CHAPTER 38: THE DELACOUR GATHERING
Harry activated the Portkey with a murmured incantation: "Liberté, égalité, fraternité." The French national motto rolled off his tongue, though he couldn't help but smirk. Whoever had chosen it for this purpose was clearly having a laugh.
A sharp pull at his navel, and the familiar disorienting lurch of Portkey travel brought him spinning into a grand hall. The room was magnificent, with walls of pristine white stone carved with intricate depictions of wizards and witches throughout history. Soft golden light emanated from chandeliers that seemed to float just below the high, vaulted ceiling. The polished wooden floor gleamed, reflecting the glow of the room and the shimmer of the guests' attire.
The air was alive with the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the gentle tapping of heels. Men clad in sharp tuxedos mingled with women in sleek cocktail dresses. Harry had expected a more formal affair, something closer to robes and gowns, but this was an entirely different kind of elegance. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the scene. The dresses were daring, with bare shoulders, plunging necklines, and high slits that left little to the imagination. It seemed as though every stunning young woman in Europe had converged here, their laughter and chatter adding a lively vibrancy to the event.
He adjusted his collar, suddenly grateful that Narcissa had ensured he arrived… composed.
"Lord Potter," a familiar voice greeted him warmly, breaking through the sensory overload. "A delight to have you join us."
Harry turned to see Jean Delacour, Fleur's father, approaching with his characteristic charm. The man was impeccably dressed, his tailored suit emphasizing his broad shoulders, and his silver-streaked hair adding to his distinguished appearance.
"Thank you for having me," Harry replied, offering a polite smile. "And forgive me for having my associate request an invitation on my behalf. I realize it's not the most… traditional approach."
Jean laughed, a deep, resonant sound that carried across the hall and drew a few glances their way. "Nonsense! Had I known you were interested, I would have ensured your name graced the guest list for the past fifty of these events. It's an honor to have you here."
Harry chuckled lightly. "I appreciate that, though I'll admit this isn't usually my scene. But duty calls, and I couldn't refuse. Tell me, Monsieur Delacour, in France, when does one typically talk business? After dinner? During?"
"Ah, after dinner," Jean said with a knowing smile. "And always with a fine bottle of wine. It sets the tone for productive discussions."
Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Well, I'm sure your collection is unparalleled, but I thought I might contribute to the evening." He rubbed one hand over the other, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, a bottle appeared as though conjured from thin air. The label was aged and elegant, bearing the marks of a vintage long past.
"This," Harry began, "was a gift from your great-grandfather to mine. It's been kept in the Potter vault at Gringotts ever since. I wouldn't dream of re-gifting such a treasure, but I can't think of better company to share it with."
Jean's eyes lit up as he accepted the bottle, examining it with the reverence of a true connoisseur. He let out a low whistle. "Now that is a red of reds. A vintage of this caliber… It speaks to a bond between our families that I hope we can continue to honor."
Before he could say more, a delicate, manicured hand reached out to take the bottle. Harry turned to see Apolline Delacour, Fleur's mother, who had appeared beside her husband with the grace of a dancer. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered under the warm light, and her smile was as radiant as her daughter's.
"Such a thoughtful gesture," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "You truly are your parents' son, Lord Potter."
Harry inclined his head respectfully. "Mrs. Delacour, a pleasure to see you again. I hope I'm not interrupting your evening with my arrival."
"Not at all," she replied warmly. "In fact, you've added a touch of intrigue to it. A Potter at our gathering—how could we not be delighted?"
Jean placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Come, let me introduce you to a few key individuals. I'm sure you'll find the conversations stimulating. And after dinner, we'll open this bottle and toast to old alliances—and perhaps, new ones."
Harry smiled, his nerves settling as he followed Jean into the crowd. The evening was only just beginning, and he had a sense it would leave a lasting impression.
