I.
"Your mother sent you the key?" Anatole asks, visibly annoyed at the effort of balancing all the excess luggage. Belle had offered to levitate everything through the door, but Anatole and Amand both insisted that carrying everything, because that was apparently traditional. Never mind that they'd never taken responsibility for anyone's luggage but Belle's before, and there was a great difference between her one trunk and birdcage, and her things, Blaise's things, and Daph's things.
"Yes, Anatole, Maman sent me the key," she sighs, rolling her eyes to Blaise and Daph. "Look, I'm even using it to unlock the door."
"Sarcasm is an ugly look on you, chouette."
Amand snickers, and Belle isn't sure if he's laughing at her or at Anatole. Either is possible.
From the outside, at least, it seems that everything has been done well. The house has been sandblasted, the grimy old windows with their leaded panes replaced with white-glossed sash windows, and the door has been painted the same bright, Valentinois sky-blue as the door to Belle's bedroom in Valence. It smells a little of fresh paint and new wood when the door opens, and Belle is momentarily terrified that Maman has renovated to her own tastes, rather than to Belle's.
Then she looks.
The hallway has been widened, somehow, the previous space doubled by clever spellwork, and the suddenly high ceilings have been painted clean, smooth white to show off the crowning that was hidden under dirt and cobwebs. The staircase, previously so narrow and grubby and shadowed, sweeps elegantly upward - bright red-brown maple shines under the soft light of the chandelier above, the lush cream carpet secured with gleaming brass bars on every step. The walls are papered in alternating strips of plain cream paper, a perfect match for the carpet, and deep navy that's patterned with a scattering of feathers in the same bright brass as the fixtures above the stairs. The rest of the walls are that same plain cream, broken only by photo frames the same warm maple as the staircase. The house-elf taxidermies are gone, and the shoddy little door into the reception room to the right of the front door has been replaced by beautiful glazed double doors, one set with the Black arms and the other with the de Poitiers.
The rug that runs from the front door all the way down to the kitchen door - this is bigger, too, and no longer blighted by Grandmother Black's portrait and its ugly curtains as a neighbour - is the same navy as the paper above the stairs, patterned with more scattered feathers, this time in creams and brasses and pale sky blues. Belle enthused over a very similar rug for her and Maman's sitting room once, in a shop in Lyon, a long time ago. Maman had scolded her for it then, because even for them it had been expensive.
"Oh, Maman. "
"Welcome home, cherie," Amand says gently, nudging his hip to hers. "Do you like it so far?"
"The carpet on the stairs is charmed to stay clean," Blaise tells her. "Mama helped."
They move into the reception room where before, one of the windows was boarded up. Now both are replaced by big, deep bays, and there's more stained glass, in the side panels. This time in rich emerald green and a beautiful royal blue, casting leaded diamonds onto the dove grey carpet.
So much in Valence is black and white, the traditional de Poitiers colours. That Maman included so much colour here, in Belle's house, shows more understanding than Belle might ever have expected.
The garden is still horrific, but Daphne seems pleased with her view anyway.
"Imagine all that we can do with so much space," Daph says, both her arms wrapped tight around Belle's waist. "Are you sure about this, Belle? I shouldn't like to impose-"
"And I shouldn't like to see you upset ever again," Belle cuts in. "Don't dare thank me, or I won't let Amand give you dessert."
Daphne is still squeezing so hard that Belle can't quite catch her breath when Blaise comes in, and they stand together, looking out over the jungle of the back garden until Amand calls them down for dinner.
II.
They venture to Paris for three reasons.
First, they must bring Daphne to Mlle. Lelong's, so that she might stand as defiantly elegant as Belle and Blaise do in her uniform. Madame Sofia and Maman are to meet them, and they will spend four nights in le 21ième before returning to London to continue the battle against the back garden - a great many of the plants and weeds are fighting back.
Second, Belle must go to Mlle. Lelong's, because she needs a set of dress robes. She has the exquisite sea-silk robes Maman gave her for Christmas last, but it feels a waste to wear them for Remus and Dora's wedding. Dromeda agrees, and swore she wouldn't speak to Belle if she dressed so beautifully with so few people to see, so she must have something to wear. Daphne needs dress robes as well, because she is, of course, coming to Remus and Dora's wedding, and Blaise has decided he wishes for something new for Fleur's wedding.
Daphne has decided that, given her family's alliances, she would be best not to come to Fleur's wedding to the best-looking Weasley. Instead, she will spend that weekend with Susan, and Blaise will accompany Belle as her plus-one.
The third and most important reason is that they must meet La Toulousaine - Daphne's grandmother.
Belle has heard great things of Madame Méline Greengrass, the only member of Daphne's family who has welcomed Susan. She and Blaise have no intention of giving Madame Méline even an inch, but Daphne is excited to finally introduce them to her grandmother. Madame Méline traditionally summers in her native Toulouse for the sake of her health, or they would have met her sooner. That absence is making them both suspicious, but for Daphne's sake, they are doing their best to be enthusiastic.
Maman and Madame Sofia meet them on Rue des Brȗlés, in a comically chic little coffee shop. They're sitting close at a round table, their heads bowed together, and Belle frowns.
Blaise catches her eye, and she feels very silly all over again. This is somehow worse than not realising that Daphne and Susan were seeing one another, if only because Maman has never hidden her feelings about anything from Belle in her life, even when it would have been kinder to do so.
"They make such a pretty couple," Daphne says, to Amand's murmured agreement. "Have they been seeing one another long?"
"I don't believe they officially are," Blaise admits. "But I know Mama very much enjoys Madame Juno's company, and they have a great deal in common."
