Chapter 4 – Plots and Conversations

The general public, especially the wizarding public, was at best a rather capricious entity. What was popularity and adulation one day was no guarantee of the same in the next, no matter the stature of the individual in question.

Harry Potter was a prime example of the changeable nature of the opinion of the masses. Revered for an event he could not even remember, Harry Potter entered Diagon Alley as an eleven-year-old to the adulation of the masses he had not only never met, but also had not even known of before that day. His entrance into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts was no different, generating whispers and pointed fingers, not to mention cheers from Gryffindor house when he had been sorted there and groans from all the others.

Yet by the middle of his second year, the cheers and shouts of acclamation had turned to angry mutters and rumors of his complicity in the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. But once the mystery of the chamber had been solved, his entry back into the good books of the masses had been immediate—at least until his entry into the Tri-Wizard Tournament, where he had been branded an attention seeker and glory hound.

Truly, as Harry had mused only that morning, it was not only tough at times to be Harry Potter, but it was also difficult being anyone who was in the public eye.

Of course, the Minister of Magic was no exception to this rule—in fact the masses traditionally had a love/hate relationship with the Minister. As with the coach of a professional Quidditch team, the prevailing attitude amongst the Minister's supporters tended to be, "What have you done for me lately?"

Cornelius Fudge sat in the comfortable confines of his office, deliberating over the injustices which were sometimes heaped upon the shoulders of the Minister in general and himself in particular.

As a new Minister, Fudge had generally enjoyed good popularity, in part, whether he admitted it or not, because he was not Millicent Bagnold. Not that the previous Minister was reviled—far from it. But she had always been perceived as a gruff, no-nonsense type who was a stickler for the rules, and she had governed with an eye toward improving the wizarding government so it more fully represented the people it purported to serve. In short, she was considered a progressive reformer. While this would normally have been a position which would have endeared her to the masses, Bagnold's style of governance was closely mirrored by her personality—at least, by what personality she actually possessed, some cynics were known to remark. It was truly a shame she had had virtually no people skills, as a bit of charisma could have allowed her to connect closer to the populace and create a much more effective engine for change in the British wizarding world.

Unfortunately, she had not an ounce of charisma, which was why although her policies generally made her administration a friend of the people, she herself had never really enjoyed a great deal of popularity. And, of course, her policies had made her an enemy of the Pureblood faction, as their ideals supported only one thing: their own agenda, which was concerned with nothing more than improving their own lot to the detriment of all others. Although small in number, a disproportionate percentage of the wealth in the wizarding world rested in the hands of the Purebloods, rendering them the most powerful faction in Britain. Even more importantly, however, was the fact that the seats of the Wizengamot were all hereditary and, once again, largely held by old Pureblood families.

The result of this was that Bagnold, although she had had a certain amount of success pushing through her more progressive agenda, had been thwarted in many of her endeavors by a hostile Wizengamot. Even Dumbledore, once he had become Chief Warlock, had only been able to provide so much assistance. Eventually, she had resigned and left the country, tired of fighting the constant battle against a foe who was implacable and capable of using its massive wealth and influence to maintain as much of the status quo as possible.

Enter Fudge and the nature of the Ministry had changed. Although Fudge had campaigned on a platform which was somewhat more conservative than the one over which Bagnold had presided for the previous ten years, he had privately made it known to certain Wizengamot members that he was open for business—translation: his support and policies could be bought by anyone who was willing to provide a… pecuniary incentive. As only the members of the Wizengamot had a vote for the next Minister, the above had perhaps been Fudge's greatest political maneuver—the combination of those members who felt he would slow down the changes to their society to a more manageable level and those who knew they could buy his support for the right amount of Galleons had been enough to tip the scales and ensure his election.

Unfortunately, he had been in office less than six months before it was generally understood that he was a lame duck Minister, one who had no agenda whatsoever beyond the acceptance of massive bribes in return for his interference in the business of all branches of his government.

Of course, his greatest contributor had always been the Malfoy family, which seemed to have money to burn. Lucius Malfoy had paid him bribes for everything from the support of his extremist bills presented before the Wizengamot (necessary due to the fact that the Malfoy family, although extremely wealthy, were of French descent and had no seat) to buying Fudge's obstruction of various departments who might otherwise have been investigating his family's activities.

Of course, it completely escaped Fudge's attention that Malfoy really did not need Fudge at all—Malfoy's Pureblood friends on the Wizengamot were able to introduce his proposed laws and actions without the assistance of the Minister if he so chose. If Fudge had ever thought to look into the matter, he would have noticed that many of the actions which he sponsored were defeated, and he would have come to the conclusion that often he was used as a decoy.

Or perhaps Fudge would not have cared even then—his primary concern, of course, had always been the money which made its way from Malfoy's vault into his own. Whether Malfoy succeeded or not really meant nothing to the Minister—all that mattered to Fudge was that he was paid well for what he did.

On this day, however, Fudge felt his popularity had fallen into an abyss, what with his failed persecution of young Harry Potter. It was a valuable lesson to learn—before taking on one of the nation's greatest heroes, you needed to make certain you had an airtight case. Especially when said hero was being supported by another.

That Dumbledore had staged the entire session with that despicable French wizard was beyond contradiction in Fudge's opinion. And worse, Fudge felt it was all calculated to make him look as bad as they possibly could—and in that endeavor, they had succeeded in spades.

What bothered Fudge was that he was uncertain of just what Dumbledore's aims were. Was he merely trying to get the Potter brat off, or was he aiming for something more? Had he designs on the Minister's office for himself or one of his cronies? The fact that the Minister's office had been Dumbledore's for the taking when Bagnold resigned (if he'd only declared his candidacy rather than refusing due to lack of interest and contentment with his current positions) did not occur to the Minister.

No, Fudge was certain that Dumbledore was up to something and that whatever it was, it could not be beneficial for Fudge's long-term residence in the Minister's office.

Two can play that game! Fudge snarled to himself.

It was time to fight back.

"Minister? Minister, did you hear me?"

Fudge blinked and focused his eyes. Across his desk sat the annoying pink woman whose grating high-pitched voice had interrupted his ruminations. Umbridge was a menace, but he had promoted her for one reason only—she blindly fell in with whatever schemes he promoted, if only to further her own agenda of bigotry and hate, something which although Fudge did not espouse, he had no particular disliking for either. Unfortunately, despite her usefulness, he could only take her in small doses, as her voice was aggravating and her constant harping was not especially conducive to his own agenda of enriching himself.

"I'm sorry, Madam Undersecretary—I'm afraid my mind wandered for a moment. What were you saying?"

She gave Fudge an imperious glare. "I had finished my report on the plans for my time at Hogwarts, Minister. But I believe I may have a plan to deal with the Delacour girl before the next school year starts."

