Sitra Ahra

Seventh Movement: A Shape in Fair Disguise

April 29, 1991

Three months after Harry’s first training session

“Rictumsempra!”

“Protego!”

Harry’s conjured shield batted away Nicolas’ hex, sending it flying into the perimeter dueling wards.

“To the right,” Nicolas said, firing another tickling hex at him. Harry angled his wand to the right as he conjured another Protego. The crimson shield, conjured at a forty-five degree angle, deflected the hex perpendicular to his body, where it dissipated harmlessly into the translucent blue wards.

“Come on, Harry!” Nicolas urged. “Your wand does not have to follow the exact trajectory of the shield! Again, the right way this time! Morsus!”

Harry brought his wand up again, snapping it to the right and twisting it as he spoke the incantation. The shield appeared slightly curved this time, again deflecting the minor hex away from him.

“That is how I want to see it every time! Again, to the left! Morsus!”

Harry repeated the same motions as before, only on his left side this time. Upon the deflected spell hitting the wards, Nicolas broke into a wide grin.

“Excellent, Harry! Right back at me this time! Confundo!”

Harry tracked the yellow charm with his eyes, in a split second determining its position. He jabbed his wand forward, conjuring the shield so that the flat center lay in the path of the charm. His aim true, the spell struck the flat part of the shield, and deflected back the way it had come. Nicolas, a roguish grin upon his face, cut his wand across his body, casually swatting the spell into the wards.

“Deactivate perimeter dueling wards,” Nicolas loudly spoke, prompting the translucent blue wards to fade away. The wards gone, he walked over to Harry.

“Very good work today, Harry. Your progress on the Protego Shield has been quite remarkable. I believe you will have it nearly mastered by the end of the week.”

“Thanks. When are you going to teach me to swat aside spells?”

Nicolas chuckled at Harry’s question.

“You certainly are the shrewdest snot-nosed child that I have ever had to work with.”

“At least I have one honestly earned title,” Harry retorted, grinning.

“Indeed. While you certainly have the speed and reflexes to learn it, it is an advanced technique, and I want you to be comfortable with the basics before we move on at all.”

“Is this how you learned magic?” Harry asked.

“Not at all,” Nicolas replied, shaking his head. “Throughout the years, I have found that most eager wizards set out to learn as many spells as they can, the philosophy being that a large spell lexicon is the most important facet of dueling.”

“But isn’t that true?” Harry interjected.

“It is not,” Nicolas stated. “When a wizard rushes to learn many spells, they do not focus on the mechanics or multiple uses that a single spell can have. There is a chasm of difference between ‘knowing’ a spell and being privy to all of its nuances. Ultimately, a wizard with mastery of five or six spells will be far more effective than one who has basic knowledge of thirty.”

To Harry, this seemed be completely at odds with everything he’d read.

“I’m…um…wouldn’t having thirty different spells make up for not being great at them? I mean, doesn’t that make it harder to defend against?”

Nicolas chuckled at Harry’s apparent confusion.

“Not necessarily. The Protego Shield, as you know, is a low-level shield, designed for defense against low-level spells. With a competent protego, which you are well on your way to possessing, a wizard has a defense against almost every other low-level spell. Since a wizard who has mastered the Protego Shield can deflects spells back at the caster with reasonable accuracy, the shield has an offensive component. Since spells can be deflected at angles as well, this simple shield spell can be used both as an offensive and defensive tactic if in combat with two wizards at once.”

“Yeah, that does make sense,” Harry begrudgingly responded, prompting a knowing smile from Nicolas.

“If I did not possess some sort of wisdom after over six hundred years, it would be a very sad state of affairs.”

“Perenelle thinks it’s a sad state of affairs,” Harry added helpfully.

“That is unquestionably true,” Nicolas deadpanned.

-

In no time at all, Harry began to regard training hours with Nicolas as his favorite time of the week, and would have happily continued with his established routine until he went off to Hogwarts. Perenelle, however, had other ideas. Towards the beginning of May, she finally confronted her husband.

“He needs to interact with children his own age,” she said firmly.

“We have been over this before,” Nicolas replied, shaking his head. “We cannot chance an information leak. If any British children learn of his whereabouts, it is a liability risk, which could get back to the Ministry. We long ago conceded that getting Harry to Hogwarts without the awareness of the Ministry was more important than his social life.

“Then foreign children it shall be,” Perenelle concluded, her tone allowing no argument. “I know just the family we need.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but the breathtaking blond Veela who arrived on a warm spring day two weeks later was not it.

The Delacour family apparated directly into the Flamel living room, a loud crack accompanying their arrival. There were three of them: a father, a mother and a daughter. The woman was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Tall, lithe, with golden blonde tresses that spilled down to the middle of her back, even her skin seemed without blemish.

The man standing besides her, clearly her husband, was of approximately the same height. As light as his wife’s complexion was, his was dark, olive-tinged. Dark hair hung down on either side of his face, neatly parted in the middle.

Harry, however, only had eyes for their daughter.

She was her mother in miniature, only more radiant. Her flowing hair was silvery, making her almost too bright to behold. While her parents were dressed in ornate, expensive looking robes, she was clothed in a light blue sundress. Even the slight pout upon her face could do nothing to detract from her beauty.

The woman approached Harry, and gave him a chaste kiss upon the cheek, breaking him free of his reverie.

“Eet eez a pleasure to finally meet you, ‘Arry,” the woman greeted warmly. “I am Apolline Delacour, and zis eez my ‘usband, Claude.”

The man in question stepped forward, hand extended. Harry gripped the outstretched hand and pumped it once, feeling the strength behind the grasp.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Perenelle, Mr. Potter.”

“Nothing too bad, I hope,” Harry replied, trying to maintain his composure.

Claude smiled at his statement. “Nothing too incriminating, I assure you. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Fleur.”

The teenager in question sent a curt nod in his direction, before tossing her hair over her shoulder, and resumed examining her nails. Harry was left without a reply, but was luckily saved by Perenelle.

