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 critical comments.
CHAPTER 3
La Côte d'Azur and the Hogwarts Express
Harry knocks wearily on the front door of the Burrow, his head still spinning from the International Portkey journey from France. The ramshackle manse is surprisingly silent on the eve of the Quidditch World Cup. He had expected to find Ron, the other Weasley males, and Ginny glued to the wireless to listen to the preliminaries. He waves his wand over the center of the door in a complex pattern to disable the locking wards, a technique taught to him last month by the eldest Weasley, and lets himself into the house. Pinching a butterbeer from the refrigerator, he waits on the horsehair couch in the study in front of an empty fire grate. He sips the butterbeer and rolls the sweet and tangy liquid over his tongue before swallowing. After several minutes, he closes his eyes for a nap.
A flurry of feathers and bumps about his head awakens him. The room is dark--apparently he had slept through the afternoon--and he spies Pigwidgeon, Ron's diminutive owl, fluttering about. With seeker reflexes, he snatches the owl from the air and unties the two letters affixed to its leg. He removes his wand from his pocket, casts a lumos, and begins to read.
Harry,
I guess I forgot to tell you that dad got us tickets to the World Cup. Hermione and Dean are here and we got one of the upper boxes. It's brilliant! You should see the Irish Chasers, they move like they share one brain. I hope the Gryffindor chasers are watching, since they could learn so much. Viktor Krum is playing for Bulgaria. We watched him during warmups....
Ron's letter continues on this vein for most of a page. Harry can't bring himself to care about the match anymore, so he skims through to the end. He invited Dean? Harry would have loved to have attended the Cup Finals with the only family he'd ever known, but tickets have been sold out for months. He probably would have been able to acquire, at insane markup, seats for himself and Remus from a reseller, but he had declined in order to spend the evening with the Weasleys before returning to school.
He unfolds the second letter, also addressed to him, but in Hermione's looping handwriting.
Dear Harry,
Can you believe Ron? What a spectacular prat! I just had a row with him because he didn't have the courtesy to inform you of the change in plans. Even though Ron said you were busy, he should tell you, at least, in case your plans change and you try to meet us at the Burrow.
As you already heard from Ron, Mr. Weasley was given tickets at the last minute and he took the family, Dean and me. Ron and Dean seem to get on well. I like Dean, I guess, but he's not you. It's too bad you were so busy and couldn't come instead--I would have loved to catch up more, but I'm sure Professor Dumbledore had you doing something important and educational.
The World Cup is amazing; I've never seen so many witches and wizards assembled in one place. There are rows of enchanted tents in a meadow in the middle of muggle England. Repelling and notice-me-not charms surround the fields, though the magical community is not exactly blending in. I just saw a wizard wearing a pink nightgown, necktie, and diving fins, of all things!.
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you, Harry, and look forward to seeing you again.
Love,
Hermione
Harry's heart sinks. Change of plans? What plans? What's that about? He looks around for a scrap of parchment and finds none, so he scribbles his reply on the back of Ron's letter,
To Ronald B. Weasley:
Thank you for your prompt missive. I hope you find the match enjoyable. Please convey my regards to your companions.
Sincerely,
Harry J. Potter
"Here, Pig. Take this to Ron. Peck him on the ear if you could."
"Zis way, Harry!" the veela calls over her shoulder, laughing musically, as she darts between a pair of rough, craggy stones. Harry tries to keep up as he scrambles down the winding path to the beach. Though he's been to Beauxbatons many times these past few weeks, accompanying the Headmaster on his frequent visits to the school, this is the first time he has gotten the chance to come to the beach. The sandy trail ahead is lined with tall grass and white and pink mediflores.
Passing the stones, he steps out onto an expanse of tan-grey sand and sees the deep, blue water up close for the first time. The surf is tame, with small waves rolling onto the shore. His companion stands before him with arms raised to the heavens, her white sun dress and platinum hair billowing in the gentle salt breeze. Fleur's eyes are impossibly blue with reflection of water and sky. Harry's heart stirs at the perfection of the moment.
