Funny how all the important moments of my life seem to fall on holidays. Halloween's always a big one, and has been since before I can actually remember. And my birthday, hell - that one started playing games with me before I was even born. All things considered, I suppose it's no wonder why I prefer Christmas.

Even with the Dursley's, Christmas was the better of the three. The other two, I seemed to be more of a target - the resentment of my presence intensified during those times, that was if the Dursley's could be bothered to remember my birthday in the first place. Christmas though, was all about Dudders and looking like a happy, normal family. I for the most part was simply ignored, and that's just the way I preferred it.

Hogwarts changed things. I remember my first Christmas, waking up for the first time with my own stack of presents. It's bittersweet, thinking about just how happyI was, just how grateful. Ron, bless his simple soul, was simply overwhelmed like any normal eleven year old on Christmas day, and even at the best of times, empathy isn't his strong suit. I was happy, but it wasn't because I'd gotten gifts, but because someone had found me worthy of deserving them…

Such introspective thoughts were lost that evening, Christmas Eve, as we strolled along the River Seine, towards Île de France, the location of tonight's celebration. Around us, the streets teemed with life, as pedestrians and muggle traffic moved noisily forward, some eager to return home to loved ones, others slowly, contently, already wrapped in a lovers embrace. More than once, I found myself wondering which of the two Fleur and I resembled.

“'Arry, on arrive tout de suite.” I blinked once, turning towards Fleur with an amused expression, looking down at her with a smile. I'd taken a little growth and aging potion before we'd left, and had quickly come to appreciate what my vantage point offered.

“D'accord, la porte, c'est…the building after the Notre Dame, err…oui?” I responded after a moment, trying desperately to remember my lessons. Hard enough to do at the best of times, but with Fleur's arm wrapped tightly around my own, and no dress no matter how conservative could hide her figure…

“Le prochain batiment après La Notre Dame, c'est ça.” Ah yes, of course.

We arrived shortly after just as she'd said we would, passing by the great cathedral and heading instead towards a smaller stone building across from its massive entrance. Fleur moved forward, confidence radiating from her, and grabbed the brass knocker in one perfect gesture. She knocked twice, a faint trace of magic emanating from her as she did so, and a moment later, the door opened gracefully with a soft woosh, though no one waited on the other side.

“Venez, ça ne reste pas ouvert longtemps” She whispered impatiently, though with a formality necessary for our current situation. Nodding, I followed, and we found ourselves in a dimly lit hallway, torchlight playing in the ancient walls.

There were others in the hall, perhaps a dozen wizards and witches, all dressed in elegant robes and long, aristocratic dresses. Fleur paid no notice and they in return did little more than nod formally, and though I knew she had been to ministry functions before, it was strange to see her so at ease with these cat-and-mouse games that wizards across the world have set up to keep out of sight from the muggle majority. It was amusing, to see the cream of wizarding society, entering a function of the highest order through such a gloomy and concealed entrance.

Looking back, I suppose it was such indignities that were my first taste of the pureblood point of view - that muggles, through sheer numbers, were forcing wizards into smaller and smaller spaces, such as cramped hallways such as this. At the time however, I'll admit that my thoughts were filled with nervous apprehension at sneaking into such an elite function, and the distraction of Fleur's body, pushed tight against mine as she played off for the potential crowd. I shook my head, bracing my nerves. I too had a part to play, Fleur was after all, supposed to be my fiancée for the evening, and subconsciously, I stood taller, enjoying the feel of the silk lined robes Fleur had insisted I purchase for the occasion.

Hardly a minute later we went through the door, a burly wizard at the door saying nothing as we passed through, merely bowing slightly to us while his eyes fixed upon the invitation I held loosely in my hand. As we entered, I involuntarily let out a short gasp, the magnificence of the room far beyond my wildest imagination.

The hall was massive, well lit by hundreds if not thousands of candles. It was warm, couples dancing to the rich sound of joyful music, mixed with the hum of talk and laughter. We had not climbed any stairs since entering the door from outside, yet the entire perimeter of the building was made of giant windows, all showing a magnificent view of the Parisian cityscape from above. The women to a one were gorgeous - beautiful creations, works of art. Despite Fleur at my side my eyes drifted towards a shapely figure dressed in a dark red gown, a soft face with dark hair, a calculating look in hard eyes, fingers seductively tapping the half filled wine glass in her hand. For a moment our eyes met, and I felt Fleur's elbow in my side a moment after a shiver erupted down my spine.

The men by comparison varied greatly, though every one of them - from the tall, skinny wizard with the beak nose who stood quietly on his own, to a balding, overweight wizard with an outrageous walrus mustache - each one thrummed with power and influence, a quiet sense of superiority that washed like a lazy river through the guests. Instantly, I felt out of place.

