Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis. And to the crew at DLP for their valuable criticism.
CHAPTER 2
Weasley Reunion
“You made it, mate! But you're late--what happened?”
“Hi Ron. I didn't think I'd get here--Al-, er Professor Dumbledore was called away at the last minute while we were at the Ministry. I didn't know if I could Floo, so I had to use, um, another way to get here. I'm really sorry about taking so long.” Harry smiles at his best friend, who is wearing a Chudley Cannons jersey in shockingly vibrant orange. The color clashes dreadfully with his forest green pants and Harry wonders whether his best friend is color blind.
“Don't worry, Harry, just come in. Everyone's been waiting to see you.”
“Harry!” Hermione squeals and envelops him in a tight, lingering hug, her bushy hair tickling his face. “You've grown, a lot!” Harry can't help but notice that Hermione has also matured and the haggardness, from the stress of her last term when she took double the normal course load, has been replaced with a healthy, tanned glow. She steps back and her brown eyes appraise him, her hands lingering on his chest. Harry quirks an eyebrow and offers a roguish grin, a subtle technique he learned from his godfather. Her breath catches. “I like what I see,” she whispers unexpectedly, blushing, though loudly enough for Harry to notice Ron turning red and staring at the floor.
“Thanks, Hermione. It's good to see you too. And, before you say it, you'll be happy to know that I've been working hard this summer.” He gives her a mischievous wink. “Who knows, I might even give you a run for your money in classes next year....” The witch blushes further.
Ron's face reddens as he watches the exchange. “Let's get your bag upstairs, mate, and then go get something to eat.” Harry shoulders his duffle and follows his friend up the stairs to his room. As they pass the landing to Ginny's room, the door opens and a cinnamon-haired girl stops short.
“Oh! Harry!” Ginny's brown eyes meet Harry's.
“Hi Ginny.” Harry flashes her a brilliant smile. For some reason he can't quite place, he had been looking forward to seeing Ron's sister again, though her look of discomfort at seeing him makes him wonder why.
“Uh, hi, uh....” She blushes sheepishly, looking downward, and steps backwards to retreat into her room. Harry is left standing at the landing, somewhat disappointed. When did she get so young looking? Merlin, she's almost thirteen, but around me, she still acts like she did when she was ten.
Ron calls down the stairs. “Come on Harry, let's go. I'm starved!”
Harry drops his bag in Ron's room and two descend. Hermione meets them at the bottom of the stairs, arms akimbo. “Harry, just how did you get here?”
“I've got my ways, Hermione. Let's leave it at that.” He tries the Sirius-coached smile again, but this time it doesn't seem to work--Hermione has no intention of leaving the subject.
“Well, I didn't hear any sounds of Apparition, so you couldn't have side-along Apparated with someone--that's always loud since you can't mask the sound of the passenger. You could have arrived off the grounds and walked up here. But then we would have noticed your approach, unless you were wearing your invisibility cloak. But why do that here at the Burrow? You obviously didn't Floo. Did someone make you a portkey?”
Harry sighs. He had hoped to defer this discussion until later, but he opts for honesty over evasion. “No, Hermione, I Apparated to the doorway, and I've learned to avoid making much noise when I do it.” He shivers as he recalls the dreadful aches in his bones after long Apparition practices at the Shrieking Shack, the two grinning Marauders not letting up until his arrivals and departures were nearly flawless. She opens her mouth to comment, but Harry beats her, “And no, I won't get in trouble since I've got permission from the Minister to do magic during the holiday.”
Hermione looks at Harry with admiration and something new... a trace of desire? “Bloody hell, Harry! How'd you manage to learn to Apparate?” Ron sputters. The look on his face is a mix of awe and envy, though too much of the latter for Harry's comfort.
“Language, Ron! But how did you.... Oh my! You have an Apparition license too, don't you!” she squeals, “How? I thought you couldn't sit the exam until you're seventeen?” Her hands return to her hips. “And just when did you learn to Apparate? It's only been a few weeks since we left school, and I know you couldn't do it then....”
