With a Little Help from My Friends ~ by Lucy Lupin

* * * * *

Author's Note: The grading system used in this chapter is the one cited in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Therefore an "O" equals "Outstanding," an "E" equals "Exceeds Expectations" and so forth.

I also hope no one is offended by some of the words Arthur and Thierry use to describe homosexual men. They are not homophobic themselves, but have been raised in a time period where racism and sexism is still prevalent, and therefore the language reflects this even if their views don't. I tried to use the milder terms, so hopefully no one is affronted.

Disclaimer: The Big Funny Book of Wizard Jokes and its contents are the intellectual property of livejournal user "melannen," who has kindly let me borrow them for my own, or rather Herbie Jordan's, amusement. I don't know who wrote the song Arthur sings, but again, it isn't mine. There's also a minor incident referred to in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, but I'm sure all you clever people can pick up on it yourselves.

* * * * *

Chapter Ten: A Hex, a Black Eye, and a Funeral

Some days the weather was proof that Murphy existed. On the days when one was required to barricade oneself indoors, completing scriptures of barely-commenced homework and books of mostly useless nonsense in vain search for the "Aha" quote, the sun would beam brilliantly. But the mornings when she craved the feel, the baking sensation of the sun on her alabaster skin, she would be aroused by a drizzle, or a downpour if the Irishman was in an especially giving mood.

Friends could be like that too. After all, wasn't that the inspiration for the phrase "fair-weather friend"?

A week she had been in this country and only two owls had arrived. One from Molly, the second from Veronica, talking about Quidditch for Merlin's sake. No "how are you coping?" No "is there anything we can do to help?" To think that she actually yearned, craved for quiet while she was at Hogwarts. The warmth, now withdrawn.

Not that she blamed them. How could she expect them to know how to help when she scarcely knew herself?

In all possible ways that last phrase could be interpreted.

In her dreams she was sometimes trapped underneath foundations of rock and stones, forced into a painful ball by the crumbled ruins around her, at least until she was rescued. There were the voices of her friends around her. Molly. Veronica. Arthur. Even Zachary sometimes. Did he consider her a friend, or had she become too much work for him now, just like she had for everyone else? She didn't blame them. No one enjoyed work. Thierry voice was never there. While they had all been in the open his would be the last she would want to hear, but funny how she missed it now, his deep foreign baritone more obvious in its absence than anyone else's would be. She would hear their murmurs of encouragement, their pleas of faith, and she would reply, her throat dry and scratched from the dust around her and lack of nourishment. They would talk until there were only three other voices left, then two, then one, then hers alone. And what was the point of talking if there was no one to hear?

There was a whishing noise and she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the next room. He had come. She plastered a smile across her face and stood to greet him.

* * * * *

Two days after a shaking sixth year had been portkeyed from the premises, Sylvian Davies was striding determinedly down the corridor towards Professor Flitwick's Charms classroom. It didn't matter to him that it was five minutes past nine, and that when he finally did show up to his first period class, a detention slip awaited. It also didn't matter that him and the good professor were from the same house, that he was aware that the remaining Gryffindors were making alliances and that it would behove him to do the same.

He was a Ravenclaw, and he was going to make the one teacher who had dared give him an "A" pay.

He could remember it as vividly at if it was yesterday. Having just completed his second year, he was playing in his front yard when an envelop dropped out of the sky and hit him on the forehead. Seeing the Hogwarts crest, he had torn the letter open eagerly. Awaiting him was his usual army of "Os" and "Es", then something that made his heart stop. In the column across from the word "Charms" was a cruelly arching "A", the plus sign next to it almost apologetic. His own house head, actively conspiring into turning him into everything that a Ravenclaw wasn't!

Over three years ago, he had vowed to make the tiny Charms professor pay. And now he had his chance.

Outside the classroom he paused for a moment, collecting himself, then raised one fist and knocked on the door. There was a chirpy, "Do come in," then the cheerfully withered and beaming face of the professor greeted him.

"Ah, Mister Davies," Flitwick squeaked, "what a coincidence."

