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Chapter Thirteen

Making Headway

Harry rolled over in his bed and looked out the window; the snow was falling heavily, making the chilly morning feel that much colder. He was thankful for the warmer clothes he bought a couple weeks ago, though the time with Gabrielle and his new friends was, to say the least, interesting. He lost count how many times Gabrielle had managed to make him blush, including when she smiled innocently and worked in the fact that. . . .

He shook his head and got out of bed, noticing the others moving in the darkness. No one particularly enjoyed the thought of running the lake—especially as October turned to November and the average high temperature stayed below freezing. Living in a valley made it worse since the sun didn't reach them for a good hour after it rose, sometimes not until nine in the morning, and then set around three in the afternoon.

And to think, the days are only going to get shorter and colder, until there's only five hours of sunlight, none of which actually touches the valley Floor. Harry shivered again and threw on his extra thick robe, now understanding why it was lined with fur.

"Prêts?" one of his roommates asked.

"Non," he answered truthfully, not at all ready to face the cold. It didn't matter.

"Allons-y!"

Harry squeezed his wand, resisting the urge to hex the guy. It was too early and too cold to be that exuberant. He picked his gloves up off the desk where they lay next to Shelley's Anthology. He still didn't understand that damn passage.

"Vous êtes sur le point d'être maudit, Harry!, Allons-y!"*

Harry smirked. "Go ahead and try hexing me, just remember that we're partners today in combat."

He laughed at the reply his roommate showed him and slipped on his boots, then followed them out of the room, down the stairs, and out around the lake, making sure his muffler was firmly in place over his mouth to help with the freezing air he was breathing. They'd told him that it was better to breathe through the nose to warm up the air, but he didn't think he'd ever get in good enough shape to breathe normally during morning exercises.

After they finished and had breakfast, Harry followed Markus to Professor Sirko's office.

"Have you heard from Gabrielle lately?" Markus asked on the way.

"She sent a letter the day before yesterday, said to tell you, 'Hi.'"

"Thanks."

Harry caught the slightly softer voice as Markus asked, "Anyone say, 'Hi,' to you?"

"Nope, didn't expect it, either." Disappointment slipped through the stoic facade.

"Don't worry," Markus said. "The girls all say she's still taken with you."

"Yeah, but how do they know?"

"I have no idea," Markus answered. "You'd have to ask them, but I think it had something to do with the time they spent with Gabrielle."

Harry chuckled, remembering the morning she walked into the Dining Hall to meet them. He had just stood up from the table when he heard her . . .

~ . ~ . ~

"HARRY!"

The Dining Hall was half-full of students, most of who turned to watch a young beauty rocket toward him.

"Oomph!" Gabrielle cried out as she smacked up against him and stumbled backwards, rubbing her chest.

"When did you become a brick wall?"

He gestured to Markus. "The bloke's had me out running laps around the lake at five a.m. every bleedin' morning since I've been here."

"Whining again?" Markus asked from the other side of the table.

Harry's gesture caused quite a few laughs in the Dining Hall, most of whom were in earshot; but Gabrielle ignored it, instead making a little fist and punching Harry in the chest. "Nope, laps won't do that to you, but push-ups would."

She turned to the three Veela who had stood to meet her, barely able to hide her grin. "So, which one of you has let Harry do push-ups on you?"

Harry thought it would have been worth every Galleon sitting in his French Gringotts vault to see his Veela-chicks shocked into silence by a thirteen year old.

"Oh come on," Gabrielle teased, "You know he'd help any of you. I think he'd enjoy getting . . . behind you, if you just asked."

And the blushes they now sported were worth the Galleons in his other vault in England, but he figured that he'd better end it quickly, or he'd be the one enduring most of the embarrassment. "All right, enough from the mouthy French Veela," Harry cut in.

"Médée hasn't said a word," Azzurra answered.

"What?" Médée said.

Harry couldn't pass up the opportunity. "It must be the French trait."

"Better then the English traits, I think." Gabrielle clucked her tongue. "Looking at a twelve-year-old naked Veela this summer. Your own sister even; 'ave you no shame, 'Arry?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Médée turned to the young Veela with a look and grin that could only be called sinister. "Gabrielle, is it?".

"Yep."

"I think we're going to get along just fine." Her laughter echoed across the now empty Dining Hall after seeing the blood drain from Harry's face. "Cheeky Veela indeed."

"Who? Little innocent me? Is that what 'Arry is saying about his loving, adorable sister?"

Azzurra leaned into Harry. "I see what you mean."

Gabrielle eyed both of them. "What did 'e say? I may have to tell more embarrassing stories."

Gabrielle's threat left Azzurra making that cute giggling noise in the back of her throat again. "He said you were absolute trouble of the best kind, and I think he's right. Come, we have an hour or so before we're leaving, let's go talk about Harry Potter."

Gabrielle's face lit up. She threw Harry a mischievous grin, and walked out of the Dining Hall with the three older Veela.

Harry turned back around to Markus. "This can't be good."

"Better you than me."

He shook his head. "Thanks for coming to my defense, by the way."

"I know an unwinnable battle—you against four Veela? There's no way!"

~ . ~ . ~

Professor Sirko waved Markus and Harry to the two leather chairs that sat across from the large cherry desk. "So, tell me," he began without preamble, "in your estimation, what are the Dark Arts?"

Harry swallowed. "I really don't know anymore."

The Professor leaned back in his chair, settling himself in for what Harry knew would be another hour of "Let's Bajanx Everything Harry Knows about Magic and Maybe even Life." It seemed like Professor Sirko's favorite game.

"Then start by giving me an explanation of the Dark Arts."

"Any spell the British Ministry of Magic doesn't like." Harry smirked at the Professor, who seemed amused by the answer.

"That's actually a pretty good definition, but unfortunately, not one that illuminates our topic today."

"I could hex him if that'd help." Markus offered, standing up and rearranging the cushions on his chair.

"You could try; but you'd—wait . . . you're hinting that the Dark Arts are intent based?" Harry asked, catching on to the meaning behind Markus's threat. "So, if you decide to hurt someone with a spell, then it's dark?"

The Professor smiled, causing him to sigh. His world was about to be screwed with . . . again.

"So, according to what you just said, a tickling charm purposefully repeated until someone holds their stomach in pain from laughing too hard should be considered dark. Is that right?"

"I . . . well, I guess not. Is it not based on intention then?"

"I'm not sure about that either," the professor continued. "In order to cast a Cruciatus Curse, you have to intend to cause pain."

Harry exhaled and sat back in the chair. Professor Sirko noticed and gestured to him. "Have I messed with your head that much already?"