“Hermione, calm down. As I said, I've been very busy this summer, but I'm not allowed to go into detail. I'll tell you what I can after dinner, okay? I'm starved. My license is only about an hour old--that's one of the things I was doing at the Ministry today with the Headmaster. As for how I learned, let's just say that I had good teachers....”
“You're barmy, mate. Though I'd love to be able to do that stuff too, I can't believe you're working so hard out of school. Come! Eat first, then talk!” Ron leads them into the dining room as Hermione grumbles something about “caveman manners.”
Dinner at the Burrow is, as always, lively and relaxed, the polar opposite of the formal dinners that Harry and the Headmaster have been sharing as part of Harry's etiquette training. Molly's food is excellent, if laden with calories. Hermione and all of the Weasley family, save Bill and Charlie, are here and Harry realizes how much he has missed the “controlled chaos,” with food passed left, right, and across the table. Molly beams at Harry as she spoons second helpings of meat loaf and buttered, braised turnips onto his plate. “Harry, dear, how are the muggles treating you this summer? Are you getting enough to eat?”
Harry almost starts to answer the woman with his trademark stammer, “Um...,” a habit that his mentor has been trying to break him of. Instead, he pauses, considers his words, and says, “I'm not actually staying with my aunt and uncle anymore this holiday, Mrs. Weasley. Professor Dumbledore found somewhere else for me to stay.”
She smiles at him. “Well, I certainly understand, with that awful Sirius Black still on the loose. I still can't believe they never caught him! Where are you staying, dear?” Everyone at the table turns toward Harry, whose jaw tenses.
“Hogwarts. I've been doing quite a lot of independent study, as I was telling Ron and Hermione.” Harry takes a deep breath and addresses the room, “And, despite what you've heard or read about him, my godfather, Sirius Black, is an honorable man who is completely innocent. He spent twelve years in Azkaban because his former friend, Peter Pettigrew, betrayed my parents to Voldemort and set him up. Peter was the real traitor, not Sirius.” Harry notices that his fist is clenched and that his food is decidedly less appetizing now. An uncomfortable silence ensues, broken only by the clinking of silverware as the family starts to eat again. Harry sighs, “Sorry.”
“No need to be, Harry. We understand.” Arthur Weasley smiles at him. “Speaking of Albus and happier things, I hope, I heard some interesting news today at the Ministry.” He fixes Harry with an appraising look. “Professor Dumbledore formally accepted an apprentice, an underage wizard at that. It should be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow.”
The table erupts in surprise and Ron knocks his glass of pumpkin juice onto Hermione's lap. She starts and then sighs heavily as Molly vanishes the spilled drink with a whispered, “evanesco.” Arthur raises his voice to overcome the din. “What I know is that Albus filed the paperwork and I hear that his apprentice received licenses for underage magic and Apparition.” He winks at Harry.
“That's amazing,” Hermione interrupts. “Whoever it is must be a really powerful witch or wizard. Professor Dumbledore has never... Harry!” She squeals his name. All eyes turn toward her, then to Harry, who blushes at the attention. Hermione stands and runs to him, hugging him around the shoulders a second time. Catching a whiff of Hermione's floral perfume and feeling her upper body pressed against his in the embrace, Harry can't help but notice that Hermione is turning into a fetching young woman.
“Uh, um, yeah,” he says, inwardly wincing at the stammer, as he pulls back from her embrace. “You see, Albus, I mean Professor Dumbledore, made me his apprentice. I don't understand what it means yet, but we had to sign a bunch of documents today at the Ministry to make it official and I had to swear a wizard's oath. This is what I've been doing this summer and it's where I learned to Apparate, Hermione.”
Harry notices the increasingly stormy look on Ron's face. “It's also why I can't come to stay at the Burrow, mate, like we had planned. Sorry about that--Quidditch and your mum's cooking would have been brilliant.” Hoping to forestall an eruption, he shrugs and smiles weakly at his best friend.
