Fleur Delacour was annoyed. No scratch that, she was infuriated. Her father—the big bad Sebastian Delacour might be the Head of French DMLE, but his post would not, could not save him from her wrath. No, he would be an idiot to even think of such.

Fleur was a Veela. A full-blooded Veela. Even to this date, it amused her about the awkward information that witches and wizards had about Veela. According to proper documentation, Fleur's grandmother was a resident of the famous Veela Covenant of France, and hence a full-blooded Veela. She had married a wizard and thus her daughter Apolline was branded as a half-Veela. In the same process. Fleur was what the wizarding world called a quarter-Veela. She snorted.

Imbeciles!

Veela were Veela. They always bred true and nearly always gave birth to daughters. The daughter of a Veela was a Veela. Not half-blooded, not quarter-blooded. Just Veela. They exhibited all the characteristics of any Veela on the planet. Full stop. How hard was it to understand this simple fact?

Imbeciles!

She strode up towards the mirror. A proud, angelic face looked back at her. The high cheekbones, the full pink lips, the beautiful blue eyes and the refined face all screamed one thing.

There is no one like me.

Tossing her golden curls indignantly, she turned back and strode towards the door. Her father should be home by now, and there was no way she would let him convince her not to go to the Quidditch world cup. Threats be damned!

"Papa!" she addressed; said man turning towards her and sighing in resignation. "What did you decide about what we had spoken last evening?"

Sebastian Delacour was a family man. Yes, he was the DMLE head and wielded a vast array of power and resourceful contacts, but if there was one thing that could sway his decision, it was his pretty little daughter—Fleur. Father and daughter had had a yelling session the previous evening about her wanting to go to the Quidditch World Cup and considering how Sebastian had received multiple threats from the bigoted Pureblood lords of the French Assembly of Lords, he was in no way ready to allow his daughter away from his eyes.

"Fleur! You know why-"

"I don't care. Are you letting me go or not?" Her eyebrows raised elegantly at the question, staring at her father in an attempt of intimidation.

"Fleur, I-"

Her eyebrows rose higher.

"Oh come on, try to-"

Her hands went up to her hips in typical interrogation fashion.

"Darn! Fine you can go. But I will go with you!"

"Yayyy!" she screamed joyously, running into her father and hugging him hard. After exactly four seconds, she separated from him and stood straight, in traditional Pureblood manner. "Thank you for granting my request, Father."

She strode away.

Sebastian Delacour looked at her go. His mind began raising doubts about himself once again.

How the hell did I become the DMLE Head when all it takes me to get intimidated is a little girl raising her eyebrows?


"Fleur? Fleur?"

"What?" The beautiful Veela turned towards her one and only true friend in school. Caroline Beaufort. Silky auburn hair, brilliant brown eyes and her heart-shaped face- Caroline was one of the most beautiful girls in Beauxbatons, second only to Fleur Delacour herself, but then again, she was just a witch while Fleur was a Veela. It was believed that Veela had their ancestors among the celestial nymphs, hence their beauty. There was another, much truer history. The Veela of old were not that different from the Sirens or the mermaids. They would use their beauty to enchant mates and then prey upon them. Centuries of changing had now decreased the inner primal instinct and the Veela of today were a little more than gorgeous women who could change into a beast with wings and throw fireballs from her hands. That killer primal instinct was now subdued, leading to what was known as the Veela Sex trade, second only to the Metamorphmagus Sex trade- an illegal and vile occupation in which wizards captured young Veela women and conditioned them to become sex-slaves. It was similar to some muggle thing- Stockholm something- it was related to the conditioning that led the captives to fall and love and try to please her own captors. Since the Veela were so beautiful and sexual by nature, they made highly enticing targets for the Trade, the most common country to do so being Great Britain.

Was it any surprise that Fleur hated everything about Britain and the English?

"Are you going for the Triwizard Tournament?"

Fleur smirked. "If not me, then who else?" Caroline narrowed her eyes. She knew that her best friend's haughty arrogance was an outer defensive mask for the sensitive and sensual woman inside. Years of taunting and teasing would do that to anyone. She remembered how cute and playful her friend was in their initial years of friendship. She had been witness to the metamorphosis that Fleur underwent, not just physically, but mentally as well. As soon as she hit twelve, her body started changing and by the next year, she had changed from the cute little girl to the gorgeous sexual woman, one who made the boys drool over her as she passed, and the girls to stare at her in discontent and anger. She had witnessed how the other girls blamed Fleur for stealing their boyfriends, and how the boys stalked her every now and then- their overtures and requests ranging from trying to please her to outright demands of sexual intimacy. Fleur had cried on her very shoulder—night after night.

