A/N:
Mon Fifille = My Little One
Mon Cochen = My Pig
Vulgaire = Wizarding french version of "Muggle"
Also, ** Is a quote directly from JKR, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
PART II
THE FORMING
Chapter Nine
The First Day in France
Harry woke up a little before noon and looked around at the strange, tranquil room, seeking familiarity in the haze between slumber and lucidity. He blinked two or three times before reaching over to the nightstand for his glasses. Sitting up, fractured memories of the rush from the Burrow returned with a fury, led by the worst of them all: the form of Molly Weasley, fighting like a mother dragon protecting her eggs until she was lit up by the Killing Curse; the lifeless body of the closest person he ever had to a mother crumpling to the ground.
Harry remembered feeling as if a chasm had opened where his heart should have been, as he swore vengeance for another dead body that once was someone he cared for. Would it be the last, or would he have to do the same over the bodies of Sirius, Remus, and/or Charlie?
Why did Voldemort continue to do this to him? Why did those bints called The Three Fates always lay a path of safety for him while paving it with the blood and flesh of his friends and loved ones?
Or, as Harry put it, Why can't the bastard leave my friends alone and come after me?
He threw the covers back, slid out of bed, and walked into the attached bathroom, still ruminating on the night before. Fifteen minutes later, he was showered and dressed in clothes that someone had laid out for him sometime earlier that morning. To his surprise, the trousers were almost his size. The undershirt fit as well, but the shirt was much too big. He rolled the sleeves to the middle of his forearm and walked over to a mirror to see if they were even. Instead, Harry shook his head, finding humor in what he saw in his reflection.
Either his aunt had vastly overstated French fashion (and more than a few witches in Gryffindor as well), or the shirt was a jersey from a French Muggle sports team that Fleur had laid out for him as joke—he guessed the latter. The jersey was blue with white shoulders. "France" was written in big red letters outlined in white from the right hip up across the sternum.
He look away from the mirror when something in the reflection caught his eye. In the corner of the room, next to the sliding glass doors that faced the back of the Delacour property, sat his broom. The shaft was littered with scorch marks, both in front and behind where he usually sat. The bristles were damaged and the stirrups were discolored.
How in the. . . ? It must have happened when he flew over the fighting in the woods. It was the only time he was close enough. Harry missed the fact that he used the singular pronoun. He closed his eyes and thought back to the previous night, how he had flown out of the window and shot across the yard to the tree line.
Now, looking at the broom, he saw the left stirrup was more than discolored. It was bent, flattened, and scraped up something terrible. He turned and went to the broom to inspect it more closely.
The tree! I did hit the tree. At least I was flying free-style and not using the stirrups. Had I been sitting just a few inches further back . . .
Wait . . .
That's where . . .
FLEUR!
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Fleur woke up just after noon and looked across the room to see if Harry was still there, only to find neither Harry nor his bed; but her confusion dissipated quickly as she looked around, noticing the familiar light brown walls and high ceiling of her bedroom.
It was all so familiar, yet somehow foreign at the same time; as if Fleur was looking at a memory of a past life. She was struck by how she used to take it all for granted. Now, it felt like a gift. Her bed was large enough to fit herself and two of her friends comfortably, plus Gabrielle when she was smaller. The mattress sat on a frame of dark cinnamon-stained oak, the head and footboard rounding off in five large elaborately carved swirls that peaked in the middle. In the corner to her right, an oval mirror stood, rising above the top of a six-foot tall wardrobe it was part of. Lying on her right side, Fleur could see through the Floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that opened to her small, private deck, which provided a view of the ocean in the distance, at the bottom of the valley that fell away from the house.
It was all so beautiful, so comforting, sitting in counterbalance to the recent fires of hell, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that those fires were still burning, not just on the other side of the La Manche, but in her, drawing her back into the maw of death they had just escaped. Was that why everything looked so clean, so soft, so exquisite on this side? Was everything really about balance and counterbalance? Was this really the counterbalance to that world? Was Harry really Voldemort's counterbalance? What then, was she? What did she counterbalance? Was she a splendor to behold—or a part of hell? If she counterbalanced Harry in a relationship, what did that say about her? About him?
Fleur sighed and got out of bed, willing away thoughts too deep to ponder after just waking up.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Still staring at his broom, the weight of Harry's actions struck him. The mammoth bedroom felt as though it was closing in on him as he came grips with his reckless actions and the witch he had risked. The blame was all his. He was the one that headed into the forest. He was the one that flew over the battle. He was the one that almost hurt Fleur by crashing into a tree. He was the one that put Fleur in danger of being hexed. No one else.
Harry slid the glass door open and escaped from the room, walking out on the patio and down a path into the back gardens.
How could he have been so daft—a bloody brilliant thing to do to Fleur, wasn't it? Some git he turned out to be. What a smashing good way to protect her, fly right into the battle! What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Probably not. It's just like before. Find two people who are finally willing to be friends and what does he do?
Harry came up on a stone bench and sat down, overwhelmed.
Put them in danger. That's exactly what he did—Just like last time. It's the same thing he did to Ron and Hermione. He told Hermione to drink the potion when they were going after the Philosopher's Stone. What if she had been wrong?
He remembered watching her shudder as she finished drinking from the bottle. For a split second he was sure that she'd made a mistake. She would have died. That's what would have happened, and he told her to go first, letting her take the risk before he tried the other potion. Then there's the Third Year. She always looked out for him and what did he do? He got mad at her for telling Professor McGonagall about the broom Sirius bought.
Harry put his head in his hands. What kind of friend had he been?
What about Ron? Sure, he hurt Hermione's feelings that night the troll was set loose, but did Harry say anything to him? Not a damn thing. Did he go help Hermione? Not one bit, not until they were both heading for the tower. Then what did Harry do? He told Ron to be the bait while Harry played it safe and ran to Hermione. Ron got the troll to turn its away from her, trapping him instead. Smart move Harry, trade one friend for another.
The only reason he had to jump on the troll was because he sent Ron to a place he couldn't get out of. Guess it didn't matter to Ron though, break a bunch of rules and get a Dragon to safety? Ron's by his side. Quidditch? Ron's right there supporting him.
Harry put his hands over his eyes and cringed as he replayed Ron sacrificing himself in the real-life chess match.
And he stuck by Harry, even when his sister was almost killed because they were associated with him.
He continued on, thinking about how so many accused him of being the Heir of Slytherin, but Ron stood steadfastly by his side . . . .
**"You do believe me, don't you?"
"'Course I do," Ron said quickly. "But—you must admit it's weird . . ."
"I know it's weird," said Harry.
A grim smile crossed Harry's face as he remembered Ron fighting his fear of spiders that year. Sure, he hated them, but he was still there next to Harry, trying to overcome his terror.
Yet, the very next year what does he do? With a broken leg, Ron stands up and informs a wanted mass-murderer that he was going to have to kill him and Hermione to get to me. He even jumped on Sirius knowing that he couldn't protect himself with his leg like that.
Harry's head was still in his hands. And then, he acted like such a child this year, refusing to see his side, refusing to even talk with him after that night, or even admitting that he may have overreacted, and then he waited until Ron came to him.
The only time Ron didn't believe him. If Harry had talked to him about his scar hurting, at least it would have given him more reason to accept that someone else put Harry's name in the goblet. Then again, the day before the drawing, Harry had even told him how he would have done it, or at least, when. It's no wonder he didn't believe Harry.
