CHAPTER 14: THE NOBILITY'S CURSE AND KINDRED TIES

The golden egg perched delicately on a grimy, white tile, marred by patches of black mold speckling the grout that surrounded it. The tiles themselves extended to meet dirt-smudged, watermark-stained walls. Near a sink, inside a lopsided heart, a short, rather amateurish poem about Cedric Diggory's jawline had been hastily scrawled.

Fleur couldn't help but roll her eyes at the romantic sentiment. She gingerly prodded the egg with the tip of her wand, the questionable poetry on her mind. "He's not that handsome," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "But the poetry is truly abysmal. Who attempts to rhyme 'jawline' with 'defined'?"

Her playful prodding made the egg wobble, spin, and ultimately tumble to the ground, splitting open with a deafening shriek that reverberated throughout the room. Fleur winced and hurriedly shut it. "Irritating. As always," she mumbled in frustration, her reflection in the egg failing to offer any consolation. "Perhaps I should reconsider Madame Maxime's advice. Maybe the shrieking itself is the clue, rather than a mere protective measure."

But Fleur couldn't help her competitive spirit, especially when it came to Harry Potter. "I doubt Harry Potter is receiving any hints," she thought. "And winning will be all the sweeter if I beat him fairly."

Deciding to leave the bathroom, Fleur gracefully cast a disillusionment spell on herself, concealing her presence, and picked up the golden egg. She slipped out quietly, making her way toward Madame Maxime.

In the common area of the carriage, Madame Maxime's imposing figure dominated the space. Empty tables and chairs surrounded her as she sat by the window, sipping from a steaming mug of coffee. Fleur knocked softly on the door before entering. "Madame Maxime?"

Madame Maxime glanced up, her deep voice resonating through the room. "Yes, Fleur? Do you have a question about the second task?"

"I was wondering if you knew of any creatures that emit such screams as the egg," Fleur inquired, gently patting the golden object.

Madame Maxime wore a knowing smile as she leaned forward. "I'm afraid I cannot say, but I would like to recommend a book to you. I don't have it here, but Hogwarts' Library certainly will. It's called 'Magical Creatures of the Water and their Secrets.'"

"Thank you," Fleur replied, her curiosity piqued.

As she left Madame Maxime's carriage, a nagging thought crept into her mind. "But if the other champions know about this book, they might check it out too. Merde." Determined not to waste any time, Fleur swiftly cast her disillusionment charm upon herself and hurried toward the library.

Within the library's hallowed halls, Fleur silently stalked the shelves, her invisible finger gently tracing the spines of countless books. "Magical creatures, magical creatures... vampires... more vampires." Her finger slipped into a conspicuous gap, revealing a section dedicated to Veela. She frowned, realizing that someone was evidently doing their research, likely about her. With an inward sigh, she pressed on and finally found a book about water creatures.

"Grindylows, no," she muttered to herself, turning the pages. "Merpeople..." Her heart skipped a beat as she read the passage. "The singing of the Merpeople cannot be understood above water. Any attempts to hear their singing above the waves will only be met by a loud shrieking."

Fleur closed the book with a victorious snap and murmured, "Voila! Merci, Madame Maxime." She abandoned her disillusionment charm and confidently approached the witch's desk near the exit.

"I'd like to take this book out, please," Fleur requested.

The witch behind the desk scrutinized her. "You're Miss Delacour, I assume." She drummed her fingers on the book thoughtfully. "Very well. Champions of other schools have permission to withdraw books. You have a month, but you can extend that time if needed. There's no waiting list."

Fleur nodded, her mind racing. "The task's further away than that," she thought, feeling a sense of determination welling up within her.

"I'm afraid I'll probably need it for a while," Fleur replied with a hint of satisfaction, masking her smile. "Can I keep it for a few months? Three?"

The witch behind the desk nodded and tapped her wand on the book's cover. "There's no waiting list. All yours, Miss Delacour."

Just as she was about to leave, a loud door bang echoed through the library. Fleur caught a glimpse of familiar red hair through a small window. It was Harry Potter's former friend, Ron Weasley. In a hurry, she snatched the book from the desk and quickly retreated behind the shelves to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Come on, Hermione," Ron groaned. "Show a little mercy, yeah."

