a)
"Wait. Did anyone tell Belle?"
I.
Jeanne comes tearing up the long gravel path from the kitchen garden with black ribbons in her silver hair, and Belle folds down into her cousin's embrace.
"I'm sorry, Belle, I'm so sorry," Jeanne says, rocking her gently as Maman and Grand-mere and- and Tante Leto, and Tante Metis, and the twins? Belle cannot remember the last time Apollonia or Artemisia touched her, but here they are, offering her comfort. Perhaps Jeanne was more right than Belle realised, when she tried to broker a reconciliation between them all. Perhaps it is simply that they, who have never really known their father, understand this sudden, consuming absence.
Death is a familiar thing here in Valence, where there are monuments dotted throughout the orchards for all the family and friends who have fallen in all the wars, wizard and Muggle alike. Maman has already promised that they can erect a memorial for Papa.
She will have no body to bury, no grave to stand over. Only Dora and Dromeda have written to her - Dromeda has asked her to visit over the summer, even - but that has been enough. Dora did not see it, but she was in the Ministry, and someone else told her about it.
No one else has thought to tell Bellona. There were plenty of people there, but not one of them has thought to alert Sirius Black's next-of-kin of his death. She wonders if they've all assumed that Harry will get Papa's house, and if Professor Dumbledore will whisper in the right ears to make it so. It would be so inconvenient for them if she took away their London base.
Remus' letter comes the day after she gets home, and is crumpled as though he agonised over it. It contains thirteen apologies - unlucky, some would say - and is delivered by hand, by Remus himself. Anatole and Amand sought him out and brought him with them, and he looks sorrier even than his patched and faded robes.
"Oh, Belle," he sighs, pulling her into his arms and pressing his face to her hair. She holds on as tight as she can, glad of the trembling strength of his thin, worn body, glad to have someone else here who loved her papa. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."
"You did not kill Sirius, Remus," Maman says, stroking her hand over Belle's hair. She hasn't been bothered to pin it or plait it since Papa's death, and it's only clean and neat because Jeanne helped her wash it and insisted on brushing it every morning. Maman had tried, but Belle could hardly bear Maman to touch her since Papa's death. It isn't fair to Maman, and some part of her knows it to be foolish, but having Maman, who has been with her always, when Papa has been ripped away from her after such a small little time… It is more than she can stand. "You are not to blame."
Bellatrix Lestrange is, according to Dora. This bitch with whom Belle shares a face, that is who killed her papa. She haunts Belle, dogs her every step, and Belle would like to meet this great and terrible Bella, of whom Dromeda speaks with such absolute contempt. She would like a chance to claim blood for blood, the madwoman's life for Papa's.
The Order of the Phoenix have claimed Papa's death as their tragedy, though, so much so that only Belle's cousin and her godfather remembered to tell her that her father had been murdered. She has nothing of Papa's, no souvenir to keep the memory of him close, and it hurts. It hurts more than she can explain to have him stolen from her twice over.
She will have her vengeance claimed, too. The only person to whom she would cede Bellatrix Lestrange is Neville Longbottom, but Neville is not a killer, and so Bellatrix should be Belle's. The Order will find some way to deny her, though. She has no doubt about that.
"Whatever you need, Belle," Remus says. "I'm here for whatever you need."
She believes that he means it. She also believes that he will bend to whatever Albus Dumbledore asks of him, even if it comes between them.
Dora comes as well. Her hair is the same soft ashy-brown as her father's, in the photos she showed Belle, but her eyes are striking Black dark brown. It's shocking to see her without her wild hair and her bold makeup, but Belle finds that she likes Dora's face now that she can see something of herself in it, in the shape of those eyes and the way she tips up her chin.
"Come here, you," Dora says. "Mum would've come as well, but Dad did his back again and he can't put his right leg under him. You're stuck with just me, I'm afraid!"
Dora very pointedly does not look at Remus, and she hugs Belle so hard her back clicks. There's something amiss there - something Remus has done, because Belle cannot imagine Dora letting her hair fade like this unless she was upset - but Belle cannot find it in herself to ask. It isn't that she does not care, she cares very much, but she hasn't even been able to reply to the letter Blaise sent two weeks ago. It's the longest she's gone without talking to Blaise since they were eleven years old, and while she knows that she should be missing him, she simply feels… Blank.
"We'll sit and be miserable together," Dora says bracingly. "Where's your uncle? He promised me some kind of very delicious pastry if I came to visit - maybe we'll feel better if we get fat."
She hasn't cried since her screaming fit, that pale and terrible morning, and thinks she probably ought to. Even when they put up Papa's memorial, she remains dry-eyed. The memorial is tucked against a tall Judas tree, bare of its pink springtime blossoms in the high July heat. Belle likes the round-cornered stone in cool black marble with gold lettering, simple and elegant. Nothing about her papa was simple, and he was elegant mostly by accident, but it is all that she has and she is grateful for that.
Dora is gone home, Remus has been and gone twice, and there is no one else. The de Poitiers of Valentinois are alone. Much and all as Belle might wish otherwise, she is alone. There is her family, there is Dora and Dromeda, there is Blaise and Daphne, and there is Remus when he is not needed elsewhere.
That will do. Nothing can fill the space her papa has left, and she is happy that no one is trying.
II.
Blaise and Madame Sofia meet them in Paris for their school shopping. Maman arranged it all with Madame Sofia, wrote to her because Belle wasn't writing to Blaise, and now that she is here, looking at all the love and concern on Blaise's handsome face, it nearly overwhelms her.
Still she cannot cry.
Madame Sofia and Maman talk in hushed whispers, but Blaise simply takes Belle by the hand and pulls her away to sit under the striped awning of an ice-cream parlour not dissimilar to Monsieur Fortescue's. The sundaes are not quite so big, but the ice-cream itself is a little richer and heavier, and she is grateful that Blaise seems content to sit in the blistering heat without speaking.
"I can't talk about it," she says, once she's eaten all of the nuts and all of the strawberry ice-cream. "I don't have words for it. Not in any of my languages."
She speaks French and Finnish and English, Breton and Spanish and Latin, Russian now and some Greek as well, but even with all of that she cannot find a way to describe the rupturing pain in her gut every time she thinks of her father. Blaise presses his hand over hers, flat on the table, and nods.
