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, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to the DLP crew for their critique.
Note: Starting at Chapter 9, the story will be rated 'M' for language and some adult situations.
CHAPTER 8
Yule
"Harry, it's good to see you. You look so much better!" The veela approaches the table with radiant grace. Dressed in a white, satin shirt and champagne slacks, she looks like an angel.
"Hi Fleur." Harry says with a genuine smile. He has missed her. He rises from the table, takes her proffered hand, and bows, kissing it briefly, his lessons from Sirius coming into the fore. He is careful not to allow the kiss to linger beyond the bounds of propriety--a proper greeting, not an overt flirtation. Until he knows more about the other man in her life, he doesn't want to chance giving the wrong impression. "It's good to see you too, fair maiden," he jests.
Holding her chair out for her, he seats Fleur and then himself. "I hope you don't mind my choosing this tea shop. The other, Madam Puddifoot's, is a bit, um..."
"Tacky, oui. This is much better." She smiles, perfect teeth framed in soft, dark pink lips. Harry catches himself staring at her and blinks before pouring tea into small, ceramic cups. Fleur notices a hint of shiny black beneath Harry's light blue, button-down shirt. "Harry?" she questions, reaching across the table to gently tug his collar open further.
"Oh, yeah. Forgot I was wearing it." Harry unfastens a few buttons and exposes the blue-black scale armor beneath.
“I've never seen something so magnificent." Harry is surprised to find himself blushing at the thought of such a breathtakingly beautiful woman gazing at his chest in admiration, if only to admire his undergarments. Her attention also elicits another response, one that causes him to shift uncomfortably in his seat and slam his Occlumency shields into place.
"It was a gift from Charlie Weasley and the other handlers." He holds his teacup awkwardly as Fleur's fingertips continue to stroke the strong, yet flexible, scales. “He was the one I saved in the stadium that day.”
She sits back in her chair, her eyes wide. "From the dragon you fought? I still can't believe you did that--that was incredibly brave!" She slaps him on his shoulder playfully. “And incredibly dangerous. I was so worried about you!”
Harry blushes at her compliment. After the affair, he hasn't enjoyed talking with anyone about it, though somehow doing so with Fleur doesn't seem so uncomfortable. "Charlie managed to get this made for me from the hide. I really like too it since, well, people have this habit of trying to kill me and I feel safer in it."
"It suits you," she says, admiringly.
The two chat amicably for almost an hour, their conversation somewhat less facile than Harry had remembered, as if there were something between them now that wasn't there before. He gathers his Gryffindor courage and asks the question that is been prominent in his mind, "Fleur, may I ask you a personal question?"
"Harry?"
"Before the first task, I saw you walking to Hogsmeade with a man. You both seemed... happy to be in each others' company."
Fleur looks stunned for a moment before she recovers her practiced guardedness.
"Who is he?" Harry asks, his voice tightening slightly. He is a bit surprised by the intensity of the feelings he has for his friend.
There is a long pause. "Robért Dupuis, my intended," she says, flatly. She passes her wand over her left hand and an elegant diamond solitaire appears, set on a platinum band, the hue matching her hair perfectly. An instant later, she replaces the glamour charm over the ring.
Harry swallows and looks down at his half-empty teacup. He tops off Fleur's cup, his own, sets the kettle on the trivet, and looks up. His expression is a pinched smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Congratulations to both of you.” He swallows heavily. “Robért is a very lucky man and I would be honored to meet him someday..." He looks down at his hands.
Fleur looks crushed. "Harry, I..."
"Fleur, there's nothing to explain," he interrupts, touching his finger gently to her lips and causing her to shiver with the intimacy of the gesture. "I am and will always be your friend. If you're happy, then I'm happy for the two of you." His words and smile are warm, but the witch doesn't miss the pain in his eyes or the slight quaver of his voice.
"Well then,” he says with finality. “I'm afraid I need to get back to the castle. Lots to make up, you know, lying on my back for a month." He tosses some Sickles onto the table and stands, offering the witch his hand. Fleur rises as well and the two look at each other in awkward silence.
“Goodbye, my friend." Harry turns to walk away, the soft touch of her fingers trailing over his own. Fleeting intimacy before cold separation.
“Harry, I must say, you've made excellent progress. At this rate, you may be able to join the focus rune before the new year!” The Headmaster leans back into his leather chair, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Thanks, Albus.” Harry smiles from across his desk, pleased that at least one of his plans is moving according to schedule.
