CHAPTER – 17 THE HIDDEN VULNERABILITY
It begins with pain.
It always does. The darkness. The rustling of leaves. Whispers of the night.
The shout.
"CRUCIO!"
Her nerves tingle. Muscles snap next. Her body escapes her control. Molten knives drive themselves into every pore in her skin.
Overwhelming.
She screams. There is no one to help her.
Her body shakes. Convulses. A fish out of water.
Nerves burn. Her sanity unravels into threads of suffering.
Darkness feels comfortable. Oblivion feels like salvation.
She should forget. Would she forget? Forgetting would be so easy. Just a little more... A little more, and then—there would be silence.
But she holds. She reaches. She needs to reach it. The light—
The coppery tang of blood pools in her mouth. Her bottom is wet. Body fluids escape her. Her wand rolls out of her reach.
Is this the end?
Seconds become minutes. Minutes become hours. Hours become eternities.
The shadowy tendrils close in. The mist deepens.
Is this the end—
She reaches—the light—
Bright light.
Is she dead? Is she dying? Grandmère once told her a story. About a hall with bright lights. The next great adventure. Was this hers? The end? So soon? Before her life had even truly begun?
Someone speaks out.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A part of her mind registers the spell. Used against lethifolds. She had tried it once. Didn't work. Auror-grade. Not her. Then—then who?
Her eyes open. She sees light. Blinding, soothing light.
She hears his voice.
"Stay here!" he commands. "Keep her safe!"
Safe.
She feels the shadowy tendrils slowly leave her.
Safe.
The impossibly bright guardian's warmth soothes her anxiety. Her Allure gobbles it up greedily.
Safe.
She remembers her petite sœur. Her papa. Maman, even. Back when she was… Maman.
Safe.
Her wand is back in her palm. Her fingers caress it.
Safe.
The agony is dulling. She feels sleepy. Sleepy. So sleepy. An image appears in her mind. A face to the voice. Messy black hair. Green eyes. Lightning scar. He saved her. She can feel it. Feel the magic working.
She realizes what happened.
She is safe.
Fleur woke up to a firm knock on the door. The dry, morning sunlight filtering through the windowsill did nothing to hide the tear tracks on her cheeks. She had cried in her sleep. Again. At least it was getting better. Waking up in the middle of the night from bad dreams was old hat by now, as was sobbing her eyes out from the realization of what had happened.
She had been there, done that. She felt overwhelmed. She cried. She got better.
There was another, louder, knock on the door.
Grabbing her wand, she straightened out her nightshirt and quickly glanced out the window at the backyard. It was empty, and there was no one at the door that led into the kitchen. Only after she scanned behind her did she go to the front door, glancing quickly out the window in the hall as she went.
Living in a Muggle neighborhood was tough, but at least she didn't have to fear anyone tripping her wards at night. Plus, it was cheap, and she could easily Apparate to work and back without stepping outside. Ever.
Life in Britain was not as she expected. It was far, far worse. Those cochons stared at her like hungry jackals eyeing a fresh slab of meat, undressing her with their eyes alone as she walked in public. It didn't take being a Veela to feel their lust, their primal desires, the way they wanted to have their wicked way with her.
Fleur recognized the woman standing outside the front door and relaxed somewhat. Madame Moore was a Squib who offered private ballet classes to Beauxbatons students during the summer. As Madame Moore had an academy in the Muggle world also, she had her headmistress Madame Maxime ask her to help find proper lodging. As it turned out, there was a tiny one-bedroom home available, and Fleur had jumped at the opportunity.
At the very least, it was better than living at the Leaky Cauldron, with stalkers trying to get the better of her dozens of times a day.
"Fleur," Madame Moore smiled. "Got a minute?"
No, she did not have a minute. She wanted to shut the door in the woman's face and return to the safety of her quaint little apartment. She wanted to turn her head away from the growing list of problems in her life, or even better, drink a teaspoon full of Draught of Living Death and lie down for… a decade or so. Maybe things would be better then.
Fleur opened her mouth to politely deny the woman's request—
"I really need to talk to you."
She noisily exhaled. It wasn't as though she had any work today. She was officially on leave so that she could have her stupid play-date with Harry Potter later during the day.
Part of her longed to slam the door in Madame Moore's face, go back to bed, and deal with the fallout as it came. Strange, she had always thought such a selfish reaction stemmed from a fairly small portion of her character. Yet today, it felt overwhelmingly like the majority.
