A/N: This is easily one of the most important chapters in the entire story. For some characters, Monday will be pretty average; for others, it will forever alter the course of their lives. So many little things have been leading up to this... and yet, some of the biggest surprises are yet to come!
Recommendation: This chapter's recommended fic is "Just Another Day in Ward 37" by apAiden. Harry tries to use a modified polyjuice potion for an undercover auror mission and things don't go quite as planned. Hermione is not amused... at first. Short and funny.
Chapter 42 - Monday, Monday
Monday, March 1, 1995, Early Morning.
Ron Weasley wasn't usually a morning person. He'd much rather have a relaxing lie-in until 10 or 11, then have a large breakfast, just like his mother always made at home, followed immediately by an equally large lunch. Ron especially disliked Monday mornings: it was hard enough to get up to get to class, but to expect him to do it after having spent an entire weekend reading about Quidditch, watching Quidditch, and playing chess... that was just criminal.
Ron made an exception for this particular morning, though, because this Monday morning was special. It was his birthday! Today, Ron Weasley reached the age of fifteen years - just two more years until he became an adult in the wizarding world.
At home his mother would normally fix him an especially large birthday breakfast with all of his favorite dishes - well, more helpings of his favorite dishes, at least - but he could make do with what they served at Hogwarts, especially since he also had presents and a birthday cake to look forward to.
For a moment, that brought Ron up short. Not all that long ago, it wouldn't have been true that he'd have presents or a birthday cake to look forward to, and while he'd still be able to have a good breakfast, it wouldn't be different from any other day. He'd also likely have to eat it alone. That would have been his own fault, too, because he had acted like a git and turned his back on his best friends.
It was only in the past few days that he had really been able to make significant progress in healing the rifts he'd created. It had taken Jasmine almost getting flambeed by a dragon before he was willing to admit that he'd been wrong about thinking she'd cheated to get into the Triwizard Tournament. It had taken Hermione being kidnapped and held at the bottom of the Black Lake before he'd managed to step up and actively support Jasmine so she could go rescue their mutual friend.
Their relationships weren't back to what they were before and possibly never would be, but if that were true he knew he'd only have himself to blame. He wouldn't dwell on that, though. Instead, he'd focus on continuing to repair those relationships because during the past couple of months he'd begun to realize just how important they were. Indeed, they were more important than birthday presents and birthday cake, and he was going to make sure that the relevant people knew it.
It was going to be a good day to be Ron Weasley - he was sure of it.
Albus Dumbledore loved mornings, especially early mornings when others weren't awake. It was more relaxing, he could get more work done, and it simply felt like a good time to be alive. The key ingredient, though, was others not being awake: it was the solitude of early mornings that attracted him, and when that solitude was disturbed as it had been a few moments ago, he learned what it meant to hate mornings.
"Albus! Albus!" came the nasally voice from his fireplace - a voice he knew and disliked at any time of the day, never mind early mornings when he preferred to enjoy the peace and quiet. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford to express his true feelings.
"Good morning, Cornelius," he responded in faux cheerfulness that he knew the Minister would never see through - not because Dumbledore was a good actor, though he was, but simply because the man was too dense to ever detect when a person was lying, no matter how badly. "What brings you to my fireplace at this wonderful and early hour?" At least, it was a wonderful hour, he thought.
"It's horrible, Albus! I've never seen anything like this!" the Minister of Magic whinged, apparently expecting the Headmaster of Hogwarts to console him in his time of need. "I need to come through to talk to you about this."
"I'm not really prepared to receive visitors at this early hour, Cornelius," Dumbledore responded, desperately hoping that he could convince the man that he didn't need to come speak to him in person. It couldn't possibly be bad enough to warrant a face-to-face meeting, could it?
"Oh, very well, Albus, but it's all your fault anyway," the Minister declared, his face shifting from worry to anger. "I'm not going to take the fall for you, mark my words. This will be resting on your shoulders, I guarantee it!"
