Whiskey and Wakes
It had only been a few weeks since he'd last laid eyes on the village, but even in that short span things had changed. The world around him now was different than the one he'd returned to from abroad; power had changed hands, friends had turned to enemies, and even that same village, resting sleepily in the distance, had perked to life like a withered flower catching a second wind.
Smoke rose from the scattering of chimneys poking their brick noses above Hogsmeade. People could be seen as little black smudges walking on its grey, open streets. The village had not quite bloomed into its former bustling self, but even from where he was watching on the hill next to the Shrieking Shack, he could tell it was no longer the ghost town it had once been.
All it took was some order, Harry thought to himself. In the midst of a struggle for power no one wanted to come outside, but with new authority life seemingly could continue. I wonder if they realize whose hands their lives are in? Would they be so willing to walk free then? I wonder if they even care…
Harry took off his glasses and wiped the lenses clean, before settling them back on the bridge of his nose. He sucked in a deep breath of the crisp air, holding its freshness in his lungs, and letting the autumn breeze wash over him. It was a glorious day today, one of the last they'd see for a while, so perhaps he couldn't truly blame them for enjoying the outdoors.
Walking to the front of the dilapidated cabin, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled bit of parchment. He read over the neatly looped letters, making sure he had it correctly.
It was from Fleur, she wanted to meet him.
The soft beat of wings cut through the air above him, and Harry looked up and smiled. A snowy white owl swooped down with the wind and landed on his outstretched arm. She climbed on his shoulder and nuzzled affectionately against his cheek.
"I've missed you too, Hedwig," said Harry, laughing. "I should have known it was you who brought me this."
He took the letter and slipped it back in his pocket. He'd woken up the previous morning to find it waiting next to his pillow. Over a week had gone by since he last saw Fleur, the very same night their meeting had been exposed. Since then, he'd shut himself away, thinking and studying and searching, doing anything to keep his mind from turning in on itself in the way it did when he was left alone. He was also waiting; waiting for Fleur to reach out to him as she had promised. And now she had.
"I wish I had a treat for you—some bacon, maybe. I know how much you love bacon." He ran a knuckle over Hedwig's beak, and she made a pleased sound.
Harry stared out at the open sky and its patches of steely clouds, and the trees and mountains even further out along the horizon, and then looked back down at Hedwig. "I suppose you like being free out there," he said, mostly to himself. "It's much better off than being stuck in a cage, left behind at some place I'm not even at." He stretched out his arm in front of himself. "Before you leave, can you stop by Fleur, so she knows I'll be there right away?"
Hedwig dipped her beak in a way Harry took as a yes.
"Good, girl," he said with a smile. With an encouraging lift of his arm, he helped her take off and watched as she glided through the air towards Hogsmeade, his smile not leaving his face for a second. It reminded him of the countless times he'd watched her from the Owlery, disappearing as a white speck in the sky; and with that thought, slowly, he felt his eyes being dragged from the village, over the tree line, and to the looming castle just behind.
Something heavy settled over him then, like the shadow of an unseen cloud. He bundled his coat tighter around his shoulders, but it did little to shield him from the cold he felt.
Ron and Ginny are somewhere in there, he thought to himself. He wondered where they were and how they were doing. It was early enough in the afternoon still, perhaps they had Defense Against the Dark Arts or Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall? Or maybe his friends had a free period after lunch and were spending time together in the common room…
But are they your friends anymore? Something inside of him asked, the question like a dagger between his ribs.
Harry tore his gaze from Hogwarts, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and started the long trek down the winding dirt path which would take him to Hogsmeade. He thought it might take his mind off things, but he had no luck, the last day before Ron and Ginny left for Hogwarts stuck painfully in his mind. He felt closer to them now, from all the way out here, than he did before they left. They were a world away then, despite living under the same roof: not speaking, not acknowledging, not even daring to look in his direction. For a moment, on the morning they left for King's Cross Station, Harry thought Ron might say something, feeling his friend linger by the doorway while resting with his eyes closed in bed, only to be crushed when the door closed with a definite click with nothing having been said. Even Mrs. Weasley hadn't reached out, so pale and shaken and silent, and Mr. Weasley himself had yet to return to Grimmauld Place.
