Harry should go back inside, he knew he should, he just...didn't want to. He'd been floating around up here, fifty feet or so above the tallest towers, for well over an hour now. The carillon bells had just chimed noon, and he'd told Blaise he would be back for lunch.

It was just, nothing good ever happened on Hallowe'en.

Or rather, every Halloween he'd ever spent in Magical Britain, no matter what good things happened, something bad had happened too. Last year there was Sirius breaking into the school like a fucking crazy person (because he was a fucking crazy person). And before that, there had been the basilisk and Mrs. Norris, and Nick's stupid, awful Death Day Party. First year, of course, there had been the troll — he supposed there was a silver lining to that one, at least, because he hadn't been friends with Hermione beforehand. (He very pointedly turned his thoughts away from Ron Weasley, prat extraordinaire, and the role he'd played in that whole mess.)

And thirteen years ago, there was, well...that night.

The night his parents had died, and Harry had been doomed to a childhood of Dursleys and misery, all because some stupid fucking BASTARD thought it was a good idea to try to kill someone a prophecy told him to!

(He didn't know what had happened on his first Halloween, when he was three months old, but he was willing to bet it wasn't good, either.)

It wasn't as bad this year as it had been the last couple, what with the Tournament to distract them, but everyone else seemed to think the most important thing was Voldemort being defeated, spent the whole day fucking congratulating him for fucking surviving, when Harry hadn't done anything! No one seemed to realise that he might not want to go around being all bloody cheerful about that, when the most important thing about the day to him was the anniversary of his parents' deaths. Not that he'd ever really known them to miss them, but celebrating still didn't seem...appropriate, he guessed. And he definitely didn't want to constantly be reminded of the fact that they were dead, either.

And this year, there were about a hundred more people at Hogwarts than there usually were. He hadn't counted them, obviously, but he thought there were about thirty students from each school, and with the Queen and the Tánaiste and their guards and the Ministry people and the extra judges and the extra professors the other schools brought along, it seemed like a reasonable guess. It didn't really seem like it should feel like a lot more people, because Hogwarts was huge, but there weren't really that many people around most of the time. He'd kind of gotten used to the school being way too big for the population. And even if there weren't way too many people around, they were all way too excited about the whole tournament thing — absolutely no one was making any effort to contain themselves, and it was just loud. And tense.

Blaise, weirdly enough, was having a great time. Harry would've expected him to be even more stressed out by all the people and emotions running high than he was, but no. He'd been hanging out in the Entrance Hall with Lyra all morning (the epicenter of the Tournament madness), watching people try to enter their names — apparently the extra judges had come up with some sort of challenge thing before anyone could even volunteer as Champion for their schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had sent all of their students to put their names in before breakfast, and only about five people had managed it by ten o'clock. (Including both Krum and the veela girl he'd talked to at dinner yesterday — apparently she'd decided that she did want to enter, even if her father was a judge.)

Lyra was working with a couple of Durmstrangers and the Weasley Twins to suss out exactly what they'd done, questioning people who'd gone in — it was in an annex, not the Entrance Hall itself — and drawing diagrams and doing arithmancy and shite. Blaise was sitting at the top of the main staircase, crowd-surfing the spectators, more and more of whom had shown up over the course of the morning. Classes had been cancelled due to the expectation that no one would be able to focus on lessons today (which was probably true), and it seemed watching people get repelled from the doorway to the annex or wander back out of the room dazed and confused, was the most entertaining thing since quidditch was invented.

Harry had had more than enough of that shite by midmorning. Lyra had suggested he volunteer to help some of the older Slytherins set up their ritual for the evening — apparently this extra entry-challenge thing had left them somewhat short-handed, since most of the people who would have been out cleaning up some clearing on the edge of the Forest were currently trying to figure out how to enter for a chance to win fame, glory, and a thousand galleons. But Harry still wasn't sure he wanted to participate in the ritual, and he definitely wasn't going to walk up to Thane Rowle or Morgana Yaxley and ask if they wanted his help with whatever mysterious preparations were required.