"Not really," he answered. "I just don't know much about the Dark Arts, or the defense against them. You know the history of my professors."

Professor Sirko grimaced. "I forget that your education on theory and the Dark Arts was substandard at best and practically non-existent at worst."

Markus snorted. "Maybe, but his practical application seems to be top-notch."

"True, but that wasn't learned in a classroom, was it Harry?"

"No, unfortunately, though if Markus wants a challenge . . ."

"Alright," the Professor said, steering the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Let's educate you in the theory. First things first, how would you describe Wizarding Britain's concept of the Dark Arts?"

"I don't know how they came to it, but it seems like they have a list of what is and is not dark. I guess, according to them, certain spells are dark simply because they are."

"That's exactly how pretty much all of Europe treats the Dark Arts. What criteria would you say they use?"

"Um, I guess the first would have to be original intent—what was it created to . . . but that can't be right, can it? I mean, a blasting spell may have been created to cause pain, but that doesn't make it dark."

"Very good, Harry," complimented Professor Sirko. "Original intent is important, but our understanding of the phrase usually isn't accurate. Most people define it only as the reason a spell was created."

"There's more?" Harry asked, fascinated by the discussion in spite of himself.

"Absolutely; original intent is a combination of what the spell was created for, how it was created, and who created it. Voldemort could create a shoe-tying spell, and there's an eighty percent chance that, according to European Magical governments, it'd be dark."

"A shoe-tying spell? Come on," Harry said.

"Yes, shoe-tying spell. How did Voldemort develop his magical knowledge and ability? Was it from courting the Dark Arts, or from staying away from them?"

"Courting them, of course, but that doesn't mean—"

"It doesn't?" Professor Sirko asked, and leaned forward, setting his arms on the desk. "If the knowledge to learn magical shoe-tying came specifically from the things that he learned in the Dark Arts, then isn't the application of that magic also dark?"

"I . . . I guess it makes sense when you put it like that, but we're talking about tying a bloody shoe."

The Professor smirked. "If it's bloody, then it is most definitely a dark spell by the time it's done."

"Ha. Ha." Harry quipped, grinning at the gallows humor. "Okay, so what if someone learns the same spell, then uses it to bind a wound. Is it still dark, or is it light now?"

"Good question, but the presuppositions behind 'is a dark spell still dark when used for good' are numerous. The biggest one however, is your very concept of 'Light' and 'Dark'.

"Tell me Harry, do you believe there are two equal sides of magic? Is there a 'Light' side that fights for good, and a 'Dark' side that fights for bad? Or are there two sides that both fight for what they think are good, and both use the magic they think can bring about their sense of right?"

"But wait, if that's true,"—Harry's eyes slid to the side, looking over the Professor's shoulder as he thought about the consequences of the possibility—"Then everyone is just as right, and just as wrong as everyone else. That'd mean that bigoted Purebloods who murder Muggleborns are just as 'light' as those of us who are fighting against them."

"That's not what I asked," the professor corrected him. "What I wanted to know, is if you believe that there are two equal sides thinking they're right and are fighting to bring about their beliefs."

"Of course, if both sides didn't think they were right, they why would they be fighting?"

"Good. Now the next question, why only two sides?"

"Huh?"

Harry noticed the professor biting back a grin as he began to explain. "The problem with 'Light' and 'Dark' is that it comes out of a false dichotomy—a belief that a dualism exists where good and bad are equally strong and represented equally in society; a belief that magic attempts to balance the two sides. Do you see a problem with that?"

It was moments like these that Harry really missed Hermione—and Ron. She would have at least given him time to think about the answer by arguing some philosophical point, and Ron; he had moments of brilliance as well, though more often than not, he'd provide comic relief in a situation like this by asking to check Hermione's homework on the subject.

"Harry?" the Professor called his attention back.

"Sorry, um, yeah, I guess I do see a problem with it. If good and bad are opposite sides of the same coin, they're still part of the same coin—meaning 'Light' and 'Dark' are the same."

"Not bad," Markus interjected. "So if Dark is not the opposite of Light, then what is Dark, and what are the Dark Arts?"

"That; is exactly the question," Professor Sirko prompted. "What do you think, Harry?"

"Maybe they're a completely different set of Arts and have been labeled 'Dark' because of who originated them."

Professor Sirko shook his head. "Well reasoned, but no. What if I told you they are almost the exact same thing?"

"But you said—"

The Professor held up his hands and cut Harry off, "I know what I said."

Harry realized he was bouncing his legs in frustration and placed his feet flat on the plush carpet. "I give up. What are the Dark Arts then?"

"They're the lesser form."

"'Lesser?' What do you mean 'lesser'? The Cruciatus Curse others Voldemort hit me with sure didn't feel like lesser curses."

"That's not what the professor means," Markus cut in again. "Not lesser as in less powerful, but more like, well, they are a more corrupt form of the pure magic."

"What?" Harry scrunched his face in complete confusion. "You're not telling me that the Dark Arts are just less pure spells? It can't be that simple."

"It can't?" Markus asked as he slid to the end of his chair, his face slightly flushed in the excitement of the conversation. "Think about it this way—wait, maybe a little Muggle philosophy would help. Have you ever heard of St. Augustine?"

"Yeah, my Uncle plays golf on his course every year."

Markus and the Professor looked at each other in befuddlement.

Harry chuckled. "I'm British, of course I know of St. Augustine. He was the first archbishop of Canterbury. We were taught about him in Muggle school before I even got to Hogwarts, though he does have a golf course, it seems."

Markus rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about someone who lived a couple of centuries before him, and I doubt either of them owned a golf course"

"Tell my uncle that," Harry said, enjoying twisting Markus's tale. "No, All-Knowing Head-Boy, I'm not familiar with who you're talking about, though I have a feeling I'm going to be."

Markus fingered his wand with raised an eyebrow and Harry grinned widely.

"Enough posturing, just continue the lesson," The professor chided.

Markus removed his wand from sight. "Augustine said that 'evil' was a lesser good. Every person has a choice to attain the greater good, or the lesser good. Choosing the lesser good is evil, choosing the greater good is, well, good. Now apply that to magic. Is taking or preserving life the greater good?"

"It depends on the situation," Harry answered. "You'd never convince me that preserving Voldemort's life so he can kill a thousand others is part of a greater good."

"Exactly," Professor Sirko said, "and that, by the way, is why the killing curse is not considered part of the Dark Arts in times of war, even in England. It preserves life in the long run just as much as it takes away life."

"So what about the Cruciatus?" Harry asked.

"Can you think of a reason to use it that would be for a greater good?"

"To save a life, or torture an answer out of someone to save a life?"