Since recovering from his injury, he has redoubled his efforts to excel, both in the classroom and in his private lessons. These efforts have paid off handsomely, if at the cost of alienating his classmates further. His former friends won't even look at him--only Hermione and the Weasley twins associate with him at all, and they are busy with their own pursuits. Harry has taken to wearing his invisibility cloak between classes to avoid the annoyance of dealing with his peers.
“Can I ask a question, sir?” Harry twists the toe of his new trainers into the flagstone floor of the Heamaster's office.
“You just did, but please, ask me another.” The old man steeples his fingers and readies himself for what he knows is on his pupil's mind. Harry's surface thoughts are intense enough that it doesn't take much of a Legilimens to read them.
“Who else is trying to kill me? I know about the Death Eaters already, but we know they didn't do the thing with the dragon.” His eyes narrow and the air in the room chills. My, the boy's aura is getting strong. “I think you know more than you've told me.... This has something to do with you and my apprenticeship, doesn't it?”
“Alas, Harry, I had hoped to delay this discussion, but you are correct. I do need to tell you more. Your Godfather and Professor Lupin were most adamant about this. Tell me, Harry, what you know of the Rosicrucians....”
After an hour's discourse on the history of Runescriving and the ancient feud between the schools, Harry finds himself becoming increasingly furious. “Albus,” he interrupts, incredulously, “why didn't you tell me any of this before I started?”
“Would it have mattered? Would you have turned down my offer had you known?” The Headmaster's voice is frustratingly placid.
“That's not the point!” Harry leaps to his feet, shouting. The portraits on the walls of the office mutter loudly about the lack of decorum. “I deserve to know what I'm getting into so that I can make informed decisions. I'm not just some pawn....” He sits heavily onto his chair and lowers his voice. “I thought you respected me more than that, sir.”
“Harry, I'm very sorry. I forget, sometimes, that with you I am not dealing with a child, but rather an adult in a child's body. I should have mentioned this before, but please believe me that there was something of which I wanted to be sure...”
“Don't lie to me,” he seethes, his teeth clenched. “You knew the Rosicrucians were behind this since the train. You could have told me that much at least.”
“Indeed, I did, and I could and should have. But I wanted one more datum before I spoke with you.”
“And that is?”
“Fleur Delacour.” Harry leaning back into the soft chair, stunned. “Her father and fiancé are both Rosicrucians. I believe it highly likely that she was tasked by one or both to spy on you for the Order of the Rosy Cross.”
Harry buries his head in his hands. “You're certain about this?” He has to ask, but he knows the answer in his heart.
“I am sorry, Harry, but yes. I know this is hard for you, since I understand that the two of you are close.”
“Do you think Fleur is a member too?” He asks.
“No, I don't believe so. Not yet, at least. I haven't seen any runes and I do not believe that she even knows of the Order in a formal way. But, as I'm sure you're aware, she is an extraordinary young witch, intelligent and resourceful. She is being trained by her father in intelligence gathering and analysis and I somehow doubt that she is completely naïve about what the men in her life are up to.“
“How dare you, Mother. I will not be attending the Ball with that, that creature!” Fleur looks at the Delacour matron, a tall, slender, silver-haired half-veela who, though over sixty years of age, looks closer to twenty five. The woman's robes, the color of old lace, are tailored masterfully to accentuate a perfect figure and unnaturally long legs. Her jewelry, blue diamonds set in white gold and platinum, is understated and refined, matching and accentuating her cold, blue-grey eyes.
“Indeed you shall, little girl.” The elder veela's features harden into an icy, withering glare, her mature aura lending authority to her diktat that forces Fleur into instinctive submission. “You have a duty to your family and I will not hear discussion to the contrary.”
“But, this Malfoy is loathsome in the extreme! If I cannot go with Robért, should I not attend with Harry Potter instead? Would his fame not be of value to our family? And Father has asked me to...”
“What your Father wishes is unimportant, dear. This is a social and political matter, which is my purview. Fame?” she laughs, her mellifluous voice carrying an undertone of derision. “You must learn, child, that fame is a fickle, ephemeral thing. We seek to ally power, not fame. The Malfoy line is strong, both in France and England, and we have sided with them in the past. I have made this entreaty to encourage a stronger alliance with them in the future.” She pauses to look out the window of Fleur's room in the castle. She sniffs haughtily as she notices the grim roughness of the Hogwarts stonework. She turns to her daughter, who is standing, her head still lowered slightly in deference to the older veela. “Who knows--I have yet to find a proper match for Gabrielle. If this Malfoy heir is, as yet, unattached, perhaps we would benefit from assigning her to him?”