Hermione, her bushy hair pushed out of her eyes, was having none of it. "Hush," she hissed.

"Stop whining, Ronald," she continued. "Let's grab a table over there. I've got stuff to tell you."

Fleur's curiosity was piqued. "Stuff about Harry Potter again?" she wondered. She silently crept along the parallel shelf to listen in.

"I took out all the books on veela, but they're rubbish," Hermione complained. "Clearly, they were all written by wizards. Six chapters of drawings of nude veela and less than half a chapter on what they can actually do!"

Fleur stifled a sigh of frustration. "Idiots," she thought, "we've been around for thousands of years, and wizards still only see pretty faces and curvy figures."

Ron couldn't help but snort. "Can I see those chapters?"

Hermione was quick to protect her findings. "No!" she snapped, shoving her bag under her chair.

Ron, undeterred, leaned his elbows on the table and asked, "Was that it?"

"No, Ron, that's not it," Hermione said, her arms crossed in deep concern. "There's something wrong with Harry. He spends all his time by himself. He avoids touching people wherever he can, he grimaces every time anyone raises their voice. Something must have happened at the World Cup."

Fleur, still eavesdropping from the shadows, listened closely. "That veela?" Ron questioned, trying to understand the situation.

Fleur couldn't help but think, "So it's not about me." She edged a little closer, pondering the situation. "Still," she mused, "they're not very smart if they think Harry Potter developed behavior like this over one summer. It takes years to hurt someone that much – years, betrayed trust, failed hope, and fickle friends."

"Maybe it's a love potion," Ron suggested, scrunching up his face. "Or some kind of loyalty potion?"

Hermione, though clearly distraught, shook her head. "There's no such thing as a loyalty potion, and love potions require a close relationship to work. They inspire strong feelings when the dosed person thinks about whoever gave them the potion, but something has to be there already."

"So that's a no to both?" Ron inquired, trying to grasp the options.

"It could be a love potion," Hermione conceded. "But that Bulgarian veela has no close relationship, his family has no magic, and we were there all the rest of the time."

Ron sighed in frustration. "I don't know then. I reckon he used his cloak to enter, if he did, but I'm not sure about anything else."

Hermione moaned in despair and thudded her forehead on the desk. "I should've never cast that spell at his wand, Ron. I can't believe I was so stupid. He loved that wand, and I broke it. He'll never forgive me." She made a strange, half-hiccup, half-sob. "You heard him. He doesn't want me, and now he really doesn't need me."

Ron grimaced, reaching out and patting her on the shoulder. "I'm sure he'll come around, yeah. I mean, you broke his wand, Hermione. I'd be bloody pissed with you, and Harry was way more fond of his wand than I am of my new one. It's gonna take a while, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Hermione whispered. "I just—I wanted—I forgot—I think sometimes I'm a bit too used to being right, Ron. I don't even consider being wrong until it's too late."

Listening to their conversation, Fleur felt a strange, soft, hollow sensation seize her heart. "You have better friends than I did, Harry Potter," she mused. "But it seems they don't understand you any better than mine did me in the end." She quickly pushed away the emotion and straightened up. "He's like me. He'll be fine. People like us always win. Always."

Hermione sat up, her worry etched on her face. "I'm just worried. He's going on a date with Katie Bell. She doesn't like me very much, so that's not going to help. He'll find someone else, someone better at being his friend than me, and I'll never get another chance!"

"Quietly!" the witch at the desk hissed, drawing their attention.

Fleur carefully picked her way back through the shelves, contemplating the situation. "If he's smart, he'll try," she thought, "but there aren't many people like us." She paused, caught by a faint flare of temptation. "Maybe I could talk to him? He has nobody, and Gabby's far away."

In a rush, Fleur hurried to the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut and securing it with a lock. She yanked the sink's plug and twisted the taps open. The water swirled and splashed, slowly creeping up the white ceramic surface.