Coincidence? Sylvian inwardly blanced. Did he suspect? His tiny house head was looking at him too shrewdly for comfort behind those cracked spectacles. However, Flitwick's next words put his heart at rest. Well, not quite at rest. He was still standing and breathing with blood pumping through his veins, which would have been physically impossible had his heart been completely at rest. But it had slowed down to a more comfortable pace at least.

"We are getting started on the Wingardium Leviosa charm," Flitwick continued, sweeping a minute arm around the room of assumedly first years, "and I was just telling my class how you were the first in your year to master it. He was quite the opposite of Mister Barrufio, who said "s" instead of "f" and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

The first years laughed. Sylvian didn't. The professor gave him another fleeting but odd look, which was quickly replaced by his usual guileless smile. "So, Mister Davies, how may I assist you?"

"I need to talk to you," Sylvian said, trying to ignore the knot in the pit of his stomach. He was not going to feel guilty, damn it, he was not going to feel guilty. "Um, outside, please."

Flitwick raised one feathery grey eyebrow, but obliged. Sylvian wasted no time. "Assassinium!"

Flitwick was still raising one feathery grey eyebrow, almost politely. Sylvian tried again. When he prepared to blast the good professor a third time, Flitwick raised one finger. "If I may, I think I know the source of the problem," he said. Now it was the student's turn to raise one eyebrow. The professor prepared to continue. "I do believe that in your first meeting when your target, which I appear to be, was given out, Arthur Weasley told you that "all the usual rules still apply." That you are out of class when, if my memory informs me correctly, you have Astronomy with our dear friends the Hufflepuffs, would count as the breaking of one such rule." As Sylvian stood dumbstruck, Professor Flitwick suggested gently, "Perhaps you might check your own paper."

Woodenly Sylvian reached into his pocket. Sure enough, the word Out was emblazoned there.

"I believe now would be the appropriate time to offer you a packet of sugar mice," Flitwick intoned with as much sympathy as the twinkling in his eyes would allow. "And if you are free in the hour before lunch and it still troubles you, I would be happy to answer any questions you may have regarding the "Acceptable" I gave you in your second year." He reached up and patted the boy on his arm in a consoling manner, then trotted back inside.

Sylvian groaned. Once again, the professor had won.

* * * * *

Dearest Lucille, the letter began. And that was as far as Molly got.

After all the talks we've had about useless things, why is that once she needs me to say something to her, I can't think of anything? she mused, twisting one red curl around her finger. Why is what needs to be said so difficult? And she wasn't the only one in the same predicament. "All my last letter talked about was Quidditch," Veronica had lamented to her during the lunch hour.

The death of Elodie Black was surely affecting her daughter. It was affecting them all. Even the sedate Miss Vector had cracked under the pressure. Molly had been reading her Divination text on her bed when she had arrived back from her Monday night rounds in a most flustered state. "How did it go?" she had asked her, privately wondering why she hadn't returned to her own room.

"Good," Veronica replied dully, flopping onto Lucille's old bed. Molly clicked her tongue at this, but said nothing.

"Did you give out any detentions?" Molly pressed. Veronica shook her head. To Molly's surprise, she started to cry.

"Veronica!" the other girl exclaimed.

"I just feel so terrible," Veronica wept, "because things are going so well for me and Lucille is having such a time of it. I mean, I'm a prefect. I'm top of my Arithmancy class. I'm keeper for my house Quidditch team, the first Hogwarts team ever to have girls on it, and I've met a guy who seems really nice. And Lucille, well-" she broke into a fresh gale of sobs. Molly crossed the room and gave her a hug.

Eventually the story came out. Veronica had endured a confrontation with Rita Skeeter on Saturday, after which William had comforted her. They had kissed. While with him Veronica had felt comfortable, but with both having Quidditch practice on Sunday and then homework to complete, they had not encountered each other until their prefect duty tonight. After a several day absence from each other, awkwardness had reigned. At one point William had taken her hand, but sensing her unease, did not push matters.

