Disclaimer: If ye know of Harry Potter, then ye know I don't own it- I'm male. Seemplz.

REVELATIONS

Dumbledore was stripping down, in front of a very excited Petunia. Talk about hot and cold, Harry thought. He shivered, and then starting sprinting towards the Park, his rucksack in hand.

At exactly eleven PM, a figure swathed in black robes reminiscent of those worn by Death Eaters appeared in a swirl of grey smoke. The figure, although somewhat short, was broad in the shoulder. The dark silhouette turned its head left, then right. Suddenly, Harry leapt out of the shadows of a bush and held one of his Aunt Petunia's kitchen knives to the robed figure's neck.

"What's the password?" he hissed.

"I was not aware that Mister Potter wished to have a password." The slight French lilt to the speaker's tone was all Harry needed to know who this was.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't be too careful. Plus, wizards never expect to be physically attacked, anyway." Harry had realised this earlier- if he could learn how to fight even without his wand, he'd be set for life!

"A sound strategy, Mr. Potter. I myself employ the use of several weapons. In my position, there are many who would stoop too low, one would say." Definitely not a native Englishman- far too archaic in his lingo. Harry stepped back from the man, allowing him to manoeuvre away slightly.

"This is an enchanting chat, Mr. Potter, but may we move somewhere else? This is too open to sudden attack."

"Oh, yes, of course. Just let me get my trunk, sir." Harry hurried back to the bush he'd sprung out of, and uncovered the trunk from the Cloak. Hefting it onto his shoulder, Harry quickly walked over to the waiting Frenchman.

"Bon! Away we go!" The man grabbed Harry's arm, and then the two swirled away in grey smoke and light.

Imagine being pushed through the intestines of the world's smallest worm. Then imagine that the worm has a very bad stomach problem, causing immense congestion. That would sufficiently compare the feeling of apparition. If you had a small mind. To Harry, it felt like intestinal rape. With a poker. And hotdogs.

He landed on the ground in a very well-to-do garden, and promptly fought to control his stomach. Once satisfied that any immediate motion would not expel his recently filled (for the first time in a month) stomach, Harry straightened, and took in the area around him. A rose-garden was laid out in front of a large manor house, which looked to have been built in the mid-eighteenth century. Or something. The house was mostly in darkness, apart from one light still on, in what Harry assumed to be a bedroom.

"I told her not to stay up for us, but there she is. My eldest, Fleur, is eager to meet you properly. You must understand, Madame Maxime- the Battleaxe- leans on her to act a certain way, so do not be surprised if she is different at home." Harry was a bit up in the air about not being at the Dursleys for the rest of the summer. He'd actually forgotten that Fleur was this man's daughter. This would be awkward. How many times last year had he had a spankin' good dream about that very girl? Oh, sure, she was seventeen, now eighteen, but hell. She was a goddess, even without the allure she sometimes used.

"Mr. Potter, I must make this clear to you. My daughter is going through her Veela Maturity at this period in time, and so she will be… emotional. One minute, she may be crying about nothing, and the next, throwing fireballs in anger at some perceived slight. All I can ask, is that you do not bed her. A Veela's one-ness, or virginity as we humans call it, is integral to their magic. They fall in love with the man to make them whole. A boy such as yourself must know of what I speak- the girls at Hogwarts must be throwing themselves at you, Mr. Potter!"

"Uh- Mr. Delacour- I've never- um. I don't… I've never even had a girlfriend, sir. I wouldn't even know what to do. I mean, I know what you mean, we were told of the whole 'how babies are made' thing in primary school. It was stressed that- uh- it before marriage was wrong. Wait- did you say 'fireballs'?" Mr. Delacour's eyebrows rose at that. The boy wasn't taught about Veela? What on earth?!

"Harry, I think that, before we start on your inheritance training, we need to run over the basics. Were you ever introduced to the magical world, before your first year at Hogwarts?"

"No, sir."

"OK, where you told about your family's lineage?"

"No, I was told that, paternally at least, they were purebloods." Jacques' brow furrowed. He knew that Harry's mother, Lily Evans, was of completely pureblood Squib descent.

"Were you ever given any training once it was clear that the Dark Lord was rising once more?"

This threw Harry. He hadn't really thought about it. As the pair began to walk up towards the house, Harry answered, "No, sir. I wasn't. Even when Voldemort was resurrected, Dumbledore threw me back to my relatives. Oh, and it turns out that Dudley- my cousin- is actually Dumbledore's son, who's had his magic bound or something? And my Aunt is funding his education at Smeltings with my money, that I suspect Mrs. Weasley has been smuggling Dumbledore. Plus, Dumbles was planning on having Dudley beat the living shit out of me. Any help? I could do with some, I think. Oh, and my magic was bound too." Jacques continued his questions until the pair reached the front door. By that time Jacques was livid, having been given an abbreviated version of Harry's childhood- or lack thereof.