Fleur took a deep breath and opened the golden egg, quickly submerging it in the sink. The piercing shriek transformed into a gentle, haunting melody. She swept her silver hair over her right shoulder, allowing her left ear to dip beneath the water's surface.

"Come seek us where our voices sound. We cannot sing above the ground. And while you're searching, ponder this; we've taken what you'll sorely miss. An hour long, you'll have to look, and to recover what we took, but past an hour, the prospect's black. Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."

Fleur frowned. "Merde," she muttered as she patted her ear and cheek dry with a handful of white towels. "That means the task will be underwater. My magic's hampered by the cold and wet. And they'll take something precious…"

With a resigned sigh, she pulled the plug, allowing the water to drain from the sink. "First things first," Fleur thought, "I need to find a way to survive underwater for an hour. Self-transfiguration is out, since I don't want to end up as some mangled harpy when I try to revert back to my natural form and get stuck between the two of them."

She exited the bathroom, determined to find a solution. "Oh well," she mused, "I'm better at enchanting anyway. There must be some way to turn water into air or to create a more resilient version of the Bubble-Head Charm."

"Miss Delacour," a smooth baritone voice called out as she passed through the entrance to the Great Hall.

Fleur's heart sank as she realized her mistake. "Merde," she thought. "The Yule Ball. I forgot to rein in my magic or disillusion myself." She turned to face the crowd, surveying the glazed eyes and hopeful expressions of over fifty students. "Why must they all be so weak-willed?" she wondered.

A lean young man with a patchy beard and stubble offered her a hopeful smile. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"

Fleur forced a smile, trying to be polite. "Sorry," she replied, "but no."

Hope instantly bloomed on the faces of the boys around her. Fleur felt a strange sensation beneath her skin, as feathers prickled, the bones of her face shifted slightly, and her palms grew warm.

Then, a dark-haired, blue-eyed boy with a neat, earnest appearance stepped out of the crowd and flashed her a friendly grin. "Miss Delacour, my name is Roger Davies. I was hoping you would let me accompany you to the Ball?"

Fleur couldn't help but notice his attractiveness. "He would've made a better target for poetry than Cedric Diggory," she mused, admiring his high cheekbones and confident jawline. "Definitely a pureblood. There's a lot of generations of pretty witches and wealthy wizards in that face."

The boys around her appeared dejected, and the girls in the crowd muttered, casting sharp, bitter glances in her direction. Every eye seemed to burn into her skin as if she were standing there naked.

"I hate this," Fleur thought, feeling the tips of feathers start to emerge beneath her skin beneath her robes. "I wish they'd just go away. None of them are like me. None of them."

Harry Potter entered the hall from the far side, hand in hand with the same girl who had passed Fleur the bouillabaisse. He glanced up at her briefly before returning his attention to his companion.

Fleur watched Harry Potter's progress across the hall, her expression firm. "Non," she whispered. "I'm afraid you may not," she said aloud, rejecting Roger Davies' invitation.

Roger Davies stood there, gaping, his hopes dashed by her refusal. "Oh," he mumbled, crestfallen.

As Fleur observed Harry Potter, his laughter rang out and echoed across the hall. Fleur felt her blood boil. "He's laughing at me," she thought, struggling to maintain her composure. "He should know better than to laugh at me like all those stupid girls used to!"

Determined to retaliate, Fleur clenched her jaw and focused her magic. She summoned a potent wave of her allure and projected it across the hall. A ripple of glazed eyes, vacant, dreamy stares, began to spread through the crowd.

Fleur smiled, savoring her small victory. "Now we're even, Harry Potter," she thought triumphantly.

Harry, seemingly unaffected by the ripple, glanced around the room. When the effect reached him, he simply shrugged and turned back to the girl he was arm in arm with.

Fleur gasped, a mixture of surprise and confusion overtaking her. "He can't possibly have not felt that," she thought, perplexed by Harry's lack of reaction to her allure.

The girl beside Harry Potter, however, didn't share his indifference. She shot Fleur a glare seething with white-hot fury. Her unoccupied hand clenched into a tight fist, her knuckles turning pale.