"No," the Professor answered. "By doing that, first, you intentionally cause suffering and pain; second, you have to push it through hatred. Both of those things work against any greater good. Matter of fact, that's what Grindelwald forgot in his pursuit—The Greater Good is found in the journey as much as the destination."

"So you're saying hitting Voldemort with the Cruciatus Curse is wrong then?" Harry asked, thinking back to the graveyard.

"In a word, yes." the Professor answered, "but again, it's because that curse must be cast through hatred. That's the reason it and the Imperius Curse both considered Dark by origination alone."

"The Imperius Curse is driven by hatred too?"

"No," Professor Sirko said. "That one's driven by the wish to dominate someone else, to crush their will and have full and complete control over them. It is a more dangerous curse for the caster than even the Cruciatus, because it literally puts the person who cast it in the role of God over their victim."

Harry's eyes widened.

"What, surprised at the mention of God?" The Professor asked.

"Yeah, kind of."

"If evil is the bastardizing of the Greater Good, then who established the Greater Good in the first place?"

"But, but," Harry struggled to put his thoughts together. "How do we know which God, or how many there are, or whether we can even trust him or her or them?"

"Those are all very good questions, but we're not actually speaking of theology here, so whatever you believe about God or gods, it doesn't matter as it concerns the Greater Good vs. the Lesser Good and how our magic reacts to it. What matters, is the fact that in casting a curse like the Imperius, we're putting ourselves in a place that is not ours to hold, a place generally ascribed to God or a higher power or nature or even chance, however defined—wouldn't you agree that's definitely a lesser good?

Harry nodded. Though surprised at the turn in the conversation, it did make sense to him. Over the last few weeks, he was beginning to sense the difference between the Dark Arts and other magic, and this way of looking at it really helped, but he was still unclear about a few things. "So then, a lesser good is determined by original intent, by what the spell achieves, and/or how it was created."

"And now we are back at the beginning of our conversation, though in a vastly different way." Professor Sirko answered. "When Voldemort creates his shoe-tying spell, do you think he does it in pursuit of a greater good, or in pursuit of a lesser good, and does he use dark arts, which is part of the lesser good, to create the spell?"

"Probably a lesser good and dark magic."

"So then is his fictional shoe-tying spell dark magic?"

"I guess so," Harry answered.

"Now think about how easy of a jump it is to only focus on origination—many spells could be used for both the Greater and Lesser good, but since they were associated with Voldemort, they were listed as Dark by the British Ministry of Magic."

"Like the Killing Curse," Harry said, making the connection.

"Exactly, we've already discussed why there's no law against that curse in time of war," Professor Sirko said, "but there's another layer here. The lists of 'Light' and 'Dark' spells aren't as valid in central Europe, and in Eastern Europe and the Americas there are very few if any curses that are immediately listed as Dark."

Harry was shaking his head now, beginning to feel overloaded. "So what you're saying is that the way Britain has done it for years is wrong? The system I've been taught is completely Bollixed?"

"Not at all. After facing too many Dark Lords, your Ministry of Magic did the same thing that Muggle Europe did after World War Two."

At Harry's blank look, he continued. "Europe had to cope with the wholesale slaughter of a third of the Jewish race, upwards of ninety percent of the Roma people—you probably know them as Gypsies—and a couple million Christians from Eastern Europe, among others. As a result, the European countries decided that putting people to death was too horrid to think about regardless of the reason, so they stopped the death penalty as punishment for crimes.

"In the same way, Magical Britain saw so many curses being used in a Dark manner, not to mention the ones created in Dark Magic, that they banned them all. It's neither right nor wrong, but a reaction to their history—especially after the war with Voldemort."

Harry ran his hands through his hair. "Okay, let's see if I got this—what you're telling me, is that the Dark Arts are both an entity that can be used to create spells, and also a collection of spells that represent the Lesser Good from the Greater Good, a good that no one really knows how to explain or even define, may or may not come from a God, Goddess, or gods, and every society has their own idea of what it consists of, based on their own history; is that about it?"

Markus chuckled. "Confusing, isn't it? But that's the entire point. There is no simple right or wrong; no 'this is,' or 'is not' the Dark Arts. Even the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses can be used in ways that at the very least, flirt with a greater good, rather than a lesser good, just as you did in the graveyard by saving the French Champion."

"But Professor Sirko just said—" Harry began in a louder voice, his leg bouncing again.

"He's right," Professor Sirko cut him off. "Your hatred against Voldemort was used to protect life. Hatred is a lesser good, but it was used to achieve a greater good—the journey left you only with choices originating out of a series of lesser goods, so you had to choose the best one, or to put it another way, you had to choose between the lesser of two evils."

Harry rubbed his head. "I'm starting to understand why the Ministry of Magic just had a list."

"It does make it easier, doesn't it?" Professor Sirko agreed. "That's why I can't call that method wrong, especially when trying to govern an entire society. Now," he said, changing topics slightly, "I told you that I could teach you where the line is concerning the Dark Arts. Can you guess at it from this discussion?"

Harry thought back to his lessons over the last few months and the conversation he'd just had. "It's the choice to take the lesser good over the greater good, and using whatever means to do it in the journey."

"Well done. Remember, anger and hatred can be channeled to do good things—or at least the greater of the lesser good—or they can be channeled to drive and control magic in a way that is less than what your magic was originally meant for."

"But, it can't be that easy," Harry protested.

"You're right, it's not. Think of this as the beginning point in your journey. I know you're beginning to feel your magic flow through you now. You're also probably feeling that there are many ways you can go with your magic. You can take shortcuts and achieve great things for yourself, or you can do right by it. It is those types of choices that will drive who you become, but that is more experiential than academic."

Harry's head felt like it was about to explode. This lesson was more like drinking from a Muggle fire hose.

"Come on, Harry," Markus said, standing up. Harry looked at the clock on the Professor's desk and noticed that the hour was already up. He followed Markus out the door after the Professor cuffed Harry on the back of the shoulder.

"Don't worry, it's a lot to take in, but you seem to have a handle on it already."

Harry wasn't too sure about that, but he remained silent as he stepped into the hallway.

"So, ready for your first Quidditch game this weekend?" Markus asked. Harry was happy for the topic change.

"Yeah, though I think my brain is too heavy for the broom right now."

"Understandable. Let's go take your mind off it with a little fighting practice—no wands. You still need a lot of work fighting Muggle-style."

X ~ X ~ X ~ X

"Thank you."

Fleur watched Paige smile at the waiter, hoping that she would focus on him a little more, and her a lot less. She knew that wouldn't happen though, and she wasn't looking forward to seeing the concern that looked more like pity in Paige's eyes; the worry laying flat the playful nymph Paige usually resembled.

