Hello everyone!
I'm so glad to update. This chapter takes place immediately after failing to capture Faux-Moody. It also deals with some hard truths Harry would much rather avoid. I really tried to focus on the theme of gratitude so it's more dialogue and high society stuff than anything else. I hope it shows!
13K for those who want to know.
And without further ado...
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-=REVISED 4/7/2023=-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
I had some time and thought I thought I'd do some simple revisions-mostly grammar stuff, but also including changing the narrative from present tense to simple past tense. Hopefully, it's a better read this way.
The Vulnerability of Gratitude
Despite a long list of injuries, Harry didn't stop, drop to the ground, and wait for help to find him. The Elixir and his mindscape did their best to alleviate the worst of his wounds, keeping him from the jaws of death. With Nova weakly cooing in his free arm, Harry absentmindedly wondered if the cursed fire that struck his familiar was less severe because of her natural affinity to fire. If that was the case, it would mean the impact of the spell hurt her more than the cursed fire did. Though he wasn't looking to test that theory out anytime soon, Harry filed it away in his mental library for further reflection.
As he limped on, Harry took a lot of time to reflect on the past half-hour. He desperately wanted to capture Crouch alive, so he carelessly risked lives that should have been his sole priority throughout the entire exchange. In a situation like that with so many potential casualties, he should have just killed Crouch right away. Instead, in the heat of the battle, he clung to his capture mission. Now, limping back to the castle in the cold crisp air, he was soon going to learn and accept how many were injured, or—Merlin forbid—killed because of his single-minded obsession.
It was truly a long, hard walk.
When the sight of the castle with a large hole through the side of it was easily visible in his swimming vision, Harry started to note the gathering crowd. The Durmstrang delegation was off their ship, being corralled by their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, and kept in formation with military precision. At the sight of them, Harry was grateful that the Beauxbaton carriage and students had their site set up on the other side of the castle, near Hagrid's Hut.
At the thought of Beauxbaton, he prayed Fleur and Hermione had remained safe throughout the entire fight. He remembered seeing them help free Neville from under debris before he was struck with the Cruciatus Curse, and after that, nothing. Faces flashed in his mind then; Draco, Fleur, Hermione, Neville, Lavender, Bill, and Merlin knew the names of the rest... The possible severity of their injuries was enough to get his magic roaring sick with rage again, and Harry had to stop limping to take a small respite, and calm himself down. With his body focusing on recovering, he was in an ideal condition to lose control of his magic, and accidental magic at his level would not be a good thing for anyone nearby.
"Merlin's beard!" Harry heard the familiar gruff voice of Rubeus Hagrid exclaim. Harry opened his eyes, and tilted his head up to see the half-giant's concerned-filled brown eyes. The large man looked him over, down to the bloody arm Harry was holding by the wrist. Putting his palms up, he suggested, "You keep still now, young one, an wait fer 'elp. Yer' in no condition ta be movin' about."
"Professor Hagrid?" Harry slowly asked, half from the pain and half to keep up pretenses. He had never met Hagrid in this timeline, but he seemed just as kind as his-Hagrid.
"That's right, so don' you worry," Hagrid reassured him with both palms. "I'll stay wit'cha til 'elp arrives."
"Thank you," Harry slowly stated. "But it's better if I keep moving," he replied, which was true.
While the Blood-Boiling Curse had done little more than graze him, Harry's blood felt like mud, and moving kept it pumping until he could get it treated. Harry noticed the Durmstrang students eying him as intently as the few Hogwarts students while he continued his trek to the castle—against Hagrid's stern advice. Hagrid offered to care for Nova, and any other time, Harry wouldn't mind, but in this case, he didn't want to let her out of his sight. When Harry asked about the other students, Hagrid couldn't say how many were injured or not. Harry only nodded as Hagrid followed him, making sure other students kept away.
"Give 'em room," Hagrid cried out. "Come now, away with ya! Back to yer dorms! Keep back!" he added, keeping most back until the Headmistress hastened to them. Her presence cleared many of the students.
"Oh! My dear word!" McGonagall gasped at the bloody and disheveled sight of Harry. Her eyes held on him for a long staggered moment before turning to Hagrid and stating, "We must continue searching for any injured students. In the event you find more, bring them to the hospital wing, even if the injury is minor or they're just frightened. Then make absolutely certain no one is traversing the grounds. I want everyone in their houses, understood?"
Hagrid nodded earnestly, replying, "Yes, Deputy Headmistress. I'll bring Fang along wit me. Best search hound aroun', he is." He turned to Harry and said with a smile, "You'll be fine, lad," then rushed off.
"Now, be at ease, Mr. Flamel. I'll bring you to the infirmary without further delay," McGonagall said, bringing out her wand. At the sight of the wand, combat instinct triggered Harry to hop back, dropping the appendage and snapping his bloodied white wand in his hand, ready to attack or defend.
For her part, McGonagall didn't seem offended or aghast by his action toward authority. She slowly raised her empty palm while lowering her wand. "Mr. Flamel, you are safe now. I promise you I won't hurt you. I simply want to bring you to the infirmary."
Harry didn't put away his wand, but he did lower it. "How many are hurt?" he couldn't help but ask, quickly followed by, "did anyone- Was anyone killed?"
McGonagall lowered her palm and returned her wand into a slot in her dress. Her response didn't take longer than a second, but the suspense was killing Harry until she finally answered, "No one lost their life, thank goodness."
Harry exhaled in grand relief before quickly asking, "But some were hurt?"
With dismay, she nodded, and answered, "Yes. Some have been injured."
"How bad?" Harry immediately followed up.
"Come now, Mr. Flamel, there'll be time enough for questions later," McGonagall insisted. "You really must be looked after."
"I prefer to walk," Harry informed her, taking a step.
"Absolutely not, young man," she passionately returned. "I will not allow you to cause undue stress upon such grievous injuries-"
"I assure you, professor, I have certain family safeguards keeping me from mortal danger. And while I may be injured… I just don't want to feel anyone else's magic on me," Harry declared, sternly staring directly into her eyes, expressing a mixture of aggressive vulnerability.
Although he didn't expect her to do anything untoward, Harry couldn't bring himself to trust anyone. Mentally, he was still too wound up from the battle, which forced him to vividly recall past onslaughts against Horcrux-Voldemort for supremacy of his mind. He knew that the chances of further danger were relatively low, but he just needed more time to calm down, if not for himself, then for the safety of others.
"Very well," she said sorely. Harry was aware that allowing it must have been against some procedure, so he appreciated her putting him over the rules, or maybe she understood that this choice would be the safest. "But I insist on accompanying you the entire way, and if I think for the briefest of moments that your life is in imminent peril, I will use any means necessary to bring you to the infirmary, including rendering you unconscious. Do I make myself clear?"
Harry slipped his blood-smeared wand into his holster, wondering why the charm on the holster hadn't cleaned the blood off. Then he realized his blood was still cursed, which meant he would have to clean it by hand. Slowly picking up Crouch Jr.'s torn-off arm with a grimace, Harry answered McGonagall, "I can agree to that."
"At least allow me to hold... dear me, the severed arm," McGonagall uneasily requested.
"No need, professor, I got it," Harry told her, restarting his trek. "How many are injured?"
"…A few," she answered after a pause, leaving Harry to wonder if she was lying and there were more than a few, or she simply felt odd answering the questions of a fourteen-year-old.
They made their way into the school's front entrance when McGonagall asked, "Whose arm does that belong to, Mr. Flamel? And please explain to me, from your perspective, what occurred in the Great Hall."
"I will," Harry duly answered, walking empty halls, thinking, everyone must be on lockdown. The biggest shuffling of movement came from the portraits as painted subjects followed them. "I reckon many official witches and wizards will want to know what happened as well. Truthfully, I have a few questions of my own. So until everyone who needs to be here is, I'll wait, so as to not repeat myself with every posh robe that asks."
"It isn't about repeating oneself, Mr. Flamel," McGonagall asserted. "It's about going over the facts of the event while they're still fresh in your memory. The mind has a funny way about dealing with trauma, and this is about as traumatic as it gets."
Harry turned to her, willing her to see his fake scars, and the seriousness of his eyes as he answered, "I guarantee you it's not." The scars may be fake, but Harry had to admit, they added a certain weight to his words he couldn't manage as quickly with a clean unblemished face—as if it's easier to believe he'd had a hard life because there was visible proof. While he may not like the deceptive marks, he found that they were an advantage. "And don't worry about my memory," Harry assured her. "I have a harder time forgetting than remembering."