Fleur's moment of triumph had quickly turned into a cold, sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I tried to enthrall a boy in front of everyone," she realized. "Just like they keep accusing me of doing. Merde. Merde. Merde."

The girl began to advance toward Fleur, drawing her wand from under her coat, but Harry Potter intervened. He caught the girl's arm and whispered something in her ear. Gesturing around them, his expression grew more serious, and the two of them engaged in a heated, whispered argument. The girl raised her wand again, seemingly intent on pursuing her anger, but Harry pulled her back. She reluctantly put her wand away and, with visible irritation, dragged Harry into the corridor, her cheeks flushed with anger.

Fleur was left standing there, the realization hitting her like a sledgehammer. "He doesn't know what's going on," she thought, her heart heavy. "He's defending me." She turned on her heel and walked away, her stomach churning with guilt. "I've just done to that girl everything Emilie and Caroline accused me of doing to them."

As he ascended the grand stairway, the portraits adorning the walls seemed to come to life, their voices whispering and murmuring in the echoing corridor. The Fat Lady, guardian of Gryffindor Tower, wore an expression of displeasure, crossing her arms and shutting her eyes as though she had seen too much.

Harry couldn't help but wonder, "Where could she be?" He discreetly pushed the letter from Sirius further into his pocket, his stomach coiling with unease. "I could have read this letter twice by now," he mused, frustrated by the delay. "Surely she can't still be upset with me for preventing her from picking a fight with Fleur Delacour?"

With a swish and a creak, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open. Three fellow Gryffindor students emerged, their hasty chatter filling the air as they hustled past Harry.

He watched them briefly before turning his attention back to the task at hand. "Still no sign of Katie," he muttered to himself, his impatience mounting. He attempted to quell the turmoil in his gut, but it persisted, tightening around him like a vice. "She defended me in front of her friends; surely, she wouldn't hold a grudge over something so trivial."

The Fat Lady's portrait swung open once more, allowing Harry to catch a glimpse of orange and yellow out of the corner of his eye. He turned swiftly, his heart racing.

"Harry..." Katie's voice quivered, her lip trembling with emotion.

"Katie," Harry greeted her, his anxiety hidden beneath a forced smile. "How have you been?"

Her gaze remained fixed on an empty portrait at the far end of the stairway. "Not great," she admitted, her tone heavy with regret.

"Are you okay?" Harry inquired, concern etched across his face.

Katie's expression crumbled, tears glistening in the corners of her brown eyes. In a hushed tone, she confessed, "I did something very foolish."

"If it's about what happened in the Great Hall, then it doesn't matter," Harry reassured her. "I didn't want you to get into trouble, Katie. I couldn't understand why you were so upset with Fleur Delacour."

Katie's fists clenched in frustration. "Don't you see how she affects everyone around her?"

Harry considered her words, realizing the parallel between Fleur's allure and his own situation. "They all stare at her," he noted, acknowledging the curiosity he faced himself.

Katie explained further, "She's part-veela, Harry. I overheard Hermione telling the others in your year. They stare at her because she uses her magic to charm them into liking her."

This revelation surprised Harry, who had never been conscious of Fleur's enchantments. He recalled the disillusionment spell, which was nearly flawless. "I've never noticed her doing it. In fact, when she's not trying to steal my glasses, she seems to keep to herself."

Katie's knuckles whitened as she continued, "She used it on you in the Great Hall. We were together, and she tried to steal you."

Harry felt the weight of his own obliviousness. "Oh," he said, realizing his lack of awareness. "I guess I just can't feel it as strongly as others. I wasn't as captivated by it at the World Cup, either."

"I'm sorry," Harry added, his remorse evident. "I didn't—"

"She tried to steal you with her magic," Katie interjected, her voice quivering. She shoved her fists into the pockets of her robes. "And when I got angry, you defended her!"

Harry was crestfallen. He silently chastised himself for not understanding that Katie wouldn't create a scene without reason. "I didn't know, Katie. I promise," he said sincerely.

Katie's eyes filled with tears as she spoke, her emotions raw. "You shouldn't have said anything, Harry. I was so furious with you, so angry. If you had just stayed quiet, none of this would have happened."

