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Chapter 2

"...and here comes the first arrival: Supreme Mugwump Albus Dumbledore. The most celebrated wizard of our time, Dumbledore is expected to use the convention as a platform for his crusade against Dementors, and to settle the border dispute between Texas and California, which many think will dominate this year's convention... and what's this? Why, that's Harry Potter! Extraordinary! Dumbledore has arrived with the Boy Who Lived in tow – quite the rebuttal for those who say he's too soft on Dark wizards, if I say so myself..."

If Harry had hoped to enter France quietly, he was to be disappointed. Radio Four and a Half was providing extensive coverage of the convention, and he was listening to his own arrival from the Gryffindor common room. He and Dumbledore apparated directly from London to the Place de la République – a large square at the heart of magical Paris, dominated by a statue of a mounted medieval wizard – and they were greeted with cheers and applause, with the flash of cameras and a mob of reporters. A large and noisy crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of the international delegations, which proceeded according to a strict timetable. As Supreme Mugwump, Dumbledore occupied the top spot on that timetable, separate from the rest of the British commission; his arrival was considered the unofficial start of proceedings. And so it was that Harry's first impression of France was a barrage of questions in at least five languages.

"Monsieur Dumbledore! Monsieur Dumbledore! Avez-vous des réflexions sur Lichtenstein boycotter la convention une fois de plus?"

"Señor Dumbledore! Ha oido que el representante de Texas dijo la ultima semana alrededor usted?"

"Mr Potter! Gerald Williams, Daily Prophet. What brings you to Paris? Attending the convention?"

Harry started at his name, expecting to be little more than a spectator at this event. He should have known better. None of the questions appeared to phase Dumbledore, who firmly guided Harry away from the apparition spot and – to Harry's dread – towards the reporters. They parted before him, their questions never stopping, cameras continuing to flash. For a moment Harry thought they were to ignore the press entirely, until:

"Hans Schiller, Professor Dumbledore – will you fight against his execution, as you did Grindelwald's?"

Dumbledore stopped to face the reporter. She was young, blonde, and had an American accent. He raised a hand and the other reporters fell silent.

"It is indeed my desire that Nurmengard should house a second prisoner before the month is through, Miss. Blair. The Dementor's Kiss is a barbaric punishment that none deserve – not even one of Gellert Grindelwald's top lieutenants."

More questions followed, but Dumbledore was done speaking for now, and they were walking once more, following a red carpet towards a group of dignitaries. The first to greet them was a small, portly man who Harry recognised as Michel Renaud, the French Premier – Dumbledore had given him some "homework" on the French Ministry and the ICW.

"Ah, Monsieur Potter, I 'ad 'eard zat you were coming. I 'ope zat you enjoy your time een Paris," he said as he shook Harry's hand. "And of course, Monsieur Dumbledore, eet is good to see you again."

Other French officials followed. These Harry did not recognise, but Dumbledore appeared to know them all, sharing a few words with each as they worked their way down a line of handshakes. At last they reached the end of the line, where a Pegasus-drawn black carriage was waiting for them. As they clambered in, Harry could just about see the next delegation arrive – a group of wizards from New England wearing traditional Victorian dress – top hats, waistcoats, tails and drainpipe trousers.

"...of course, much will depend on where New England will stand on the issue. As the most powerful nation in North America, they are best situated to resolve the dispute... rumour has it that Senators O'Higgins and Hannity met with Dumbledore last week, so I think we can expect some cooperation between the British and New Englanders on this matter – something I'm sure the Californians will be happy about. Texas has had some rocky relations with New England in the past..."

Harry remembered the Senators' visit well. While Dumbledore had conducted all the serious discussion behind spelled doors, dinner had presented Harry with the chance to speak with the Americans about their country. The differences between Britain and New England were quite fascinating, he thought. It wasn't just the way they dressed. Wizarding Britain had many old families which carried forward traditions which were hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. Most wizarding families in New England, however, began with Muggleborns in the 18th and 19th centuries, and so their society mirrored the conservatism of that age. And while they used European wand magic, taught to them by the few wizarding migrants, New Englanders also had a love for mechanical oddities running on some kind of magical steam power.