"Wealthy widows," Anatole sighs, nudging them all forwards once they have their brooms tucked into the neat little bag Daphne has spelled with some sort of Extension Charm. "They flock together like swans - beautiful, and unwelcoming to strangers."
"Don't be unkind, amour," Amand scolds him. "Happiness can only make your sister sweeter, and we all know that such a thing would be… Not unwelcome."
"That is Bellona's mother you're talking about!"
"And he is not wrong," Belle points out, returning Maman's wave with one of her own. "But don't say it where she can hear, petit oncle, or she will skin you alive."
Blaise drifts forward to meet his mama, and Maman glides forward to greet Belle. Then Maman and Madame Sofia come together to greet Daphne.
Bellona and Blaise try to pass their handkerchiefs to Daph once their mothers release her. Belle's is blue, patterned with little yellow birds, and Blaise's is bright white linen - Daphne takes both with a watery smile.
La Toulousaine has the same bright-fair hair as Daphne, shining in the shade of the boldly red parasol over her head. She also has Daphne's narrow shoulders and elegant poise, and the same taste in bright coral-pink lipstick. Her sunglasses are the same old-fashioned style that Grand-mère favours, and the scarf around her neck is patterned, straight from the '40s and still stylish.
Honestly, to think that everyone in England still wears the same kind of robes they wore before la Belle Époque. Seeing Daphne's grandmother, Belle understands how Daph managed to escape such dire bad taste.
"'Lo, Nana," Daphne says, the Welsh lilt that is usually hidden under her careful, frosty sardonicism at school coming through in her nervousness. "Missed me?"
"Hello, cariad," Madame Méline says, rising smoothly and wrapping Daphne up in the same sort of embrace Belle expects from Ukki. They linger for a long while, rocking just a little from side to side. "Oh, Daphne, hello. "
"Hello," Daphne says, tearful and thick-voiced again, and Belle tugs Maman and the others aside to claim tables enough for all of them. Daphne has been worrying herself sick all week for fear that her grandmother had not been sincere in wanting to meet with her, and Belle is sick with relief that she was - Blaise's shoulders have slumped, so he must feel the same.
Blaise settles with his arm over the back of his mother's chair, and despite how closely he resembles what photos Belle has seen of his father, no one could deny that he is Madame Sofia's son. Something in their ease, their comfort in their beauty, their elegant calm, it speaks of a great closeness and comfort and calm in one another's company.
Belle wonders what Blaise sees when he looks at her sitting beside Maman.
Amand waves down a waiter while Daphne and Madame Méline linger, tangled together, and he orders ice water and a bottle - or two, apparently - of sauvignon blanc to serve as an aperitif. Anatole and Maman are dissecting the menu with Madame Sofia's help, and Blaise is keeping as watchful an eye on Daph as Belle is.
"I think," he says, so softly that Belle almost misses it, "that we may have been more worried about La Toulousaine than we needed to be."
"Mm," Belle agrees. "What is it Professor Sinistra used to say? Fail to prepare, prepare to fail."
"Quite."
They sip their ice water, and Maman and Anatole devolve into bickering with Madame Sofia, championing steak tartare against whatever govyzhyi yazyk is.
"I spend too much time in Belle's company to slander steak tartare, Mama," Blaise laughs when asked. "Let's order something else - when in Paris, I suppose."
They order a sharing dish of escargots, crudités with a light vinaigrette, caviar as a sop to Madame Sofia, and a sampling of whatever amuses-bouches the chef can create, simply to satisfy Amand's ravenous curiosity. There is more ice water, and a slightly sweeter white wine, as well as a light red - a Grenache, the waiter explains when Belle and Blaise admit their ignorance.
Daphne is still talking quietly with her grandmother, and Belle is glad of it. Already she can see that Daphne's hands are more still than they have been since that damned Howler arrived from her parents.
They eat. They order more food. Daphne and La Toulousaine talk.
"So," Madame Méline says, settling the expansive spread of her royal blue skirt around herself when finally she and Daphne join them at the table. "You are the friends. I am sorry I could not meet you before, but I am glad nonetheless that my Daphne has you."
Her French rolls in the same slightly odd way as Daphne's, and Belle wonders if perhaps it's so many years spent in Wales - will her own accent be tainted if she chooses to live in London? She supposes that it will, and is surprised that the thought does not worry her as it might have done even recently.
"We're only as good to Daphne as she deserves," Blaise says firmly, "and only as good to her as she's been to us."
"I can never repay Daphne for all the love she has given to me," Belle says. "But I will happily go to war for her, if that helps at all."
Daphne is pointedly ignoring them, speaking determinedly to Maman and Madame Sofia about what she'd like from Mlle. Lelong as if that will hide the flush of pink in her cheeks.
"She is the best person I know," Madame Méline says proudly, easing back in her chair and accepting a glass of wine from Amand. "But even so, she has needed good friends around her, and has found them in the two of you."
Madame Méline walks a little ahead of them, deep in conversation with Anatole about something Belle can't quite overhear, and with every step her soles flash red - Belle would not have thought to remark on such a thing, once upon a time, but it seems never to have caught on in England as it did in France. Perhaps they didn't enjoy the witch-hunts as much as the French witches did, and so they don't commemorate the tickle of flames licking their heels in every pair of shoes they wear.
Belle is the only de Poitiers who's ever worn red-soled shoes, because she is the only de Poitiers who's ever used a wand. She wonders if there have been many Blacks who married into French families, and if she might find some kind of connection if she looks back through the family tree.
She could always ask Phineas Nigellus, but to do that, she would need to speak to him.
III.
