the paper?"
He cursed under his breath. Bloody Prophet can't keep their gob shut… Now the whole world knows.
"It's just strange," he said some seconds later. "He's my dad's best friend, my godfather too, but he's not—"
"Your father," Fleur finished.
Harry ran a hand through his hair.
"We exchanged a couple letters this week—I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just didn't really know how." Harry glanced up to the broken shards of light, which filtered through the trees overhead. "I got an owl from Dumbledore explaining the process of getting him out. I didn't really believe it. Dad tried for years to free Sirius; he never believed he was the one responsible for Mum dying."
"What is he like?" Fleur shifted from her spot, so she was seated right next to him.
"Excited," Harry laughed, "at least that's what I got from the letters. Dad always described him as having the personality of a pet dog."
Fleur cocked her head. "He sounds like a fascinating man."
Harry shook his head free from his thoughts; a fresh sort of energy coming to him. He didn't want to spend his last moments with her talking about sad things like this.
"What about you?" he asked.
"Moi, I am excited to be going home." A gentle smile pulled across her lips—a rare sighting, even as their friendship had blossomed. "Beauxbatons is dear to me, but petit Gabrielle is going spare without me."
Fleur spoke often of her little sister, and only ever with deep affection.
A large group of Muggles filtered into the square, chatting in hushed voices. Tourists, he figured. They left not long after in the direction of the grotto. When he turned back, Fleur was watching him; a heat crawled up his face.
"You have not been getting into many fights lately."
Harry twisted his mouth. "Yeah… well, I guess I finally got my point across."
"Which is?" Her voice was sugary sweet, but he could hear the danger that lurked beneath.
"I don't need to show off all the time," he relented. A cheeky look suddenly sprouted over his face. "I've learned quite a lot this summer, actually."
"Really?" Fleur encouraged.
"Yes," he continued with enthusiasm. He ticked each point off with a finger. "I learned that school really isn't that bad. I learned that you rightfully complain about how shit our weather is. I learned that salons are really just classrooms but you French are just too pretentious to admit it."
"Go on…" The hint of something played at her lip.
"I learned that not everyone needs a savior," he said with a smirk. "And… I learned that flowers aren't fragile things, and it's best not to twist their petals while they're the ones healing the cuts on your face."
Her lips twitched, then quivered, then split into a full radiant smile. Something bubbled from her throat, and he realized she'd laughed; a sound which rang like bells.
Harry was breathless.
Oh no… he thought as he was truck with the force of lightning: both magnificent and terrifying.
Dad was right.