“Charles, mon amour, you are gawking.” Blinking stupidly, I turned once again to Fleur, and grinning sheepishly, responded. “My sincerest apologies, Chérie. You were correct, I think, to say that this would exceed anything I've yet experienced.” She smiled, a mixture of superiority and relief, and the queasiness that had so quickly threatened to overtake me began to lessen as I took Fleur's hand, guiding me through the mingling crowd.

We stopped near the orchestra, watching the musicians as we took two flutes of Champaign from an enchanted platter as it passed by. With a teasing smile, Fleur looked up at me, raising her glass in a mock salute, her eyes half closed. “Joyeux Noël, Charles,” she purred, and I fought the urge to adjust myself. A beat later, I responded likewise, “Joyeux Noël, Isabelle.”

We stood there for quarter of an hour, sipping the wine and listening to the music. Just as I prepared the nerve to ask her for a dance, I noticed a figure walking towards us, and cursed the approaching women, all while doing my best to remain in character.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur, Madame. J'espère que tout va bien..."I stared, clueless. Fleur always spoke French to me slowly and clearly, never saying more than a few sentences until she was sure I understood. This woman, as plump as Mrs. Weasley though with a poise and style that the former lacked, had just jammed who-knows-what down my throat with more frills than I could care to name. Fleur of course, had no troubles.

“Merci, Madame Secretaire, votre ministère a organisé une fête magnifique ce soir.C'est un plaisir d'être présent, pour moi-même ainsi que pour mon fiancé.” I caught that; apparently we are both thrilled to be here, and this woman is important. Fleur's tone changed subtlety, as if she's about to make a joke. “Veuillez lui pardonner, il est anglais.” Ha bloody ha.

I smiled though, before attempting to restore some shred of my own dignity. “Oui, Anglais, mais je le compense en épousant une française. Comme ma fiancée a dit, c'est un plaisir d'être ici.” Fleur blushes prettily, and though I knew it was an act, I still felt a thrill go through my body. Our guest however, simply gives me a great beaming smile.

“An admiral effort, Monsieur. It is my pleasure also, to meet such a fine young couple as yourselves. I am Madame Devereux, undersecretary to the minister, and liaison for his majesty's government tonight. If you have any concerns this evening, do let us know, and we shall do our best to make your evening as accommodating as possible.”

Her eyes dart up, looking just above me. I turned around, and in an instant, my blood froze over. Last I heard, this man was in Azkaban. Now, he was out in the open, at an official banquet of the French Government no less. Stepping past me in one long step, Lucius Malfoy moved toward Madame Devereux, who carefully took a small step back.

“Monsieur Malfoy, a pleasure to see you once again, though your presence is a pleasant surprise.” Unlike before, her voice was paradoxically both tight and airy, a trace of surprise and perhaps happiness, though nothing tangible was betrayed in her tone. The very definition of the word diplomatic.

She turned back towards me, he face softening ever so slightly. “Alors, but I have yet to ask for your names. Monsieur Malfoy, allow me to present…” she paused, and I answer on our own behalf. “Charles Black and Isabelle Belmont, at your service,” I fight to say in a level tone, fight to prevent the rage and hatred I feel for this man from reaching my eyes.

“Bon. Monsieur Black, Madame Belmont, je vous présente Monsieur Malfoy. If you will pardon me, I bid you adieu.” With a speed unnatural for one her size, she moved towards another couple, another smile plastered to her face.

“Mr. Black is it, my wife is a Black by birth. I was unaware that there were any remaining lines in Britain.” It was inevitable, I should have to attempt civil conversation with one of Voldemort's inner circle. I suppose I came to this banquet with the intent of spying, and from here on out I'll be careful what I wish for.

I laughed lightly and suddenly, an outlet for some of my frustration and anger. Fleur was once again at my side, her arm softly wrapping around my own, and I looked down briefly, realizing that my hands are clenched tightly. Relaxing my hands, I turned once again to the Malfoy patriarch.

“I'm afraid our introductions weren't complete. We're American actually - from Montréal.” I shrug, “My family traces its origins back to Britain, certainly, but whether I can claim any familial link to your wife, however ancient, I cannot say.” My eyes scanne the room, and not far away I could see the familiar face of Narcissa Malfoy, her eyes fixed upon us, a slight scowl across her face. Clearly, she did not wish to be here, and not for the first time I wondered if she was in fact the brains of the Malfoy clan…they certainly don't rest with Draco, and I think less about her husband each time we meet.

“Ah yes…from the Confederation then…I trust you are finding your visit to the continent appealing.” Even in polite conversation, Malfoy's distaste is obvious. I nod, ignoring his jibe and answering his direct query. “Yes indeed, the people have been most hospitable, and I daresay I've learned much during my stay here.”