Lyra seemed to forget that the same people who tended to be big on this sort of traditional shite also tended to hate him because of something he'd had nothing to do with, really, which had happened thirteen years ago today. Of course, most of them seemed to hate Malfoy even more, lately, which was vaguely satisfying and very amusing, but didn't mean they hated Harry any less.

So instead he'd decided to go flying. Just to get out of the castle for a bit. Clear his head.

It was a nice, crisp day, the sun hidden behind a thin haze of clouds — perfect flying weather, really, it was a shame there was no quidditch this year. He'd circled the castle and grounds, spent some time trying to figure out what was going on in the middle of the lake — some kind of construction thing, looked like a bloody island, he was sure it was to do with the Tournament — and then, since he didn't really have any purpose in mind aside from being in the air, enjoying the light, fall-smelling breeze off the Forest, he'd just let himself drift, leaning back into the cushioning charms on his broom and relaxing.

It was nice, not having to worry about accidentally invading someone's mind or being bombarded by their thoughts and feelings all the time, away from the stress of lessons and homework and Lyra's over-enthusiastic excitement about everything and Hermione's tense irritableness with her what seemed like all the time. (He wondered, sometimes, why they were dating, since it seemed like they spent most of their days arguing about stupid shite, but then they'd get into long rambling discussions of magical theory and some book they were apparently writing, they'd enthusiastically go on forever, and Harry would abruptly realise they're practically the same bloody person.) Away from the confusion and sympathy and guilt inspired by Dumbledore's attempts to show him that Tom Riddle was Evil, and Gin actually reminding him that Tom Riddle was Evil, and the drama of everything to do with the Blacks and Emma Granger, and how Harry going on holiday might've completely ruined Dumbledore's political career.

Away from everyone looking at him like he was anything other than a perfectly average bloke, basically. One who happened to be fairly good at quidditch, and was coming along pretty well at dueling, he thought — but then, compared to Justin, Rachel was good at dueling, and she was three years younger than them — but certainly didn't give a single solitary shite about politics, and didn't have some secret dark-lord-defeating powers, and spent most of an average day trying not to notice how many of his classmates thought Severus Snape was definitely fuckable. (Too many, Harry genuinely didn't get it, and he could read their fucking minds!)

But he should go back.

The fact that he really didn't want to — if he could convince Blaise to come up here and eat on the roof with him, that would be perfect — was the only reason he found himself making one last circuit of the castle. And then, just as he was about to head reluctantly for the lawn, he found a person lying in the trough between two lower peaks of the roof, not far from Gryffindor Tower. He almost didn't see her at all, curled up under a dark cloak, but her silvery-blonde hair had been teased out by the wind, a light ribbon fluttering against the dark slate.

And of course he couldn't not check it out once he'd seen her — she might be hurt, or stuck. Why was she up here in the first place? How was she up here? He didn't see a broom as he hovered in closer — she hadn't climbed out a window, had she? Not that he hadn't thought, on more than one occasion, that it would be incredibly easy to go exploring the roofs by doing exactly that, but it was still kind of weird if she actually had, especially since the nearest window that would be at all easy to climb out of was three towers away, and he couldn't see any way to get from there to here unless she was, like, a bird animagus or something. Though, in that case, he supposed she wouldn't have needed the window.

She was asleep, he realised belatedly, finally reaching an angle where he could see her face. He didn't recognise her, which was odd, because she was about his age, maybe younger. Or, well, she kind of looked like she might be a veela — he'd never really seen that hair colour on a human (though it was close to Luna's), and she had the same heart-shaped, too-perfect-to-be-real face as Fleur — so maybe it wasn't so odd, if she'd just arrived with the Beauxbatons people, but he didn't think that either of the other schools had sent anyone this young. Yes, some of their people were too young to enter as Champions, but everyone he'd seen so far looked like they were at least sixth- or seventh-years, and he was pretty sure the veela were staying in their carriage, not on the roof. Also, he just couldn't imagine veela snoring — her mouth was open slightly, drool leaking from the corner, and every time she breathed there was this little whistling noise which was kind of, well, adorable, but—

But he was just sitting here staring at her like a creep. Not because she was very pretty and vaguely adorable (well, okay, maybe a little bit because of that), but because he didn't know if he should wake her up.