They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Caroline mused-that was what might have happened to Fleur. She changed—her cute playfulness changed to a cold, stoic mask; her outer beauty changed to pride and her sensitivity got hidden beneath layers of arrogance. Fleur rose to heights within Beauxbatons, much more than anyone of her age had ever been. Madam Thibeaux, the professor of Enchanting, had taken her in as her personal apprentice and Fleur herself was the dueling champion of Beauxbatons for two years, her streak undefeated so far. Now with the Triwizard tournament coming, Caroline was sure that Fleur would be chosen for the tournament—whether she won or lost would make or break her. She looked at her best friend- the proud mask openly displaying the one thought Fleur believed in completely.

There is no one like her.

"When is your next class?"

"Master Antonio is coming by the next hour. He believes that by the next year, I shall be ready for the international dueling circuit." It was a statement. She had undergone severe training with Master Antonio, a famous name in the dueling circuit. Not as famous as Filius Flitwick-what with the way the man had won the championship nine times with an undefeated streak- it was one of the main reasons she was so excited about going to Hogwarts. It was a shame that such an accomplished person was a Charms master in Britain—a place which looked down upon him because of his goblin heritage.

"I am personally excited to meet Harry Potter though." Caroline chanted mirthfully. Fleur rolled her eyes. Caroline was one of the many, many girls of her school who drooled upon the dream of bagging le survivant, or as the English called him—the Boy-who-lived. Apparently, living despite having hit with a killing curse does that to you. Not that Fleur would want to be in his place- she would not want to live with a scar on her forehead for the rest of her life- she loved her sensual body too much for that.

Imbeciles!

As far as Harry Potter was concerned, she was least interested. There was a reason he was called the Boy-who-lived. A Boy, not a man. She was Fleur Delacour. Powerful young men fell at her feet, in hope of getting her attention- she did not have time for some imbecile boy with a nasty scar. After all, there was no one like her.


Peter Pettigrew was inconsolable. He had hid from the rest of the wizarding world as a garden rat, living on the scraps of the Weasley family for over a decade; had fought the angry Sirius Black and the werewolf and escaped Hogwarts, only to find his Master hiding in the outskirts of the forbidden forest. He had undergone great pains to ensure that his Master was able to get a perfect homunculus for his resurrection, some kind of ritual about which he was still ignorant.

And now, this redhead from nowhere had come and taken over—what could have been his place. Right beside the dark lord.

Peter Pettigrew was no fool. He knew that the dark lord treated him as a menial servant. Then again, the dark lord treated all his followers as his servants. Despite that, Peter had aspired, Peter had toiled and attended to the dark lord's every whim- but now, he was cast aside- rendered useless. The redhead was now the dark lord's favorite.

Bastard!

"I will aspire. I will show the dark lord that I am his most faithful follower." Peter vowed. "And if I can't, I will arrange things as required."


Inside the dark study room of Riddle Manor, the dark lord sat on his long chair, his red eyes glowing in the darkness. The redheaded time-traveler, Ronald Weasley sat on a smaller chair a few steps away from him, twirling his wand in his fingers.

"What is the core in your wand, Ronald?"

Ronald smirked. The dark lord was quite... in a habit of asking questions that would make himself even more befuddled.

"Holly and phoenix feather!"

The dark lord raised his eyebrows. Together with the red glowing eyes and the dramatically frightening environment in all room, it made him look even more menacing.

"Show me!"

"Of course, my lord!" Ron handed the wand to the dark lord, who let out a gasp of surprise. "This is my- no wait, it feels slightly different. But this wand... it feels so familiar."

"It should. After all, your wand and mine... are brothers." The dark lord glanced at him so sharply that his neck almost snapped. "Come again?"

"This wand carries the feather of Dumbledore's pet phoenix. You would be interested to know that the very same phoenix gave out one more feather. Just one more."

"The one in mine?"

Ronald nodded silently. "At present, Harry Potter owns the holly and phoenix wand. Unlike souls, wands however can exist in the same time-line without any problems. This wand-" he pointed, "—belonged to the Harry Potter of my world."

"But you have it now. Did you overpower him and take it?"

"No, my lord. I stole it. Let's just say that there are some... changes in me that enable me to wield that wand without any resistance."