McGonagall pressed her lips into an aggravated line, pondering her response a moment before she replied, "I will accept that for now, as long as you tell me if there's anything imminent or dangerous I need to know about now to keep our students safe?"
"Yeah," Harry groaned as he limped along. "Careful who you hire," he said, and to conserve strength and for the sake of breathing properly, he said no more.
Harry stepped through the double doors of the hospital wing, a very familiar room he didn't expect to see again—especially in the first week of school. The sight of him had Madam Pomfrey calling out, "Why has he not been brought straight to me! Oh, never mind. Any free bed is fine, Minerva. I'll be with him momentarily," she asserted as she rushed behind some screens.
She seemed very much in her element, but the only thing on his mind was the number of students in beds—at least a dozen. While all beds had privacy screens, revealing only knees to feet, two beds had screens covering the entire bed, which could only mean they were in serious condition.
Counting fourteen pairs of feet on beds—minus the two completely covered beds—Harry whipped around to McGonagall, despite his body's acute and painful protest, and pointedly asked, "You call this a few?"
"The grand majority of the injuries are minor; scrapes, bruises, some smoke inhalation and or cuts," she expressed, directing him to the nearest empty bed with a guiding palm.
Harry stayed put, only of a mind to ask, "Who are the two behind the curtains?"
"They were not for you to concern yourself with," McGonagall stated sternly.
"Yes, professor, they are," Harry nearly yelled, then leaned over from the rolling avalanche of agony. While not overly loud, his tone was clear enough to draw the attention of the nearest few behind partial curtains. A bushy-haired girl looked in his direction before hopping off her bed.
Hermione rushed over as McGonagall sternly ordered, "Mr. Flamel, please take your bed this instant, or I will make you."
"Harry!" Hermione happily proclaimed, her fluffy hair swishing behind her, and all smiles in her haste to reach him. When his slow mind realized he mistook her 'Harry' for 'Ares,' her relief quickly soured to extreme concern.
'What a sight I must be,' Harry thought. Grime, sweat, dirt, blood everywhere, cradling a weakened phoenix in one arm and gripping a severed arm in the other. She covered her mouth with both hands at the sight of him, and he tried smiling to reassure her he was fine, but he wasn't certain it came out well, because she was instantly by his side, her hand desperate to pull him to a bed, but careful not to hurt him.
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione exclaimed, leading him to a bed. "I'll-I'll get Madam Pomfrey for you. And- And she'll fix you right up, you'll see! You're going to be just fine, I promise you!"
"Thanks," was all Harry said, finding it very difficult to look at her so worried for him, and not think of his Hermione when she did the same. Turning away, he unceremoniously set the dirty and bloody arm on the nightstand—finally noticing Voldemort's dark mark on the arm. Harry then gently set Nova down on the bed, before turning to Hermione. Aside from a thick buildup of dirt and smoke residue, she looked well, but still, he anxiously asked, "How are you? You're fine, right? I mean, you weren't hurt anywhere?"
Hermione was gaping at him, incredulous that he would ask about her condition despite his state, and quickly welled up with fat tears that should have fallen down her dirt-stained cheeks but didn't. Both hands covered her mouth and nose, and she could only manage a vehement nod before shaking those fat tears loose, taking some of the dirt with them.
"Hey now, no need for that," he tried to placate her, taking a step closer, but her shedding tears quickly turned into weeping sobs, and she turned away, rushing around Fleur and Fleur's older sister to leave, calling out, "I'll get the Madam."
'She just needs a bit of time,' a concerned voice in his head sounded as Harry quickly realized he mistook Fleur's mother for an older sister—an older sister he ought to know she doesn't have. Young and beautiful as Fleur's mother looked, she was concerned and worried, holding onto Fleur as if afraid to let her go. 'Apolline Delacour,' Harry recalled, from Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Fleur herself stepped closer to Harry—aghast at the sight of his injuries—and sternly told him, "Zhere are many w'o are only alive because of you. And zhis makes the second time you 'ave saved my life," she conveyed, red-nosed and strikingly grateful.
Eyes wider, Harry was too exhausted to deny it convincingly, and even if he did, they both knew she wouldn't buy it. Before anything else could be said, Madam Pomfrey walked in from behind them, requesting privacy with demanding insistence. Apolline looked from her daughter to Harry, relaying in a sweet song voice, "Until we speak again, be well, Mr. Flamel."
Madam Pomfrey drew the curtains close before whipping out her wand, making Harry very nervous. But before she could run her diagnostic, the screen opened for Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and a few others behind them that Harry couldn't see.
"What's all this?!" Pomfrey cried out, indignant. "I'm in the middle of caring for a patient, Headmaster."
"I see that Poppy," Dumbledore voiced. "However, is there any way you can spare Mr. Flamel for a few urgent questions. Minerva has expressed that he's well enough to walk on his own and in no imminent danger."
"Use your eyes, Albus," Pomfrey returned, dumbfounded. "Does he look well enough for questions? No, this is one patient your inquiry will have to wait until I've cleared."
"I do apologize, Poppy," Dumbledore sadly expressed, though with a bit of urgency. "I understand your oath compels you to do all you must for the injured; however, this is a state of emergency, and I only ask that you treat him whilst we question him, to ascertain what happened and why."
"I'd say that's pretty clear," Harry grunted, feeling the injuries catching up to him. "You hired a murderer, Headmaster," he elaborated, startling both Dumbledore and Pomfrey.
"Headmaster, if we can relocate somewhere private?" Harry heard a child-like voice behind Dumbledore ask. The voice sounded familiar, though he was too tired to recall. Clearly, there was a bit of a crowd with Dumbledore and Harry was fairly certain they all came straight from the Wizengamot.
"You must all leave, immediately!" Pomfrey called out, stepping up to the group. "I cannot have this much commotion around my patients!"
"It is regrettable, Poppy, but I'm afraid I must insist," Dumbledore maintained. "For the safety of the castle, we must question Mr. Flamel."
Planting her fists on her hips, Pomfrey hotly contested, "Well, I refuse your insistence, Headmaster! So long as I am the Madam of this castle, I have final authority over all injured students!"
"There's a madman on the loose, woman!" someone yelled from the back, and Harry had enough.
"Madam Pomfrey," he said, grabbing the severed arm from the night stand—still dropping droplets of blood. When she turned to him, Harry assured her, "If you can give me three minutes, I'll get rid of everyone and be right back so you can treat me. I promise you, I'm more or less fine. You'll see as much when you examine me. But they need answers, and it won't take me longer than three minutes."
"I dare say it may take longer than that but I promise we'll keep a careful eye on him, and return him to your healing hands right away," Dumbledore added to Harry's compromise.
"No," Harry irately returned, surprising Pomfrey. "It won't take longer than three minutes," he reiterated with clear finality. Harry honestly didn't want to get dragged into an endless cycle of useless, irrational, and repeated questions.
"Fine," Pomfrey acquiesced. "Three minutes. Not a second more, or I stun first, understand me?"
Harry nodded, and Dumbledore led the host of officials, who insisted they were important enough to be there, outside.
Before Harry followed them, Hermione rushed up to him, demanding to know, "Where are you going?" She looked him over before expressing, "You haven't been treated yet. You should be resting!"
"I will," he gently told her. "They just need a little information from my end. It won't take long, but can I ask you to watch Nova for me?" he asked, turning to his resting familiar on his bed. "I don't want to leave her alone."
"Of course!" Hermione quickly answered. Harry could see in her eyes that she wanted to say more, but instead nodded solemnly and sat with Nova.
Before he exited the infirmary, he walked over to the two beds completely covered by the screens. Somehow, a faint feeling told him that Draco was the one in front of him, and he wondered if he should check on him when the curtain abruptly opened. A shaken Narcissa Malfoy opened the screen wide enough for him to see Draco. The silver-blond's eyes were closed, and he appeared to be resting as he slowly raised his hand to Harry. It was enough to let him know he was okay, and Harry nodded, satisfied with that.
Out in the hall, Harry met Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge—who was the source of the child-like voice—Lucius Malfoy, Amelia Bones, Sirius Black, Kingsley Shaklebolt, a woman in auror garb he wasn't familiar with, and Madame Maxime; all of whom were alarmed in their own way at the sight of his bloody and dirty form.
Harry actively had to avoid gazing at his Godfather, who looked much healthier and more handsome than the Sirius Black from his timeline. While it was a grand joy to see the old dog, it was, fortunately, not emotionally devastating.