"I could have ordered for myself," Fleur protested as the waiter left. Her eyes followed, noticing the low-lit room; couples sitting together in whispered conversations and sharing special looks reserved for that special person.

Fleur grimaced and pulled her eyes back as Paige spoke. "I wasn't sure if you could anymore."

"Leave it alone, Paige."

"Like hell. You're my cousin and my best friend; when was the last time you ate?"

"This morning."

"I'm not talking about a quarter of a croissant and half a cup of tea."

Fleur glared at her. "You went behind my back and spoke to my maman?"

"Knock off the pig-headed attitude, will you?" Paige asked, returning a glare. "She came to me because she's worried about you."

Fleur snorted in response. Why couldn't people just leave well enough alone? "So what, you dragged me here for a lecture?"

"If that's what it takes . . . look Fleur, you've withdrawn from everyone; you don't answer when people call through the Floo for you; you won't go out with anyone when they stop by; and you've basically stopped eating; it's even having an effect on your magic."

"My magic is fine," Fleur whispered.

Paige returned a snort and finished off her first glass of wine. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The question hung in the air as the waiter came back to the table and refilled their glasses. Fleur couldn't help but let her mind drift. How had a black-haired little boy become the man she longed to hear say her name, to hear him confess his love for her? How long would it have been before she heard him confess it if she hadn't played those damned foolish games?

"It doesn't help," Paige said, gesturing to her arms.

She looked down to see them wrapped around herself. Paige reached across the table and took her hand. "You can't keep doing this, Fleur. You're wasting away, and I'm not just talking about the fact that you can barely keep your robes on your shoulders anymore."

"So what should I do?" Fleur spouted in a nasty voice, "Go wand-bounce on the waiter? That what you always do isn't it?"

"Insults aren't going to get me to leave you alone, though you're going to get a hell of a good hexing later—"

"Hmpff."

Paige raised an eyebrow. "You might be the more powerful Veela, but I'm quicker with a wand and if you don't knock it off—"

"I'm sure there's a reason you're so quick with your inflexible eleven inch wand—"

Luckily, the waiter interrupted again with dinner. Fleur glanced down to see a plate of chicken, cooked in a wine sauce with mushrooms and a slight hint of garlic. Her stomach flipped and she pushed the plate away.

"You're going to eat that, or I'm going to open your mouth and shove it down your throat. It's your choice."

Fleur glared at Paige again.

"Don't think I won't, and you've insulted me enough tonight that I'd enjoy doing it, too."

Fleur caught her breath, then released it as her shoulders sank, knowing Paige was right. "I'm sorry, Paige. I just . . ."

"Don't worry about it. Eat."

Fleur pulled the plate back and decided that eating to gain silence was a fair trade. Her stomach settled down after the first couple of bites, allowing her mind to wander. She began thinking about her transformation from cold, strong Fleur to . . . this. What had happened to her over the last year? More importantly, was it even worth the pain?

Of course it was. At least I can be honest with myself now; even if that means admitting I'm the one being rejected, instead of rejecting others.

The corner of her lip pulled up slightly, though without humor, at the irony. A few minutes later, the nausea returned. Fleur put her fork down and pushed the plate away.

"There, see? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Paige asked.

"Yeah, it was. It's been bad ever since he left."

"Do you want to talk about it now?"

"What good will it do? I miss him."

"Well, that's a start, at least you admit it now," Paige said.

Fleur let out a sarcastic harrumph. "When we were at the Burrow, I worried that I was falling for him because we were caught up together in a bad situation, but now that he's gone, I wish we were back there. Everything was innocent and sweet—I feel like it's all been destroyed and yet . . . I just don't know what to do about, or if I can do anything about it."

"What do you mean you 'don't know what to do'? Come on, Fleur, it's simple; take your considerably diminishing ass up to Durmstrang and be honest with him. Tell him you're sorry and shove your tongue down his throat."

"It's not that easy!" Fleur hissed. "He rejected me, okay? He rejected me. He has his own things he has to do and I don't figure into them."

"I doubt that," Paige said after a few seconds, "but let's say it's true. Then why don't you just get over it? Release the mark and move on with your life."

"I can't," Fleur said in a small voice.

"I didn't hear you."

"I said I can't." she repeated a little louder, and bit sharper as well.

"Why not?"

"Why do you think? I've . . . oh god, how did this happen? I've fallen in love with him, I . . . I cried over him."

Paige choked on her wine; she snatched a napkin from the table with one hand while putting the glass down with the other.

"You cried?"

Fleur sighed. "Yeah, with him one time; because of him quite a few times. Are you finished choking?"

"Think so. How . . . when?"

"I cried with him when I found out that Madam Maxime was killed. I couldn't help it. I already figured that Jean-Paul and Arlette and Francios and everyone else were dead. Later the next evening, Harry's friends told me that they helped form an inner ring as a last defense for the Professors the night of the third task.

"But that next morning in the Burrow, after seeing so much horror, so much killing, after watching the night before as Harry dragged the bodies of his friends together so they wouldn't be alone in death . . . and the fighting. I was sick to my stomach at the curses I was casting, but I couldn't show it to anyone, especially not Harry."

Paige's eyes widened, the issue of Fleur crying over Harry seemingly forgotten for a moment. "What curses did you—

"Every curse I knew."

"Every? As in—"

"Yes, Paige; Every curse."

"Fleur! How could you? That's illegal!"

The silverware jumped off the table as Fleur's fist hit it. "He was killing him!"

She leaned back against the booth, thankful that its height provided privacy and took a couple of breaths to calm herself, then pinned Paige with a withering glare as she spoke through clenched teeth. "They had no intention of letting him leave from the graveyard. He took more curses than I thought possible, and then still had the strength in him to curse Voldemort and to drive him to his knees. He saved my life."

Fleur leaned forward in the chair, eyes beginning to blaze. "I cast the Killing Curse many times that night, and I'd do it again in an instant to save his life."

"Even if it meant you ended up in their hideous version of a prison with Dementors?"

"If it meant that Harry was safe; or even that he lived? Absolutely!"

Paige sat back in her seat and smiled. "You really do love him, don't you?"

Fleur deflated. "Yeah, but that's the problem."

"How's that a problem? Don't you want to love him?"

"I do, but he doesn't want me too—he wants no one to care of him. All he ever did was push me away when I tried, but if it was about me . . . when I found out about Madame Maxime, he acted like there was no one else in the room. You should have seen it, Paige. He marched across that room and wrapped his arms around me, every muscle in his chest taught in a protective embrace. I could feel the fire burning in him, he had no shirt on and—"

"Wait a second!" A hint of the playful nymph returned. "You can't skip over the newfound love of your life standing there shirtless with his arms wrapped around you!"