A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine as he asked, "What wouldn't have happened?"

Katie bit her lip, and a glistening teardrop rolled down her cheek. "Roger Davies asked me to the Yule Ball in the corridor afterward. I said yes."

Harry struggled to comprehend her decision. In his mind's eye, Roger Davies' face kept blending with his own. How could she agree to this?

"I'm so sorry. I was angry, and the firewhiskey…" Tears streamed down Katie's face, her remorse evident. "Maybe, after the Yule Ball, we can go on another date?"

Harry wanted to ask if she couldn't just tell Roger Davies that she had changed her mind, but the words remained unsaid. He realized that Davies likely didn't have genuine feelings for Katie.

"Harry?" Katie whispered, her voice tinged with desperation. "Please say something."

A cold, ominous sensation welled up in Harry's mind, like a dark, unforgiving voice from deep within. If she's capable of doing it once, she's capable of doing it again. If I forgive her now, she might think it's acceptable to hurt me again.

A chilling heaviness settled over Harry's heart, making him hesitate. Katie reached out and buried her face in his chest, her warm tears seeping into the fabric of his robes.

Harry finally found the words hidden beneath the icy layer that had enveloped his emotions. They emerged from a numb, dark, hollow place within him. "I was going to ask you to the Yule Ball," he admitted. "I sort of assumed we'd eventually go together after you asked me on a date, so I turned down Ginny. I was actually looking forward to the idea of us attending together, even if I didn't particularly like the thought of the Yule Ball. I suppose that won't be happening now."

Katie's sobs echoed through the stairway as the draft turned her hot tears into a cold, soft chill. She withdrew from Harry, using her sleeve to wipe away the mascara-smudged streaks beneath her eyes. A faint flush of redness tinged her cheeks, and errant strands of hair clung to the damp patches on her face.

Harry let the numb emptiness engulf him, thinking, "That's what you get for hoping. It doesn't matter anyway. I'll have to die soon."

"I hope you enjoy the Yule Ball with Roger Davies," Harry muttered, the words escaping before he could hold them back. "Go ahead, tie up your hair for him. I suspect his mind's going to be on a different girl the whole time anyway."

Katie's lip trembled, and in a whirl of emotion, she pushed her way through a group of students exiting Gryffindor Tower.

As Harry contemplated the Yule Ball, he felt an aversion to the gaudy decorations and festive atmosphere. "Perhaps I just won't go," he mused, grappling with his own desires. "If I have to face my fate, I might as well do what I want first. Everyone else seems to do whatever they please."

With resolve, he turned and made his way toward the Chamber of Secrets. Seated on the tip of the serpent bridge's tongue, he retrieved Sirius' letter and examined the unassuming seal. "What does it matter what it says?" Harry questioned, clawing at the emptiness within him as he searched for something within its hollow depths.

The relentless void seemed to gnaw away at him, consuming another fragment of his being each time he found himself longing. It was as though there wasn't much of him left.

Harry steeled himself and forced the intrusive thoughts aside. "Read the letter," he reminded himself firmly, "Don't dwell on trivial matters when they won't matter in the end anyway."

His eyes moved across the untidy scrawl on the parchment. "Prove them all wrong," the words urged. Deep quill scratches marked the page, emphasizing the message: "Win the damn thing."

"I'll win it," Harry muttered, determination flashing in his eyes. "I can face my fate after I've triumphed. They can all be overshadowed – Ron, Hermione, Katie, Fleur Delacour, and everyone else. They'll remember me. I won't be nothing when they've seen what I can do."

With resolve, he drew his wand from his sleeve and pressed the tip against the center of Sirius' letter. The parchment turned brown and burst into flames, curling upon itself before disintegrating into ash.

"Like it was never here," Harry thought as he tilted his hand, allowing the ashes to slip into the cold, dark water beneath the bridge. "As if nothing ever happened." He watched the ashes descend, clutching to the icy determination within him, determined to keep it from thawing. "When I die, I'll be nothing. I hope it doesn't feel like this."

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the study, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Salazar lifted his gaze from Tom's notes, and a glimmer of hope pierced the profound emptiness Harry had been feeling. It was like a touch of warmth, akin to the green-inked name on the Hogwarts acceptance letter he had once received.

