AN: Thanks to everyone over at DLP who took the time to read and comment on this chapter. A special thanks to Al'Akir who told me about the VPN I used to get around the block on FFN to post this chapter.
All mistakes are, as always, my own.
Chapter IV
Being released from the pensieve was a disconcerting feeling; it was the substitution of one solid ground for another in the blink of an eye, not dissimilar from apparation. Dumbledore was unruffled but Harry had to grab on to the edge of the pensieve to steady himself.
"It is often those who have had the worst done to them that do the worst to others in turn, and Tom Riddle's story is one to be pitied," Dumbledore said.
"With family like that it's a wonder that he was even sane at all," Harry said. Voldemort had never seemed a person deserving of pity before, and Harry still couldn't quite make the connection in his mind between the snake-like figure that was Voldemort with that family, but it was easy to make the connection between Tom Riddle and that family, almost as if they were separate entities.
"We should never let go of our compassion and pity, Harry. Despise Voldemort for the atrocities he has committed but never forget the roots of his anger and misery. If we understand the origins of evil then my hope is that one day we will, in a brighter future, be able to combat evil itself," Dumbledore said.
Having compassion for Voldemort seemed incomprehensible to Harry. Pity, yes; his upbringing had been less than ideal, clearly. But compassion was a step beyond that. It was too close to forgiveness for Harry's comfort.
Harry didn't believe that upbringing was the final determiner of one's fate. The Dursleys hadn't consigned him to success or failure. He was more than just a product of his environment.
"Riddle made his choices," Harry said, his voice harder than he had intended it to be.
Dumbledore sighed and said, "Tom Riddle was the product of generations of inbreeding culminating in what can only be considered as rape. He was raised in an orphanage during a time of strife and scarcity. I am not excusing him, Harry. I am seeking to understand what made him what he is today. Surely you see in your own friends the seeds of their parents? We are not often so different from those who birthed and raised us. Tom Riddle is just one of many examples of that."
Harry could see what Dumbledore was saying. Ron and Ginny were, on the whole, very much like the rest of their family. Judging from what he had seen Draco Malfoy was almost a perfect continuation of Lucius Malfoy. Hermione had told him that her parents were almost as bookish as she was.
The influence of parentage was heavy-handed more often than not, leaving marks that were enduring in both mind and body. It shouldn't have surprised Harry then that Riddle had madness lurking within him if what Harry had seen was any indication of what his family was like. Being raised an orphan would only exacerbate such traits.
It made Harry wonder what his parents were like, and what he would have been like if he had been raised by them.
Dumbledore seemed to understand where Harry's mind was turning and, softly, he said, "I remember your parents well, Harry, and you remind me very much of them. Parentage is not fate, but it does load the dice, if I may use that expression."
"We still have choices. People shouldn't be excused just because of who their parents are and what they've been through," Harry said.
"There we are in total agreement. I am not trying to excuse Tom Riddle; merely to understand him. We can only achieve total victory over our enemies when we understand them," Dumbledore said with a slight weary smile.
"You really think that understanding Voldemort will help us to defeat him?" Harry asked. He trusted Dumbledore, more than he trusted almost anyone else, but such hopefulness seemed to border on the foolhardy to him. Wars were won with soldiers and money. Harry didn't need to pay attention in Binns' class to know that.
"I do. The reason Voldemort has never been able to win is that he has never understood what drives those who resist him. If he understood friendship and love as well as he does fear and power we would have no chance of victory. Of course, if Tom understood love and friendship it is likely that we would never have had this war in the first place."
"Understanding Voldemort is important, but isn't it also important to be able to fight him as well? You could teach me, sir. Spells that could help us to fight back against Voldemort. I'm willing to learn."
Dumbledore's smile faded. His body seemed to tense and his focus drift. Harry had seen the same look from Moody when he was asked about the first war. It was the look of someone recalling horrors that they didn't wish to speak about or even remember.
He knew at once that Dumbledore wasn't going to teach him. Good men never sought to pass on the tools they used to destroy. They lived with the hope, however slim, that those tools would never need to be used again.
"No, Harry. This war will not be won by martial might alone, no matter how much it may seem that way. The gap between you and Voldemort is too great. Perhaps even insurmountable. Tom was a prodigy among prodigies. I say that not to frighten you, but to make you understand that any sort of direct assault on the Dark Lord by yourself would be madness. The idea that a teenager, no matter how well-trained or talented, could defeat a Dark Lord with nearly a century's experience beggars the imagination."
Harry pressed on, not denying what Dumbledore was saying but trying to make the headmaster realize how impotent he felt, how useless, like a package that had to be ferried cautiously from one safe place to another. "It's not just Voldemort who's the threat though. He has Death Eaters and werewolves and giants under his command too. If I can't protect my friends then what good am I to the rest of the world?"
His argument seemed to physically pain Dumbledore. Harry wondered if dangling the possible deaths of his students over his head was going too far. He didn't want to blackmail Dumbledore. He just wanted to make sure that the people he loved would be safe.
The disaster at the Ministry could never be allowed to repeat itself. Nobody else was going to die so that Harry could live. He had promised himself that.
"It is not my intention to staunch your development, Harry," Dumbledore said at last. "I am going to be completely frank with you. I have neither the time nor the energy to teach you. If this were last year, things might be different. But there are factors outside of my control that make such tutelage impossible."
Dumbledore rested his hand, the desiccated blackened hand that he had been trying to hide from Harry all night, on the top of his desk. His words took on a more physical meaning.
"Over the summer I destroyed an artifact that was dear to Lord Voldemort. Due to his defenses, and my own regrettable foolishness, I suffered a grave injury in the process. The curse that did this has been contained, thanks in no small part to Professor Snape, but the fact remains that I have been diminished. It is all I can do to conceal my weakness from Voldemort to prevent him from taking advantage of it. All false modesty aside, Harry, once I am gone there is little to prevent Voldemort's conquest of the Ministry and, by extension, Britain."