“Fleur, dear, our manor grounds are quite lovely this time of year. Perhaps Harry could take you on a tour of it?”

Fleur didn’t look thrilled at the prospect, but forced a smile onto her face.

“I am sure ze grounds would be beautiful, madame, but I don’t want to impose on your ‘ospitality.”

Apolline quickly overrode her daughter.

“A lovely idea. Fleur would be absolutely delighted to have young ‘Arry show ‘er about ze grounds.” At the lack of response from her daughter, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Een fact, Fleur would be delighted for zis tour now,” Apolline supplied, her voice slightly raised, the emphasis on the last word.

Fleur let out an angry breath of air, displacing her silvery locks slightly.

“Yes, I would be most delighted,” Fleur replied with barely concealed contempt, before fixing her gaze on Harry. “Well?” she demanded, hands placed upon her hips.

Harry jumped slightly at being addressed, and tried to smooth over the moment by pretending he wasn’t at all dazed by Fleur’s astounding beauty.

“Er, yes, let’s go,” he said, valiantly ignoring the adults surreptitiously smiling – or in Nicolas’ case, outright laughing – at his embarrassment.  

His face burning, he moved towards the room’s exit. He opened the door for Fleur, who passed him without a second glance, nose up in the air. Undeterred, he hurried after the rapidly retreating form of Fleur, who was walking quickly, forcing him to break into a jog to compensate for his relatively short legs.

Unable to catch up before she exited the manor, he caught up to her as she was staring about the grounds. She actually seemed to be pleased by the vast greenery around her, which was a pleasant change from her earlier demeanor. Encouraged, he tried to talk to her.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen the Flamel manor?”

Fleur turned to him, flipping her long, silvery hair over her shoulder. The bright mid-day sunlight reflected beautifully off it, almost giving her a heavenly glow.

“Oui,” Fleur replied. “Ze Flamels rarely ‘ave visitors, but the Flamels wanted the leettle boy staying with zem to socialize. And zen of course Monsieur Flamel asked us, and eet eez is a great ‘onour. Nicolas eez a great legend, don’t you know?”

Fleur’s hair. It was so beautiful. And her figure –

Wait, was she waiting for an answer?

“Uhhh….”

Harry’s articulate reply was met with a smile by Fleur, whose radiance seemed to increase by the second.

“And Papa said, we will be delighted, and I theenk ‘e ‘as been ‘ere once, but eet eez my first time, and eet eez a beautiful place, eez eet not?”

“Umm…”

Fleur seemed encouraged, rather than deterred, by his incoherence.

“Mais oui, not as beautiful as our ‘ome, or as Beauxbatons, but eet eez a delightful place, still.”

Her radiance increased even more so, and a recessed part of Harry’s mind started screaming, telling him that something was wrong.

“I would like to see zis place very much, ‘Arry,” Fleur said, before sighing heavily, exaggerating the motion. “Merde, but I do not want zis leetle boy around me like ze lost puppy.”

She motioned to the stairs of the manor, a triumphant smile upon her face.

“Why don’t you sit ‘ere, and leave me alone?”

His foot twitched slightly, before reason began to kick in.

Hey asshole, see that triumphant smile? She thinks she controls you! Show her no one owns you!

His mind coming back to him, Harry clamped down mentally, expelling the shining brightness from his sight. Quickly the sheen disappeared, leaving behind only the beautiful French girl, and her fading smile.

“That’s a really nice trick you have there,” Harry deadpanned.

Fleur scowled at him, not at all pleased with the turn of events.

“What do you know of eet?” she demanded.

Oh, Harry knew a great deal. He knew that he was really pissed off that someone had the audacity to fuck with his free will. He’d had enough of people fucking with his mind to last a lifetime.

“I know that I don’t go people’s houses, and try to use mind control on them.”

Fleur laughed derisively at his statement.

“Oh yes, ‘Arry. Zat eez what ze leetle boys always say. Merde, poor us, zat evil girl made me do eet, I couldn’t help myself. Zey always like to blame ze girls.”

“Well, when you use your Veela aura, there’s not much we can do, is there?”

Fleur was angered by Harry’s accusation.

“How dare you accuse me of using ze Veela charm?”

Harry smirked at her, not buying her righteous indignation.

“You know, I’ve read about Veela, and how they use their charm to get people to do stuff. I thought your were one when I arrived, but my mind stopped working. I think you were using it from the start, trying to control me, to get out of doing something your parents forced you to do.”

Fleur’s intent gaze turned from mere anger to burning rage.

“You know nothing of zis, what eet eez like to be Veela!” she yelled at him, composure temporarily lost.

“Yeah, you’re right, I don’t know much about enslaving young boys,” Harry retorted with mock sincerity.  

With an inarticulate cry of rage, Fleur withdrew her wand and yelled “limax evomere!”.

Harry grinned maliciously as he withdrew his own wand, twisting it slightly while he conjured a shield. Her curse rebounded off it, taking the exact trajectory he had planned. His smile widened as the green spell zipped past her shoulder, shredding the left strap of her sundress.

“Merde!” Fleur exclaimed, thinking the spell had missed her completely. “I am so sorry, ‘Arry! I don’t know what came over me!”

Harry, noticing the left side of her strap begin to lose its battle against gravity and droop down, began to turn around. He considered not telling her, but she had shown remorse for her actions.

“The spell clipped your dress,” Harry explained, his back to the part-Veela. “You might want to do something about that.”

“Merde!”

He tried not to laugh as he heard Fleur set about repairing her sundress. While it might have been satisfying to laugh at her, it certainly wouldn’t do anything for English-French relations. After a minute, her voice rang out.

“Eet eez safe to look.”

Harry turned around, to see Fleur’s sundress completely repaired. Harry’s ensuing surprise was not feigned; it looked as good as new.

“That’s impressive,” Harry said, motioning to the mended strap. “It looks like new.”

“Merci, ‘Arry. Please forgive my actions, now eez not…nevermind,” she finished with a sigh.