He has lost his papa as well, after all. He speaks near as many languages as she does, and maybe he understands this just as he understands so many other things.
"I've missed you," she says, her throat heavy as if she might cry, even though her eyes are dry. "I'm sorry I've been- absent."
He shrugs, because she has been absent, but he doesn't seem to mind. They say no more as they finish their sundaes, hands still pressed together, and then they sit a little while longer.
"Your wand?" he asks, and she holds up the narrow ebony case Grand-mère gave her for the two halves Pansy left behind. The hinges and clasp on the case are silver, bright as the moon, and inside, the twined hairs revealed by the break in her wand catch every ray of light in just the right way to split her heart to match. Blaise's scowl could kill, if Pansy were nearby, and that makes Belle smile as she tucks the box away.
They stand, and walk in silence to Madame Dubois' shop. She's the finest wandmaker in Paris - the best in France, no matter what the Desormeaux in Rennes think - and her shop is a beautiful thing in its own right. Belle has heard that Monsieur Ollivander has all his wands already made, waiting for their owners in boxes on his dusty shelves, but Madame Dubois does things differently.
Madame Dubois makes every wand to fit. She made Belle's wand, and she made wands for both Delacours, and she made Amand's half-human niece's wand. She has a soft spot for people like her, with her half-dryad's voice singing wands from wood.
"Ah, Mademoiselle de Poitiers!" she calls as soon as Belle and Blaise push open the door. "A moment, cherie, just a moment."
The little girl standing at the counter smiles over her shoulder even as her mother draws her just a little closer - the name de Poitiers carries weight in the Vingt-et-unième, and that is not always a good thing. There's not a wealthy French wizarding family who has not entrusted some of their wealth to the Valentinois vault, but much as the English wizards hate the goblins of Gringotts, so too do the French elite hate the Veela who hold their gold. Ah, well. Belle's well used to being disliked.
The little girl waves as she passes, blushing when Blaise smiles down at her, and her mama - an Aubigné, by the enamel brooch holding her sheer yellow silk scarf in place over her shoulders - manages a smile, a dip of her Sleekeazyed head. Belle returns it in kind, very aware of the de Poitiers brooch on the strap of her bag, very aware of the sharp black-and-white stripes of her flaring chiffon sunray-pleat skirt. Blaise laughs quietly as the door whispers shut behind them, and nudges Belle toward the counter while he turns to examine the wandwood specimens growing in beautiful glazed planters around the shop.
"Now, ma petite," Madame Dubois says her hands folded in a way that shows off her beautiful wooden rings to best advantage. "Tell me what brings you here - surely you have not worn out your wand? Your core alone would preserve the wood for years yet."
"I was not given the opportunity to wear it out," she says, taking her ebony box from her bag and setting it on the counter. "There was- there is a girl who does not like me very much at school. She took advantage of- unfortunate circumstances and used them to-"
Her throat feels thick again, and Madame Dubois' face softens. Her eyes are a fascinating shade of hazel-green, like sunlight dappling through summer leaves, and they are warm now with sympathy.
"Your unfortunate circumstances are known to me, cherie," she says. "We are a small community, Mademoiselle Bellona, and we look after our own."
Half-humans are rare, but there are more of them here in France than Belle realised until recently - Jeanne and Anatole have been helping her reach out, and while she cannot regret Hogwarts, for it has brought her Blaise and Daphne, she cannot help but wonder how much easier things might have been had she gone to Beauxbatons instead. She would have had Fleur and Gabrielle, if no one else, and their aunt, Madame Appoline's sister, teaches Charms there. Things could have been… Ah, well. Such is life.
Madame Dubois makes all the appropriate noises when Belle reveals the wreckage of her wand, but almost immediately begins to hum thoughtfully.
"You know," she says, "I think it may be time for a change. Your core, of course, that will remain - I cannot imagine a core that could suit you as well."
"Phoenix feather," Blaise says mildly, from away across the room. "A fire-bird core might suit her."
He turns to face their surprised silence, and smiles bashfully.
"I've studied a little wandlore," he admits. "We all need hobbies."
"Quite so, monsieur," Madame Dubois agrees cheerfully. "Come this way with me, Mademoiselle Bellona, come with me - let me see what sings for you."
The neat little trees hum in harmony as they walk the room, Madame Dubois stroking the reaching tendrils as they pass. Blaise moves to lean against the counter, to give them room but also to watch everything - Belle can see how he's focused on Madame Dubois' elegant hands.
"I think we have a winner," she said, running her fingertips across the pale green leaves and snowy white clusters of flowers of a silvery-barked tree. "Whitebeam - yes, this will do nicely."
Blaise leaned forward a little to watch more closely as Madame Dubois hums to coax the wood of the two split halves of her old wand away from the core - Grand-mère and Ukki's hairs shine bright, bright, brighter as the wood gently parts, and Belle is so focused on that that she hardly even notices the new wand forming from an outstretched finger of whitebeam, shedding its bark and drying to a hard white-gold shine under Madame Dubois' tender magic.
"Now," she sighs, lifting the hair from Belle's ebony box, and laying it against the new wand, where the wood wraps around it without leaving a seam, "now, we'll seal it all, and see if it sings for you, Mademoiselle Bellona."
Blaise steps away from the counter now, as if afraid of intruding on Madame Dubois' work - perhaps the wandmaker in St. Petersburg who crafted his wand was more secretive, but Madame Dubois' methods were never hidden. The wood called to her, and she called back.
The varnish she used was silver-clear, leaving the new, pale wood of the wand in her hands almost the same colour as Grand-mère's hair. It was the opposite of the dark hawthorn of Bellona's old wand, and was all different otherwise - longer, slimmer, and under Madame Dubois' careful, lyrical handling, curling all about the handle with winding patterns that called to mind La Tène more than anything else.
"Oh," Belle says, as the swirling patterns hint at something that looks very like a Grim - like Padfoot. "Oh, Madame Dubois, how did you know?"
"I didn't," Madame Dubois says, her smile soft and beatific. "But the wood knows, Mademoiselle Bellona. It always knows. Your core carries part of you in it, and it tells the wood everything it needs to know."