Mlle. Lelong's shop is probably Belle's favourite place in Paris - it always smells a little of lemon and mint, and the light is somehow always just a little golden. Mannequins displaying her prêt range are arranged tastefully in elegantly arched alcoves around the walls, and between the alcoves are racks of fabric samples. Belle has always gravitated toward the silks, particularly the damasks, but Anatole and Maman always nudge her toward the velvets.
Today, there is a discreet sign pointing up the spiral staircase, advertising Mlle. Balmain's autumn-winter collection, and Madame Sofia disappears in that direction as soon as they're through the door with Madame Méline in hot pursuit.
"Not joining them, Blaise?" Daphne asks, linking her arm through Belle's and looking around with thoughtful, hungry eyes. "I saw you salivating over those new Balmain cloaks in Couture, don't think I didn't."
"I've grown four inches since last year," Blaise points out, rolling his eyes. "I'm more in need of a new school cloak than I am a dress cloak, no matter how much Mademoiselle Balmain's use of pleating intrigues me."
"I'm thinking pleating for my school cloak, actually," Belle says, already testing a dark green silk brocaded in charcoal grey between her fingers. "Who will say a word to me? Snape? No. Professor Slug will stand with me if he dares."
"Slugdoes appreciate good tailoring," Daphne agrees, holding a length of exquisite tourmaline chiffon across her shoulder so that it highlights her bright eyes and delicate flush. "Did you know he recommended a tailor to Pansy because he felt that her cloak was giving a bad impression of Slytherin?"
"And yet Draco's being a Death Eater wasn't," Blaise drawls, rolling his eyes again. "Yes, Belle, I think pleating would be nice - I don't think this is a year for half-measures, somehow."
Mlle. Lelong herself appears from the back room, summoned by one of the innumerable apprentices making themselves busy around the shop - perhaps because Belle, Maman, and Anatole are all dressed in de Poitiers monochrome, and that paired with Maman and Anatole's bright hair marks them unmistakably for who they are. There is no tradesperson in le 21ième who would risk the loss of de Poitiers custom, not when they as a family are so notoriously easy to part from their money - a terrible trait, in a family of bankers.
"Ah, Juno," Mlle. Lelong says, taking Maman's hands and kissing both her cheeks. "Have you another splendid challenge for me, my friend?"
"No sea-silk today, Aurelia," Maman says, laughing her perfect, silver-bell laugh. "Unless you count making something tolerable of my Belle's school uniform a challenge."
"Little Bellona," Mlle. Lelong says, stretching up on her toes to kiss Belle's cheeks. "Come, come - ah, and your friends as well, all of you are most welcome, come!"
Belle gets her pleated cloak - deep knife pleats that fall from the yoke, and a high, cossack-style collar embroidered with tiny silver fleur-de-lys to match the silver fastenings. She also has long black leather gloves with silver clasps, and will visit M. Blanchard for new boots to match.
She has both trousers and skirt this year, black again for the trousers but the abominable uniform grey for the skirt - although rather than the ugly little straight knee-skirts or the heinous box pleat things everyone else wears, she has opted for a simple A-line with a panel of narrow knife pleats on the left hip, so from the front it appears a similar shape to Ernie's kilts.
Daphne's uniform is a sleeker, more professional version even of Bellona's, with a narrower, longer skirt, and a wide revere collar on her blouses - although given her intention to wear silk scarves even more elaborate than Belle's own in place of her tie, that might draw more censure than the skirt, or Belle's with their five-inch deep pearl-buttoned cuffs and balloon sleeves, but Daph has a way of wearing her clothes that draws attention, and so - who knows.
Blaise, of course, will look beautiful, because he always does. His trouser legs are slimmer than anyone else's will be, and his shirts have been chosen to suit an Ascot in place of a tie.
"There just isn't the same room for expression in men's clothing," he sighs, taking the bags from Belle's hands with gentle, irresistible force. "The lining of my cloak is all well and good, but I won't be wearing that most of the time - I'll have to see what Monsieur Blanchard can do for me."
Belle will need shoes for the weddings as well - her dancing slippers will do for Fleur's wedding, of course, because half the guests will be French and so there will be a great deal of proper dancing. Remus and Dora's wedding will not be such a grand affair, and so she will see what M. Blanchard has to offer that might pair well with the culotte suit Mlle. Balmain convinced her of. Something simple, given the richness of the gold-shining-on-white silk moire of the suit.
"I think boots with nice, thick soles are in order," Daphne says firmly, steering Belle away from an elegant wedge with satin stitching and instead towards what looks like an unpadded Quidditch boot. "I fear we may need something very practical, this year."
Blaise's new boots are dragonskin, a violent shade of green that even his mother cannot entirely excuse, but they have thick, sturdy soles, and lace halfway up his calf - practical boots, for what is threatening to be a most impractical year.
(c
It's unusually sunny, and Harry's been left with an unusually small list of jobs that need doing. He's parked himself on his bedspread in the back garden, with a big bottle of orange pop in a bucket of ice and Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against The Dark Arts, vol. III propped up on his pillow. His wand, even though he has no intention of using it, is tucked behind his ear.
He repurposes it as a bookmark when the shadow of an owl falls across his book.
"Hello, you," he says, sitting up so Blanchefleur can settle on his shoulder to preen his hair a little. "How was your flight from London, eh? Belle treating you alright?"
She chirrups cheerfully, plucking a knot out of Harry's hair by the roots. She still hasn't figured out that just because his hair is dark like Belle's doesn't mean he's got feathers like Belle's, but she'll learn.
"Can I have my letter now, then?" he asks, reaching inside his pillowcase for the little parcel of owl treats he keeps in there for Hedwig. "C'mere, gimme a look you mad bint-"
Blanchefleur reacts about as well as Hedwig does to insults, which is to say not well at all. She nips his ear sharper than usual, but she also scoots down his arm so he can get at the bright green ribbon Belle's used to secure her letter and parcel in place.