Whatever was bothering her, he didn’t quite think it excused her rude actions or words, but chose to let it slide.

“What spell was that?” Harry asked, having never seen it before.

Fleur seemed eager to leave the subject of her temper flare behind, and answered quickly.

“Zat was ze slug vomiting ‘ex.”

“Why the hell would you use something as disgusting as that?” Harry asked incredulously, repulsed by the concept.

“Not zat eet mattered,” Fleur replied dismissively, “you were able defend eet well. Zat was an impressive shield. Did Nicolas teach you?”

“Yeah, he did,” Harry replied, not happy with Fleur’s casual dismissal of her own actions.

“Eet eez clear ‘e did a good job. Surely such talent will be attending Beauxbatons in ze fall?”

Harry shook his head slightly.

“No, it’s something of a family tradition to go to Hogwarts.”

“Why? Beauxbatons eez clearly a better school,” Fleur insisted.

“Dumbledore is the Headmaster of Hogwarts,” he retorted. “Isn’t he considered the most powerful wizard in Europe?”

“And what does zis power ‘ave to do with ze teaching? Beauxbatons ‘as ze finest professors een all of Europe!”

The fresh memory of easily deflecting her spell came to mind, eliciting a smile.

“How about we put your theory to the test?”

Fleur laughed derisively.

“Zis leetle boy theenks ‘e can do better than me? I do not theenk so, ‘Arry, as eet would only embarrass you.”

Harry’s smile stretched even wider.

“Bold words coming from the girl who just got beat by someone ten years old.”

“Zat was a lucky thing,” Fleur claimed, eyes narrowed.

“Well, why not let me prove it wasn’t just luck?”

Fleur started laughing uproariously, tears beginning to leak from the corners of her eyes.

As Harry fumed at Fleur’s less than accommodating reaction, she walked over to him, and gave him a condescending pat on the head.  

“I will not be responsible for ‘urting a leetle boy who eez under ze care of ze Flamels. Mama and Papa would not be ‘appy eef I did zat.”

Harry scowled, his desire to prove himself being denied.

“I think that you’re just afraid of losing to a ten year old.”

Fleur shook her head in mock sadness.

“Ze leetle boy still will not give up, and continues to believe ‘is pathetic attempts to goad me to fight will work. Let me assure you, ‘Arry, zey will not. You are just a leetle boy, who thinks a good shield makes ‘im an expert.”

Harry, starting to lose his temper, spun around and stormed off. Fleur let out a cruel laugh at his departure.

“And now ze leetle boy stomps away like ze spoiled child ‘e eez, probably to go ‘ave ‘imself a temper tantrum. ‘Ave fun, leetle ‘Arry.”

Harry refused to rise to her bait, despite how angry he was getting. Nothing would delight her more right now than him yelling back at her.

“Maybe ze boy eez starting to grow up a leetle,” Fleur said to his retreating form. “Eef ‘e continues to mature, maybe ‘e will be ready for zat test een a few years.”

“Maybe,” Harry replied without turning around, walking back toward the manor.

And that time could not come soon enough for him.

-

July 31, 1991

Six months after the break-in

Harry was honestly trying not to laugh, but the spectacle before him made it an exercise in self-control.

In what he could guess had been an attempt to follow a muggle tradition, the Flamels had decided to make Harry a cake, with a candle for each of his eleven years on Earth. However, the similarities between that and a muggle birthday cake ended there. As opposed to the tiny, slim candles on muggle cakes, the Flamels had used large candles an inch in diameter, their heights increasing the closer to the center they were located. The central candle was two inches wide and perhaps almost three feet tall.

All of this was located on a cake perhaps eighteen inches wide. To Harry it looked like an upside-down, frosted chandelier.

“Happy birthday Harry!” Dumbledore, Nicolas and Perenelle exclaimed.

“Thanks,” Harry remarked, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Even if the cake was a little unorthodox, it only heightened his joy at the celebration.

“Blow out the candles!” Nicolas urged. “That is how the muggles do it, correct?” he added, slightly less sure of himself.

Harry nodded.

“Yeah, they do, but the candles usually aren’t this big.”

A slightly devious smile upon his face, Harry withdrew his practice wand and pointed it at the candle tips.

“But I think I know what to do. Flaminis.”

The whispered “gust of wind” spell extinguished the flames efficiently, allowing for the Flamels to pluck the candles out one-by-one. Once all the candles were removed, Harry couldn’t help but think that a family of moles had taken residence in the cake, making tunnels as they pleased. Regardless, it still looked pretty good.

Perenelle, however, was looking at the birthday dessert with mild trepidation.

“I do not think the cake ended up close to the muggle tradition we were aiming for,” she began, before Harry cut her off.

“But it looks great, Perenelle. I have nothing to complain about.”

Perenelle beamed at his statement, and set about cutting apart the cake.

Fifteen minutes later found Harry with his belly full of chocolate cake, feeling deeply content. The remnants of the meal cleared away, Dumbledore withdrew a thick letter from the folds of his robe.

“I know this may strike you as a surprise, Harry, but you have been accepted into Hogwarts.”

Harry gasped overdramatically.

“I can’t believe this! Nicolas, Perenelle, did you have any idea that I was a wizard?”

Nicolas shook his head solemnly.

“No, we did not have the faintest idea,” Perenelle added.

“Well, I guess this is a surprise to all of us then. I guess I’ll have to skip that squib class you two signed me up for.”

Harry dropped the shocked veneer, and began to laugh while opening his acceptance letter. He eyed the contents carefully, marking every one in his mind.

“Almost everything in your letter we can order by mail,” Nicolas began, “but there are a few items on the list that we will have to go to Diagon Alley to acquire, specifically your wand.”

“Are you ever going to tell me who my practice wand belonged to?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Most certainly not,” Nicolas cheerfully replied.

Harry groaned loudly, and pantomimed bashing his head off the table, eliciting a mocking laugh from the alchemist. For a moment, he marveled at how comfortable he felt with the Flamels, which provided a very sharp contrast to how he felt upon first arriving. It truly was wonderful to be among people he trusted.