Breaking free from his thoughts, he looked up and noticed he was drawing close to the edge of the village. Close enough where he could be noticed if someone chanced to peek through their windows. He stopped and pulled from his pocket his invisibility cloak, throwing it over his shoulders before continuing.
He was thankful he was headed for a quieter part of Hogsmeade. Shops were sparse and cottages were widely spread, and it was easy enough for him to slip past a pair of conversing wizards coming down the opposite end of the road. He could see others within their homes, their silhouettes gliding behind drawn curtains. Up ahead, he could hear the buzz from the busier end of the village echo down the empty street.
From that end, stepping out of a storefront and approaching him now were two green clad figures. Harry tensed and felt his hand reach for his wand, but he stopped himself, remembering how last time he had used magic in Hogsmeade it had triggered some sort of enchantment. He recognized them as members of the ICW, the memory of those uniforms clear in his mind from his time at Nurmengard. He shook his head. He didn't like thinking of what had happened there.
Some twenty feet in front of him, just off to his right, he spotted a familiar wooden pen sticking out the back of a beaten-down inn. Harry moved as close as he dared, waiting in the swinging shadow of the establishment's broken sign. He held his breath as the two ICW agents passed, patrolling in keen silence, and waited until they disappeared around the bend in the road he'd just come down himself, and counted a further ten seconds before stepping in front of the door where a 'Closed For Business' sign hung.
The door creaked open with little pressure, sending a fresh shower of dust to fall from its frame onto an already dusty floor. A dull clang sounded overhead, and he looked up to see a rusted old bell hanging above the door. It was dim, drab, and just about as desolate as the Shrieking Shack on the inside; though instead of claw marks running along the walls, it had a collection of overturned and empty bottles littered about the room.
After checking to make sure no one else was inside, Harry took off his invisibility cloak and folded it away. He pulled out a stool and sat, resting his elbows on the bar and letting an easy grin cross his face as he peered into the backroom where him and his friends had once met when the D.A. had been created.
A set of heavy footsteps came around the corner and halted. "You're early," a gruff voice said a moment later.
He looked up into a pair of brilliant blue eyes beneath a thick, bushy brow. He froze, thinking he might have been looking at a ghost.
"Better early than late," he eventually responded.
"Debatable." The bartender cleared his throat harshly, and a pair of calloused hands smacked onto the counter. "You want somethin'?"
"What do you have?" Harry asked.
"Whiskey," the man said instantaneously, before bending over behind the bar and riffling through its contents, "an'… more whiskey."
Harry shook his head. "No thanks."
"Suit yourself," the bartender said, scratching at his tangled grey-white beard that fell nearly to his waist. He then took out a bottle and two tumblers, brushed the dust off them with a swipe of a dirty rag, and filled them rather generously, taking one for himself and sliding the other in front of Harry.
"I said—"
"Just keep it," he said, cutting Harry off. "You might be wantin' it soon." He cleared his throat again and walked out from behind the bar to pick up a stool. He carried it to where he'd been standing before and took a seat.
They were more or less level now, though the bartender still towered over Harry with his hulking frame, separated only by a short stretch of counter, their drinks, and a heavy silence. The man lifted his glass and took a swig, while Harry kept his cupped in his hand. He listened to the groan of the web-covered wooden beams above his head and the shrill whistle of wind every time it gusted and blew in through the cracked windows. There was a fireplace across the room, but it sat cold and unused, with only a pair of burnt-out logs sitting in the center of the hearth, coated in dust like every other surface in the bar.
"It's not meant t'be cozy," the man said defensively, having noticed the way Harry was looking around. "Not like'n Hogwarts, up in my brother's tower."
"I don't remember Dumbledore caring all that much for comfort," said Harry.
"Ha!" Aberforth Dumbledore laughed, seeming to find this very funny. "You'd never catch Albus roughin' it up in 'ere."
You'd never catch most people in here, Harry wanted to point out, but kept to himself. The man seemed awfully proud of his pub. He watched as Aberforth downed the rest of his whiskey and opened the bottle to pour himself some more.
"You know, I should probably kill ye for what you've done," Aberforth said, matter-of-factly.