Privately, Fudge doubted she could do anything to influence the Veela's attendance in any way, but he had not stayed in power as long as he had by ignoring the schemes of his underlings. He motioned for her to continue, nodding thoughtfully and responding in monosyllables when she seemed to be expecting it.

All in all, it was something which might have succeeded if it had been thought of several months before. In the current environment, though, Fudge was certain she would have difficulty pulling it off—Dumbledore would crush her without a second thought.

Yet anything which diverted Dumbledore's attention was welcome in Fudge's opinion. For him, the main thrust was her installment at Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and the slow and careful way in which he would have her take over the school… that would have to be handled with delicacy. The fact that Umbridge had no true mastery of the subject and had indeed been an indifferent and pampered student at best when she had attended did not even enter into the equation in Fudge's eyes. Her use to him in the school was to find a way to have Dumbledore removed and to ensure Fudge was not challenged as Minister.

Of course, the scheme she had come up with to deal with this most vexing news of the Delacour girl's entrance into Hogwarts would be annoying for his opponents, although a little ham-fisted. He immediately threw his support behind her endeavors.

"Very well, Undersecretary, you have my permission to proceed," Fudge responded magnanimously. "Thank you for your time and efforts."

Umbridge's answering smile was most unpleasant, and Fudge shuddered as she scurried from the office. The woman made even him uncomfortable!

In the north of Britain, an old manor building stood. It was the old estate manor of some landowner long forgotten in the mists of time, a reminder of the way things had once been in the kingdom. The building was still standing and in relatively good shape, which was surprising considering the years of neglect and indifference it had suffered. If one looked closely enough, a hint of its former glory could still be seen in the chipped and cracked marble floors and in the faded and peeling wallpaper—it had obviously been the home of a family of some wealth and consequence.

Now, it was the home to people of a much less savory reputation. The newly reconstituted dark lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, or the self-styled Lord Voldemort, now made the old house his base of operations.

Voldemort was indifferent as to his surroundings or the state of the old house—if things had been different, he could just as easily have made the manor of his Riddle ancestors his home. Unfortunately, the escape of Harry Potter from the Little Hangleton cemetery and the house's proximity to the site of his rising meant the location was now compromised, necessitating his removal and relocation. It was an irritant, no more, no less, and the dark lord knew there were better things with which to concern himself than creature comforts and the location of his lair. Soon, the British wizarding world would be his once again, and locations such as this crumbling, ramshackle old building would mean nothing to him.

His minions were currently out doing his bidding, all except the groveling fool Pettigrew, who was now in an upstairs room keeping watch for any hint of trouble. Voldemort did not think anyone would find him here, but he had not become one of the most feared and hated men in the history of the wizarding world by being careless.

Left to his own devices, the dark lord immediately settled into one of the things he did best—he plotted and pondered his next moves.

This new news of French involvement with Harry Potter was troubling. Not that he had expected Fudge's persecution (at Lucius' urging, of course) to succeed—on the contrary, he had firmly expected Dumbledore to crush the Minister's initiative with little or no trouble. The manner in which Fudge's defeat had occurred had been unexpected, though, and although Voldemort had no proof whatsoever, he was certain the way it had played out had been orchestrated by Dumbledore for some particular purpose which Voldemort was not yet able to see. After all, Dumbledore had allowed this French ambassador to do most of the talking and the tearing apart of Fudge's arguments, and though it was possible that age was finally catching up to the old man, Voldemort did not think that was the case. Dumbledore's actions in the past several years suggested the man was still fully in control of his magical and mental capacities. Dumbledore had not gotten to where he was today by being a political lightweight.

The dark lord bared his lips in an unsightly sneer. Voldemort's own rise to power had certainly not been characterized by incompetence—even his enemies were willing to allow him that much. Dumbledore was a worthy opponent; he would definitely have to be removed in order to ensure Voldemort's ultimate victory.

No, whatever Dumbledore was playing at, Voldemort was certain it had been planned and executed meticulously, with nothing left to chance, which meant that Dumbledore had some purpose in orchestrating the incident. Did it have to do with bringing the French into the conflict as allies, or did he have some other more… esoteric purpose which the dark lord had yet to discover?

No matter—eventually Dumbledore would be forced to tip his hand, and the dark lord would be ready for him. Besides, two could play at that game—Voldemort was certain there were just as many discontented Purebloods in France as there were in Britain.

The problem of Potter was a tricky one; twice now he had defied and defeated, or at the very worst escaped from a fully constituted dark lord at the height of his powers. It was troubling to say the least. Perhaps there was more to the prophecy which Voldemort had not considered yet. Perhaps there was more to it than he had been led to believe. It would bear some further thought.

As for the meddling foreigner, he would have to be taught in the harshest manner possible about the perils of involving himself in a matter which was not of his concern. A message would have to be sent, an indication of what would happen if he continued on his course of supporting the boy—it was imperative that Harry Potter be as isolated from the rest of the wizarding world as possible. Malfoy's job was to sow the seeds, in the matter of the trial, among other plans, of young Harry's disenchantment from the general public. That was the most important consideration right now.

Yes, a message would be sent—one to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. It need not be done immediately; they could afford to wait several months if necessary, before the right circumstance presented itself. He would have to speak to Lucius and arrange it. The dark lord smiled unpleasantly—the world would again learn to fear the name of Voldemort.

Dumbledore apparated them to a small park not far from the Dursleys' home, and once they had ensured their arrival had not been witnessed, Dumbledore and Jean-Sebastian shook hands and the Headmaster disapparated away.

Smiling at Harry, Jean-Sebastian motioned for him to lead the way to his relatives' house, noting with a frown the look of trepidation which appeared on Harry's face.

"I don't think I've left anything behind," Harry began softly, his eyes never meeting Jean-Sebastian's face. "Maybe we could go straight to France?"

Regarding his ward, Jean-Sebastian thought again about his scant knowledge of Harry's life with his relatives, understanding that this reaction was more evidence of the fact that it had not been a good life. Whatever Harry's reservations were, they would need to be addressed and their effects resolved so his future son-in-law could move on with his life.

"Perhaps not," Jean-Sebastian replied, "but I would prefer to make certain. In any case, we should at least inform them of your change in status and let them know you will never live with them again."

"Like they care," Harry muttered under his breath—Jean-Sebastian had to strain to hear Harry's words, frowning when he realized the implications. He would need to find out sooner rather than later the details of Harry's upbringing.

Turning with some abruptness, Harry began walking down the street, prompting Jean-Sebastian to pursue him. "They won't like us showing up, sir," he said, his voice quiet. "They've never wanted to have anything to do with my world before."

"Do not worry, Harry. I can deal with them. They cannot be any worse than dealing with Fudge."