“Stop winding him up, Nicolas,” Perenelle warned. “Any time you want to go to Diagon Alley, to get away from this fool, just let me know,” she offered, turning her attention back to Harry.

“Is now a bad time?” Harry asked, mostly kidding.  

His question prompted laugher from the other three adults, none louder than Nicolas’. As it died down, Dumbledore turned his attention to Harry.

“It is comforting to see the Flamels give up the pretext that they are not teaching you magic.”

“Did using my wand to blow out the candles give it away?” Harry asked with mock wide-eyed innocence.

Dumbledore sighed theatrically.

“It did cause me to have my suspicions. What has my senile French counterpart taught you?”

Perenelle inclined her head at Dumbledore’s words, smiling in complete agreement.

Nicolas merely shrugged in response.

“Did you expect me to refute the senility claim? I would not be able to deny it with a straight face. Go ahead Harry, tell him what I have taught you, but please leave out the part about poisoning his brackish afternoon tea and scones.”

Perenelle covered her face with her hands in resignation, while Harry and Dumbledore chuckled.

“Nicolas tutors me usually twice a week on magic usage, and we go over maybe a spell every two weeks.”

“Well,” Nicolas broke in, “do you want something done quickly, or correctly?”

Harry rolled his eyes slightly.

“That’s probably the most common saying around Flamel manor.”

A devious grin broke out onto Dumbledore’s face at his claim.

“From what I had heard about Nicolas, doing something quickly is quite com-“

Perenelle cut him off quickly before he could finish the thought.

“Albus, we are certainly not going there today! Besides, such predictability is beyond you.”

“Alas,” Dumbledore said, “how correct you are. My apologies.”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye suggested he was less than chastised, but Perenelle didn’t pursue it further, instead electing to hide the smile that was clearly threatening to break out upon her face.

“Yeah, moving on,” Harry said, “I’ve pretty much mastered the Protego Shield, the Body-Bind Curse, the Disarming Spell, the Silencing Spell, the Flare Spell, the stunner, the Confundus Charm and Levitation Charm.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the amount of spells he had learned.

“Very impressive. A great deal of those spells are even unknown to second year students. You have done very well for yourself. Do you feel as if you are ready for Hogwarts?”

“Yes, I really do, sir. Between all the things the Flamels have taught me, and all the books I’ve read, it feels like I’m prepared.”

Dumbldore nodded at this explanation.

“There is little doubt that you have a healthy head start on the curriculum. Admittedly, I wished for you to arrive at Hogwarts with knowledge equal to most of the other first years, as to not lend any credence to the awful rumors circling the Wizarding media outlets. Alas, in light of recent events, I agree that it is a good idea for you to possess the skills to defend yourself if necessary.”

“I do too, sir.”

“Indeed, Harry. Have you given any thought as to how to approach your classmates, with all the vicious rumors that have surrounded your return?”

“Well, not being sorted into Slytherin might help,” Harry replied with a grin. The Flamels chuckled at his statement, while a small smile broke out upon Dumbledore’s previously serious expression.

“Yes, I have given it some thought, sir,” Harry started, “I’ll just say that my earliest childhood memories were at the muggle orphanage. If they ask how I got there, I can just say that I was too young to remember. The Ministry only found me because my accidental magic got out of control, injuring me. Does that sound like it could work?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard slightly, considering Harry’s idea.

“Why yes, I do believe that will work. With the simplicity of the story, you will not get caught up in details, which is how most fabrications unravel.”

“That’s why I’m using the idea, since it gives me some wiggle room. If someone presses me hard enough about why no one could find me, I can always say that I don’t really know how the magic works.”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

“Very good, but how do you plan on addressing the public perception of your forays into the Dark Arts?”

“By telling the truth, that they’re all lies. I’ll probably have to be outgoing, talk to people, help them as much as I can. I guess I’ll just have to build up a good reputation.”

“Are you typically opposed to helping people?” Dumbledore asked, a playful smile upon his face.

“Not at all, sir,” Harry said quickly, “but I just like to stay out of other people’s business. I like being by myself, where I can do things on my own, at my own pace.”

Harry stopped for a second, trying to articulate his thoughts on the matter without sounding antisocial.

“I mean, I don’t hate people. I really like the people I’ve met while here. It’s just…I don’t feel the need to know other people. There are probably a lot of people at Hogwarts I could get along with, but…” Harry trailed off, not really sure how to say how he felt.

“Am I making any sense?”

Dumbledore chuckled lighting in response to his less than articulate response.

“Relax, Harry. I am not here to judge you. By my own admission, I possessed a similar mindset as a child. All I ask of you is to keep an open mind with regards to potential friendships, as that is largest regret I have with regards to my own childhood.”

Harry found himself unable to reconcile the ancient looking man in front of him with a child his age.

“I’m sorry sir, but I really can’t imagine you as a kid,” Harry replied.

“Speaking of which,” Nicolas broke in, “what sort of birthday celebration would this be without presents?”

“Certainly not a party I would want to go to,” Perenelle answered. “How about you, Harry?”

“You know, I think some presents would be really nice right now,” Harry agreed.

“In that case, it is fortunate I came prepared,” Dumbledore remarked. He reached into his robes, and took out a package enclosed in bright red wrapping paper.

“I do feel lucky right now,” Harry said, grinning as he began his attack upon the wrapping paper. The brightly colored crimson quickly fell away, revealing a silvery cloak woven from an unknown material. Harry looked at it for a second, trying to figure out what was important about this odd piece of fabric.

Dumbledore’s chuckles stole his attention from his investigation.

“Please forgive me; I should not have expected you to know what it was. Drape it over your body.”

Harry did as he was told, draping the thin cloth over his body. He noticed that it was quite light, but still wasn’t getting the full picture.

“Look down, Harry.”

Once again he did as told, expecting to see the silvery material covering his torso, but instead saw nothing.

“Wha…” was all that Harry could articulate before the truth revealed itself.