The front doors swung open to reveal a large open entrance hall with Greek-style pillars running the length of it. Periodically, there were doors leading off to other parts of the manor. Instead of offering to tour the house, Jacques took Harry straight towards his private study. Once there, the elder man swept around to his side of the desk, and sunk into his plush leather armchair. Harry hovered, unsure of whether he should sit or not. Silence reigned, until Harry asked, "Are you alright, sir? You're suddenly very quiet."

The man looked up, startled from his thoughts. "Really, Harry? Shouldn't I be the one asking if you're OK? Starvation can have terrible consequences- and I'm not talking about your Aunt and Dumbledore. We'll need to get you potions for nutrition and muscle growth, and proper bone-healing potions too. I'll need some help- I can't brew these myself." The man continued muttering, although Harry couldn't hear most of it. The occasional "Parsel" and "Healing" made it across, however. This continued for some time.

It was nearing dawn by the time Monsieur Delacour had seemed to come to a conclusion. His furrowed brow rose, and his visage lightened. "Harry, I'm so sorry. Let me find you a room, and you can have a proper night's sleep."

Harry looked extremely happy at this, as Monsieur Delacour called a house elf.

"Dinky!" A small, yet slightly rotund elf popped in next to the desk.

"Oui, Monsier? Comment allez-vous, monsieur?" The small elf was very… normal… compared to the rabid house elves of Hogwarts. There was no bouncing, no crying (yet), and no alcoholism. It was nice to know that some elves were happy in themselves.

"Dinky- you are to talk in English in the presence of our esteemed guest, until such a time as he can speak and understand our language fluently. Now, Mr. Potter would like to be shown to- ah, the Room- and, after Harry has been settled, I would like a stiff cognac. I'm afraid it's been one of those days again."

"Yes, Master Jacques. Would Mr. Potter be expecting the special 'morning' treatment?" The little elf smirked at Harry then, as if with some foul knowledge.

"Not for the foreseeable future, Dinky. I will tell you when he changes his mind. Not a word of this, either."

"Yes Master." With that, the elf gripped Harry's hand, and started to walk through the halls.

The journey took a good five minutes, with Harry paying less and less attention to his surroundings as the journey continued. Finally, the height mismatched duo reached a large, almost cavernous room. The walls, Harry noticed, were bare, carved stone, and the floor was paved with large slabs of rock. The doors guarding the room ahead were lined with black, highly reflective metal. The doors, however, stood tightly closed, refusing entry to the two. On one side of the door, the left, was inscribed an enormous Griffin, and on the other, the right, was carved a raised form of a Phoenix. The two had one leg and a wing raised, as if in recognition of Harry as he stood before the door. This must be what Jacques meant by 'equipped with the proper precautions' in his letter. The door, Harry finally noticed, seemed to have some sort of red, ethereal glow emanating from within, making the black metal shine with a red hint. At its very centre, there was a small handprint-shaped indentation. Harry knew what to do. He didn't know how. He just knew.

Harry stepped forwards, and then placed his right hand on the mark. Clang! A lock raised somewhere in the door, and then a spike collected a small droplet of Harry's blood. Clang! Another lock raised inside the voluminous door. Harry felt a tiny drain on his magic, and the last bolt clanged up. The two doors swung open, to reveal a long tunnel.

At the end of the low entrance, Harry spied a simple bed. Not even questioning how safe this was, what with him virtually being locked up in a colossal tomb, Harry stumbled over to the bed, and swiftly passed out onto the soft, slightly giving surface. The small house elf- Dinky- clicked its fingers. Harry's clothes were instantly replaced with warm, comfortable pyjamas, and the bedspread slid back and then over the sleeping boy. Quickly, the house elf disapparated, leaving the room barren of any company. Harry slumbered on.

It was midnight. Harry had slept through the next day, and straight on through the night. His body still needed to acclimatise to the foreign substance now coating his bones. The black metal had spread from his upper right arm, to cover every bone in his body. It shifted and rippled, moving with his muscles, reinforcing their movement. The mask, still in Harry's rucksack, glowed slightly, as if feeling the tremors of lunar magic beaming down from the moon above. Its containing case opened, and the mask lifted out. Behind the eye slits, were two white orbs. The orbs, although stationary, seemed to be gazing at Harry. There was a wealth of experience and knowledge in those eyes, and they seemed only to yearn to pass it on.

In his sleep, Harry rolled over, baring his face to the ceiling. Seizing this chance, the mask floated over, and slowly settled over Harry's face.

A/N So, I've got seventeen chapters written already, and I'm uploading one per week. This story is headed towards a multi-pairing methinks, but I'm leaving it hanging as to whether there will be a lemon or several (opinions welcome, people!). As I mentioned to Blorg13 just today, I hope to end up in Westeros, most specifically the North. However, that is well I the future.

You could possibly describe this chapter as a filler, but it is essential to the continuation of this fic :D

Inspirational Music for the Week: Gone Sovereign by Stone Sour.

Film of the Week: Dragonheart (1996), Sean Connery, David Thewlis (y'know, Lupin's actor).

Book of the Week: Airborn by Kenneth Oppel.

Ciao