He nods absently, his eyes resting for a moment on Fleur's figure before moving to the ever retreating form of Madame Devereux. Clearly, he wanted to talk to her and just as clearly, she has no desire to. With a last lingering look at Fleur, he turned back to me. “A pleasure Mr. Black…Ms. Belmont. If you'll excuse me, I fear my company is needed elsewhere.” Without waiting for a response, he turned around, heading not towards his fleeing target, but to where his wife stood, talking to a wizard dressed in what looks like a close approximation of a muggle business uniform than any of the multitude of robes around the room.

As soon as he left, Fleur shivered a moment before disentangling herself from me. Whispering softly, she huffed, “that man, he is repulsive and rude. Englishmen, they are as subtle in their appreciation of beauty as a werewolf under a dementia curse.” I'm not about to remind her that I'm one of the Englishmen in question, and allow her to continue. “And you…he is one of your enemies, no doubt. Fortunate, he did not notice who you really are.”

I nodded, deep in thought. In truth, I wouldn't expect anyone to figure out easily who I really am, save perhaps my closest friends and a few of the Order. Growth potion, aging potion, a slight glamour to my facial structure. My hair, now a dark red, is longer, fully covering my scar in case the glamour fails. It was because of the hair, and as a dig at Fleur's true fiancée that I chose the name Charles. Going by Black was foolish, and previously we'd decided upon Smith for its generality, though all that had flown out the window when Lucius Malfoy had all but jumped me from behind.

Still I answered Fleur's unspoken question. “Yes, he is. He was at the Department of Mysteries, and last I'd heard still rotting in Azkaban for his crimes there. I'm surprised he is out in the open like this - his wife is clearly uncomfortable.”

Fleur nods. “That is who she is? I had thought perhaps a mistress…no matter… vous avez raison, elle n'est pas…contente avec cette situation.”

I barely heard her, as another familiar face appeared in the crowd, just beyond the Malfoy's. Standing next to a tall dark witch was a boy my age with a bored expression, his eyes aimlessly searching the crowd while the witch sipped a glass of dark red wine - an action that even from this distance clearly advertised sex.

“The boy over there, next to the witch with the um…glass.” Fleur raised an eyebrow, though said nothing. “He's in my year, at Hogwart's - Blaise Zabini.” Fleur looked, before her face became cold, dangerous. “Zat is the infamous Madame Zabini? A surprise, I expected something more…”

Filing away that unexpected retort for a later date, I continued to scan the room, suddenly wary of the guests. I couldn't place any more names to faces, but there was an eerie pattern to the cacophony of people, set groups that seemed to move at random, yet never failing to orbit the elder Malfoy. They never faced him, never so much as looked in his direction, yet he seemed to orchestrate their movements. They moved as one, and it seemed clear enough from his past interaction that Madame Devereux was their final target.

I sighed, slightly bitter at the turn of events. Truthfully, I had gone through the trouble of stealing and copying an invitation with the intent of delving deeper into the mysterious ties between the English and French ministry, and whatever role Voldemort's forces were playing. Still, part of me had hoped nothing would happen, that I would be able to enjoy the evening of luxury, pretending I was as normal as one can be when surrounded by the greatest of human extravagance. Being with Fleur, when she couldn't be a pain in my ass? Bonus. Massive, massive, bonus.

So I was irritated when it appeared my 'saving people thing' was once again going to spoil an otherwise perfect evening. My irritation was only half genuine though - there was never any question that I was going to do the easy thing over the right one. Still, it would have been nice…

“Charles, I do not feel so well, would you mind terribly if we were to leave early?” Shit. We've rehearsed a few phrases, and Fleur feigning sickness means she had seen a few of her father's more notable enemies who have the added weapon of being able to recognize her, possibly even through her glamour. I nodded slightly, replying. “Of course, though if you'll excuse me for one moment, I need to wash up.”

Our conversation made no sense, and anyone listening in would find the pair of us nonsensical, but I'd issued my own code, that I needed to talk to her in private, and that we needed to stay. Clearly, we have conflicting interests. For a moment, she hesitates, before nodding slowly. I sigh with relief - she was at least going to hear me out. We agreed beforehand, unless unanimously decided, our own lives take precedence. If she doesn't agree with what I say, we're leaving, and that'll be that.

We move slowly out of the main room, relief evident of Fleur's face when the men in question take no notice, moving on past our previous spot towards another floating platter, this time laden with hor d'oeuvres instead of alcohol.

Together, we turn a corner, away from the crowds towards a more private area in the rear of the banquet hall. The restrooms are near by, and we paused for a moment as an old, graying wizard - clearly pissed out his head - stumbled through the door marked 'Hommes.”