Harry wondered if the library had any books on the subject. She tapped the wireless with her – that is, Ginny's – wand, and made her way down to breakfast, fiddling with her skirt as she went. Wearing one felt quite weird, but she was getting used to it. She had stuck to jeans at first, but Ginny only had one pair of them, and eventually she was forced to wear a skirt – which had prompted a highly embarrassing but useful chat with McGonagall about various "personal care" charms. It was lucky, Harry supposed, that Mrs. Weasley had never let Ginny buy anything too scandalous, but even the moderately conservative skirts Ginny had owned felt shockingly short. It wasn't all bad, though – the summer skirts Ginny seemed to have loved allowed a great range of movement. Jeans felt quite restrictive in comparison. And the feeling of the summer sun on bare legs was not unpleasant.

During the summer holidays, breakfast was served in the kitchens - the Great Hall was far too large for the handful of teachers who remained. As usual, McGonagall was having a mid-morning tea break when Harry arrived for her breakfast. Today, Madam Pince had joined her. Perfect, Harry thought.

"Good morning, Miss. Weasley," said McGonagall. Harry had seen a new side of her, these last two weeks. She wasn't sure if McGonagall treated girls differently, or if it was just because it was the summer, but some part of the stern teacher had become softer, almost motherly when she spoke with Harry. "I see you've put the charm I showed you to good use. Your hair looks lovely – very fine spellwork indeed."

After several days of showing up at breakfast with tangled hair, McGonagall had taken it upon herself to teach Harry a number of haircare charms. She felt a bit bad about it – McGonagall must have thought that Mrs. Weasley didn't tell her daughter anything. Harry had been stunned that there could be so many spells just for hair – though really, they weren't just for hair. The Deknoting charm, for example, could be used on shoelaces just as well. They were the most delicate things, these little charms, and Harry quickly found that they were great for practicing finer control of magic. Accidentally pulling your own hair is a strong motivator.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied, and she took a seat at the small table, realising that she was quite hungry. Hunger was tricky, these days: Harry's body, enjoying the sights of Paris through the carriage window, had already eaten breakfast. Being both hungry and full at the same time was quite disconcerting.

Elves rushed to offer her food, and she took some toast, muesli, and orange juice. "Good morning, Madam Pince," she said as she spread a liberal quantity of jam over her toast. "I was thinking of popping into the library later, if that's okay."

"So long as you don't make a nuisance of yourself," sniffed Pince. Here was one person who did not soften over the summer.

"I won't."

"Was there something in particular you were looking for?" asked McGonagall.

"Yeah, I was gonna look for a book on automata – you know, like they have in New England."

McGonagall smiled. "Well, I should imagine there are several books on the subject in the Exotic Magic section. A word of warning, however: I think you will find the material disappointing. There is nothing that automata can do that you can't do much quicker with your wand."

Harry frowned.

"But then why do they use them?"

McGonagall took a sip of tea. Harry recognised her going into "teaching mode".

"I have seen your spellwork these last two weeks, Miss Weasley. It's very good – better even than your performance in class. You must realise, however, that this level of ability is beyond many of your fellow witches and wizards. Hogwarts is the finest school of magic in Britain, perhaps even in Europe. You should not underestimate how well we guard our knowledge. Though there are other schools of magic in the country, Hogwarts is the only true school – one with the ability to produce students capable of being healers, or aurors, or cursebreakers. Can you think why this is the case, Miss Weasley?"

Harry thought. She was vaguely aware that Hogwarts was not the sum of magical education in the country, but she had never really given it much thought. Something to do with knowledge...

"Because other schools don't teach enough for those things?"

"In part, yes. If you will excuse my saying so, Hogwarts is the only school with access to such great depth of expertise in its Professors, and to such amazing breadth of knowledge in our library. We are the only school in Britain that has the ability to teach our students not just the what of magic, but the how and the why. We teach spells, certainly, but more importantly we teach theory. And as your education progresses, you will find that theory becomes increasingly important. You can levitate a feather with just some words, but if you want to transfigure animals, or animate objects, or block curses, you need to know theory."

Harry was gobsmacked. She had never realised theory was so important. To Harry, theory had always been an optional extra – something for the academically curious, like Hermione, but not very practical.

"Is that why Hermione is so good at magic?"

McGonagall smiled at the name of her favourite student.

"Precisely. The mind is so much more than what appears on the surface," - McGonagall could have no idea how much Harry already appreciated this fact - "and even when theory does not take an active part in the spell casting process, the mere fact of knowing how the spell works affects its success. At the higher levels of magic, without any understanding of how a spell works, the spell will fail completely. This is also how we can transfigure objects and animals without knowing everything about them. While we may not know the anatomy of the animal, what we do know is the theory of transfiguration, and it is this understanding which guides the spell. Without the understanding, the spell will fail."