Harry leaned back and gazed through the valley into the distant Mediterranean Sea. After all of that, Ron was upset, but didn't yell. Not until Harry started in on him first, not until he basically called him stupid, until he pushed him away, willing to toss a friendship into the rubbish bin like it meant nothing—because he didn't believe Harry one time.
But it hurt so much when he didn't. Most of the professors didn't even believe him, and few if any of the other Houses did either.
So did that make it okay to act like that to Ron?
Of course not—and yet after all that, Ron still took up his wand against the Death Eaters. His whole family did. Every last Weasley there stood up for Harry and the others. Why did Voldemort even care about Hogwarts?
Harry. Had Harry not been around . . .
And then on top of all that, he almost got Fleur killed last night. What was he thinking? He must have bloody well gone mad. Everyone he loved or cared about was dying around him and what did he do? He took Fleur right into the middle of it all—and then watched Mrs. Weasley die.
So how many others are going to die because of me? Harry asked himself.
He knew how to stop the trail of death lying behind him; he could accept the destiny laid before him—and walk that path alone. There would be no safety, no peace, and no love untainted for him, until Voldemort was dead.
No safety, no peace, and no love untainted, he repeated to himself, realizing what it meant for him and Fleur.
Of course, every love he knew was tainted, usually with death.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
After showering and dressing, Fleur walked into the informal dining room where her mother and father were having lunch. "Papa, why aren't you working today?"
"Mon Fifille came home this morning. Why should I be at work?"
Fleur kissed him on the cheek before getting a cup from the cabinet. "You know Mon Fifille is outdated, even in the Wizarding world, don't you Papa?"
"Would you rather I called you Mon Cochon?"
"Not really." She chuckled. "I have no idea how 'Mon Cochon' became a pet name. What is it with us French using names of farm animals as terms of endearment?"
"I have no idea," Fleur's mother answered, walking into the room and pouring a cup of coffee for herself.
Fleur looked around the table, but didn't find what she was looking for and put the cup back in the cabinet. She called a house-elf and whispered instructions to it. The house-elf disappeared and Fleur sat down to wait. "How's Gabrielle?"
Her mother grimaced. "Same as you were, I think."
"I remember it not being fun." Fleur reminisced for a moment before coming back to the present. "What caused it to start early? According to Gabrielle, the last sign started a few days before you came to Hogwarts. I thought it took two months after that before the transformation begins."
Apolline Delacour smirked. "It usually does, but don't you remember how it varies? I'm sure your father does."
Fleur caught her father's eye and they both turned away somewhat embarrassed over the particulars of that night. Her transformation was particularly complete and. . . explosive. It was something a daughter never wants her father to see, accident or not.
"Sometimes," Fleur's mother began as she laughed at the two of them cringing, "when a Veela is infatuated with a young man, it can push our magic to speed up the transformation, like it did with you, or start it early—"
"Like it did with Gabrielle," Fleur finished the sentence, looking out the window at Harry sitting on the bench in the flower garden. She wanted to excuse herself and go to him after what happened last night and this morning, but somehow she knew he needed time to sort everything out in private, just like in the cave that first night. Harry would start talking when he was ready.
The house-elf returned with a cup of tea for Fleur. She thanked the elf before turning back to her mother.
"So you're saying 'Arry pushed her over the edge?" Fleur grinned into her tea.
"Something like that," her mother answered. "Having her prince-charming rescue her, then seeing him again a few months later lit the cauldron fire a little early."
"That's interesting," Fleur answered, not trusting herself to say anything else. She knew her mother was a little too perceptive at times. Worse, she wouldn't leave a subject alone if it meant she could tease her daughter.
"You know, it is amazing how similar you and Gabrielle are, both transforming like you did over a boy."
"Please Maman, don't remind me. Tavian was a spell-wreck."
"That may be, Mon Fifille, but you were very taken with him."
A corner of Fleur's lip pulled up. "I'm seventeen and both you and Papa still call me your little girl."
"As your Papa said, we could call you Mon Cochon."
Fleur rolled her eyes. "Anyway, unlike Gabrielle, I wasn't saved by the wizard that caused me to transform quickly, nor was I taken with Tavian. I was taken with his appearance; a mistake I have made all too often it seems, even more so about myself."
Her mother stopped in the middle of raising her cup for a sip, muttering Fleur's last words back to herself.
Fleur thought she was overdoing it a bit. "It's okay Maman, don't worry about it." She gestured out of the window to change the subject. "How's 'Arry doing?"
"I don't know," she answered. "We haven't seen him except through the window."
"Did he sleep?"
"Some. I remembered what you told me about his bad dreams. When I sneaked into his room this morning to put clothes on his bed, I took the opportunity to make sure his dreams were taken care of."
Fleur choked on her tea. "Maman! You didn't give him those types of dreams, did you?"
Her father choked on his coffee as well and his wife laughed at the both of them. "Of course not! I have better control over those abilities than you do. Whoever he dreamed about, was someone his own imagination would have supplied and it would have been a comforting dream, not necessarily a sexual dream."
She gave Fleur a hard look. "So, Daughter, what kind of dreams were you giving him?"
Fleur blushed, but realized she had nothing to be ashamed of and looked straight into her mother's eyes. "Any kind I needed to in order to keep him comfortable, instead of screaming out in pain in the middle of the night."
Her father set his cup down and rubbed his forehead. "I'm not happy to hear about you giving someone those kind of dreams about you." He huffed. "I'd tell you not to do it again, but you're too old, too stubborn, and too argumentative to listen to me anyway."
"Am not," Fleur slipped in with a smirk.
He shook his head, but she could see a tug on his lips before he turned serious again. "I guess I should be more worried about why a fourteen year old boy has—"
"Don't. Call. Him. A. Boy." Fleur growled out.
Both parents looked at her in surprise.
"He may only be fourteen years old, Papa, but he's more of a wizard than half the new graduates you'll employ this summer and more of a man than all of them combined."
Her father pinned Fleur with a stare. "That's a bold statement."
"And I have a good reason to make it," Fleur declared. "I've seen wizards twice his age act half as mature and that was in a normal situation, let alone when the dragon shits in the boiling cauldron."
"Fleur!" her mother gasped. "Where did you pick that up? It's crass."
"Crass or not, Maman, it's the truth—I've seen it with my own eyes."
The kitchen went quiet for a minute before her father asked, "What exactly did you see?"
"I . . . I'm not ready to talk about it, Papa. At least let me spend a few hours home first, please?" Fleur ignored the looks she was getting from both of her parents and gestured out the window again. "Has he eaten today?"
"No," her father answered. "Speaking of which, when did you last eat?"
"Last night, at the Burrow—the house of a friend that 'Arry knows . . . knew." Fleur exhaled at the thought of her almost forty-eight hours at the Burrow. The worn carpets and furniture, trinkets and photos overflowing drawers and desks, a mother that gave of her family and then herself.
Fleur's thoughts expanded to the fourteen and fifteen year old witches and wizard she now knew, still in the middle of a war, a few of them with their own families ripped away already. How many more to come this time?
Her mother reached across the table. "My dear, you look terrible. You know you can tell us anything, right?"
"I know, but like I said, I'm not ready to talk about it yet. I'm going to go check on my sister and Harry."