“This is so great! Thanks a lot, sir!”

Dumbledore smiled widely at Harry’s declaration.

“You are certainly very welcome. After all, I am merely returning a family heirloom, as your father lent it to me a long time ago.”

Harry stiffened slightly at the words.

“This used to belong to my dad?”

“And his father before him. That invisibility cloak has been in the Potter family for many generations. Aside from the obvious fact of having a high quality magical artifact, I thought you would appreciate having a prized possession of your family.”

Harry had very little knowledge of his parents. He had never seen a photo of them, or even knew what they looked like. He knew his hair was reportedly just like his father’s, and more than once had been told his eyes were exactly like Lily’s. Through this cloak, he finally had a piece of his parents.

“Thank you sir,” Harry replied quietly, his voice laden with emotion.

“Now Harry,” Nicolas interjected, “I expect you to use that cloak to make life as difficult as possible for Dumbledore. Are we clear on this matter?”

Harry’s mood brightened at Nicolas’ request.

“Just as long as you take the blame for anything I do,” Harry countered.

“That will not be a problem, as being a scapegoat is second nature to me. Perenelle and I also picked you up something, though we have clearly already been upstaged by the annoying sconer.”

Harry laughed in response as Perenelle handed him a long, slender package covered in bright green wrapping paper. Upon tearing the paper off, he let out an awed gasp.

Before him lay the Nimbus 2000, the top-of-the-line model produced by the Nimbus Racing Broom Company. The smooth oak of the handle was polished to an almost blinding sheen, making the broom appear to be some sort of heavenly object. Not a single twig in the end seemed out of place, either.

Harry lifted in carefully with his hands, as one would carry a newborn. He had read a great deal about brooms from the Flamel library, but never actually talked to them about owning one, regardless of how great it sounded.

“Would you like to admire it some more, or give it a try?” asked Perenelle, a slightly teasing tone to her voice.

Harry composed himself for a moment’s time.

“Trying it sounds good.”

After the statement, his composure broke, and he took off sprinting towards the grounds, broom in hand.

-

It had an acceleration of one hundred miles per hour in ten seconds. The twigs on the tail were trimmed to aerodynamic perfection. Its slim, sleek construction allowed for flawless handling.

And it was all his.

Beneath the bright sun and cloudless sky of a beautiful day, Harry had wanted to take to the heavens immediately, but the adults had implored him to hold out. Reluctantly, he complied with their wishes.

“Now Harry,” Nicolas reasoned, “I know that you are eager to fly immediately, but with such a potentially dangerous activity, which flying clearly is, I would like you to start at the beginning.”

Harry nodded impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, wanting to try his new Nimbus 2000 out.

“I do not mean to be a wet blanket, but I thought that first years were not allowed to have their own brooms?” Perenelle asked.

Nicolas looked scandalized at her question, while Harry let out a loud groan of defeat.

“I was sort of hoping that Professor Dumbledore might forget that rule.”

The man in question chuckled at Harry’s statement.

“Alas, that rule has been rescinded,” Dumbledore remarked, looking displeased at the thought.

“How can that be, Albus? That rule is in place for a very specific reason, and has been for hundreds of years.”

Dumbledore sighed deeply.

“The battles that I have had to wage every year with the Hogwarts board of governors, now armed with direct support from the Ministry, have become more difficult with each passing year. Alas, I have been forced to choose my battles, and with the most powerful governor on the board wishing for his arriving child to be on the Quidditch team, I had to concede this battle.”

Perenelle looked at Dumbledore with pity.

“How much longer are you going to be able to deal with their meddling into your affairs?”

“As long as I can, as it is a war that needs to be fought. I cannot abide the thought of how terrible Hogwarts would become for students if I were not there to act as a shield against the Ministry.”

Harry, fully cognizant of the weariness that entered Dumbledore’s voice when he spoke of his Headmaster duties, pledged that he wouldn’t let the asshole that was pushing around Dumbledore win. Grinning wide, he gazed up at Dumbledore.

“I hope the kid is in the same house as me, so I can take his spot on the team.”

The twinkle returned to his eyes at Harry’s statement.

“That would indeed by a welcome sight. However, I have spoken enough about unpleasant subjects today.”

“Indeed you have,” Nicolas broke in, before turning to Harry. “My wife and the sconer have stalled you for long enough. Are you ready to fly?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

“You looked like you did. Would you like for me to start off with a long-winded explanation of the history behind magical flight?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned to Perenelle for help.

“Can you please hit him for me?” Harry begged, prompting her to laugh.

“Barbarians, the lot of you!” Nicolas exclaimed. “I take it you will want to forgo the historical background, then?”

Harry just glared at Nicolas, which wasn’t very intimidating coming from an eleven year old desperately holding a smile back.

“Well, that dreadfully pathetic glare has caused me to feel sorry for you, so I will take pity upon you, for now anyway. If you would, Harry, please place the broom on the ground, to the right of you.”

Harry parted with the broom, albeit sadly, and placed it on the ground.

“Nearly every magical object in the Wizarding world contains what is referred to as ‘reactive magic’. They possess no magic on their own, but when interacting with a wizard, specific effects will occur. Hold out your right arm, palm down, and say ‘up’.”

“Up!” Harry yelled, following Nicolas’ instructions.

As if summoned, the broom leapt into his hand. In his surprise, he almost dropped the broom, eliciting laughs from the assembled adults.

“I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

“Apparently not,” Nicolas conceded, grinning. “If you were a muggle, the broom would not have moved an inch, as they possess no inherent magic to interact with the broom. As it is, the majority of magical children do not have a great deal of confidence in their own ability, which the reactive magic within the broom can sense. During the flying lesson that all first years receive, only a small portion of the students will have their brooms obey at once.”

Harry laughed in response.

“Did you know I was confident?” he rhetorically asked.

“Confidence is far too kind a word for your delusions of grandeur, Harry. Go ahead, mount the broom and float a few feet above the ground.”