Rushed crisp footsteps echoed down the hall toward them, prompting Dumbledore to suggest, "Perhaps we should take this to the next room for some privacy."
Many started moving automatically at his behest, but stopped just as abruptly when Harry clearly pronounced, "No. That won't be necessary." It wasn't a death threat, so Harry couldn't understand the shocked faces. He could only assume the majority of them had grown very accustomed to Dumbledore directions. It was like they counted on the wise old leader of the light to know what was right and take the lead.
As it turned out, those footfalls belonged to Lily Potter, Harry apprehensively noted, as she rushed to the double doors carrying a tray of vials. The moment her kill-me-green eyes landed on Harry, she immediately made a beeline for him. He had to fight everything in him from taking a step away from her worried approach. Her scent entered his nostrils just like her presence softened his soul. She was so close to him—her beautiful green eyes deeply concerned—and he was so overwhelmed, he only had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and struggle not to look too stricken.
He didn't even understand her words when she gasped, "Good Godric! What in Merlin's great name are you doing out here?! You need to be in bed!"
Harry hoped that his look of weariness, all the dried blood, sweat, and grime on his face, on top of his mucked-up hair, would be enough to mask his near emotional break. Though, he took some solace in the sound of her voice and her worry for him.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and told her, "It's quite alright, Lily. Poppy is aware. Please continue to aid her, and I assure you, Mr. Flamel will be in before too long."
Lily gave Harry one last look. She tilted her head a moment, in thought, then slowly returned to the infirmary. With her gone, Harry took a moment to correct himself, giving Umbridge—in her garish fluffy pink outfit—enough time to fake a cough, "Hem-Hem," drawing attention to herself.
The toad-like woman said in her childish high-pitched voice, "I'm sure I misheard you, Headmaster Dumbledore. It's quite clear this is a rather serious matter and will take some time to-"
"Hey lady!" Harry rudely yelled, interrupting her. Glaring at this timeline's Delores Umbridge easily recalled her cruelty, her sadism, from his past. With very little patience—if any—for this toad in pink, Harry asserted, "Does it bloody look like I want to stand here all damn day and answer your fucking questions?"
As the words left Harry's mouth, the adults had a frenzy of reactions—some were taken aback while others were completely shocked. A few even exchanged incredulous glances, as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing from a fourteen-year-old who was also the heir to a Noble and Most Ancient House. Snape, Dumbledore, and McGonagall reacted with resigned acceptance, while Umbridge was utterly scandalized by his language. But amidst the chaos, Harry noticed a small, almost imperceptible smirk on Sirius's face.
"Such a silly silly thing to say, young man. Perhaps you are confused. We are all friends here," Umbridge recited in her high-pitched singsong tone. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm-"
Harry overlooked the Undersecretary to address the group. "Allow me to be perfectly blunt. I'm fairly certain this constitutes an official investigation by the Ministry, and if you're not my Headmaster, the head of the DMLE, or the head Auror, consider your presence here a fucking courtesy."
Sirius's grin made Harry feel proud, but he remained stern as Amelia stepped forward, just as hard and serious, and introduced herself. "I'm Amelia Bones, the Magical Law Enforcement department head, and this is Head Auror, Sirius Black. What can you tell us."
"Pleasure," Harry duly stated, holding out the arm to Sirius. "I took this off of the impostor who attacked everyone in the Great Hall. You'll note Voldemort's-" many shudder, gasp, or yelp at the mention of the name, but Harry ignores them. "Dark mark on the arm; it only appeared recently. It wasn't there when I first cut it off."
"How could you possibly-" Lucius started to say when he's interrupted.
"An impostor?" Amelia repeated, interrupting Malfoy Senior. "You mean to say, he wasn't your Defense Against Dark Arts Professor, Alastor Moody?"
"How can you be sure?" Dumbledore asked in his grandfatherly voice.
"Three clues; in order of observation," Harry irately replied, his tone laced with the pain he was withholding. "This Professor Moody drinks from a flask pretty often. I heard it was a habit born out of paranoia, but I just thought he was a paranoid drunk. Still, nothing significant there until Hardwin Potter called him Bartemius Crouch in the Great Hall. Not sure who that is, but the impostor did not take too kindly to the name. Of course, he could've just been overreacting—despite the few killing curses he threw out—but if you add the dark mark reappearing on a younger looking arm, I figured he must've been disguising himself, likely through the use of Polyjuice Potion."
Amelia turned to Sirius. He nodded and pulled out his wand. He quietly chanted for a moment the reverse incantatem charm. Gold, thread-like magic extended from his wand, and connected to the arm. The resulting mist-like body that extended from the arm was a ghostly echo that wasn't quite as clear as a ghost, but left no doubt in anyone's mind.
"Barty Crouch Jr!" Amelia gasped. "I thought he was dead," Sirius added, brows furrowed in concentration. Everyone who knew the name seemed to react in their own stunned way to the revelation. Madame Maxime asked, "Who ees zhis man who attacked my student?"
"I'd be happy to brief you if you'd be so gracious as to give me a moment," Amelia said to the large Headmistress before turning to Sirius and commanding him, "Take Shacklebolt and Longbottom to the Ministry, and arrest Crouch Senior. Don't even bother asking him to come quietly. Stun him first, then ready the veritaserum. No one questions him until I get there, understand?"
Aside from the shock of hearing Neville's surname, and watching the woman who must be Alice Longbottom leave, Harry really appreciated Amelia's no nonsense approach. It reminded him a lot of what the real Moody would do. Nodding along, Harry added aloud, "You may want to check fake-Moody's living quarters."
"We intend to, in good time," Dumbledore spoke, turning to Harry. "But first I'd like to know how you managed to survive an encounter with a renowned and powerful Death Eater?"
With his rising frustration aggravating his pounding headache, Harry rubbed his head as he retorted, "Like I said, I didn't know who he was. And I still don't. But are you sure you wouldn't rather check to see if the real Moody is trapped or dead somewhere first?" Harry looked at Dumbledore, bewildered by his callousness. "He might have friends that are worried about him or something," Harry said, slightly more amused than he should be to throw Dumbledore's friendship with Moody in his face.
Snape explained to a confused Lucius and Umbridge, "For prolonged use, the potion needs a stable source of samples from a living person to function."
"Which means he's more than likely alive and trapped," Amelia realized. "He'll have to be close for easy access."
"Professors McGonagall and Flitwick," Dumbledore said, turning to them. "If you'd be so kind as to check the living space of the impostor."
"I'd look in the trunk," Harry suggested as the professors left, followed by a large painful yawn and wince. Intent on leaving in the next moment, Harry said to no one in particular, "If someone would contact my parents I'd appreciate that."
"Hem-Hem," Harry heard the pink toad fake her cough to get his attention, but he continued toward the double door of the infirmary until Dumbledore called, "Mr. Flamel."
Harry turned to the older man, and responded, "Yes, Headmaster?"
"I realize you are hurt, but if you could be courageous for a bit longer, and answer a few more questions, it would be tremendously helpful," he stated. Even Amelia looked hopeful to learn more.
"Tough," Harry replied, eager to get back to Nova. "There's nothing more for me to say, and I think I've been courageous enough for one day. Anything else you want to know has other witnesses you can ask, so, if you'll excuse me." Harry entered the infirmary ward and went straight to bed, where Pomfrey quickly took over his treatment.
—
A strong hand held Harry down and stabbed him in the gut with a large knife, awakening him with an aggressive fright. He violently sat up on his infirmary bed, snapping his wand in hand as his blurry vision adjusted to the light.
"Ares!" a cautious voice he recognized as Perenelle called. "Ares, it's okay. You're okay. You're in Hogwarts, infirmary. You're safe."
The sight of her and the peaceful infirmary slowly lowered his guard and his wand. He pressed his hand to cover his eyes and started to recall the long list of nightmares. He asked, "How long was I out?" In that moment, Nova flapped her long wings as she dropped from her stand to his lap and hopped closer to cuddle with him. "Hey, girl," Harry told her, affectionately stroking her feathers. "I missed you too. You were so bloody brave. I'm so proud of you." Harry made a mental note to go check on Hedwig as soon as he could.
"A solid eighteen hours," Perenelle answered, bringing out her wand and running a diagnostic.
"Eighteen hours?!" Harry exclaimed, unbelievably. "I may have been tagged a few times, but that seems like a long layabout."