“Bloody unbelievable,” he spits, standing abruptly and knocking his wooden chair backward onto the weathered pine floor. “Is there anything you don't have?” The last is delivered in a scathing tone to Hermione, who reddens, noticing her hands linger on Harry's shoulders, physical contact she hadn't seemed especially willing to break. Ron pushes past his twin brothers and stomps out of the dining room and up the stairs. A few seconds later a door slams.
“Ronald Billius Weasley, you will watch your language!” Mrs. Weasley yells after him. She turns to Harry and pats his arm. “Harry, dear, this really is wonderful news. I'm sure Ron is happy for you in his own way. He's just a bit surprised and it'll take some time for it all to sink in.”
“I don't really understand what the big deal is, but everyone's treating this like it is.” Harry says with a sigh. “It looks like at first I'll just be taking regular Hogwarts classes during the year, but with a few extra sessions with Albus and my other tutors.”
“Harry, Ron is just a little jealous,” Arthur opines, glancing with amusement at the blushing Hermione as she returns to her seat. “An apprenticeship with a wizard of Albus's stature is extraordinary. I don't really understand what all is involved, since it's not my department, but I understand it's a big deal because your bond will remain in place until your magical power and talent approach his. Only then will the magic recognize your training as being done and the spell will fade. As you can imagine, for someone like Albus, this could take years, maybe even decades. He's putting a lot of faith in you. It's almost unheard of for an apprenticeship to be offered to an underage wizard who still hasn't reached magical maturity--if your power doesn't eventually grow to be comparable to Albus's, he'd be essentially committing to you for the remainder of his life.”
“Unless it's already there,” Hermione whispers to herself.
Molly smiles at Harry. “What it means, Harry, is that the headmaster has as much as hand-picked you as his successor, the next Albus Dumbledore.”
Harry shivers, thinking that he'd prefer to be the first Harry Potter. “I thought he was barmy before, but now I know it for sure.” He shakes his head. “Why not just offer me extra tutoring without the risk of this bond? And how does he know I'll even have a fraction of his power?”
“Remember history of magic last year, Harry?” Hermione adopts her trademarked lecture tone, “There are three basic functions of apprenticeship...”
“Spare me please, Hermione. I've read up on apprenticeship bonds already.” Harry regrets interrupting his friend, but he knows that he needs to cut short her lecture if anything else is to be discussed.
She nods, mollified. Mrs. Weasley starts to serve pudding and coffee.
“Harry,” Hermione says, quietly, “I think I know why the headmaster believes you are powerful. Remember what happened at the end of the term last year?”
Harry snorts, “Lots of things happened last year. You'll have to be a bit more specific.”
“Okay.” She crosses her arms. “Remember the full moon?”
Harry pauses for a moment. “Oh, you mean the thing with the dementors?”
Molly gasps. “You faced dementors last year?”
“Several times, but I learned to fight them off.” Molly pales as she places her hand over her heart. Harry notices the strange looks he's getting from the Weasleys and becomes defensive, “Look, if I hadn't done something, they were going to give Sirius and me the kiss and then they would have gone after Hermione. I did what I had to do, what anyone would have done in my place. They attacked us--it's not like we went out looking for them!”
“Harry, how do you fight them off?” Ginny asks meekly from her spot at the corner of the table, the only words the ginger-haired girl has said all meal.
“Patronus charm.”
Arthur blanches. “A corporeal patronus, Harry?” Harry nods as both twins emit low whistles. “I'm almost afraid to ask, but how many dementors were there?”
“A hundred or so. All of them, I think.”
Molly collapses into her chair, speechless.
Hermione approaches Harry, who has been alone in the sitting room since dinner. Though it is summer, a small fire burns in the flagstone fireplace for Floo communication and travel, its heat magically suppressed, and Harry stares at the flames from his favorite spot on the horsehair couch opposite. At his feet is his weathered canvas duffle, muggle military surplus, recovered from Ron's room while the boy had used the lavatory. Harry's plans to stay the night have been dashed by the hostility of the youngest Weasley son.