Harry did as told, chuckling all the while. He marveled that despite how uncomfortable it appeared, he could sit without complaint. He had planned to ask Nicolas how he was supposed to control the broom, but to his delight he found it seemed to react to his mental command, his will. With merely a thought, he rose another foot, bringing his altitude to three feet.

Nicolas smirked slightly at Harry’s progress.

“I had planned to inform you of how to control the broom, but it would appear that yet again I am forced to scrap parts of my script. Float for a minute or so, get used to the feeling of being in the air.”

Harry couldn’t even nod. Being up in the air, he felt as if a great pressure were bearing down on him, that he needed to escape. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling increased, leaving him with only one option.

With a shout of triumph, Harry shot up into the air. The pressure immediately disappeared, leaving an all-encompassing euphoria. At thirty feet in the air, he stopped his ascent, and rocketed forward, accelerating madly. Wind whipped by him, trying to slow him down, but the broom was too quick. Sparing a look down, he saw that Perenelle looked slightly worried, while Dumbledore and Nicolas shared identical grins.

After a few minutes of circling the property, Harry regretfully descended. While never before had he experienced such a liberating feeling, he did feel slight embarrassment for so blatantly disregarding Nicolas’ instruction. However, upon arriving before Nicolas, he saw no trace of anger upon the alchemist’s face.

“Good show, Harry. Without exaggeration, I can say you were clearly born to fly.”

“Sorry for going off my own,” Harry apologized, still slightly flustered. He still didn’t know what came over him, but the closest he could describe it as would be like being caged his entire life, and suddenly having freedom within his reach.

Nicolas waved him off.  

“As I said before, you are clearly a natural-born flyer, and had absolutely no chance of resisting the call of the open air.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore added, “even your father, who was a gifted Quidditch player himself while at Hogwarts, did not possess such aptitude at your age.”

Harry’s good mood soared even higher with that news, knowing he was doing something his father also enjoyed and excelled at. Though he knew nothing about his father, in some strange way he felt closer to him.

“If the child whose father changed the rules is in the same house as you,” Perenelle remarked, “he is not going to have a chance against you.”

Dumbledore smiled wide at the thought, his eyes twinkling madly.

“As an impartial Headmaster, I will not be cheering for any individual student victory.

However,” Dumbledore added, his smile gaining a devious edge to it, “internally, I would be ecstatic to see the plans of a certain Hogwarts Governor backfire spectacularly.”

-

August 8, 1991

In a flash of green flames, Harry arrived to an unfamiliar fireplace and stumbled out, completely disoriented. Perenelle stood a few feet away from him, patiently waiting for his arrival.

“For your first time through the Floo Network, you did well,” she complimented, all while dusting off his clothes for him.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, gazing around him. The Diagon Alley public floo station was a single, open room comprised of brown and red bricks. An array of six fireplaces lined the far wall, including the one which he had recently vacated.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” Perenelle said, spreading her arms wide.

“You two, keep it moving!” ordered a aggravated voice from their right. Harry glanced to the source, which proved to be a scowling, bald man in a crimson robe, whose girth was still obvious despite the bulky robes. A strange insignia adorned the front of his robes, comprised of a white ‘M’ within a larger, black ‘M’.

Harry started to open his mouth to tell that boorish man off, but Perenelle grasped his hand, squeezing it once. He got the point, and kept his comments to himself as Perenelle led them past the still-glaring brute.

“What a nice way to welcome people to Diagon Alley,” he sarcastically scoffed after they passed the man.

“Yes, he was clearly a cad, but just ignore it. If you stay cross, you will be too angry to enjoy the wondrous sights Diagon Alley has to offer.”

They broke out into the sunlight as Perenelle finished her sentence. Despite now being relatively comfortable with magic and the way of life in the wizarding world, he still suffered from a lack of exposure to its society. With his first glimpse into the heart of Diagon Alley, he quickly forgot his vitriol, and drank in all that Diagon Alley had to offer.

Colors so vibrant he expected his eyes to shut down from spectrum overload assaulted him from every angle. Brick buildings crowded up on either side of him, brightly colored banners hanging down from them. Wizards and witches of all varieties passed in front of him. Stands littered the areas in front of the buildings, selling wares of previously unimaginable content.

However, in between the bustle of the busy Alley, crimson robed wizards stalked with their muscles tense, their eyes watchful.

“The guys in red really ruin the view,” Harry remarked.

Perenelle sighed deeply beside him.

“Sad, but true. Minister Fudge created the Ministry Militia to police public areas, in the wake of growing civil unease. The idea was to allow for the Aurors to concentrate on catching known criminals, while making the average citizen feel safer while shopping. I cannot fathom why people would support trading their independence for the illusion of security, but then again Nicolas and myself long ago took our leave from wizarding society.”

At his worried glance, she shook her head.

“The first time a child sees Diagon Alley, it should be an event of wonder, of discovery, not being harassed by some poor excuse for a wizard who could not pass Auror training. Just…I am sorry, Harry. Please forgive me for complaining so much to you.”

Harry looked up at her.

“We’ll just pretend that they’re not there.”

“A fine idea, Harry. Now, let us hurry along – we must not forget what we came here for.”

Earlier that week, Dumbledore and the Flamels had laid out the situation for him. The Ministry was actively looking to take him into custody, tracking down as many leads as they could. While they had no photographic evidence of him, there was always the possibility there was a Ministry internal memo which contained possible descriptions of him, based upon the physical characteristics of James and Lily. Perenelle had originally wanted to take Harry to wizarding Paris, but relented when being assured that every precaution would be taken to assure his safety.

Both Nicolas and Dumbledore were too recognizable to chaperone Harry, but Perenelle could pass undetected, being a rather anonymous figure compared to the other two. Since there were items that he truly needed for Hogwarts, it was decided the risk was worth it. Only several shops would be stopped at, in rigid order of importance. Ollivander’s was located right outside Diagon Alley public floo station, which was why they had arrived from that direction.