"It's no wonder you're reacting this way," Molly told Veronica once she had stopped crying. "What with Quidditch practice, and your prefect responsibilities, and Lucille's mum dying - bless her soul - and this being your NEWT year, and now this Hufflepuff boy, it seems to me that you're taking on too much. Now being a prefect you can't avoid, and neither can we do anything about poor Elodie or Lucille, but if this boy likes you, he'll wait, and in the meantime I'll have a talk to Thierry about reducing the amount of practices."

"No, don't do that," Veronica quickly deterred her. "I'll manage. And besides, Thierrys going through as much as I am right now, yet he seems to be fine."

"People have different ways of dealing with things though, don't they?" Molly pointed out. "I mean, to us all the extra practice is adding stress, but to Thierry it may be relieving it. I just don't think it can hurt to have a word to him about missing the odd practice now and then."

"You're right," Veronica gave her a shaky but genuine smile. "I'd never looked at things that way before. Thanks, Molly."

Veronica was now significantly improved, but Molly had an inkling that she still wished to be alone and thus announced that she was going to the library to finish her Arithmancy essay. Her suspicions were confirmed when her friend, who was battling it out for top spot in the class with Arthur, did not offer to help her. She collected up her quill and notebooks and walked down to the common room.

"Molly," Arthur was standing at the foot of the stairs, giving the impression that he had been waiting for her. "May I have a word?"

Molly nodded but felt apprehensive. In the madness of the past few days, Arthur's striptease and her role in it had been forgotten, but she certainly hadn't. In fact, she was now blushing at the memory.

Arthur took her arm as she descended the last few steps and led her into a corner of the room. Flight lessons for the first years were being held that day, significantly reducing the usual noise in the area. Holly Wood and several other fourth years were clustered around one of the long tables at the end of the room, no doubt grinding out some last minute essays. "What do you get a Thestral at Fortescue's?" Herbie Jordan was reading out of a book in front of a bemused group of second years. When they continued to look bemused, he shrugged and replied, "Sundae Bloody Sundae."

"Molly." Arthur gave her a gentle but insistent touch on her elbow. She realised she had been staring at Herbie and his friends, who to be honest presented a more interesting subject than what was in front of her, and resolved to at least look as though she was paying attention. "Headmaster Dippet called me to his office. Lucille wants me to come to France and sing at her mother's funeral."

That got Molly's attention. "Oh my goodness, Lucille!" she spluttered, frantically grabbing at Arthur's arm as if she was afraid he'd melt away. "Did you see her? How is she? Does she need anything?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," Arthur said. He patiently removed her shaking hands from his wrist and cradled them in his own. "No, I didn't see her - it was just Dippet in his office - but I will. I was wondering if there's anything she'd forgotten that she may need, or anything you'd like to send over for her."


Molly paused, mentally casting her eye over Lucille's portion of the room and trying to remember what she had left behind. Arthur waited silently. "What happens if you cross a Thestral and a house-elf?" Herbie continued. The second years gave each other blank looks. "You can set it free by giving it closure."

"What's a house elf?" one girl asked.

"Well," Herbie mused, "it's something that rich pureblood wizard families own to do their housework and it lives to clean. Kind of like Molly Morag, but a lot smaller and nowhere near as terrifying." At her name Molly perked up and swung her head in the direction of the house Seeker. He noticed her looking at him and gave her an impish grin, to which she returned a scowl. The second years giggled. Herbie was quite popular with the younger ladies, and as unpopular with the older ones for much the same reasons.

"Did you think of anything?" Arthur asked, redirecting her attention back to him.

"Well, as long as she has those leather boots that she always wears with her, I don't think she'd notice anything else missing," Molly ran a hand over her brow. Between her professors and Thierry, she hadn't been getting a lot of sleep the last few days, and there were dark hollows under her eyes. "She did leave her record player behind, though it'd be nigh on impossible to get it over there."

"I could try," Arthur offered. His hands were still holding hers. They were sweaty but not unpleasant to the touch.


"How about a thestral with a unicorn?" Herbie announced to his increasingly raucous audience. "A horse that's attracted to virgin girls - on their wedding night."