On the one hand, he still had all kinds of questions about why she was sleeping on the roof, but on the other...maybe she'd come up here on purpose? If so, it would...probably be rude to wake her?

But if she hadn't come up here on purpose, or if she had and then her broom had rolled off the roof at some point — obviously not from here, safe in the valley between towers, but there were plenty of other places she could've set it down and had it roll away on her — and she was only sleeping because she'd been stuck for a while... She might not know that she could call an elf to come help her get down — Harry hadn't known that the elves would come save lost students until Tracey had mentioned it last year — and...

Yes, he should, he decided, probably say something.

"Er... Hello?" The girl didn't respond. "Hello?" he tried again, a bit louder.

Her eyes fluttered open, widening in surprise to see him hovering there. Yeah, he was definitely going to go with veela, he decided. All snoring aside, that orange-gold colour was even less human than silver hair. Granted, he hadn't noticed Fleur having bird-eyes last night, but he had thought there was something vaguely avian about her mind. She could just glamour them like Lyra did, or something.

Before he could say anything, defend his waking her up or explain why he was hovering around indecisively, he was enveloped with that same hot, silky magic he'd felt at the World Cup, and when he'd accidentally gotten in Fleur's personal space last night. But rather than compelling or sexy, this time it felt confused and surprised, maybe a little scared, tingling at the edges of his mind. Not entirely unlike being around most people, he guessed, but...louder. And much clearer. Normally Harry wasn't all that good at reading emotions — he could pick up on them, especially from people who thought more in pictures and ideas than words, but just whatever emotions went along with their specific thoughts, most of the time. Not with any sort of nuance, and he definitely had to think about it, he didn't just kind of...feel what they were feeling. This was more like the way Blaise perceived casual legilimency (eavesdropping on an empath was fucking weird) — the emotions almost overwhelming, without catching specific thoughts, as such.

Intrigue and wariness and...self castigation, he thought he might call that one, though he didn't know why she was suddenly so irritated with herself (unless it was because she'd just remembered she'd gotten herself stuck on the roof) and (he felt himself going red) attraction — that was one of the things stopping her jumping up and putting distance between them, an underlying restlessness combining with her surprise to make that her first instinct when startled, that this boy who had woken her up was kind of cute. (That was a distinct thought.)

"Hey, it's okay, I just— I wanted to make sure you were alright." Her confusion intensified, even as he gently pushed her magic away from himself.

"Eeh... Pardon me. I do not understand. Parlez-vous français?"

Well, bugger. "Un petit peu? Um, not really." Her English sounded better than his French, he was sure. Somewhat reluctantly, he dropped his efforts to separate his mind from her magic — that was probably the only way they were really going to be able to communicate. At least, he was pretty sure it would help, being able to tell if he was scaring her or confusing her or making her uncomfortable. "Are you okay?"

That one she understood. Right. Simple sentences. I can do that. "I am good. Or...does one say well? Pardon me, please, I do not speak English often." And she was kind of embarrassed about that. And...uncertain? Not just about the word, he thought.

"Er... One generally says I'm fine. Can I join you?" He formed a mental image of himself sitting beside her, pushing it experimentally into the space between them — not actually to her, like inside her mind-space, but more generally projecting it, along with a questioning sort of feeling.

She sat up and nodded, grinning, though her embarrassment spiked as she apparently realised there was a bit of drool dried on her cheek. He didn't even need mind magic to know that, her face went bright red. She scrubbed at it with a corner of the cloak she was still using as a blanket before wrapping it more tightly around her shoulders — the sleeveless blue dress she was wearing under it was so thin it was practically see-through — and patting a spot beside herself.

Okay. That was something. (He was probably prouder than he should be about managing to establish that much communication with this random French girl.) He tipped off his broom, and almost immediately slipped on the sharply sloped slate, falling on his arse approximately where he'd meant to sit, though there was no way to pretend he hadn't just been a clumsy oaf. She laughed, a high, bubbling giggle which probably would have been infectious if Harry weren't feeling quite so self-conscious at the moment. "J' m'appelle Gabbie Delacour. Comment toi?"