"Okay," Fleur acquiesced. "Come in."
The house felt foreign and empty as she walked back inside, her acquaintance in tow.
After seating Madame Moore at the kitchen table, Fleur went back into her room to put on some clothes that were less pajama-like. When she came back out, the woman had already gotten the coffee pot going, and the brew was already a finger deep in the little glass pitcher underneath. Fleur popped some bread into the toaster and watched it carefully to make sure it didn't burn. The toaster was an old one, so no chance for magic to tinker with it.
Still, it gave her something to do other than speak to Madame Moore until the coffee was done.
Placing the finished toast and coffee on the tabletop and setting out a jar of strawberry preserve, Fleur watched as Madame Moore readily accepted the food and wolfed it down. She silently followed suit, resigning herself to a breakfast with company.
"Alright," Fleur finally replied, leaning her elbows on the table. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Your maman called."
It took everything Fleur had not to wince. Her maman, Apolline Delacour, was what most people called a pure-blooded veela. Witches and wizards often tried to apply human breeding principles to the veela race, declaring Fleur to be a quarter-veela or half-veela or some such nonsense.
If only they knew the truth….
"What did Maman have to say?"
Madame Moore whipped out a phone. A Nokia— one of those strange devices Muggles used to communicate with people far away without owl post or Floo system.
In short, Muggle magic.
Fleur gingerly held the electronic instrument between two fingers, staring at it like it would blow up the moment she wasn't paying attention.
Witches and electronics went together about as well as libraries and flamethrowers. Anything manufactured after the forties broke down whenever magic was in their presence. The average witch in a bad mood could kill a modern telly in just a few hours. Less so if she was throwing spells around.
It was the primary reason behind the 'no-magic-during-summer' rule established and enforced for magicfolk living in Muggle areas.
Yet somehow, the problems didn't occur when others like elves or centaurs or veela used magic in their presence. From what Maman had once told her, witches and wizards were inherently contradictory creatures, and the conflicted nature of their magic interfered with electronics in a myriad of ways. Back then, she had not questioned it further.
After two rings, the phone suddenly let out a click.
"Ma chérie," her mother purred from the other end, her voice dripping with sweetness like pure honey. It was the kind of voice that would give men and women ideas— really bad ideas, though they'd never realize that part. "You 'ardly ever call anymore."
Fleur arched an eyebrow. Her maman talking in English? That was a first!
"I 'ardly ever call you at all," Fleur tersely responded, pursing her lips. "What do you want?"
"Can I juzt not be conzerned." Apolline replied with a little tinkling laugh. "I juzt wanted to know if you are done playing witch in L'Angleterre and want to come join me in aahhh— some mother-daughter bonding."
"It's getting late," she stubbornly replied, not rising to her taunts.
"La petite rébellion iz cute," Apolline continued, letting out a soft mewl, "but it iz time you end it. Come back to maman. Do not tax your leetle head. Talk to Madame Moore. Come home. Or you and I are going to have a very… aahhhh…" Maman's breathing sped up. "A very zerious falling-out."
Fleur inwardly scowled. How had Maman known about Moore? As she focused, she could hear other soft noises in the background, and voices too. A man, a woman. Maybe two. Maman was far from gender-biassed when it came to feeding on others. And knowing her, she had probably orchestrated the whole thing so her daughter would call in the middle.
Promptly hanging up the phone, Fleur returned it to Madame Moore, her face flushed red. And not from embarrassment.
"Is there anything else?" she demanded.
The poor woman seemed to get the hint and shook her head, before scurrying out the front door. Fleur softly exhaled, before walking back into her room and falling face-first into her soft mattress, fully prepared to be lost in her thoughts. It was always better to get as much thinking done as possible, before the actual crisis came to be. That way, when it was present and she only had half a second to make decisions until the borders of sanity started ripping away at her soul, she could skip the pleasantries and go straight to making mistakes.
And when it came to Apolline Delacour, you never took anything at face value. She was always up to something. Whatever it was, it included putting pressure on her, even if said pressure took the form of a morning annoyance. Her maman wanted to let her know that she knew. She knew where she was, where she worked, and where she lived. This annoying morning call was nothing but a demonstration of that.