Fleur finished her tea and set the cup on the table, missing her parents' amusement at the British habit she picked up, but also missing their concerned looks.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
No safety, no peace, and no love untainted, he repeated to himself, realizing what it meant for him and Fleur.
Love? Why am I thinking of Fleur?
A second memory Flooded Harry's mind, Fleur in tears as she slapped him. There was only one other person who had ever slapped Harry across the face and Harry damned well knew his Uncle didn't love him, nor he his Uncle. So what does that say about Fleur? How could she resort to the same thing Uncle Vernon did? How else was she like him?
She kept him away from Sirius last night. She stopped him from running after him. And what about Mrs. Weasley? What if I was out there? She kept me away from my real family, just like Uncle Vernon did every summer, not letting me talk to them on the phone or even get owls.
Harry shook his head. That wasn't fair. Fleur was doing what Sirius wanted her to do, she didn't complain when Harry flew into the battle. She even cast spells to keep him safe. No, it was Harry that had almost gotten her killed.
There was no way Fleur was the same as his uncle. She cared about him. She made him feel. . . what? Better? What was that about?
What was she doing? She giggled and blushed and made me laugh. But why? Did she really care, really mean any of those things? How can she care about me if she slaps me—if she does the same thing Uncle Vernon did? Sure as Agrippa's left nut my Uncle didn't love me or care for me. Aunt Petunia never tended to me, regardless of what happened. . . .
So how can Fleur slap me like Uncle did, but also tend to me? Was it just that we spent so much time with each other? Was that it? Maybe she still thought I was just a little boy who had to be taken care of?
Harry was so completely confused by this point that he would have almost preferred climbing back into the cupboard under the stairs for a few days.
He snorted. I wouldn't even fit anymore.
Harry sighed and walked back to his room thinking about how the discontinuity in his life now was even greater than that summer he'd learned he was a wizard.
Sometimes, a thought echoes in the mind until it dominates every other thought, pushing them away.
Other times, it's just a word.
Life.
What cruel word. What good was life now? He was sick and tired of people dying for him. How many were there? Voldemort had killed his parents; Voldemort through Quirrell caused Ron to be injured; Lucius Malfoy cost Ginny and Hermione months out of their lives; Peter Pettigrew cost Sirius years—and betrayed Harry's parents; those Death Eaters tortured Neville's parents; Death Eaters killed Susan's parents—
Harry stumbled on the path at the realization that it could all be traced back to one person, someone whom nobody had been able to stop.
Except him.
The prophecy was right! He had beaten Voldemort three times already.
Like the dawn of the desert morning, the truth cast its harsh light on him, only this sunrise was as black as coal and a harbinger of the coming destruction Harry could not yet see.
But he could see the truth. It was time to not only defeat Voldemort, but to kill him, to make sure he's dead. And since I must die in order to kill him, why not take as many Death Eaters with me as possible, payback for what they've taken from everyone else, and while I'm at it, why not use their own beloved Dark Arts to shove it all right up their collective arse?
Why the bloody hell shouldn't I? I am going to die anyway. What's left for me now?
Love?
Who do I love that's still alive?
Fleur?
I care about Fleur—even if she doesn't me.
But do I love her? I think I would've if she felt the same way—and I didn't have a Dark Lord hanging over my head. Nothing I can do about Fleur now, except try to make sure she's safe.
Sirius? Remus?
If they're not dead already, they will be if I don't kill Voldemort and as many of his Death Eaters as possible. After what happened at the graveyard, that'd make Fleur safer as well.
Neville?
I'd be doing him a favor. I take on the strength to avenge his parents, my parents, kill as many of the bastards as possible, then give up my own life to make sure Voldemort dies. Neville gets to live on, without damaging his own soul by killing me.
Susan? Cho? Others?
How long will it be before they're murdered, or raped in their homes by a Death Eater, or strung out across another body-ridden killing field?
A killing field; Auror Tonks was right calling it that. Why can't killing fields be filled with bodies of Death Eaters instead?
If I'm going to die either way, why can't I make my own killing field?
Harry made it back up the hill and into his room. Sitting at the desk facing the wall opposite of the sliding doors, he pulled out the books that were safely stored in his cloak and began reading. He knew that in some ways, he was acting out of love for everyone he had just thought about, much in the same way his mother did when she sacrificed herself for him.
It's just that this time, this sacrifice would cause death as well as protect others from it.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
"She didn't tell us a thing." Jacque said after Fleur walked out of the room.
"We have to be patient." Apolline moved over to the chair next to her husband and laid her hand on top of his. "I'm sure it isn't as bad as we're making it out to be."
He shook his head. "No, My Love, it's much worse than we thought. There is speculation in my department that as many as thirty died at Hogwarts, maybe even some of the Seventh Year students. Keep in mind, we haven't heard from Madam Maxime, either."
Jacque set his cup on the table. "When called the office this morning to tell Philippe I wasn't coming in, you should have seen his relief. He was too damn happy to have Fleur on this side of la Manche. I asked him why, but all he would say was, 'It's bad.' He refused to say anything more through an open Floo connection."
"That doesn't mean it's as bad as you're making it out to be. Jacque, relax and be happy you have your daughter home safe."
"That I will most definitely do, but. . . ."
"What's really bothering you?" Apolline asked, leaning into the table to be a little closer to him.
He wrestled with his answer, not sure he even wanted to broach the subject, but knew he wouldn't get away with not telling her. "I'm wondering how long it will be before I must raise my wand to kill again."
The weight of what he was seeing in his family's future was making it hard for him to even breathe. "What about Fleur's friend in our other bedroom?" he finally choked out.
"What about him?" She asked, her voice firm.
Jacque knew that voice. The Veela matriarchal drive to protect family and young was strong, regardless of whether the Zekānōt chose to put them through the Gegenumenou and awaken the full Veela within.* "He is welcomed here in the short-term, but I worry."
"About?"
He hesitated for a second, deciding he didn't want to argue with his wife and answered with another, though much less, concern. "About what will happen when Gabrielle sees him before her magic is under control. I think Monsieur Potter should occupy the downstairs apartment instead of our guest bedroom next to an emerging and as yet, uncontrolled Veela."
"I don't think it'll be a problem," his wife answered, "but it's still a good idea. He will want privacy."
Jacque nodded, thinking he had done well to sidestep the bigger concern, at least for now.
He hadn't. "Don't congratulate yourself on changing your answer, Jacque. I know that's not what has you worried."
He grunted. "You know me too well, Apolline."
She leaned back in her chair, taking her hand off his and raising her eyebrow at him in an unspoken request to come clean.
He finally came out with it. "The Death Eaters are back."
"Death Eaters?" she repeated in surprise. "Please tell me you're lying."
"I wish so. Like I said, before I came home yesterday some reports came in concerning Britain over the previous eighteen hours. If I take that and add it to Philippe's reactions this morning, I can only come to one conclusion. Something major with Death Eaters is happening in Britain and that young man in our bedroom may be a prime target."
Jacque clenched his teeth together, his eyes fixated on a point on the wall and his voice hard. "I did not help rid France of Death Eaters thirteen years ago only to put a target on my family's back now, but that's exactly what I'm doing by giving shelter to Harry Potter." He pushed back from the table and walked out of the kitchen without another word.
Apolline clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She'd only seen this side of her husband while the previous war raged in Wizarding Britain. It was a poorly kept secret that the problems and bigotries so rampant across la Manche had also taken root in France—as did the war.