"Harry. Harry Potter. Delacour like Fleur?" He projected an image of the older veela. Her sister? They did look like they could be sisters.

She nodded, delight and love and admiration (with an undertone of anxiety) — for the other girl, presumably — washing over him, along with a flood of French he had no hope of following. After a minute or two, she seemed to realise this, cutting herself off abruptly. "Oui, Fleur is my sister. And you are...mon cousin?"

"Er...what?" It took him a second to realise she was saying cousin, partly because, as far as he knew, all of his cousins were human (or Lyra). "I don't think so."

Confusion. "The quiet girl, she says — said — your Aunt Lise is also my Aunt Lise, and so—"

"I don't have an Aunt Lise."

Even more confusion. "Es-tu sûr?"

"Does that mean am I sure? Uh, yeah, pretty sure. Who told you that? Who is the quiet girl?" Because out of all the girls Harry knew, none of them could really be considered quiet. Gin, maybe, but he kind of doubted Gin had been going around chatting about Harry with some random veela girl.

"Her name is Lyra? She...might not be...réelle."

That startled a laugh from Harry. "She's real. Though, quiet is not a word I would use to describe her."

"Not...speaking. Her mind is quiet. Strange."

"Oh, yeah, okay, that makes sense. But...she said I have an Aunt Lise? I don't even know anyone named Lise." Maybe one of the Blacks? He was well aware that Lyra (and Sirius) reckoned kinship a bit oddly, compared to...pretty much everyone. As far as he could tell, it was almost completely arbitrary, who they considered family. He wouldn't be surprised to find out that this Lise was a cousin of his grandmother's godson's sister's husband or something — a distant relation no one in their right mind would consider his aunt. He'd ask her about it later, he certainly wasn't going to try to figure it out across the language barrier here. "How do you know Lyra?"

Not that he was particularly surprised that she knew Lyra, especially if they were somehow related, but the whole she might not be real thing (assuming that was what réelle meant) kind of seemed like she didn't know her very well. Though Harry would admit that he did have moments when he questioned how Lyra's existence was even possible, and he knew her as well as anyone, so...maybe it didn't mean anything. Never mind.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, he managed to figure out that Lyra had brought Gabbie to Hogwarts — she wasn't supposed to be here, that was why she was angry at herself, she'd only been here a few hours and someone (Harry) had already caught her out — and was helping her hide here to prove...something to her father, the ICW judge.

"But, why aren't you supposed to be here?" Maybe just because she was too young? But her father and sister were here, it wasn't like she would've been going a thousand miles from home alone. Or, well, she wouldn't have if they'd just brought her with them in the first place. He supposed she had actually just up and travelled a thousand miles by herself (or with Lyra, whatever) and obviously she was fine, but—

She pouted at him. "Papa says British people are racistes — they do not like veela because we are veela, and so it is dangerous." Harry caught a flash of memory, the ICW judge telling her something. He couldn't understand the words of course, but the tone was clear — genuinely concerned and sorry, sympathetic even, but entirely unwilling to compromise. "But I do not think it is true. I know only one British person, and you are very nice."

There was no mistaking her tone, not with her magic all around, her feelings pressing in on him — attraction, desire — and it was hard not to reciprocate, feeling her emotions not-quite-secondhand as he was. It really didn't help that she was pretty and clever and had this sort of...bubbly, outgoing, irrepressibly enthusiastic attitude — yes, she might've been embarrassed to be caught sleeping, but clearly neither that nor the fact that they didn't really speak the same language at all were going to stop her befriending him — that was just incredibly attractive (Harry wished he could be that...un-self-conscious, that confident, meeting new people), and she obviously had a hard-headed, rebellious streak, since she was here, and—

He should kiss her.

Wait— What the hell was he thinking?! Bloody hell, they'd only just met! He was not going to go snogging her out of nowhere no matter how fanciable she was! She'd probably slap him and never speak to him again!

"Er. You know Lyra, too," he said, awkwardly attempting to change the subject.