"It isn't actually," Perenelle replied as she continued looking him over. "Treating circulating blood that's been cursed to boil can be a lengthy treatment. You, my young Trouble Star, are now about as perfect as can be," she declared, putting her wand away. At his questioning brow over the nickname, she explained, "Well, you do seem to find yourself in the middle of very dangerous situations an awful lot... much to my dismay, if I'm being honest." At Harry's half-lidded, stern, 'You know I have to,' look, she raised her palms to yield that point.
"What's been happening while I was out? How are the others?" Harry asked, looking around the nearly empty ward. He spotted one bed with a privacy screen blocking his sight, but Harry could tell it was Draco.
"Everyone is fine, Ares," Perenelle said, peaking Harry's interest when she used his cover name. The direct way her eyes were looking at him told him that it wasn't safe to talk freely, so Harry enacted a privacy charm on top of his Muffliato charm, and she continued, "The grand majority were released yesterday. As far as the investigation, they haven't told us much more than confirming what you've already guessed."
"How's Draco?" Harry asked with the smallest amount of concern he'd allow himself to have for his quasi-companion.
"Young man, very fair head of blonde hair, looks a bit like a ferret?" she asked, and at Harry's smirking nod, she answered, "His injuries were fairly extensive, however he's resting well now. Madam Pomfrey has told me he'll make a full recovery by Monday."
"Where's Nicolas?" Harry wondered as he set Nova on the bed and grabbed his spare clothes from the night stand—simple black slacks, a wool long sleeve turtleneck, and shoes.
Perenelle stood and turned to give him privacy as she answered, "He's either meeting privately with Dumbledore to chew him out, meeting Dumbledore and the governors to figure out what to do about History of Magic class, or with Madame Maxime, all of whom are very eager to speak with us as promptly as possible."
"Talk to us?" Harry repeated curiously as he removed his infirmary gown. "Don't they have everything they need?"
"They have nearly everything they need from the Weasley heir's memory, and the few children who consented to give their memory. When I said us, I meant house Flamel. It's the typical situation management one might expect after a horrible event like this." Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but she added, "So he's dealing with the scheduling of all that at the moment. I hope you've prepared yourself."
"I don't underst-" Harry cuts himself off, looking at his thigh. Looking at the three inch scar on his right thigh where the Blasting Curse grazed him, he bellowed in disbelief, "Did you add another scar?"
Perenelle responded quickly, with a hint of irritation. "Oh! Noticed that, did ya? The one in the spot where a blasting curse could've easily taken your leg? Is that the one you're referring to?" she asked with a lot of bite in her words. "Nicolas and I would like you to know we worry, and every bloody scuffle you're a part of is in some ways like a scar for us-"
"That you then tattoo on my body!" Harry hotly contested, putting on his slacks.
"Just a helpful reminder," Perenelle simply replied as Harry grumbled nonsensically. With a deflating sigh, she turned around as she stated, "Let us know whenever you want them removed."
For the life of him, Harry couldn't think who'd see the scar on his thigh, but he didn't care enough to remove it. Additionally, every time he showered, they did remind him of his battles—past and future—like a small call to arms for the war ahead.
Pushing his head through the turtleneck of his dark gray winter sweater, Harry simply asked, "...So, what's this situation management you're talking about, and why do I have to be prepared for it?"
Grateful he wanted to move forward, she replied, "Oh, you know, it's the usual... oh." Perenelle trailed off when she realized what was to come, and chuckled to herself. With a mischievous smile, she said, "Oh, Merlin, you're not going to like this."
Harry gave her an impatient look and she further explained what he was unaware of.
"Okay, let's assume you were a middle or lower class citizen," she began. "And you saved someone's life. Normally, they'd thank you in whatever way they feel is proper or can, and then you both run along your merry way. That instructional guide Nicolas gave you, for instance—the one to help train your body. 'Year of the Dragon,' by Lee Jun-Fan. That was an honor gift of gratitude from a young man Nicolas helped escape a group of gangsters that were trying to kill him in the streets of China. The boy didn't have much, but he knew how to train. He wrote it all down and presented it to Nicolas, to show how thankful he was, and though my husband would never use it, he graciously accepted."
Harry's expression was deeply suspicious of her as he looked at her cautiously, and pointed out, "But I'm not middle or lower class."
Perenelle nodded in lamentable acceptance, and repeated, "But you are not middle or lower class, no. As a member of high society, or, let's say, a Noble and Most Ancient House, the process of receiving honor debts is far more... regulated? Cultured-"
"Bothersome-" Harry clarified.
"Formal-" Perenelle counterclaimed.
"It's annoying, isn't it?" Harry interjected, already feeling anxious about what was to come.
"It's just a grander affair, is all" Perenelle suggested, taking a step forward. "With some silly rules here and there."
Though she was trying to make light of the situation, Harry was properly irritated by the headache ahead. "You're saying I'm going to have to do things I'd never voluntarily want to do, aren't you?"
"You know," she started trying to add a positive spin. "At its essence, it's still an expression of gratitude, nearly like any other. Maybe a little more extravagant for your taste, but Harry, it's the method they feel can best show you how thankful they are."
"I'll just take the, 'thank you,' if I have to, but honestly, I don't care for that, either. I'm not doing this for anyone's gratitude."
Perenelle gave Harry such a soft look of understanding before remarking, "You know, for someone who would rather keep everyone at arm's length, you sure do have a funny way of going about it. Do you know how many lives you saved that day? There are thirty-six souls—young and old—who are walking, talking, and breathing because of you."
"What does that mean, or matter, really?" Harry replied, feeling unreasonably annoyed by this side of society. "Of course I didn't want anyone to get hurt—no one would—but that had little to do with saving them, and everything to do with my responsibility. I was the only one there strong enough to stop him, so I did, end of story. And now, what? You want me to dress up, put on a show about what a great humanitarian I am and endorse their praise, like I didn't think they were severe handicaps holding me back from capturing that sadistic fuck?"
"Language," Perenelle automatically warned, making Harry tilt his head at her with disbelief.
Harry shook his head and continued, "I didn't do it for them. I did it because I didn't have the option not to. And accepting all that praise and gratitude for something anyone would've done—if they could've—is just letting them believe and publicize a lie. It wasn't a selfless act, like you'd expect of a proper hero. I did it for selfish reasons. They're alive because I'm tired of the guilt! And I don't want Voldemort to win anymore! How can I look someone in the eye and accept this falsehood, when I know it's wrong? No, Perenelle. I'm sorry, but I don't want to be a part of that simply because of my status."
In the silence that followed, Perenelle nodded a moment, gathering her thoughts before asking, "Sooo, to hell with all of them? Your plan is to what? Turn them away at the door? Thanks, but no thanks."
"Sure, whatever works," Harry answered, nearly ready to leave the infirmary and the conversation. However, Perenelle eyed him sternly and pleadingly as she motioned for him to sit on the bed. Clearly she had her piece to say, so he reluctantly sat on the bed as she took a seat in front of him.
"Listen, and listen well," Perenelle began, looking him straight in the eye, earnestly and tenderly. "I'm not buying it," she said sweetly as she called him a liar.
Harry's brows furrowed as she continued, "On some level, you may be right, but that isn't what this is really about. I've been alive long enough to recognize those eyes and that rationale. You need to understand, the goodness in most people, when they are faced with their own mortality or the near loss of a loved one, is immense. The heirs of Houses Malfoy, Greengrass, Zabini, Weasley, Longbottom... Potter; you saved all their lives. You saved the life of Sirius Black's future stepdaughter, as well as a Beauxbaton student who just happens to be the first born daughter of the Deputy Minister, Stéphane Delacour of the French Ministry of Magic."
Harry was ready to rebuke all the titles, but she continued, "Even without social status, mothers and fathers who love their children, more than their own lives, won't have to suffer the terrible ordeal of purchasing coffins to bury them in... because of you."
Harry felt his face warm and his knee bounce as she stated, "To you, it may very well appear like some casual thing no different than passing the salt, but to them—for the terrible road narrowly avoided—they want to offer generosity that goes far beyond a simple handshake and a shrug. And you do them more harm for not accepting-"
"It's still-" Harry tries to interject, shaking his head at her uncomfortable argument.