Not for the first time, the dark lord cursed himself for his ever-growing curiosity. Every time he asked something crucial, he would be shocked. It showed him how intricate the world of magic truly was. Despite him being a dark lord, there was still so much to learn. His ignorance was exactly what made him fall. Hubris!
It was ironic how he was preparing himself to fall again. The lack of information on Harry Potter was staggering. The boy shared a brother wand, and that meant- Priori Incantatem. The reverse-spell effect would act as an effective neutralizer, locking them both in a battle of wills. But then again-

"Tell me Ronald! Where do your skills lie in?"

Ronald Weasley smirked. "Curse-breaking, my Lord, and also in stealth."

"Very well. If what you told me is right, then we need to make some changes in the plans for this year. I have something for you to do."

"My lord, I am all ears."


Harry strode out of Potter Manor. Everything was going great so far. Four horcruxes down, one within reach inside Hogwarts. One in Gringotts and the final two pieces of the bastard were always together, though he would have to wait for an entire year to obliterate the last two.

One entire year.

At least, he would be at Hogwarts. Between killing off death Eaters, fighting dragons and winning over his lost love's heart once again- there was plenty of work to do. Yes, Hogwarts will not be boring.

I hope.

One advantage about being the dark lord that he was- was that it gave him a huge arsenal of spells. The organizers of the Triwizard were going to get one damned show that much was sure. In addition, this time he would get enough time to win over her affections.

I wonder if she will still regard me as a little boy.

His mind wandered- the memories of the lost world rising up in his mind space- it had all begun on his fourth year.

FLASHBACK

November 25. The day after the First Task.

Harry was flying on his Firebolt, his death-defying moves on full display as he carried on his rendezvous- he swerved up high towards the heavens, so high that he was just one small dot from the ground and then all of a sudden, he shoved downwards at breakneck speed, his hands focused on the professional broomstick. Any other person would have been hell scared at the way he was falling down, dashing towards the ground but for Harry—it was just some good fun, and a bit of an adrenaline rush. Just one foot above the ground, he swerved his broomstick perfectly, demonstrating a Wronski feint that would have put many professional seekers to shame. Had this demonstration been in a Quidditch stadium, he would have faced a thousand standing ovations. However, he was alone in the Quidditch field, well perhaps not so much alone, for there was one single person who let out an almighty shriek, seeing his fall.

Not allowing the sudden shriek from deviating his focus, he expertly swerved his broom, bringing himself back to the world of reasonable safety, and found himself looking straight into the eyes of one shocked and anxious Fleur Delacour.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" she shrieked.

Harry mused. That was strange. Fleur Delacour, worried about him?

"I was just having some fun. I do it all the time."

"You could have died." The concern was still there, and interestingly, the French accent was completely missing. This was quite contrary to the Fleur Delacour speech he had been witness to, for quite a lot during the year.

"I do it all the time." Harry repeated. Not for the first time, he wished he had some poise.

Fleur muttered something incoherent but Harry could make out two definite words out of it-'English' and 'imbecile'. Keeping the smirk off his face, he urged. "You don't really like staying here in Britain, do you?"

Fleur did not reply but her scowl gave her feelings away.

"Why did you come then?"

"I intend to win the tournament. Now, I find that there are four instead of three competitors. Bloody English, can't even secure a single goblet." A quick string of cuss-words and profanities in rapid French followed that statement, but Harry could not make out what it was.

"Is that why you speak with that French accent, every time? It's completely absent right now, you know."

Fleur looked at him with 'a deer caught in the headlights' look, and then a small smirk fit himself over her lips. "You can say that."

"No offence, but why exactly are you here? I have never seen you anywhere without your school mates?"

"I like spending time alone. Besides, I wanted to... uhm..."

"Yes?" Harry urged.

Why is this so difficult? She thought. "Fine. I wanted to apologize for my words and actions since the events on Halloween. I was wrong and I have been a right bitch to you all this time, and I want to make things right."

Harry gave her an odd look. Ever since he had entered into the wizarding world, he had known a lot many people—made friends, made enemies, talked, quarreled and so much more. People cast him out as a wannabe dark lord one day and next week he was the talk of the town. He was glorified, saddled, vilified, used, and manipulated. Even after it was proved that he was innocent, there was never any one who had come and apologized to him. Ever.

This is certainly new.

"Harry Potter!" he said, extending his hand forward.