Harry couldn't escape from the hand in front of him. It was a ruin, a caricature of something that had once been alive. To hear that Dumbledore was so weakened broke something in Harry, brought fear to the surface. He had never before doubted Dumbledore's ability to keep his students safe. For Dumbledore to admit that he was fading meant the matter was even more severe than he was letting on. He wasn't the sort of man to burden others with his troubles.
"I'm sorry to burden you with such knowledge, Harry, but you deserved to know. It goes without saying that you can tell no one else about this," Dumbledore said. He let his sleeve fall down over his hand, removing all but the tip of one darkened finger from sight.
"I understand, professor," Harry said, as if in a daze.
"In the interest of supporting your growth as a wizard I will aid you, albeit somewhat indirectly. I had a delightful conversation with Miss Delacour in which she told me about your newfound interest in advanced charms." Harry wasn't sure but he thought that Dumbledore sounded amused. He made sure to press down on his embarrassment. Dumbledore could think what he wanted.
"Since Miss Delacour assures me that you thoroughly understood that material, complex as it is, there are a number of books in my personal library that you might find interesting. They're a poor substitute for an engaged teacher but, alas, often we must make do only with what is available to us. I ask only that you keep these books for your own use. They would be a temptation for our enemies if they were to discover you had them."
The way Dumbledore was talking about the books it sounded like they were serious works. Harry could see Hermione ambushing someone for rare books but the idea that Death Eaters would be tempted to steal the ones that Dumbledore was giving him bordered on the absurd.
"Thank you," Harry said, pleased with the outcome of their conversation. It wasn't as good as having Dumbledore teach him directly but it was better than the nothing he had expected.
"I'll get them now. The more time you have to study them the better," Dumbledore said. He was gone for a few minutes, rummaging around in a room adjacent to his office. When he returned he was carrying three volumes, holding them like they were treasured artifacts.
The books weren't standard size, being smaller than Harry's textbooks, and they had no writing on the front or spines other than a roman numeral embossed in silver on each cover; I, II, and III, respectively. A series, Harry supposed. If there was an author listed it would only be on the inside.
Dumbledore held the books out and Harry took them, cradling them gently in his arms. "Be careful with them," Dumbledore said. "They're quite irreplaceable."
"I will be," Harry promised. Dumbledore looked satisfied and sat back down behind his desk.
"Now, since I've been lead to understand that you're involved, tell me how the Dueling Club is coming along. You haven't had your first meeting yet."
"We haven't, professor, but it's looking like a lot of students are going to show up. Professor Snape is making all of his students 5th year and up attend as a class requirement." Which was probably the best thing Snape had ever done for Hogwarts, Harry thought.
"Professor Snape has always been a firm believer in the merits of a Hogwarts Dueling Club. The prospect was tantalizing enough that he even allowed himself to assist Professor Lockhart with his short lived Dueling Club your second year."
"Fleur and I don't think that the two of us will be enough to manage everyone who's going to show up. Once we have a head count from our first meeting we're going to try to find a couple of assistants."
"I must admit, Harry, I hadn't anticipated the club being such a hit when I hired Miss Delacour. I am glad that the students are responding well. These are dangerous times and it will sooth me in my more troubled moments to know that you are helping to prepare your classmates for the world outside of Hogwarts' walls."
The mention of the Dueling Club seemed to improve Dumbledore's mood. When he had been telling Harry about his infirmity his mood had dulled, become melancholy, but when they came to the idea of students learning to protect themselves and others he cheered immensely.
Harry thought that Dumbledore probably took the same view of it that he did; every technique and spell learned would be one extra tool people would have to keep themselves safe. For a teacher as invested in his students as Dumbledore there was no greater prize than to see his students safe, successful, and happy.
"I think that Fleur has become really devoted to the club," Harry said.
"Miss Delacour has never struck me as someone willing to put less than all of herself into an endeavor. It's for that very quality that I hired her. If it's instructors you're looking for Harry, you could do far worse than Miss Delacour. Her talent, considering her age, is considerable. There are few more qualified for the position she holds."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. He looked older than Harry had remembered. It was like years of deferred aging were crashing down on the headmaster all at once.
"I've come to realize that myself, sir," Harry said, getting the impression that Dumbledore was no longer listening to him.
Dumbledore stood up abruptly and said, "It's getting late and I don't wish to hold you any longer than necessary. Take a look at those books, discreetly. I'll send a note before our next meeting."
Harry recognized the dismissal for what it was and said, "Yes, professor. Thank you."
As he was leaving Dumbledore's office Harry wondered if it hadn't been pain that had come over the headmaster's face when he stood up. The thought of Dumbledore's frailty was a terrifying one. Harry clutched the books he had been given even tighter, hoping that the knowledge within would be enough to shield his friends from the darkening world.
Harry hadn't wanted to go to Slughorn little party, his 'Slug Club' meeting, but Ron and Hermione had both been invited and they had convinced him to put in an appearance. He consoled himself with the thought that it couldn't be that bad and he could always leave once he got bored.
Ron had seemed pleased to be invited, even if it was to something as pretentious as the Slug Club, and even though his invitation was due solely to the pioneering techniques he had copied from the Half-Blood Prince's book. Harry supposed he wasn't in any position to judge. It wasn't like Slughorn was inviting him on his own merit either. Fame drew Slughorn like a moth to a flame.
Instead of Hermione supporting him in his dislike of parties like he had expected, she'd decided to side with Ron. The Slug Club was, in her words, "A networking opportunity." Slughorn seemed to know a lot of promising students and was in touch with some of Hogwarts' more illustrious alumni so Hermione decided to go for their sake, hough she shared Harry's low opinion of Slughorn.
The party was being held in one of the dungeon's more spacious (and less gloomy) chambers. Charmed windows let artificial light stream in to the room. Outside of the window was a wild stretching plain with long vibrant grass and golden wheat growing in equal measure. Small animals grazed in the distance, too far away to make out what exactly they were.
It was nighttime at Hogwarts. Harry wasn't sure whether it was an imagined scene or charmed to show somewhere else in the world. Judging from the unearthliness of the locale, it was artificial.