"No, sir!" she quickly interjected. "You've said your piece, now you listen to mine." Her voice was stern and she continued without giving him the chance to respond. "You are not lying to them. You did save lives, and for that act alone, they want to- No. They need to express their appreciation. But your stubbornness won't allow them to because that benevolence terrifies you... because it forces you to acknowledge their perspective of how they see you; that you are amazing, that you did something great, therefore you must be great. And you don't see yourself that way, do you? On that level of emotional honesty, how they see you contradicts your own self-view because you think you're damaged beyond repair. You think there's not enough goodness in you to be a decent person. You think you're unlovable. And why wouldn't you? After the horrors you've lived nearly your entire life."
Harry didn't like how her eyes reddened because he couldn't fight his own rising emotions. Harry felt constrained by his growing emotions and abruptly got up to his feet to leave the suffocating space. However, Perenelle stood up as well and quickly stepped in his path, looking deep into his tight, red-rimmed eyes.
"I look at you, Harry, and I can tell the pain is easier to bear than the love. You think it'll break you to let anyone in—to allow that vulnerability—but you're wrong. Maybe in some ways it makes what you feel you need to do for all of us easier, but I'm telling you, I promise you, it won't. What you did for everyone in the Great Hall was bravery of the highest order, but I'd be even more proud of you when you realize there's far more strength in a family—the one you're born into and the one you choose—than there is in solitude. Because when you really need your family, they will not let you down."
Fists clenched, eyes wet and hard, fierce brows knitted together, Harry was rooted in place as Perenelle continued, "'I am not a dark lord,' remember? 'And I will never allow myself to be one.' Your words to us when we first met. Do you think Tom Riddle ever liked the idea of vulnerability, or sees attachments as nothing more than a means to an end? Or handicaps to his goals? You may not feel worthy of the gratitude, but for this, Harry, you hold your head high and accept that truth about yourself. Don't lie like he would. Their opinion of you doesn't change what you have to do, so don't follow that dark tosser's example, and graciously accept their gratitude."
Harry felt lost in that small space, and looked for anyway out, randomly reasoning, "I didn't-"
"I know," she cut him off in understanding. "I know the plan was to capture him, but the circumstances changed, and you adapted to it as best as anyone could, Merlin included. You didn't fail, Harry. Every person alive because of you is like another fat, 'fuck you' to Voldemort."
"…language," Harry weakly said, hoping to break some of the suffocating tension. The briefest smile on her face was like a dam of relief and he quickly stepped around Perenelle, muttering, "Got to fly Nova."
Harry raced out of the castle and through the Dark Forest, spending hours going deep into its ancient trees at top speed, unconcerned by the many dangers it housed or the direction he took. All Harry wanted to do was find a dark place and not matter to anyone for the briefest of infinities. While Nova flew overhead, a heaving Harry spotted a particularly interesting pine tree that was deathly white.
"A death tree," Harry recalled from one of Perenelle's 1000 Uses for Roots book. He had read that any tree can turn deathly white, from root to leaf, when the blood of a unicorn was spilled on the soil above its roots. The book didn't mention if it was good luck or not to be near it, but it seemed fitting he should sit, cross-legged, and lean against the ghostly pine.
For nearly three hours, Harry could only wonder if he really was gravitating toward Tom Riddle—slowly and without notice. He couldn't deny he was far darker than he used to be, but he was always able to convince himself it was just his lot in life and he was doing the best he could. How could pleasantries, Quidditch, family, friends, how could any of that matter in the face of stopping the worst evil the world had ever known? …would ever know?
In the process of preparing for this grand war, Harry never once questioned if he now shared a similar doctrine as Tom Riddle. 'How much of me is like that monster?' he wondered over and over. The possibility shook him to the core because hating all of Tom Riddle now meant hating part of himself, and every time he managed to convince himself there was no other way, he wondered at the validity and the falseness of it to utter confusion.
From an emotional standpoint, letting anyone in terrified him, even Hermione—since Ron would keep away on his own—but what was worse was being certain Voldemort would never let anyone in as well, automatically making Harry not want to be so closed off. 'But to what degree?' was the only thing Harry had left to ponder…
When he checked back into the world, he found himself surrounded.
So lost in his head, Harry never realized a whole horde of very large Acromantula had surrounded him in a perfect circle around the death tree, clicking their pincers away in rapt hunger. His obvious thought of why they hadn't attacked was immediately answered by the Death Tree. Harry theorized they wouldn't dare cross the Unicorn tainted soil, which was the only reason he felt no danger while he was within his mind. Not bothered in the slightest by the large, hungry spiders, Harry called, "Nova." She flapped down from the branch she was perched on to his shoulder, and they flamed back to his room in Slytherin.
By Monday, Harry received a shock he wasn't expecting as Draco entered the empty common room for their morning work out.
"Here," Draco said, extending a ratty old parchment that was slightly burned, but still as familiar to him as his own hand. "I know you initially wanted it to catch Crouch, but when Weasley dropped it, I thought you might still want it. Plus, if we have it, then they can't track us so easily."
Harry slowly took the Maurader's Map, uncomfortably unsure of how to express an unanticipated feeling of gratitude he didn't know he could actually possess for his former, school yard nemesis. "…Thanks, Draco."
Immediately after he said it, they both felt weird, prompting Draco to spout, "You're still a right tosser, though."
"Right back at you ferret wanker," Harry returned, and quickly enough, exercising with Draco to insane lengths felt normal again.
The following week passed by in a hurried pace, with little else for the school to talk about other than the attack on Hogwarts. Predictably, it made The Prophet's front page, but worse was the moving photo from a memory they somehow acquired. It clearly showed the panic in the large dining hall from the perspective of a frightened Gryffindor, with Ares Flamel and Fake Moody battling it out. The photo was only a three second loop but it was near seamless enough to make it seem like the longest trade of quick casting wand work. Every day there was a new article pointing out another unexpected, but equally mundane, point to its readers, and it made Harry do his absolute best to avoid crowds wherever he went. He was the last one in class, the first one to leave, disillusioned himself when he had to walk the halls, and all meal periods were taken either outside or in the kitchens.
His hope was that if they didn't see him, then most could start to forget him, but with every issue The Daily Prophet released, came another wave of enthusiasm. If that wasn't enough, Cornelius Fudge could not be seen doing less than a fourteen-year-old and had stationed Aurors around the school so the ministry could seem like they had the situation well in hand. While the public clamored for more Ministry involvement to protect the children, they couldn't quite agree on what and had been holding daily meetings to deal with this threat.
The first weekend after the incident was full of Honor Meetings, scheduled by Nicolas and Perenelle to discuss the life debts incurred. Harry agreed to do his part, much to Perenelle's delight and Nicolas' surprise. So, for three weekends in a row, Harry was bound to these meetings that could last as long as two hours. Though Nicolas and Perenelle did most of the talking, Harry had a part of his own he was obligated to do to accept their gratitude, what was referred to as the Esteem.
After the Esteem by both Houses, the meeting would be about finding acceptable terms for galleons to be rewarded, extravagant gifts and/or favors to give. In every case, the Flamels would try to lower their generosity to simple or meager gifts or favors. Everyone knew the Flamels had more money than they knew what to do with, and could buy anything their heart desired, so by the end of each meeting, Nicolas and Perenelle would walk out with either a unique item they already owned or an unspecified favor to be called on at a later date. Naturally, none of the Flamels had any intention of calling in the favor unless it would prove useful in stopping Voldemort in some way.
Most of the Honor Meetings were held in a private room in The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade Village. The Flamels wound sit on one side of the table, while the second family would sit opposite them. They were also simple and clearly about nothing more than expressing stunning gratitude to Ares and the Flamels. The Malfoys, however, did not go quite as predicted.
Harry was certain Lucius was going to be shrewd, cruel, and a pompous aristocratic arsehole, if not both Lucius and Narcissa, but the only one he wasn't was cruel. It would have been a new feat for Lucius to be cruel and gracious in an Honor Meeting, but he, along with Narcissa, kept to the code of conduct and Esteem speeches set by the society and commission.
It didn't stop Malfoy Sr. from expressing his entitled thoughts after the negotiations concluded. "I must say," Lucius said. "I couldn't, for the life of me, fathom why my son would forgo alliances the great house of Malfoy has cultivated to establish a rapport with you, heir Ares." He looked at Draco—seated rigidly—proudly as he added, "But clearly he was insightful enough to see what no one else did." Turning back to Harry, Lucius remarked, "Having witnessed the memories available of your duel against that rather capable impostor, it's clear to me you don't, in any way, appear as distressed by the use of the Dark Arts as your dear Headmaster exemplifies."
It was a new low in Harry's life when Lucius Malfoy was trying to relate with him, and he could feel his stomach roll when he didn't completely disagree with the man.