"It's not how it sounds. The . . . others were checking us over. Then someone came to the back door and I watched him threaten the head of the magical law enforcement and—"

"He what?"

"You heard me; he stood there, shirtless, with blood vessels spider-webbed across his chest from the cursings, but he thought someone he loved was being threatened. He drew his wand and was ready to go at it with the head of their entire office of magical law enforcement. She had that look that says 'I've done it all'—and he didn't care.

"A bit later, she confirmed that Madame Maxime was killed. That's when the reality hit me. 'Arry came across the kitchen, pulled me into him, and held me. I cried Paige, I cried in his arms and . . . and I felt safe.

"Two days later, I did something stupid and ended up crying over him for the first time. I still do, almost every night."

Fleur fell silent. Paige finished her glass of wine and put enough Galleons on the table to cover the bill. "Come on; let's get out of here and take a walk."

They stepped out of the restaurant into the cool night breeze blowing across the Wizarding Street of Marseille. Walking along the Mediterranean Sea, Fleur could taste the salty tang in the air.

"So you cried in his arms, and also cried for him?" Paige asked after a few minutes.

"Yeah, some Veela I turned out to be; so much for being dominant, matriarchal, and in control of the relationship."

Paige rolled her eyes. "That's not even true for full Veela. Maybe you should've taken the Veela courses with me instead of teasing me about them."

Fleur stopped and leaned over the sea wall, looking out into the distance where the blue ocean met the dark sky that was lit up by a three-quarter moon. She picked absentmindedly at the top of the barrier, trying not to think about watching Harry from her window all summer as he built his walls.

"I don't need a course to know what it means when a Veela cries . . . Anyway, what does this have to do with Harry?" she asked.

Paige pulled Fleur around to face her. "We didn't just study Veela history in those classes; we studied Veela and human psychology as well—the similarities and differences of how we think. We focused on male humans for obvious reasons.

"So this has everything to do with Harry; you already told me what he went through and everyone he lost on top of losing his parents years before. How abandoned do you think he felt? Then, over his protests, the one person still alive that fought with him in the graveyard, the witch he was falling for, decided to join the group that was dedicated to fighting the very people who killed his parents, his roommates parents, and, if I remember what you said, His best friends' uncles as well.

"He was reacting to you because he didn't want to lose you. God, how can you be so blind? He waited at the bottom of lake to rescue a little girl he didn't even know, how else would you expect him to react to the person he found himself falling in love with? Especially when you joined whatever it was you joined—the same organization that ended up getting so many people he cared about killed."

"But it made sense!" Fleur protested. "We needed a connection with them and needed to know what they were doing so we would know when to go back."

"We?" Paige snapped, anger flashing across her face. "You were planning on going back with him?"

"Of course! He couldn't even sleep through a night without me in his bed after the graveyard. I couldn't let him go back and face that alone."

Fleur turned her back to the ocean, and looked up beyond the busy street to the lights of the city that glowed in the cloudless sky above. "I pushed my magic out to help him sleep."

Paige giggled. "I'm sure he had some nice dreams."

"More than that, probably."

"What. . . oh god Fleur, please tell me you didn't."

Fleur lowered her head. Despite her best efforts, tears began to run down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Paige said as she pulled Fleur into a hug.

She fought to gain control of her emotions. "The thing is, I'd do it again; I'd push that part of my magic out for him in an instant."

"Was he accepting of it?"

"It felt that way."

"Then how do you know he's rejected you?"

"Just everything, I guess. You know, he wouldn't even let me help him - everything I tried to do, he rejected." Fleur looked at Paige again. "When we were at the Ministry, Uncle Philippe and the others wanted us to go back into the memories and narrate them. I didn't see any reason 'Arry should have to suffer again and said so, but instead, he turned it around on me and left me sitting on the couch while he dove headfirst into them, like he was courting the pain."

"And?"

"What do you mean, 'and'?" Fleur demanded. "He did that kind of stuff all the time."

"And you wanted what? For him to come to you, open up to you and share his deep-dark secrets so you could help him, save him from his pain?"

"YES!"

"So, you're telling me you expected a white knight to act like a damsel in distress?"

Fleur stared at Paige silently, the words sinking in despite the way they stung.

"Fleur, given time, most men will open up to a Veela and tell her his deepest secrets, but only after he truly loves her. It can't be forced. That's something else we learned."

"Great, and that's something else I did wrong. Like I said, I make a great Veela - probably the only one alive that's driven away the very person I . . . I love."

"Forget about all that and answer me this, what would you do if he came walking up the street now, grabbed you, and planted his lips on yours?"

"We'd stay up all night . . . with me hexing the magic out of him first, and then kissing him better."

"Figures," Paige said and took Fleur's arm. "Come on, we need to get back to the public Floo before it closes, but you know you can't blame 'Arry for this, don't you?"

"Why's that?"

"You gave of yourself, Fleur. We both sat out our grandmother's feet and learned about it, so I know you know. You opened both your Veela magic and your love to him and bathed him in it."

Fleur stopped and glared at Paige again. "Of course I know that! Why do you think I can't eat? Why do you think I'm going through all this? I wake up every morning—if you ever repeat this, they won't even find your feathers, do you understand me?"

Paige nodded.

"It's why I wake up every morning and go down to his room, hoping it was a dream, or hoping that he came back in the middle of the night. Every morning, he's not there, and I go back to my room and hold on to his jersey and cry."

"Go to Durmstrang. Go and tell him, Fleur."

"No. Everything I've done's been wrong and I'm finished fighting. If someone or something is in control of all this, we'll be together if we're supposed to be."

"And instead, you sit around and pine away for him, even as your family visited him a week ago and plan on going back next week to see him play Quidditch."

"Yeah, that's about it, I guess. I've already told you, I'm the worst Veela around. I can't even hold on to a man three years younger than me."

"You're wrong, Fleur. You had a lot of choices as a Veela, but the one you took . . . you and I both know the gift you gave 'Arry by opening your love and magic to him, and when problems began, you didn't rely on your Veela magic to smooth it over, even as it hurt. It's . . ." Paige chuckled, "ironic, I guess. It's noble, Fleur."

"Yeah, well, like my sister says, nobility can kiss my cute little ass."

Paige laughed as they turned the corner and walked up to the public Floo. "She's getting to be a handful, isn't she?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "The first time this summer I saw her after her transformation, she tilted her head and looked up under her eyebrows at me. I knew that moment that she was going to be trouble."