"Whatever could be the problem, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked, starting to worry a little now, but not too much because he knew the man's penchant for panicking at the drop of his green bowler hat.
"I've got here international complaints, some personal and some official," the Minister said, starting to get angrier. "They are all about you and that blasted tournament you're running. Did you or did you not have the daughter of an important French magical family placed at the bottom of an ice-cold lake in the middle of bloody February? Did you or did you not cast a faulty spell on her that might have caused her to drown if it hadn't been for the heroic actions of the Girl Who Lived?"
Now Dumbledore started to genuinely worry. He had expected the complaints, but he had hoped that they would come directly to him so he could deal with them quietly. Now, though, they were out in the wild, and the most he could do was damage control. "It's not nearly as bad as you seem to think it is, Cornelius," he said in an effort to calm the man. "You know how overly dramatic the French can get. They are overreacting, that's all. Besides, I wasn't even responsible for picking the person who was used in the tournament, I merely administered their placement."
"That's not what I heard, Dumbledore," Cornelius said, indicating by the shift in names that he was prepared to be more belligerent than usual. "We've got an international incident brewing here, and it has your name all over it. If we don't find some way to placate the French, then they and their allies will start making trouble for us - trouble that we can ill afford!"
Dumbledore sighed, not really wanting to be distracted by this sort of thing right now.
"What if I give the Girl Who Lived an award for rescuing that frog bint? Will that make the French happy, do you think?" The Minister asked hopefully.
"No, Cornelius," Dumbledore said quickly, "that's not a good idea. Young Miss Potter doesn't like the attention and would probably react negatively to it all, thus making matters worse." After a brief hesitation, he added for good measure, "She really isn't mature enough for that sort of thing right now."
"Oh, very well," the Minister said reluctantly. "But I'm going to need something else!"
"Maybe if I came in later—" Dumbledore started to say before he was interrupted.
"Yes, yes! Excellent idea," the Minister said. "I'll see you in an hour!"
"I really don't think I can..." Dumbledore objected, but stopped when he realized he was only talking to an empty fireplace. Sighing, he stood up from his half-eaten breakfast and made his way to his private chambers so he could find an appropriate set of robes.
It was not going to be a good day to be Albus Dumbledore, he just knew it.
Sirius Black didn't have much of an opinion about mornings one way or the other. In Azkaban, night and day were practically interchangeable, so he slept when he was tired and was awake when the screaming - sometimes his own - kept him awake. Sometimes the screaming woke him up, too... like this morning. Except that it wasn't screaming from exposure to Dementors or even nightmares; instead, it was screaming from having several gallons of ice water dumped on him.
"Gah!" he cried out, sputtering and shaking his head trying to get rid of the ice chips. Looking around, he spotted Kreacher with an especially evil grin on his face. "You! Kreacher, you did this, didn't you?"
"Yes, filthy blood traitor, Kreacher did it."
Shocked that the vile little house elf had actually admitted to the deed, Sirius was simply speechless. Finally, he asked, "Well, why did you do it, then? What's gotten into you?" Kreacher never did and never would like him, Sirius knew that; but over the past few days his improved relationship with his mother's portrait seemed to have carried over to the house elf.
"Mistress commanded it," Kreacher explained, as if it had been a completely natural and expected order.
"What? Why?" Sirius demanded, even more confused now.
"Mistress commanded that the filthy drunken no-good blood traitor son be woken up with ice water," Kreacher explained slowly, as if to an especially dense toddler. "Mistress commands that blood traitor son shower, shave, dress properly, and eat before appearing before her. Mistress has plans and plots, but needs no-good son to help."
Shaking his head again, Sirius said, "I see her every day. What's special about today?"
"Mistress says today is the day that no-good blood traitor son learns to shape up and act like a proper son of the House of Black, not that Kreacher believes it. No, bad master won't learn, Kreacher is sure, but Mistress commanded, so Kreacher obeys. Mistress says that no-good son must stop drinking and start acting right so he can help halfblood granddaughter of the Noble and Ancient House of Black."