Holding back his ire, Harry replied, "I can't speak for the Headmaster, but I'm sure even he would agree that attempting to kill children shouldn't end well for anyone."
"No, it should not," Narcissa vehemently asserted. One stern look from Lucius and the Lady Malfoy said nothing more, clearly demonstrating Lucius' domineering nature.
"Well," Lucius continued. "While the Headmaster could not resist his sanctimonious urge to share his displeasure for the severity of your tactics, I find it a comfort to know the future of the Dark Arts is steadfast in our youth."
"It's not about the Dark Arts, Governor Malfoy," Nicolas claimed. "It's about irresponsibility. No one has the right to impose their will on others. Light, or Dark."
"And any who tries, will only find ferocious opposition," Harry added, staring at the man with bitter severity.
Lucius seemed speculative of Harry, as if unsure how to define him. With a reserved indignation, Lucius commented, "You certainly have an interesting taste in allies, Draco."
As the Malfoys got up to leave, Draco calmly retorted, "Heir Ares and I share a vision for an enlightened future, father; where power doesn't require the sacrifice of children to keep it."
It was clear to Harry where Draco's head was—always with his son—but it wasn't until this moment when Harry thought of himself in that assessment. Narcissa tilted her chin higher, her restrained smile clear proof of pride, while Lucius gave Draco a disappointed eye. By the door of the private room, Lucius reached into his fine cloak.
"On the matter of Dumbledore's growing pattern of incompetence," Lucius began turning to Nicolas. "In light of the growing number of students neglecting their History course, the Governors have a proposition to offer you. If you would be so kind as to alert us of your decision by the end of the week." Lucius handed Nicolas a black leather binder before leaving, officially ending the Malfoy Honor Meeting.
—
Out of all the Honor Meetings, Daphne's, Tracey's, Fleur's, and Potter's were the most flavorful experiences, far too spicy to go down without choking. Tracey's and Potter's meetings caused Harry to feel crippling apprehension since Sirius and Lily were the two most likely to see the resemblance between himself and his father, James Potter, and make connections no one else might—likely leading to a whole host of hard questions Harry couldn't answer truthfully. While covering his face didn't make any sense and would only serve to increase suspicion, Nicolas and Perenelle both understood that they needed to take the lead in most of the conversations to keep as much attention on them and away from Harry as possible.
For Tracey's Honor Meeting, Harry thought of an interesting idea to help rush through it and only needed the right opening to use it.
"I'm sure you've been hearing this a lot but customs and whatnot being what they are," Sirius began with an eye roll and a dejected huff. "Let it be known to all present that I, Sirius Orion Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, do pass ourselves unto thee, Ares Flamel, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Flamel. It is with great grace, gratitude, and honor of debt, that we honor thee for delivering precious lifeblood of our noble house from immediate and untold peril. As Head of our Noble House, we pledge that what we have to give. You have but to ask, and it is yours."
Practiced and just as bored by it as Sirius was, Harry weakly responded, "I, Ares Flamel, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Flamel, humbled with the dignity of thy house, do accept your most gracious and honorable debt and gratitude for precipitous and selfless deeds rendered. As heir of our Noble House, we ask but for the world of your words, and the fruits they may bear."
By their lackluster tones, it was clear neither of them liked the social mandates of high society.
"Fucking bullocks, isn't it?" Sirius calmly asked Harry from the opposite side of the table, who wholeheartedly agreed with an audible groan of annoyance.
"Siri!" Tracey's mother called with something of a smirk. Seated next to him, she wasn't reserved enough not to smack him in the shoulder for breaking custom. Tracey seemed to accept his aloof demeanor and kept herself poised like a good heiress should.
Nicolas just laughed as Perenelle smiled. "It's quite alright," Nicolas said. "I'm not sure any of us are thrilled by high society and noble customs, so I doubt the Ancient Noble's Society will hear about it."
"I think it's absolutely vital to maintain our customs and ways," Tracey announced from her seat next to Sirius, making her position known. "Or we risk losing the ties of our heritage and the greatness that was so revered."
"I agree we should never forget our past, but we should not let it define us either, young heiress," Perenelle agreed with all the centuries of knowledge clear in her understanding tone. "It is our values and heart that will always keep our modern growth tethered to the best of our roots."
"Well said," Tracey's mother complimented with a nod.
To the best of Nicolas and Perenelle's ability, they attempted to lower the extravagance of their offer, much to Tracey and her mother's surprise. "It's not that we can't comprehend or even fathom what this means to you," Perenelle explained, looking over to Harry, so they'd all know they worry about him. Harry himself couldn't deny that technically, they have seen him injured often enough. He looked a little sheepish as she continued, "Because we can. When you've lived as long as we have—well, to put it as plainly as I can—we'd rather enjoy the company of friends and loved ones in place of stylish and opulent gifts. It's always been our way, so if possible, we'd love to have family dinners whenever possible."
Nodding, Nicolas replied, "As my wife said, a good meal and plentiful laughs is what makes life great, and we'd love nothing more than to share a dinner or two with you and toast to good times ahead."
"Dinners and toasts?" Sirius repeated, shocked himself.
"Your son saved my only daughter's life," Tracey's mother vehemently stated. "And all you want are dinners?"
"That can't be," Tracey added, looking at Harry incredulously.
"Oh, pish posh," Nicolas tells them with a wave of his hand. "Before the galleons and accolades, I always remember the friends and the times we shared. Those memories are among my most treasured possessions, and you can't put a value on a good laugh, wouldn't you say, Ares?" Nicolas asked, eying Harry mirthfully. Catching on, Harry only grinned broadly and didn't say more.
Thinking about Harry's school prank, Sirius can't help but laugh and tell Harry, "That was a bloody brilliant prank."
"There must be something else the Noble House of Black can offer you," Tracey implored. "This is about honor and duty. Surely you must want something of equal value."
With an expression that was half wincing and half agreeing, Nicolas replied, "I'd say the value of friendship is more than fair, and like fine wine, only becomes richer with age."
"Than you must come to our wedding," Tracey's mother declared. "I insist. It'll be a casual affair, but we would be honored to have you. You must attend." Sirius agreed with a nod and a loving look at Tracey's mother, adding, "It's the least we can do."
"It's much too least we can do," Tracey declared, prompting Sirius to turn to her.
"You'll have to forgive, Tracey," Sirius said with a smile. "I think she's been reading far too many romance stories about marriage contracts between pompous rich boys and modern girls."
That was exactly what Harry needed to rush this meeting along—something big that would help move them from this whole affair. Tracey broke decorum and looked sufficiently embarrassed—more so when her mother joked, "Is that true, honey? Were you expecting talks about marriage contracts?"
Before Tracey could protest, indignantly, Harry chuckled along with Sirius, and nonchalantly joked, "Ha! Not if Draco has anything to say about it!" Harry laughed despite Tracey's large surprised eyes. Her parents express a jolted curiosity at the name drop and they turned to their speechless daughter, who was starting to blush. "You should've seen the glare he gave before coming to meet you," Harry continued, feigning obliviousness. "I swear he thinks it might happen!"
In truth, Draco gave Harry a look of mild disinterest before the meeting, as he was too exhausted from the weight and intense core exercises they had done early in the morning. Although Harry knew this might cause added annoyance and irritation to Draco, he needed to do it to give the Blacks another focus they would prefer to talk about. He also didn't care about Draco's level of comfort.
"Draco?" Sirius questioned strangely. "Draco Malfoy? A Malfoy?" he repeated, looking at Tracey expectantly. And from there, the meeting was over in a matter of minutes, much to Harry's relief.
—
The Honor Meeting with the Noble House of Greengrass was strenuous because Daphne's father actually offered them a marriage contract. Seated in the same setup as every other Honor Meeting, with the Greengrasses on one side of the table and the Flamels on the other, Harry's first impression of Daphne's father was that of a business elite—a soulless automaton—and it only worsened from there. The man was exceedingly strict, and Harry did not like how he seemed to see his daughters as little more than commodities.
The slightest tenseness in the skin between Daphne's brow made Harry wonder if she knew her father was going to offer a marriage debt beforehand. Of all the Honor Meetings, Mr. Greengrass was the only one to offer a marriage proposal—not for Daphne's hand, but for Astoria's. Fortunately, the youngest Greengrass was not present, but even if she was, Nicolas and Perenelle would have turned the offer down with all the politeness of their station.