Only a dryad's daughter could say such things and not sound foolish. Grand-mère knows Madame Dubois' papa, who was a keeper of the Forêt d'Aïtone on Corsica before he retired to le Parc Commémoratif here in le Vingt-et-unième, just down the street from Madame Dubois' shop, and has always said that he is a most philosophical of beings. Madame Dubois has some of that same air, but the practicality of her beautiful hands grounds her a little.
"Now, Mademoiselle Bellona," Madame Dubois says. "Whitebeam, fourteen-and-a-half inches, firm but not unyielding, Veela hair core. This feels more a combat wand than the last, cherie - should it?"
"It may prove more necessary than we would like," Blaise says, resting his hand on Belle's shoulder. "Could you craft a combat harness, Madame? Black leather, with silver fittings?"
"I would not send her away without one," Madame Dubois assures him, passing the wand handle-first to Bellona's waiting hands. "Let me fetch my measuring tape."
Two hours and a visit to Mlle. Lelong for their new robes later, Blaise and Belle reunite with their mothers. Maman looks exhausted, her temples tight, and Madame Sofia looks tired too. She wonders at that, at the red-rim brightness of Maman's eyes, and feels guilt enough to overwhelm her at the realisation that Maman is mourning Papa as well. How selfish she has been!
"Hello, chouette," Maman says, kissing Belle's brow when she leans over to set down the bags of books and supplies by Belle's chair. "Madame Dubois served you well?"
"Beautifully, Maman," Belle promises. "And Mademoiselle Lelong as well - she told me that there is a grand-niece of Monsieur Balmain's coming back to the House next year, when she finishes at Beauxbatons."
"I wonder will she have Monsieur Balmain's taste, or something more conservative?" Madame Sofia says, caressing Blaise's cheek before taking her seat. "I should like to see what she produces - we will give her until next Christmas, see what kind of collections she creates."
"I will remain loyal to Mademoiselle Lelong for now," Blaise says with a grin. "She managed to make something interesting of our school uniforms, and for that alone she deserves a reward."
Belle isn't sure how the silk scarves she ordered in place of her ties will sit with the dress code, but she doesn't much care - she will skim close to the rules, with trousers and scarves and her wand strapped to her thigh, and she will be the French alien they all already think her. Blaise as well has cut himself a little tighter to the dress code, tailoring his robes a great deal more than is probably allowed and adding the most fantastic emerald green and silver striped lining. Daphne is going to look so very conservative between them, but she's so beautiful that no one will even notice.
"Things will be different for you both this year," Maman says. "After last year-"
Toujours Pur shines bright white on the back of Belle's hand, brighter when she clenches her fist.
"Well," Maman says. "Between that, and then- everything at the end of the year, we need you both to be careful."
"We're always careful, Maman-"
"No," Madame Sofia says. "You're both far too bold by nature to claim that. We need you to swear to us that you will be careful, darlings. Please. Neither one of us could bear it if anything happened to either one of you."
"Mama," Blaise says, reaching over to take Madame Sofia's hand. "Mama, you know that we look after one another."
"I trust it," Madame Sofia says warningly. "But consider this our permission, darlings."
"Permission," Maman says, "to strike first."
III.
Dora and Remus cannot make it to King's Cross to see her to the train, but Amand and Anatole come. They stand with Maman and Madame Sofia, and Blaise and Belle stand with them. Belle's long black boots make her feel very tall, which is good - there are enough people staring that she needs all the help she can get.
"If any harm comes to her," Anatole says, his beauty unearthly for the threat on his face, "I will see you repay it, Monsieur Zabini."
Sofia Nikolaevna smiles.
"And the same goes for you, Bellona," she says, lethal as only she can be, her face serene above the fantastic pattern of her gold-and-bronze blouse. "Take care of him, myshka, or there will be a price."
Amand simply holds tight to Belle's hand, his lovely face creased with concern, and she kisses his temple to sooth him. She's taller than him now, enough that it's noticeable, and she's glad that it hasn't at all changed the way he leans close to her, as if to lean over her. He's always been fiercely protective of her, for Anatole's sake initially and then for her own.
"I'll be fine, little uncle," she promises him. "This year will be different - Remus told me that the new teacher isn't nearly as dangerous as the one who left last year."
"Although that doesn't say much," Blaise chips in, very helpfully. "Come on, Belle, Daphne will be waiting for us."
Another round of kisses, and Anatole slipping something heavy - food of some sort, no doubt - into her outermost pocket.
"We'll be safe!" she promises again as they run for the train. "We will!"
Daphne is waiting on the train, curled into a corner of a compartment with some of the seventh years.
"Not sitting with our beloved roommates, Daph?" Blaise asks mildly, swooping down to kiss her cheeks, and sitting so Belle can do the same. "How daring."
"I didn't think Belle would want to sit with sweet Pansy," Daphne says, holding on tight to Belle before letting her sit. "I didn't want to sit with her, never mind anything else, and I thought it best you not try out your new wand in combat before the first meeting of the Duelling Club."
"There hasn't been a Duelling Club since Potter set a snake on Finch-Fletchley, Daph," Blaise says, taking a parcel of chocolate-covered zefir from his bag. "Unless you plan on setting one up?"
"I do," Daphne says, surprising them. "I've friends from other houses, through Charms Club, and they'd be interested - something like whatever secrets you were running with Potter and his friends last year, but legitimate."
"Daphne-"
"I know why you didn't let me in," Daphne assures Belle, leaning her head on Belle's shoulder so her bright, fair hair tumbles around them both. "But I'd like for us all to fight this together, if we can, and that means being open about it. So, a Duelling Club - Professor McGonagall will certainly support it, or so Alicia Spinnet says, and Susan Bones will speak to Professor Sprout for us. I just need to convince Professor Snape, which I will because I've never caused any excitement, good or bad, and find a Ravenclaw willing to speak to Professor Flitwick."
"Anthony Goldstein might be a good shout there," Belle suggests. "He's an alright sort. Didn't you do your Charms practical with him, Daph?"
Belle hasn't thought much about the exams - her results came, she handed them to Maman, and the school never said she couldn't do the classes she chose, so they must have gone well enough. All she really worried about was getting an O in Transfiguration, and Maman would've told her if she hadn't. Blaise got all O's and E's, she knows, and Daphne likely got the same, but Belle just couldn't summon the will to care.