Fleur closed her eyes. All this nervousness was making her hungry. She could sense the boys who lived on the other side of the street. Even Madame Moore, forty-six years old and widowed, had dark desires under her shroud of demureness. It wouldn't even take much effort. She could imagine it, fulfilling all her desires, feeding her Allure, taking her fill of the madame's life. And then she could tear her mark into the woman's mind and soul, forever compelling Madame Moore to come to her willingly, eagerly, yearning to be taken again and again and again—
Until she died.
With supreme effort, Fleur pushed the Allure back yet again, clenching her fingers into fists until blood dripped from her palms. Grandmère always said the Allure was both a blessing and a curse for her. Welcome it, and it would make her more. Fight it, and it would consume her from within. But either way, it would gnaw at the walls people erected called their conscience until everything was subsumed into a cesspool of pure, molten desire. And then—
The Allure would feed. And the monster within her would arise.
Some days were more difficult than others to hold herself back. But nonetheless, it was what she did. It was all she could do. All she had left.
Fleur sighed, glancing out her window at the dark rain clouds in the sky.
Maybe those British individuals hadn't been entirely misguided when they classified veela as magical creatures.
Fleur found solace in the embrace of a cold shower, allowing the frigid water to cascade over her body, soothing her troubled mind. Maintaining physical cleanliness was essential, a reflection of her belief in a sound mind residing in a well-kept body. However, she wasn't oblivious to the fact that her thoughts had been tumultuous lately, and her spirits were in dire need of a lift.
As she stepped out of the shower, her gaze fixated on her closet. Today's agenda didn't involve a trip to Gringotts, which meant her usual attire wouldn't suffice. No, the occasion demanded something more elegant, something that made a statement. After all, appearances held great significance, especially given the nature of her impending task.
Perhaps, if all went well, she might even indulge in a bit of shopping later in the month. But she preferred doing so during peak hours in a bustling thrift store. The presence of numerous people acted as a deterrent, curbing the base desires that could be stirred in both men and women.
Fleur's eyes briefly fell on a single envelope resting on her windowsill, bearing the name "William." It was likely another invitation for a Saturday night outing at the Three Broomsticks, the go-to wizarding pub in Britain. Alternately, there was the option of a more intimate coffee date at Madam Puddifoot's, something she had gleaned from her limited interactions with Hogwarts Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws the previous year.
Neither prospect particularly appealed to her at the moment.
Under different circumstances, she might have considered giving William a chance. He was older but not too much so, possessed striking good looks, and was a skilled curse-breaker at Gringotts. Under his mentorship, Fleur could have honed her Mastery skills and gained practical experience in exploring Egyptian tombs. Of course, her innate Allure would reduce him to a flustered state, like most men, but that was to be expected. Only an exceptionally skilled Occlumens could resist it.
In truth, she had the ability to focus her Allure and regain control over individuals like her mother sometimes did, but she had no intention of emulating Apolline Delacour's behavior.
Her plate was already overflowing with the demanding work Gringotts had assigned her. It felt as though they took pleasure in heaping menial tasks upon her. And now, she was saddled with an especially challenging assignment, along with all the complications it entailed.
Potter.
Harry Potter.
The name that had irrevocably altered the course of her life.
Last year, upon their first encounter in the Hogwarts Great Hall, she had dismissed the young and talented Harry Potter as uninterested in women. However, the way Potter had looked at Cedric's date, the Chang girl, had debunked her initial assumptions. Still, Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived, rumored to have received training from Albus Dumbledore and other esteemed wizards from a young age. Perhaps he had developed Occlumency shields over time?
That seemed to be the only plausible explanation.
Fleur sighed, realizing that the day had just begun, yet several ghosts from her past had resurfaced. She glanced at her watch, an exquisite gold-trimmed gift from her father and sister before she had left for Hogwarts the previous year. Its luster was fading, and she lacked the extra funds for the necessary permanence charm.
Maybe next month.
A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. Here she was, residing in a cramped Muggle home, concealing her inner turmoil from the world, and constantly battling her mother for the freedom to pursue her own desires and ambitions.
But with a simple decision, a snap judgment, she could potentially change everything.
Fleur sighed again, feeling the frustration mounting. It was a familiar feeling, one that always seemed to gnaw at her. But she had work to do. Perhaps someday, she might succumb and allow her Allure to consume everything that defined her as Fleur Delacour. But that day was not today.
Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was a relatively trouble-free establishment in Diagon Alley. It didn't draw as much attention as the larger, grander Sugarplums, making it an ideal choice for her meeting with Harry Potter. Moreover, the parlour understood the importance of privacy and had created separate cubicles for patrons to enjoy their ice cream discreetly.
All in all, it was the perfect venue for today's meeting, particularly when dealing with someone as renowned as Harry Potter.
One of the primary objectives in meetings with distinguished clients was to put them at ease. Fleur had grasped the unspoken implications when Overseer Griphook had entrusted her, a new employee, with this case instead of anyone else. It was a golden opportunity for her career advancement, provided she could ensure that the client found her to his liking.
Whether she would cross that bridge later was a matter of contemplation.
Her mother would certainly be proud if she did.
Typically, such meetings would be held at a bar or, if the client insisted, at their own premises. Gringotts did offer private rooms, but not everyone felt comfortable discussing their financial matters on goblin turf. Not that the goblins cared; they remained unreasonably expensive.
But Harry Potter was an exception.
He hadn't insisted; instead, he had given Fleur the freedom to choose the venue, and she had settled on this parlour. While the Three Broomsticks might have been a more conventional choice, she couldn't risk the implications of adding firewhiskey to the equation when dealing with a young man. It could prove disastrously counterproductive.
Ice cream, on the other hand, was the perfect choice—it cooled her down. As a fiery creature herself, the delectable dessert acted as a deterrent against her Allure inadvertently causing a stir.
With a deep breath, Fleur approached the bar, her senses alert for any unwanted attention. "I'm here for... Harry Potter."
Florean Fortescue was a remarkable individual, a rarity in the British wizarding world. He stood tall, with a gangly figure of uncertain age, yet an air of wisdom and strength about him that suggested he was well past fifty. His eyes squinted slightly, and his smile, when it appeared, held a mischievous quality that made Fleur believe he was privy to secrets worth knowing. Monsieur Fortescue didn't speak much, but when he did, it was always worth paying attention.
"Fleur," he grunted, pronouncing her name as 'floor.' She dismissed it with practiced nonchalance. After a brief second look at her face, he nodded subtly and pointed to the farthest cubicle in the southern corner of the shop.
Returning his nod, Fleur made her way to the designated cubicle. As she pushed the door open, she found her client's gaze fixed upon her.
Harry Potter.
"Er... hi."
Fleur pursed her lips. Her previous clients had typically adopted one of two personas: either they tried to be intimidating or excessively accommodating. Harry, on the other hand, had chosen a third path—the casual approach. It was as if he saw himself as just another person, while she was the unapproachable Beauxbatons champion.
"Lord Potter."
"Harry's fine."
Fleur let out a breath. That was the second difference. Most people were eager to become familiar with her, to cross boundaries and make things easier for her. However, the moment they did, their emotions would run wild, awakening her Allure. Uncontrolled, her Allure could lead to unfavorable consequences.
But Harry Potter was different. He wasn't trying to be familiar because of her Allure; rather, it seemed to be in spite of it.
"You're very kind, but if we're to maintain a professional relationship, I should address you as Lord Potter."
"Why? What's the issue?"
Was he genuinely feigning ignorance? Regardless, he was easygoing and allowed her to set the tone. She could work with this.
"Please understand this without any misconceptions," she began, "you are Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and most recently, the Triwizard Champion. Moreover, you are the heir to an Ancient House and, depending on the outcome of our discussions, potentially a Noble and Most Ancient House as well, given your association with the Black name. You are exceedingly wealthy and widely renowned. Most importantly, you are a young male adolescent, and..." She hesitated.
"And?" Harry prompted.
Fleur sighed. He was forcing her to spell it out. "And I am a veela. You are someone who graces the front page of the Daily Prophet regularly, considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Wizarding Britain. Publicly associating with a veela could tarnish your reputation, especially if we engage in casual conversation."
Harry Potter seemed visibly troubled by that notion. For a moment, Fleur wondered if she had lost her first client before the meeting even began. If that were the case, her career might be in jeopardy.
Why had Overseer Griphook thought this was a good idea again?
"I'm... really sorry about all that," Fleur tried to hide her surprise. "I'm not well-versed in the intricacies of maintaining a 'public image,' and honestly, I don't care. The Prophet praises me one day and vilifies me the next, depending on what sells more papers." He paused to take a breath.