Sirius was a bit confused by all of this, so he focused on the one thing that he understood and which was truly important. "Stop drinking?"
Sirius wouldn't have believed that Kreacher's smile could get even nastier, but it did. "Yes, Mistress commands that Kreacher hide all the alcohol, but Kreacher suggested that it all be dumped down the sink, and Mistress agreed. Mistress appreciates advice from poor old Kreacher, yes she does."
"Dumped? Sink?" Sirius sputtered, having trouble believing his ears. "You dumped all the firewhiskey? There's no more rum?"
When Kreacher nodded, grinning broadly enough to show his yellow, misshapen teeth, Sirius leapt out of bed and threw himself at the horrid little house elf, but Kreacher simply snapped his fingers and popped away, causing Sirius to hit the wall headfirst. Sitting there in a bit of a daze and still sopping wet, he contemplated just how bizarre the morning had been and worried that things would only go downhill from there. I can't believe there's no more rum!
It was going to be a very weird day for Sirius Black, he was sure of it.
Fleur Delacour wasn't particularly fond of mornings, but that was mostly when she was away from home because she detested waking up alone. Coming to consciousness in an otherwise empty, cold bed always depressed her - she much preferred to awaken in one of the massive beds at home while snuggled up with family or friends. Waking up that way meant knowing how much you were loved and wanted; waking up alone meant feeling uncertain about one's place in the world.
Once Gabrielle had joined her in Scotland, she no longer had to sleep alone; but ever since the second task neither had been able to sleep very well, and Gabrielle had taken to getting up early and leaving Fleur by herself. As had been the case for most of the past several months, Fleur woke up that morning alone in bed; unlike the past few months, though, she was not alone in her room.
She shot from half asleep to fully conscious in an instant as she sat up in bed and looked around, seeing a half dozen women in her room, all veela. She recognized her maman and grandmere, but she didn't recognize the other four. Two were wearing very expensive cloaks, and she guessed that they were important people.
What really threw her were the two standing by the door. They wore rather plain cloaks, but the bulkiness of their figures suggested that they were wearing far more underneath. She didn't need to see the short spears or bronze swords they were carrying to guess that those two witches were wearing armor, which meant that they weren't just any veela and weren't even just any bodyguards.
Could they really be Amazzi? she wondered. Those legendary veela warriors who served as the primary defense against outsiders were only rarely seen beyond the borders of veela enclaves - except for rumored assassination missions, but even then the only people who might see them wouldn't survive the experience. Few non-veela even knew about their existence anymore, and no one seemed to know exactly how many of them there were. At one time knowledge of them had been more common, but over the millennia their existence had passed into myth, and they were now known as "Amazons" among the muggles, who had no idea what they were talking about.
To see not one but two Amazzi in her bedroom did not bode well. They couldn't be here for me or my family, she thought, so they must be protecting the two strangers. For those strangers to warrant the personal protective services of two Amazzi means that they must be far, far more important than I first thought.
"Daughter," Apolline said, forcing her to focus. "I told you we would come, and we are here. Great things are afoot - great and terrible things. It is time for you to learn that which you have asked about so often, but I do not believe you will thank me for telling you. Just know that I did not wish this on you, and if I could take your burden on myself, I would."
"You will have to be strong, young one," Sybine said, her voice a little thick. "Both you and your sister will have to be stronger than you ever thought possible. Your mother and I will do whatever we can to support and help you, but at the end of the day, you and your sister will have to rely on each other to make it through the trials that are before you."
"Get dressed and eat breakfast," said one of the two well-dressed strangers. "You have one hour, then we must talk." With that, all six left her room. For the first time ever, Fleur was wishing that she had truly woken alone.
It was going to be a difficult day for Fleur Delacour - she just knew it.