In those days, Jacque was a young Apparition teacher in the French magical government, but as the battles intensified, every wand was called upon. Apolline remembered waiting for him to come home, fear palpable night after night as the hands of the clock wound their way to the morning hours, only to see her husband Apparate home dangerously wounded time after time.
Then there was that last night. She could see the lights flaring from curses in the valley below. It was the first time she truly saw and understood what her husband was going through. Fear had ripped through her when the lights from the curses suddenly ceased that night. In their place, sounds of Apparition echoed through the valley so loud they shook the windows of the Delacour mansion. It was eleven pm, the night before All Saints day, 1981.
She'd never forget when her husband showed up an hour later. Reports had come across la Manche that Voldemort had been defeated. The battle she'd seen had ended when the Death Eaters felt the destruction of their Dark Lord. . . .
. . . And the reason the war ended that night, was now under their roof—and he needed their help.
Apolline walked into the large, open family room where her husband was sitting on the small love seat, looking out over the valley and sat next to him.
"My love," she began, "the boy who is walking up the very same path you walked that last night you fought Death Eaters, is the same boy who ended that war. Will you turn him away now that he is need of our help?"
He looked at her.
And Apolline Delacour, for the first time in her life, feared her husband. No one could stare into those eyes and not have the same reaction. Warriors have a certain look to them, even if they start out in life as a Apparition teachers, and no matter how many years the warrior hides beneath the surface of a family man, he remains, just below the surface.
His voice shook her out of her thoughts. "You know me better than that, Apolline. You have no need to even ask," he growled before facing his wife, his voice now as cold as a sepulcher. "I will not refuse him short-term shelter, or the help he needs. To do so would be both irresponsible and wrong, but if he brings danger to this family, I will turn this house, this town, this country into Abaddon's lair before I let you or one of my daughters suffer. If that means turning against 'Arry Potter, then I will do it. My family will not be 'urt."
Apolline tried to calm her breathing as she reached over and placed a still shaking hand on the back of his neck, playing with his hair. "This is one of the reasons I married you. You care too much for those whom you love. But I also know you care much for those who are in need of love."
She paused, letting it sink in. "His story isn't a secret, mon Cher. I expect you to do no less for him, nor worry any less about your wife and daughters." She leaned over and kissed him, still proud to be married to the man after all these years, even more so now after seeing a hint of what he had to become to protect is family. She couldn't help but wonder how many others had become the same thing.
Looking out the window, Harry was just now cresting the hill to go back into his room, but the look on his young face was eerily reminiscent of her husband's.
What the. . . ?
She shook off the thought. Chances are, he and Fleur were stuck at the school with everyone else and got to France as soon as possible. There's no way a boy the age of Harry Potter could have the same experiences as her husband and others that fought day after day in that war.
Apolline kissed her husband before leaving the room, deciding that it was time to introduce herself to the young wizard.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
After leaving the kitchen, Fleur went back to her room to put away the items from her trunk before seeing her sister. Finished floating and banishing everything to their respective places, she walked down to the other end of the hall. Quietly, she opened the door and whispered, "Gabrielle?"
"Fleur?" a faint whisper returned.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, walking into the room. Gabrielle reached for her wand and a moment later, the room filled with a soft light.
"Oh, Gabrielle! You should see yourself!"
"Am I as beautiful as you?"
Fleur was caught short, amazed at how such a simple question could be so complex. The Veela heritage assured that Gabrielle would be gorgeous, but Fleur's little sister was more than that, she was beautiful in a way Fleur so desperately wanted to be.
"It's okay," Gabrielle continued, a little saddened when Fleur didn't answer right away. "I just hoped that we could look like sisters again."
Fleur sat at the edge of her bed. "You're beautiful, now I want you promise me something."
"Okay, I promise."
Fleur snickered. "How can you say you'll promise when you don't even know what you're promising?"
"Because I trust you; you're my heroine!"
A heroine? Fleur thought to herself. It was a hero that saved you when I couldn't, a hero that saved me from Voldemort, a hero that I forced to Portkey to France—forced to stop being a hero for others.
But wasn't that the right thing? She argued with herself, forgetting where she was. He would have died if he stayed.
That may be, she continued, but what I did when we got here, was that right?
"What's wrong?" Gabrielle asked, quickly trying to sit up.
Fleur reached out and stopped her, softly laying her head back down on the pillow. "Don't move so fast," she said. "When I was going through this, any sudden movement made me so dizzy I thought I'd get sick."
"I'm already sick." Gabrielle switched to English. "I think you mean you wanted to puke, or ralph, or upchuck!"
Fleur squeezed her eyebrows together. "That's rather crude! And since when is your English so good?"
Gabrielle switched back to French. "They're great words, aren't they! I learned them from an American witch I'm friends with now. We practice speaking English one day and French the next."
Fleur gazed at her sister proudly, just a few weeks away from becoming a legal Veela adult. "I'm impressed, but remember not to use them around Maman. She speaks English as well and you'd send her into full-feather if she heard you using them."
Gabrielle laughed and wrapped her older sister in a big hug. "I missed you. I'm sorry we couldn't watch. I guess, I guess I was a little too excited about seeing 'Arry again. As soon as I saw him everything just went strange."
"It's happened to more than one witch." Fleur stopped for a second, trying not to laugh at the unintended admission. "Did Maman tell you what caused my transformation to happen so quickly?"
"She said you got kissed!"
Fleur laughed. "Oh, did I ever. I started changing about half a minute into it. By the time I got home, I already looked like this. About three seconds after I got through the door, I changed again."
Gabrielle gasped. "You went right into your bird form?"
"Yeah, it was so traumatic I even started molting."
Gabrielle laughed so hard she grabbed her head and moaned.
"Easy, Gabby," Fleur reminded her.
When she was able to speak again, Gabrielle had to ask, "Did you really molt?"
"Probably not, but there were so many feathers in the foyer that it looked like I did. Papa still swears that's what happened."
Gabrielle's eyes widened. "Was Papa there when you changed?"
"Yeah. I think we're both still scarred from it, too."
"I would be so embarrassed."
"I was. Last thing I ever wanted him to see was me as a naked adult Veela. But if you haven't practiced using your Veela magic to banish your clothes safely, that's exactly what's going to happen."
Fleur watched as a look of horror crossed Gabrielle's face and waited for the next question she knew was coming.
"Would you teach me as soon as I'm ready? I really don't want to do that in front of Papa."
Fleur almost teased Gabrielle, telling her that she wouldn't want to do it in front of Harry either, but she figured it wouldn't be a good idea to let Gabrielle know Harry was in the house; at least not yet, so she just answered the question.
"What are big sisters for?"
Gabrielle grinned madly. "Thanks!" But after a few more seconds, her mood seemed to shift.
"Um, Fleur, was Papa mad at you when you transformed?"
"Of course not. Why?"
"He just seems mad at me all the time now. Well, not really mad, but, upset."
"I think it has more to do with his little girl growing up," Fleur said. "Papas usually have four or five years to get used their daughters becoming women, but, four days ago you were a little girl and now you have the body of a twenty-two year old model."
Gabrielle beamed.
"And in a few weeks your other changes will be finished making you a legal Veela adult, which means Papa can't stop you from making decisions or even getting married. He's just upset because he's losing his last little girl."