Harry threw a wry grin back at his companion, and they chuckled together, Jean-Sebastian happy he had been able to release the tension in his charge.

The distance was short, and soon they arrived at a sleepy-looking street. A row of Muggle houses met Jean-Sebastian's gaze, and although the area appeared to be a little older, the houses were generally neat and in good repair. It was like any other Muggle neighborhood, with nothing that suggested it was anything out of the ordinary—of course, it had housed the most famous wizard in magical Britain for almost the last fourteen years of his life, which made it remarkable, to the wizarding world at least.

The house to which Harry led them was as commonplace as the rest—it looked comfortable, but not overly large, and it had well manicured lawns and foliage in good repair.

They went to the front door, at which Harry raised his hand and knocked, an action which surprised Jean-Sebastian He would have thought, having lived there for many years, Harry would just walk in the front door, but it appeared that either something had happened which had revoked his rights to such an action, or he had never really felt welcome in the first place.

At length, the door swung open, revealing a young boy about Harry's age. Though Jean-Sebastian knew he must be Harry's cousin, there was virtually no family resemblance, as the boy was stocky to Harry's rather slender frame—the two also had very different features.

"Hi, Dud," Harry greeted the young man somewhat diffidently.

The young man's eyes narrowed and he glanced over his shoulder in a furtive manner. "Harry, what are you doing here?"

"We've come to pick up my things and talk to your Mum and Dad," Harry said, his voice quavering slightly in nervousness.

"Dad doesn't want you here anymore. He said you're not welcome."

Jean-Sebastian decided it was time to intervene. "Mr. Dursley, I assure you we will not be staying long. I simply need to speak with your parents, after which Harry and I will leave. Will you please call them?"

Dudley appeared to consider this momentarily before opening the door fully and motioning for them to follow him. "You can sit in the living room—I'll call Mum and Dad," he said over his shoulder.

Following Harry, Jean-Sebastian entered the house. A short walk through the entranceway brought them to a comfortable living area filled with Muggle gadgets. As a Pureblood, Jean-Sebastian had grown up in the wizarding world, but he had more knowledge about the Muggle world than most of his contemporaries. After all, they shared the world with Muggles and were vastly outnumbered by them—it seemed only prudent to know about them and their customs. The one thing which did catch his attention was the lack of anything which would suggest that more than one boy had ever lived in this house—there were pictures of the young Dursley aplenty, but not a single image of Harry could be found in the entire room. Such an oversight did nothing to calm Jean-Sebastian's fears over the manner in which the young man had been treated over the years.

They took a seat on a couch, and it was only moments before an enormous man with a walrus mustache and a thin woman with blond hair entered into the room. Their faces clearly showed their anger, but they kept their temper in check with some effort.

"Boy! I told you when you left that you were no longer welcome in this house, and now you're bringing your freak friends with you?"

Jean-Sebastian's face went stony, and he regarded the fat man as though he were a slug. "Mr. Dursley, I presume?"

The fat man grudgingly nodded his head and glared at them. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get out!"

"Mr. Dursley, I am Jean-Sebastian Delacour, and believe me, nothing will please me more than to take Harry away from here and never return," Jean-Sebastian responded, his voice the icy chill of a winter wind. "But Harry's circumstances have changed, and I think you have a right to know. Shall we sit and discuss this like adults?"

"We don't care what happens to the freak," Mrs. Dursley spoke up with some distaste. "Our Dudders was almost killed by those creatures. Having him here is dangerous."

A scornful laugh escaped Jean-Sebastian's lips and he stood and turned the full force of his glare on the bad-mannered couple. "Do you really think you could stop Dumbledore if he decided Harry needed to stay here again?"

The woman's face became white at his suggestion, while the fat man's face purpled in anger. "We don't care! Get out!"

"Sit down!" Jean-Sebastian thundered, whipping out his wand and pointing it at them. They paled and muttered but sat as asked, although their faces still showed the petulant anger of truly small-minded people.

"Now, we will sit down and converse like rational adults," Jean-Sebastian enunciated clearly. "There will be no further outbursts about 'freaks' or any of the other names you have called Harry over the years."

His voice was stern and uncompromising, and although Jean-Sebastian had the impression Harry's relatives had rarely been spoken to in such a manner, they grudgingly nodded their heads in assent while stealing apprehensive glances at his wand, which was still held in his hand.

"Thank you. I understand there was an incident this summer before Harry left your care."

At their nods, Jean-Sebastian continued. "He has been exonerated for his actions during that incident, but due to certain circumstances, his guardianship has changed, and he will no longer be required to live with you."

He witnessed as the man and woman exchanged a glance with each other, triumphant grins passing across their face.

"Good!" the woman finally exulted. "We never wanted the little fre… our nephew to live with us anyway—that Headmaster of his forced him on us and we had no choice."

"We want nothing further to do with your strange world!" the man continued, his voice forceful and unpleasant. "You people aren't natural, and his parents weren't any better. We'll be happy to be rid of him!"

Jean-Sebastian leaned back and studied the three of them for a moment, feeling more resignation and annoyance at their attitude than any true anger—he had seen this behavior many times, although since he was a magical, he had usually seen magicals disparaging Muggles rather than the reverse. Still, it did not take a genius to see the blatant bigotry and hatred these people harbored for something they could not possibly understand. It was good that Jean-Sebastian had intervened when he had, as this life could not have been comfortable for Harry.

Glancing sidelong at his new ward, Jean-Sebastian considered the situation and wondered if the situation had been what he had seen here, or if the Dursleys had been more… physical in their treatment of the young boy. His eyes narrowed as he saw Harry's slumped posture and the way he would not meet his relatives' eyes. It was difficult to tell, but Jean-Sebastian determined he would get to the bottom of it and swore that these ignorant people would pay if they had abused the young man.

In the interim of Jean-Sebastian's thoughts, silence had stretched on in the room, a silence which had clearly become uncomfortable for the couple sitting opposite, although their son did not seem to mind—he was openly gazing at his cousin, as though he had never truly seen him before. It was petty, but Jean-Sebastian took a perverse amount of pleasure in their unease, allowing the silence to continue as he merely gazed at the couple, his contempt showing in his expression which was tinged with distaste.

"Should you not be thanking your nephew for his actions?" he queried at last. "If not for Harry's actions, your son would have been killed by those Dementors."

"And if he wasn't here, your freaky creatures would never have been here either," Mr. Dursley snarled in response. "He's been nothing but trouble since he showed up, and we're well rid of him."

"He did save me, dad," Dudley spoke up suddenly.