Jasmine Potter woke up feeling well-rested and refreshed. The last few days had been stressful, and she still felt that she hadn't entirely recovered from the second task, but last night had been good. She and Hermione had finished their wandless spellcasting and mind magic exercises early so they could just spend a bit of time snogging and talking. She wasn't sure which activity she liked best with Hermione, but she could appreciate both, and they helped distract her from her desire to march up to the Headmaster's office and start hexing him for what he had done to her girlfriend.
There had also been a bit of light petting, too, something that Jasmine was still working on getting used to. Well, to be more accurate, she was still working on not jumping out of her skin every time Hermione's hands started wandering. Once she got past that point and stopped thinking about it too hard, she could revel in the sensations, and that was definitely moving up on her list of favorite activities.
At this rate, it might just overtake flying her broom on her list, especially if she learned how to suppress her initial aversion anytime soon. She never could have imagined how much fun petting could be, and according to Hermione, it would only get better.
It looked like it would be a happy day for Jasmine, or at least that's what she hoped.
Tom Riddle slowly came to consciousness, uncertain of where he was or what had happened to him. Gradually he remembered the pain he had experienced the night before. It hadn't been as bad as some of the bouts of pain he'd had to endure in recent weeks, but it had been bad enough that he had passed out, something he didn't normally have to worry about.
And while the worst of the pain may have been gone now, he still felt pretty bad. He ached... somewhere. It felt like it was all over, but whenever he tried to focus on the aching, he couldn't determine where exactly it was. He had no idea that the pain he had been experiencing had been in his very soul, and therefore so was the aching. It was everywhere, yet nowhere physical, thus defying his attempts to locate or understand.
We are pleased that We decided to send out Wormtail to fetch another one of Our servants, he thought. Lucius is a skilled wizard who will be able to help Us, just so long as We can temper his ambition and prevent him from thinking Us too weak to be worth obeying anymore. It is good that We thought to include so many loyalty and obedience charms in Our Mark.
No longer thinking about the deep ache he experienced all over, Riddle focused on plots and plots within plots as he addressed the problem of how to keep Lucius Malfoy from taking advantage of him while they worked to ensure the kidnapping of the Potter brat. Everything always came back to Potter and what she had done to him. Well, he'd make her pay.
In the meantime, though, he needed to take his potion. He'd had the foresight to tell Wormtail to make extra and leave it for him, but he hadn't given much thought to how he'd drink it with the stubby little baby arms he had to work with.
It was going to be an annoying day, Lord Voldemort was sure of it. But he'd just Crucio Wormtail and Lucius a bit extra for it.
Monday, March 1, 1995, Late Morning.
Sirius stood before the portrait of his mother, showered, shaved, and sober. He was having flashbacks to his childhood and was pretty sure that it wasn't due to alcohol withdrawal - not yet, at any rate. She looked him up and down, apparently not entirely happy with what she was seeing, but resigned to having no other choice.
"Sirius," she said, "I've been both proud of you and disappointed in you these past few days." He was sure the shock must have been obvious on his face. "I've been proud because I can see how hard you are trying to do the right thing for young Jasmine Dorea. I get the distinct impression that she has no other adults in her life - not even in the muggle world - who will put her interests first."
Sirius nodded at that, having come to the same conclusion. "At the same time, though," she continued, "I've been disappointed in how you've been handling this new responsibility that you've taken on yourself. Your drinking, for example, has gotten to be excessive. Too often I've seen you unfocused and wandering around the house. This is a problem - a problem of your own making, no less. A Black should not wallow in self-pity like that."
"I won't deny it," Sirius responded, his temper starting to rise, "but you have no idea what Azkaban was like. What it did to me. I spent more than a decade in that hellhole, and there are times when I'm not sure if I ever left. At night, I can still feel the Dementors. I can still hear the screaming... Merlin, sometimes I can still hear my own screaming. The firewhiskey helps - it pushes back the memories. Most of the time, it's the only way I can sleep."