“Harry, you must tell me all about your training. I want to know what you're learning. It must be fascinating to be taught by Professor Dumbledore himself--he's probably the most accomplished wizard in the world. I do hope you are not wasting his time by slacking off like you usually do. And who are these tutors you talked about?”
Hermione's tone is brisk and breezy and Harry notes that his friend is sitting closer to him than she normally does, which makes him a bit uneasy. Recalling some of his recent lessons with Albus, he studies her body language and applies a bit of passive Legilimency, all that he can manage at this early stage of his training. He senses pride and a hint of attraction, cut with an undercurrent of competitiveness and resentment.
After years of friendship, he feels he knows Hermione as well as anyone, and he tries to curb some of the latter. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hermione, trust me. I'm working very hard--harder than you would believe. I hope you don't mind my saying, but you're my role model.” He offers the witch a genuine smile, which she returns, blushing. “I've just got so much to make up and I've never had the talent for remembering details that you have. Please understand that Albus doesn't want me to share specifics of what I'm learning, but I think I'm allowed to tell you some of the general topics.
“As for my tutors, I'm learning defense from Remus--I hired him as a private tutor-and advanced charms from Flitwick.” Harry's voice drops to a low whisper, “I'm also learning dueling and fighting tactics from Sirius. Before you start, in our lessons he leaves the 'Marauder' at the door. He's brilliant, serious as a stroke, and very, very driven, like a man possessed. Did you know he used to be a dueling instructor before, well....” He pauses. “Hermione, I trust you, but you can't share that I'm working with him with anyone. I mean it, not even Ron.” Harry's eyes dart toward the stairs. “Especially not with how he's handling all this.”
Harry flashes her a cheeky smile, “I'm also learning arithmancy from Professor Vector. Dirivana is really good at explaining things--I can see why you like her class so much, Hermione.”
“Wait--you're learning arithmancy? And since when are you on a first names basis with the professors, Harry?” She scowls at him. There's that resentment again.
“Perks of the position, Hermione, though I think you'll find that if you get to know your professors socially, most of them would offer use of their familiar names. And yes, I'll be joining your class next year. Runes too. I'm dumping divination though--you were right, by the way. Complete rubbish of a course.”
“Ancient runes?”
He nods. “Remus is helping me catch up, though I may ask to borrow your notes later this summer--Professor Abdulah said that you were--what were his words again--'extraordinarily gifted.'” She smiles at the flattery. “Albus needed me to learn it, so there you go. He didn't say why, but I'm not going to question him. He was firm about it. He's really busy now though, so lately I've been catching up with my tutors. Something is going on at Hogwarts next year that has him traveling a lot and I've only seen him a few times. He's been teaching me a bit about the theory of magic, stuff I never knew, but that most witches and wizards know instinctively or, like you, learn before they get to Hogwarts.”
They chat amicably about a few other things and then Harry grabs his duffle from the floor. “Hermione, I've got to go back now. Thanks for coming here to see me. And you take care of Ron, okay?” He winks at her and gently busses her cheek. “He fancies you, you know.” Harry Disapparates, leaving behind a quiet “pop” and a stunned witch.
"Ma petite, I have a trifling request, a bagatelle, for your training." Fleur's father, Gerard, eyes her coolly as she is pulled from her reverie in the Beauxbatons library before an open window. The room is comfortable, warm in tone, with a high, arched ceiling and cherry panelling and pastoral paintings on the walls. A view of the Mediterranean can be seen out the windows.
"Father, you startled me. What do you ask of me?" She looks up from her books to the elegantly dressed man, the finery of his deep burgundy robes and the family crest on his breast suggesting that he has come from a meeting with government officials.
"Tomorrow you shall dine with Madame Maxime and the Headmaster of Hogwarts in Scotland, Albus Dumbledore. Do you know of this man?"
"Oui, of course, father. He defeated Monsieur Grindelwald. Handily, if the histories are to be believed."