As he moved further into the room, a soft, melodic voice interrupted his thoughts. "Now, he will rush through dinner, and I will undoubtedly be tasked with making excuses for his absence."
Harry turned to see Apolline Delacour approaching with a small, knowing smile on her lips. She moved with the grace of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on a room. Her navy-blue chiffon dress, with its high neckline and lace mesh overlay, struck a balance between elegance and undeniable allure. The lace hinted at her décolletage while maintaining a refined modesty, though the high neckline almost gave the impression of a collar.
Harry couldn't help but think how Veela beauty felt like an unfair advantage—like cheating, really.
"Madame Delacour," Harry greeted, leaning in to exchange the customary kisses on the cheek. Her perfume was light and floral, a subtle complement to her natural charm.
"Thank you for what you did for my daughters, Lord Potter," Apolline said, her voice soft but firm. "Dumbledore may have claimed to have security precautions in place, but you and I know better."
Harry inclined his head respectfully. "Please, call me Harry," he replied. "And it was nothing—just what one ally does for another. Perhaps, what one future ally might do as well."
Apolline's lips curved into a warm smile. "The bonds between great houses are not so easily broken, Harry."
Jean's booming laugh cut through the moment as he clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Well said, my dear! Come, Harry, my daughters will no doubt want to—"
"'Arry!"
The shout was accompanied by a blur of blonde hair and a whirlwind of energy. Fleur practically launched herself at him, and Harry barely stumbled back before steadying her by the waist. He was grateful for Narcissa's earlier advice, which had inadvertently prepared him for such exuberant greetings from blonde "visions."
Fleur's arms wrapped around him tightly before she leaned back just enough to rub away the smudge of lipstick she'd left on his cheek. Her beaming smile was infectious.
"Look at you!" Fleur exclaimed, her French accent making her words sound musical. "You are so tall now! I cannot believe you are here!"
Harry grinned, his own smile widening at her enthusiasm. "Fleur, it's wonderful to see you. You look absolutely stunning."
And she did. Fleur's dress was a bold twist on the classic little black dress. The halter neckline tied around her neck like a delicate collar, framing the daring window that showcased just enough of her chest to be scandalous. The fabric hugged her waist tightly, flaring slightly at the hips, while a slit up one side revealed a long, shapely leg that seemed to go on forever.
Veela fashion, Harry mused, clearly didn't adhere to the usual Pureblood mantra of "show either legs or cleavage, but never both." Fleur's dress managed to flaunt both with unapologetic confidence.
Fleur's eyes sparkled as she placed a hand on his arm. "And you, 'Arry? You look... how do you say? Dashing."
Jean chuckled at his daughter's exuberance. "Fleur, let the man breathe! He's only just arrived."
"Papa, 'Arry and I are old friends," Fleur replied, waving him off. "We have much to catch up on."
Harry chuckled. "I'm happy to see you too, Fleur. How have you been?"
"Oh, busy as ever," Fleur said, her tone light but with a hint of pride. "I am working on a project for Gringotts—very exciting. But enough about me. Tell me, 'Arry, what brings you to our little gathering? Surely it is not just to see me?"
Harry smirked. "Well, seeing you is always a highlight, Fleur. But I'm here on business, though I suspect your father will make it much more enjoyable than I anticipated."
Jean nodded approvingly. "Indeed, Harry. We'll enjoy a fine dinner, some excellent wine, and then discuss what needs discussing. Until then, relax and enjoy yourself. You're among friends."
Apolline's smile lingered as she observed the interaction. "Yes, Harry. Tonight is for good company and good memories. The rest can wait."
Harry allowed himself to relax further, the warmth of their welcome easing his earlier apprehension. Whatever the night held, he felt ready to face it.
Fleur's lips curled in delight as she looked him up and down. "I am thinking zat I need divinity to know how ze boy has become a man." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Harry noticed with some amusement that he now matched the tall Veela in height.
Rituals truly were a wonder, though it was a shame he'd learned so many of them from Tom Riddle's memories rather than through proper teaching.