Sirius collapsed against the wall after letting all of that out. He thought he saw a flash of sympathy in the portrait's face, but it was quickly replaced by her usual stern, disapproving expression. "I'm not surprised, Sirius, and perhaps I shouldn't blame you. However, the fact remains that you need to get your act together if you are going to be able to help your goddaughter. She's what matters here, not your self-pity. Fortunately, I am now in a position to help you more than I could previously."
At his disbelieving look, she continued, "In the first place, we have a couple of Blacks who were healers in the past, and they have portraits both here and at St. Mungo's. One was even a mind healer back in her day. They will work with you while getting advice from current mind healers - anonymously, of course. You must commit to talking to them at least a couple of hours each day as well as any time the memories get to you. You must also stop drinking, at least for a while."
Sirius shook his head and said, "I don't see how a mind healer could possibly help me. What do they know about Azkaban? What do they know about the long-term effects of Dementors? What do they know about what I've been through?"
Walburga's eyes flashed as she shouted, "It doesn't matter! What matters is that you must try! I said this wasn't about you, and it's time you remembered that! You have a duty to your goddaughter and you know that your drinking will only make things worse in the long run. You. Will. Try!"
Sirius couldn't remember the last time he had been ashamed of his actions in front of his mother - his mother, of all people! - but right now he was. He hung his head and silently nodded, unconsciously imitating behavior he hadn't engaged in since long before he'd started attending Hogwarts.
He had wanted help and knew that he needed help, but he didn't think there was anywhere he could go for it. Nor did he know how to ask for it. Now, maybe he would get it - and in the house of his ancestors, the last place he ever would have expected to find it.
"Second," Walburga went on, "I have spoken with the portrait of Phineas Nigellus. He understands our situation and has informed me that his oath as a Black does indeed supercede his oath as a headmaster of Hogwarts. Apparently, he had that oath adjusted just to ensure that it was subordinate. He was a true Slytherin!" She shook her head in admiration. "This means that he will spy on the Headmaster for us rather than the other way around. If indeed Dumbledore is behind all of the ills that have befallen Jasmine Dorea, then we now have eyes and ears deep within the enemy camp. It's not a victory, but it is a very important step towards eventual victory."
Sirius exhaled in obvious relief. He had hoped at best that Phineas wouldn't give them away, but this news was better than he could have possibly expected.
"Third, and in a similar vein," Walburga continued, "All of the other portraits have agreed to provide whatever help they can. Some will be able to provide advice or instruction. Others will use their other frames in the Ministry, St. Mungo's, and other houses to watch for information that might be relevant to our cause. Every Black, whether through birth or marriage, has been marshalled to our flag and is committed to restoring our House."
Sirius nodded, not really thinking about the possible implications of that because he was simply too happy to have more help - even if it was in the form of musty old portraits of long-dead bigots that he wouldn't normally spit on. Under other circumstances he might have laughed at such "help," but he was far too desperate to turn it away now.
"Thank you... Mother," he barely managed to choke out that last word. He hadn't spoken it as anything other than a curse in decades. He was pretty sure that James was laughing at him right now.
Just as Fleur was finishing breakfast, another veela she didn't recognize approached her and said that she was her escort to the secure conference room. Fleur didn't waste any time and quickly followed the unknown witch. She spent most of the short walk through the expanded carriage's corridors patting her clothing in an effort to make herself look more presentable.
When they arrived at a door she hadn't seen before, she was sent straight in while the other witch remained outside. Just inside the door were the two Amazzi, both now without their robes and thus revealing the brilliant, golden armor, bronze sword, and spear they all carried. These veela were taller than Fleur, and they would have been broader and heavier than her even without their armor. They had the ethereal beauty that all veela possessed, but they also had the quiet, understated menace of professional warriors which Fleur found quite intimidating. The fact that she could feel them watching her every move didn't help.
Seated in one couch were the two strangers from earlier, and in another were Apolline and Sybine. Fleur immediately took the spot that had been left between her elders and reveled in the contact as her mother and grandmother scooted close and held her. She didn't know what she was about to face, but she knew that it wasn't good, and she was happy for any comfort she could get right now.