Clearly, recalling past issues angered him. Fleur couldn't help but wonder about the specifics.
"I know people will talk, and the Prophet might even target you if you serve as my..."
"Liaison," Fleur interjected.
"Right, that," he continued. "For instance, last year, Rita Skeeter wrote a dreadful piece about me and Hermione after the First Task. It was horribly embarrassing, and..." he exhaled once more. "Look, all I'm saying is, if you'd rather not do this, I completely understand."
Fleur sat there, utterly flabbergasted. Was this insufferable young man completely oblivious to what she had implied, or was he intentionally disregarding it all? Did he truly expect her to believe that he was concerned about her reputation suffering from associating with him?
"Look," he said, placing his palms on the table, "I really don't know how to handle all this formality. I mean, I know you as the Beauxbatons Champion, and we were at Hogwarts together last year. So why don't we just pretend we're still at school and discuss whatever..." He gestured awkwardly around the surroundings, "...this is?"
Yes, that's precisely what he thought. Harry Potter was genuinely more concerned about her than himself.
Fleur couldn't help it; she chuckled softly.
"Yeah, go ahead, laugh at me," he grumbled.
It only made her chuckle more. Then, she remembered something.
"Tell me, Harry, why aren't you affected by my Allure?"
"Oh, that?" he responded, his green eyes twinkling. "I guess I'm not. Not like Ron, anyway."
"Ron?"
"Ron Weasley. My friend from Hogwarts."
Ugh, another Weasley? How many of them were there? It must have been the redhead Harry had saved in the Second Task. Unlike Harry, that boy had been completely entranced by her passive Allure.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why aren't you affected by it? My Allure. Most people would..."
"Bend over backward to accommodate you?" he finished, before letting out a snort. "Sorry, but that's not really my style.
Fleur narrowed her eyes. Did he truly perceive her as someone who would exploit her veela charm and femininity to make her life easier? Such an assessment might be apt for her mother, but to think of her in such a manner, especially after witnessing her resilience during the Tournament's challenges last year.
Heat began to rise in her body.
"Um, are you alright?"
Fleur snapped back to the present, her face slightly flushed. "...Sorry. I— I was just thinking about something else, Lord Potter."
"Harry."
Fleur sighed. "Fine then, 'Arry."
Harry grinned. "Close enough."
With the first obstacle smoothed over, Fleur swiftly moved on to the next matter. "So, how should we proceed?"
Her new client shrugged. "You tell me. Do you like ice cream?"
Fleur blinked. This was supposed to be a meeting about financial matters, not an ice cream outing.
But then again...
She hesitated briefly, considering their surroundings. Since they were in an ice cream parlor, it would be a shame not to partake. Besides, Harry had made the offer first. With her decision made, she picked up the menu chart and perused its contents.
"Florean makes an excellent sundae with raspberries," the young lord suggested.
Fleur smiled. Perhaps their meeting wouldn't be as unpleasant as she had initially thought.
...
...
The four empty ice cream bowls in front of her bore witness to how comfortable Fleur had become during her tentative acquaintance with the Boy-Who-Lived. Despite her initial skepticism about his intentions, she quickly realized that Harry Potter truly didn't care about the opinion of the Daily Prophet or anyone else, except perhaps his godfather.
In a way, it was refreshing to have a genuine conversation with someone without her Allure complicating matters.
"Now, I'm supposed to appear for a trial because the people who captured me and tried to kill me ended up dead," Harry groaned, pounding his fist against the wooden table. "Honestly, it's like everyone's priorities are almost as skewed as Hermione's!"
"Hermione?" she inquired.
"Oh, right. Yeah, there was this whole thing back in our first year. Hermione, my friend, kind of implied that getting expelled was worse than being dead, and... um, I don't know, you had to be there, I guess," he concluded awkwardly.
Fleur chuckled. His unease, coupled with his candidness, felt like a breath of fresh air. It painted a completely different picture of him compared to the one she had initially formed. The fourth-year Harry Potter who had entered the Champion's Antechamber had appeared bewildered, defiant, perhaps even scared. He had looked out of place, tense, and uncomfortable in his own skin. Just a boy thrust into a competition meant for adults.