From the looks Dudley received from not only his father and mother but also Harry, Jean-Sebastian deduced that Dudley backing Harry up was an uncommon, if not unheard of, event. The young man, however, ignored the looks he was receiving from his parents and kept his gaze focused on Harry, an earnest and almost pleading expression on his features. Harry returned his gaze with a questioning one of his own, before finally relaxing and slumping slightly in his seat with a half smile on his face.

"Don't worry about it, Dud. It was no problem."

Mr. Dursley's snort met Harry's statement, but Harry ignored it, seeming to be relieved and somewhat happier over the situation. Jean-Sebastian strongly suspected he was happy to have finally received some measure of approbation from at least one of his relatives, even if it had been bought at the price of a life-threatening situation.

"Mr. Dursley, I fully understand you would like us to leave, so I'll get right to the point. I am not impressed with what I've seen here today and what I've heard about Harry's home life—you clearly know nothing about nurturing a young man properly, and if I didn't consider you to be worth nothing more than an ant to crush beneath my boots, I might take offense to the things you have said today."

Mrs. Dursley paled, while her husband's face purpled in anger, but Jean-Sebastian ignored them. "Be that as it may, I am happy to say that Harry will never have to suffer your presence again. I will certainly never allow him to return here, and I cannot imagine him ever wanting to return once he comes of age."

A single glance at Harry, showing the boy's slightly anxious expression and furtive glances in the direction of the front door, told him what he already knew—Harry would undoubtedly be quite happy to never return to his relatives' house again.

"But be that as it may, I felt it only prudent to advise you of the change in Harry's status and the fact that he will not be returning. He is now betrothed to my daughter and will be my ward until his guardian is once again fit to resume his duties. Therefore, he will not be requiring your hospitality any longer."

"Once a freak, always a freak," Mr. Dursley responded with a sneer. "Imagine! Magic and betrothals! It's all freakiness, I tell you!"

His beady eyes fixed on Harry, and an unpleasant leer came over his face. "So, you had to go and get someone else to get you a betrothal to get yourself a girl, did you, boy? Couldn't get a girl on your own with your freakiness? I bet she's short and warty—a true witch!"

Mr. Dursley's laugh grated on Jean-Sebastian's nerves, but he said nothing, merely removing a Muggle-style picture from his wallet and enlarging it until it was the size of a large painting. "This is my daughter, Fleur, who is now engaged to Harry. I don't think she has any warts, to the best of my knowledge. However, she may turn you into a toad if you were to suggest such a thing to her face, so I suggest you keep your opinions firmly to yourself."

The mouths of all three Dursleys dropped as they gazed at the picture of his daughter, causing Jean-Sebastian to chuckle in response—as a father, he was proud of his daughters' beauty and Veela heritage, even while he had worried about the effect that heritage would have on potential suitors. Harry was truly a godsend to the French ambassador.

After a moment, Mr. Dursley turned red and he began to stutter with rage while his wife regarded Harry as if she had never seen him before. The youngest Dursley could hardly take his eyes off the picture, although he did glance at Harry with a new respect in his eyes.

Shrinking the picture once again and replacing it in his wallet, Jean-Sebastian regarded the abysmal family with some distaste. "Once we leave this place, it will be up to Harry as to whether or not you will ever see him again. When he comes of age, I will leave that decision up to him."

"Just take him and go," Mr. Dursley said in a gruff tone of voice once he had recovered somewhat from his anger. "The only thing that will make us happy is if we don't have to deal with you lot again."

"We will, Dursley," Jean-Sebastian responded. "But I also feel it necessary to warn you as well."

Dursley passed a weary hand over his face. "Why can't you freaks just take a hint and understand where you're not wanted? We didn't want to have anything to do with him," Dursley jabbed a finger at Harry, "but your Headmaster wouldn't hear of anything else. We wanted him to live normally without all his parents' freakiness, but we were forced to send him to that school. Why do you people insist on doing this to us?"

Astonished at the rudeness and tenacity of this man, Jean-Sebastian was tempted to do exactly what he asked—leave them to their fate. However, his sense of responsibility demanded he deliver his message before he quit the place entirely. Besides, Dumbledore had convinced Jean-Sebastian that regardless of the Dursleys' worthiness as guardians or their worth as human beings, they deserved to be warned, due to the fact that they were Harry's relations.

"Mr. Dursley, are you familiar with the story of Lord Voldemort?"

Mrs. Dursley gasped. "Wasn't he that madman who was after Lily?"

Jean-Sebastian inclined his head. "He was after the whole family, yes, but more specifically after Harry, I suspect."

Although his wife seemed to understand what Jean-Sebastian was talking about, Mr. Dursley appeared to be completely at a loss. "What are you talking about?"

"Lily told me about him before she died," Mrs. Dursley told her husband. "He was after them for some reason or another—he's the one who killed them."

With a grunt, Dursley glared across at the two wizards. "What about him? He died back then—what does he have to do with anything now?"

Turning to Harry, Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"They don't want to hear anything I have to say," Harry muttered defensively. "Even if I tried to tell them, they wouldn't have listened."

Turning back to the Dursleys, Jean-Sebastian sized them up. He suspected they might not give any weight to what he was about to tell them, but he decided it was on their heads if they did not. He could only warn them—they would need to do the rest.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, we are here today not only to tell you that Harry will be leaving your residence but also to warn you that you may be in danger if you stay here. This Voldemort who tried to kill Harry when he was a baby has recently returned, and if he learns of your relationship with Harry, he may try to get to Harry though you. Now, you and I both know that there are virtually no familial feelings between you and your nephew, but Voldemort certainly will not know that."

"But he died!" Mr. Dursley scoffed. "Would you have us fear a dead man?"

"He did not die," Jean-Sebastian responded evenly. "Through unknown means, he managed to cheat his fate and has recently returned to Britain, intent on picking up where he left off. When he left Harry here as a baby, Dumbledore erected a set of protections which not only kept young Harry safe but also kept you and your family safe. But a condition of these protections is that he must be present for part of the summer for them to be effective. Harry will not be returning next year to reset the wards, which means they will fade away some time next summer. Once that happens, this house will be visible once again to the magical world, and if Voldemort ever makes the connection between Harry and your family, you will all be in great danger."

"I'm sure we can reason with him if he does show up," Mr. Dursley claimed rather nonchalantly. "If he hates the boy as much as we do, I'd think he would award us a medal for getting him out of the house."

"Vernon, I think we should consider the warning," his wife spoke up, her eyes bright with fear.

"Frankly, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, it matters little to me if you heed the warning or not," Jean-Sebastian replied with a shrug. "I have done my duty. But I strongly suggest you listen to me and take steps to protect your family. Voldemort does not reason with or reward Muggles… he kills them. It is your choice, but I urge you not to underestimate him. Harry and I will collect his remaining belongings and leave you now."