The three of them entered together, Harry scratching at the uncomfortably tight collar of one of his more formal robes, and stood awkwardly at the door, unsure of how to start mingling. There looked to be an equal measure of students, alumni, and guests.
A number of their classmates seemed perfectly at ease with the surroundings. Harry supposed that they had had practice with such gatherings growing up. The Dursleys had never been ones for large gatherings; when they invited someone to their home it was for the purpose of ceaseless flattery, which worked best in small settings.
Membership of the Slug Club had changed somewhat, Harry saw. People that he had heard had been invited for the first meeting on the train weren't present. Neville was notable among the absences. Others, like Ron, who had only demonstrated their abilities once school had started, were late additions to the roster. None of the students present were below their 5th year. Harry knew by name and sight almost all of the students gathered. A few had been in the DA, but most were nothing more than acquaintances to him.
"I think that was Celestina Warbeck," Ron said, eyeing a tall woman who was laughing graciously at something that Slughorn said.
"He definitely attracts the powerful and influential," Hermione said. She was scanning the crowd as intently as Harry. Her eyes widened when she saw an older woman, rather crotchety looking, in a corner of the room. "That's Simone Beauvois," she breathed, pushing past Ron and Harry to introduce herself.
"Who's Simone Beauvois?" Ron asked.
"I have no idea," Harry said.
"We should probably start to mingle." Ron sounded nervous at the prospect. Small talk was no more his forte than it was Harry's.
"Look for someone we know," Harry suggested. They could pretend to be busy until it was late enough to leave without being rude.
Ron nodded. Someone pushed past them from behind and Harry realized that they were still blocking the doorway. "There's Ginny," Ron said. She was talking to a pale older couple, and seemed to be enjoying herself, judging by her animated hand gestures and wide smile.
"You go say hi. I see someone else I should go talk to," Harry said. He and Ginny hadn't spoken since their walk back to Gryffindor Tower the night before. A few glances had been exchanged from across the room but Harry was still pondering what she had said to him and she was giving him space. He wasn't comfortable talking to her at the party, dancing around the real issue, pretending that it didn't exist.
"If you're sure," Ron said. He pushed his way over to where Ginny was and stuck a hand out to the bemused couple which the older gentlemen took and shook vigorously. Ginny looked over at Harry, met his eyes for a moment, then turned away and introduced Ron to the couple.
That left Harry in the unenviable position of finding someone in a crowd of strangers to talk to. It shouldn't be so difficult for the Boy-Who-Lived to find someone to chat with, he thought ruefully.
Harry skirted around the edge of the room so as to no longer be blocking the doorway. He saw Susan Bones and Cormac McLaggen at opposite ends of the room but didn't feel any great desire to talk to them. McLaggen was an arrogant git and Susan, though nice, was completely vapid, in sharp contrast to her formidable aunt. Harry figured he could make conversation with Susan if he had to but that was really a last resort. McLaggen wasn't even an option; Harry would rather charge into the midst of angry dragons than inflict that boy's company on himself.
For lack of anything better to do Harry went over to the drinks table. He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice. There was a bowl of punch with a calligraphic warning for no underage students to partake.
Bottles of wine and some stronger drinks were lined up along the table. Many had been opened already; one bottle of whisky was nearly empty. Harry thought that there were worse ways to prepare oneself for a long evening of mindless conversation. He debated whether or not to help himself to a glass of wine. It could help pass the time and he didn't think anyone would say anything as long as he avoided Slughorn.
"You look like you're having fun," Fleur said, her voice coming from right behind him, sounding like she was trying to stifle laughter. At his expense, no doubt.
She was only a foot behind him, having managed to sneak up on him without him noticing, one hand holding an empty wine glass and the other cocked on her hip.
She had eschewed robes for the party and was wearing a dress of patterned deep blue that tightened in some interesting places and flowed easily over others. She looked stunning, Harry thought. He was usually able to ignore the fact that Fleur was a beautiful woman (or so he liked to tell himself) but the dress made that difficult.
Very difficult, he amended, pushing his eyes back up to meet hers. Fleur cocked an eyebrow but didn't say anything. She came up next to him and refilled her glass of wine.
"I'm not really the partying type," Harry admitted, blushing uncomfortably. Surely she had seen him ogling her?
"No, I didn't think you were, but this isn't really a party," Fleur said.
"Not a party?"
"No. This is a meeting for the influential and the promising; gatherings like this divide the world in better times."
"And what about in dark times?" Harry asked.
"In dark times they plot how to divide the world in better times," Fleur responded, drawing a grin from Harry.
"So I shouldn't trust any of them is what you're telling me," he said.
"Just stay close to me, Harry. I'll protect you."
He laughed and took a swig of the pumpkin juice. Fleur looked at the cup disdainfully, as if he was offending her by drinking such swill in her presence.
"I can't believe you're drinking pumpkin juice right now. Look at this table. Slughorn is many things but stingy isn't one of them. There are some of the finest wines from around the world to choose from. This one is a bottle of Cheval Blanc, the 1947 vintage. I'd never tasted anything so exquisite before tonight." She already looked flushed, smiling easily with lidded eyes.
"I'm not allowed to drink, Fleur. Besides, from the look of things you've already done enough drinking for the both of us," he said.
She laughed, leaning her free hand on Harry's shoulder, and said, "Don't be ridiculous. You're not going to get in trouble for drinking here and I need a partner. There's nothing more pathetic than a beautiful woman drinking by herself, Harry."
"You're so modest," he said, allowing her to pour him a glass of the Cheval Blanc. The glasses that Slughorn had provided were enormous. Judging from the quality and quantity of drinks available, Slughorn expected people to drink heavily at his party. None of the other underage students were drinking as far as Harry could tell but everyone of-age was partaking. It seemed like wizards had never heard of teetotalism.
Fleur clinked her glass against Harry's and they took a drink together.
"Not bad," Harry said. It was better than the wine that Fleur had given him, hitting his mouth like melted butter, somehow less than entirely liquid. Wizarding wine, he supposed.
"Not bad," Fleur said, mimicking his voice. "This is one of the finest wines you'll ever drink. What I gave you is nothing compared to this; it's like comparing a lamp to the sun. It's an insult to wines everywhere."