Harry nodded, too tired to worry about who else was cross with him. "It's a common feeling among people right now."
"Bloody fuck those people," spat Aberforth. He looked down and met Harry's gaze, his face holding none of his brother's gentle nature. "They don't got a reason to complain—nothin' but bad blood passed down through the family. They never met that evil bastard."
Harry kept quiet, knowing it was better to do so.
"I 'ad that cockroach crawlin' around my house, whisperin' in my brother's ear, poisonin' my sister's mind!" His eyes were lost in the amber depths of his drink as though searching for something at its crystal bottom. "Ariana…"
The name faded through the air like an old memory. He could only wonder what the young Dumbledore girl had been like, to have crumbled two such formidable wizards even almost a hundred years after her death.
"He's like a parasite," Aberforth continued, his voice quiet, nothing more than whisper. "Introduce him into yer life and he worms his way into everythin' that was good. He eats away, leeches, strips all that's 'round you 'till nothing's left and only then leaves. One day yer a kid, laughin' with your brother and sister, the next, yer dad gets locked away and yer mum's dead, and then you look, and yer brother's gone tryin' to concur the world and yer sister is sick and no one cares to notice."
"He cared, you know," said Harry.
"Like hell he did," snapped Aberforth.
"I know how much it ate at him. I saw what it did to him," he replied, cringing, remembering Dumbledore's torment as he drank the potion in the cave.
Aberforth huffed, not wanting to acknowledge what had been said. Instead, he knocked back his drink with a single jerky motion of the arm, before frowning and re-filling it for a third time. His glossy blue eyes flicked to Harry with such piercing intensity that for an instant he felt his mind transported to Dumbledore's final moments.
"Drink," he ordered, shaking Harry from his memory. He raised his glass, the whiskey slopping over its rim, and held it out between them over the counter. "Don't let a bitter old man get drunk on his own. Drink."
Harry looked down at the glass in his hand, and the smudges of his fingers printed along its edges from where he'd been gripping it tightly. He swirled it, letting its oaken scent fill his nose and wash out the enduring stench of barn animals that dominated within the Hog's Head Inn. "Alright," he said, entertaining the man, before lifting his glass and clinking it against Aberforth's, "what are we drinking to?"
Nothing was said for several seconds as the old wizard could be seen visibly thinking. He cleared his throat loudly and picked up the rag from the counter to wipe at his distant eyes. "To findin' some peace," he said, his voice thick. "We both could do with some of that."
"To finding peace," Harry agreed, taking a drink. He coughed at the burning sensation travelling down his throat and in behind his chest, but slowly, it gave way to a pleasant warmth which crept over his skin and through his veins. He took another sip, this time savoring the smoky flavor that filled his mouth and the way the whiskey numbed his tongue.
"Why'd you let him out?" Aberforth asked. The man resembled a bear readying for hibernation, with his broad, stooping shoulders and low rumbling voice, and the overgrown mess of his hair and beard, which obscured much of his face. There was anger there, boiling just underneath the surface, but not one which troubled Harry.
"I don't know," Harry said automatically. He'd been asked the same question so many times it was habit.
"That's not an answer, kid."
Harry thought for a moment before replying again. "I… I didn't know what to do after Hogwarts was attacked… after your brother died. I was lost." He stopped, feeling his throat thicken, and reached for his glass. "The one person with all the answers couldn't give them to me anymore. I never knew what I was doing, I was just a kid. Sometimes, even now, I still don't think I have a clue. Dumbledore left me one hint: Nurmengard. When I got there, I only had one choice I could make. I had to do what Dumbledore wanted me to."
"Bugger Albus! If he told you to jump off yer broom, would you listen?" Aberforth reached across the bar and filled Harry's glass some more, before smacking the bottle back down on the counter in irritation. "He told me he had somethin' planned, that bastard." He was speaking to himself now. "That bastard!"
"You knew?" questioned Harry.
"Of course, I didn't know! At least, not 'till the news broke. I would 'ave bloody fuckin' stopped him if I did. That scheming bastard!" He cursed again. "That soft-headed, love stricken, egotistical, meddling fool! Letting him out of all people."
"How much did Dumbledore tell you?"