Fleur looks up, her high cheekbones flushed with anger. “Please. I have met the scion of the Malfoy family, this... Draco,” Fleur spits his name acidly. “If you see strength in him, then you are blind. He is entirely inadequate for Gabrielle.”
She takes a step toward the elder veela. “Mother, it would be wise for you to consider Harry Potter for Gabrielle instead; he is the head of an ancient house as well.” She looks the taller witch in the eye, as if issuing a silent challenge, “He and Draco Malfoy are bitter rivals. If I were to attend with the Malfoy heir, it would threaten any possible alliance between our house and Potter's.”
The elder witch hesitates for a moment and then waves her hand dismissively at her daughter. “Tosh, I care not for trifles. This Harry Potter is of little consequence. The matter is settled--you shall attend with Malfoy.” She leaves the room with sublime grace, her voice trailing behind her, “...and I recommend the ivory dress....”
“Mr. Potter, a word please.” Harry's former Head of House stops him as he is leaving his transfiguration class, his battered bag looped over his shoulder.
Harry turns around and approaches his instructor as the last students file out. “Minerva?” They are alone, so it is safe to use her given name.
“Harry. I've heard a rumor that you have no date for the Ball. Is that true?”
“Yes.” He sets his bag atop one of the polished wooden tables in the classroom. Each student shares a table with a partner, their two chairs set so that they can face the front of the room, where the Professor gives her demonstrations.
“Interesting. Were you thinking of asking anyone? You only have a few days, you know.” Her voice is warm, completely unlike the stern persona she projects in her classes.
“No. I don't plan to go.” Harry gives her a sly smile, though his eyes betray a hint of pain behind the cheekiness.
“Mr. Potter!” She lowers her voice, “Harry, let me remind you that as a champion you are obligated to take a companion from one of the schools. I will not have my House's reputation sullied...”
“Minerva, technically I'm not part of your House anymore. And as for the date, there's really nobody I am interested in taking.”
“Oh?” Professor McGonagall raises an eyebrow. “How about the Beauxbatons champion, Miss Delacour? I see that you two are quite friendly.” Harry shakes his head. “Even we teachers were young once, Harry. I can see you two have feelings for each other.”
“She and I may be good friends, but she's with another.” Harry pauses for a moment, his green eyes pained. Closing them, he turns, walking slowly past a row of tables to the opposite side of the room. “Fleur is engaged to a man who is not a student. She can't bring her fiancé to the ball, so she chose to accept an invitation to accompany... Malfoy instead.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “This was after she said, 'no,' to me.” Harry opens his eyes and turns back toward the Professor. “As I'm sure you can imagine, Malfoy finds this hilarious and has used it to humiliate me publicly.
“I hope you can appreciate that I don't really want to waste an evening watching Fleur be with him.” He has walked back toward the transfiguration professor, his voice intensifying as he inadvertently enhances it with his magic. “Now let me tell you exactly why I couldn't care less about this stupid ball.
“If I could, I'd withdraw. I never wanted to compete--I was only entered so someone could have a better chance of killing me.” He sees her confused look and continues, point to his scar. “Voldemort is returning, Minerva. I feel him in my mind and he's getting stronger. There was a prophesy at the end of last year that said he was coming back and I'm doing something that night to help me when I face him. And somehow, I don't think the Goblet of Fire is going to force me to go to a stupid ball....
“When I say I have bigger things on my mind, please believe me. You're one of the few in this place that I truly respect.” He spins on his heel, takes his bag from the table, and strides quickly out of the room.
“Harry!” Professor McGonagall calls after him, stunned, and she strides to the door. By the time she reaches the corridor, he has disappeared.
"Bookends!" Harry walks into the sixth year Gryffindor dormitory.
"Did you hear something?" Fred asks.
"I may have. It sounded like our investor, Harry, but it can't be," George replies.
"Too true. Harry has wit."
"Aye, Harry would never be content with something as uninspired as 'bookends.' He would push himself harder. This man is obviously an impostor." The two turn conspicuously back to their work.
"Guys..."
"No problem, Harry. What can we do you for?"
"Was that witty, George, or are we hypocrites?"
"Hypocrites, clearly."
Harry blinks. "I was wondering if I could get you two to do some research for me."
"What kind of research?" George picks up quill and parchment, all business now.