"Tell me," Harry whispered eagerly.

"I believe the piece of Tom's soul must have attached itself to your own in order to survive while sharing a body with another soul," Salazar explained. "A body cannot house two souls in conflict; one must be subdued, or they must find a way to coexist peacefully."

Harry couldn't help but think of Professor Quirrell's experience with Voldemort, and it sent shivers down his spine. "Coexist like Quirrell?" he questioned with trepidation. "That wasn't peaceful at all."

Salazar continued, "And that leads us to your situation. Since you are still in control of yourself and were unaware of the fragment's presence, the soul fragment must be subdued. The notes suggest that a connection exists between the two souls within you, and it should be possible for you to either absorb or expel it once the link is broken."

He consulted the notes once more. "There it is. True, complete remorse, the opposite intent to that which was used to fracture the soul, might reverse the effects and transfer and absorb the piece back to its original place. I'm not entirely sure how this will work with a fragment of another's soul, but given your similarities to Tom..."

Desperation and fear gripped Harry as he asked, "How do I break the link?"

Salazar's deep, green eyes bore into Harry's, and his reply was heavy with gravitas. "You would have to fracture your own soul."

Harry shook his head vigorously. "No. There must be another way."

Here's an expanded version of the conversation with more details and modified wordings:

'I tried, and I was well aware that you wouldn't be in agreement, so I persevered in my quest,' Harry confessed.

'You scoured tirelessly,' Salazar noted, his voice tinged with a wry smile, 'but alas, the results were disheartening.'

A sense of hope seemed to wither within Harry as he responded, 'Well, then...'

Salazar's wand erupted in a dazzling display of green and silver sparks. 'You need not offer yourself as a sacrifice, Harry. You are the heir, the last vestige of my lineage that I acknowledge.'

Harry's brow furrowed with a mixture of determination and uncertainty as he replied, 'So, what you're suggesting is that I should choose someone else to take my place?'

The room hung heavy with the weight of their conversation as Salazar's response resonated, 'Someone must bear the ultimate sacrifice. It can be you or another of your choosing.'

Harry's resolve was unwavering as he declared, 'I will not become a killer to preserve my own life.' The vivid recollection of haunting green flashes from his recurring dreams, the echo of his mother's desperate pleas, and the memory of the faces in Gryffindor Tower when his friends had turned against him swirled in his mind. 'I refuse to be selfish, like those who would do anything to save themselves. I don't want to become like them.'

Here's an extended version of the conversation with added details and rephrased segments:

Salazar's voice held a hint of persuasion as he proposed, 'You can select someone who has already earned the sentence of death, Harry. The Killing Curse retains its effect, and you, who deserve more than this fate, need not be sacrificed. A solitary, deserving death to temporarily fracture your own soul, followed by a momentary pain to extricate the fragment of Tom's soul. Tell me, isn't this a sacrifice worth considering to ensure your survival? You are a virtuous wizard in more ways than one, and your death is needlessly noble. Allow yourself a moment of selfishness. Ultimately, the wizarding world will gain more from your continued existence than from your death.'

Harry's response was steadfast, 'No.'

Salazar's tone shifted, expressing concern, 'You are acting unwisely.'

'Am I?' Harry countered. 'Is it unwise to comprehend that, at times, sacrifices are necessary?'

Salazar's eyes darkened as he retorted, 'Don't lecture me about sacrifices. I've witnessed and made my share. I've learned the hard way when to make them and when not to. You let those around you believe that you will always support and aid them, regardless of their choices. Consequently, they select whatever they desire most, counting on you to make the necessary sacrifice to attain it. They should be the ones making sacrifices to achieve their desires. That's what's equitable! They exploit your nobility, your generosity, and your resilience. They always have, and if you allow them, they always will.'

Determination filled Harry's voice as he proclaimed, 'I will find others. Equals. They will stand beside me, never falter, and never abandon me.'

Salazar shook his head, the weight of experience heavy in his words, 'What good are equals when you know their role is solely to bury you, Harry?'

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