"Young one," started one of the strangers in French. "My name is Adrienne, and my companion here is Margaux. We are both from the Theledrion, and we have come here to talk to you." Fleur's eyes widened in shock at this - no one ever got a personal visit from anyone on the veela high council. Few enough ever got to see them at all, and those that did were summoned to appear before them.
"The Theledrion has been kept abreast of what's been happening here with you," Margaux said. "You probably don't know it, but Apolline and Sybine both work closely with us." Fleur shot surprised looks at the women beside her, and Margaux nodded. "I'm afraid I can't tell you what exactly they do for us, but suffice it to say that they are in our confidence. So as soon as they read your first letter and realized its implications, they came to us seeking advice."
"It was on our advice that you were urged to get closer to those two English witches," Adrienne continued, "and it was at our insistence that you have been kept largely in the dark. I apologize for that, but it was necessary. There have been too many variables and too much uncertainty, so we thought it best if you proceeded in your relationship with them as naturally as possible. We weren't even sure about letting you know about their special bond, but you were able to figure that out on your own." The last was said with a smile, indicating that she didn't hold Fleur's perceptiveness against her.
"I take it that you're here to tell me more - to tell me some of the things that you've been keeping from me?" Fleur asked.
"Indeed, young one," Adrienne said. "But first, we'd like to know if you have anything else you can tell us about what's going on."
"Beyond the apparent bonding that I and my sister experienced with them, you mean?" Fleur asked. When they nodded, she said, "There are two things that I don't think I mentioned in my last letter because I was so worried about the bonding. One is that Hermione seems to take the lead when it comes to what they learn. The second is that when we champions were all practicing for the second task, I noticed that Jasmine's spells were much more powerful than they should have been, even when cast silently. I think perhaps both she and Hermione are far more powerful magically than they are letting on."
The older veela all gave each other significant looks, as if they were expecting to hear something like this. "We are about to tell you things that few in the world have ever known," Adrienne continued. "Information that could have terrible consequences if it got into the wrong hands - the hands of meddlers and schemers. So you must first make an oath before we can proceed."
Everything she had heard so far made Fleur more and more worried, but her maman and grandmere were there with her, and that gave her the courage to press forward. Once she swore on her life and magic not to reveal what they were about to tell her without their prior permission, Margaux said, "If I'm not mistaken, you were informed that your sister gave a real prophecy on the occasion of Imbolc?"
"Yes, I was," Fleur replied.
"You may not remember the whole thing, but we have it written down," Margaux said and handed her a piece of parchment with Gabrielle's prophecy written on it.
The time of the Great Prophecy approaches.
The maidens have arrived.
Their magic must unite.
Their power must emerge.
Their love must flourish.
The Feminine must ascend.
The Great Prophecy must come to pass.
"As you can see, this references the 'Great Prophecy,' and I believe you were informed about how the veela Prophet Cassandra Predire delivered what we know as the Great Prophecy, the most important of all the prophecies she ever gave, yes?"
"Yes," Fleur responded.
"Well, it's time for you to learn what that prophecy says," Adrienne informed her as she handed over a second piece of parchment, this time with a longer prophecy written on it.
The ones with the power to restore the goddesses approach.
Two maidens, alone and isolated, will rise out of Albion
And bind to themselves two shieldmaidens tempered by fire and air.
A Speaker of mixed blood who fights against the Dark,
A Scholar of new blood who lights the Path ahead,
Together bound in heart, mind, magic, and soul,
They bear the key to power others know not.
United, their power and love shall grow.
With power comes strength,
And the oppression shall be ended.
With love comes creation,
And the Eternal Feminine will flourish.
Or all will be lost and the Feminine suppressed forever.
The ones with the power to restore the goddesses approach.