"They are indeed. Child, I warn you, do not relax in this man's presence. Rather, exercise extreme caution. His mastery of Legilimency is legend, so you must guard your thoughts well and avoid looking into his eyes.” She looks at him, confused. “The reason I have approached you is that I have discovered that he will be accompanied by his new apprentice, a Mr. Harry Potter." He places a dossier onto the table before her.
She opens it and starts to read. "Le survivant, the Boy-Who-Lived, is Dumbledore's apprentice? But he is younger than I!"
"Yes, my child. And he is your mark, your but. I would know what I can of him, his history, his loyalties, his philosophie. Please acquaint yourself with boy, but do so discretely. We shall review your conversation afterward."
"Oui, of course, father."
“Okay Harry--nice evasion there by the way--pay attention to your wand technique in your return volley... here!” Sirius makes a twisting gesture with his wand and the scene pauses. Harry sees himself caught in the act of casting a blasting spell at his godfather. The two are standing on a large, high ceilinged room with white walls and a floor of red mats, the standard training room provided by the Room of Requirement for Harry's lessons in magical and physical dueling. Harry sighs, noticing that his footwork is all wrong, as is his posture. His pensieve-self is wearing cream-colored practice robes, heavily padded to reduce injury. Even with the padding, Harry can see that his right shoulder is drooped too low.
“You have to tighten your grip and then at the end flick upwards with a hint of a rightward curl. Like this....” Sirius demonstrates the wand motions for a flawless confringo blasting curse. “The curl will help with your aim, though, strictly speaking, with an area spell like confringo, aim isn't as critical as it is for curses like diffindo. It doesn't matter, though--you should always properly aim your spells. I can't stress that enough.” He flicks his wand a couple of times and the scene slowly evolves. Harry notices that his wand motion is very sloppy.
“Now compare what I just did with the monkey shit you threw at me before--if you hadn't overdriven the spell so much, I doubt anything would have even come out of your wand. I didn't believe it when he told me, but Remus had you pegged: You overcharge every bloody thing you cast, kiddo. I'm surprised you haven't fried your wand yet with all the unfocused power you send through it. What's it got for a core?”
“Fawkes's feather. I did hit you though,” Harry counters mischievously. It's the first time he's managed to land a spell on his godfather and he can't resist the chance to needle him a bit.
Sirius grins for a moment and then frowns as he recovers his instructor persona. “That's immaterial, Harry. Watch again. Here's how it should be.” He repeats the wand motion, “...and here's your sloppy shite.” He rewinds the pensieve memory and Harry watches himself and winces. The two leave the training pensieve, a device specifically configured to facilitate replay and analysis of duels. Sirius observes critically as Harry repeats the wand motions of the curse with a conjured facsimile of his wand. He moves slowly at first and then progressively more rapidly, eventually reaching full speed.
After several minutes and hundreds of repetitions, Sirius announces with a smile, “Finally. Looks like you've got it--now do it two hundred more times. And I want you aiming left and right too, not just straight ahead. Death Eaters aren't known for going full frontal. Well, except for Bella, but that's a story for another day...” He winks at Harry, who misses the humor.
After several more minutes, Sirius beckons Harry to join him on a conjured sofa, maroon corduroy, and Harry obliges, collapsing exhausted onto the cushions. He smiles at the boy. “Harry, you're doing much better now.” His demeanor has become more amiable lately as positive experiences have begun to supplant memories of imprisonment and refuge.
“You know, power can be a crutch, Harry. Up to now, you've been able to just 'will' spells into being, so you haven't had to pay attention to proper form. A good defense teacher would have caught this and corrected it, but I can't fault you for the rubbish Albus hired.” He winks at Remus, who has just entered the room.
“Hey now, I resemble that remark. In my defense, Harry's third year curriculum was mostly dark creatures, so I didn't have much time to work on his technique.” The werewolf conjures a wooden chair and sits facing the two. “Besides,” he laughs, dropping the prim tone, “by then, Harry's technique was such rubbish, I wouldn't have known where to start.”