Overblown rhetoric aside, Harry had to admit that the wine was good. It was stronger than the port that Fleur had given him. Uncle Vernon never drank anything but whisky and gin. He said that wine was a drink for women and that beer was just flavored water, but Harry was growing fond of wine.
It struck him as a fine balance, combining the pleasures of taste and intoxication. He could see why Fleur was so fond of it, though he was becoming convinced that she consumed just a bit too much for her own good. But, he figured, he was in no position to judge her.
"Who should I introduce you to?" Fleur asked. She looked out at the crowd speculatively, seeming to dismiss most without a second glance, the air of a seasoned socialite about her.
"I don't know anyone here other than the students," Harry said, trying to follow Fleur's eyes.
"That's Barnabas Cuffe, the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet. Next to him is Podric Smithsworthy, the famous English duelist. He lives abroad in Spain but returns every now and then. I've heard that he's trying to raise support for a campaign to return as champion of the international dueling circuit, which would explain why he's talking to Cuffe, who he normally wouldn't be caught dead with."
"And that woman?" Harry asked, pointing at the elderly witch Hermione was talking to.
"Simone Beauvois. She's a Frenchwoman, one of the few that are willing to lower themselves to live in Britain." Fleur laughed at her rare self-deprecating joke. "She's famous for her contributions to magical creature rights. Clever woman. She left France because of the hostility to her ideas. Britain was more accepting, though not by all that much."
"Britain is more accepting than France?" Harry asked, shocked that there could be governments more intolerant than Britain's Ministry of Magic.
"In some respects, yes. In others, no," Fleur said, drinking more of her wine.
"How do you know all of these people?"
"Please, Harry. The French invented these sorts of parties."
Fleur walked away. Harry followed and said, "That's not an answer."
She stopped in front of a middle-aged man with thin, finely combed hair, and, to Harry's surprise, a monocle. She segued easily into an introduction, bringing Harry to stand next to her, plastering a lazy smile that Harry could easily see was fake on her face.
Richard Rastler, as he announced himself, was responsible for the implementation of the banned spells list at the ministry. He and Harry spoke at some length about what qualified a spell for a place on the list, how they enforced it, the prison sentence, and the career path of someone in the ministry, especially his branch. Fleur occasionally deigned to drop a pithy comment into the conversation. Before Rastler left, after seeing someone he absolutely had to speak to, he gave Harry his card. It had the man's name and an animated roaring lion on the front.
After he had left, Harry said, "He seemed nice enough. You would think he wouldn't be so eager to talk shop at a party though."
"You're missing the point, Harry. This isn't a party. It's a place to meet people who can be helpful to you in the future. You just have to mingle. You're the Boy-Who-Lived. They'll all be dying to talk to you."
Harry finished his glass of wine and said, "I hate mingling." He knew that he sounded petulant and supposed he deserved it when Fleur rolled her eyes at him. She led him back over to the drinks table where she refilled both of their glasses.
"Nobody likes talking shop, but they know that if they don't then their competitors will and then they'll fall behind. You could do a lot of good if you leveraged your fame. Not tonight, maybe not even next time, but eventually. Pick and choose your associates based on what they can do for you and what they want from you. People with powerful allies are stronger than loners. Look at Slughorn. He's a decent potions master but that's not how he's drawing the rich, famous, and powerful to a school party. He does it because he has enough relationships with influential people who want to come to see him that attract the rest of the people here. Slughorn, by himself, is the weakest man here. With his connections he's among the most powerful." Fleur took a deep drag from her glass, rewarding herself for explaining something so patently obvious to Harry.
"That sounds like selling yourself," Harry said.
"It is like selling yourself. That's why you have to make sure you're selling yourself to the right person."
"I'm not so sure," Harry said. It wasn't that he didn't understand the value of influence. The problem was that for influence you sacrificed your independence and maneuverability. One's allies and friends reflect on them, Harry thought, and he wasn't sure that he was willing to make alliances or even agreements with people he barely knew. The approach that Fleur was recommending had merit but the risks frightened Harry.
Harry saw that Hermione had finally ended her conversation with Beauvois, looking elated to have had at the chance to talk to her. She went over and grabbed Ron who was sulking next to Ginny and the older couple, not seeming to be having anywhere near the fun his sister was. They walked over to where Harry and Fleur were. Hermione eyed Harry's drink with anxiety, Ron with interest.
"I don't think that Professor Slughorn put those drinks out for us," Hermione said, after a cursory hello to Fleur.
"Slughorn won't care," Harry said, repeating what Fleur had told him and feeling bolder now that he had some wine in him. Hermione's fears seemed so much more ridiculous than they would have earlier. He was going to get in trouble for drinking when the fate of the wizarding world was on his shoulders? Not likely.
"I think it's brilliant," Ron said. "I want a glass."
"No, Ron. Professor Slughorn doesn't like us nearly as much as he likes Harry. We'd actually get in trouble if we got something to drink." Ron deflated like a popped balloon. They all knew that Hermione was right but Harry felt somewhat hurt that she had to put it like that. He didn't ask for Slughorn to like him. It didn't make him an awful person to take advantage of the fact that he was favored, through no fault of his own.
"He won't notice a thing. He's usually had too much himself to notice even half of what goes on during these parties," Fleur assured Hermione, her voice more comforting than usual.
"That's alright. We're fine," Hermione said.
Harry could practically feel Fleur's opinion of Hermione dropping, and vice versa. It was impossible for Hermione to want to break laws and rules (without an overwhelming reasons) and impossible for Fleur to respect them if she thought them foolish. More than anything else it was a case of conflicting personalities; the independent against the fastidious.
"Who were you talking to, Ron?" Harry asked. The less the two bickering women spoke to each other the better off they would all be, he suspected.
"I don't know what they do and I don't remember their names but I'm pretty sure that they're vampires," Ron said. He didn't dare turn back and look at the couple but Harry could have sworn he saw the man's head turn in their direction, just for a split second.
