Notes - This is really the point where you need to be wary of the accuracy of my French! I didn't know any French until I started writing this. I did the best I could but I can't say how well that was, haha.
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Typical of the season, it was raining heavily when Harry went to the pitch with his broom. Water ran down his face, catching on his eyelashes, running over his glasses, dripping from his chin and the folds of his robes. The ground was muddy, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't be walking on it. He mounted his broom and flew up into the air, the cruel weather battering at him, gusts of wind trying to blow him over and rain falling so densely that he could hardly see.
Practice had been cancelled because of the conditions. The Slytherin team had evidently decided not to risk it as well and there was no one on the pitch. It was all his today. He was free to do what he wanted. The rain crashed loudly past his ears and they quickly ached. It was so cold his hands were red and numb, and he couldn't stop himself from shivering. His broom was so sensitive that every time he shook it swayed. For some reason that made him laugh. His laughter was rough and choking. Though he knew it wouldn't do anything, he wiped at his face with his sleeve.
Near blind, Harry relied on his memory of what the pitch looked like as he flew. More than once a tower came out at him unexpectedly and he had to get around it at the last minute. His broom had survived the impact with Draco with only minor, repairable damage. It looked worse than it was, with splintered wood sticking out of it that occasionally stabbed at Harry's hands. Just as Draco had said the polish was melting off, slicking the handle and making him lose his grip. The sense of danger was familiar so he welcomed it. He knew he was being reckless but he just didn't care.
Someone was shouting. The sound barely reached him. Wiping at his eyes uselessly, Harry looked down to see who it was, but he couldn't make them out. When it became clear they weren't going to shut up he flew to the ground, his head throbbing painfully.
It was Draco. He was furious. His hair was wet and limp, his skin was blotchy, he was shaking, whether from the cold or because he was angry Harry didn't know. He shouted at him. The words hurt Harry's already smarting ears. He pulled a scarf tightly around his neck, as if to choke him. Then he tore Harry's broom from his hands and began to walk back to the castle.
That made Harry angry and he rushed after him, pulling him roughly by the shoulder. Draco hit him hard in the chest and tried to keep the broom away. They struggled, feet slipping on the muddy ground. Draco fell and Harry took the broom back, but he got up and knocked him over. The rain continued to fall. They gasped and choked and finally Harry, tiring of it all, surrendered the broom and sat up, breathing heavily.
Draco stood first and pulled him up. With the storm still going on around them Harry crushed him into his arms and pressed their mouths together, hard. It was rough, and hurt, but Draco let him do it, grabbing on to the front of his robes fiercely. They stumbled together and their faces parted but they didn't let go of each other, not until they were back in the safety and warmth of the castle, and reality struck Harry like a blow to the stomach.
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Quidditch practice for the Gryffindor team was on Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday, so Harry agreed to meet with Adeline on the days that it didn't run. He wasn't sure why but the meetings were held in McGonagall's office. Gaspard was always there to supervise them. He spoke for Adeline, who Harry was beginning to suspect was mute, or didn't know any English.
If this went on much longer he would learn some French, if for no other reason than to make the girl laugh. She smiled a lot. But there was always adoration – which made Harry feel uncomfortable – or fear – which made Harry feel guilty – behind it. If he could just hear her laugh, he might fall in love with her and that would fix everything. More than once in the past week he had wished that Veela magic went both ways.
The floral teacup in his hands clinked against the saucer. He thought he saw Gaspard flinch. "Sorry. So, Adeline. You're a student at Beauxbatons?"
As they had to every question Harry had asked, Adeline nodded and Gaspard gave extra information. "She is a fourth-year, Mister Potter."
"Do you like it there?"
"It is a beautiful place. She likes it very much."
There was a moment of silence and Harry put his cup down on the table. It clattered. He gave them a smile that was both sheepish and friendly. "I know someone who used to go there, but she's already graduated. Fleur Delacour. We were in the Triwizard Tournament together-"
Adeline's solemn eyes swung to Gaspard, and his own became sad. "She knows Mademoiselle Delacour and what she has done. If you would not talk of her. Her heart is young and...sensitive."
"Oh. Right. I'm sorry."
"There is no need for apologies. You have not met a Veela before, there are not many in your country, this we understand. There is much...it is trying."
The man who wouldn't speak about himself was more of a puzzle than the girl who wouldn't speak at all. All Harry knew was that he and Adeline were distantly related, though he was not a Veela himself. He had plain brown hair, a young face, and was tall. His clothes were, like Adeline's and this tea set that they had brought, of a fine quality. He was polite but very expressive. He didn't seem to notice how beautiful Adeline was and stood beside her with one hand resting on her chair. He acted all at once like her servant, her friend, her teacher and her brother, and if she spoke at all Harry had no doubt it was to him. Gaspard...he hadn't even said what his last name was. Du Maurier?
Honestly Harry would much rather talk to him than to Adeline, who just stared at him and nodded at everything he said. He'd had enough of this even before the war.
"Mister Potter, may I ask..."
"Er. Yes?"
"We are wondering at your...injuries. You play Quidditch. Is it such a dangerous sport?"
Harry touched the scrape on his cheek, having forgotten that it was there at all. His fingers, too, were bandaged. He hadn't bothered to go to the infirmary to get them healed. His side was bruised because Draco had hit him. His face had been scratched by his broom when they were fighting for it. They were marks that had been left on him because Draco had been angry and scared and worried and wasn't afraid to show him that the only way they both really felt comfortable with.