“Charles,” Fleur responds, still in character, “You are alright, you have not had too much to drink?” I shake my head, trying to pass on what I've seen without alerting any spying eyes. “No, just a moment of dizziness.” I laugh, though it's tense and hollow. “I must say I'm surprised, to see so many of my colleagues, all so eager for a word with Madame Devereux.” Fleur's eyes widen slightly, and again I'm relieved that behind her flawless beauty is a sharp and active mind.

She looks straight into my eyes, studying my face, and I fight the urge to glance away. It's discomforting, having another person look straight into you, and though Fleur and I have managed to create a functional relationship within the past month, I wouldn't consider sharing with her my innermost thoughts. As I've said before, I find myself trusting her, even though I don't actually trust. Her gaze though, seems to search for my very soul, and the line I've drawn blurs considerably.

Finally, mercifully, she looks away, before looking at my face again, eyes deliberately avoiding my own. Slowly, she nods, before speaking once more. “I will put my trust in your judgment, but if I later find out you truly have had too much to drink…” She lets the threat waver, and I return her nod. Fair enough, it's her life that's on the line for certain if we stay - it's my own that we're gambling on now.

As fate seems to love doing to me, the entire plan instantly went down in flames. A piercing pain went through my leg, and I let out a short scream, stumbling forward before falling hard against the shining marble floor.

“'Arry!” Fleur screamed, and I panicked, our cover obviously blown. I forced myself around, attempting to struggle to my feet while looking for Fleur. My wand was already at hand, a reflex that I'd practiced to death and now might very well give me an edge to save my life. Fleur's face was etched in terror, a wand dug painfully against the pale flesh of her throat.

I looked to the side, at her captor. It was her. The woman I'd noticed when I first stepped into the hall, the goddess dressed in the robes the color of the wine in her glass, whose eyes had betrayed the gentle beauty of the exterior. She looked at me, a mocking smile on her lips. As I continued to stare, though eyes blank of recognition, her smile transformed into a soft pout, before a deranged cackle spilled from her lips.

“Potter, our third meeting to date and you still can't tell who I am? What a naughty little boy you are.” Her eyes flared, anger beyond the point of sanity. “I'd recognize you anywhere, you dirty little thief. And of course…” Her voice calmed, an oddly seductive quality added to her madness. “I'd recognize your wand.”

Her voice had been changed, and I knew there was no way she wasn't wearing a dozen types of glamour, but there was no doubt as to her identity, and recognition and horror battled at the forefront of my emotions, earning another string of deranged cackles from my tormentor, Bellatrix Black.

Oddly enough, my first thought when I got through the raw terror of the moment was, 'Harry, it's time to do some deep soul searching when an overly aggravating French part-veela and a unrepentant godfather murdering psychopath constitute as the women in your life.' 

AN: To my beloved Canadian readers, who are wondering just what the above was all aboot.

I do not intend to slander your country by having Harry use the term 'American'. Rather, I have hinted earlier that the political landscape of the wizarding world is different than the muggle one, and went as far as to make Mr. Delacour the former ambassador to The North American Confederation. Malfoy in this chapter also took Harry's 'American' comment as such. Fact is, I see no reason why a muggle revolution would have any real impact on the wizarding world. As such, there is what I am calling the NAC, which is a single entity. In my notes, its capital is Boston, but for you crazy Canucks out there, whatdya say we make it London, Ontario, and all go home happy?

On a similiar note, there is no magical Republic of Quebec, cause I'm just mean that way.

Now, the French:

on arrive tout de suite

we are almost there

D'accord, la porte, c'est…

O.K.. the door is...

Le prochain batiment après La Notre Dame

The next building after Notre Dame

Venez, ça ne reste pas ouvert longtemps

Come, it does not stay open for long.

Bonsoir, Monsieur, Madame. J'espère que tout va bien...

Good evening, sir, ma'am, I hope all is well...

Merci, Madame Secretaire, votre ministère a organisé une fête magnifique ce soir.C'est un plaisir d'être présent, pour moi-même ainsi que pour mon fiancé.”

Thank you, Madam Secretary, your minister has organized a magnificent party this evening. It is a pleasure to be presant, for myself and my fiancé.”

Veuillez lui pardonner, il est anglais

You must forgive him, he is English.

Oui, Anglais, mais je le compense en épousant une française. Comme ma fiancée a dit, c'est un plaisir d'être ici.

Yes, English, but I compensate by marrying a French woman. As my fiancée said, it is a pleasure to be here.

Bon. Monsieur Black, Madame Belmont, je vous présente Monsieur Malfoy.

Good. Mr. Black, Mrs. Belmont, I present to you Mr. Malfoy

vous avez raison, elle n'est pas…contente avec cette situation.

You are correct, she is not...happy with the situation.

Hommes

Men