"La Côte d'Azur, c'est magnifique, non?"
"Oui," he gasps. "It's amazing."
"Your first time to the French Riviera, Harry?" she asks playfully, stepping closer. He tenses slightly and forces himself to relax.
"My first time to any beach," he replies, embarrassed. He turns around and looks up the bluff from which they had come. The Beauxbatons castle stands above, majestic, slate and white marble. Oppressive beauty. Harry spots a rock nearby on which he sits facing the sea. He removes his shoes and socks and rolls the cuffs of his canvas trousers up. Fleur slips off her sandals and sits next to him.
"You've never been to the beach before, Harry?"
"No, my relatives didn't take me on holiday when I was young." He looks off at the horizon. "They sometimes left me with a neighbor, a squib, though I didn't know it at the time. I actually didn't know that I was magical until I received my invitation to Hogwarts."
"And the other times?" she asks, knowing the answer from her study of his dossier.
Harry shrugs. "I'm pretty good at looking after myself."
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Fleur breaks it. "It is a pity the irises are not in bloom."
Harry turns to look at the veela and he notices that she is biting her lower lip and that her eyebrows are slightly lowered, with a faint crease between them. He feels that he is being a poor guest and he says to her earnestly, "Thank you for bringing me here, Fleur. It's brilliant--I've never seen anything so beautiful."
The veela blushes under his gaze. "It's best to see Beauxbatons during summer. See? We have ze beach to ourselves." She dons a false smile and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm.
"Don't you get lonely?" he asks quietly.
She pauses for a long time, her smile fading to a memory. "I am always lonely, Harry. It is the nature of the veela for her to be alone.” Her jaw tenses.
He nods. "I understand."
Fleur bites back a retort as she realizes that he probably does. The two sit in silence and watch the waves.
After several minutes, they stand and Fleur takes Harry's hand in hers. "Come, let us walk." A strong wind picks up, feathering Harry's hair and tousling hers. She clutches his arm and walks closely beside him, her strides matching his. The two squint into the gusting breeze as they step together into cool surf.
"Harry, it is time for us to commence the next phase of your training." The Headmaster walks to a circular table in the corner of his office and retrieves a tiny leather-bound tome from a small drawer beneath the edge of the table. Harry follows and stands at the shoulder of his mentor and watches as the Headmaster searches the ancient book, his gnarled, spotted hands gently turning yellowed, cracking leaves. He stops at a page dominated by a solitary, complex rune resembling knotted cords surrounding a disembodied eye. "This is the visum rune, Harry. Have you seen it before?"
"No, sir."
"That does not surprise me. Few know of its existence, fewer still, its effect. This is the first rune I wish you to join, the glyph of seeing. When you can understand this rune properly, we will take steps for you to 'absorb it into your being,' so to speak." Harry looks confused. "I apologize. By 'understanding,' I mean, as the centaurs would say, 'erudintia,' a thorough knowledge of something's true essence. 'Absorb it into your being' means just that--an erudintia of yourself would reveal the essence of this glyph. I regret that the English language has no proper way to describe the process." He pauses dramatically, bowing for effect. "You see, Harry, I am a Runescrive and I plan to teach you the art as well."
The Headmaster looks amused that his momentous pronouncement has had little effect on his charge, who asks, "Albus, what is a Runescrive?"
"An ancient, secret form of magic that very few practice today. One that, because of your apprenticeship bond, you will find it impossible to discuss in detail to anyone, even the delightful Miss Granger. Teaching you this art is one of the reasons that I sought you as an apprentice--I believe that you shall require this power when you face Voldemort."
Harry mulls this over. "Is it the 'power he knows not?'"
"No," he says quickly. "Voldemort is also versed in the art, though not as fully as you in time. It will help you as you face him, but it is not the key to defeating him."
"How does it work?"