"Not much," Aberforth grunted, a heavy frown dominating his aged face. "Albus only ever came in when 'e needed to unburden himself and was too lonely t'drink alone. But he came 'ere almost every other night after he buggered up 'is hand, talkin' to himself, or to me—I could never quite tell 'cause he kept talkin' whether I was there listenin' or not."
Harry remembered the ugly, withered husk Dumbledore had kept hidden beneath his glove. "He knew he was dying," he said.
Aberforth nodded, and loudly cleared his throat. "I loved my brother but hated him just as much. He was an easy man to hate just as 'e was to love. I remember that day when he came stumblin' in 'ere after his fatal mistake, and I was sat here grinnin' with years of buried pleasure that 'is hubris finally came back t'bite him." Aberforth reached for the bottle again, only to curse when he found it empty and push it off to the side. "I shoulda felt ashamed for that, but I knew he deserved it. When there's so much between ye like me an' Albus, things will always be broke."
"He saved my life," Harry said after a long pause. Unconsciously, he reached up to touch the dormant patch of skin where his scar had once been.
"Aye, but at what cost?" Aberforth's blue eyes weighed him carefully. "Albus was smarter than all of us. He was rarely ever wrong, never makin' the same mistake twice. He was clever an' wise an' whatever other trite people 'ave said about him over the years. Except when it came to Grindelwald. They were two sides of the same coin, too similar, too kindred. He was blind to that man an' all his vileness. It took him killin' our damn sister, poor, sweet little Arianna, t'shake some sense into his thick head; and even then, I don't think he learned his lesson."
"I suppose that's what love does to us," said Harry.
"Agh! You're soundin' just like him," spat Aberforth. "He would always try an' tell me the same thing. I wouldn't know nothin' about it, but if that's love… it's an ugly one. That man twisted himself 'round Albus with his silky words an' sharp mind 'till you couldn't pull them apart. They were everythin' to each other, nothin' else in the world mattered. And when the time came and he knew what he 'ad gotten himself into, he tried to tear him out but lost a part of himself while doing so."
The wind whistled sharply from outside after a particularly strong gust, rattling the shutters against one another and blowing puffs of dust into the air. The cold, however, could be barely felt, its chilling grip beat away by the warm touch of the whiskey. Harry took another sip from his glass and said, "Maybe he knew something we didn't."
"Maybe. That sounds very much like Albus." Aberforth laughed, lost to himself and whatever thoughts danced in his mind. "I'm not some philosopher whose brain's too big for their cap. I'm nothin' but an old man who owns a shady bar and once got caught messin' about with goats. Maybe Albus is brilliant, and maybe he knew what he was doing like all those times before. But maybe, like any other man who learned 'e was dyin', he afforded himself some weakness. Maybe decades of regret and sentimentality got the best of 'im and he fell back on a long-cursed love. All I'm sayin' is that I learned a long time ago not t'rely on Albus, and there's nothin' wrong with you learnin' the same."
"I understand," said Harry. He could hear the reason behind the words, and their value, but words and reason weren't enough for what he had to face. "But I need to trust him. Both of them. I've come too far to stop."
Something softened in Aberforth's gaze then. His striking eyes melted like chips of ice and the lines of his frown slowly disappeared. "You want to be him, don't you?" he asked.
Harry nodded, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
"Merlin save you, I say! I pity you. Only a fool would want to be Albus Dumbledore." He shook his head as if not believing what he was hearing. He sobered quickly, however, and looked to Harry with a dead seriousness. "But yer no fool. You wouldn't have survived what ye have if you were. And neither was Albus, as much as I like to say 'e was."
"How did he do it?" Harry asked, and Aberforth laughed.
"Comin' to me for my brother's secrets, eh? I wasn't my brother's keeper, far from it actually, but Albus loved ye more than anyone I can think of, and I can tell by the look on yer face that you loved 'im too. So, I'll tell you this, yer already half-way there. You know all about makin' difficult choices, Potter, even if they've been thrusted on ye by others. That's all Albus did, nothin' more nothin' less. Who knows, maybe he was tryin' to prepare ye by going through what he did?