Rising to his feet, Jean-Sebastian motioned for Harry to precede him from the room, but they were interrupted by Dudley's fearful voice.

"There isn't anything of Harry's left here. After he left last week, Dad got rid of it all."

Jean-Sebastian's eyes flashed and he turned on Vernon. "You discarded Harry's possessions?"

Vernon paled and seemed to sink back in his seat, his eyes darting from side to side. His fear would almost have been amusing if Jean-Sebastian had not been so thoroughly disgusted with the man who had provided Harry with such a dismal childhood environment.

"It's okay," Harry said, his manner somewhat resigned. "I make sure I take everything that means anything to me when I leave after summer hols. All I had left were a few old clothes and some odds and ends."

Turning to regard his ward, Jean-Sebastian searched his eyes, looking for some hint of anything other than the resignation which had been so evident in Harry's voice—if the boy had lost anything of value to Dursley's "housecleaning", he would have it out of their hides. Once again, Jean-Sebastian noticed the somewhat tattered and oversized state of Harry's clothes, which he had assumed was some Muggle fashion statement, but now he was not certain. Then, there was the single trunk of his possessions, which he clutched tightly in his hand. Whatever the Dursleys had or had not done to Harry, they had certainly not provided a suitably nurturing environment to the young man, and knowing that filled him with rage. But he checked his temper and glared down at the elder Dursleys with contempt.

"Very well—we will be taking our leave now. I have never witnessed such complete disdain and criminal negligence in a couple responsible for the upbringing and wellbeing of a young man in my life. You, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, should be in prison for what you have done! Do not ever attempt to contact Harry again—you will not appreciate the consequences!"

Motioning to Harry, Jean-Sebastian swept from the room with Harry close on his heels. They had walked no more than a few steps when they heard a voice calling to them.

Jean-Sebastian turned and looked at the heavyset bulk of Harry's cousin. Seeing with a glance that Harry was regarding his cousin curiously, he felt it would do little harm to let them speak before they left.

Dudley shifted from foot to foot nervously while covertly watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to want to say something, but for whatever reason was uncertain—or unwilling—to come to the point.

"What is it, Dud?"

The sound of the young man's voice seemed to startle him from his thoughts. "Harry… I wanted… Oh, hang it all—I'm not very good at this."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before visibly screwing up his courage and addressing his cousin. "I just wanted to say… I know I haven't treated you well, but… Thanks for saving me from those ghost thingies…"

Harry smiled at his cousin, a smile which actually seemed to reach his eyes—somewhat surprising if half of what Jean-Sebastian suspected about his time with his cousin was true. "It's okay, Dudley. I couldn't just leave you behind. Don't think anything of it."

"I think a lot of it, Harry," Dudley contradicted. "The way I've treated you, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd left me in the dust."

Harry did not appear to know what to say—after a moment's thought, he again smiled. "You're welcome."

"And Harry… don't listen to what dad says about you. You're no freak. Wherever you're going, I hope I can see you again… sometime…"

"I'd like that, Dudley," Harry said again. "Maybe when this is all over I'll look you up sometime."

Although he was certain Harry would have denied it, he thought he detected the hint of tears in Harry's eyes—obviously, finally being offered a hint of acceptance from one of his relatives was affecting Harry more than he was letting on.

Dudley nodded his agreement to Harry's offer and then turned his attention to Jean-Sebastian and ducked his head. "Please take care of my cousin, Mr. Delacour."

Inclining his head, Jean-Sebastian directed a smile at the young man. "I will. Thank you for your words here, Mr. Dursley—it takes a lot of courage to admit when you've been wrong. Please convince your father to take the warning seriously," he continued with a stern expression on his face. "If you don't, the consequences could be disastrous."

Dudley nodded, and after shuffling forward and shaking Harry's hand awkwardly, he disappeared back into the house, leaving behind one bemused wizard and a confused young man whom Jean-Sebastian suspected felt somewhat better about his relatives than he did before.

They left the house, walking down the block back to the park, but instead of finding the secluded spot they had arrived in before, Jean-Sebastian directed Harry to a bench, intent on getting some answers from him before they went any further. Harry seemed somewhat confused, but he allowed himself to be guided and then sat down, waiting for further instructions. Jean-Sebastian flicked his wand, setting up a few charms to ensure their privacy, before turning his attention on the young man.

"Harry," he began, not wanting the boy to become uncomfortable with a long silence, "I wanted to speak with you about your time with your relatives."

Harry's face assumed a defensive expression, and Jean-Sebastian could almost imagine he saw an extra mask come over his eyes, hiding his feelings behind them.

"I'd prefer not to talk about it, JS," he finally responded. "I'm never going back there, so there's no point."

"Harry, you may have come to believe such ill treatment was something that you deserved, but believe me, the Dursleys' behavior is just short of criminal. You don't have to tell me anything which makes you uncomfortable, but I want to know what things were like for you and take the appropriate actions if necessary."

Silence reigned for the next few moments as Harry seemed to retreat into himself. The expression of anguish on his features and the way he wrung his hands nervously tugged at Jean-Sebastian's heartstrings, but he was determined to give his young ward the space and time to discover his feelings on his own. If the situation was as Jean-Sebastian suspected, he promised he would have the Dursleys' hides hung on his wall.

"What's the point?" Harry finally asked as he glanced up. "It's done, and there's nothing we can do about it. I would prefer to just move on and forget about them."

"And what good is that?" Jean-Sebastian asked pointedly. "Harry, you may not believe you're worth the effort, but I intend to take the time to convince you that you are. And if your relatives never pay the price for their crimes, are they really learning anything? What of their own son? Will they do the same to him?"

"You don't have worry about their little Duddykins," Harry muttered.

Lifting an eyebrow, Jean-Sebastian thought back to the encounter, remembering the way the couple had spoken of and referred to their son, and he reflected, somewhat ruefully, that Harry was probably right—Dudley had likely been treated like a prince by his parents. Of course, their treatment of their own son obviously created its own problems in their son's sense of entitlement and his becoming spoiled, but that really was not Jean-Sebastian's concern. Such an inequality of their situations must have made Harry's childhood all the worse, knowing that he had been singled out.

Jean-Sebastian sat there regarding Harry, allowing him time to sort through his feelings and find his words while at the same time presenting a calm yet implacable front to the young man—he would have an accounting of Harry's relatives.

At length, Harry began speaking. He was somewhat reluctant and unsure, and although his manner was hesitant, once he started, the words began to come in a torrent. Yet though the subject matter was emotional and the actions of his relatives had hurt him immensely, his face was a stony mask and his voice was emotionless—Jean-Sebastian knew he had learned to protect himself from his relatives' neglect by holding his emotions in check and not admitting they had hurt him. It was something they would have to work on changing—Harry would certainly never face such attitudes in his family.