"Go on, go mad," he says, scattering some of the treats down on his duvet for her to enjoy. "Let's see what Belle has to say, will we?"
"Who's Belle?"
"'Lo, Dudders," Harry says, sitting cross-legged and not even bothering to roll his eyes when Blanchefleur hops up onto his knee. "Having a nice time?"
"Asked you a question, Potter."
"Remember my godfather's daughter?" Harry asks. "The mass-murderer's daughter, the one who can throw fireballs? That's Belle."
Dudley performs the most unexpected act of his life by sitting down on the grass opposite Harry.
"What's she writing to you for, then?" he asks. "I 'spect she's mad."
"Nah," Harry disagrees, picking at the very complicated knot Belle's used to keep the parcel closed. "She's very sensible when she hasn't got feathers growing through her hair. Her mother's a Veela. S'why she can throw fireballs."
The parcel eventually opens to reveal a green glass bottle with a gold stopper, and a pair of glasses that look absolutely nothing like his own. They've got expensive-looking frames which look suspiciously fashionable in the same way as Belle's shiny boots, and dark-tinted lenses.
He opens the letter.
"She your girlfriend?" Dudley asks, reaching for Harry's bottle of pop and retreating only because Blanchefleur flares her wings and hisses. "What's with the bird?"
"Belle's owl," Harry says absently, trying very hard not to break the wax seal on the letter because Belle always knows, somehow, and is disappointed. "Because she sent me a letter."
Chèr Harry,
I have told you to wear sunscreen but I KNOW that you are not wearing it, Harry Potter! Just because you have dark skin does NOT mean that you will not burn. I even had Blaise test it, and he says that it is very nice and smells manly.
And use the sunglasses. PTO for the charm to match them to your prescription.
PTO also for the recipe for Amand's cherry cakes, as requested.
WEAR THE SUNSCREEN, HARRY.
Until August!
Belle
"Oh," Harry says. "Sunscreen. She did tell me to wear that."
"You're a darkie," Dudley says. "Why d'you need sunscreen?"
Harry applies his sunscreen and ignores Dudley, and then he gives Blanchefleur some more treats. He's got a boxful upstairs, so Hedwig can't complain.
"Why the interest, Dudders?" Harry asks. "You fancy her? She's a witch, you know. A French witch."
"Only one of your fancy friends to write to you this summer," Dudley says. "She your girlfriend?"
"Nah," Harry says. "But if you try to hit her owl one more time-"
Dudley howls when Blanchefleur's beak sinks hard into his hand. Harry just hopes she doesn't develop a taste for human blood.
IV.
They've made a little progress in the garden, but given the taste for actively dangerous plants that apparently ran through Belle's ancestors, it's fighting them every step of the way. Belle's particular favourite has been the batch of over-ripe Mandrakes they found in what they thought was an overrun cabbage patch, which left all three of them unconscious on the horrible, yellowed grass until Anatole flew up above the range of the screaming and burned the whole lot to ash.
There has been a great deal of burning. There's really nothing else for most of the flora, especially not when it crisps away to reveal equally violent fauna. Belle's not been able to wear half her rings since they got home from Paris, thanks to all the bites and stings and clawings she's taken to her hands in their fight to give Daphne a garden in which to garden, rather than a battlefield on which to fight for her life.
Belle is throwing fireballs at the base of a horrible creeping vine that is trying very hard to strangle poor Blaise - who is trying equally hard to kill it with a set of shears that even Belle is wary of - when Daphne emerges from the house in her good cloak and her flying cap, with her rucksack on her back and her broom over her shoulder.
"It's Su," she says, once she's close enough for Belle to see the tears trailing down her cheeks, which for once are pale, instead of pink like a porcelain doll. "Oh, it's Su, her auntie Amelia - Belle, I can't stand it, I can't-"
Belle launches the biggest fireball she can muster at the vine, and it loosens its hold on Blaise just in time for him to catch Daphne when she stumbles. Belle continues to burn the damned thing until it gives up, and once it's safe, she turns back to Daphne and Blaise.
"He came for her himself," she sobs. "Oh, he- and Su's letter, she said they almost couldn't- couldn't recognise her- I have to go to her right away, I'm sorry I can't go to Remus' wedding, Belle, but they've made the house Unplottable so I have to fly, tell Dora I'm sorry-"
"Don't be silly," Blaise says. "Remus will understand entirely, you know that he will - go to Susan, Daph. Belle and I will look after everything else."
"Tell Susan to send for us immediately if there is anything at all we can do to help," Belle says, looping her arm around Daphne's waist. "And tell her that we are thinking of her - we are only ever a letter away. Oh, Daph."
Amand arrives home with the Prophet ten minutes after Daphne's departure, and Madam Amelia Bones of the Wizengamot's unfortunate and untimely death is right there on the front page.
There is no mention of Lord Voldemort.
V.
Nymphadora Tonks, as was, becomes Dora Tonks-Lupin on a damp July afternoon. It happens in a tiny stone chapel in Scotland, not terribly far from Ernie's beloved Loch Ness, and there are not so many people there as Belle thinks Remus and Dora deserve.
Belle suspects that Dora's been Mrs. Tonks-Lupin at heart for quite some time now, and says as much to distract herself from the more melancholy thoughts of loved ones absent. It is a suspicion Ted Tonks is only too glad to confirm.
"Oh, she's been pathetic about him for ages," he confides to her and Blaise over a glass of firewhiskey. "But he's been pathetic back for just as long, according to Arthur, so it's not so bad."