"By cleanin' up 'is own mess with Grindelwald, the world turned to 'im for all their answers. He made choices he shouldn't 'ave had to: regretted them, hated himself for them, and drowned in the consequences of 'em all; but he hid it all behind white whiskers, a wise smile, and those twinkling eyes of his. Maybe it was arrogance, or maybe 'cause no one else could, but he shouldered it all. It's up to ye to do the same. You might hate yourself in the end, lose yer friends and everythin' else, but someone 'as got to make those choices and if you think it has to be you, then do it and don't look back."
Something creaked from overhead, and Aberforth spun from his stool and looked over his shoulder. "I thought ye'd never come down," he said, and picked up the empty bottle with a good-natured chuckle. "We've already run out whiskey, you've missed out on most o' the fun."
"You run a bar, Aberforth, you should never run out of whiskey. Otherwise, I might just need to move down the road."
"An' have Rosmerta fawnin' all over ye? That woman is nothin' but a nuisance. Besides, the whiskey she keeps is terrible."
"You're lucky I've never been fond of The Three Broomsticks. It's… too English." Coming into view as she descended the staircase at the back of the bar, was Fleur. "Bonjour, 'Arry," she said with a bright smile. "I heard the two of you speaking, I hope I am not interrupting anything."
"You didn't," said Harry quickly, "We were actually just finishing up." Looking over to Aberforth, something like a smile curled deep beneath his untrimmed whiskers, and his blue eyes glinted in a manner he had seen countless times before.
"He's all yours, the lad sure as hell didn't come to see me," Aberforth said. He stood from his stool, picked up his rag, and began to wipe his counter for no reason other than to appear busy.
Harry stood as well and moved towards Fleur, but just before reaching the stairs he turned back wanting to thank the man for everything he had said. He could see Aberforth watching them from where he was working. He dipped his head in a subtle nod, figuring the man would understand.
"You did not have any trouble getting here?" He could hear Fleur ask from his side while ascending the stairs.
"None, I actually know this place. Although, I did apparate to the Shrieking Shack first just to be safe, since no one ever goes there. Last time I used magic in the village it was picked up."
"Monsieur Aberforth told me there is a curfew imposed every evening. Perhaps that is why," she said, just as they reached the second floor.
Fleur led him to one of the two rooms which bookended the narrow hallway. Inside, it was rather bare, and it carried the distinct smell of sawdust from its wooden floor, wooden walls, and oddly scattered pieces of wooden furniture. The only decoration was an enormously sized portrait hanging opposite the bed. Within its frame was a young girl with sad eyes and an even more solemn face. Ariana, Harry figured. It was the first time he'd ever seen her likeness before. She looked terribly too young to have died. Turning away, he felt the eyes of the portrait follow him.
"How did you find Aberforth and the Hog's Head?" Harry asked Fleur, who'd moved to where a small table was tucked into the corner of the room. She took a seat and Harry conjured his own.
"When I was first invited to join the Order, this is where Dumbledore asked to meet me," she answered. "He'd introduced me to Aberforth as his brother, despite their relationship not suggesting as much."
"It was complicated. As most things generally are when it comes to Dumbledore," said Harry.
"I had noticed. Complicated brilliance seems to have run through the family. Though his appearance does not suggest it, Aberforth has a mind like his brother's." Fleur paused for a moment not saying anything, when suddenly a keen look lit up her eyes. "Would you like something to drink, 'Arry?" she asked, her question leading somewhere he couldn't quite place.
"Er, sure. It's not whiskey though, is it? I think I've had enough of that."
Fleur giggled, the sound ringing pleasantly in his ears.
"Not whiskey, I promise. It is only water."
There was an energy about her all of a sudden, one that drew him in, in a way he couldn't describe.
She reached to the side where her trunk sat open next to her bed and summoned her cloak. It shimmered in her hand, light reflecting off its surface and dancing in the air. He watched as she spread the pale blue material over the top of the table. Taking her wand, Fleur tapped at its center, and the cloak seemed to bounce before a ripple grew out to its edges. Harry passed the empty glass into her waiting hand and couldn't quite believe what he saw next. Like dipping into a still pool, her hand passed through the material of the cloak and brought up a full glass, the surface now splashing, disturbed.
She took a sip and smiled.
Harry did as well. "That's brilliant," he said, still not quite believing. He took another sip, finding it was, in fact, water, crisp and clean and fresh.