Sirius ruffles his godson's hair, which earns him a scowl from the boy. “Harry, this ends here. Perfection needs to be second nature or else you'll be blowing all your power for no gain. Ever play the muggle sport, golf?”
“Sort of. Vernon used to have me caddy for him and his clients. I did get to hit balls on the range, though, while they drank pints in the clubhouse.”
“Then you'll see my point. Out on the links, you could have all the physical strength in the world, but if your form is shite, your control will be too and the ball won't go far or end up anywhere close to where you aimed it. Same with spells. If we can just get your form to where it doesn't embarrass us, then when you finally do put your power behind your spells....”
“Tiger Woods,” Harry says, absently.
“Who?”
Remus smiles wryly. “He's a famous muggle golf prodigy who is expected to go pro soon and win everything in sight. Harry's analogy is apt, Sirius.” He turns toward Harry. “If you could perfect your form like Tiger Woods has his swing, you'd be a force to be reckoned with.”
Sirius stands and vanishes the sofa, which causes Harry to drop onto the floor with a thud and a groan. “Gentlemen (and Remus), it looks like my time is up. Good show today, kiddo. You're getting it, finally. Though I was starting to wonder there for awhile....” He smirks at Harry.
“Thanks,” Harry replies sarcastically at the rare praise and makes an obscene gesture to his godfather. “Perch and rotate, Messer Padfoot.” He smirks.
“Oi,” Sirius says with a short laugh as he snatches the pensieve from the table. “I'm going to go catch up with your double and work with him on that other, 'Most Secret' project we have going....” He winks and leaves through a side door to enter another chamber within the Room of Requirement.
Remus looks quizzically at Harry and then breaks into a knowing smile.
“Sirius is giving you lessons on dealing with the fairer sex?” Harry nods with a grin. “Merlin, then you really will be a force to be reckoned with.”
“Olympe, it is most pleasant to see you again. You are well?” The Headmistress beams at Professor Dumbledore and leans down so that he can kiss her on each cheek. “May I introduce you to my apprentice Mr. Harry Potter.”
“Oui, Monsieur Potter, le Survivant, it is an honor to meet you.” She offers a large, meaty hand to Harry, who kisses it dutifully. She towers over him by more than a meter, yet she carries herself with surprising grace. “Let me introduce you to my adjoint, Deputy Headmistress Madame Corrida and my student, Mademoiselle Fleur Delacour.” She continues, airily, “Mr. Potter, Mademoiselle Delacour is a most exceptional witch in her final year of study at Beauxbatons.”
Harry, upon making eye contact with the witch, inhales sharply as an unfamiliar warmth envelops him. Her blue eyes are warm, radiant, and her soft lips curl upward in a slight smile. Her head is canted very slightly, as if in amusement or consideration of him. She wears formal robes of shear silver that discretely accentuate a lithe, statuesque body. He has never seen such a beguiling woman, one whose delicate features imprint themselves so profoundly on his mind, her very presence, a breathless patronus memory.
“Um... uh...” Harry gapes for a moment and then swallows heavily and closes his eyes. “Harry, my boy,” Sirius's voice barks in his mind, “Remember: attitude and composure. No bird is inaccessible, some just fly higher than others....” A few other pithy “Siriusisms,” as he and Remus call them, come to mind, but none seem even remotely appropriate.
He opts instead to analyze, taking a page from his other Marauder-turned-mentor's book. She's beautiful, yes, but why do I feel this way? I've seen beautiful women before--Blaise, Katie, the Patil twins--even Ginny, when she doesn't flee like I'm an Inferius. Why is this witch so special? It's almost like she's a... veela.... Oh!” Harry takes a deep breath and opens his eyes slowly. The heady sensation he had felt earlier dissipates somewhat and he sees before him merely a stunningly gorgeous young woman, mortally beautiful, not an apotheosis of the sublime.