Gabrielle nodded. "I don't like him being upset with me."
"Don't worry, he's not upset with you. Papa loves us too much to be upset about something like that. He just worries that we'll be safe and find the right guy and whatever else papas always worry about."
"I guess." Gabrielle changed the subject. "So why did everything happened so fast for you, if it usually takes weeks?"
"Maman asked the Zekānōt when she announced my transformation. They said sometimes it just happens that way." Fleur adjusted the way she was leaning on the bed. "Nothing else sped up though, It still took me a couple weeks before I could do more than sit up for an hour and another week or so to gain full control of my Veela magic."
"Really? It just takes a week?"
"About that. Veela magic isn't like wizard magic, it's more like breathing. You do it naturally, but you can learn to hold your breath, or blow it out really hard. You can hold in your Veela magic, or you can push it out really hard, but either way, you don't really have to think about it that much, especially after you've learned how to control it. Anyway, there's no reason to apologize for missing the tournament. After all, you can't help who you're attracted to."
"I know, I just wish we could have been there that night."
"I'm rather happy you were home safe," Fleur said cryptically. "So, 'Arry Potter? I guess he is kind of cute, isn't he?"
"Who?" Gabrielle asked innocently.
Fleur motioned to the pictures and articles on her walls. "Don't be coy, Gabby!"
She giggled, lowered her head down a little, and looked up at Fleur from under her eyelashes, giving Fleur the first glimpse of the sultry look an adult Gabrielle was going to be able to pull off.
Fleur groaned quietly, knowing the look was completely unintentional, which made it so much worse. When she learned how to use it, on top of the natural Veela charms. . . . "Gabby, you're going to be trouble, aren't you?" She asked.
Gabrielle giggled again and Fleur groaned louder.
"Anyway, I want you to remember that many, many wizards and Vulgaire men are going to be as attracted to you as you seem to be to 'Arry."
"I know, I've seen wizards around you. Don't worry, I've watched you and know exactly how to ignore them."
Fleur touched her younger sister's arm. "That's part of what I want you to promise me. Be nice to them, Gabrielle, it's not you who are attracting them; it's the Veela in you. You will have to be firm, but please, be nice."
"Okay," Gabrielle said, as if it made all the sense in the world. Fleur was again amazed at how much her not-so-little sister trusted her.
"You said that was part of it, what else did you want me to promise?" she asked.
"Don't confuse your looks with being beautiful. You'll find out someday soon that being a Veela is wonderful and being gorgeous, for us, is easy. But we are also human and it's very difficult to be a beautiful human. Just keep asking yourself, 'Would a blind wizard think I'm beautiful today,' okay?"
"But a blind wizard can't see!" she protested.
"I know, that's my point."
Gabrielle scrunched up her eyebrows. "It must be a maturity thing."
Fleur laughed, then bent down and kissed her sister's cheek. "You'll understand soon enough. The last part of your transformation is maturity. It takes a few more weeks, plus experience, but just keep being who you are and remember the question; ask it often of yourself."
"Okay."
"Good. When you're feeling better"—Fleur paused and looked at her sister, realizing again that even without Veela magic, her effect on wizards would be tremendous—"and you have all your Veela powers under control, we'll go out and celebrate your becoming an adult. Okay?"
Gabrielle's face split from ear to ear. "That'd be great! We can go to the Wizarding Street and we can shop and I'll take you to Vulgaire Paris and show you an American store that serves all types of coffee and you can show me how to act like a Veela in public and we—"
Fleur laughed again. "Slow down. I'm not going anywhere for a while, so we can do whatever you want when you're ready."
"I can't wait! Thanks for coming home. I really did miss you."
"I've missed you, too," Fleur answered. But as her eyes lingered on the younger Veela, her thoughts wandered to another country where newly found friends were missing parents and loved ones, where witches a little older that Gabrielle had died a few days ago to protect their little sisters and brothers, where a witch named Ginny Weasley died for Harry and her and the other Champions.
Fleur exited the room so Gabrielle wouldn't see her struggling with her emotions again.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Apolline was walking to Harry's bedroom when she heard Fleur talking to her younger daughter. There was something in her voice that made Apolline stop and listen.
It was nice to hear the two of them laughing together again. But when she saw Fleur emerge from the room, she wasn't laughing anymore. Apolline put her arms around her daughter and held on tightly.
"Shh, Fleur. Whatever it is, we are here," her mother said after a few minutes.
"It's just been so much."
"I can tell. I'm starting to worry, mon Fifille."
"There's no need. It's just time for me to grow up."
Apolline nodded, a little surprised. "Does growing up having anything to do with being a beautiful human?"
"You heard that?"
"I did, what did you mean?"
Fleur had to clear her throat before she could talk. "It's just that I realized I don't want someone to just be in love with me as a Veela, I want them to be in love me as a human as well; I want them to see through the Veela looks to who I am, and love me for, for being me and if I am not so beautiful when he sees past the Veela like he does then why will he ever stay with me?" She finally took a breath.
"He?" Apolline turned to the side so Fleur could see the door to Harry's bedroom.
She watched a myriad of emotions flash across her daughter's face before Fleur answered. "That's something else I don't want to talk about, but I could do so much worse."
"I thought you wanted an older, stayed wizard, 'Someone with status and direction,' I think you said last summer."
"I want someone who loves me, not gives me status. You didn't raise me to care about status anyway. Direction, we can find together."
With that, Apolline found herself being hugged again before she was left alone, standing in the hallway.
She was both ecstatic and horrified over the daughter who had returned. Fleur had finally grown up, but what crucible wrought such change so quickly?
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
A little later in the afternoon, Fleur was standing in the kitchen, arguing with a house-elf.
"No, Mademoiselle Fleur. Froissé be doing the cooking!"
"Froissé, you cook wonderfully, but I want to make something special for someone."
"Mademoiselle Fleur think Froissé not cook special enough?" Tears gathered at the bottom of her eyes.
"It's always special, but I. . . ." Fleur stopped for a second, thinking about how to express what she wanted to say. "I want to serve like Froissé serves so I can be happy."
"Why would Mademoiselle Fleur do that? Mademoiselle Fleur likes to be served, not serve others."
Fleur knelt, eye-level with the elf. "That Fleur was left in Britain, hopefully never to be heard from again. But this Fleur wants to serve my friend, so that I can be happy, like Froissé is happy when she serves, yes?"
The house-elf clumped to her. "Froissé is happy. Froissé's Mademoiselle Fleur is home. Not nasty Mademoiselle Fleur from Beauxbatons."
Ouch, guess I deserved that. "It took me a while to find my way back, but I'm trying. So will Froissé let me cook so I can serve my friend?"
"Mademoiselle Fleur can help Froissé cook!"
Fleur sighed, figuring that was the best offer she was going to get. "Alright."
Together, they prepared croissants and fruit tartes for Le Goûter, equal to a late afternoon snack, though no self-respecting French citizen, Vulgaire or wizard, would admit it as such. Le Goûter is a much more sophisticated. . . snack.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
"'Arry?"
Harry wondered how long it would be before she sought him out. He also wondered why his stomach was doing flips at the sound of her voice. Hadn't he settled this issue already?
He opened the door and walked back to the chair he'd been sitting in.
"Papa and Maman say you 'aven't eaten today. Is this true?"
Harry nodded once.
"Please 'Arry, say something." Fleur set the tray on the coffee table and sat down next to him in the other chair.