"Okay... so, they use automata in New England because it means that people who are bad at magic can still do stuff?"

"Crudely put, yes. They call it the 'democratisation of magic' – in theory, anyone can perform any magical feat with the right automata, reducing the power of the talented elite. Of course, then a new elite rises – those who make the automata, and can afford to buy them."

They ate in silence for a time as Harry absorbed this information. She would pay much closer attention to theory, next year. And she'd be getting another chance to learn the second year material too. Learn it properly, this time, not just enough to pass. She wouldn't waste it. Perhaps it would be worth looking over her first year books again. Intending to do exactly that, Harry finished her breakfast quickly and excused herself. She had some reading to do.

Meanwhile, Harry and Dumbledore were settling into the small flat provided for them by the ICW. Harry's bedroom was simple enough: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a Bluebell lamp. As Harry unpacked his stuff, he watched Dumbledore enchanting the property. He seemed to be paying particular attention to the door and windows, layering spell after spell, casting everything silently and with little fanfare. After two weeks with Dumbledore, Harry was quickly learning that often the most potent magic was that which was the hardest to see.

"Can't people just blast through the wall, if the door is so heavily enchanted?" Harry asked, curious about the process.

Dumbledore cast one last spell, before he turned to answer Harry's question.

"Tell me, Harry... what is a door?"

Harry blinked at the non-sequitur. Dumbledore loved to do this: he answered questions in the most roundabout way, making Harry figure it out for himself. Not wanting to rush into a stupid answer, Harry paused to think. A door was where you entered places, obviously, but why would Dumbledore want him to think about that? He was casting protection spells, spells designed to keep people out. Harry thought he could see the answer. Sometimes magic behaved like a force, like something Muggle physics would be familiar with. But from his conversations with Dumbledore, Harry knew that more often magic was more like poetry or music. Enchanting the walls might make sense to a Muggle mind, but to a wizard, things weren't quite so simple.

"The door represents the very idea of entry... by enchanting the door – and the windows – you enchant against entry in all forms, even through the walls?" It was a guess, but Harry thought it was a good one.

Dumbledore beamed.

"Very good, Harry. You are quite correct. Of course, when you perform abstract casting like this – which you won't learn until your seventh year, I'm afraid – the spells do have to be altered somewhat."

"Altered how? Like, the incantation is different?"

"Meddling with incantations is the hammer of spell modification, Harry, but it can be effective. However, the more elegant – and thus, potent – method is purely mental, achieved through understanding of -"

"-theory," Harry completed with a smile. It always comes back to theory, he thought.

"Quite," said Dumbledore, apparently pleased with Harry's newfound appreciation for academics. "Now, I find myself quite hungry. Would you like to join me for lunch, Harry?"

They walked to a cafe near their flat – which was within sight of the Eifel Tower – and sat at an outside table. It truly was a glorious summer's day, and Harry had to ask Dumbledore to cast a cooling charm on him. Harry suspected he had cast a number of other spells, given that the Muggles were completely ignoring their (rather splendid, in Dumbledore's words) robes.

A pretty waitress came out to meet them. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and had a cheerful demeanour.

"Bonjour! Que volez-vous, messieurs?"

Dumbledore peered at Harry pointedly over his half-moon spectacles. Harry gulped.

"Er..." he began, racking his mind, looking at the menu to buy time, "por mon ami, la salade toscane... et por moi, la soupe de concombre glacee, s'il vous plait."

He was very aware he was speaking with a terrible accent, but thought he was doing rather well, even if a lot of what he was saying was just read off the menu. Two weeks was a very short time to learn a language, even with the assistance of magic.

"Et a boire?" the waitress replied, giggling at Harry's French.

Harry thought for a moment, trying to figure out what she said. She spoke so fast! Boire... to drink! Of course! Harry grinned.

"Je voudrais le vin de la maison, et -"

Dumbledore laughed – a surprisingly deep sound, Harry always thought – and intervened in perfect French.

"Pardonnez mon jeune ami, il est impertinent, non? Nous aurons tous les deux un jus de fruit, s'il vous plait."

The waitress giggled again before walking away with a sway to her hips. Harry couldn't help but follow her with his eyes, blushing when he noticed the knowing – and amused – look Dumbledore was sending him.

"Ah, Harry, you are a fine young man, but I think in this case she may be slightly too old for you."

Harry blushed deeper still, especially as the girl in question chose that moment to return with their drinks, giving Harry a wink as she did so. Dumbledore continued on, ignoring Harry's apparent embarrassment.