"Rather well, in fact." He chuckles at Harry's annoyed look and takes the time to pop a lemon drop into his mouth. "Think of glyphs such as this one as foci, similar to your wand in that they enable you to channel your magic into certain forms. The visum rune is the simplest of the basic forms and it affords a natural affinity to magical sight. In time and with practice, it will allow you to sense certain types of magical auras and to see the invisible. This is the first of the runes that you will learn. Alas, like anything worthwhile, learning will be slow and take much effort." He clears his throat. "Especially so, as I must insist that you return to me your time turner. We cannot risk an adverse interaction between the different forms of magic."
Harry nods at his mentor and hands over his treasured device. The Headmaster places it within a side cabinet fashioned from dark wood and chants a quiet incantation to seal it. Harry sighs, wistfully. With the time turner and liberal use of the Room of Requirement, he had recovered more than a year of intensive training during the summer, a year spent as part of a dysfunctional family of him, Sirius, and Remus. A year that, though difficult, he will treasure for the rest of his life, short as it may be.
"So this visum rune is how you can see through my invisibility cloak?"
"Yes,” the older man chuckles, looking at Harry over the rims of his glasses, “though if I may, I could have merely charmed my spectacles to accomplish the same thing."
"What's involved with 'absorbing the rune into my being?' That sounds, well, weird."
"It requires first that you condition your mind and magic to accept the rune, not too difficult for a benign, neutral rune such as the visum. But it will require sessions of a special form of meditation that I will teach you and that will be aided substantially by our bond.
“As for the mechanics of 'absorbing into your being,' you use an athame, a sort of sharpened wand, to carve the rune onto your flesh and you imbue the rune with special ink that I will help you to prepare. The ingredients are rare, often quite expensive, and specific for each rune. You may not propagate this information, Harry, but preparation of the ink is the foremost purpose of the magical art of alchemy--all the 'lead to gold' claptrap was merely a side effect of some of the more exotic concoctions we alchemists discovered.”
Harry nods, a bit overwhelmed by the deluge of information. “However, unless your godfather has corrupted you beyond what I would have expected, you should have ample financial means with which to secure the ingredients." He gives Harry an avuncular smile.
"Following an incantation and further meditation, you will experience the benefits of absorbing the rune. It is initially quite painful and the time required for adjustment varies with the wizard and depends on your affinity for this type of magic as well as the rune."
"Will it leave a scar? And what other kinds of runes are there?"
"Provided the process goes as planned, it won't scar, but it will leave a faint mark invisible to those who themselves do not bear the visum rune or are insensitive to seeing magical auras. Even then, one needs a special charm to see many of them. I dare say you have more than your share of scars already, so I trust you won't miss not having a few more?”
Harry nods.
"As for your second question, that is not one I shall answer now. You will understand why in time. Suffice it to say that there are many runes and one must be exceedingly careful with what one absorbs. The more powerful the glyph, the more profound its effect on the bearer. Indeed, some change him utterly, rendering him a shade of his former self, subservient to powers beyond mortal control. Others bind his soul more securely than the tightest noose. You already know of one such mark, derived, albeit awkwardly, from one of our runes...."
The Dark Mark.
Fleur divides the young girl's white-blonde mane into three bunches and starts to comb one of them. The two sit in tandem upon the ivory duvet that covers Gabrielle's bed. The fine comb catches in the knots.
“However did you get so many tangles?” she sniffs, annoyed, taking a more coarsely toothed comb from atop a light blue, lacquered bureau. Like all of the items in the Delacour chateau, the piece is refined, affluent, though not opulent. She starts working the snarls out of the younger girl's white-platinum hair.
“I had riding lessons today,” Gabrielle says, innocently.
“Why did you not plait your hair? It will take ages to comb out properly!”
“Because, silly, you were going to be here and I knew you'd fix it for me.” The diminutive veela smiles cheekily over her shoulder at her older sister. “And then mama would not leave us alone for as long.”
Fleur sighs, fighting a smile.
Gabrielle smirks. “So, dear sister, tell me about him....”