"Oh la vache," Fleur whispered. "You think that this refers to Jasmine and Hermione? They are the ones with the responsibility to... to what? Reform magical society?"
"We are convinced of it," Margaux said. "It has to be two English witches, and those two fit the parameters established in the prophecy: a bound couple where one is a halfblood 'Speaker,' which we now think means a parselmouth, and one is a muggleborn scholar who 'lights the path,' so it is someone who is learned and teaches others. Our people have been watching and waiting for centuries for any who might meet these conditions, though always from a distance so as not to risk interfering. Those two witches are the first to appear, and your sister's prophecy states quite clearly that the maidens have now arrived."
"And... and what of these other two? The shieldmaidens?" Fleur asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
"Who do you think?" Adrienne asked gently. "What two individuals do you know who are tempered by fire and air and who have been bound to the witches from Albion? Two individuals who have been 'chosen,' for lack of a better word, by those two witches?"
"Merde alors," Fleur whispered, this time barely audible. "It cannot be. It cannot... we cannot..." Fleur started shaking her head in denial while her mother and grandmother pulled her into a tighter embrace.
"I'm afraid it is," her grandmother said softly. "Even when we started to become certain that the Great Prophecy was about those two, we never imagined that you and Gabrielle would get caught up in this as anything more than as close observers. Now, though…."
"Now, you and your sister have a heavy responsibility," her mother picked up the thought. "It will not be easy, and it will not be safe. But for one reason or another, Fate or Magic has picked you and Gabrielle to become the shieldmaidens for the only two with the power to restore the goddesses to their rightful positions in magical society."
"We will not dare try to tell you what this means for you beyond the obvious," Margaux said. "You two are, according to the prophecy, to be their shieldmaidens. Their protectors and defenders for certain, but possibly also the tip of their spear in whatever battles they must fight. Anything more than that, we cannot say, because it's too easy to twist a prophecy into meaning whatever you want."
"You and your sister will have to figure out on your own, or better in conjunction with those two English witches, what your roles will ultimately be," Adrienne added. "We will not tell you what path you must follow - that is something you and your sister must determine for yourselves."
"To that end, you have our permission to tell them about the prophecy, but only at such a time after they have figured out their own bond that you think is appropriate," Margaux said. "The exact timing is up to you, but those are the conditions we are setting for it."
"Are we on our own, then?" Fleur asked hesitantly. "Just me and my sister?"
"Of course not," Apolline said immediately. "Not only will you get whatever support you need from your family, but the veela nation itself will be doing what it can." She looked to the other two for support, and both nodded.
"In the final analysis, it will be up to the four of you to fulfill the prophecy, that is clear," Adrienne explained, "but that doesn't mean that you cannot receive help. You and your sister will both, for example, receive intensive training from the Amazzi. You're technically too young, but because of the unusual circumstances that condition is being waived. We will also be providing whatever other funds and training you four might need."
"We are talking about the fulfillment of the most important prophecy ever delivered in the history of our people," Margaux said. "It has significant implications not just for us, but for all magical communities around the world. We dare not try to force it to any particular conclusion, but there is nothing we won't do to support you in the hope that your actions will produce the most positive outcome possible."
Fleur could see that there was both hope and anxiety in the eyes of the council members.
"For now," Adrienne said, "We need you to study everything we have on bonds, witch/witch couples, and Cassandra Predire's prophecies, as well as material on the goddesses, feminine magic, and soul magic. I and your mother will stay here to tutor you and your sister. Our guards," she gestured to the two Amazzi by the door, "Areto and Phoebe, will remain to begin your instruction in physical fitness and combat."
"But... but... what about my classes?" Fleur asked.
"Alongside your instruction in these other areas," Margaux explained, "you will be learning the most important magical subjects: transfiguration, charms, defense, arithmancy, and runes. You will have to give up astronomy, herbology, and the rest. We need you focused on what is most important, and for that reason you'll remain in the carriage for a while until you are up to speed on everything."