"The kind with prank value if you can pull it off and practical value for me during the next task. You two are masters of explosives, right?"
"Of course, but you insult us so..." George sniffs. "We are grand masters of explosives, if you must know."
"Excellent. You see, what I need is something that will work underwater. And I'd like it to work like the muggle device called a shape charge...."
“Albus, today I need to join the focus rune,” Harry announces as he bursts into the Headmaster's office. The phoenix ruffles its feathers in annoyance at being woken.
“Harry?” The Headmaster, amused at his protegé's excitement, reaches for a lemon candy from a crystal tray and pops it into his mouth.
“I've been researching and preparing for this for over a month. I've done a bunch of thaumaturgical and astrological calculations and they all point to the same thing--if I do it on Yule, close to new moon, the focus rune will be the strongest and will join the best. I already have the inks brewed and ready and I have the athame Ollivander made with Fawkes's feather.” The scarlet and gold phoenix trills and shifts its feet on its high brass perch at its being mentioned. “I was thinking of doing it outside, since I think there might be a bit of a backlash. Do you think you might have time to double-check my notes though? I really don't want to stuff this and blow myself up....”
“Harry, I can see you've given this a great deal of thought. Yes, indeed, I will look over your calculations. I believe that Myrddin himself recommends this, as he joined the rune within Stonehenge. But, unlike Myrddin, we no longer have the magic of Stonehenge available to us, but I imagine Professor Sinistra's standing stones should more than suffice.” Harry bounces in his chair, eager that endless hours of preparation are finally coming to fruition. “But, Harry, I must insist that in return for this favor, you do one for me.”
He pauses and stares sternly at his charge, “I had meant to discuss this with you earlier after your illuminating chat with Minerva. I wish for you to attend the Ball this evening. It is important for appearances that you make a showing and therefore avoid offending our guests. And, as my apprentice, if you were to miss the Yule Ball, it would have political repercussions that I wish to avoid.” He opens a drawer of his desk and removes two rolls of parchment tied with silver string. “I've been watching your progress, Harry, and I've taken the liberty to do my own calculations. I believe that the best time for the ritual will be at midnight, which should leave ample time for you to dine and share a dance or two with your date.”
Harry shifts in his chair. “About that, sir. I don't actually have a date and I don't have any formal robes I can wear and....”
“Then, young Harry, I suggest that you contact your Godfather for advice. You may use my fireplace. I shall be in my private study reviewing your calculations.”
The Headmaster rolls up the several sheets of parchment that Harry had brought in and lain upon his desk. As he leaves, he glances back at Harry and uses passive Legilimency to read his surface thoughts, “...carve into my own flesh... pain... Fleur with Malfoy... get me in the proper mood....”
“Moony! Get your furry arse over here!” Sirius shouts in the dark dampness of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. Remus rushes into the study. “Harry needs help,” Sirius says. “He has to go to the Yule Ball.”
“If I'm not mistaken, Yule is today, isn't it?”
“Yeah. Typical Harry move to give us oh-so-much lead time. And he doesn't have any dress robes--remember his last set got ruined in that portkey stuffjob. Oh, and he doesn't have a date.” The usually playful man has transformed into what was jokingly known as “Serious Sirius” or “Sirius squared” back in the Marauder days, the mode he would fall into when planning an elaborate ruse. “He says he can't spend much time on this today--he's got to prepare for some sort of ritual thing at midnight.” Sirius is pacing across the room, obviously stimulated by the challenge.
“Does he have time to get to a tailor?” Remus asks.
“Nope.”
The werewolf puts his hand to his chin and thinks. “I've got some ideas. What about his date? Can we ask your cousin, the auror?”
Sirius shakes his head at his friend. “I thought of that too. It has to be a member of one of the schools. The dance is open to years four and up, except by invitation. The hard part is that Harry only plans to have a single dance with the witch, then leave. Whoever we set him up with has to be available and willing to go under those conditions.” He smiles, “And she'd better be attractive--we've got to have standards for our boy.”
Remus puzzles for a moment, then his face brightens. “I know just the person.”
“And I give you our fourth champion, Harry Potter, with his companion, Luna Lovegood,” the Headmaster's sonorous-enhanced voice announces over the crowd.