"It's been awful," Arthur Weasley says, taking the bottle of whiskey from Ted and filling his own glass up to the brim. "Merlin's pants, neither one of them could pluck up the courage to make a go of it until my son gets mauled by a werewolf."
"Idiots," Ted agrees, with great feeling, and Blaise breaks the mood by starting to giggle.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I truly am, but Professor Lupin being cast as a lovestruck teenager when half the girls in the school were pining after him… it's too much."
"After Remus?" Arthur Weasley thunders, clutching his glass to his chest in horror before pausing thoughtfully. "I suppose he is quite good-looking, in a skinny, bookish sort of way. And he's a quarter the age of any other teacher in the school, save for Severus."
"And none of us has such bad taste as to pine for Professor Snape," Belle rushes to assure them. "Ugh, imagine."
"Nothing but true love will induce that man to use shampoo," Ted says, philosophically, "so I think someone ought to bite the bullet, for everyone else's sake."
Belle is unsure what a bullet is, but she has no intention of biting anything.
Dora's dress is a simple thing, with a swing skirt that comes to mid-calf with a low-cut back, and only the top-most layer is white. Underneath that layer of beautiful chiffon is a hideous gold self-striped satin, which really belongs more on an antique chair than it does on a bride.
Under the skirt, Dora reveals, is a pair of knee-length shorts in the same horrible gold. She is also wearing combat boots. In bright, patent turquoise.
Remus' suit is at least well made, even if it is a terrible heather-blue tweed with a tie to match, and Belle is so happy to see them happy that she has resigned herself to accept their utter lack of taste. At least she will be able to appoint herself godmother to their children, for her own sake and for Andromeda's. No child deserves to be dressed as badly as Remus and Dora dress themselves. So really, it is not so bad, until-
"Oh, look at that!" Dora crows, tugging at the leg of Belle's culottes. "Trousers pretending to be a skirt - just like mine!"
The Order of the Phoenix has shown out well today, along with a handful of Dora's closest friends. It is a small wedding, but not necessarily a small gathering, and more than a few of those present seem to share Remus and Dora's interesting taste.
Of everyone on hand only Dromeda, Blaise, and Kingsley Shacklebolt know to wince when Dora considers the thing that she is wearing the same as Belle's suit.
Remus pulls Belle out to dance - badly - while the party is winding down.
"I'm so glad you could come, Belley," he says, and it does not hurt. No one has called her that since Papa's death, not to her face, not even Dromeda in her letters.
Because it is Remus, though, it does not hurt.
"It wouldn't have been the same without you," he says, giving her hand a squeeze for emphasis. "I know it means the world to Dora, too - she wanted you to be a bridesmaid, but we'd have looked a little imbalanced without my best man."
"I wish Harry could have been here, too," she admits. "I know it would have meant a great deal both to him and to you. He loves you very much, Remus."
"There'll be other weddings," Remus says, shrugging. They all are so conscious of Harry's safety now, so aware of how little Voldemort fears them without Dumbledore on hand to dissuade him, that Remus hadn't dared invite Harry - it's sad, but Belle understands. Harry will too, even if she knows how he hates missing things for his safety, on which he puts such a mean value. "Weasley weddings, which you won't want to come to."
"I like the Weasleys very much," Belle says. "Just perhaps not all at the same time."
"Blaise tells me your mother did a lovely job of the house," he says, struggling against a smile - everyone likes the Weasleys eventually, but they are a great deal to cope with when they are all together. It does not do to admit such things, though, and Remus is far too polite to ever press the issue. "Perhaps Dora and I should visit, see it for ourselves."
"Oh, please do, Remus!" She can picture them now, curled up on the big deep-seated couch Maman installed by the hearth in the kitchen with a firewhiskey for her and a Butterbeer for him. It's so cosy now, with the flagstones scrubbed almost white, and the sun spilling in through the half-moon windows that are level with the ugly grass in the garden, and she would love to have more of her family to visit. "We would be so glad to have you both!"
" We? Surely you haven't got Ernie McMillan on hand all summer-"
"Shut up, old man," she warns him. "I don't remember ever mentioning Ernie to you, so I'd like to know who's telling tales-"
"Well, if not Ernie," he says, "I'll assume it's Blaise and Daphne, shall I?"
"You shall," she says, scowling as best she can while so happy. "Or, well, just Blaise and I for the rest of the summer - Daphne is staying with the Boneses for a time, and then her grandmother wants her in Toulouse for a few days. Something about legalities, I don't know for certain."
Remus' face, surely sore from smiling so hard all day long, folds into a frown.
"I wish we had more time together," he says. "I wish things weren't like this for you and Harry and the others. I wish we still had- ah, well. I'm sure you wish it too."
"He would be so happy for you," Belle promises, as gently as she knows how. Dromeda and Dora, Maman and Professor McGonagall, they all mourn Papa, but only Remus and Harry mourn him as cut-deep as Belle does, she thinks. "He would have teased you constantly, but he would have been delighted."
"He would have hated young Ernie," Remus says, his smile returning and turning gleeful. "I've been very restrained, I think, but your dad-"
" Ugh," she groans. "Harry and Anatole have been bad enough, I would rather not think about how terrible Papa might have been. Harry has been insufferable, Remus! And I cannot even tease him about Ginny, because he'll think I'm being mean because Ginny and I don't like one another."
"You've got a great deal in common, you know," Remus says, which Hermione keeps telling her but she still doesn't believe. "But don't worry - I'm sure everyone else has more than made up for your lack, Belley."
"Papa would have been really awful," she says. "About Ernie, I mean. Worse even to me than he would have been to you."