"Vampires?" Hermione asked. Where Ron was frightened she sounded fascinated. Harry was curious as well. Werewolves had an unfairly bad reputation in the wizarding world. It was possible that vampires were subjected to the same discrimination.
"Yeah, bloodsucking creatures that hate sunlight. Knockturn Alley is full of them. They usually don't bother wizards because they're so vulnerable to sunlight. It's easy to protect yourself against them if you know they're there," Ron said.
The gaps between the knowledge of pureblood children and the rest of them never ceased to astound Harry. Ron took it for granted that he knew things like that. Fleur was the same way, sometimes; like how she had known who everyone at Slughorn's party was.
"Vampires usually have their own societies, separate from wizards. They're a lot like goblins, actually. Wizards don't interact with them very much. They prefer to live their own lives," Fleur said.
Harry finished his glass of wine. Hermione watched him, judging, scrutinizing. Ron just looked envious.
"How was your conversation with Madam Beauvois?" Fleur asked Hermione. It was her equivalent of extending an olive branch and Harry made a mental note to thank her later. He was pleased that she was making an effort with his friends.
"She's a genius," Hermione said, brightening immediately. "I've read all of her books and subscribe to Creatures Monthly just because they always put out something about her work. Nobody's pushing the field of magical creature rights as far as she is right now. She was explaining her new compatibility theory of creature relations to me and it's absolutely fascinating. I can't believe she got such a negative reaction in France."
Harry felt Fleur stiffen beside him. "Yes, well, genius often isn't recognized immediately."
Hermione carried on, oblivious. "I agree but they really missed out on someone special with her. She promised that I could write her with any questions I have about her work. Really, she's a charming lady."
"So I've been told," Fleur said, blandly. Her fountain of goodwill was only so large, Harry supposed. Insults to France tended to dry it up quickly. Sarcasm and teasing between friends was one of Fleur's favorite pastimes but rudeness, intentional or otherwise, was something she wouldn't abide by. Hermione lacked some, or even most, of the social graces that Fleur was raised on.
"Sounds amazing Hermione," Harry said, spicing his tone with some sharpness, trying to get across her faux pas.
"I think I'm going to get out of here," Ron said, realizing what Harry was saying and willing to extricate Hermione before she and Fleur argued openly. "This isn't really my scene. Walk me back, Hermione?"
Hermione seemed reluctant to leave but even more reluctant to say no to Ron. "Alright," she said, after being visibly conflicted.
Ron took her by the arm and led her out of the room, chatting amicably about something with her as they left. Harry shot him a grateful glance as they left.
"She's clever. Unfortunately, she has the polish of an illiterate child. You can't get anywhere if you don't know when to stop talking," Fleur said. Her assessment was caustic, but, Harry thought, not entirely wrong. Snape had repeatedly cut Hermione off mid-explanation during lessons. Hermione had a tendency to get so wrapped up in what she was saying that she didn't think about who she was talking to.
That didn't mean that Harry was entirely happy with how Fleur had handled it. "I know. But you should be nice to her. She means well and she's smart; the smartest person I know. You'd like her if you started talking to her about charms or runes or another one of your nerdy interests."
Fleur rewarded him with a slight curling of the lips for his teasing and said, "Perhaps. As for now we need more to drink and someone other than your friends to talk to. As much as it might assuage your ego to think so I didn't come here to talk exclusively to you."
"You have other options, sure. But I'm the best option."
"So confident," Fleur said, giving a full smile, her displeasure at Hermione's comment abating.
Fleur was mercurial, Harry thought. Easily offended but easily assuaged. Her opinion of people changed with the tide and she lacked respect for the great majority of people but, for all that, remained an excellent teacher.
In a lot of ways she was just more interesting than the majority of people Harry dealt with on a regular basis. Some of that was unfamiliarity—friends were always more interesting when you were still getting to know them—but he couldn't escape the feeling that she would remain more compelling than anyone else even after he truly got to know her. Fleur cultivated herself intellectually, socially, and physically; where most people cultivated one of those, if any.
"I don't really want to talk to other people," Harry said. The prospect of making conversation with more strangers was about as appealing as sitting through Hermione's inevitable rant on the dangers of alcohol on school premises.
"Then I suppose that, for your sake, we can entertain ourselves. I refuse to leave though. You get the opportunity to drink wine like this only a few times in your life," Fleur said. She held her glass up to the light, inspecting it as if she could find the secrets to the universe somewhere inside.
"I suppose that's acceptable," Harry said, feeling pleased, like he was stealing Fleur for himself, hoarding her away from the world. But no, that was too possessive, he thought. They were just friends talking.
They went over to the table, topped off their glasses, and then Fleur, glancing around to see if anyone was watching closely, grabbed an unopened bottle of wine. She drew Harry into a corner with two chairs, set down the bottle of wine and sat, holding out a hand in invitation for Harry to do the same.
"And I'm the confident one," Harry said.
"For all anyone knows this bottle was a gift," Fleur said. She picked up the bottle and examined the label. "It's not a particularly good vintage, either. Nobody's going to hunt us down for this." She sounded almost disappointed.
"I was talking to Dumbledore last night," Harry said. The best way to get her to teach him was to tell Fleur how highly Dumbledore had spoken of her, butter her up first. She was far from immune to flattery.
"And did he say anything interesting?" Fleur asked, her full attention on Harry. Dumbledore's name had that effect on people. A stray thought flashed through Harry's head. He wondered if people would react to his own name like that in the future. The only other real outcome was that Voldemort would kill him. Glory or death and nothing in between.
Harry quashed such thoughts. He had no interest in dwelling on the macabre when he was with Fleur; that would make him bad company. "He spoke highly of you. Said that you were talented and focused."
"The headmaster is a kind man," Fleur said, some indefinable emotion behind her voice; gratitude or appreciation, Harry wasn't sure.
"I asked him whether or not he would teach me, help me to learn to protect myself and my friends." Harry paused, collecting his thoughts before proceeding.
"What did he say?" Fleur asked, urging him on. His pauses only served to draw her in even more.
"He said he couldn't," Harry said, deciding to remain vague. "Actually, he told me that I should ask you. Said that there were few more qualified than you. That for your age you were one of the most talented witches he knew."