He looked up at her and was taken in by her eyes—as if he was looking through a window into the softest, almost Maya blue sky. His heart caught in his throat.
"I'm, I'm not sure what to say," he whispered.
Why did Fleur have this affect on him? She didn't back at the Burrow, well, not totally. He knew it wasn't her magic, but everything he had decided on just a little earlier seemed to have dissolved as soon as she walked into the room.
"Then let me begin. I was mad this morning 'Arry. You almost left me and if you did, there would be no way I could get you to France and safety." Fleur's voice got quieter. "I didn't want you to die. I couldn't 'ave that."
"But, that's where I belong." Harry countered. "Not here. Not somewhere in the middle of France safe when everyone I've ever known in my world is being killed."
Fleur looked down. Harry almost missed it when she began speaking again a few moments later. "Your godfather wanted me to bring you to France. When you're ready 'Arry, I promise"—tears started and Harry had to fight himself from reaching out to her—"I promise I won't stop you from going back, but only when you're ready. Please don't do it now. Please 'Arry?"
He sat silently.
"Do you promise?" she almost begged.
This is worse than fighting Voldemort! Thankfully, he didn't say that out loud. "I guess. I really don't have a choice, do I?"
Fleur smiled and handed him a croissant. "It won't be as good as what you bought me yesterday, but it should be edible I think, no?"
Harry took a bite. "I can see why you weren't happy with English food. This is really good." He could see from the way she was looking at him that he at least did something right, so he tried the fruit tart and complimented it as well.
She was beaming. "Thank you, my 'ouse-elf and I made them for you."
Harry suddenly found himself very uncomfortable. It was one thing for him to buy gifts for others, or to get something from Ron or Hermione, but for Fleur to cook for him? Where does that fall on the line between taking care of a little boy and love?"
"You didn't have to do that Fleur. I'm sorry to be a bother."
"A bother? Non, 'Arry, I wanted to make this for you."
Harry clamped his mouth shut, tightly, before the questions that were right there on his tongue spilled out, questions he so desperately wanted answers to—why did she help him? Did she care about him? Did she love. . . Harry mentally stumbled over that one. He knew it was foolish to think he'd ever be that lucky and if he was, it'd just cause more grief once he did what he had to do after killing Voldemort.
Fleur changed the subject. "Papa said you can stay the apartment downstairs. It is a little more private and not across the hall from a transforming Veela. It might not be so good to 'ave 'er 'ero next to 'er. Maybe her magic is stronger than mine, no? That's not a chance I think I want to take."
The wink confirmed that she was playing with him, trying to ease him into this peaceful world she had violently flung him into, but for the second time that day a single word reverberated in Harry's thoughts.
Hero.
No, heroes don't endanger friends nor do they take someone who should be fawned over into the middle of a battle on the back of a broomstick.
"I'm no hero, Fleur."
Fleur lifted her hand to touch Harry's face, but he reacted involuntarily, flinching back and cringing.
Fleur gasped. "Non, 'Arry. Non, non, non. I wasn't going to 'it you, I would never 'it . . ." her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes and dropped her head to her chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered before quickly leaving the room.
Not knowing what else to do and having no idea how to handle the emotions of an older witch, let alone a quarter-Veela, Harry stared at the door as it closed behind her.
Throughout his life, and so much more over the last few days, Harry had screwed the lid down on his emotions. When they did emerge, his emotions showed themselves as rage or anger or even pain. But the free-flowing emotion he saw from Fleur both attracted him and scared him; and in the end, he couldn't deal with it, not if he wanted to succeed in what he needed to do.
Harry retrieved the book he'd hidden under the pillows on the bed. He had hidden it because he remembered Fleur's reaction in the cave when she read the title, A Dark Journey to Power, and didn't want to see what her reaction would have been this time.
Hopefully, he could learn about the journey wizards before him had taken, maybe even find out why some of them got so out of control.
Even though Harry knew his destiny, he didn't want to lose himself in the journey, not completely anyway.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
Dinner was usually served late in the Delacour home.
Fleur, in her bedroom, used numerous charms and ready-to-use potions so she didn't look like she been crying most of the afternoon. It wasn't that she wanted to hide it for vanity's sake, but rather, after the way she came home this morning and what her mother saw earlier, Fleur didn't want to give them any more reason to worry during dinner.
"Have I told you how happy I am to have you home?" her father asked as she walked into the informal dining room just off the kitchen.
"Three or four times, I think," Fleur answered with a light laugh.
He chuckled, but quickly turned serious. "We've been very worried about you, afraid you were caught up in whatever was happening across la Manche."
Fleur sat down. "We were."
Her mother came into the dining room. "Should I go see if 'Arry wants to eat?"
"No," Fleur answered. "I made him something for Le Goûter. If he wants dinner, I'll take it to him after we're finished. He probably wants to be alone now."
Fleur again missed the look her parents shared.
"Then we will have this night to ourselves to celebrate your return," her father announced. "I'll cook." He got up and walked into the kitchen.
"Won't Froissé be upset?" Fleur asked.
"I gave her the task of redecorating the downstairs apartment. She and the other elves are all happily making it suitable for Monsieur Potter."
"Oh. Well, if you're cooking, could you make an English dish? 'Arry has never had a real French meal. He's used to the heavier English foods and I really doubt he likes bouillabaisse." She smiled at the memory.
Fleur barely caught sight of her father, leaning back and staring at her from the entrance to the kitchen, though she was very aware—and very much ignoring—her mother who wasn't trying too hard to restrain her own grin.
Maman, why do you have to be so bloody perceptive? Zut! How many English habits have I picked up this year?
"Well then, I will make something for us, and then an English dish for 'Arry Potter so he can eat in private after we are finished."
Fleur heard him chuckling as he pulled out pots and pans, enjoying the physical work of cooking for a reason neither mother nor daughter ever understood.
"We've only had sketchy reports at work," her father was saying a while later as they began eating. "What happened at 'Ogwarts."
"A dragon almost burnt her skirt off, I heard."
Fleur's fork clattered to her plate. "'Arry?"
His smile had a dark tinge to it, almost bitter, but not quite. "Sorry to startle you."
"We are informal here," Fleur's father said to him. "Take a plate off the buffet cabinet and come eat with us, or if you wait, I'll make you an English dish that you're more familiar with."
"Thank you, sir, but this will be fine." Harry walked into the room and turned his back to Fleur to pick up a plate and utensils.
She noticed that the trousers he was wearing almost fit him. They were much better than the weekend clothes she'd seen him wearing around Hogwarts. The legs were a bit long, but the trousers were definitely tighter in the derrière and that was good. Well, wait a second, that seemed to be very good—Fleur blushed as Harry turned around.
Seeing his shirt, she rolled her eyes. "Papa, did you pick out 'Arry's shirt this morning?"
"No, mon Fifille, I chose it," her mother answered. "Why do you ask?"
Fleur glanced at her mother, who was looking at her rather intently and smirking now.
"I was wondering why you chose to put the jersey of the French national team on the back of an English wizard?"
"Well, since 'e's in France," she began, "'e should try to fit in and a French jersey always makes an English wizard look good. I thought it would go well with the trousers, don't you think so?" she asked, winking at Fleur. Her smirk grew a little larger.
I'm going to so get you back for this, Maman.