Mr. Greengrass then proceeded to compose a masterful business proposition between their houses that, if accepted, would leave an impression on the whole of magical society and stand the test of time. By the end of the meeting, the Flamels thanked him for his thoughtful presentation, accepted a third of the galleons offered, a favor for a later date, and nothing more. Daphne was hard to read throughout the entire exchange, but something told him she expected as much. As she dutifully followed her father out of the private room, Harry made a mental note to talk to her in detail about the things left out of the meeting.
"That was tense," Nicolas said to the two when they were alone. "I would've offered family dinners but..."
"No, no, I quite agree," Perenelle hopped to say. "Dinner with a troll would be less tense." She turned to Harry and asked, "So, that lovely young lady is interested in perusing our library during winter break? You said she's looking for books on blood curses?"
"Yeah," Harry answered. "Her sister, Astoria, has some sort of blood curse she wants to cure. But first she needs to learn what the curse is, hence searching your library. She's already searched a number of other libraries but hasn't been able to find anything yet."
"Please let her know we'd be happy to examine her sister the first available chance we have," Perenelle genuinely expressed. "And she's more than welcome to look through our library come winter break."
"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that," Harry said as they started to leave.
"Happy enough for a kiss or two?" Perenelle joked, eying her pseudo-son mischievously.
"Perenelle..." Harry groaned, exasperated by their constant innuendo.
"Maybe Mr. Greengrass offered the wrong hand in marriage?" Nicolas added on in good humor, irritating Harry further.
—
The Delacours' Honor Meeting could not take place in the private room of The Three Broomsticks, so they flooed to the Flamels' London whitestone townhouse, where privacy would be assured. Stepping inside, the Delacours were immediately struck by the grandeur of the four bedroom, five bath, three-story home. The Flamels eagerly led their guests through a tour of the opulent abode, showcasing each immaculately appointed room, from the mudroom to the spacious living room, the library, potions room, fully-equipped kitchen, and even the training room. At last, the tour concluded in the exquisite parlor room, basking in the warm glow of the afternoon sun that poured in through the vast array of windows that overlooked the serene patio.
The seating arrangement was no different than the other Honor Meetings, with the Delacours on one side and the Flamels on the other. Tea and biscuits were set out, and although there were no negative feelings between the families, the room was tense.
"Why did you neverre come forward?" Fleur abruptly asked Harry, much to Apolline and Stéphane's vocal chagrin.
"Fleur," her beautiful mother admonished.
"Please forgive our daughter," Stéphane said with all the gravitas of a commanding official. "She can forget herself in her excitement. However, she knows we have etiquette that custom our behavior."
"No apologies necessary," Nicolas replied with a smile. "And please, you're welcome guests in our home. While there is a time and place for formality, I can assure you this is the time for neither."
"Nicolas and I felt," Perenelle gently began, taking a moment to look at 'Ares.' "Given what's at stake for us, for our Ares, delicacy in this meeting was paramount."
"'Ow do you mean?" Apolline asked, confused. "Afterr all zhat you 'ave done for our family, eet ees us w'o must be considerate of you, I should zhink."
"We feel this case may be different," Nicolas explained to the Delacours, before turning to Fleur. "We do not deny what you must've already guessed, and it would be in poor spirit to sell you an inaccurate cover story. If our families are to develop favorable relations, a lie at the beginning just would not do."
"'E saved my sister's life zhat night! Az well as my own!" Fleur declared, looking at the Flamels in disbelief, as if wondering why they couldn't understand such a simple thing. Turning to Harry, she added, "I do not unzerstand why you neverre came forwarrd so zhat we may properly show you zhe 'onor of our gratitude."
"May I ask how you made the connection?" Nicolas asked Fleur.
"Eet ees in zhe eyes," Fleur answered, all the while looking at Harry. "I will neverre forget z'eir shade. And when 'e was dueling zhat monster in zhe Great 'all—before 'e was was struck wiz zhe cruciatus curse—'is eyes glowed brightly, exactly az zhey did zhat night."
"I must say, young man," Stéphane revealed, looking at Harry. "Az one of zhe few privileged enough to see zhe memories in zhe pensieve, your combat skill is in a league of it's own. I know many amazing duelists in the circuit; your professor Flitwick the most skilled among them, and I do not believe anyone could've spontaneously contended with zhat man's skill without losing a single life. Your tactics, awareness, and casting—considering your age—I must ask 'ow you acquired such extraordinary skill?"
It wasn't a new inquiry, Harry had been asked the same question countless times before, especially after the memory photograph appeared in several articles of the Daily Prophet. Whenever he visited Hogsmeade, teachers, students, and civilians alike would ask some variation of the same question. Dumbledore, in particular, was keen to extract any details that might help him solve the growing mystery surrounding Ares Flamel. Rita Skeeter had gone as far as to send requests for an exclusive interview three times a day. Harry felt obligated to provide some answer to those he deemed worthy, so he told the Deputy Minister of the French Ministry of Magic, "Most of it came from my head. The rest, I learned in difficult situations."
"'Ow difficult?" Fleur couldn't help but ask.
"Fleur!" her mother warned.
Again, the large scars on his face combined with stern silence was answer enough for all of them.
"Yes well," Nicolas began, after taking a sip of tea. "You may, or may not be aware that the one such difficult situation after the World Cup has resulted in an ongoing investigation by the DMLE. An investigation that's hoping to discover the identity of who they've given the moniker, the Green Reaper, for causing the untimely end of some of those wizards."
"Cochons dégoûtants," Fluer muttered under her breath far too loudly.
"Fleur!" Apolline sternly called to her rebellious daughter. Harry noticed Gabrielle's dismay, and wandlessly moved the tray of biscuits towards her. He gave her a small smile when she noticed, and was delighted to see either the biscuits or wandless magic.
"So you see," Perenelle continued, not drawing attention to Harry's simple feats of magic. "It is us who should be considerate of you for the precarious nature of the information you have on our little Trouble Star," she finished with a smile.
The Delacours were silent for several moments, after which Stéphane turned to Ares and asked, "'Ow do you feel, cauzing zhe deathz of zhese wizards?"
Some may consider that an important question to be asked, especially considering the potential outcome, but Harry felt like it was the easiest question asked in all these Honor Meetings. "I can't say I feel anything for them, Deputy Minister," Harry solemnly began. "I think that if those wizards were not there doing things they shouldn't be doing, then they wouldn't have met their end. And while their deaths were not my intent, in that situation, I was not in a position to consider their lives over the ones I was protecting. As I see it, the chaos of evil men does not go unnoticed and should I happen to be in a position to stop terrible things from hurting innocents, then I will do everything in my power to do just that. Whether that makes me callous to the sanctity of life or a criminal… I'll worry about that only after everyone is safe."
Stéphane pondered on Harry's words for only a long silent moment before responding, "My position as an elected official of zhe French Ministry mandates I report any and all crimes I ascertain to zhe appropriate body of power, in zhis case, Madam Amelia Bones, 'ead of the DMLE. Zhat ees my mandate az an elected official, but az a man, and more importantly, az a fazher, my principles will not allow me to do anyzhing more zhan zhank you from zhe bottom of my 'eart with everyzhing zhat I am. You saved the life of both of my daughters, one twice over-" He paused at the audible click of tongue from Fleur, clearly disappointed in herself. "Do not be ashamed of this my daughter. You live to fight anozher day." Turning back to the Flamels, he continued, "I love my beautiful girls more zhan life itself. And for what you did for zhis family, I will forever be een your debt."
"We will foreverr be een your debt," Apolline corrected, taking Stéphane's hand.
Feeling comfortable with the safety of Harry's secret, the Flamels proceeded to haggle and reduce the property or monetary sum offered, and gracefully denied any interests in marriage debts or the invaluable Grimoire passed down through Apolline's Veela heritage. They expressed their honor to their guests and asked for the same intent of familial friendship as they did for the honor houses of Black, Longbottom, and Potter.
The Delacours accepted the invitation to stay for dinner, and Gabrielle finally asked Harry for a hug, which he agreed to—even if he felt weird about it. Though, when he felt how tightly her little arms held him, Harry knew Perenelle was right. Gabrielle needed this as much as many people needed to thank him, so they could move on. So, he returned her embrace with gratitude, which turned out to be a miscalculation on his part.
Harry inadvertently allowed a door to be opened he was unprepared for. Before dinner, Stéphane expertly helped Perenelle in the kitchen, Apolline graciously helped Nicolas partake in Ogden's finest in the study, and an absolutely thrilled Gabrielle fell hard for Nova's majestic phoenix song in the foyer. Fleur, on the other hand, asked to see Harry's room.