In another life, Harry might have blushed, stammered, and stared at the floor under Fleur's playful scrutiny. But this Harry had been through too much to be so easily flustered. After all, he'd recently had Narcissa Malfoy bent like a pretzel, begging him for release. Instead of shyness, he met Fleur's gaze with a confident smile, conscious that her parents were watching.
"Ah, I had an experience that inspired me to grow up," he said lightly. "And then, after meeting you, I also fought the Dark Lord."
A brief silence followed before Fleur burst into laughter, her mother joining in with a tinkling, melodic laugh that oozed class.
"Come, 'Arry," Fleur said, still chuckling. "You simply must meet my friends. You can talk politics with Papa after dinner, but not for too long. 'E will bore you to death."
She shot a teasing smile at her father, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly and saluted Harry with his glass of wine.
"I will let my eldest give you the tour then, Harry," Jean said. "Make sure you say hello to Gabrielle at some point. She talks of little else—"
"'Arry!"
For the second time that evening, Harry was ambushed by a blur of blonde hair. This one was smaller, younger, and much more excitable, wrapping herself around his leg with surprising tenacity.
"Hello, and who might you be?" Harry asked, feigning confusion.
The little girl struck a dramatic pose, her grin wide. "Gabrielle!"
Harry wrinkled his nose in mock confusion. "Never heard of her."
Gabrielle gasped and smacked his leg indignantly. "You pulled me out of ze lake!" she exclaimed in rapid French.
Harry froze momentarily, startled by the realization that he understood her perfectly. He'd never learned French, yet the words felt as natural as breathing. His vision swam briefly, memories not his own flashing through his mind.
Tom Riddle had spent years in France, searching for ways to split his soul. He had even lived in the Parisian catacombs, studying ancient French wizards' tombs and spending a summer at Beauxbatons under the guise of a teacher.
"What lake?" Harry asked, his voice steady but hesitant. The words came out in flawless Parisian French, complete with the proper accent.
Gabrielle's eyes widened. "You speak French?!"
Harry shot a wink at the amused Apolline. "I'm always rescuing fair maidens. You'll have to be more specific."
"'Arry!" Gabrielle wailed, though she was giggling as he scooped her up into his arms.
"Ah, now I remember," Harry teased. "The loud girl at the tournament."
Gabrielle pouted, but her giggles betrayed her delight. Fleur laughed at the exchange, shaking her head. "You 'ave not changed a bit, 'Arry."
"Maybe not," Harry said with a grin, "but I'm certainly taller now."
The warmth of their laughter and the ease of their company made Harry feel at home, even amidst the unfamiliar setting. Whatever awaited him tonight, he knew it would be memorable.
"How is it that you speak French so well, 'Arry? No translation spell could manage zat accent, and your grammar is perfect," Apolline asked, her curiosity piqued.
"I was learning last year," Harry lied smoothly. "But I was too nervous to give it a try—those Beauxbatons girls are a little intimidating." He smirked at Fleur. "I had a good tutor who insisted I spend many hours a day practicing."
"Well, I am very impressed. I fear you may have little chance of escaping this party alive, once ze young ladies of Europe learn how eligible you now are," Apolline quipped with a knowing smile.
"Don't worry, Mama, I shall protect him." Fleur looped her arm through Harry's with a playful grin. "Come on, 'Arry, I want to show you off to my friends."
She began leading him away but stopped when her mother called out, insisting she take Gabrielle with her. Fleur pouted, but Harry knelt down to let Gabrielle climb onto his back. The little girl eagerly looped her arms around his neck, giggling as he steadied her by holding her legs. Fleur looked slightly put out but said nothing, instead leading Harry through the throng of onlookers.