Staying close to Perenelle’s side, they both walked towards the left side of the street, where the reportedly eccentric wandmaker could be found. The building itself was narrow, almost as if it were hiding amongst the other buildings, not wanting to be seen. A large window took up the front of the store, behind which was a single wand on a faded purple cushion. A rickety sign hung above the door read “Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.”.

Harry couldn’t help but be disappointed in the appearance of the place. For a wandmaker held in such reverence by the wizarding world, from the outside it looked like just another seedy muggle pawn shop.

Perenelle seemed to read his expression as they approached the door.

“I know it certainly does not seem like much, but Ollivander is the most accomplished wandmaker in Europe, and perhaps even the world. Please keep an open mind.”

Harry nodded as they entered the shop, which caused a bell from somewhere deep within the back to chime. His first impression was that the shop was consistent with the “disrepair” motif. Mountains of small boxes cluttered the store in towers, in seemingly haphazard, random patterns. Before Harry could investigate further, a man stepped out from behind the stacks of boxes. He was short, with white hair, and eerie, silvery eyes. Harry unconsciously took a step backwards, putting Perenelle between himself and the creepy owner of the disorganized shop.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met before,” the man said to Perenelle, appraising her with his moon-like eyes, “as I did not sell you the wand you hold. However, our family’s craft has not changed through the centuries, and I see that you bear the craftsmanship of one of my ancestors. Has the passage of time been kind to your walnut wand?”

Harry noted that Perenelle seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the man as well, but was soldiering on.

“With routine upkeep, the wand my great-grandmother passed down has never given me reason for complaint.”

“Indeed,” Ollivander remarked, as if he knew that Perenelle’s story was a fabrication. He stated at her for a moment then nodded sharply, before fixing his unblinking gaze upon Harry. It took all of his willpower to not shuffle or squirm beneath his scrutiny, which lasted for several awkward moments.

“A Potter is always welcome within these walls, just as your father was before you,” Ollivander said, shattering the silence. “I remember it as if it were yesterday, when he walked through those very doors and purchased his first wand. Mahogany, eleven inches long, pliable, quite excellent for transfiguration.”

Ollivander paused for a moment before resuming his thread of thought.

“You do have your mother’s eyes. She favored a willow wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, nice for charms work. Well, I say your mother favored it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

Harry didn’t know how to reply to the strange man, so kept his silence, regardless of how nice it was to hear more about his parents.

“However,” Ollivander continued, “certain parties currently within Diagon Alley would not extend the same courtesy, which makes it prudent we conduct our business as quickly as possible.”

Perenelle, who had tensed steadily during the conversation, relaxed slightly at Ollivander’s suggestion, fully agreeing with the man. Harry was certainly puzzled, but was at least somewhat comforted that Ollivander seemed to be on their side.

Well, slightly comforted.

With no further words on the subject, Ollivander pulled out measuring tape, which began to measure his dimensions on its own. As he was being asked for his wand hand, the tape was measuring the width between his nostrils. Harry was less than convinced it was vital information, but felt an explanation would only unsettle him further. After a few minutes, either Ollivander took all the measurements he needed, or because he felt like he had unnerved Harry enough, the measuring tape dropped to the floor.

“Try this one Mr. Potter,” Ollviander urged, pressing a wand into his hand. “Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just give it a wave.”

Harry did as ordered, letting out a few small sparks, but there was certainly no connection with the wand, unlike the one Nicolas had given him.

“Very curious, Mr. Potter. This wand is clearly not suited for you, yet there was still some sort of reaction. Curious indeed.”

With no further commentary, Ollivander plucked the wand from his grasp and replaced it with another.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try it.”

He had barely waved it when Ollivander replaced it with another. This process continued itself for quite some time, to the point where Harry lost track of what particular wand he was trying. Oddly enough, Ollivander didn’t seem discouraged at all, but rather pleased by the growing piles of boxes surrounding Harry.

“Despite the rather strong reactions you’ve gotten from some of my wands, I can see that you still have not found the right one. This is all rather strange, Mr. Potter.”

Harry felt rather uncomfortable being called strange by Ollivander, but said nothing as the piles grew even taller.

“You’re quite the tricky customer, Mr. Potter, but despair not. Try this one, an unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Out of force of habit, Harry was already swishing his hand when the wand was pressed into it. He was wholly unprepared for the blessed, soothing fire that flowed through his arm when the wood touched his palm. Just as Ollivander’s face began to grow triumphant, a torrent of flame exploded from the wand, racing towards the prone, helpless wandmaker.

“Flamma conglaciatus!”

Harry watched in silent horror as the flames struck Ollivander – and passed right through him, without harm. The wandmaker merely withdrew his wand, and extinguished the flames behind him. Harry dropped the wand as if it were hot, and began to blubber an apology at Ollivander.

“You have my thanks for the quick Flame-Freezing Charm,” Ollivander said over his shoulder, overriding Harry’s apology attempts. “As for you, Mr. Potter, no apology is necessary.”

With a final wave, Ollivander vanished the remaining fire, before turning to regard him with eyes still devoid of emotion.

“Occasionally, perhaps once a generation, wizards are born that are vastly ahead of the curve with regards to magical power, thus their reactions to wands are far more violent than normal. These wizards always signal the dawn of a new age.”

Ollivander summoned the fallen holly and phoenix feather wand, and pressed it into Harry’s slightly shaking hand.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. It is curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother chose the last such wizard that changed the course of wizarding history.”

He reached out suddenly, and touched the lightning-bolt shaped scar upon Harry’s forehead with his index finger. Harry shrank back from his touch, but Ollivander had already drawn back his hand.

“The same wand that crippled an entire nation, which ushered in this new Dark Age that we still reside in, also gave you this scar. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. The wand chooses the wizard, as always. We should expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named accomplished great things – terrible things, but still great.”

Harry shivered at the words, dreading what was next, but apparently he had nothing left to say. Perenelle, eyeing the wandmaker distrustfully, paid the seven Galleons and motioned for them to leave. Harry thanked the man awkwardly, before rushing to the door as subtly as he could.