"Alright, Herbie, that will do," Arthur said, crossing the room and removing the book from his hand. "Until you can prove that you keep this to yourself, I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate this. And a point from Gryffindor for the sharing of inappropriate material."

"Hey!" Herbie protested. His harem of girls giggled.

"Third years," Arthur said once he'd rejoined Molly with a shake of his head. "They get up to everything the younger students get up to, and everything the older ones do. Well, hopefully not everything," he added, then felt his ears grow hot. Why on earth had he added that last part?

"I'm going to the library to finish my Arithmancy essay," Molly said. "It's a madhouse here." Herbie was oblivious to the resentful look she shot him. "Would you like to join me?"

"Me?" Arthur gaped.

"Well, as you seem to be the only person I've been talking to in the last few minutes, I would say that I was asking you." Molly gave him a strange look from beneath her eyelashes. "Unless you've got something you'd rather do, that is."

"Yes," Arthur, grateful for a chance to do something, responded before he realised exactly what it was he had said "yes" to. Mortification flooded through him. "I mean, I meant that-"

"It's quite alright, Arthur," Molly gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. "I suppose I'm to see you at dinner, then?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and marched off.

"What on earth did I say that for?" Arthur wondered aloud, then trudged up the stairs towards his room.

* * * * *

Three days after the good Professor Filius Flitwick cheated death, one of the Hufflepuffs he had earlier spoken of was approaching Professor Clarity Trelawney's abode. But if there had been a passer-by near to witness the approach of this golden-haired youth - for the rules of the game dictated that there must be none around - they would have seen the set expression on his face and taken him for a Slytherin, or an exceptionally cunning Gryffindor at the very least - rather than a member of a house that shared their colours with bumblebees.

Bumblebees were very useful creatures. They produced honey, which could be spread onto toast as a breakfast staple or mixed with hot water to soothe the throat. Muggles kept bees in little wooden boxes in their backyards. And they really were very ridiculously-coloured.

But bumblebees still stung.

He had reached the square of light below the trapdoor to Trelawney's classroom and now looked upward expectantly. A thin silver ladder descended, as if on command, and the student climbed softly up it. As he drew closer to the top his ears strained for noises, voices other than that of his intended victim. There had been no trouble figuring out her schedule. Some professors refrained from talking about themselves. Trelawney was hardly one of them. But had a student remained to discuss homework, his trip would have been a wasted one. Fortunately the only sound he heard was the professor's inane humming. Well, he would have found it "inane" if he had such critical thoughts, but he was a Hufflepuff, and he did not judge others in such a harsh manner.

Which wasn't to say he didn't stifle a giggle as his hands found solid wooden boards and he lifted himself easily into the classroom.

The old dingbat - er, or so as the Slytherins referred to her - was seated in her green purple velvet armchair that looked like a throne but in actuality smelled like mothballs. She was reading a book titled Pisces and Sagittarius: Not Necessarily a Match Made in Hell. Due to being her own favourite topic of conversation, he knew that she was a Pisces - and would have never dreamt of letting on - but still resolved to find out which unlucky male member of the faculty was a Sagittarian for his own private amusement if nothing else.

Stepping forward, he loudly and deliberately cleared his throat.

Trelawney shrieked and leapt to her feet as if she had been hit in the back by a Cruciatus curse. Seeing the student, she sought to retain her composure. "Ah, Mister Zablomej," she began, pausing for dramatic impact, "you have come to kill me. I have foreseen it."

"Of course you did, Professor," William assured her. "Now if you would please move over so that you're standing in front of that pile of cushions? This spell can have unfortunate side-effects."

* * * * *

The flutter of two pairs of wings fanned cool evening air onto Thierry's face as Emmanuel and a second owl he had temporarily liberated from the school flew off into the darkening sky. Tanned, blistered fingers secured another piece of parchment to the leg of a third owl and soon that one joined the other two in flight.