Fleur was saved by Harry. "Speaking of which, I was going to ask where I could buy some clothes tomorrow. I guess I also need to wash what I was wearing this morning as well."
Fleur began to answer, but was cut off by her mother, who looked to be enjoying herself a little too much. "I don't think Fleur would mind you wearing those trousers and jersey again tomorrow. We can wash them tonight."
Fleur turned bright red, growled out a warning to her mother in French, and answered Harry's question. "There's a store that sells shirts in town. You should be able to get some trousers there as well."
"Um, okay. Thanks."
Fleur knew something was off, but couldn't figure out what it was.
"'Arry," Jacque began, "They sell, 'ow do you say it, boxers? Yes, boxer shorts there.
"Thank you, sir." Harry answered, turning slightly red.
Fleur had to bite her lip to stop from laughing at his flush, but didn't fail to notice again just how cute it was.
"'Arry," Fleur's mother began in a serious but warm tone, "It is very nice to meet the young man who is a 'ero to both of my daughters."
"Thank you, ma'am." stammered Harry. "And no ma'am, I am not a hero. Fleur is more of a hero than me."
"You are 'umble as well as adorable, don't you think so, Fleur?" her mother asked. Fleur tried to kick her under the table and growled out another warning in French. It included a couple of words that her mother hadn't heard in several years.
Harry's slight blush turned fire engine red.
"Also 'Arry," she continued, after promising Fleur she'd behave, "there is no reason to be formal in this 'ouse. A simple 'oui' or 'non' is sufficient."
"Oui?" Harry asked.
Fleur could have sworn she saw his eyes flick towards her before looking back at her mother.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't understand French. Is 'we' like 'us" or 'my'? Or is it 'yes'?"
He glanced at Fleur and she noticed his expression softening. It wasn't much, but it was a start. She flashed a big smile back at him and again ignored her mother's grin.
"'Arry," her father began, more focused on what the future held for all of them than a budding romance in the dining room, "why do you say Fleur is more of a 'ero than you?"
"Non, Papa. We are not speaking of that at dinner."
"Fleur, when I 'ear my daughter praised like that, it makes me curious to know what you 'ave done and you 'ave avoided the conversation all day."
Fleur anglicized Papa to drive home the point. "Father, you will not make 'Arry speak of it during dinner."
She received uplifted eyebrows in response, but the subject was dropped. The rest of dinner consisted of talk about Wizarding France. Harry found out that the Muggle French National Hockey team was gaining in popularity among the French Magicals (which explained the jersey he was wearing). Of course, it was mainly because the hockey team had won the World Championship last year and the French Quidditch team . . . well, it really wasn't worth talking about.
But as a sport, both Fleur's father and Harry loved Quidditch. Fleur and her mother watched as the two wizards began to build a bond over Porskoff Ploys, Zagob deeks, and Wronski Feints.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X
After dinner, they retired to a large sitting room on the other side of the house. The fireplace took up an entire corner. The firebox was made of field stones cut and smoothed. The rest of it, including the chimney, was built out of Carrar White marble, intricately carved with the Fleur-di-lis centered on the mantle.
The room itself was large, with a cathedral ceiling far above their heads. Two chairs and a small love seat sat in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Delacour claimed one of the chairs and motioned her husband to the other one.
Fleur groaned, to her amusement.
"Comfortable, 'Arry?" Mrs. Delacour teased once they were all settled.
"Stop it, Maman. I think 'Arry 'as been teased enough."
As Fleur spoke, Harry felt her hand running through the back of his hair and pressed back gently, savoring the touch.
"It's getting so long," she said a few moments later, combing her fingers through it.
"I haven't had time to get it cut since just before the Yule ball."
"That's okay, I think it looks very good on you."
"Mr. Delacour, you were asking about Hogwarts earlier?" Harry asked to change the subject before he completely forgot everything he had promised himself earlier in the day.
"We don't need to talk about that, 'Arry," Fleur reminded him.
Harry disagreed. "I'm sure your parents want to hear about it. You and the other Champions saved my life. That's something they should know about."
Fleur's parents looked at her wide-eyed.
"It's not necessary to tell them," Fleur answered. "At least not that part."
"Then tell us something," her father said. "We've been getting reports at the Ministry that it may be upwards of thirty or more teachers and adults that were killed, maybe even a few of the older students."
"I wish it was true," Harry mumbled.
"Pardon me? What do you mean?" Mr. Delacour asked.
"I meant, I wish it were only thirty."
Fleur's father leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "'Ow many?"
"Almost all of them."
"All the adults?" he asked, astonished.
"No," Harry answered. "Almost everyone; adults, students - there's only a few of us left alive. Even more would have died, but they fought the Death Eaters so the younger ones could escape."
"Non!" He was suddenly pale. "Madame Maxime?"
"She's dead," Fleur answered in a faltering voice.
Harry took Fleur's hand without even thinking about it, trying to give her support and strength through the physical contact and wondering why he reacted so strongly to her every time the slightest thing was wrong—except when it involved him.
"I didn't see 'er body, but a few others saw 'er die. They were clearing the maze looking for us and didn't bother trying to protect themselves."
"But, 'ow?"
Harry and Fleur looked at each other for what seemed like forever before Fleur quietly answered.
"He rose, Papa."
"Who rose?" Mrs. Delacour asked, cutting off her husband who was just about to probably ask the same question.
"Voldemort." A shift took place in Harry as he answered, his voice expressionless and monotone.
Mrs. Delacour gasped.
Looking at her, Harry saw sadness and fear mixed in her expression as she stared back.
Mr. Delacour sat up straight and his voice boomed through the house, blustering in denial. "Do you know how many murders happened in France because of him and his Death Eaters? That's a hell of a thing to say, young man. Just how sure are you?"
Harry snorted, trying to keep the anger that began to rise out of his voice. "Sure? He had me bound and used my blood in a ritual to gain a new body." Harry pulled up the sleeve of his jersey and showed them the wound that was just now beginning to close properly. "This is where his Death Eater cut me."
Mr. Delacour turned white as his denial grew stronger. "It can't be! There's no way 'e would 'ave let you go!"
Fleur's eyes narrowed. "No? It can't be? Then explain 'ow I saw 'im torture 'Arry, Papa; 'ow 'e killed one of the other Champions, or 'ow 'e raised 'is wand to kill me! 'E would 'ave too if 'Arry 'adn't saved my life."
"What do you mean, 'raised his wand to kill you'?" Mr. Delacour responded in a low and dangerous voice. "Tell me you weren't dueling Voldemort."
"Yes, I was! 'E had his wand on me and was casting the Killing Curse."
"AND YOU JUST STOOD THERE AND LET 'IM?" her mother exploded.
"NO!" Fleur shouted back. "I JUST KILLED THE BASTARD NEXT TO HIM!"
"She saved my life," Harry said, hoping to calm the two Veela down. "Voldemort was hitting me with a Cruciatus Curse, then moved on to a few others. Fleur and the other Champions were at the bottom of a little hill. I told them to leave but they wouldn't listen to me. Instead, they raced up it and killed Five Death Eaters, but one of the other Champions was also killed by Voldemort, then he turned his wand on Fleur. It was only after she saved me that I was able to save her."
It was amazing how loud silence could be.
"You murdered someone?" her mother whispered.
"No! I saved 'Arry's life."