Gabbie shook her head sharply. "She maybe is real, but she is not a person. People...feel. They have...le psychisme. Lyra does not. She is...inquiétante." Creepy, or unnerving, or something like that, Harry thought, picking up the impression of a shiver trailing down his (Gabbie's) spine.

Which, he couldn't really argue the point. He often found Lyra unnerving, and he didn't instinctively use mind magic to communicate, like he was getting the impression veela did. Not that he thought they actually spoke mind-to-mind like he and Blaise could do, but the way Gabbie projected emotions, the way she called Lyra quiet, like mental contact was as much a part of normal conversation as facial expressions or body language... If that was how veela talked to each other all the time, he could see how talking to Lyra would be weird and uncomfortable. Kind of like the way he thought talking to Sylvie was weird and uncomfortable.

"Still, I don't understand, why would British people hate you?" Yes, there were racists in Britain, but most of them, he thought, were racist against muggleborns. Malfoy, for example, hated Hermione, but he'd been practically drooling over the veela at the World Cup.

Gabbie pouted at him again, this time something more hesitant about it than before. "I do not know if I can tell you. English is difficult. But I will... How does one say, essayer?"

Harry shrugged. Most of the words she'd had to say in French had sounded enough like English he'd been able to puzzle them out, but he didn't recognise that one. Based on the context... "Try? To try? Or maybe to attempt, or something like that?"

"Oui! Comme tenter! I will try." She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts, uncertain and annoyed — not at Harry, but at the memory of her father telling her she couldn't come here (he caught more of it, that time, starting a bit earlier, her protesting, probably asking why British people would hate her, much as Harry was asking her now) and racists in general — before saying, "Veela magic is not like human magic. Or, not only like human magic. More like you — you are un voyant, yes? You...see...la psyché?"

Did she mean legilimency? He thought she meant legilimency. That would make sense, there was obviously some kind of mind magic going on between them, so... He nodded. "Mostly thoughts and memories, though, not...feelings. Emotions."

"And you can...projeter, et former — make people do, think, as you do? Comme, se dit...contraindre?"

"Do you mean compulsions? ...Yes." He still thought those were far too easy, actually.

She must have realised how uncomfortable he was with the idea, because she burst into speech again, a protesting, trying-to-reassure him sort of babble (of which he understood nothing), underlaid with a tone of definite trepidation. After a few minutes, clearly frustrated with his incomprehension, she managed to force herself to slow down enough to say, "We do not do it...with design! It is only how we are!"

"Wait...what? I don't know what we're talking about anymore." Last he knew, they'd been talking about him compelling people, which...which had made him uncomfortable, she must have thought he was uncomfortable with her for some reason. "Do you mean veela compel people?"

"No! We... Nous échangeons...les sentiments? passions? Is it the same word? It is like talking, understanding! We are doing it right now. It is natural. But some people, humans, do not have...mastery of the self?"

"Self-control? You mean occlumency? Like..." He pushed back against her magic, putting a bit of mental distance between them.

"Oui. That. And humans without occlumency, Papa says they think veela want to...shape? former, leurs sentiments. Like les contraints, the spell to...que façonner des idées? a...une attaque, ou...une aggression? I do not know the words."

"Attack," he confirmed. And it sounded like by compulsion (or, the word he'd thought meant compulsion, it sounded vaguely like constraint, which was similar) she meant the charm, not just making a passing impression on someone by accident. Which, it was true, Harry could set a lasting compulsion, too (and it was also far too easy, if not quite as easy as the simple compulsions he thought she'd been talking about at first), but that wasn't really the same thing as the way her magic was making him feel an echo of her emotions at all. That was more like, he thought, kind of like an active version of the empathic talent Blaise had, or...like the translation spell that mind mage had done for him at Mira's wedding (which, he should get someone to cast that again, it would make this talking-to-Gabbie thing so much easier), but with feelings instead of knowledge. It took a little getting used to, sure, but it obviously wasn't malicious, or something. "They think you're attacking them. But you're not. I mean, obviously."

"Yes. But Papa says they do not understand, and they are scared and angry, and hurt veela because they think...wrong...ly? — they think to protect them from us."