"Admit it," Paige said as she stepped up to the Floo. "You'd have it no other way."

Fleur stepped up next to her. "I wouldn't, except for the part where she keeps telling me off and calling me a selfish bitch for how I treated Harry."

"I hope she never changes."

Fleur laughed for the first time that evening. "Neither do I."

Paige took a handful of Floo powder and cocked her wrist back to throw it in the fireplace, but she stopped and turned back to Fleur. "You know, Gabrielle's right about something else, too."

"What's that?" Fleur asked.

"You need to go with her to see 'Arry. Just take that first step and see where it leads."

Fleur was about to argue when Paige threw her powder into the Floo, stepped in, and disappeared, leaving Fleur to ponder Paige's last words.

X ~ X ~ X ~ X

Harry sat at the dining table, the butterflies in his stomach feeling more like bees stinging him from the inside.

"Do you usually get this worked up before a game?" Jaleena asked.

"I don't think it's the game 'e's worried about," Médée answered, gesturing to Gabrielle's letter in Harry's hands. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"Liar," Jaleena said. "You got about a third of the way through the letter and the blood drained from your face, even as your emotions"—she paused; Harry could tell she was sensing something in him as she looked directly into his eyes—"conflicted, excitement and worry are mixed together, as if - is someone coming to see you play tomorrow? Someone special?" she asked.

Médée's eyes widened at the implication and she leaned into Harry to read over his shoulder.

He glanced at her. "Maybe Gabby was right about the push-ups, if you like being so close."

She pecked him on the cheek. "Would you rather 'get behind' me now or later?"

Harry cursed the blush that showed itself again.

"Sorry, 'Arry, but Azzurra was right, you're too cute when you blush, even though you are English."

That's it. It's time to put an end to the teasing and blushing! He faced Médée. "I'd rather have you on your back with your ankles pinned behind your ears. That way, I can see you since you're just too cute when you're having fun."

Médée's jaw dropped.

"YES!" Harry yelled and thrust his hands in the air. "Victory! Finally!" He silently thanked Seamus, wherever he was in the ever-after, for that particular line.

Azzurra walked up to the table and sat down next to a bemused Jaleena. "What's Harry going on about?"

"It seems he and Médée are in negotiations; Harry just shocked her with his opening position." Jaleena smirked. "Though he's going to be surprised when he finds out she likes being shocked while 'negotiating.'"

Harry's arms hit the table as he stared Jaleena, her eyes blazing with mirth. Harry blushed fiercely; his victory now hollow and short-lived.

"Who's the letter from?" Azzurra asked, to his relief.

"Gabby," Jaleena answered, "Harry was about to tell us why he was so nervous reading it."

"Anything we should know?" Azzurra pressed. "Fleur's not coming to watch you play tomorrow night, is she?"

"How did . . ."—he forced himself to form a coherent thought, and came up with a name—"Gabrielle! She's been sending you owls, hasn't she?"

"Who, little innocent me?" Azzurra asked with a smile.

Harry shook his head and started in on his lunch, pondering his Veela-chicks scheming against him. He was in serious trouble. "Yeah, she is, not that it's news to you, it seems."

Médée mussed his hair. "It a surprise to me, not as much as your negotiation skills, but—"

"Alright, let it go!" He moaned.

Médée grinned, "Sorry, so what were we talking about? Oh yeah, how we didn't know Fleur's coming to watch you play Seeker against my guys tonight."

Harry shook his head at her.

"I didn't know either, if that helps," Jaleena said. "And don't worry, Harry, you'll be fine."

"I guess, but I don't know what to say to her since I didn't really leave on the best of terms."

He thought he heard a slight sigh from Azzurra before she looked at him. "Should I even ask?"

"The truth?" Harry said. "I didn't even tell her I was leaving. She went to work in the morning and I packed up, told the Delacours I was leaving during lunch, then too the Portkey before she got home."

Azzurra and Jaleena shared a look as Médée tsk-tsk'ed Harry. "That wasn't a smart move, I think."

"Yeah, I know that now. Azzurra kinda taught me the first night not to duck out from an angry Veela—it just winds you all up even more."

Azzurra shot him a smug grin. "Glad you learned. So what are you going to say to her tomorrow?"

"He could offer her the same opening position he offered me."

Harry's cheeks tinged red again at Médée's teasing. "I have no idea. Maybe I'll get lucky, crash my broom, and knock myself out for a few hours. It's been known to happen."

"I thought you said you were a good flier," Médée asked.

"I am, but when you're chasing the Snitch, I'm sure you've all watched Viktor take risks." Azzurra and Jaleena both averted their eyes. "I shouldn't've brought him up, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Jaleena answered, her voice wistful. "He was a good friend." She forced a smile, and then excused herself from the table.

"I didn't mean to upset her," he said to no one in particular. "Maybe I should go after her."

"There's nothing you can do." Azzurra answered. "She loved him much like Gabrielle loves you." At the contemplative look on Harry's face, Azzurra continued. "They're distantly related through marriage or something and Jaleena knew him before they came to school. Since Viktor was a year older, he took care of her that first year, holding her hand when they arrived and escorting her to every class that first week. That's just the type of relationship they had."

"And they never . . ." Harry began, but didn't know how to ask.

"No," Azzurra answered. "They never dated, though I often thought they belonged together. Viktor was, um . . . how do you say in English, lordly, brusque?

"Surly?" Harry offered.

"Yeah, Jaleena could do away with it in a minute. She seemed to be the only that could, and she always lit up when it happened too."

Harry thought about Ron and Hermione again, though it was almost the exact opposite, no one seemed to enjoy winding each other up as much as those two did. "I understand."

X ~ X ~ X ~ X

". . . Fly hard, fly fast, we'll beat their ass!"

Harry smiled. Oliver Wood had nothing on this guy, even if he was banging on in French, which was amusing in itself. Harry's forced immersion in the language had actually paid off. His accent was so-so at best, but he could understand most of what was being said in any conversation now.

". . . And we're going to do it for Viktor!"

Of course, there's nothing like a reminder that he was filling the shoes of a world-cup Seeker to settle the nerves.

Markus, sitting next to him on the bench leaned over. "You ready, Harry?"

He nodded. "Sure, though I'm not used to seeking with all this gear on. Even in the middle of the winter we didn't wear this much."

"I'm sure, but you weren't a Threstral's piss away from the Arctic Circle and playing in sub-zero temperature, were you?"

"True. Could you help me with this?"

"Yeah," Markus said. "Stand up."