“About whom?” Fleur temporizes, setting down her comb.
“Whoever it is you are thinking of...” She giggles. “You've met someone, I know. I overheard papa and mama speaking of it.”
Fleur, scandalized, covers her mouth. “Shh, mother will hear.” She lowers her voice, “I've met a boy.” She sighs. “We are just friends, of course. Robért...”
“Is he rich?” she interrupts.
“Oh, he is quite wealthy, but he is the last of his family. I doubt mother would be interested in him--she would see no alliances to be gained and, unlike with the Dupuis family, who are so well connected politically....” She frowns in resignation.
“Where did you meet him?”
“At Beauxbatons. He is an English boy from 'ogwarts who has been visiting occasionally these past weeks. We have become friends. Maybe even good friends....” She beams at the younger girl. “The best part is that I can be myself around him.”
The younger girl gasps, her eyes wide. “Really? He is not affected by you?”
“No, he is strong.” She continues combing her sister's hair, her strokes gentle, yet firm. “We have shared many stories. He is a hero in a young man's body and, unlike my fiancé, he is most humble. The other day we visited the beach....” She sighs distantly. “I took his arm and we walked in the surf and talked for hours.”
“Has he tried to kiss you?”
“He is a perfect gentleman. But what would you expect from Dumbledore's apprentice...” She smirks at her younger sister.
The young girl appears stunned as she puts the pieces together. “Harry Potter!” she exclaims. Then, with lowered voice, “You've befriended le Survivant?”
The elder witch pauses for a moment, then nods quickly. The younger girl giggles excitedly.
Harry walks down the aisle of the Hogwarts Express and peers into each compartment as he passes. Everywhere he sees excited faces ready to start another term, enthusiasm he doesn't himself share. He spots several acquaintances, but he feels detached, as if he were set apart, his long isolation and training and the emotion-deadening side effects of the runic joinings acting as barriers, much like the windowed doors of the compartments. When he reaches the last car, he spots Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Ginny sharing a compartment. With a hollow feeling in his chest, he knocks and slides the metal door open slowly.
“Hi guys.” Harry says, feeling awkward, his memory of the World Cup evening still raw in his mind.
“Harry!” Hermione chirps, standing to give him a quick hug. “I didn't think you'd make it since you've been at Hogwarts already.”
“I didn't either, but this morning Albus asked me to ride along in case something happens. And we both thought it'd be good if I caught up with you lot.” He smiles at Hermione, who blushes, looking quickly at Ron and returning to her seat.
“Albus, eh Harry?” Dean says, stiffly. “First names with the Headmaster--I guess it's true then? You really are his apprentice?” He stands, shakes Harry's hand formally, and sits back down, his arm trailing across the top of the seat behind the youngest Weasley. The stocky boy is dressed in muggle clothing--black jeans, trainers, and a baggy shirt. He looks comfortable in his repose.
“Yeah. Lots of work. Anything beats living at the Dursleys, though.”
Ginny looks at Harry briefly and smiles, blushing. “Hi Harry.” Then she looks away as Dean's arm drapes around her shoulder and he makes a show of pulling her back to lean on him.
“All right there, Harry?” Dean says, with a hint of defiance.
“Yeah. Everything's good, Dean.”
Dean gives Ginny a possessive look as he squeezes her shoulders. Ginny tries to avoid looking at Harry's face, so she settles for staring at his chest, then his legs, his waist, his groin, then blushing deeply and looking down at her hands, folded across her lap.
Dean interprets Harry's gaze and says proudly, “We've been going out since the World Cup. Did you go, Harry?” He tilts his head. “I didn't see you there, heard you had some VIP's to attend to.”
“No, I had other plans. Some friends had invited me to their place to listen to the game on the wireless.” He glances back at Ron, who is pointedly looking away. “But we didn't get together after all. So Ireland won, eh? I guess Seamus is going to be impossible now....” He forces a smile, the only one in the cabin, and he senses that it's time to leave. “Congratulations, Dean. Treat Ginny well--she's like a little sister to me, you know.” He smiles again at the blushing redhead and turns toward her brother.