Which...kind of made sense, he guessed. Kind of. It hadn't really escaped Harry's notice that British mages could over-react to the stupidest things — Parseltongue came to mind. "But, wait. You don't have to, er..." How had she phrased it? "...exchange feelings, do you? Fleur didn't, when I talked to her." He was positive she would be feeling his embarrassment over that whole accidentally-invading-her-sister's-mind thing, so he added, "I kind of got...distracted, by her magic, but that wasn't her fault. Normal people — humans who aren't mind mages, I mean — wouldn't have." Granted, it would probably be like him trying to talk to someone without making any expressions, or moving his hands, but obviously it could be done.

"Yes, we do not have to, but... It is difficult, keeping the magic in. More difficult with some humans than others. The... Ginevra?"

Harry couldn't help but smile, slightly, at the French pronunciation of Gin's name, wondering if she'd hate it more or less than the English version. "She just goes by Gin."

Gabbie nodded. "Gin. Her mind is...like knives, or... How does one say, comme une hérissonne?"

She projected an image of... Harry sniggered. "A hedgehog." And now he was never going to be able to look at Gin again without thinking of one, because Gabbie was totally right. "Prickly."

"Yes. It is easy not to touch. But others, like Maïa, the one who is la copine of Lyra? Her mind is more...sparkly. I almost was not able to stop from touching her, which is bad even if she is not offensée ou effrayée. I am... Lyra says — said — to not tell Maïa about me, because she will tell Papa. It is why I am here, now. And also because the bed is too...small. Too—" She made a pressing-together sort of hand motion, her discomfort with the idea of enclosed spaces very clear. "—for sleep."

Well, that explained why she was out here, if not how, Harry guessed. But he felt it was more important to note, "Yes, Hermione would probably tell your father you're here, because... Won't people be worried about you?" Granted, they probably wouldn't be political implosion -level worried, but he assumed that Gabbie had more family — she had mentioned Mama at one point, and their supposedly-shared Aunt Lise, at least — and if she was hiding from her father they probably also didn't know where she was...

Gabbie knew it, too, he could tell from the guilt she was now projecting. "...Yes. But right now, Mama thinks that I am at Beauxbatons, and I write a note to Alié that I am going home for two, three days, a week maybe, because I miss Fleur now she is in Britain, and sign it comme Mama. So, no one worries now. And when Alié writes to Mama to ask when I will come back to l'Académie, it will be time enough to show Papa et Mama that I can come to Britain, too, and nothing bad happens!"

"Uh-huh." Somehow, Harry doubted that plan would go as smoothly as Gabbie expected.

She shoved him, rocking him slightly away from herself. "It will work!"

"But you're hiding on a roof so that nothing bad will happen. That's not really—"

"No, I am tired. I...flied?" ("Flew.") "—flew from Beauxbatons to Britain last night! It is a very long distance!" Oh, yeah, well. Harry didn't know where Beauxbatons actually was, but he thought Aquitania was somewhere in the south of France, so, yeah, that was a long way. "And I am...endolorie, my wings, I do not ever fly so long before."

Wait, wings? Did she mean... Could veela actually turn into birds? The veela at the World Cup, when they'd gotten angry, had started to look kind of like what he thought harpies were supposed to be, kind of bird-like, but he didn't think they could actually fly. Like, with their own wings.

Gabbie cocked her head to one side with a quizzical expression, confusion filling the space between them. "You envy that I am endolorie?"

"No, I– I don't even know what that means — sore, or tired, or something? But you said your wings! Can you— You can fly, without a broom!" That he was definitely envying. It was practically the coolest thing ever. If Harry could be a bird, he thought he might never bother being human again.

Gabbie obviously thought this was hilarious. "Yes, of course," she said, when she finally managed to stop laughing at him. "I am not little child."

Harry almost said show me, like an overly-excited little child himself, but he stopped because, well, he wasn't a little child, either. (And also, it seemed kind of rude, even if she probably wouldn't take it as such, he couldn't really say why.) And he was glad he did, because a few seconds later, the bells began ringing again, chiming— "Is it one o'clock already? Shite! I was supposed to meet Blaise, my, um, boyfriend, almost an hour ago!"