Harry did so and Markus spent the next couple of minutes adjusting his robe, pulling the hood over his hair–Harry had learned the necessity of tucking it when it was long–and generally trying to make sure there was no exposed skin.

"I think that's it," Markus said. "I'll cast the charm."

Harry felt the spell hitting him. It felt like a lightweight mold of his body being put into place, stopping his equipment from moving and sealing out the cold air.

"Now remember, even though it's your broom, it's going to feel a little strange to you because the air is much thinner up here–which I know you've practiced in–but it is also much colder."

"Yes, mom."

Markus narrowed his eyes. "I'm serious. Your maneuverability is not going to be the same as you're used to; it's even different than flying in the day time when it's warmer."

"Really? I didn't know the laws of nature changed outside of Britain."

"Keep it up and I'll hex you as you sleep."

"I don't forget to use my wards," he said, with a slightly devious smile.

"Whatever." Markus thrust Harry's broomstick into his arms. "Don't try any Wronski Feints or other tricks, or we might be scraping you off the frozen ground before the night's over."

"At least I'd have a couple of feet of new snow to land in."

Markus stopped and looked at him, then chuckled. "That's the spirit. Sorry, I'm just used to doing this with . . ."

"It's okay, I'm used to doing this with a few people who aren't here either."

They shared a look of mutual loss before Markus nodded to the rest of the team who were walking out the. Harry followed them out and down the hall, thinking about how different it felt not to be flying with the twins, or Angelina, Alicia, and Katie.

As he stepped out on the pitch, he noticed the cheers muffled by the falling snow that shone a brilliant white in the lights of the stadium. To his far right was the school and to his far left, were the mountains that sat on the north side of the valley. It seemed as though they had built the stadium right into the side of the mountain.

The other players mounted their brooms and Harry followed, pushing off and relishing the familiarity of his Firebolt. Markus was right however, it did feel extra sluggish tonight, so as his team took a few minutes to warm up, Harry put his broom through its paces, weaving in and out of an imaginary obstacle course faster and faster until he was comfortable with how it responded to his touch.

Finished, he pulled the broom around to gaze at the stadium and gather his bearings before the game started. His first impression months ago still held true, it was smaller than the stadium at Hogwarts, but everything screamed of quality, from the professional goal rings to the stands that were now filled with students and even a few parents and siblings, including a beaut—

"Oh bugger!"

Fleur was sitting about a third of the way up, next to her father. Her mother and Gabrielle were sitting on Mr. Delacour's other side, with Azzurra, Médée, and Jaleena sitting behind them. Fleur was wrapped up in a heavy cloak and her chin was tucked inside a muffler, but her cheeks were rosy pink from the cold, in stark contrast to the heavenly blue eyes that were now fixed on his own.

Harry was lost in a sea of emotions and memories as he stared at the young woman that risked her life for him, that even raced across a field of battle to spirit him away, risking splinching herself for him. She was so beautiful that it haunted him in his dreams, though he refused to tell anyone about it. Yet, it was that same beauty, both inside and out (despite the last month he stayed in France), that drove him away from her, a beauty that he didn't dare mar with stains of blood and the stench of death that lie in his future.

If he were to be honest with himself however, the love that he could see in those eyes staring back at him was the only thing holding him back from losing himself in the Dark Arts. All the training, the lessons in theory, the growth in magic, it only fed the hunger to collect the blood-debts owed him, regardless of what good it was or what path it took. At night when he closed his eyes however, he saw her coming closer to him, her lips pursed as he fell into the ocean of blue before the green light flared in the Burrow—

"HARRY!"

He snapped his head around, then rolled to the side, and pushed his broom down; barely avoiding the Bludger as he realized the game had started.

Harry shook his head, dove to gain speed, and then pulled up on the broom, ascending to a position even with the top of the magical lights surrounding the stadium. There he circled, waiting, looking for the Snitch, and watching the game below.

Quidditch was different here. From the little he remembered Dean Thomas saying, he could see elements of football strategy being used, which seemed a bit strange. Beaters joined the Chasers on rushes, with the person carrying the Quaffle always ahead of the others. It made for safe backward passes and excellent blocking maneuvers.

Harry yanked on his broom again and dodged another Bludger sent at him from a rather large beater just before Harry's team scored.

The inbound pass was quick and the game was on again. Out of the corner of Harry's eye, he saw the other Seeker shoot across the pitch. Harry leaned forward and pushed his broom faster, keeping a wary lookout for feints and other ploys.

In the background, the crowd noise increased as the two Seekers raced through the air. Soon enough however, Harry realized the shorter Polish Seeker was testing him. There were two ways to react, break off the chase, or continue to follow.

He liked neither option, so he decided to create a third. Harry snapped his head back to his right fast enough that he heard his own neck pop. He leaned over and yanked hard on the broom until he looped back around and was facing the larger part of the pitch and stadium again. Then he pushed his broom down and to the left, then back up, and back down to the right again, imitating chasing a Snitch.

The other Seeker realized that Harry wasn't following him and came back around, now in the chase position. Harry pushed his broom down again, and raced towards the ground. The other Seeker followed, just above Harry. It was perfect positioning to avoid being caught in a Wronski Feint, but that suited Harry just fine. He pushed his broom faster, leaning his entire body to the side now and pulling hard again on the broom, to race back across the field about ten feet off the ground. He risked a glance behind him to make sure the other Seeker was still following.

Gaining altitude, Harry aimed for the bottom of his own goal, and then dove underneath it at the last second. The other Seeker had to push down hard to avoid severing himself on the ring, but now he was flying straight into the ground. He pulled up on the broom just in time and continued to follow Harry for a split second too long, who now yanked up again, and barely cleared the wall fifteen feet behind the goal rings, rocketing up over the stands and into the night. Behind him, the other Seeker couldn't pull out fast enough and caught the top of the wall with the tip of the broom, cart wheeling into the stands.

The crowd roared in appreciation of what would later be known at Durmstrang as "The Wall Shot" or "The Potter Dip and Pull Ploy."

Harry came back to his normal position, circling the field and looking for the Snitch when he happened to catch those entrancing eyes again. They were locked on him now, a little wide, but also hazed over with memories he could only guess at; the flight from Hogwarts to the cave; the escape from the Burrow; maybe even the first task and the dragon . . .

The cheering crowd drew him back to the moment. He chastised himself for not focusing and quickly looked around for the other Seeker. Thankfully, he was flying gingerly another thirty or forty yards higher than Harry. Another cheer went up and Harry looked down, noticing his team had scored again. They were a seventy points in the lead, and an hour into the game by this point.