"I would not have discovered this without Aberforth. His mind has been a breath of fresh air from the hours I've spent hidden from those who might recognize my face."
An awkward pause settled between them. Harry swallowed thickly, a sinking feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. Fleur leaned forward, the first hint of concern creasing her brow, though her eyes were still alight and pretty.
"Fleur…" said Harry, managing finally to unstick his throat, "there are people who know you're back." In a blink, her smile vanished, and a serious expression took hold of her face, giving him pause. "When you came to Grimmauld Place, someone saw us… The Order knows."
"Everyone?" she asked. He knew what she was implying.
Harry nodded.
Fleur closed her eyes and fell back in her chair. Neither of them spoke. Eventually, she re-opened them and looked to him in a manner only he could understand. "I was hoping it would be some time before they found out. Perhaps foolishly I thought they might never think of me again. But still, I was the one who arrived at your front doorstep. And William?"
Harry didn't answer, he didn't have to.
"I'm sorry you had to deal with that. It is my cross to bear."
"It's my fault too," Harry cut in. He stared at her meaningfully from across the table.
"Yes, I suppose," Fleur said, holding his gaze. "I imagine it has been difficult since then."
"They hate me," he said simply. "For one reason or another they all do."
"I don't hate you, 'Arry."
"You should," he replied.
Fleur shook her head sadly. "I have no room for hate—I only worry for you." She took his hand in her own. "How can I carry anything but concern when I see it is you causing yourself the most pain for what you've done…"
"No one understands." He looked away and pulled his hand free, but Fleur reached out and took his other one.
"I do. I understand," she said. "I know what it's like to make choices you hate."
Harry stopped and looked back, taking in the pain that filled the depths of Fleur's pale eyes. It was the very pain which ceaselessly tore through him. "I'm sorry," he said with a troubled sigh. "I shouldn't have said that. It was selfish."
"There is no shame in feeling this way. I felt such things for reasons less meaningful in comparison to yours. I still do." She squeezed his hand and let go, folding her arms in front of herself, vulnerable.
"I don't hate you," Harry said.
The crack of a smile appeared on Fleur's lips and she laughed, choked with emotion. "I know, but my mind is not one so easy to convince. What I have done still weighs terribly on me. Perhaps with time…"
Her words hung like a promise in the air.
Harry nodded. "With time," he agreed.
Despite the pain they had caused one another, he knew she felt as he did. He wasn't alone, not in this at least, and perhaps not ever.
"What have you been doing since you arrived?" he eventually asked, hoping to move on.
"There's been little else to do but torture myself with thoughts of what I have done, and what I still can do," answered Fleur with a sad smile. "But that is one of the reasons I brought you here; I remembered something."
"Remembered what?"
"The story is a long one, but I will try to explain it as best I can." Fleur inched her chair closer and crossed her legs, making herself more comfortable. "Do you remember my placement at Gringotts?"
Harry nodded stiffly, remembering that and more.
"My main purpose was that of a spy, but the way in which I came to work at Gringotts specifically, is a different matter entirely. During the negotiations with the goblins, they requested from the ICW an agent well-versed in the enchantment of wizarding artifacts. That is, afterall, what I studied in my final years at Beauxbatons. They thought such a spy would be well suited to a special assignment they had planned. Unfortunately, when I arrived, they discovered I am of Veela heritage," she said spitefully, her face wrinkling in disgust. "From then, I was relegated to menial work and frequent insults, and the prospect of pursuing this assignment was lost to me. What I do recall, however, is it was related to Voldemort. My superior officer had told me before I left that the goblins had found a dark artifact in one of their vaults—a cup of sorts. I thought you'd might find this interesting."
Harry frowned. "You said they found a cup?"
"A cup, yes. Or a goblet, I can't be sure; though I don't think it makes much difference."
A diary, a ring, a locket… a cup. Harry's mind was racing furiously. If he wasn't sitting, he figured he would have fallen over. There was only one cup he knew of that had anything to do with Voldemort; the cup Tom Riddle had stollen from Hepzibah Smith all those years ago. The very same cup Dumbledore had thought to be a Horcrux.