The story Harry weaved was heartbreaking—it was one of a lonely, miserable child who could not understand what he had done to deserve the contempt and ridicule to which he was subjected on a daily basis. The story was one of emotional abuse, where the words "freak", "worthless" and "unwanted" figured prominently in the boy's upbringing. Harry spoke of growing up living in a cupboard under the stairs, moving out of said closet and into his cousin's second bedroom after receiving a letter from Hogwarts, only because the Dursleys worried what Dumbledore would do when he found out his living circumstances. Of course, he was not allowed to remove the pile of discarded and broken old toys which took up the majority of his new room. No, little Duddykins was not finished with them, so they had to stay.

According to Harry, he had started cooking the family meals at an early age and ended up doing the bulk of the household chores while his cousin sat on his lazy behind, planning his latest round of bullying. He had never had a Christmas present from them, whereas his cousin had been buried in a veritable mountain of presents, and he had been told that freaks did not have birthdays, while again his cousin was treated as if he were a prince.

He spoke of odd things happening to him, things which he could not understand, but of which his relatives must have known due to their knowledge of his parents' abilities. Yet nothing was ever explained—instead, he was punished whenever anything happened which could not be explained while his relatives lied to him, telling him he was the spawn of drunkards who were killed in a car accident, blaming them for the scar he now wore on his forehead.

As horror after horror was spoken in that same emotionless monotone, still, Jean-Sebastian reflected, there was something missing from Harry's tale. The young man fell silent, and Jean-Sebastian determined he would discover whether or not Harry was hiding anything from him.

"Thank you for trusting me with your story, Harry," Jean-Sebastian told him, showing the young man a smile of compassion. "But, Harry, I need to know something. Your relatives treated you abominably, but you haven't said anything about physical mistreatment. Did your uncle ever beat you?"

His eyes widened and he began shaking his head vigorously. "No, he never did anything like that. I mean, there were some times I thought he was so mad he would, but he never did. Maybe he was afraid of what I could do to him when I grew up or something."

"And your cousin?"

Harry laughed bitterly. "Dudley's favorite game was called 'Harry hunting'. He and his gang used to terrorize the neighborhood and vandalize whatever they could without getting caught. I learned very quickly to be much faster than Dudley and very good at hiding—otherwise, I'd get a beating. But he never hit me hard enough to leave a permanent mark and was careful to never leave any kind of mark where it would show. He didn't want my school teachers to know about the bullying."

Jean-Sebastian digested all this, reflecting it was better than he would have thought or hoped. The mental abuse in some ways was worse than if they had physically abused him, but if they had beat him, then nothing would have prevented Jean-Sebastian from exacting a stiff price for their actions. As it was, he was inclined to leave well enough alone—Harry was physically undamaged after all, and it would not do to drag up further painful memories for the young man. Instead, he would focus on helping Harry rehabilitate his sense of self worth—something which he knew would be difficult yet ultimately rewarding. It was amazing how well he had turned out, given the adversities he had faced in his life—Jean-Sebastian would have understood if he had grown into a bitter and vengeful young man, yet nothing was further from the truth. He was as pleasant a young man as Jean-Sebastian had ever had the good fortune to meet.

"Harry, I want you to know something."

The young man's eyes flickered up to meet his, but his expression remained placid, waiting for Jean-Sebastian to come to the point.

"That part of your life is over, and I will never bring it up again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry responded.

Jean-Sebastian raised an eyebrow at the young man, prompting him to flush with embarrassment. "JS…" he amended sheepishly.

"That's better. Just remember, Harry, I will not bring it up, but that does not mean you cannot. If you ever want to talk about it or ask my advice, I will always be available for you, and for that matter, Sirius can help too."

"Thanks JS," Harry replied with considerable feeling.

"You're welcome, Harry," Jean-Sebastian said, his mouth rising in a warm smile. He had only met Harry that day, and already he was developing a fondness for the polite and serious young man. If the stories he had heard of Harry's time in Hogwarts to this point were any indication, life with Harry Potter certainly would not be dull.

That evening, Hermione Granger was sitting on the bed in her room considering the events of the day when Ginny stepped into their shared bedroom. Knowing as she did Ginny's obsession with the Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione was not surprised that the announcement from earlier that day had been a shock and a crushing blow for the young woman. She had been closeted with her mother for the better part of the day, presumably commiserating and crying out her frustrations, joined by her mother no doubt, considering Mrs. Weasley had wanted the match longer than her daughter had.

The Ginny who entered the room still had a hint of red around her eyes, evidence of the amount of mourning she had done for the loss of all her dreams. Still, as Hermione looked closer, she saw something she had not expected—a small inkling of hope. Although Hermione could not claim to be an expert on wizarding customs and laws, she did not know how Ginny could still hold out hope. The betrothal was a legal one, sealed by the magical power of the two families, therefore completely binding and unbreakable.

"Hi, Hermione," Ginny said, her manner nervous and uncertain.

Hermione smiled and returned to the open book on her lap—the book which she had opened over an hour earlier, but of which she had, as yet, not even read a single page. She was uncertain what she could do to help the young woman. Ginny's feelings, after all, were uncomfortably close to Hermione's, although unlike Ginny's, hers new and still somewhat raw.

"Crazy day, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but a good day, nonetheless," was the response.

The room was silent for several moments until Hermione glanced up and saw tears glistening in the corners of Ginny's eyes.

"Yes, a red letter day," the redhead spat bitterly.

"Harry's free," Hermione responded pointedly. "Would you have preferred the Ministry had snapped his wand?"

Flopping down on her bed, Ginny sank down onto her back, spreading her arms out wide and allowing an explosive sigh to pass through her lips. "That's not what I mean, Hermione. I'm… I'm happy Harry was freed, but…"

She was trying to be patient, but dealing with Ginny's fatalism and hopeless infatuation with Hermione's best friend was the last thing she wanted to think about. With her own thoughts and feelings as unsettled as they were, Hermione would have preferred a quiet, solitary room to herself to think and deal with everything which had happened. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was not in her own room—the house certainly had enough to provide everyone with their own privacy.

"Of course, you don't care, do you?" Ginny spat bitterly when the silence had become oppressive. "You have never looked at him as anything other than a friend."

Hermione was just able to check her reaction to Ginny's statement, knowing in her own mind exactly how untrue it was. Still, she felt somewhat ashamed of her thoughts about the young girl—this was a shock for her, and Hermione knew she had not exactly been supportive.

"No, Ginny, I certainly don't know how you feel," Hermione replied, hearing the lie in her own voice but denying it all the same—her friend did not need to know of Hermione's feelings. "But Ginny, you knew there was no guarantee he would ever return your feelings. You've set yourself up for this by refusing to get over this obsession."