"Yes, well," he says. "He loved you more, Belle, so it stands to reason."
They dance on a little. Molly and Arthur Weasley are dancing as well, and Dromeda and Ted, her resting her head atop his. Dora and Fol-Oeil are busily fox-trotting to a waltz, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, easily the best-dressed person of everyone here, even Belle herself, is leading one of Tonks' interesting Auror friends around the floor in a dance so immaculate that even Ukki and Grand-mère might be hard set to equal it.
"I think he might have been worst to Harry," Remus says thoughtfully. "Just because Ginny has red hair, really, even though she's even less like Lily than Harry's like James - especially because Sirius was fond of her. She'd have joined in, probably."
VI.
Dearest Bellona,
I ask you, one final time - come home. Please, child, please come home to Valence, where you will be safe. If not to Valence, then allow your uncle to take you to Rennes, and if not Rennes, then go to your grandfather. Please, little one, there is nothing to be ashamed of in retreating to safety. Let us take care of you. We have indulged you and allowed you your time in England, but that time is at an end, child. Come home. Come home to where you belong, Bellona. The world is a dangerous place, nowhere more so than your beloved England just now. The world is a dangerous place, for none so much as for the likes of you.
Come home, little one. For your mother's sake, if not for mine.
With love,
Grand-mère
Ma petite,
Whatever nonsense your grandmother said in her last letter - ignore it. You are an adult now, sweet girl, and I know what you will do. You will remain where you are until it is time for little Fleur's wedding, and then you will go to school. All of us who know you know this.
But please, Belle. My Belle. I know I have not always been the mother you wanted, and I have not been the mother you deserved, either. I would ask two things of you.
Remember that I love you.
Be brave, as you always are.
I am never more than a letter away, and Blanchefleur knows her way home better than you do at this stage.
When you are ready, come home to me.
Maman
Black,
Bring your chess set to the wedding. I know Greengrass has some sort of bag that can hide it because she told Hermione about it and she's been using hers for her books ever since.
Mum's confiscated every board in the house and for once, we can't find them. We're all going mad.
Harry got here safe and sound. Tell you everything over a couple of drinks. Don't be late, and bring the walnut buns.
Ron
VII.
Unlike Remus and Dora's, the morning of Fleur's wedding to the good-looking Weasley - Bill, Fleur reminds her, when she slips into the dressing room with flowers and kisses and a charm of good luck - is beautiful and sunny. Belle makes a point of kissing first Fleur, then Gabrielle, then Madame Apolline, and finally Madame Ophélie, who is one of les Melusines and so is dressed in shifting layers of blue-and-lighter-blue chiffon, with her hair - the same gossamer white as Grand-mère's, although it would never do to compare the sister of La Melusine to La Valentinoise - gathered so elegantly at her nape that Belle is a little jealous.
"So," Madame Ophélie says. "You are the arsonist."
"And you the rebel, madame," Belle returns, dipping the slightest of curtsies. Belle knows Veela, and she knows how prickly their pride is - les Melusines more than any other, if only because she is a de Poitiers. "It is an honour."
"You're a very pretty girl," Madame Ophélie says. "Good. Pretty enough even for sea-silk. You have excellent taste."
"A gift from my mother, " Belle admits. "And perfect for dancing, too."
"Oh, thank heavens," Madame Ophélie sighs. "Do you know, I did not think we would have anyone outside the family who could dance?"
And abruptly it does not matter that Belle is a de Poitiers, not when a greater scourge has been identified - Muggle, witch, or Veela, there's no Frenchwoman who doesn't dread an Englishman on a dancefloor.
"I would have had you as a bridesmaid, I think," Fleur says. "But Mémé might have killed me."
"You have enough trouble on your hands with Ginny Weasley, I think," Belle says, and kisses Fleur's cheek once more for luck. "You are happy?"
"As happy as possible during a war," Fleur promises. "And you, Belle? With your strange arrangements and your Scotsman?"
"As happy as possible, during a war."
Fleur kisses Belle's cheek this time, and it seems less for luck and more - just in case.
VIII.
The wedding is beautiful. The dresses, the suits, the music, oh, Belle would not have expected such elegance from the Weasleys. Everything is precisely as beautiful as Fleur deserves, even her beau, and Belle could not be happier for her, for them. Her heart is heavy with how perfect a day it is, and she thinks it perfectly normal that she begins to cry a little.
Blaise discreetly passes her his gleaming linen handkerchief when she begins to sniffle, and does not mention it when she ducks behind the sweep of his exquisite electric blue robe so she can fix her make-up in her little compact mirror. He even lets her dig through his robes to return her mirror to his inner pocket.
"If you're this bad for Fleur, what will you do if Daph marries her Su?" he asks, nudging her hip with his own.
"I will be too busy being maid-of-honour when Daph marries her Su," Belle says, taking a mint from the little tin Blaise keeps in one of his other pockets. "I won't cry at all that day, not until all the work is done."
"I told Daph I'd give her away, after the Howler," he confesses, looking very slightly embarrassed by his typical, unthinking kindness. Belle wishes to be as genuinely kind as him, someday. "I think Madame Méline might object, though, don't you?"
"I would say that you could give me away, but Anatole and Maman are already fighting about that."
"And your grandfather," Blaise agrees. "They'll also fight whoever you marry, of course, for the honour of having you."
Harry's suit is inoffensive, and quite beautifully cut - she sees Hermione's hand in that. His dancing, of course, is deeply offensive, but she's missed him very much so she won't call him on it.
Yet.