Gathering his courage, he addresses her, “I, uh, I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Delacour.... Please, uh, call me Harry.” He swallows heavily, marshaling his daring, “The beauty of your kind is, um, legend, yet you credit them in a way that the stories cannot.” Harry blushes heavily. Oh, really suave there--you're stammering like an idiot. He hopes the line didn't come out nearly as badly as it sounded to him while delivering it. He bows formally, takes her proffered, petite hand in his, and gives it a gentle kiss. Her smile widens and Harry silently thanks his godfather for his unorthodox and, at times, highly embarrassing lessons.
“Merci, 'Arry. You are too kind. Call me Fleur,” she curtseys.
“Do you have any family, Fleur?” Harry finds the witch's company at dinner to be more relaxed than their initial meeting. After an initial awkwardness, their conversation has flowed freely and they share an unexpected rapport.
“Oui, My parents, of course, and my little sister, Gabrielle.” The beautiful witch tells him of her father, Gerard, an undersecretary in the French Ministry and an ambitious politico. Her mother, Sandrine, is an accomplished society matron and heiress of a large fortune. Fleur's grandmother, a full veela, married into wealth just before Grindelwald's rise and the wizarding war the muggles know as World War II.
As the witch starts to regale Harry with the many virtues of her younger sister, Harry's attention wanders to the meal and their other company. The food is excellent, if rich. The veal is prepared with a red wine and truffle sauce, the asparagus, cooked to perfection.
Harry notices a telltale buzzing sound, as Albus, Madame Maxime, and Madame Corrida speak quietly with one another behind a mild audial obscuring charm that makes it impossible for him to listen in on their conversation.
“What about you, Harry?” His attention returns to the witch in front of him. “Tell me of your family?” Harry notices that he loves the sound of his given name in her patois, which sounds like “'Arry”.
Fleur's interest in him seems genuine. He doesn't entirely trust her, but he doesn't distrust her either. “I'm sorry, Fleur, but it's not a very happy story, perhaps too distressing for dinner conversation. Are you sure you wish to hear it? You probably know most of it already....”
Fleur raises her hands to her mouth as she realizes the indelicacy of what she has asked. “I'm so sorry, Harry, I forgot. Please forgive me, I am so insensitive....”
“There is nothing to forgive, Fleur.” There is a long silence between them and he feels awkward at her chagrin. He takes a deep breath, “I'll tell you--if you would like to hear, that is.” She nods meekly, not quite meeting his eyes. “As you know, my parents were slain by Voldemort when I was a baby.” She shudders at the name and the others at the table turn to stare at Harry. “Somehow I managed to survive the killing curse, but everyone's heard about that. Nobody really knows how it happened.
“Then I was given to live with my aunt and uncle, my only surviving relatives, but... I wasn't really very happy there.” Harry stares at his wine goblet, barely noticing that the table has drawn quiet and all have turned their attention to the now quiet boy. His tone is flat, devoid of emotion. He buries thoughts of the truth, of how he was abused in his youth, and sets his goblet back onto the table. “The happiest day of my life was when I learned I was a wizard and could leave them.”
He glances at his plate, the half-eaten food no longer holding as much appeal for him. Why is appetite so tied to emotions? “The second happiest day was this summer, when Albus asked me to be his apprentice. It meant I could instead return to my real home, Hogwarts.”
“Harry,” the Headmaster cautions and gives him a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Harry knows that he is being indiscrete--his treatment by his relatives is not common knowledge and could be politically damaging to the Headmaster and others if it were made public.
Harry nods at the Headmaster and smiles affectedly at the adults, who rejoin their discussion. After taking a sip of wine, he turns to his enchanting companion. “I'm fourteen years old, Fleur, and I've met Voldemort four times, escaping by pure luck, nothing more. I'm famous, but I hate my fame because of its terrible cost.” He smiles grimly. “I don't need to be a seer to know what, or more importantly, who I'll find in my future....
“So tell me more of Gabrielle....” He adroitly changes the subject to happier things.