Each letter contained a repetition of the same message; each intended for a Quidditch captain other than the one who stood at the bay of the owlery, watching their progress with unreadable dark eyes. He had sent notes to Alistair Bell of Ravenclaw, Amos Diggory of Hufflepuff and Jeremias Bole of Slytherin, requesting a pre-season friendly against his talented but fledging team. Since his announcement became school-wide news, the reactions had ranged from amusement to disbelief and downright disdain. It had been no accident that he had sent his own owl, Emmanuel, to Diggory. Trusting the Hufflepuff's innate sense of fairplay to override any personal objections he may have to allowing the fairer sex to participate in the rough-and-tumble game, he judged him to be the captain most like to respond in the affirmative. Whistling now, he began the long but tranquil walk back to Gryffindor Tower.

Truth be told, he was not too bothered about the contents of the letters, and even less so about the responses they may receive. It was the one unsent in his pocket that was burning away at him.

Arthur was spralled out on the bed reading. "I am surprised zat yer 'ave not jinxed ze doors," Thierry said, pulling off his cloak and flinging it onto the mountainous pile of clothes on his chair. Arthur's side of the room was similarly messy. Due to the nature of it's occupants, the seventh year boys' dorm, unlike that of their counterparts Veronica Vector and Diana McGonagall, was far from pristine. "Surely yer are afraid of ze assassins comin' ter get yer."

"Ah, but Veronica, Diana and I all have alliances," Arthur said. "And Zachary's target is Filch. He's been camped outside of the potions classroom at every spare moment hoping to catch everyone's favourite professor alone. But given the controversial nature of his teachings, Filch is quite popular in between his lessons. Students are always arriving to complain about something."

"Eet could be a covair when 'e's secretly goin' after yer," Thierry reasoned.

"That may be," Arthur told him. "But I'm not too worried about Assassins."

"An' why may zat be?" Thierry asked him.

Arthur sighed inwardly. He had deliberated for the better part of two days on how to break the news to his best friend, but an opportunity having presented itself, decided that honesty was his best policy. Rising to his feet, he prepared himself for the worst. "I'll be away for most of Saturday. I'll be in France." Thierry's face remained unreadable. "Lucille wants me to sing at her mother's funeral, you see."

"Ees zat true?" Thierry's eyes darkened. "An' why you, may I ask? Why not moi?"

"Because, Thierry, you can't sing," Arthur said delicately.

"But why you?" Thierry pressed. "Why not Celestina Warbeck?"

"Because it would be more meaningful to have someone who actually knew Lucille's mother to sing at the funeral," Arthur said. "Besides, it won't just be me singing. Some of Lucille's French cousins will be accompanying me."

"An' you weell be accompanying Lucille lataire," Thierry said bitterly.

"Look, Thierry," Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, "Lucille asked me to sing. I'm good at it. You're good at Quidditch, Apparating, Charms, Transfiguration, getting the girls and practically everything else under the sun. Allow me this one small thing. I knew Lucille's mother. I miss her. I want to sing at the funeral, and I'm closer to her than you are."

As soon as the words were out of Arthur's mouth, he realised it was a mistake. Thierry's eyes darkened to twin specks of coal and his fists clenched and unclenched at his side. "So," he breathed, "exactement 'ow much bettaire do you know 'er?"

"Well, I've known of her since we were little, with our parents both living in Hogsmeade and all," Arthur began, "but I've only really got to her since we've been in Hogwarts together." He saw the look on Thierry's face and froze. "Oh no, I didn't mean - that is, to say, we've never-"

Thierry's fist connected soundly with the side of his face. Arthur's head snapped back and he collapsed to the floor. For a moment he was alone with his blurred, spinning vision, then a pair of hands slid under his arms and hauled him to his feet, propelling him in the direction of his bed. "Wait 'ere," Thierry's voice ordered him abruptly, then his footsteps receded out of the room and Arthur was left alone.