"But 'Arry just said—"
Fleur cut her off, loudly. "'E said that I killed the Death Eater! Killed, not murdered! They were torturing Harry! 'E was torturing Harry!"
Fleur's voice rose even louder and she began gesticulating wildly, Harry had no idea how they were still speaking in English while being this upset.
"Do you know what it's like sitting at the bottom of a little 'ill and 'earing a fourteen year old man being 'it with Cruciatus Curse repeatedly? 'Ave you ever looked up and watched curses light up the night sky, knowing every one of them 'it the very person who saved your sister's life? Non, Maman. The other two Champions and I rushed to the top of the 'ill and killed three of them. Cedric was killed by Voldemort then turned on me. 'Arry saved my life. We were able to kill two more before 'Arry won 'is duel with Voldemort and we Apparated back to the school."
Her parents looked like the air had been sucked out of the room.
"'Ow did you do it," Mr. Delacour finally asked Harry.
"Do what?" Fleur asked before Harry could say anything.
"How did he save your life?"
"Do you really want to know?" She questioned. Harry could hear a tone of warning telling both parents to leave the subject alone.
Her father conceded. "So he saved you and what, you ran back to the school?"
Fleur took Harry's hand again and held on tightly as they told her parents the rest of the story, up to using the Portkey to get to France.
For his part, Harry found himself so thoroughly confused about Fleur that for the first time in his life, he was happy to be talking about his exploits. At least he didn't have to think about everything he was feeling as she now leaned against him, her head on his shoulder and her hands holding his.
". . . And that's how we ended up here this morning," Harry finished. "I apologize for being a bother and promise to be out of your way as soon as I can find somewhere to stay."
"What?" Fleur sat up and turned on him, eyes narrowing at him this time.
"It would seem, Monsieur Potter," Mrs. Delacour began with another smile, "that my daughter is not 'appy with that plan. I think maybe you will stay in the downstairs apartment for a while, no?"
"I—I'm not sure if I should do that." Harry answered, a bit quieter.
"Why?" Fleur asked. There was that look again, the look that made Harry want to move mountains just to make her happy.
"I guess I'm not comfortable living here without helping, or paying rent or something."
"Rent?" Mr. Delacour repeated. "Do you have the means to pay rent, 'Arry?"
"Yes, sir, depending on how much it is."
"You are not going to charge 'Arry rent, Papa! Maman, tell 'im!"
"Fleur, I will charge him rent if that is what 'e wants. 'Arry, do you know 'ow much rent is?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Delacour thought for a few seconds. "This is what we will do. I will charge you one Galleon a month to live in the apartment downstairs, eat our food, and treat this 'ouse as yours. Is that fair?"
"No, sir," Harry replied. "I don't know how much rent is, but I do know it's more than a Galleon a month. That wouldn't even cover food for a day."
"All right then, five Galleons a month and you will spend two hours a day fixing the rock wall that is broken in the garden. Is that acceptable?"
Harry nodded. "I guess so, sir. Thank you."
"You're welcome, 'Arry, but if you don't stop calling me sir, I'll make you wish Voldemort finished what he started in that graveyard."
Harry noticed Fleur and her mother both gasping before launching into a cacophony of screamed threats and questions about Mr. Delacour's sanity. Harry swore he even saw the beginnings of Fleur transforming before she caught herself, but in all the commotion, Harry noticed Jacque tipping his head ever so slightly after closely scrutinizing Harry's reactions.
He knew Mr. Delacour was looking for something, and whatever it was, Harry had passed the test. He didn't like it, but he also recognized in the tip of the head, a certain respect.
In the midst of the two French Veela still yelling and Harry watching Mr. Delacour, nobody noticed the youngest Veela in the house gingerly coming out of the hallway into the open room.
"Why is everyone yelling?" she asked in French, catching them by surprise.
Harry looked over and saw someone whom he vaguely recognized. He had to admit to himself that she was breathtaking. She looked somewhat different than Fleur, but had that same ethereal beauty that both Fleur and her mother . . .
Then it hit him. "Gabrielle?"
Everything but her eyes froze as Harry leaned forward to say hi.
"'ARRY!"
POOF! Clothes, flesh, and feathers were everywhere as Gabrielle repeated the same incident as her sister.
Harry was mortified as he looked on. First, he noticed the gorgeous Veela standing still. Then, the hallway was littered with clothes as said gorgeous Veela stood before him naked as the transformation began.
At the same moment, Harry was hit with all Gabrielle's Veela magic.
In that split second, he remembered someone hanging on his arm, turned away, and closed his eyes, even though his heart began to race and his body dumped pheromones into his system, and the air.
"Impressive . . . and appreciated." Mr. Delacour said to Harry. Fleur and Ms. Delacour jumped out of their seats and ran across the room.
"Bloody hell she's strong!" Harry said through clenched teeth as he continued to fight the attraction.
A high-pitched scream told Harry that Gabrielle had come back to her senses. The desire to bed her disappeared completely.
Both wizards heard a 'whoosh' as feathers went everywhere, they turned on reflex just in time to see the young Veela running down the hall, already shifting out of her avian form.
Harry couldn't help but notice that Gabrielle now had a very nice bum.
He closed his eyes tightly. "That was probably something I should have never seen," he mumbled.
"You?" Mr. Delacour spat out. "I'm her damn father. That makes both daughters that I've . . . seen." He shuddered. "A man never wants to see 'is grown daughter naked."
"Froissé!" he cried out.
The house-elf appeared out of thin air.
Mr. Delacour wasted no time. "Alcohol, lots of it. In a glass. A big glass."
He looked over at Harry. "Two glasses. Bring the bottle."
An hour and a three-quarters of the bottle later Mr. Delacour was still trying to drown the memories, as was Harry. The two witches came back and had a drink with them, though they mainly laughed at the two wizards.
Even so, plans were made for Harry and Fleur to go to the French version of the Ministry of Magic and give testimony to what they saw in the UK.
A while later, Harry was shown his new room downstairs, though he needed Fleur's help to get to it.
It had been his first time drinking.
"So, 'Arry, think my sister is pretty?"
Harry muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "evil witch," making Fleur laugh.
She helped him undress and get into bed, then headed back upstairs as Harry pondering the day, mad at himself for not withstanding Fleur's ability to throw his entire world into chaos with just one look or word. He knew what destiny lay ahead. Why couldn't he put everything else aside? Why couldn't he put her aside?
In his inebriated state, he could be honest with himself. He knew exactly what he was going to become; a monster that hunted and killed for the pleasure of revenge. He was going to master the Dark Arts and become one of darkest wizards to have ever set foot in Britain. If Voldemort marked him as his equal, then Harry was going to become it, or his better.
Someplace he remembered reading, In vino veritas. "In wine, truth." Well, it wasn't exactly wine, but he couldn't hide from the truth; he had set a path to the Dark Arts and there was no way he wanted Fleur to see this journey.
Harry fell asleep with Sirius's advice ringing in his ears. "Don't lead her on, Harry. Don't lead her on."
But for some reason a quiet voice, deep within Harry kept protesting, I'm not!
A/N
Zekānōt: Hebrew transliteration literally meaning old women, but in context it can (and does here) elders (female). Thus, it is the council of Veela elders.
Gegenumenou: Alright, I struggled with this one and am still not sure if the parsing is correct, but anyway, it is the perfect passive participle feminine genitive of the Greek word for "come to be." hence, it is her "becoming."