Maybe she'll write to Maman, ask for her results.
"I'll speak to him," Daphne says. "If not him, Loony Lovegood's quite sweet, I think. We should have the club set up by Halloween, if we're lucky. I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to object, since it isn't coming from a Gryffindor, but we might catch him unawares."
Belle slips her arm around Daphne's shoulders, glad that the seventh years are ignoring them. It feels almost like school used to, sitting together in the quiet.
"Belle!" Daphne gasps, once they've changed into their robes. "Those are-"
"Lelong," Belle says with a grin. "I know - Blaise's are as well, whenever he gets here. I brought an outer robe for you, and Mademoiselle Lelong gave me the charm to make sure it fits, but I didn't know what else you'd like."
"Will you be allowed to wear this?" Daphne asks, which is a good question. Girls can wear trousers, even though most of them don't, but this might be pushing it a little. Belle's trousers are black, and tightly fitted, and they disappear under her long black boots. Between that and the cinch of her robes about her waist, and the neck-scarf replacing her tie, her school uniform looks like nothing less than Auror's robes. "I love it, but I'm not sure the teachers will."
"They can like or dislike it as much as they like," Belle says with a shrug. "I'm not breaking any rules - well, except the tie, I suppose - so there's nothing really that they can do."
"They aren't going to like anything not made by Malkin," Blaise says, closing the door behind him. "But we aren't going to let that stop us - it's bad enough we have to wear the same thing every day without it being ugly, too."
Daphne's smile is wry.
"Blaise, dear," she says. "That's the whole point of school uniforms."
"My mother told me about Slughorn," Daphne murmurs at dinner. "He's not a bad sort, if you flatter him. We should be fine this year."
"Easy for you to say," Blaise says. " You won't have to suffer Snape's attempts at Defence Against the Dark Arts, knowing that he- well, you know."
Rumour of Professor Snape's Dark Mark trickled down through Slytherin, right into the ears of Daphne's little sister. Astoria's open disdain for Daphne's friends has served her well, and she's right at the heart of the house. She hears everything, and is still silly enough to show off that she knows all the gossip to Daphne.
As if Daphne cares - Daphne wouldn't have been like Astoria even if she hadn't pitched her tent in Belle and Blaise's camp. She's always been entirely her own person, something Belle's always loved about her, and she would have made her own way.
Professor Slughorn is a jolly looking fat man, with an ugly moustache that must take hours of maintenance. Belle wonders what it was that made a man who looks used to comfort come out of retirement, and supposes Professor Dumbledore must have some heavy weight to leverage. He always does.
A letter comes on the second Monday of term from Remus. Blanchefleur chirrups the way she always does after visiting Remus, because of whatever odd treats he gives her, and picks at the pinfeathers showing at Belle's temples while she reads her letter.
"Moony says we ought to be wary of Slughorn," she says. "He wants us to be wary of Snape, too, now that he's gotten what he wanted."
"Did you ask him and Dora to look into that other concern?" Blaise asks, pouring glasses of milk for each of the three of them. "I'm sure there's something, Belle, and it's only been a week."
"I reached out to Dromeda, too," Belle says. "I thought she might be able to annoy something out of her sister, but she got back to me at the weekend - she says whatever it is, Bellatrix is involved, and Narcissa is staying quiet."
All three glance down the table to where Draco is sitting between his goons. He's pale even for him, and has been in foul humour since they got back to school, according to Blaise, which is unlike him. Belle doesn't like Draco and he doesn't like her, but he tends to be fairly affable around people he doesn't dislike. For him to be in such a bad mood, for so long? That's worrying.
And so, letters to Remus and Dora and Dromeda. There's already enough tension and fear in the school, most of it directed at anyone in a Slytherin tie, and whatever is weighing down on Draco is guaranteed to bounce back up onto everyone else. Belle would rather this year be peaceful, if possible.
"Nothing on it yet from Remus, though," she says. "He'll keep looking."
And for now, that's all they can do.
b)
"Have you spoken to Belle since…?"
"No, have you?"
"I tried writing to her but she hasn't replied to any of my letters."
"Does she blame us?"
IV.
Classes are very different at NEWT level as compared with OWL.
Well, that's not strictly true. Transfiguration is much the same, if a little more difficult because there's more theory and the essays are longer. Charms is similar, and Ancient Runes expands into two more runic scripts, but Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions…
Potions is honestly more shocking than Defence Against the Dark Arts. Professor Snape is precisely as dour and unkind as usual. Even the loathing that burns under Belle's skin at the very thought of him cannot change that he's a mediocre teacher with a reasonable curriculum, and there's only so much evil he can do with that.
Professor Slughorn, meanwhile, would probably be a very good teacher if he weren't so vain of all the friends he's collected over the years. As it is, he can't stop talking about Gwenog Jones for long enough to actually teach a full class, and Belle can feel herself slipping already, not quite a month in.
"We need help," Blaise says, two stacks of notes to his right and one to his left. Belle's sitting opposite him, a similar arrangement, and Daphne is on the way back from somewhere deep in the library with a pile of books balanced under her chin. "We can't possibly be expected to do well with these poor excuses for teachers."
"All hail Minerva McGonagall," Daphne says, her books thunking down onto the desk. "And Flitwick, bless him, and Sprout."
"I miss Professor Sprout," Belle sighs, digging through her bag in search of the little notebook she uses for shorthand notes in Charms. "What a wonderful, hands-on teacher. She never talked for twenty minutes at a time about how many Ministers for Magic she's taught over the years."
"I miss Sinistra," Blaise sighs. "Her notes, oh, I miss her notes. They were so beautiful. Clear. Concise. And those diagrams!"
"At least we're clear of Binns - remember that row you had with him over river guardianship rules in the late 1800s last year, Belle? I saw Astoria's essays for the summer, and one of them was on the same thing. He hadn't changed his notes at all."
"A nightmare," Belle agrees, starting in on her transcription of her shorthand notes into one of the beautiful cork-covered notebooks Anatole sent her. "How's Professor Burbage this year? Still mad?"
"Oh, as a bag of cats," Daphne laughs, "but she's a marvelous teacher, so I don't mind."
Another stack of books lands on the end of the table opposite Daphne, followed by the collapse of Ron Weasley into the relevant chair.