Harry enters the Great Hall with a pretty, blonde witch on his arm, her pale blue robes softly complementing unusually large, blue eyes. Luna blinks as the couple's photographs are taken and her hand tightens on Harry's arm as the two make their way to the Champions' table. Harry looks imposing, resplendent in black dragonscale armor and boots and a thick, black cape clasped about his neck with a silver chain. Across his chest, he wears a wide, emerald sash. About his waist is a silver belt holding an ornate scabbard with a ruby-encrusted blade, Godric Gryffindor's sword. He looks every bit the imposing champion as he eases some of his magic into his aura to enhance, subtly, his appearance to appear vulpime and confident, a trick he learned from his mentor. The crowd is enthralled as he leads Luna toward the table, where he seats his companion and stands behind her chair.
The Headmaster nods at the assembled champions and they sit, signaling to the crowd that it is time for them to find places as well. Harry catches Hermione's eye and gives her a smile and a nod as her date, Viktor Krum, rises from the table to extend his hand to Harry.
“Harry Potter. Es good to see you,” The two share a firm handshake. He gestures toward Cedric. “Found dat Cedric and you are seeker. Am thinkink is tournament of seekers. Fleur, you are seeker, no?”
The platinum-haired witch shakes her head. “Non, we do not play Quidditch at Beauxbatons. But I would be a seeker were I to play.” She smiles at Harry, who returns a slight smile.
“I'm a seeker for my house team,” volunteers Draco proudly, as he tries to enter the conversation. His words are met with silence by the others and an uncomfortable cough by Cho Chang.
“Don't mind him,” says Luna in a singsong voice. “His hair is infested with wrackspurts and it affects his brain. They cause the muggle disease, Tourette's, you know.” She turns toward Fleur, her voice matter-of-fact, “I would stay away from mistletoe. Nargles nest in it and you really don't want to go mixing nargles with wrackspurts.”
Hermione opens her mouth to say something, but stops when Cho titters. Soon, the entire table is laughing heartily, save for Malfoy, who flushes with anger, and Luna, who beams at having made everyone so happy. Harry gives his date a brilliant smile and makes a mental note to thank Remus.
The occupants of the table make small talk over dinner. Malfoy drawls, just loudly enough for Harry and Luna to hear, “So, Potty, I didn't think you could get much lower than mudbloods and blood traitors, but then you invited Looney....” Luna looks confused, but hurt by his comments.
Harry turns slowly toward the ashen haired boy and notices that Malfoy's cheeks are slightly flushed and that he continually looks over to his companion, apparently affected by her aura. Harry keeps his voice even, cold steel, “I ask you to refrain from further insulting my date or me, Malfoy. I do not wish to have to challenge you to defend her honor.” He glances at Luna, who smiles, faintly. “I suspect Miss Delacour would be most upset to lose her companion this evening.” Fleur turns at the mention of her name, though Harry suspects she's been listening all along. “Besides,” he says in a swotty voice, gesturing toward Malfoy's misplaced cutlery, “if your dueling skills are as coarse as your table manners, I would have little doubt as to the outcome.”
Draco sneers at Harry. “Right,” he says, louder, so the entire table can hear him. “Like you could beat me in a duel. Just the kind of idle threat I would expect from a half-blood who doesn't even own proper robes...” The conversation at the table ceases and tension rises. Harry considers making another retort, but he feels himself losing control of his anger. Instead, he closes his eyes and slams his Occlumency shields into place. “At least the Malfoys have some pride...,” he hears as his focus draws inward. “...tainted their line... mudbloods and half-bloods... disrespectful... pathetic...”
Fleur interrupts, “Enough! Viktor, Cedric, if you would please avert your eyes....” She turns to Draco, places a hand on his cheek, and, before he can protest, releases her veela aura. Harry feels its familiar warmth wash over him and he watches in detached amusement as Draco becomes beguiled utterly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The sound of chattering silverware is heard from nearby tables, as young men fall prey to her aura from a distance. With a sigh, she relaxes her magic and whispers something in Draco's ear that causes him to lean back, dazed, eyes glassy. She mouths, “Sorry,” to Harry, who gives her a curt nod. The witch says to the others, “Okay, you may turn back. I apologize to all of you for my guest's rude behavior.”
Cedric blinks and then looks at Harry, who has returned to his pudding. “Harry,” he says, quietly, “How do you do that? I wasn't even watching and I was entranced all the way over here.” Cho glares at her date, obviously not amused by his reaction.
Krum nods, appreciatively. “Has iron vill, Harry Potter.” He shovels some cake into his mouth, his fork in an overhand grip, and swallows. “Can stand up to dragon and weela. Vill make good professional seeker.” Harry smiles at the compliment as the tension at the table dissipates.