Abruptly sitting up, Ginny glared at Hermione, tears glistening on her cheeks and an expression of utter desolation etched upon her face. "I know," she responded quietly. "But as long as he was unattached, there was always a chance… I could still hope…"

Reaching across, Hermione took one of Ginny's hands and squeezed it in a friendly, commiserating gesture. "I understand. It's got to be hard, Ginny, but you need to let it go. Maybe now you can just be his friend without this infatuation getting in the way."

"I tell myself that," Ginny responded, lowering her head, "but I can't help but hope…"

"What is there left to hope for?" Hermione said, confused again over this hope to which Ginny continued to cling. "Harry's betrothed now, Ginny—a magical betrothal. As I understand it, there's nothing you or I or anyone else can do to break it."

The little redhead glanced up with a faint smile on her face which was incongruous with the tears which continued to sparkle on her cheeks. "Actually, there is a way to break it, but that takes the agreement of both heads of the houses, which I doubt they would ever do—politically, this betrothal is far too important for Harry, the Delacours, and potentially our entire world. This could bring the French into the fight against You-Know-Who, which we badly need with Fudge at the controls."

This was a condition of which Hermione had not been aware, but she still failed to understand how Ginny could still hold out hope to be with Harry when there was little to no chance he would ever be free of the contract.

"You mean I finally knew something the great Hermione Granger didn't?" Ginny exclaimed with a small giggle.

A mock glare met her declaration, which only caused the girl to descend further into her mirth. Hermione would have been happy that Ginny was able to laugh, if she had not detected a hint of hysteria in her voice.

"I imagine there are many things about the magical world and Pureblood traditions I don't know," Hermione responded, mock sternly. "That doesn't explain why you still hope to be with Harry even though he's essentially engaged."

The laughter stopped and a pensive looked stole over Ginny's face. "I guess you wouldn't know this either… You know the magical world is somewhat… behind the Muggle world, as far as traditions go…"

At Hermione's impatient nod, she continued, "Well, in the magical world, there are no laws that state a man can only have one wife…"

A shocked Hermione stared back at her friend, her mouth open and working soundlessly.

"It's more like the lack of a law, actually. Although multiple marriages are not exactly common, they do still happen on occasion, especially among old Pureblood families which are in danger of dying out. The thought is that by having multiple wives, a man can father more children, expanding the blood line and preventing the possibility of only having one child and risking the line dying out."

Hermione was aghast, although a part of her was curious. "Really?"

Nodding her head, Ginny chuckled at Hermione's reaction. "Apparently, your reaction is very common among Muggle borns. For some families, such as the Zabinis, the problem is not serious—Blaise has several uncles, great-uncles, etc, all who have families of their own, making it unlikely Blaise will ever be involved in a multiple marriage. However, the Malfoys, although they may still have some relatives in France, do not have that luxury. Draco is the last scion of the Malfoy family in England, making him a prime candidate for eventually having more than one wife."

"As is Harry," Hermione breathed, understanding what her friend was saying.

Ginny nodded vigorously. "Yes. The Potters were a larger family at one time and are related to several other families if you go back far enough—the Longbottoms and my own family, for example. If he had been brought up by his parents, Harry would have been taught by his parents that he may one day be a part of a multiple marriage. In fact, if he had lived, James might have eventually had more than one wife, as he had no siblings either."

"Not if what I have heard of Lily was true," Hermione murmured, feeling certain the headstrong witch would never have put up with another wife for her husband.

Giggling again, Ginny nodded her head. "You're likely right. The first wife has to agree to the second marriage, so Lily could have vetoed any subsequent marriages."

"What if there are multiple marriage contracts?" Hermione asked.

"Then the first one has precedence, and any subsequent ones must be ratified by the first wife before they can become active. However, that would never happen, as the father would have to negotiate both. Why would he create two when there is no guarantee the first wife would agree to the second contract?"

"For the political connections?"

"Possible, but there still is no guarantee. And negotiating such a contract would have inherent risks—the second family might be offended by their contract being cancelled, especially if they were not notified of the first contract's existence. It hardly ever happens."

As she thought about it, Hermione wondered if Ginny was thinking this through properly. It certainly seemed as though there was a possibility there, but there were so many variables.

"I was not aware of this," she said, speaking slowly and carefully. "But there are so many unknown factors, Ginny. Harry may not feel that way about you, and I'm sure his fiancée will not appreciate you dating him in order to try to become his second wife."

"I know," Ginny responded, her features once again assuming the desolate look they had had when she had first entered the room.

"So why do you continue to hope?" Hermione asked her, trying to remain as kind and understanding as she could. "And besides, are you certain you want to share your husband?"

"If you really loved someone and the only way to be with them was to share, wouldn't you?" Ginny challenged.

"I'm… not certain I could," Hermione responded, confused as to her own feelings. Would she be willing to share Harry with Fleur, a woman she did not even really know? It would be one thing with someone like Ginny whom she knew and liked, but to do so with a near stranger would be… difficult. Even if she could manage to reconcile herself to the idea in the first place…

"Ginny, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not certain you love Harry."

When the young girl began to protest, Hermione stopped her with an open hand. "Ginny, you don't even know Harry—you've been too shy to get to know him. How can you say you love him?"

For the first time since she had known the young girl, Hermione's statement seemed to give Ginny pause where Harry was concerned. She did not know if Ginny was truly in love with Harry or just infatuated, but she felt it would be better for the girl to let this go—it was almost certain to cause her less heartache in the long run.

"I don't know," Ginny finally stated in a small voice. "I've had this attraction to him for so long… And yet, I guess I really don't know him, do I? I just know the Boy-Who-Lived."

"That can always be fixed," Hermione said with a smile.

At Ginny's raised eyebrow, Hermione continued, "Be his friend, Ginny. Harry doesn't need another fan girl or a potential second wife right now—there will be time enough for that later. What he needs now are friends. You need to let go of your infatuation and get to know Harry as he is, not as you've pictured him all your life. Believe me, treating him as a friend is the best way for you to catch his eye."

The thoughtful look which entered Ginny's eye caused a sigh of relief to the young witch—it appeared she was finally getting through to the younger girl.

"And one other thing, Ginny… I would recommend you give up on your hope—there are too many obstacles to be overcome. If some time down the road it does happen, it will be pleasantly surprising for you, but you're setting yourself to be crushed if it doesn't. Let it go."

The clouded over eyes told Hermione all she needed to know about Ginny's reaction to her second piece of advice, but the girl smiled tremulously after a few moments and nodded bravely. It perhaps was not the best she could have hoped, but as long as the other girl had held on to her fantasy, giving it up would undoubtedly be difficult.