"Gabrielle will be joining you for as much as she can, and she will be taught separately for the rest," Apolline said. "She isn't here with us now because we thought it would be too much to break to her all at once. We'll tell her separately and in stages to make it as easy for her as possible."
Fleur felt completely overwhelmed and it showed. Her mother and grandmother hugged her tight from either side, and while she was tempted to feel sorry for herself, she couldn't help but think of how all of this would affect Gabrielle.
Monday, March 1, 1995, Night.
Albus Dumbledore stumbled out of the floo and into his office, tired and annoyed, cursing the Ministry of Magic and French witches. He hadn't expected to be gone all day, but once Cornelius Fudge had him at the Ministry, he wouldn't let him go. All day he spent alternately placating the man about the international complaints or redirecting his ire onto others, like the French themselves. In the end and after all that work, he still wasn't sure that he had succeeded.
He had originally been convinced that if there were any problems, Madame Maxime would have to deal with them since it hadn't technically been his decision to pick the little veela - he had suggested it, but that was all. He couldn't be held responsible for a suggestion, could he? Perhaps not, but once the little veela had nearly died under the lake, all of the attention was focused on him, and he ended up shouldering most if not all of the blame for the entire sequence of events, regardless of his actual level of involvement.
How was I supposed to know that any magic affecting veela is significantly weakened in the cold or in water? he groused to himself. It's not like there are enough veela here in Britain for me to be sufficiently familiar with their magic and biology.
At one point he had hoped that the fact that the complaint was about veela would help him - Fudge and his advisors were notorious for their unfortunate bigotry towards anything they didn't regard as entirely human. He hated such bigotry, yet the one time when it might have worked in his favor, it was actually disregarded. Apparently, the complaints came through the French Ministry of Magic, which had a close relationship with the veela, so for all intents and purposes the British Ministry had to treat the complaint as if it involved pureblood French witches. If they tried to dismiss it on the grounds that veela were inferior, they'd actually make the situation worse.
Dumbledore sighed as he looked at the mountain of parchment work on his desk - a mountain that had grown magically during the day while he was away. He hadn't gotten any of his regular work done, and he still needed to finish preparing for his interview with Miss Potter the following day. First, though, I need to send a message to Alastor to have him make preparations to lock up the Triwizard Trophy, he thought. We'll take care of that tomorrow after I place the portkey spell on it, and then only Alastor and I will be able to access it. That and other new security precautions were the only way I was able to keep the Ministry from interfering even more in the tournament.
He had known that today would be a bad day. Sometimes, Albus Dumbledore hated being right.
Monday, March 1, 1995, Late Night.
Tom Riddle tossed and turned in his bassinet, unable to sleep. He wasn't in pain as he had been the night before, which was good, but he was still very uncomfortable. It was bad enough during the day when it distracted him from his planning and plotting. Now, however, it was keeping him from sleeping. He'd even taken extra potion in the hope that it would help, but it didn't. And now he would be low on his needed potion - if Wormtail didn't get back soon, he'd be in a lot of trouble.
He batted angrily at the mobile hanging above him. It had been a very annoying day, just as he had expected, but he'd Crucio someone to make up for it. That would make it all right again. It always did.
Ron Weasley lay back in his bed with a contented sigh. He'd expected to get a normal breakfast, but somehow Jasmine and Hermione had convinced a couple of the elves to make a few special dishes just for him. They'd even gotten the recipes from his mother so that they'd be sure to make them right.
Then, that evening, they'd thrown a small birthday party in the common room with cake and presents. In addition to a bunch of chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes, Jasmine gave him a book on Quidditch, and Hermione got him a book about the history of broom racing. After the party, he'd taken the time to talk to them. He had wanted not only to thank them, but to repeat his earlier assurances that he'd work hard to make things up to them. They seemed to appreciate it, too, and it wasn't often that girls appreciated things he had to say.
He'd woken up that morning happy that it was his birthday and expecting that it would be a wonderful day. Ron Weasley loved being right.