With the last course complete, the champions lead their dates to the floor and Harry and Luna share the first dance, a moderately paced waltz that Harry manages to get through without incident. As the music fades, he leads her off the dance floor.
“Luna, thanks for a wonderful evening. Unfortunately, as you know, there's something I have to do tonight. If you like, I can escort you to your common room or you can stay--Viktor said he can escort you back with Hermione later.”
“That's okay, Harry. I think I will stay and look at the punch bowl. There's a very lovely shade of green over there and I was really hoping to see some tarryluber chicks.” She smiles at him, adding as an afterthought, “I had fun tonight, Harry.” She gives Harry a quick kiss on the cheek and steps back, her bright blue eyes shining happily.
“The feeling is mutual, Luna,” he says as she skips away. Harry turns and walks toward the door. Just outside, he glances back and sees Fleur and Draco dancing to a slow piece, their bodies close. Draco catches Harry's eye and, with a smirk, slides his hand down the open back of Fleur's robes, moving agonizingly slowly towards her bum. Harry hurries off, not wishing to see more.
The fuming veela stops her pacing and sits down upon a stone bench. She buries her face in her hands. Above, trellises train creepers thick with yellow and white blossoms, coaxed into blooming by magic. Globes of faerie light illuminate the maze of pathways, some of which are being used to amorous effect by couples.
“Dear girl, it is much too cold for you to be out here without a cloak.”
She looks up and sees the Hogwarts Headmaster standing near her in the rose garden. Against her better judgment, she meets the man's eyes, his twinkling, cerulean orbs seeming to bore deeply within her. After a long moment, she breaks away and casts her gaze downward.
“May I ask why such an enchanting witch is alone this evening in the garden when her presence would brighten our festivities so?”
Fleur pauses for a moment, then continues, her words carefully chosen. “My companion and I had a disagreement on proper--what is ze word--comportment this evening.”
“Ah, yes. Mr. Malfoy. I believe I heard his screaming earlier....” He chuckles and winks at her. “Amusing and, no doubt, effective.” He pats her hand and she smiles slightly. “Though I suspect his own family will punish him more stridently. Despite his upbringing, I fear Mr. Malfoy has had a history of such indiscretions. I assure you that his actions are not representative of the student body, but rather of a singularly ill-mannered boy.” He smiles wryly at the witch. “And I must thank you for turning down my apprentice's invitation. Though I doubt he would agree, in the end it all worked out for the best.”
“Headmaster?”
He smiles, leaning down to pat the back of her hand. “In time, child. Can I impose on you to walk with an old man to keep him company for a short while?” He offers her the heavy, black cloak he is holding. “There is a lovely view from the north of the garden that I should like to see and I suspect that we shall have a most interesting show soon.”
The Headmaster picks himself up, brushing the dust off his scarlet and silver robes, and offers a hand to the witch who has fallen beside him. The air hums with power as remnants of the shock wave reverberate. He notes with amusement that a few of the standing stones in the distance are broken or knocked over. “A most interesting display, would you agree, Miss Delacour?” His blue eyes are twinkling.
“Merde.” The witch is breathless, her knees still weak from the thunderous explosion of light and magic. “Forgive me, Professor. Whatever was that?”
“No apologies needed. That was, shall we say, growing pains?” He looks into the distance and notes two dark shapes rushing toward the stones. At her confused look, he continues, “A colleague has been undertaking a research project for me that has just completed.” As he watches, the two shapes emerge with a third, who hovers above the ground and glows, to the Headmaster's eyes, with the telltale signs of magical invisibility. The sounds of voices approach as guests rush to the garden. “One that involved magic requiring strong emotions. Based on the results we just witnessed, I should think my apprentice was successful.”
“Harry?!” Fleur says with alarm, looking toward the source of the blast. “Will he be all right?”
“I believe so. He is alive anyway, or his companions would not be moving so hastily to bring him to Poppy's gentle ministrations.” He gestures to a tall, slender man and a large, black dog who are hurrying toward the castle, the man holding his wand aloft, as if maintaining a charm on someone or something. The Headmaster smiles at the witch, who has a confused look on her face at not seeing Harry. “Invisibility cloak. Harry is unclothed and modest.”
He turns toward the castle. “Shall we go inside? Oh, and please, keep the cloak for this evening, but return it to Harry tomorrow in the hospital, if you would be so kind. I suspect he shall awaken sometime in the late afternoon.”