Sometime later, the temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees as the nighttime air leached any remaining heat from the valley. Harry was readjusting himself on his broom when a streak of gold shot straight over his head from behind. Harry lay flat, pulling his legs out of the metal stirrups and gripping the end of the broom handle with his insteps to cut wind drag. He tore through the air; snow swirling around him in large eddies. The golden streak dove down toward the snow and Harry followed, streaking across the pitch just a couple of feet high, so fast a furrow was created in the new snow that lay on the ground, twin tales kicking up behind him.

The other Seeker followed, but he had no hope of catching Harry. The Snitch jinked up and Harry pulled his broom vertical as the Snitch went ballistic. He shot through five hundred feet of freezing cold air before leveling out in a shallow dive, then repositioned himself just behind the Snitch when he noticed the other Seeker was a few feet behind him, having guessed at the Snitch's path and took the angle instead.

Pushing his broom faster, Harry reached out, but the Snitch moved a foot to the left and continued to streak forward. He stretched, adjusting his position on the broom, but the Snitch seemed to have other plans, and shot back right.

Harry had no idea why the other Seeker had fallen back, but he caught a look that was a cross between awe and fear.

The Snitch dropped and Harry pushed his broom into a barrel-role and swiped at it, just missing again. He ignored the change in lighting as the Snitch shot out beyond the stadium. He reached out one more time, and as the Snitch dodged back to the right, Harry swiped it out of the air.

He barely registered that he had caught it when he and his broom crumpled into something very hard.

"He's coming around."

"It's about time," A relieved feminine voice answered.

"It was very nice of you and your family to stay with him all week," the first voice said.

"After what he's done for us, it's the least I could do."

Harry managed a moan and had a straw shoved in his mouth for his effort.

"Take small sips, just enough to wet the insides of your cheeks."

"How are you feeling?" The kinder, softer voice asked after Harry finished.

"Mrs. 'elachour?" he rasped.

He felt a gentle touch on his forehead and a thumb that caressed his eyebrow once. "Yeah, it's me. We've been staying with you in shifts after you decided to give the face of the mountain a kiss last week."

Harry's eyes came wide open now. "How long?"

"It's Thursday, so it's been about six days. We were very worried about you the first forty-eight hours; you were almost moved to the regional Magical Hospital.

"No reason worry, 'uidditch, me, an' hos'ital—chommon happenings," Harry said, then wondered why he couldn't get his mouth to form the words properly.

The door opened. "You called for me, Healer Glasov?"

"Da. Patient woke up few minutes ago. You asked to be informed no matter the time."

Harry noticed an old, gruff wizard in a white coat. "He is bruised-up mess, but will get better. No permanent damage."

"That's good to hear," Professor Sirko said in a tired voice. He walked over to Harry. "Hell of a show you put on."

"Should've charged," Harry answered. The Professor and Mrs. Delacour laughed, betraying just how relieved they felt.

He looked back at Mrs. Delacour, "Why s'ill here? I mean, thank you, 'ut you didn't have to . . ."

She put a comforting hand on his. "Remember what we told you last summer? It didn't end when you came to school, 'Arry. We weren't going to leave you alone until you woke up."

"We?" he asked.

"Fleur stayed here the first two days. She even hexed her father when he told her to go home and rest."

"Oh, that's . . ." His voice faded out as the realization struck him.

Mrs. Delacour let slip a sweet but slightly devious laugh. "Interesting dreams again?"

"Hmpff," Harry managed as his cheeks began to burn, despite the swelling and bruising.

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He closed his eyes and for a split second, could feel his own mother's lips there instead, comforting him.

"'Eal up, 'Arry. The Christmas party is only a few weeks away. I've checked with the 'eadmaster and that's the day you start Christmas break, so I expect to see you there." She flashed him a brilliant smile.

She looked away from him. "Thank you, 'Eadmaster, for taking care of 'Arry this semester. You too, 'Ealer Glasov. Could you pass my appreciation to the three young Veela and the young man as well? They've been great since I've been here."

"I'm sure they already know how much you appreciate them," Professor Sirko answered, "but I will do so."

Mrs. Delacour gave Harry one last cautious hug, not wanting to hurt him and then Professor Sirko escorted her out of the infirmary.

He returned to Harry's bedside a few minutes later. "So how much do you remember?"

"I 'as tsasing ze Snitch—'y chan't I zpeak right?"

"You broke just about every bone on the right side of your face, including your cheek, the orbital bones around the eye, your nose, and your jaw. A number of bones on the left side were cracked as well. Skele-Gro took care of most of it, but you're still badly bruised. It'll take a few more days before you're better.

"I'm also sorry to say, there was no rescuing your glasses."

"Wha' I hi'?"

The professor shook his head. "The mountain; you're flying was amazing, up to the point where you went head first into the rock face. It's a three-hundred foot drop straight down from where you hit. You're lucky the other Seeker held up and was watching you. He was able to get his wand out in time to stop you from falling to your death."

"Than' him for me."

"I will, though he's been by a couple of times to check on you as well, so you'll probably see him yourself. Anyway, we couldn't find your glasses, so we did a little testing and got you something better."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and then groaned.

"Even that hurts?"

"Uh, huh."

"Not surprising."

"Ha, ha." Harry quipped. "Glasses?"

"Yeah, like I said, we got something better. See these?"

Harry rolled his eyes at the professor, who began laughing.

"I guess you can't, eh? Anyway, they're magically enhanced contacts. A few days ago we took three separate scans of your eyes. A Muggle company made these, and then we took them to a Magical medical research facility that made them into permanent correctives."

"Fast."

"One of our professors' relatives is a Squib who works in the industry; he slipped the prescription on top of the pile for us. When your swelling goes down a little more, we'll have you try them. If they're right, Healer Glasov will put the activation spell on them and you'll put them back in. They'll fuse to your eye and become part of it; you'll never need glasses again."

The left corner of Harry's lip pulled up slightly in the only gesture he could attempt without much pain. "than's."

"Don't mention it. You should get some sleep now. I think your teammates, as well as Azzurra and the others will be in early this morning to check on you.

Harry nodded and five minutes later, he found himself in the midst of a dream, looking into a set of beautiful blue eyes, along with rosy cheeks and blond hair. He didn't know how or why, but after seeing her what, a week ago now? He knew that regardless of what he had to do back in Britain, he had a greater task in France; he had to come clean to Fleur. Whatever happened after that would happen. But she at least deserved the entire truth—she needed to know.

She was his anchor to a greater good.

Translations

"Prêts?" (Ready?)
"Non," (No)
"Allons-y!" (Let's go!)
"Vous êtes sur le point d'être maudit, Harry, Allons-y!" (You're about to be cursed, Harry! Let's go!)