"I'm sorry for Hedwig," she says softly, because today is for celebration but it will ring hollow if they ignore their losses - Grand-mère and Invidia always remember their sister, Feronia, on her anniversary, even though it shares a date with Grand-mère's birthday. "And for old Fol-Oeil. He was a good man. She was a good owl."
"And George had a good ear," Harry agrees with a small, thin smile. "I heard about Susan's aunt, too - any word from Daphne since?"
"Very little - they've closed ranks, and they're keeping Daphne on the inside. At least she is safe there."
Their dance comes to an end, and Belle links her arm through Harry's to stop him from running away. He's such a bad dancer that he owes her at least another two rounds, and even without that, he's been avoiding her all day.
"Belle-"
"Not until we have a little talk."
Blaise is keeping Hermione occupied, locking her into some sort of very intense discussion with Viktor Krum - probably about the recent trade deal with the Danube Bloc that the Ministry has shot down. Blaise has been furious about the whole thing for weeks, and it will do him good to talk about it with someone who actually understands it, and Hermione has so many opinions about everything that she will keep the conversation going far beyond its natural bounds.
Ron is busily trapped with Dora and Lee Jordan, waving his arms very expressively, which means that he is talking about Quidditch. Belle loves Quidditch, but she will never quite understand Ron's enduring passion, untarnished even by his beloved Cannons' consistently abysmal performance - but perhaps that is easy for Belle to say when Racing Rhône have won the league at home six of the last eight years.
All of this together means that Belle has Harry all to herself for a few minutes at least. It's more than she's been able to scrounge all day, and will give her more insight than his dire attempts at letter-writing have so far this summer.
"Tell me," she says, because there is something to tell. She just isn't sure that she wants to hear it. "Tell me how I can help."
"You can't," he says, with another of those thin smiles. "Best you can do is know nothing about it, Belle. Safer that way."
"Well, I'm richer than you," she says, "so there must be something I can do to help. Money is so helpful in trying times."
That makes him laugh, just a little, and she can feel him soften against her side.
"There are things I have to do, Belle," he says. "Things that I have to do alone. So, thank you, but- thank you."
"Well." She considers this carefully - there has to be some help she can offer him. "The house, at least. Make use of the house, if you need it. But- but let me know if you're using it. Turn the door green. Put a scarf on the doorhandle. Just don't dirty my carpets."
"Wasn't it only at Christmas that you made sure I couldn't use the house?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. Or perhaps squinting. He has had the same glasses as long as she's known him, so either seems possible.
"I said you couldn't use it without my permission," she corrects him. "But - please, Harry. You are not alone. Please remember that."
IX.
People disappear and return all day, and Belle is sleepy with food and dancing and smiling, leaning against Blaise's shoulder, when an unexpected guest arrives. The pretty silver lynx speaks with Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice, and in the brace of heartbeats it takes for the shock to fade and panic to set in, Belle has time to think I am so glad Daphne is not here.
"Run," Remus says, pushing at Belle's shoulders. "Belle, go!"
"No," she says, as people flee and others stand, pulling her wand from the holster on her thigh. She feels just as she did when Draco brought the Death Eaters into the school - ready to stand between whoever means harm and those who need shielding, and terrified out of her mind "I have to be brave."
"You have to be gone," Remus insists. "Blaise, take her. Take her now."
"I can help! Remus, I've helped before-"
"Not this time," Blaise says, taking her firmly by the hand. "There are people who need us more than the Weasleys, and we have to be alive to help them - now, Belle."
"Blaise, no-"
The kitchen of Grimmauld Place has never been so unwelcome a sight. Kreacher is startled out of his hovel under the sink - not so rank, after Maman's cleaning and the little gifts Belle has been leaving out for him - by the clatter they make, and Blaise doesn't let go of her.
"What have you done?" she demands, pushing away from him. "We have to help them-"
"Half of Dumbledore's Order is at that wedding," Blaise says, taking her by the shoulders and staring hard into her face. "They know what they're doing, Belle, and most of them are purebloods - they won't be killed. You will."
"I won't, they wouldn't-"
"Kingsley Shacklebolt said that they've toppled the fucking Ministry, Bellona!" he shouts. "They murdered the Minister and installed their puppet, just like they murdered Albus Dumbledore! This isn't school, Belle. These people will murder you for sport because they think of you as an animal. You need to do everything you can to stay alive, because they want you dead!"
All the noise has drawn Amand and Anatole from upstairs, but they stay in the kitchen door.
"You've never shouted at me before," is all Belle can manage. "Not even once."
"You've never been so stupid before," he returns. "Belle, think! These people are worse even than Umbridge was. You think you understand them because of Draco and the others, but you don't. You don't!"
"I know about evil men, Blaise-"
"Not like this," he snaps. "I don't either, not really, but I've seen their like at home - small-minded men and women who think anyone different, anyone of mixed heritage or anyone not pureblooded, they think anyone not like them needs to be hunted, just like the Death Eaters here. The only difference at home is that my mother and her friends make sure-"
"But I could have helped!"
"Shut up, Belle, and stop trying to argue with me! Listen, for once! Remus said to run, and he's never once doubted you. That should tell you just how dangerous these people are."
Blaise is crying. Belle has never seen him cry before.
"I know you're going to insist on going back to school even now, even knowing that they'll hurt you there, but please, Belle, for me - at least come away from here until the start of term. Gather up our things, bring Daph's as well, and go to Mama's house in Belgravia. No one knows where that is except us. Anatole, talk to her, make her understand!"
"I think we should go home," Anatole says, looking uneasy. "I know your grandmother asked you to come home, Belle, and I know she suggested Rennes, or that you go to Isä and Aleksi. If the English Minister is dead, Bellona - you are not safe here! You must come away."