Fleur leaned back in her chair, absorbing what Harry had told her. It was, Harry knew, high praise coming from someone as respected as Dumbledore. It also made it harder for her to say no to Harry's request, even if he didn't intend to back her into a corner. Could you really say no to Albus Dumbledore?
The people that were hardest to disappoint were the most respected and none were respected more than Dumbledore.
"Is there so much that I can teach you that you don't already know?" Fleur asked. He could tell that she was pleased by the compliment.
"You know more about charms and transfiguration than I'll probably ever know," Harry said frankly. "And in a fair duel you'll beat me nine times out of ten. I'd say that there are a lot of things that you could teach me that I don't know."
"Dumbledore couldn't help you at all?"
Harry didn't mention the book Dumbledore had given them. He hadn't had a chance to do any more than skim through them but from what he had seen they each dealt with obscure and powerful magic, the sort that one didn't bandy about with impunity. People killed for the sort of knowledge that Harry had locked in his trunk. It was a sign of Dumbledore's trust in him that he was willing to supply him with such dangerous information, Harry thought.
In some ways it was a more powerful compliment than the one Dumbledore paid to Fleur, undiminished by the fact that it went unsaid. Dumbledore trusted Harry and, despite whatever worries Harry had about Dumbledore, he wanted to prove that he was capable of upholding that trust. Not telling other people that he had the books was the absolute minimum required to go about that.
"He didn't give me anything," Harry lied. Fleur nodded, thoughtful, the wine dimming her usually instantaneous reactions. Fleur's first reaction was usually her final reaction but drinking made her slower, more thoughtful, indolent even.
"Then for whatever good it's worth I'll teach you what I know. If I can beat something into your head then I'll certainly be able to do the same for the rest of the Hogwarts students," she said.
"Thank you," Harry said, ignoring the obligatory slight. He could see the pieces clicking into place. Lessons with Fleur to become a better duelist, meetings with Dumbledore to understand his enemy, and studying the books he had been given to ensure he would be able to hold his own. Harry would never be a victim again.
"This does raise a problem though," Fleur said.
"Does it?"
"Your quidditch captainship," Fleur said. "There's no chance that you'll be able to handle being quidditch captain, an assistant to the Dueling Club, and get private lessons from me, all at the same time. It goes without saying that you can't pass up on lessons with me, and my lessons are conditional on you remaining part of the Dueling Club. That means your only option is to drop your captainship."
It wasn't unexpected; Harry had been anticipating giving up his captainship ever since Hermione had mentioned it. Ginny would make an excellent captain. She was bold and focused and her dedication to quidditch bordered on the monomaniacal. As did many of her other interests, Harry noted.
He would hold the tryouts and then tell Ginny that he was stepping down from the team. They would pick the team together and that would be his final contribution.
In a way it was the end of an era. The quidditch team was what had made Harry feel completely at home at Hogwarts; given him a purpose and a standing among the other students that wasn't just from his undeserved position as the Boy-Who-Lived. Any acclaim that he received playing quidditch was down to his own skill and ingenuity. To give that up was to submerge himself fully into the persona of the Boy-Who-Lived, a rejection of the private side of himself. From the moment he gave up the captainship he would be totally devoted to the fight against Voldemort.
"That was always a possibility. Hermione and I talked about it over the summer. I'll be giving the captainship to Ginny after tryouts on Wednesday." Harry felt a little glum saying that but he figured it was for the best. It was time to stop ignoring the responsibilities on his shoulders and instead embrace them. Dumbledore clearly thought he was ready and so ready he would prove himself.
Fleur was looking over to where Ginny was standing, talking to a group of distinguished looking officials. She didn't have any trouble socializing with strangers, Harry saw. The expression on Fleur's face was not a charitable one. Despite her best efforts Fleur had never been able to bring Ginny around to liking her, or even tolerating her.
"Aren't there others, more experienced, who could take over the team?" Fleur asked.
"None who would be as good. Ginny's confident and good under pressure; they're not." It felt strange paying her a compliment given his company but he wasn't going to lie to assuage Fleur's ego or to validate her opinion of Ginny.
"You have the team's best interests at heart, I'm sure," Fleur said, ending that line of thought.
She moved the conversation to something less tense and opened the bottle of wine at her feet. Harry was relieved by the switch and let himself enjoy the ebb and flow of Fleur's conversation.
Every interaction with Fleur was like a fencing competition; any slowness or weakness would quickly be taken advantage of. Not cruelly, but in a sardonic or teasing way, like she was lightly chastising him for his laziness or for being uninteresting. In return he did the same, challenging Fleur in the same way she challenged him. Harry liked to think he gave as good as he got.
As the night went on the other students started to trickle out of the room, eager to get back to their common rooms before curfew. It was one benefit of being friends with a pseudo faculty member, Harry thought. He didn't have to worry about anything as prosaic as curfew when he was with Fleur.
None of the other partygoers attempted to interrupt Harry and Fleur. He supposed that they were a contrast to everyone else. Where most were standing, mingling, and talking in large groups, being pushed like running water from place to place, Harry and Fleur remained static, simply enjoying one another's company without feeling the pressure to extend the fold of their conversation to include others. One good companion was worth a dozen inconsequential ones.
Though Slughorn looked like he wanted to come over and talk to Harry multiple times, he had always either been drawn into conversation by someone else or frightened off by the seeming confidentiality of Harry and Fleur's position. Apparently the man did have some tact after all, Harry thought. Even when he was evidently quite drunk, if Harry was to go off of his increasingly boisterous behavior.
Slughorn rotated groups faster than anyone else; nothing seemed to be able to hold his attention for more than a few minutes. He exploded from one spot to another, bellowing a joke here or an anecdote there, loud enough for the entire room to hear, and then fluttered over to the next group that caught his eye, leaving the last group a bemused mess in his wake.
Ginny remained past the time most students had already gone, cutting curfew close. She never looked in Harry and Fleur's direction but Harry got the impression she was staying to see how long they would talk together.