His head was spinning in more than one sense of the word. For years he and Thierry had been friends, and good friends, but this was his first glimpse of what the Frenchman would be like as an enemy, and he didn't like it one bit. Better-behaved and liked by his teachers, Arthur succeeded Thierry academically, but failed to master new charms or breeze through surprise quizzes with the same nonchalant ease. He was well-aware that had Thierry shown more of an inclination when it came to his studies, it would be he standing at the podium as top boy come graduation day. In terms of physical aptitude it was almost the same. Both were tall and slender boys, but while Arthur was merely puny, Thierry's frame was wiry and deceptive in the raw strength it concealed. He had once taken on - and only come off marginally worse against - a fifth year Slytherin Beater who had stomped on Arthur's glasses during their second year. The following year he had helped to carry the same boy to the hospital wing. And then there were the girls. Arthur had lost track of the amount of love interests who had paid an encouraging amount of attention to him, only to completely forget his existence when his tall, dark and carelessly handsome Gallic friend walked into view. Although that certainly didn't stop them from remembering him when they needed some last minute help with their History of Magic essays. His eyes welled up from the unfairness of it all.

The door creaked open and Arthur rolled over to see Thierry standing over him, a bowl and wooden spoon in hand. "I made zis up ter 'elp weeth ze swelling," he explained. His eyes widened as they took in Arthur. "Ave yer been cryin'?"

"Fuck off," Arthur retorted. Thierry shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed, easily capturing the redhead's wrists when he swung out at him. At this fresh humiliation the tears spilled over the rims of Arthur's eyes. "I said, fuck off."

"Un moment." With his free hand Thierry scooped some of the greenish glob out of the bowl and spread it over Arthur's still-red cheek. The gel tingled, but numbed and cooled the angry, burning sensation. Arthur still glared resentfully at Thierry, but stopped struggling against the hand that was clamped over his crossed wrists. When he had finished Thierry wiped his hand on the side of his school uniform pants and drew back. "Why does it have to always be about you?" Arthur blurted out.

"Quoi?" Thierry blinked.

"Yes, you," Arthur insisted. "You, the big brave Quidditch captain. You, the school stud. Me, the tag-along nerd loser-"

"You, ze 'ead boy," Thierry countered. "Me, zee leedle boy oo deed not know a word of Engleesh when 'e first arrived. You, ze most trusted an' respected student dans l'ecole. Moi, ze rogue oo likes une fille qui does not even know 'e exists. Non, she does know zat I exist, she joost 'ates me, c'est tout."

"You, the guy who always connects his fist right on the cheekbone," Arthur continued in the same vein, but was now grinning as much as Thierry's earlier punch would allow him. "This one's going to be a beauty."

Thierry gave him a regretful look. "Arthur, I am-"

"Just forget it," Arthur waved him off. "We've all had a tough week. It's not important."

Both boys sat silently for a while; Thierry had his back to Arthur. "Zat was not you talkin'," he said presently.

"No, it was Mister Lucius Malfoy," Arthur grimaced. "We had a nice little chat earlier. His words have a habit of sliding under your skin then sneaking out again when you least expect them. How about you?"

"Rita Skeeter," Thierry returned. "Zat leedle bitch. Do not pay any attention to Malfoy. If yer were truly insignificant, 'e would not bothaire weeth yer. Ees attention is proof zat yer are worth sometheeng, despite what 'e may say."

"So what did Rita have to say?" Arthur asked. "Had a nice little chat about the weather, did you?"

"More like a nice leedle chat about 'ow ze whole Quidditch thing ees ter find my way into ma teammates' pants, both ze girls an' ze boys." There was an outburst of laughter from the head boy and Thierry grinned. "Apparently I am a filthy 'omosexuelle. Zat deed not stop 'er from askin' me to ze 'Alloween ball earlier zis week though."

"It was probably your rejection that brought across the claims of homosexuality," Arthur chuckled. "She's so vain, it wouldn't ever occur to her that a man who wasn't interested in her would still be interested in other women."

"Rita's test of 'omosexuality," Thierry caught on, roaring with laughter. ""'Ello, ma boy. Are yer free for ze movies next Saturday? No? Alright ladies, 'e's definitely queer"." Arthur slapped his knee. "Een zat sense every male on ze planet would be like zat."

"If Rita was the only girl on the planet, I would be," Arthur responded. "Sometimes I think those homosexuals have the right idea."

"I knew I should 'ave nevair brought yer 'ome ter meet ma sisters," Thierry muttered.