"Really laying on the homework, aren't they?" he says, and takes out ink and quill and sets to work as if he always sits with them here, in the library, on Tuesday afternoons.
Hermione Granger's arrival nearly makes Belle jump out of her skin, especially when Hermione sits at Belle's left hand side, opens her Ancient Runes book, and promptly thumps her head down into the middle of it.
"I regret," she says, "taking seven subjects."
Harry is absent, but he probably has detention. This unprompted crossing of the bridge feels as though its meant as an apology, especially when Hermione nudges her shoulder to Belle's and Ron leans across to look at Blaise's Potions notes upside-down.
"Your writing is much harder to read this way than Hermione's," he says, and that's that for the evening. It isn't a healing, but it's a beginning, and she wonders if Remus wrote to prompt it.
"Harry has meetings with Professor Dumbledore," Hermione explains. "He got called in for one this evening, else he would've been with us. We don't know what it's about."
That's a lie, but it's one she's bound to make, Belle expects. Harry can't turn around without telling Ron and Hermione, but no doubt Professor Dumbledore wants whatever secret business he has with Harry kept a secret. Belle just hopes it won't get Harry killed.
"I'm sorry, Belle," Hermione says. "About- about Sirius. About how we all reacted. By the time we got out of the hospital wing, you were gone, and every time I tried to write a letter, I couldn't find the words."
Belle shrugs - no one has had words for her except her family and Remus. Even Dora hasn't really had words. She's just had an awful lot of cake. Blaise and Daphne are waiting on her to speak, she knows, because she terrified them that morning in June. She knows she did, and she's sorry for it, but she doesn't know how to say that.
"My family raised a monument for him," she says instead. "In our orchards - I didn't know what else to do. That's all I've ever known. Dromeda says that there is a crypt in London, but…"
"But the Blacks have it," Hermione says. "Surely you've more right to it than them? The law-"
"Won't necessarily be on Belle's side," Daphne says, looping her arm protectively through Belle's as they near the stairs. "Depends on whether or not her father made a will, but it could be that she isn't his heir without one."
"But she's his daughter!" Hermione exclaims, catching Belle by the wrist and tugging her to a halt. "Belle, your his child, the only Black of the main line left-"
"And I'm illegitimate, Hermione," Belle reminds her. "There's a reason I'm not comfortable with using Papa's name - it isn't mine to claim, not technically. He never had a chance to legally claim me as his, since he was on the run from the law all the time he knew about me."
"Potter being his godson might present an issue as well," Daphne says. "Big inheritances like this have passed along those lines before. Belle being neither male nor legitimate might come against her - we won't know until the solicitors get into it."
"Where do you even begin to look for an inheritance solicitor in the wizarding world?" Hermione asks. "There can't be so many as all that."
"Our family has a solicitor on retainer. He's been our representative for… Oh, two hundred years or so."
"What?"
"A vampire?" Daphne guesses. "All the best ones are. They grow old and don't forget, and they think just a little bit sideways - makes them unstoppable against a human."
Blaise and Ron are bickering about something to do with the Ravenclaw Quidditch team - probably about whether or not Slytherin can beat them - as Hermione and Daphne sink into a sharp, thoughtful discussion about just how tangled the inheritance laws are, and Belle thinks- maybe. If this is normal, maybe she won't fear school anymore.
Belle - If you're lucky, Slug'll ignore you. He likes shiny trophies he can show off in high society, and since you've got a feathery little problem, you might not fit into his club. There's worse than him. But don't trust him. As for Severus, I'm afraid I'm in the dark. He's wanted that job for years, and now that he's finally got it, I suppose the power might go to his head. We can't know. Keep an eye, and let me know if he lets the bad side out - I'll do what I can. One thing I can definitely do is send you notes to help with class. I'm told I was quite good at teaching, and I miss it. Let me help however I can, and share whatever I send you with your friends. I can ask around and find help for anything else you need, too - just let me know. I've had a letter from your mother, asking who her solicitor should talk to. She seems to be under the impression that you'll need to challenge for Sirius' estate? I can't imagine that anyone else will claim it. Bellatrix can't, not with the Ministry hunting her, Andromeda wouldn't want it, and Narcissa can't afford it at the moment, not with the Malfoy estate tied up in guaranteeing Lucius' freedom. There's no one else close enough to fight you for it. Harry might have standing - it's happened before - but he's probably wealthier than anyone in Hogwarts, with all that Sleakeazy money. He doesn't need it. Even so - I've put her in touch with the right people. I hope it isn't necessary, but as your godfather, it's my duty to help you in everything. Even if I wasn't duty-bound, I'd help. With love, Moony PS: I've done some digging. Can't find anything specific about your mystery, but I'll keep asking around.
"Quidditch training tomorrow," Blaise says, when he and Daphne have found hot chocolates somewhere, and the three of them are tucked together on one of the big couches by the fireplace. They've made a habit of hovering near the seventh years, if only because Pansy won't try to bother Belle when there's someone who seems like an authority at hand. Flora Carrow has been enormously useful in that regard - her name carries as much dread as Belle's, but Flora is a very different animal than anyone else in their house. She couldbe just as terrible as the aunt and uncle Daphne whispers were part of Voldemort's torture squad, but she could also simply be snooty and aloof, as her father apparently is.
Either way, she's useful as an ally. Belle just trusts her as much as she does Professors Slughorn and Snape.
As to Quidditch training, well, Belle only hums in agreement - she hasn't flown all summer, and the whole league was such a joke last year that it barely happened, and the year before that the Triwizard tournament knocked them all out before they'd even begun…
She isn't sure she can play Quidditch anymore. She isn't sure she wants to.
"I've dug out my little flags, just for you," Daphne says. "So I expect to see you on that broom, Bellona de Poitiers-Black, or I shall be very cross indeed."
Belle's Quidditch robes have become too short, and since she can't just charm them longer, she'll have to order new - from Malkins', more's the pity - and wear something secondhand until then.
The only ones narrow enough in the shoulder but also long enough in the arm to fit have a neat little R.A.B. stitched into the collar, which makes Belle feel a little bit ill. She hadn't known her uncle played Quidditch. She wonders what position he played. Chaser, maybe, since she has seen enough photographs to know that he wasn't so tall as Papa.