They stepped out onto a vast balcony, and Harry finally grasped the sheer scale of the Delacour chateau. Perched on the edge of a white limestone cliff, it overlooked the rolling expanse of the French countryside. Acres of olive trees, lavender fields, and vineyards stretched out below, dotted with winding dirt roads and workers finishing their day. The golden hues of the setting sun bathed the landscape in a warm, ethereal glow.
Fleur leaned close, her voice soft in his ear. "Provence. Who would live anywhere else?"
Harry gave her a teasing smile. "Now I understand why you're so spoiled."
She slinked away with a playful look, joining a group of friends gathered on the balcony. Gabrielle, who had been chattering away incessantly in Harry's ear, suddenly leapt off his back and ran to a slim brunette in a white sundress, tugging at her hand.
The brunette turned, her tan skin glowing in the evening light. She smiled at Gabrielle before looking up at Harry. "Girls, aren't they fickle?" she said in English, her tone amused.
"I never can make them stay," Harry replied in French, his words deliberate as he sifted through the memories now embedded in his mind. He offered the group a friendly smile. "Hi, everyone."
The group was a mix of six. Three guys stood to one side, smoking lazily in the warm summer breeze. Two of them were tall and thin, with a relaxed air reminiscent of a younger Remus Lupin. Each had an arm draped around a pretty blonde—twins, Harry noted with mild amusement. The third man was built like an Auror, broad-shouldered and muscular.
Before Harry could say more, the broad man clapped a heavy hand onto his shoulder. The force nearly made Harry wince, but he managed to keep his composure.
"So, this is ze famous 'Arry Potter," the man said, his voice deep and booming, his accent thick. "Welcome to France, my friend."
Harry smiled, the warmth of the evening and the easy camaraderie of the group easing him further. Whatever lay ahead, he felt ready to embrace it.
"'Arry Potter! I am a big fan! I did not know you speak ze language of love!" The man's French accent was so thick that Harry almost thought he was exaggerating for effect.
"Only if you're a very lucky lady—or, if I'm drunk, a handsome Frenchman," Harry quipped, clapping the man on the shoulder.
The man roared with laughter, his voice booming across the balcony. "Ah, I love ze Eenglish! I am Jules. Zat over there is Guillame, ze poor fool who dates Ines, and zis is Hugo, who dates her much nicer sister, Juliette."
"What am I? Invisible?" The tanned brunette, who had been stroking Gabrielle's hair, spoke up with a mock pout. She held out her hand for Harry to kiss. "I'm Marie, Fleur's best friend."
She was stunning, with legs that seemed to go on forever and an easy, radiant smile that Harry was certain had left many hearts broken.
"I thought I was Fleur's best friend," Gabrielle interjected, purring under Marie's affectionate touch.
"You're my best sister," Fleur corrected, ruffling Gabrielle's hair.
"I'll be 'Arry's best friend!" Gabrielle declared, bouncing over to wrap her arms around Harry's leg.
"I do need more friends," Harry mused, crouching slightly to look Gabrielle in the eye. "What will I get out of it?"
Gabrielle tilted her head in thought, her little face scrunching up before she beamed with inspiration. "I can make you coffee in ze mornings!"
"Deal." Harry held out his pinkie for her to shake, which she did with all the solemnity of sealing a life-long pact.
"A fine deal," Fleur chimed in, "but unfortunately Gabrielle wakes at six or seven and insists you rise wiz her."
Gabrielle glared at her sister. "You're just lazy. Fleur gets up in ze afternoon!"
Fleur tossed her hair back, the sunlight catching her silhouette and making her look almost ethereal. Harry thought he'd never seen anyone appear so angelic.
"I need my beauty sleep," Fleur said with a dramatic sigh. "Right, 'Arry?"
Harry's words came unbidden, smooth and sincere. "You must sleep every hour of the day, for I've never seen such beauty."
The remark stopped Fleur in her tracks, her playful demeanor faltering for just a moment. Her cheeks flushed faintly as she met Harry's gaze, her usual confidence wavering under the weight of his unexpected compliment.
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