Hermione lay back down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Now if she could only let it go herself…

"I know this is sudden and not what you wished for, ma cherie, but you know how I worry for you. It could be much worse, could it not?"

As the light of the afternoon gave way to the lengthening shadows of early evening, Fleur Delacour sat on the window seat in her bedchamber, peering out at the beautiful landscapes of the hills and valleys which comprised her home, the words of her father echoing through her mind. For once, the scene in front of her, the mass of verdant green trees and narrow streams amidst the rugged hills of her home, was not enough to distract her from her thoughts and worries.

A small sigh escaped her lips and she pressed her forehead against the window, lost in thought. As every other young girl in the wizarding world, she had been well aware of the fact that her father could negotiate a marriage contract for her, although he had promised her he would only do it if he felt it was in her best interests and the best interests of the family. And of course like any other girl, she had dreamed of a wonderful man sweeping her off her feet, carrying her away to life of love and laughter. Still, as her father said, it was not truly a bad situation. And though she was unsettled over the situation, thinking back on the conversation with her father did bring her some comfort…

Fleur sat down heavily on the chair in front of the desk in her father's study, unable to believe what her father had just told her.

"Marriage contract?" she breathed. "I was not aware there was a marriage contract in existence for me."

"I found out about it just recently myself," her father responded with a kindly smile. "I did not wish to worry you, so I did not say anything about it until I was certain we would be agreeing to it."

Not knowing what to say, Fleur sat quietly in her chair, staring at the wood of her father's desk. Having reached the age of seventeen, she had assumed that as she had not yet been entered into a marriage contract, it was not likely to happen. Erroneously assumed, it appeared. She was well aware of the state of her father's position in both the political landscape of France and the wizarding world as a whole, and try as she might, she could not imagine with whom he would need to cement a political alliance.

But suddenly, the import of the words made its way through her consciousness and she peered up at her father. "You didn't know about it? Then who negotiated it if you did not?"

"It was negotiated fifty years ago for my generation," her father replied. He then proceeded to relate the history of the marriage contract by which she was now bound. But the one thing he did not tell her was the identity of her betrothed.

"I see you are curious of the identity of the young man," he finally said after he had related the entirety of it to her.

"On the contrary," she said with a hint of wry humor which she did not feel, "that is the kind of minor detail which is quite unimportant, given the circumstances."

Her father favored her with an indulgent smile. "That is the spirit, Fleur—and I think you will not be displeased with the young man I have chosen for you."

Fleur glared at her father, somewhat put out that he would not come to the point and tell her to whom she had been saddled.

With another smile of amusement, her father finally relented. "Your new betrothed is Harry Potter."

A stunned Fleur stared back at her father, aghast at the revelation. Never would she have believed that her father would betroth her to not only a foreign wizard but one of the most famous in the wizarding world. Harry Potter!

"Fleur?"

"But Papa, I hardly know him."

"You have met him, yes?" At Fleur's nod, he continued. "I have never met him personally, but from what little I saw at that tournament, he seemed like a serious, competent young man, and he handled himself amazingly well given the circumstances. His godfather, although I suppose he can be considered to be somewhat biased in his opinion, has nothing but good to say about the young man."

Fleur considered all her father had said, certain he believed he was doing as he felt was right. Knowing what she did of Harry, Fleur could not help but agree with her father's assessment. There were certainly worse wizards out there to whom she could be bound, not that Jean-Sebastian Delacour would ever tie her to someone merely for political gain—he loved his daughters too much for that.

"I know this is sudden and not what your wished for, ma cherie, but you know how I worry for you. It could be much worse, could it not?"

And she was aware of what it could be. As a Veela, she knew that many men would seek her out for her beauty and the status of being with a Veela. The burden of distinguishing those interested in Fleur the person from those interested in the Veela was always difficult and uncertain. Surely, from what she knew of Harry Potter, he was not the type who would use her in such a way.

"Yes, father," she whispered, "it could be worse."

"That is one of the reasons why I decided to enter into this agreement. I trust the account of your young man that I have been given, and I believe that he will treat you well. By all accounts, Harry hates his fame and wishes for a normal life, something which I hope you both can build together. In fact, it seems to me that you two share a similar problem: you cannot be certain if a man is attracted to you or the Veela in you, and Mr. Potter cannot be certain if a woman is attracted to him or his fame.

"Besides, given what I have been told of him, I think you will do very well together. At the very least, it is much more than many Purebloods have to look forward to when entering into an arranged marriage."

Fleur flushed and smiled at her father. "I understand, papa, and I appreciate the fact that you look out for Gabrielle and me so well."

"I have only ever wanted for you and your sister to be happy, Fleur," Mr. Delacour said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk while fixing his daughter with a serious look. "All I ask is that you keep an open mind about your betrothed and give him a chance. I think you will be pleasantly surprised."

Although still somewhat shocked and uncertain about the situation, Fleur nevertheless agreed that at this point it was the only thing she could do. Besides, after she had gotten over her initial impression of Harry, she had been intrigued by his heroism and bravery.

"I shall give him every chance, papa," Fleur agreed.

She was still unsettled two days after the conversation with her father. She had undergone several opinion shifts since she had met the young man—from the irritation and condescension she had felt toward the young man when he had unexpectedly entered the anteroom after the goblet incident, to the respect she had grudgingly felt when he had out flown his dragon, to the grateful admiration she had felt when he had appeared from the waters of the lake… Fleur's emotions toward the young man had been in a state of constant flux from the time she had met him.

And now she was all but engaged to him. It was unsettling.

Yet she knew her father was right about Harry—he was not happy with his fame and wanted nothing more than to leave it behind. The young man who had saved her sister and helped her in the maze when he had every reason to ignore her in pursuit of the prize would never mistreat her or hold her up as a trophy.

The other part of her changing circumstances was the prospect of her spending her last year of schooling at Hogwarts, leaving the familiar halls of Beauxbatons and entering the hallowed halls of the oldest school in Europe as a student rather than a visitor. She was ambivalent about that thought—on the one hand, she was leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar, while on the other she really was not leaving much. She had a few friends at Beauxbatons, and none of them were particularly close—a result of her heritage, unfortunately. In some ways, Hogwarts might even be better, as there she would potentially have at least the friendship and support of her betrothed. Yes, it was certainly better to look forward to the future and hope for the best rather than mope at her sudden change in status.

A small pop startled her from her musings. Looking away from the window, she saw the small creature that had joined her in the room.

"Mistress Fleur, the master comes with his guest. You is being wanted in the drawing room."

Fleur smiled at the house-elf. "I will be right there. Thank you, Kappy."

The elf grinned and then popped away, leaving Fleur to look at herself one last time in the mirror before making her way from the room. It was time to meet with her betrothed.

Updated 05/08/13