Roman Urquhart, their new and unexpected captain, isn't the worst sort. He's big, and not very bright, but he's reasonably fair - he's one of Flora Carrow's crew, and Flora's not one for irrational dislikes, mostly. His family are fantastically wealthy, so perhaps his appointment as captain has something to do with Professor Slughorn's influence, but Belle doesn't mind.
The alternative, after all, would be Draco. He's the senior-most member of the squad, except herself and Blaise, and they were never going to get near the captain's armband. Draco would love it, though, having that little bit more authority than previously, and having such specific authority over herself and Blaise.
Her surprise when Roman announces Draco's retirement from the squad is therefore unfeigned. Even without the grandeur of being Slytherin's Seeker, Draco loves the sport unabashedly, with an enthusiasm she's never known him to show for anything else. That he's stopped playing feels like a very, very bad omen.
But it does raise the question of who will replace him as their Seeker. The temptation to make a stab at it is overwhelming, especially given she knowsshe's wasted as Keeper, but the fear of what new nonsense will arise if she shows just how good she is in the air keeps her silent, and in front of the goals.
Darius Harper will have to do. Harry, Cho Chang, even Summerby of Hufflepuff, they'll all fly rings around him, but he'll do. Belle doesn't care enough for her house to take the risk.
"I understand, I think," Blaise says, as they trudge back into the showers with their Firebolts over their shoulders. "But you would be amazing, Belle. Just something to consider if Gryffindor tank us."
Gryffindor tank them. Bellona does her best, but there isn't much she can do when her idiot teammates don't bloody well score, and Harry takes the Snitch.
Somehow, Crabbe and idiot Goyle still try to turn it on her, as does Darius bloody Harper - she's so very glad of Blaise, who socks Harper in the jaw, and for Roman Urquhart, who is doubtless under instruction from Flora Carrow to keep Pansy and Draco's cronies away from her. Vaisey, at least, is silent, even before Roman makes a point of reminding the others than it was not Belle's duty to score today.
It irks her, somewhat, that Ron kept a clean sheet when she could not. Sheknows that she's a better Keeper than she showed today, especially since Gryffindor only have one really good Chaser now - of course it's Ginny Weasley - and she knows for a fact that there isn't anyone in the school who's her equal in the air, not even Harry.
She feels all jangled up, wearing her dead uncle's robes and looking more like her father's murderer by the day, and now even the thing that has always come most naturally to her seems beyond her reach. What kind of Veela's daughter is she, if she can't outfly all these humans?
She manages to shower - she gets her own cubicle, because the boys are polite like that - and scrubs at her hair with a towel in place of drying it. Blaise appears behind her, braiding it back neatly while she ties up her boots, and he takes away her uncle's robes before she can set them alight. She feels like trying it, uneven and queasy in a way she can't explain, and it warms her just a little that he knows her well enough to see it.
Once her hair is a cold, heavy weight along her spine, Blaise pulls her to her feet by both hands, and tucks her under his arm. Together, in their Lelong robes, they're stronger, and she feels just a little better as they make their way into the corridor outside the changing rooms. But-
Ginny Weasley is in the corridor outside. She's talking to the other Chaser, Katie Bell, and it's just bad timing that Belle hears her. Bad luck. But she still hears.
"-for Black, well - she was rubbish, wasn't she? I thought she was fairly good, but she's so caught up in her own head that she's lost her touch."
"Didn't she lose her father over the summer?" Katie Bell says. "I heard that - I was surprised to see her flying at all, Gin."
"She isn't the only person grieving," Ginny says, and Bellona's temper flares so bright and so hot that it whites out her vision until Blaise and- and Harry are slamming her back against the nearest wall.
"Belle! Belle! Stop! Belle, stop!"
Blaise's arms are straining with the effort of holding her back, and Harry grunts when her flailing foot connects with his knee.
"He is mine," Belle chokes out, heat gathered in her hands, feathers pushing out through her hair, "he is mine to mourn!"
Harry jerks away at that, and Blaise lets her go as well. She runs - ha, flies - down the corridor, out across all the great green lawns, until the lake comes into view. There is a tree there, where she has sat many times since she came to Hogwarts. It reminds her of Valence, and of Rennes, and of Taivolkovski, because it is old and it is quiet, and she has not been able to come here this year because the stillness is too much like the Judas tree that shadows her father's shade.
She goes there now, though, tucks herself into a gap between two thick, over-the-ground roots, and presses her face into her hands.
She cries. She isn't sure for how long, but she does cry. When she lifts her head to catch her breath, she finds Neville Longbottom sitting on the root to her right, with a brown paper bag of sweets in his hand.
"Pear drops," he says, shaking the bag at her. "They won't help, but they taste nice."
She takes a pink pear drop from the bag, and then takes the handkerchief Neville holds out to her.
"Everyone is looking for you," he says. "I remembered finding you out here before, though. Remember when I was afraid of you?"
"I'd've thought I was scarier now, Neville Longbottom," she says, cleaning her face - but not her nose - with Neville's bright yellow hankie. "I can make fireballs now, did you know that?"
"I heard about Umbridge's quills," he says, smiling. The smile falls away quite quickly, though, and he swings his far leg over the root so he's facing her. "It's horrible, Belle. I know that. I'm not one of your friends, but I might understand a bit better than most."
"I'm going to kill her. Bellatrix."
"Someone should," Neville says, as if she hasn't said something terrible, something monstrous. "Come on - let's let everyone know you're safe. You'll catch your death, sitting out here with wet hair."
She lets him help her up, and lets him throw an arm around her shoulders and guide her inside. He's so warm, and so gentle with her, that she doesn't quite stop crying.
"You can come upstairs with me, if you want," he says. "Everyone will be celebrating, they won't even notice."
Daphne and Blaise are waiting for her on the bottom step of the main staircase, though, and jerk to their feet as soon as they see her.
"Longbottom," Daphne says, in the voice she reserves for being snooty, but friendly.
"Greengrass," Neville replies. "She'll be fine. We all are, eventually."
He walks away with his hands in his pockets, somehow melting back into quiet, blushing Longbottom by the time he's halfway up the stairs, and then he's gone.
Belle finds his brown paper bag of pear drops in her pocket as they make their way down to the common room, and that sets her off crying again.