“Ron.” Harry says, nodding at the red-haired boy in shabby clothing who is looking out the window.
Harry stands in the doorway for a moment of awkward silence. He notices Ron slide his right hand over Hermione's left as she turns to glare at her silent companion. “Right, then. I guess I'll be going. Be seeing you back at school.”
“Goodbye, Potter.” Ron spits as the door slides shut.
“Potter! Pathetic.” The familiar drawl pulls Harry out of his reverie. Harry's companions in the compartment realize for the first time who their quiet companion is and their faces register the shock.
“Malfoy. Eloquent and self-referential, as usual.”
“Sitting with first years?” He throws his head back and laughs haughtily. “This just keeps getting better. I take it everyone now sees you for the fraud that you are, apprentice to the old fool. What's he teaching you? Mudblood loving?”
“Please leave, Malfoy, before you hurt yourself. And take your... friends with you.” Harry gestures to Crabbe and Goyle. He doesn't mind getting into a fight, but he doesn't wish to risk hurting the children in the cabin. Malfoy backs out of the compartment, but before he leaves, he sends a parting shot.
“I see the Weasel has finally got his mudblood princess. Jealous, Potter?”
“Not particularly,” he lies.
“Right,” he sneers, “Maybe one of the firsties will be blind enough to hold out for you. What about you?” He grabs ahold of a girl's chin and turns her face upward, assessing her as if she were a horse and not a person. “You'll be a looker in a couple of years. Better stay away from this trash though,” he says, gesturing with his thumb toward Harry.
“I don't want to speak with you, Malfoy. Please close the door and raise the average IQ of the cabin.”
“IQ?” he asks blankly.
“Forget it, it's over your head.” One of the young students, a brown-haired muggleborn dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse, giggles, earning her a glare from the pale boy.
Draco Malfoy sneers, then slams the door shut. Harry turns his attention back to the book on his lap. After a minute, something doesn't feel quite right. He notices a faint glow of yellow in his peripheral vision through the cabin door window, the same glow he sees now when he looks at his invisibility cloak.
He stands and walks to the door, drawing his wand. Peering out, he sees nothing, but he can't chance leaving it, not with defenseless students about. He turns to a chubby, spectacled boy nearest the entrance and tells him, “After I leave, close and lock the door. Don't unlock it until we get to Hogwarts and the train is stopped. And stay away from the window.” His intensity sobers the child, who nods nervously, like the others in the cabin.
He steps into the corridor and moves toward the fore of the train, where he had seen the flicker last.
A door slides open suddenly and Harry gasps as sharp pain explodes in his back. In an instant, he sees red spots in front of his eyes and he notices a metallic taste on his tongue. He whirls around, raises his wand, and aims into the center of the faint, yellow mass. Before he can get his curse off, his arm is deflected by a hard, open-handed punch to his wrist that snaps it cleanly.
Gritting his teeth, Harry grabs his wand with his left hand as he brings his shin up into the groin of his assailant. The cloaked man jabs again with the knife, this time piercing Harry's right side under his ribcage, the blade angling upward into his lung, and he gives the knife a painful twist. Harry makes a quick motion with his wand and whispers in his mind, confringo, his lungs lacking the ability to expel air. The mass before him explodes in a wet burst of red spray and shredded flesh. A mangled body, wrapped in a blood-soaked invisibility cloak, falls to the floor.
Harry feels lightheaded, his blood loss becoming acute. He clutches at the cord hanging from his neck as he slides down the wall to the floor and then onto his side. His wounds paint the walls and the window of the nearby compartment vibrant, arterial red. His head bounces on the floor in the midst of a spreading pool of blood--his or his assailant's, he cannot tell--as he whispers weakly the pass phrase for his emergency portkey, “Beam me up,” Remus's idea of a joke. He loses consciousness before disappearing from the train.