"You found one…" Harry said aloud. Doubt did not exist in his mind.
"Found what?"
"That makes four. Two destroyed, one with Hermione, and the cup with the Goblins. No—wait, that's five. I can't forget me." Harry laughed, lost to everything around him. "That leaves two more, and somehow I'm going to need to steal the cup…"
Someone shook him by the shoulders, and he turned into a set of confused blue eyes. "'Arry, what are you talking about? What did I find?"
"You found a Horcrux, Fleur." Harry stared back. It felt like his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. "The goblins did really, but I wouldn't have known without you."
"What is a Horcrux?"
"The key to defeating Voldemort. His greatest secret and his greatest weakness. The one thing that can kill him." At one point, he wasn't sure when, Harry had leaned forward across the cramped table and gripped Fleur by her wrists. "You have no idea how important this information is."
She slipped his grip and rested her hands gently in his before looking up. "Then tell me," said Fleur.
"A Horcrux is a method to split the soul," Harry started. He could see the way Fleur paled as her mouth fell open in shock. "The fragment is stored as a method of immortality. It's the most vile magic there is, and Voldemort made seven of them."
"Merde," Fleur swore. "And these… Horcruxes, where are they? What even are they?"
"They're anything that can sustain the magic of a soul. The more powerful the soul, the stronger the magic needs to be behind what houses it. The same goes for where they can be kept. Luckily for us, Voldemort is predictable."
"Is this what you and Dumbledore were up to, running off without warning?"
"It was," Harry confirmed. "Dumbledore had been searching for them by piecing together Voldemort's history. Each one is an anchor needing to be destroyed. Three have been so far; his diary, a ring… and me."
Fleur watched him through clouded eyes. "At Beauxbatons… with Monsieur Flamel…"
Harry dipped his head, his face stretched into something grim. "I'm not sure Voldemort knew what he had in me, but I was a Horcrux, yes. It's why I needed to die."
"And this cup? You think it might be one of them?" she asked after a pause.
"It is. It has to be. Fleur, I don't know what to say, this information…"
"Do not thank me, 'Arry. It is as I said, I have thought of much lately. We will find these Horcruxes and destroy them."
"We?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Have you grown tired of me already?"
He smiled. "No. Never."
A look which could stop a man's heart flashed within vivid eyes and danced over daring lips, and a pale hand reached out gently to brush along the scar burnt along his jaw. It felt as though a fire was lit beneath his skin, passionate and thirsting. But then the moment and its feeling passed, vanishing as quick as it came, her touch with it, leaving him cold and empty and wanting for more.
"This is something I owe to you," said Fleur, softly, drawing Harry from the interesting thoughts he'd been entertaining in his mind. "Once, in my arrogance and jealousy I had said something to you without knowing its meaning. I thought I was the one to stay and stand by your side."
"I remember that," said Harry with a grimace. "What I said back to you was cruel."
Fleur shook her head. "Not cruel, 'Arry, only the truth. The truth has a bite like no other. What I saw in Daphne, was only a reflection of what I saw in myself."
"But you were right about her, she left."
"Perhaps," pondered Fleur. "Things can change, however. How many choices had I been forced into making—wrong choices, choices I hated—before I made the right ones? This is the right one. I know that in my heart. I am ready to see through this war."
In the heaviness of the moment which fell between them, Fleur looked around the room and laughed.
"What is it?" Harry inquired.
"It is strange, sitting here, in this room, having this very conversation, where I had once met with Dumbledore," said Fleur. "It always seemed to me, even from the very beginning, that he knew. I wonder if he knew this would happen as well…"
"It wouldn't have been Dumbledore had he not," answered Harry, as he watched Fleur stare off, lost, into space, her silver hair framing the beauty of her face.
"I will always remember something he told me right before leaving, after I'd already agreed to join the Order. I didn't quite understand it at the time, but now I think I do." She looked back to him then with a warmth which wrapped its arms around him. "He said that even in the midst of war, as war would surely come, it was important to never forget the things which truly make who we are. That even in the deepest darkness, we should never give up on finding the light and what makes it shine within us; to grasp onto those things and hold them dear—to live and love."
Hearing that, Harry closed his eyes, envisioning two twinkling back at his own, and smiled.