* * * * *

Several hours before Arthur and Thierry had punched and made up, the Hufflepuff assassin, upon his descent from the place where the Divination professor had met her doom, had been greeted by a tall brunette, the prefect's badge glinting on her chest from the light that fell down from the trapdoor. "Thought I would find you here," she had teased.

"Ah, but you know me well," the recent assassin had responded, holding up both hands in a peace gesture.

"Better than most, it appears," the girl had noted, but while smiling warmly. "Was she as easy to trick as me?"

"You weren't that easy," the boy had assured her.

The girl then leaned forward, captured his tie with a quick hand. "You know, if I stare closely, I'm sure that the yellow has a greenish tinge to it. And the black appears closer to silver."

The boy had chuckled and swatted the hand away. The girl had grinned and recaptured the tie. Then they both leaned closer.

* * * * *

Saturday morning dawned with a bite that had been absent on the previous few, the promise of a cold winter. Arthur got up early, moving softly around the room as he dressed and collected his possessions. Thierry slept as though he had been hit by a Stupification jinx, but Roy Connolly, the room's final occupant, was a light sleeper. He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and slipped downstairs.

Headmaster Dippet awaited him in his office, along with his head of house Professor Dumbledore. Nothing new was to be added to the instructions he had already received, except a quick, "I'm sure you know what is appropriate in this occasions, but do try to bring some cheer into the poor girl's life," from Dumbledore. Now alone to collect his thoughts, Arthur waited for the portkey, a faded rubber sneaker, to activate.

The first thing he saw after a tug to his navel had signalled the beginning of his transportation was that he was in a small but lush drawing room. He had always known Lucille to be wealthy, but in comparison to other pureblood families - well, rich pureblood families, he amended himself - the Blacks tended to downplay their wealth. Clearly the French portion of the family felt differently. The chandelier alone appeared to be worth more than the entire Weasley home.

There were footsteps outside the door and Lucille entered. Her hair was twisted back in a sophisticated roll but her cheeks appeared more sunken than usual. Most tellingly, she had neglected to put on any eyeliner. The absence of her usual warpaint made her look younger, almost childlike, and achingly vulnerable. "Did you not come by Floo powder?" she asked. "You look clean."

"Dippet couldn't figure out how to get a connection with the French Floo Network, so he and Dumbledore set up a Portkey," Arthur explained. His first instinct had been to walk across the room and give Lucille a hug, but as she made no move to approach him, he remained where he was. "How are you doing?"

"Alright," Lucille shrugged. She looked as though she wanted to say more. He knew she wouldn't. "I understand hardly anything my cousins say," she confided. "I didn't realise until I came here that Thierry deliberately talked slower for me. I must remember to thank him."

"He sends his regards," Arthur said.

"He hasn't written to me," Lucille countered. The bitterness present in her voice was the first real emotion she had shown since his arrival.

"He's very busy with Quidditch practices," Arthur said awkwardly.

"Which he organises," Lucille said. Arthur had to concede, at least inwardly, that she had a point. "And Molly and Veronica attend the same practices, yet they managed to write." She heaved an audible sigh and looked away. "Oh, you're here now. It's not important. There will be a party after the funeral, so I assume you'll want to stay the night. I had the house elves set up a spare bed for you in Antoine's room."

"If it's any trouble-" Arthur began.

"No trouble at all," Lucille cut him off.

Once again Arthur saw that look in her eyes, the look that said her emotions felt so much more than what her conversation hinted at. In comparison to the open natures of the rest of his friends, Lucille had always been distant, but her present behaviour almost required a Gringotts-worthy codebreaker. He had a sympathetic nature, but did not possess Diana or Thierry's gift for reading hidden natures. That was, he could see the locked door in front of him, but wouldn't know where to start to produce the key. "I would be happy to stay," he said.

"Thank you," Lucille said softly. "It will be nice to speak my native language for a change." Not for the last time, Arthur pondered the wisdom of her being here. "Sirius and the Potters will be here after lunch. Father will arrive later."

Father? Arthur blinked. Lucille had always referred to Hector Black as "Da." He would have to stretch to find some positive news to take back to Hogwarts with him. "I'm going to need some of your cousins to sing with me," he said. "Do you know enough French to write a note to them explaining what they have to do?"