Back then, she had been furious with him for 'lying' about his lack of interest in the Tournament. How dare a young boy make light of the same tournament she valued as her opportunity to stand out and become more than the creature everyone perceived her to be?
But in hindsight, it all made sense.
Eternal glory. What a farce.
The Triwizard Tournament had come to an end, and despite its grandeur, everyone had forgotten about the results. The buzz was now all about Harry Potter and his impending trial. Accused of the murder of fourteen purebloods, conspiracy theories about the Dark Lord's return abounded. The Triwizard champions were yesterday's news, but the Boy-Who-Lived?
He continued to sell papers. At every shop. On every street. Every day.
And he had been doing so since he was one year old.
"I believe you," Fleur found herself saying.
"You do?"
His confused, hopeful emerald eyes searched her face. Did her opinion truly matter so much to him? He had claimed earlier that he didn't care about what others thought, so why would he... She paused. His eyes weren't searching for validation or support. It was more like...
Like he wanted to believe it himself. That everything he knew, everything he believed in, was true and not just an elaborate hoax.
What kind of fifteen-year-old boy had eyes like those, and why?
It made her wonder if she truly knew anything about the real Harry Potter. The young man behind the famous title.
"So," she began, "the financial accounts."
"Ah, yes," he cleared his throat. And just like that, the spark in his eyes dimmed.
That was another peculiarity. In the wizarding world, both in France and Britain, people would go to great lengths to flaunt their wealth and influence. Individuals like Augustin Montague and Cassandra Beaufort at Beauxbatons came to mind, and then there was the pale-haired Malfoy boy at Hogwarts last year. Roger Davies, her Yule Ball date, had spent the entire evening trying to impress her with his plans to attain Potions Mastery after Hogwarts through his father's connection to the famous potioneer Marcus Belby.
With a frown, Fleur retrieved a manila folder from her bag and placed it on the table. "I conducted a preliminary check on all your assets based on the information provided by Overseer Griphook, and I made some observations. I was hoping you would review them and share your thoughts."
Harry accepted the folder without a word and promptly stowed the documents within a seemingly bottomless pouch. She made a mental note to acquire one of those as soon as possible, once she had the means.
"I should warn you; I know next to nothing about all this stuff."
Fleur laughed heartily. "Not many do. However, you have your godfather, correct? He should be able to assist you. After you've had a chance to review those documents, we can discuss potential ways forward."
Harry nodded in agreement.
Fleur found herself sitting there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. Had it truly been this easy? She had half-expected him to flatly reject her proposal and instruct her to handle it herself while keeping him informed.
"So," he said, pushing himself up from the bench, "are we done for the day?"
Fleur blinked. A young man standing up to leave before her? That was unusual. But then again, this was Harry Potter, and he had already proven to be unlike most people.
Maybe she should stop painting Harry Potter with the same brush as other wizards.
"Yes, that's it for today," she replied, getting up as well. "I'll await your owl, alright?"
He nodded with a slight jerk of his head. "I'll ask Sirius to help me with all this stuff. I'm not sure how quickly I can get it done, since Griphook gave you two weeks, but I promise to work on it as fast as I can. If I can't meet the deadline, I'll send him a letter explaining the situation, alright?"
Fleur easily agreed. It was far better than she had hoped for.
"Alright then." The Boy-Who-Lived made his way to the door but paused one last time to turn around. "Well, uh... it was nice meeting you. Again, I guess."
Fleur pursed her lips and reached a decision. "I have a question."
"Yes?"
"Tell me, 'Arry," she asked, "why are you doing all of this?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard, and he blinked in surprise. "I don't understand."
"I mean, you're still at Hogwarts, right? It's your... fifth year there. You should be preparing for your OWLs, shouldn't you? And if this... Dark Lord has returned, you should be hiring people to protect you and seeking training. Instead of all this?"
Harry mirthlessly chuckled. "I suppose it's an attempt to learn more about my family. I want to know about my father's side and my mother's side as well. Both of them gave their lives to save mine, and I just... I realized I know almost nothing about who they were, where they came from."
He paused, gazing up at the ceiling. "Sirius made me a son of the Black family, and Britain has made me the Boy-Who-Lived. I guess I want to make sure that the Potter name doesn't end with me. I don't want my parents' sacrifices to be in vain."
With those enigmatic words, Harry Potter briskly exited the cubicle, leaving a contemplative Fleur Delacour behind.
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