"Besides, it was my impression that Miss. Granger and yourself were something of an item... am I incorrect?"

"What?" Harry blurted, shocked. What on earth did the teachers speaking about in that staff room? "Hermione? And me? We're just friends!"

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling. Harry realised he was being played with.

"You're teasing me," he said, somewhat accusingly.

Dumbledore adopted a sober expression – so somber that it couldn't be genuine, and said "I would never dream of such a thing. As the portrait of Phineas Nigellus reminds me regularly, it is a dangerous thing, playing with the emotions of teenagers."

Harry smiled. Time to give him a taste of his own medicine, he thought.

"And how about you, sir?" he said as the waitress brought their food, "are you and Professor McGonagall...?" He left the question hanging, its meaning clear.

If Harry hoped to fluster Dumbledore, he was quite mistaken.

"Oh no, Harry. No, I'm actually quite gay."

"Oh!" said Harry. It was all he could do to stop himself spitting out his food in surprise. "Oh!" he said again. His attempt to unsettle Dumbledore had backfired quite significantly. The man sat there, calmly eating his salad as he watched Harry once again become flustered. "Well, sir, of course, that's, um, very, um... well, good for you!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"I confess that I have never before considered it an achievement, Harry, but I thank you for your congratulations nonetheless."

It was at this point that Harry decided it would be best for all if he kept his mouth shut. He turned his attention to his refreshing soup and ate it with gusto.

"Est tout à votre satisfaction?" The waitress was back.

"Oui, merci," Harry said, not waiting for Dumbledore to prod him into speech.

"I must say, Harry, your French is improving rapidly," Dumbledore said once she was gone.

"Thank you, sir. Of course, without the language potion it would be a lot worse."

"Indeed... a remarkable creation. It was invented by an old friend of mine, in fact. A man called Horace Slughorn. Quite the potioneer – he taught many Hogwarts students the art, including your parents and Professor Snape."

Harry nodded, always eager to hear more about his parents. It sounded like this Slughorn fellow was a much better teacher than Snape.

"There was something I was wondering about that, actually."

"Indeed? Ask away, my boy."

"Well, if you can make a potion to help you learn a language, why doesn't someone make a potion to help with learning Transfiguration or Charms? It would make school so much easier..."

"I think you will find, Harry, that you already know the answer to your question."

Here we go again, Harry thought.

"Tell me, Harry, what is the first exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration? I believe you covered Gamp this year, correct?"

Yes, Harry could remember covering Gamp's law, and he could clearly remember that there were five exceptions... one was food, he knew that. Another was gold – Ron had been very disappointed to hear that one. But the first exception...

"Oh, I know! Magic! You can't create magical creatures with transfiguration, or wands, or anything like that. But what's that got to do with-" Harry stopped mid-speech as his mind caught up to his mouth. "Does magical knowledge count as magic, like wands and crystal balls?"

"Just so, Harry. One cannot use magic to discover or create magical knowledge. It has to be earned the hard way. It is why knowledge of Mermish and Gobbledygook is so valued."

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

"I believe it does. Now, as I was saying, your French has improved significantly. However, in the interest of not causing a diplomatic incident, I would ask you to stick to English tomorrow at the opening gala."

Harry grinned, aware of how terrible his accent was.

"I suppose I can do that... are you sure I'll have to dance?"

"It would be quite rude not to dance at least once, I think. I'm sure you'll be able to engage a suitable partner. So long as you don't ask them in French." The last part he added with a twinkle in his eye, and Harry knew he was joking. Mostly.

"Harry, I wish to be serious with you now," Dumbledore said, and all trace of joking left his face. "I have said that I will keep you safe on this excursion, and I intend to, but you must assist me in this tomorrow. I won't be able to watch you every minute of the gala, nor would I want to. Keep your wand with you at all times. Do not leave the building without me. And I want you to study the dossier I gave you tonight, paying particular attention to those witches and wizards I have indicated you should avoid. If they engage you in conversation, find an excuse to leave, and stay in sight of as many people as possible. This is a diplomatic event, but not everyone comes with good intentions. And do not make the mistake, Harry, of thinking you can trust the British. If you have been keeping up with the reading I have set you, you will know by now that Narcissa Malfoy is part of the British Delegation. Don't let her beauty lull you into complacency: she is every bit as dangerous as her husband. Never be alone with her, Harry."

Harry nodded. He wouldn't let Dumbledore down.