"Fleur Delacour! Nice to meet you!" She shook his hand.

END OF FLASHBACK

The memories of what had blossomed from a friendship between two reclusive people into a relationship of mutual care and affection. The two had continued to meet often in recluse, avoiding the media circus pervading the tournament. The Shrieking shack had become their solace- a place away from the rest of the world were the two could be themselves, shedding their masks and being themselves. Fleur, the charming girl—not the proud arrogant Veela and Harry—the witty sarcastic boy, not the Boy-who-lived. A relationship that had endured the passage of time until that one... incident.

The explosion...

"This time, it will be better. Fleur. This time, I will not fail you. I promise." The bluish sheen that shone all around him as the magical vow took effect remained unseen.


Riddle Manor.

"Wormtail! Have you done what I asked you to do?"

"Yes, Master."

"Ronald, I hope your information is correct. If not, you will face my wrath."

Ronald bowed. "Of course, my lord. I live for your return."

Lord Voldemort closed his eyes. Many things had changed. A month ago, he had thought that waiting for the Triwizard was the best thing that came to mind. Now though... things were different. He now knew of many more intricacies of the connection between himself and Harry Potter. Connections, which he never realized existed. That the boy, his arch-nemesis was one of the very vessels supporting his existence on the mortal realm—it was overwhelming. Ever since he had learned of that, he had perused through all his memories, searching for an information on how to extract a soul from a horcrux.

There was nothing.

Thirteen years had passed, yet there was one single question, to which Lord Voldemort had not found an answer.

What exactly had happened when he had fired the killing curse on Harry Potter?

That damned question... he had thought about it in a million ways, and tried a million arithmantic analysis of what might have happened. Every time he reached an answer, it led to a new vault of answered questions. There was never an answer.

Now. He had information he never had before. One that changed everything.

The boy was a horcrux. A horcrux of Lord Voldemort. He remembered what he knew about the horcrux.

One of the most abominable creations of applied necromancy is the process of creating a soul-shard, or as Herpo the Foul had named them—the horcrux. Created by the application of the killing curse on a human, this ritual provides the practitioner with a form of conditional immortality. Until the moment the horcrux is safe, the practitioner cannot be killed completely. Even if his body were to be destroyed, the practitioner shall exist as a wraith until he can perform a resurrection ritual and get himself another physical form.

A victim, one who tortured so much that he would want death more than anything else in the world is a requirement. An application of the killing curse on such a victim shall tear the soul apart. The tearing is temporary and unless the horcrux ritual is performed, the torn portion of the soul may attack itself back to the main soul with time.

The soul-shard thus obtained, when transferred to a magical item would make such an item indestructible, vulnerable only to Fiendfyre, basilisk venom and Nundu breath. Whether a full powered elemental spell is detrimental to a horcrux's indestructibility is still subject to speculation.

Lily Potter... she had begged for death...

Please kill me... Not Harry... Take me... Kill me instead...

He had hit her with the killing curse...

Avada Kedavra...

At that moment, he had six soul-shards... Cup, Diadem, Diary, Ring, Locket and himself.

Seven was the number of perfection. Magic revolves around the number Seven. Magic wants to exist in the form of seven...

Could it be possible that because of the circumstances, his soul had automatically ejected a soul shard out of him?

That piece of soul, which had stuck itself to the only magical object in the cottage- the infant Harry Potter, making him as a horcrux.

Indestructible.

Then, he had fired a killing curse off at his own horcrux.

Indestructibility had stood against Death.

The overwhelming force had met its match in an immovable object.

The killing curse had backfired, losing him his own body.

It all made sense now.

Harry Potter. Parselmouth. Dard lord.

It was not unfathomable anymore. After all, he was a horcrux of Voldemort. Lord Voldemort.

Indestructible! Is that what happened to Harry Potter? By becoming a horcrux, did he gain some form of indestructibility? Was that the reason why the future-Me failed to destroy him? Then again, the brother wands. Even my most powerful spell could be neutralized if locked in Priori Incantatem.

It was very troubling.

"Ronald!"

"My Lord!"

"We leave for Bulgaria in two days."

Weasley gave an odd look. "May I ask, why, my lord?"

"It's time I get for myself a new wand. I have heard that Gregorovitch is the best over there."

Lord Voldemort smiled.


### And that makes the sixth chapter. Special thanks to lady Edgecombe for her efforts as usual. Please read and review. The next chapter is due very, very soon.