Harry didn't want to give Ginny the impression that he liked Fleur romantically but he wasn't going to change how he acted just to make her feel better. He wasn't going to live his life in accordance with the whims and capricious desires of a teenage girl; even if her hair was shimmering gently in the light of the dying torches and her eyes were alluringly half-closed, like she was asleep on her feet.
He pushed the thought of Ginny in bed out of his mind.
"You keep looking over at her," Fleur said. She poured the last of the bottle into her glass and looked longingly over at the drinks table. There were a pair of unopened bottles of wine remaining but she looked less confident about taking one given how much the room had emptied out.
"Who's her?" Harry asked, trying to play innocent. Fleur was having none of it and rolled her eyes. "I'm just surprised she stayed this long," he said.
"The jealous female is invariably the most observant female," Fleur droned, as if quoting something. She paused, her eyes flickered to Harry, and then she said, "Do you like her?"
Harry hesitated. It seemed strange confiding his romantic feelings in someone else but he supposed that if he didn't confide in Fleur then there wasn't anyone to confide in. He definitely wasn't going to talk to Hermione or Ron about how he felt. Hermione would overanalyze him and Ron would just be uncomfortable the entire time. It was his sister, after all.
"I might," Harry admitted. He looked over at Ginny, admiring how she smiled at something an elderly man standing across from her said. It was a charming smile, bright and real and even.
Ginny was a larger-than-life figure in a lot of ways; Harry couldn't figure out where the real Ginny ended and the adopted Ginny began. That was interesting in its own way, but a little frightening as well. Fleur was interesting for the opposite reason. Her overwhelming forthrightness was enticing in its own way.
"Can I be frank, Harry?" Fleur asked.
"I'd be offended if you stopped now."
"Ginevra is bold, intelligent, and pretty. She's also manipulative, fake, and callous. You could do better. I don't pretend to know her all that well but I think that I've gotten to know you and together you would be miserable. Once she has you the pleasure of the pursuit will wear off and she'll cease being the charming girl you know. Her true colors will come out, if you can forgive me for being so melodramatic. I'm sure that Ginevra stripped of her desire to please and appeal to you would be far less palatable than what you see and know now."
Nobody could ever accuse Fleur of being unwilling to put her opinion out there. Though she hardly knew Ginny she was comfortable claiming to pierce to the very heart of the girl, to know what she would do months or years in the future.
Harry couldn't decide if Fleur was seeing things that weren't there or was simply such an astute observer that she had seen in weeks what Harry hadn't seen in years.
"I'm not so sure that you're right," Harry said.
"You could do better," Fleur repeated, tripping over her words slightly. Harry wondered if her outspokenness was a result of her personality or the empty bottle at her feet. He was feeling the effects of the wine too but Fleur had two cups for every one of his, and she was smaller than he was.
"Nothing says that Ginny is who I would end up with forever. I haven't even graduated yet. It would just be one harmless date."
Fleur laughed, and it struck Harry as a cruel laugh, mocking him for what she perceived as ignorance or naivety. "You would stop seeing your best friend's sister? The daughter of the people who practically adopted you? Try to imagine how that would strain your relationship with them. Any relationship with Ginny would entail more than you're willing to admit, a level of commitment that I don't think you can even fathom."
"I don't understand why you think you're such a relationship expert, Fleur. You don't know Ginny at all. You two can't stand each other. And what about your own relationship? You gave up your job for your fiancée and then he ran off to Egypt. Have you even seen him in the last month?"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth Harry knew he had gone too far. Fleur's eyes narrowed. The edge she always had sharpened from sarcasm to true anger. "Such a big man. So clever, so righteous. My relationship isn't the problem here. You have no right to attack me when I'm trying to help you. If you want to spend the rest of your life miserable with a woman who fell in love with your shadow rather than your real face then feel free."
She made a move to stand, a little unsteady on her feet, but Harry grabbed her wrist; not roughly, but with a firmness that surprised even him. Fleur looked at him, surprised. Harry was not a physical person in the slightest. It was one of the only times he had ever touched Fleur, he thought.
Her skin was smooth under his hands, fine and pale. Harry was instantly and excruciatingly reminded of her beauty, her natural charm becoming overwhelming when he was so close, her skin pressed against his. The alcohol was fighting wildly against the inhibitions he had built up after so long in her presence. It took all the willpower he could summon not to do or say anything foolish.
"Fleur, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that," Harry said, trying to master himself and fight down his reaction to being so near her. She didn't seem inclined to forgive him so he went on. "You're trying to help me and I appreciate that, more than you know. I'm not used to this," he said, gesturing at the bottle, "And I don't want you angry with me."
Harry knew, and hated, how vulnerable he sounded. Like a child begging forgiveness of his mother. He ignored his pride and kept up his pleading expression. Fleur would be the type to hold on to grudges far longer than they merited.
Fleur sat down, gracefully, in acceptance of his apology. "Sometimes you very much remind of someone I used to know."
Harry wasn't sure what to say in response to such a sudden shift but he didn't need to. Fleur continued, not looking at him. She spoke with a touch of longing. Her accent became more pronounced when she had been drinking, Harry noticed.
"I met a boy like you one summer when my family was staying in Paris. He was a year older than me; charming, intelligent, and driven, with none of the superficiality and deception that people cloak themselves with these days. He was genuine. A better man than any I had known before. Once he had decided on a course of action he deemed right he was unyielding.
"I loved him, of course. My first love. But I was blinded by love. He didn't love me at all; couldn't love me. In some ways you remind me of him so much. You both have that fire, an unwavering righteousness. I thought that we would run off together, get married, and live happily. That didn't happen, of course."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, for want of anything else to say. There was too much to her story left unsaid, feelings and memories that she wasn't willing to drudge to the surface. It seemed that the less he intruded on her story the better. Fleur wasn't speaking for him so much as for herself. Her eyes had a far-off look.
"In some ways, you were right. I haven't seen Bill in a month. He's…single-minded. This expedition is important to him. I suppose he's not very much like my first love. His priorities are different. He's different. Maybe that's exactly why I love him so much."