"Boyfriend?"

Right, that was probably a different word in French. He let her feel his fondness and affection for Blaise, even as he explained, "We're...dating. Like Maïa and Lyra."

"Dating? Is this a word for sex?"

"Er..." Harry really didn't know how to answer that. Kind of? Not really, but also yes, sometimes? He meant, that was kind of implied, sometimes, but not always, and he didn't necessarily want to talk about his and Blaise's...sex life (weird even to think the phrase) with this girl he'd known less than an hour, especially since she was awfully fanciable herself, and— "It's complicated."

Normally, that was the sort of thing he made Blaise explain...normally being when Lyra (or Sylvie, or Éanna) asked awkward questions Harry didn't really know how to explain, like why is it weird to not want to see your friends naked (and why it was weird to force someone to look at your naked self to prove the point that it wasn't weird). Questions to which the only answer he could give was, because...it just is! (Or because you're insane, but Lyra already knew that, it didn't count as an explanation.)

...God, he was a fucking moron.

Gabbie pouted at him, making a questioning little eh? sound.

He could just make Blaise explain! He even spoke French, that made much more sense, and it would be easier, and— "I don't know why it took me this long to think of it, but I could bring Blaise up here. I mean, if you don't want to go down and eat lunch with everyone else..." Though, if she did, they'd definitely have to find some other clothes for her, first. And maybe use a notice-me-not charm so no one would think it was weird that there was suddenly a veela at the Gryffindor table.

She frowned. "It is maybe not a good idea. The students from my school, they will be there also, yes? And I like talking with you." There was a sort of sadness and unwillingness to give something up that went along with that statement, that Harry didn't really understand. "I do not think I can talk with you and not talk to Blaise if he is here," she added delicately. "I do not want to scare him. So..."

Oh, she wouldn't be able to use mind magic to talk to Harry without Blaise getting caught up in it, too. That made sense, especially because she didn't know that she had no reason to worry about Blaise having issues with her magic. It hadn't come up that, "He's a better occlumens than I am. That's why we became friends in the first place, actually. He was teaching me."

"Oh!"

"I mean, if you don't want me to bring him up here, or tell him about you, that's fine, I won't, but I really should go, because I said I would meet him—"

"No! I mean, yes, go, and bring him here! I want to meet him!" she demanded, her sadness and fear of making this human boy she'd never met uncomfortable vanishing in an instant, replaced by excitement and eagerness to meet someone new — not that Harry thought she didn't like him, just, she was clearly one of those outgoing people who liked having lots of friends around all the time. Kind of like Sirius, he guessed. It had not escaped Harry's notice that his godfather had a tendency to make friends everywhere he went. They'd gone shopping for school supplies, and he'd ended up inviting the bloke from the stationary shop to have lunch with them, because they'd got caught up talking about...Harry didn't even know what, in the five minutes it had taken Harry to choose new quills and notebooks! It was ridiculous!

"Yeah?" he asked, a grin tugging at his lips.

She nodded, clapping delightedly. "Yes! And— Will you please bring food? Now that you speak of lunch, I notice I have hungry." She gave him an adorable (but entirely unnecessary), pathetic little begging pout.

Harry laughed. Apparently he was going to get to have his picnic on the roof after all! "Sure, wait here, I'll be right back. Like, fifteen minutes." He was pretty sure it wouldn't take any time at all to convince Blaise to come meet a runaway veela who was hiding on the roof, especially because Harry never made friends Blaise didn't know. Literally never. He'd probably be pleased with the progress Harry was making toward not being a completely useless neurotic mess (no matter how oddly...embarrassing that thought was, for some reason). The only person he thought he'd met before Blaise was Sylvie — exactly one year ago, he realised, Lyra had dragged him out to meet her instead of going to Hogsmeade.

It might've been a bit...rude, to admit aloud, but he liked Gabbie a hell of a lot more than Sylvie. She was just so...Gabbie.

This was, Harry thought, hopping back onto his broom, quickly shaping up to be the best Halloween he'd ever had.