V.
Chouette, Anatole begins every letter. His handwriting is very elegant, bold and slanting, and he prefers a dark blue ink that is almost black, but not quite.
Chouette, Your Daphne wrote me a letter. She says that you've come to something of a breakthrough. I'm sorry I couldn't be with you for it, ma petite, but Amand and I are going to be on your side of the Channel the week after next - you should have a visit to Hogsmeade around then, shouldn't you? I should like to see you, and I should like to remind all these fools of classmates of yours that your papa might be gone, but your family is not. Yvette - this being Amand's niece, whose papa is Amand's little brother but whose mama is a witch with a laugh that would charm the stars from the sky - was asking after you just last week, wondering how you manage in far-away England. She is sad that you cannot ski, and that there are no other Veela. I worry the same. Well, not that you cannot ski. I've seen you on skis before, mon ange, and I would not take that risk again. Amand was baking again, and reluctantly entrusted a few treats to your Daphne's owl after a great deal of convincing. Share them out as you see fit, and know that we love you. With all my love, Anatole.Maman has sent one care package a week, in response to Belle's weekly letters, since the start of term. Mostly they are food, or books, or charms from the family side of the vault, or pages of Grand-mère's poetry. Sometimes they are clothes, or upgrades for her broom, or new earrings from the jewellers in Marseille that she likes best.
The Wednesday before she is due to meet Anatole and Amand in Hogsmeade, there is another care package. Blanchfleur preens on Belle's shoulder as she unwraps a clafoutis in a delicately enamelled dish - Tante Metis' work - and an elegantly wrapped assortment of macarons from Tante Leto. There's also mendiants from Grand-mère, and a box of pralines from Maman, and then something else wrapped in a square of black silk patterned with white fleur-de-lis.
Inside the black silk is a stack of letters. Letters in Maman's handwriting, and letters in Papa's handwriting.
She cries again at that. Daphne tucks all the food away into the bag they've taken to bringing to breakfast on Wednesday mornings, and Blaise passes a handkerchief across the table. They do it all without speaking, and she loves them for it.
Belley - Dora tells me the two of you have been miserying together. Good show. A burden shared is a burden halved, and if the two of you are sharing two burdens, well - it's always easier to carry someone else's weight, isn't it? I also hear Slytherin lost their last Quidditch match, and to Gryffindor at that! A shame you didn't push to become Seeker, sweetheart. I've heard nothing but good things about your flying. I hear Narcissa's boy is no slouch in the air either, but he's also an idiot, if he's anything like his parents, and we could do worse than having you step in. If he has any sense at all, he'll step aside. My Ted thinks I push you to be too aggressive. Maybe I do, but you're a Black, little love, and named for a goddess of war. We're a fierce bunch, even when we don't turn to the dark like my stupid sisters have. Don't be afraid of that. With love, Auntie Dromeda
"So," Belle says, passing neat slices of clafoutis around the table in the library - they'll have to keep an eye out for Madam Pince, but sharing cake and sweets with her abruptly wider circle of friends is easier here than it would be just about anywhere else in the school. It's November, and it's raining out, and bloody cold to boot, so she's huddled down with Blaise and Daphne, with Ron and Hermione, and with Harry, all of them trying to sneak their treats behind sheets of notes and upheld book covers. "So, Daphne has been trying to set up a Duelling Club since September. Have any of you thought about joining?"
"Harry and Hermione have been too busy with the Slug Club," Ron says to his Potions notes - Blaise's notes, really, since Ron is perhaps the worst notetaker Belle's ever met - with a sour twist to his mouth. "But I'll come along if it doesn't clash with Quidditch training."
Ah, the Slug Club. Blaise and Daphne have both received invitations - him for wealth, her for prestige, both for their beauty and intelligence - while Belle has not, because she has wealth, prestige, beauty, and intelligence, but her father is a wrongly convicted murderer and her mother is not human. Professor Slughorn's collection is less dangerous than Professor Dumbledore's, and the people in it are more able to defend themselves from any malice or particular consideration by their patron, but it makes her uneasy nonetheless.
"Well, Daph has to take that into consideration, so I'm sure it won't be an issue."
"I've approval from everyone except Professor Dumbledore," Daphne says, holding a sheet of tracing paper up to the light and squinting at the frankly terrifying plant she's copying out of her Herbology book. "He won't see me, probably because while my family aren't Death Eaters, they did pay bail for several who were arrested in the Department of Mysteries. My sister is also moving in those circles, which doesn't help."
"And you're my friend," Belle agrees. "He didn't trust my father, and he doesn't trust me. That's another nail in your coffin, Daph."
"And we're Slytherins," Blaise chimes in. "No one else ever forgets it, so I don't see why he would."
Harry looks uncomfortable, fidgeting with his quill, and Ron a little mutinous, but Hermione's jaw is set. It looks like temper, but something about the tilt of her head makes Belle think that maybe, just maybe, it isn't with them.
Jeanne's letters are written half in French, in the Latin alphabet, and half in Greek, to help Belle learn the language. Belle's are half in French and half in English for the same reason, and they're muddling through
Cousin - Tante Juno tells me Oncle Anatole is to visit you - how rude of him not to let me know! I would have sent things to Valence for him to bring to you had I known. Bampás says that he will arrange for me to visit in the New Year, if that suits, but for now, know that I shall hardly speak to Anatole at Christmas. Just don't tell him why. Tante Metis has forbidden the twins from visiting Kapan - they ran away, and got as far as me, here in Athens, before she and Grand-mère caught them up. Imagine! The silly little fools thought they could run away just like that, as though there are not rules around this sort of thing. Artemisia had some grand scheme to get them all the way to Armenia without being found, and Apollonia thought she could fight off whoever was sent in pursuit of them. Can you imagine? Yaya wouldn't let me watch the fight, but Artemisia crashed down and broke her arm, and Apollonia dislocated her shoulder. Grand-mère was the angriest I've ever seen her, so angry that even Metis seemed frightened of her, and Apollonia tried to get out of it by crying, just as she always has. That seemed to make Grand-mère even angrier, and now she's talking about calling us all home. Me from the academy, you from your school, even Anatole from Rennes - something has her scared, Bellona, and that alone is enough to frighten me. Maman will tell me nothing, your mother even less, and as for Metis, well - she has ever been Grand-mère's strong right hand. She will never betray Grand-mère's confidence, not even to us. Apollonia thinks Grand-mère is going mad. She says that the house is locked down, that no one comes in or out without approval. The vault is full to bursting, and the cottages are being cleaned out as if preparing for guests. Do you ever remember there being guests allowed to stay for so long that we needed the cottages? I don't. I asked Maman, and she was willing to admit that the last time, so far as she knows, was during the Second Muggle War. Is this because of this new war in England, Belle? I've never seen her this way before. Please be safe - losing you would be bad enough, but I think your loss would cost us Grand-mère as well. With love (and baklava!), JeanneAmand is wearing a simple, elegant cloak in a warm shade of russet-brown, the hood lined with fox fur. His boots are worn, sturdy and old, and Bellona remembers the cool October evening they collected those boots from a cobbler's in Rennes, before she had even considered Hogwarts.