Now that Harry thought about it, he had met Adeline and Gaspard the day after his collision with Draco at practice. They had actually never seen him without bruises and scrapes. They probably thought he was violent, or at least careless. And he wasn't. Not normally.
"No, no, not at all. I've just had a few accidents this week." He laughed and hoped it sounded genuine. There was no way he could tell them the truth – not when he didn't know what it was himself.
"Voyons," Gaspard said under his breath.
Harry didn't know what that meant.
He picked up his teacup with clumsy hands.
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"'French declarative word order is subject-verb-object, although if the object is a pronoun it precedes the verb.' Well, you've already lost me there... 'Some types of sentences allow for or require different word orders, in particular inversion of the subject and verb like-' I can't even say that! '-when asking a question rather than just-' Look, I can't say that either... 'Both questions mean the same thing, however, a rising inflection is always used on both of them-' ARGH!"
Why did learning a language have to be so difficult? Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he should just learn the words, Adeline would probably understand what he meant... He flicked through the book and found a table of numbers in English and French. He almost cried with relief. This looked manageable, if a bit useless. It was all just a gesture anyway.
"Un, deux, trios, quatre," he stumbled over the words, "cinq, six – ah, good, that's the same – sept, huit, neuf, dix!"
He didn't have to know French to know that wasn't what it sounded like.
He slumped over the book, thinking again that it was a shame Hermione was too busy to help him. Being Head Girl was a lot of work. Ron wasn't interested and honestly Harry didn't think would be much good at it anyway. There was no one else to ask. Not Ginny, he didn't want to make his situation even more complicated by bringing his ex-girlfriend into it. Not Neville, he knew a bit of French but was helping Professor Sprout at the greenhouses. Not Seamus, they'd get distracted talking about Quidditch like they always did. Not Luna, because these days he could never find her when he wanted to. Not Dean, not Justin, not Dennis, not anyone. He just had to fight through this on his own.
"Un, deux, trios, quatre..."
Harry hardly recognised the words as the ones he'd just been speaking. He did, however, recognise the voice that spoke them, and it sent his heart racing.
"Cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix. Don't speak a language if you're just going to ruin it for everyone in earshot, Potter."
"Malfoy. You know French?"
"It's disgraceful not to." Draco sat down at the table, not looking half as affected as Harry felt.
Had he forgotten that they'd kissed the other day? Well, it couldn't really be called a kiss...more a violent collision of their faces. But the way Draco had clung to him, soaked through but still somehow warm, and leaned into him as they walked back, and been so reluctant to let go, that meant something. There was something Harry couldn't name, or didn't want to. Something that ran underneath all their fighting to contradict it, making a punch seem like a kiss and an insult an endearment, and causing Harry to look at his bruises with a fondness he knew wasn't healthy.
Was it just that he couldn't deal with a normal life? Quidditch practices instead of battles, cleaning spells instead of Expecto Patronum, professors who didn't want to harm him, clumsiness he could afford, security instead of constant vigilance?
Did he need the excitement? Was that why he kept doing these things with Draco?
Because it was exciting. Challenging. Frightening. Dangerous. Not just to Harry, who still had to live up to people's expectations, and Draco, who might be disowned by his family if he didn't live up to theirs, but to Adeline, the girl who had so much more to lose.
He could never let himself forget that she existed.
"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. If I'm going to help you with your French, Potter, I expect you to pay attention."
"What?"
"Comment?"
"You're going to help me? W-why?"
"Because you can't do anything on your own," Draco said, as if it was obvious. "Now, tell me what you're doing this for so we can get on with it. Did you make a bet with Granger? Get a difficult bit of homework? Or are you planning to transfer to Beauxbatons?"
Harry couldn't tell him the truth. Just as he couldn't tell the truth to Gaspard and Adeline.
"I, er, found a recipe for a potion, but I can't read it."
"Is that all? Then just show it to me and I'll translate it for you-"
"No!" Harry said too quickly. "It's, erm, a bit embarrassing."
For a minute Draco looked like he was deciding whether or not to believe him. Then he shook his head and picked up the book that Harry had been reading. His slender fingers brushed across the page. His eyes appeared silver in the candlelight. The collar of his robes cast a shadow along his jaw. His voice when he spoke French was strange and beautiful. Harry wondered how Adeline, a Veela, could be nothing like this. How they could be completely different. How one could hold his fascination and the other barely tempted it.
But he knew the answer to all of his questions. It was that something.
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French - English
"Voyons," Gaspard said under his breath.
This is a word that has a few different meanings. It comes from the French verb voir, 'to see'. Either Gaspard is saying 'let us see' – he isn't sure of Harry but he'll wait to see how things turn out. Or he is saying it sarcastically, more like 'yeah right' – he knows that Harry is lying.
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"Un, deux, trios, quatre," he stumbled over the words, "cinq, six – ah, good, that's the same – sept, huit, neuf, dix!"
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!
Pronounced something like - ahn, duhr, twah, katr, sank, seese, set, wheet, neuhf, deese!
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"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. If I'm going to help you with your French, Potter, I expect you to pay attention."
This old French expression means 'the more it changes, the more it stays the same'. Draco is saying that even though they have become older and are different people, Harry still gets distracted easily.
"What?"
"Comment?"
Draco repeats what Harry said back to him in French. Comment is 'what' when you didn't hear or can't believe what someone has said.