"I'm fine with French as a written language," Lucille told him. There was a brief flash of defiance in her tone. The Hogwarts Lucille had briefly awoken. "I mean, it's the same alphabet as English. You can read it for that matter. You just don't understand it. I don't know how well any of them can sing though."

"They don't need to be able to sing astoundingly," Arthur assured her. "Just a couple of the girls will be all I need. Most girls can sing passably well."

"Marie and Constance would be your best bets then," Lucille said. "Constance likes English boys. She thinks they're mignon, cute. This way." She took him by the arm as she led him out of the room. Even this contact did not feel like the normal Lucille.

* * * * *

The company bowed their collective heads as the coffin was lowered into the earth. A male relative of Elodie's stood on each corner, their wands leviating the woman's earthly body into the ground together. Lucille's father had been one designated for this task, but had broken down at the last minute and been unable to. One of Lucille's older cousins, a tall boy that Arthur suspected Sirius would resemble in a decade or so, quietly took over.

Next to Arthur Lucille choked out a strangled sob. He had wanted to be next to her, had thought it was appropriate given that she was the only one here he had close connections to, but because she was standing close to the grave, so was he, and feeling very intrusive with it. One of his hands absently ran over her hair; the other was around her waist. Lucille had soft, shiny hair. Pretty hair. It felt nice under his hand, but foreign. All he could think was that he was not the one who should be standing here with her, standing physically almost as close as lovers, but in all other aspects very distant. Someone else should be here, someone who would be doing a much better job of this whole comforting and closeness thing.

Unbidden, Thierry's face slipped into his mind.

The coffin now nestled in the grave and magically bidden earth flew over it. Across the piling dirt Arthur saw Sirius. Jerome Potter's hand was upon his shoulder; tears were streaming down his face. He, Lucille and their father all seem equal in their grief, yet strangely divided by it. There was something beneath the surface that was wrong here, so very wrong. So caught in his musings was he, he didn't realise it was time for his contribution until Lucille gave him a push in the small of his back.

Marie and Constance, both pretty girls with glossy, raven locks, reached the head of the grave before he. They were standing slightly apart, he was to go in between them as the centrepiece. Arthur's stomach lurched; he was not good with crowds. But then he saw his friend Lucille facing him. Pale, needing comfort. "I've never met any of Lucille's French relatives before," he began, "though I regret that it couldn't have been on a happier occasion. What we will sing is a tradition song called "Babylon." I picked it especially because of the last line, We remember thee Zion. Because if something or someone is remembered by you, it has never truly left you." This was the only part of the carefully prepared speech that had remained in his mind. It would have to do.

The same cousin who had helped lower Elodie into the ground step forward and quickly rapped out something in French. Arthur caught the line he had just recited and realised he was translating for him, when up until now he had made no inclination that he knew Arthur's language. What a strange family, he thought, but refrained from making the same mistake as some of his countrymen and extending that prejudice to all French people through his familiarity with Thierry and his open-minded nature. He cleared his throat and began to sing:

By the waters, the waters of Babylon

We lay down and wept, and wept, for thee Zion

We remember, we remember, we remember thee Zion

When Arthur sang, he forgot what he was doing, forgot any tests or detentions he had earned, and was conscious of nothing else but the efforts of his voice to carry the melody. In this way he forgot that these people, and even the woman in the grave, were comparative strangers to him and felt that they were offering the same opportunity to him. They all felt bonded in the moment, the song. The second time he sang the verse, Constance, as instructed, started to sing the beginning of the song while he was on the second line, her clear contralto contrasting yet merging with his strong tenor. They both sang their different lines once through, then Marie started while he was on We remember thee Zion. Perhaps Arthur was familiar with Muggle appliances to the point where he could describe this effect as being like a washing machine spinning different clothes and fabrics together, only much more harmonious. And for the first time, Lucille was smiling through her tears.

So it was that Arthur left for Hogwarts late the following Sunday with the feeling that everything would be alright.

* * * * *