Anatole, however, is wearing the most absurd cloak, black with a sharp white pinstripe, ermine bright in the hood, and white satin lining. Underneath, he's all in black, from his silk shirt to his shiny new boots, and he's obviously been washing his hair in lemon juice, because it's never been so fair before.
"Hello, chouette!" he calls, waving from their place outside the Three Broomsticks. "Here, ma petite!"
"Mortifying," Belle says, but she can't manage to hide her smile, or keep herself from running the last few steps into his arms. "You look absurd, Anatole."
"He's making a statement, apparently," Amand says, stealing her away for a hug of his own. "Making sure everyone remembers that you're a de Poitiers."
"They don't think in heraldry and history here," Belle chides Anatole. "Not the way we do at home. What's all this about the twins?"
Anatole knows less even than Jeanne had - he didn't know about Artemisia's arm, or Apollonia's shoulder - but he shares her concern for Grand-mère. Bellona cannot imagine Grand-mère as anything but the same unassailable fortress who was so wholly cut off from her as a little girl, but who has grown to love her just as much as she does Jeanne.
Blaise and Daphne keep Amand entertained while Anatole fills Belle in on Grand-mère's latest adventures. It does sound as if she's become a little more fierce, but not because of unfounded fear, as Jeanne thought - more because the giants have been coming down out of the mountains, the hags descending from their crags, and all manner of creature and person has climbed out of their holes to wreak havoc on their way to the Channel.
"The Muggles think it's an unusual spate of bad weather, or something similar. You know how they are at explaining away things that don't make sense without magic. Maman is offering sanctuary to any of the other families who might need it."
"Veela families?"
"Any families," Anatole says. "Well, not the wholly wizarding families, but those like us - those like you. Because of you, she is taking part in this war. A distant, safe part, but a part nonetheless. She's making the estate into a sanctuary. When it is needed, she will throw open our gates to those in need, and shut them against those who would do harm."
There's something almost unbearable in the sweetness of that, in the kindness of Grand-mère's heart, but of course Anatole ruins the moment by digging into his absurd cloak and drawing out a thick file of gilt-edged documents.
"Your mother sent this, by the way," he says, passing it into her hands. "It's from Monsieur Camenzind, about your father's estate. Apparently, there's another claimant. His solicitors are insisting that the whole belongs to him, but Monsieur Camenzind has never let something like legal precedent stop him."
Monsieur Camenzind lives in wizarding Zürich, and has done for the better part of three centuries. He's a great wedge of a man, with legs as long as Belle is tall, and a grey, solemn face. He's been the family solicitor since before he became a vampire, and has always shown a fondness for the family that none of his human clients are lucky enough to see. Belle's a little gleeful at the idea of loosing him on the unsuspecting legal team Harry's put together, truth be told.
"He thinks he can win?"
"He's lost twice in three-hundred-and-forty years, Bellona," Anatole says. " Ithink he can win."
They end up huddled around a table in the Three Broomsticks, Anatole on the Firewhiskey while the rest of them have stuck to Butterbeers. Anatole keeps forgetting that Blaise and Daphne aren't fluent French speakers, not the way she and Amand are, and he speaks so quickly that even Belle, out of the habit, has to consider before she answers.
"Aha!" he says, rising suddenly. "The traitor!"
Harry stops on his way past their table, Ron and Hermione almost running into his back.
"Me?" he asks. "I didn't do anything. Did I?"
Belle's still feeling a little frosty toward Harry - it's been much easier to reconcile with Ron and Hermione, and she hates that it's because they never laid claim to her father in the way Harry did. The way Harry still does.
"Sit with us," Daphne offers, sweeping out a welcoming hand. "We'll make room - do you know Belle's uncles? This is Amand, and the dramatic one is Anatole."
"The drunk one is Anatole," Blaise says, nudging closer to Amand and bringing Belle with him by the seat. He and Daphne are glowing, bright-cheeked and shiny-eyed with the warmth of the Butterbeer, and they're cosy and safe against Belle's sides, pinning her in and guarding her. "Daph is right - sit with us. We promise not to bite."
Harry makes a dive for the space nearest Daphne, furthest from Anatole, and Ron and Hermione crowd in. Ron, as usual, is taking it all in stride, and seems pleased enough to have a table at all.
"Isn't this nice," Hermione says nervously, trilling a high little laugh that Belle has never, ever heard from her before. "How do you do?"
"What did you mean, traitor?" Ron asks. "Is this about Quidditch?"
"It's about what's right," Anatole says, swaying just a little. "And it's about what's fair."
"It's about Bellona's inheritance, isn't it?" Hermione asks, because she's always been the clever one. "Has there been some movement?"
"Harry's solicitors are pushing back," Blaise says, as Amand attempts to shush Anatole. "They think his claim is better. It's a matter of precedent, per the English courts, but since this is crossing the Channel… We'll see."
"What do you mean?" Harry asks. "Belle, I haven't got any solicitors."
"You have my father's house, though," Belle says, as evenly as she can. "And while you maybe don't have access to his vault in Gringotts, you have the Black seat in parliament. My family only want me to have what's mine, Harry. This isn't… It isn't personal."
"But- but they told me you didn't want the house," Harry says. "They said you didn't want it, because Sirius hated it so much - I didn't much want it either, but at least it can be useful."
Professor Dumbledore, then. Just as she suspected.