"I must do nothing of the sort," she says, slipping her arm around Blaise's waist. "We will take our things, and we will go to Madame Sofia's house, but I am going back to school. Blaise is right. This- we must be smart. We will go to Madame Sofia's, and I will send Blanchefleur to Dromeda so we can understand more of what is going on."
"You have your trunks packed?"
"We do," Belle promises. "Anything we have not packed we can do without."
Anatole nods, reaching behind him for Amand's hand.
"Ten minutes, chouette," he says. "Then- can you and Blaise Apparate us all to his maman's house?"
"Between us? Yes, of course."
"Daphne's little bag," Blaise says. "Our brooms our already in it, it won't take much to put the trunks in as well, and anything else we need to bring."
"Ten minutes," Anatole says. "And then we go to Sofia Nikolaevna's."
Belle looks down when Kreacher tugs on her robes.
"Would Mistress like a sandwich for her journey?"
The sandwich he offers is wrapped in an almost-clean dishcloth and smells awful.
"You are very kind, Kreacher," she tells him, smiling even so. "Can you make me a promise, Kreacher? Please?"
"Mistress can ask anything she likes of Kreacher."
"If anyone comes to the house asking where we have gone," she says. "If Miss Narcissa or Miss Bellatrix, in particular, come here, looking for anyone, you are not to tell them anything - if they come here and they try to hurt you, you are to come to me, mon chèr, oui? Come to me if they threaten you, Kreacher."
"Yes, Mistress," Kreacher says, still tugging a little on her robes. "Mistress will be back?"
"As soon as I can, Kreacher. I promise you will not be left alone here for so long ever again. Could you please make sure all the windows are locked while we gather our things?"
He disappears with a damp crack. Belle and Blaise depart to pack, and Blaise has not let go of her hand by the time they reach the top of the stairs.
It rankles to leave her house - her home! - but at least, if she is known to be away from home, it gives Mad Bella one less reason to come here and makes it just a little safer for Harry, if he needs it.
Actually-
"Kreacher?"
"Yes, Mistress?" The damp crack of his Apparating never fails to make her feel a little ill, but he's gotten very good at actually answering when she calls for him since she gave him her uncle's robes and started asking about Papa's family. There is nothing Kreacher loves as much as he loves talking about the Blacks.
"We may have guests while I am away," she says. "You remember Harry, Papa's godson? He and his friends may come to stay here. Please make sure that they are welcome, Kreacher. No calling Hermione a Mudblood. No calling Harry a half-breed."
"But Mistress-"
"Please, Kreacher," she says. "I try not to ask very much, but I ask this. Make Harry welcome, if he comes here, and do not tell anyone that he is here, or that he has been here."
Kreacher grumbles, but he nods. That will have to do.
(b
"Merlin's arse," Ron says before he can catch himself, pinned to the bright cream wallpaper by Hermione's bony hip and Harry's bony shoulder. They've more than enough to worry about, but he's fairly sure they've let themselves into the wrong house, and that seems like a very immediate issue. "I thought we were going to-"
"This is Grimmauld Place," Harry says, locking the door behind them and slumping against it. "Belle's mum decorated as a birthday present."
This is more than just decorating, but so long as Harry's sure that this really is Sirius' house, Ron'll take him at his word.
They go to the kitchen. Hermione is still wearing her nice shoes, and the click of her heels on the flags seems to startle her.
"What if Bellona comes back?" Hermione asks. "She lives here, Harry-"
"We talked earlier," Harry says. "I- we need to lie low until we're sure, but I think she'll move out. I know Blaise's mum has a house in London as well, Belle told me about it, and if not she's got both her grandparents. She'll be fine."
Ron decides to check anyway, and knocks on the master bedroom door before letting himself in.
Belle's good chess board is sitting on the bed, pink and grey and probably worth more than the Burrow.
Don't you dare break my chess set, Ron Weasley.
Well, that's him satisfied. He still has a look around, but the little notes on the bedroom doors just hammer home that Belle's gone, and she's left the house ready for them.
Harry's looking around the place with a strange look on his face when Ron comes back downstairs, and that's not really surprising. Harry hasn't been back here since Sirius died, and it must be difficult for it to look like an entirely different house.
X.
Two days later, Belle Apparates to Diagon Alley and marches into Gringotts.
"Miss Black," says the handsome young goblin with the very modern platinum tie pin and collar tips. "You wish to make a withdrawal?"
"Mademoiselle de Poitiers," she corrects him. "Of Valence. And no, thank you, it is not a withdrawal I wish to enquire about."
His eyes are very bright behind his blue-lensed pince-nez.
"Bornog, mademoiselle," he says. "And whatever can I do for you this morning?"
"One banker to another, monsieur," she says. "What is Gringotts' policy on extra protections for one's vault?"
"That depends, mademoiselle," Bornog says.
"On?"
"Whether or not you care to record your protections in the ledgers, as procedure demands. There are so many little legalities around vault protection." His smile reminds her a little of Metis', when someone comes to Valence and tries to lie about the contents of their vault. "Of course, there are always loopholes. Not everything has to go into the ledgers we share with the auditors."
"Oh, excellent," Belle says, delighted. "I will be doing a very great deal of cursing, monsieur, so I will want it recorded only in the other ledgers. Ours are black, but since your legitimate ledgers are black, I would guess… The green?"
"Good eye, mademoiselle," Bornog says, holding out a hand for her key. "Shall we?"
Dromeda warned her that Bellatrix and Draco's mother might try to access the Black vault in pursuit of whatever terrible things their ancestors had stashed there, but here is one more little thing Belle can do to help Harry and their allies - and one more way she can prove herself a Black. She has all kinds of nasty ideas.