It was a simple request but made him breathless. He very rarely had long moments alone with Fleur, and while he knew how brave and loyal she was from his timeline, he didn't know much more about her than that. After they moved past how horribly bare his room was, she asked for a hug of her own, "To thank you for saving my life," she explained, and he hesitantly agreed.
Embracing Fleur was much more different than letting Gabrielle hug him. After all, Gabrielle was no taller than his chest, while Fleur was his height and could press her warm cheek flush with his, feeling ticklish as her breath vibrated his little hairs. She was oven warm, firm yet soft, and her enchanting scent was a motley of identifiable aromas that confused and enticed him. She smelled sweet, like vanilla, strawberry, cinnamon, and citrus, like orange, grapefruit, lime, but he couldn't make sense of how the alluring scents harmonized so perfectly. His hands were placed safely in the middle of her back, but pressed as she was against his front, the danger of squeezing tighter was substantial.
Harry started to wonder if he was holding her for too long when she finally pulled away, leaving him with a sensation akin to hollowness. Nevertheless, they soon discussed lighter topics about her sister, their parents, and the differences between their schools. It made him smile, want to tease her, and ponder more about her, enjoying safe and easy conversation from her place leaning against the bed frame and his place leaning against the bare desk opposite her.
When she asked, "'Ow many women 'ave you been wizh?" Harry instantly panicked and felt lost.
It must have shown on his face because she smiled and giggled like the goddess of love. Fleur suddenly became incredibly attractive and he became highly attuned to even the smallest of her feminine details: the gentle sway of her model figure, the serene cascade of her long, dazzling, light blonde hair, her sultry dark blue eyes, and sensual pink lips. Although he was enlightened by her presence, Harry could feel her allure, and while physically captivated by her beauty, his mind remained steady and in control of his faculties, which seemed to excite her even more.
She said, "You do not unzerstand 'ow amazing eet ees zhat you can rezist zhe allure so completely. Een my mozherz culture, you would eazily be 'ighly sought after az a potential life-mate and even zhen you would more zhan likely be shared."
Harry was not sure what Fleur meant by 'shared' or what she expected from him, if anything. Fleur seemed very direct, which he did not mind at all, but he was not sure if she understood the concept of safe or unsafe topics. Despite his intelligence and experience, Harry wasn't sure how this conversation fit into the realm of civil discourse. It was more brazen than he was used to, like the kind of talk that happened in broom cupboards—a thing he never participated in. Even with his best mate, the worst they ever talked about was how nice a girl's skin could be. Fleur was bolder than anyone he was used to, including the Fleur from his own timeline.
'Could it be the fucking ripple again?' he asked himself. 'Or is this how she is to guys she likes?' His mind remained silent, so Harry stuck to his instincts and asked minimal questions, such as, "Uh, why is that?"
"Eet ees incredibly rare, Arez," Fleur explained. "Not even fazher ees az reziztant az you and 'e 'as many more yearz of constant exposure, I should think. I am but a quarter Veela, az such my magic does not experience zhe full effect of zhis phenomena, 'owever, eef you 'ad saved zhe life of a full Veela, 'er magic would 'ave imprinted on you."
"Imprinted?" Harry repeated, unsure how he felt about that. "You don't mean she would be beholden to me?"
"Not completely," she answered. "She would not be your slave, like many wish to fantazize. Zhough I've 'eard many exciting tales of playing zhe slave wizh a trusted lover." Her teasing smile made Harry's eyebrows rise and his cheeks blush, as he started to realize how seamlessly she blended sex or innuendo into normal conversation. He redoubled his efforts to best prepare for it as Fleur continued. "Nor would she be compelled by zheir bond to accept non-consensual abuse."
"There's consensual abuse?" Harry abruptly asked skeptically.
"Oui," she easily answered with a knowing smirk. "Zhere are many who find much pleasure in pain. I, myself am looking forward to discovering the depthz of my appetite," she seductively confessed. "Zhough, zhe wizard who saved a Veela would form a very powerful bond, 'is wordz 'old little more meaning to 'er zhan zhe strengzh of zhe man's character. Zhe bond between Veela and wizard can be extremely powerful, but, only eef zhe man ees worzhy of 'er," she explained, her dark blues looking deeply into his emerald green eyes. "And tu know eef he ees worzhy, she must rely on 'er Veela abilities."
Harry swore she could hear the thumping of his rapid heart beat from where she leaned against his bed. He quickly asked, "So, it isn't the same with you, correct? Since you're only a quarter Veela?"
"No one can say for certain, monsieur," she replied, standing straighter and clasping her hands behind her back, emphasizing her womanly assets and adding far more curvature to her already racy silhouette. "Full blood, half, or a quarter, eef we all still 'ave zhe right of choice, who ees to say 'ow much of my Veela blood makes me feel zhe way I do? W'at you may call a bond, only tellz me zhat my 'eart and magic feel strongly for zhe man I zhink ees worzhy of zhem," she finished, coyly.
'BILL!' Harry's mind yelled, trying to not be swept by her charms. 'Remember Bill! Bill! Bill!' They hear the call to dinner and Harry stepped forward, indicating with his hand, 'Ladies first.' Closer now, yet respectably apart, with a solid tone of voice Harry assured her, "I'm sure whomever you choose will more than be worthy of your feelings. He'd be an idiot not to."
"Of zhat, my dearest Arez," Fleur said with a cunning smile. "We both agree."
Dinner was delicious, hearty, and a blatant manipulation on Fleur's part to extort a few sparring sessions from Harry. The Delacours loved the idea, while Nicolas and, especially, Perenelle were no help at all in preventing it. It wasn't until they said farewell to the Delacours that Fleur pulled Harry aside, much to the delight of Perenelle, Apolline, and Gabrielle—if their knowing smirks were anything to go by. But, what Fleur revealed to him, Harry didn't quite know how to reconcile with.
"I was not zhe only one tu see you when your eye'z shade illuminated," Fleur whispered, but Harry could easily hear her as she was standing so close to him.
In such close presence of her warmth and sex appeal, he almost missed what she said. He shook his head and asked, "Who? Who else saw?"
"Zhe girl you first saved from zhat monster," Fleur answered.
"Hermione?" Harry said with worry.
"You know 'er?" Fleur asked with a curious quirk of her brow. Catching on to his clear look of apprehension, she added, "Do not fear. I spoke wizh 'er immediately after and made 'er promise not to szay anyzhing to anyone about eet."
"No, you don't understand," he began to explain. "Hermione is the smartest witch in our class."
"Smarter zhan you?" Fleur teased.
"I don't count," Harry returned.
"Why do you szay zhat?" Fleur genuinely asked, curious to know.
"Because unlike me, she works incredibly hard," Harry asserted. "Hermione is very inquisitive and she hates mysteries. She'll keep her promise but she'll research on her own none-stop until she gets answers."
Taking in Harry's response for a moment, Fleur easily surmised, "You know 'er well, monsieur Trouble Star. S'ould I be jealous?" She asked with a coy smirk.
Harry once again realized how close such an attractive girl was to him, eying him so closely, when they heard Apolline call out, "Come now, Fleur."
"Oui mamma," Fleur happily called back before giving Harry a quick kiss on his reddening cheek and exiting with her family via the floo network.
Ignoring the warm burning sensation on his cheek spread down his body, a pragmatic Harry figured Hermione would either learn about his secret or not. He pondered for a moment on how involved and prepared he should be for either scenario before turning to his cover parents to help clear the dinner table. However, one look at Nicolas and Perenelle's poorly reserved, giddy, thrilled, and elated faces made Harry shake his head, using the full rotation of his neck.
"Nope, not one word!" he demanded, quickly calling for Nova and escaping to his Slytherin room in a bright flash of flame.
Perenelle put the smack down on Harry! It took me a while to really understand how accepting the appreciation of someone may not be how you see yourself and in Harry's case, he truly doesn't believe he's lovable or deserving of being seen in a positive way. It was an interesting write and I hope I did it justice.
There will be more Umbridge! I thought about her this week and I was struck with all sorts of ideas, so I can definitely say she'll be back.
I think the girls will be closing in on Harry soonish, and while I have ideas on how to portray it's assembly as organically as possible, I don't think it'll happen in one chapter, but I feel like we're getting closer.
Please let me know what you think! You guys really help me stay focused and driven-not that im getting tired at all:)
Have a great one,
-Grae