By the end Fleur sounded melancholy, completely at odds with her normal self. There was an ambiguity to her ending, a space where the words and her intended meaning didn't match, like she wanted to sound enthusiastic but couldn't bring herself to take the final step and mean it.
"Love is strange, maybe even incomprehensible," Harry said. He fumbled over the words, meandering into uncharted territory. Who was he to tell Fleur about love? He was a teenage boy whose experience with love included, and ended with, once kissing a crying girl.
Fleur seemed to regain some of her poise, mustering enough presence of mind to mock Harry. "You would make an awful philosopher; the type that writes books with nothing but rehashed clichés and purposefully ambiguous arguments. Vagueness isn't as attractive a trait as you might think."
"Excuse me for trying to help," Harry said, faux hurt. Sarcasm was comfortable ground. He could work with that.
She gifted him with a small smile, as genuine as he had ever seen from her. "You have helped, Harry. More than you know. I enjoy your company, and our conversations. They're a consolation to me in a strange place, surrounded by people I don't know. Your friendship has become very important to me. When you asked me for help there was never any chance of me saying no."
Genuineness and emotional vulnerability were a new side to Fleur, and one Harry wasn't entirely sure how to deal with, but he decided to respond in kind. "I like being with you too. It's…nice," Harry finished lamely.
Fleur laughed, which turned into a series of hiccups. She clapped one hand over her reddened face. "Promise me you'll always be such a sap," she said.
"I promise, Fleur," Harry said, make vague motions over his chest with mock solemnity.
She smiled through bleary eyes and said, "I'm going to regret all of this in the morning, aren't I? I've had too much to drink."
"You shouldn't ever regret opening up to me," Harry said, trying to get across his sincerity. "Someone has to be your confidant; you can't go it alone. It might as well be me."
"Of all the wizards in Britain I get stuck with you."
"A shame, I know. Anyway, we should probably go. The party is winding down and I'm not really in the mood anymore."
"No, neither am I."
Harry stood and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet and giving her an awkward pat on the back that he meant to be comforting. She laughed at him a little, which he took to be a good thing, and Harry led them out of the room before Slughorn could move to intercept them. Harry doubted that the man would be happy that he had escaped before getting a chance to talk to him but Slughorn was low on Harry's list of priorities. He had a lot of leeway in dealing with the man and he was going to take full advantage of it.
"Take me back to my room," Fleur commanded.
She was struggling to walk in a straight line and he had to let her lean on him to make sure she didn't fall. He was hyperaware of her presence, her dress cool but her skin overheated.
It was after curfew and Harry hoped that they wouldn't run into Filch. He suspected that their current position didn't look as innocent as it actually was.
"We're friends, aren't we, Harry?" Fleur mumbled.
"Of course," he said, focusing more on making sure she didn't fall than what she was saying.
"That's good. I had friends at Beauxbatons but I'm not that close to them anymore. It's nice to have someone to talk to."
"You can talk to me anytime," Harry assured her.
"That's nice," she said, drifting off into thoughts of her own and leaning more heavily against him.
When they got back to Fleur's rooms Harry led her into her room and she sat down on the bed. She looked at Harry, blearily, as if she didn't really see him, and started changing out of her clothes.
Her shoes came off first, deep blue slippers that matched her dress, and Harry didn't fully process what she was doing. Then she reached for the straps of her dress on her shoulder, stood up, and shimmied out of the dress, standing in front of Harry in nothing but her bra and panties (which were also a nice shade of blue, a recess of Harry's mind observed).
All of the reactions that Harry had been holding in over the course of the night came bursting past his defenses in a moment. He was spellbound, unable to look away, not able to hide his appreciating gaze in the slightest.
Harry couldn't help but admire her body. He wasn't unfamiliar with the female body thanks to the magazines that Dudley left laying around his room, but Fleur's trumped any that he had seen before.
The only way to describe it was flawless. There wasn't a part of her that wasn't smooth and perfectly proportioned. Her hair, almost luminous, flowed down her front and back, touching just the tips of her breasts, which were heaving slightly as she breathed heavily. Against his will Harry could feel a stirring of lust; the carefully drawn line that said that Fleur was a friend began to waver in the face of her beauty.
She was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen; effortlessly and simultaneously elegant and sexy.
She sat back down on the bed and looked back up at him, then back down at her state of undress. Her laugh came out strange, as if she had a swollen tongue that distorted her voice. "Sorry, Harry. I wasn't thinking. I guess you got something out of walking me back to my room."
"I don't expect anything from you, Fleur. We're friends," Harry said. Those were his words, but his mind was filled with images.
The two of them, together, on the bed, touching and kissing, a passion that was beyond anything that he had had with Cho. What were friendship and propriety? Just words. There was nothing to stop the two of them. He was drunk, she was drunk, it would be a one time mistake. Only they would know.
Harry felt like he wasn't in control of his body. Any moment he was going to reach out and touch her, let her feel a fraction of what he was feeling. Some part of him knew that he was drunk, that she was drunk, that anything he did would be a mistake, but he was beyond caring.
Seemingly unaware of what was going on in his head, Fleur broke his trance. She casually slid under the covers on her bed and said, "Goodnight, Harry," turning her head away from him on the pillow.
Under the covers she seemed less a seductress than a lonely young woman who had willing spent the night talking with him, sharing stories with him, keeping him safe from the clutches of the social bloodhounds that prowled Slughorn's parties.
Harry felt shame at the temptation he had felt, had almost given into, and wondered if he was as good a friend as he had always thought himself to be. The idea of taking advantage of Fleur, when she was drunk and emotional and engaged, was abhorrent to him. All the lust he had been feeling vanished because of his overwhelming embarrassment.
"Goodnight, Fleur," Harry said. He left her suite, pulling the door shut behind him, and made his way back to his own bed, hoping the walk would scrub the lust he was still feeling from his body.
His shame faded faster than he had thought it would. The image of Fleur clad only in her underwear burned itself indelibly in his mind. His feelings, his lust, put a new face on their relationship; were disastrous even, but, despite that, Harry found himself whistling quietly on his walk back.