“Remember Mr. Potter,” Ollivander warned from behind him, causing him to stop in his tracks. “Be very careful. It is not just the brother to your wand that wishes you harm. Please take care of yourself.”

“I will, thanks,” Harry blurted out as he rushed out the door, not waiting to see if Ollivander had a reply. It occurred to him that if he never saw the creepy wandmaker again, it would be too soon.

As they walked away from the shop, Harry’s thoughts were in a whirlwind. They were interrupted by two hands upon his shoulders. He shook his head slightly, to notice Perenelle was standing in front of him, staring down with worried eyes. Her lips were moving, but for some reason he couldn’t understand her.

“Huh?” was the only reply he could articulate, his mind still far away.

At his word, she pulled him closer, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“It will be okay,” Perenelle reassured him, her head atop his.

Harry nodded automatically. If he and Voldemort shared the same wand core, was a part of the soul fragment that Voldemort hid inside the ring still there?

Perenelle released him slightly, before lowering herself, putting them at equal eye level.

“I know what you are thinking,” she began, “but Voldemort is not hiding within you any longer. If there was any trace of that vile monster still within you, then you would not be the wonderful, caring child that I have had the pleasure of watching over the past year.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.

His thoughts were still turbulent, but Perenelle’s words calmed him a bit since they did make sense.

She smiled before giving him a quick final squeeze, and rose to her feet. When her fingers reached down to grasp his own, he offered no resistance as she began to lead them on. Hand-in-hand, they crossed the street, and walked further into Diagon Alley. While normally Harry wouldn’t be comfortable with this sort of motherly treatment, with the recent mental thrashing he had received, it was comforting.

Up ahead, on the opposite side of the street, an imposing white marble structure reached to the sky, dwarfing all surrounding buildings. A set of similarly colored marble stairs led up a massive set of bronze doors, which were flanked by two small goblins in a scarlet and gold uniform. The wizarding bank, Gringotts.

“Please, Harry, just look forward, pretend it does not exist,” Perenelle urged as they walked past. Harry did as told, tearing his gaze from the majestic sight.

Upon learning his parent’s vault was located within Gringotts, Harry had wanted to visit it. He had used the pretext of paying for his school things and the Flamels for their hospitality, but really he wanted mementos of the parents he had never known. The Flamels had struck down the idea immediately, saying they had more gold than they knew what to do with, and could provide. Voices lowering, they had continued, explaining that if he were to access the Potter vaults, there was a high probability the goblins would sell the information to someone within the Ministry.

Nicolas explained that they needed to get Harry on the Hogwarts express without the Ministry having confirmed knowledge of his whereabouts. If the Ministy knew him to be at Diagon Alley, they would try to apprehend him. For that reason, their shopping stops were being kept to an absolute minimum, in order of importance.

With the first stop being without Ministry interference, they could proceed to the next. At the first sign of trouble, however, Perenelle was prepared to use side-along-apparation to get him out of Diagon Alley, before the Ministry could activate the recently installed Diagon anti-escape wards.

Before he realized it, they were in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium. Hogwarts students were allowed to bring a cat, owl or toad with them to school. While Harry liked cats, he thought an owl might be a bit more useful, certainly much more so than a toad. However, his earlier anticipation for picking out his own animal was dampened by his dreary thoughts.

Without much enthusiasm, he entered the dimly lit shop, where countless owls stood in their perches, regarding him with silent, unblinking eyes. Not really caring, he just pointed out the brightest looking owl in the store, a great snowy owl. When the owner asked what size cage they wanted, Perenelle declined, saying they didn’t need one. The owner looked put out by this, but complied, telling Harry to stick his arm out in front of him. The snowy owl immediately flew onto his forearm, and used it as a perch, all while regarding him with wide amber eyes.

“What should I name you, girl?” Harry asked as he exited the shop, Perenelle still behind, paying the proprietor. The snowy owl replied with a low hoot, causing Harry to smile. He wasn’t privy to the intricacies of owl speech, but thought it a good sign the owl wasn’t ignoring him.

He glanced over to the Eeylops door just in time to see Perenelle exit. She pulled a letter from her robes as she arrived in front of him, and presented the letter to the snowy owl.

“Please deliver this to my husband, Nicolas Flamel. Sadly, its going to be a long flight for you.”

The owl gave her a slightly disdainful look, as if Perenelle was questioning her ability. It hooted at Harry once before taking off, grasping the letter in its talons. Perenelle watched the rapidly shrinking owl for a moment, before turning to Harry.

“If we have to apparate away, we could not take the owl with us. In case of trouble, I needed to send the owl ahead of us.”

Harry nodded, understanding the idea at once. They started walking back towards the direction they had come from, on the way to their last stop, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. He didn’t find it very important, but Perenelle insisted he have nice school robes.

When Harry and Perenelle were twenty feet from the entrance, the front door opened. He couldn’t help but notice that this shop looked significantly less shabby than most of the others, providing a sense of professionalism that was strangely lacking throughout Diagon Alley. As he moved closer, a tall, slender woman with long blonde hair stepped out of Madam Malkins’s. His eyes were helplessly drawn to her alluring form, which her violet robes couldn’t obscure.

She started to turn to her right, and she caught Harry staring at her. Harry winced, expecting a withering glare. Instead, the woman froze, her eyes widened in terror.

Harry stopped immediately, but Perenelle had already noticed something was amiss, and had withdrawn her wand.

“That woman knows who I am, and she’s scared of me,” Harry blurted out quickly.

Taking no chances, Perenelle took tight hold of his wrist and apparated him away from the mysterious woman, and Diagon Alley itself. They immediately reappeared within the main hall in the Flamel estate.

“Who was that?” Harry asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Perenelle shook her head in response.

“Harry, I do not have the faintest idea.”

-

Three days after Harry’s trip to Diagon Alley, there was barely a trace of the light, relaxed atmosphere that typically filled the Flamel ancestral home. It had been replaced by uncertainty and tension, and seemed to affect everyone in the house. The Flamels, Dumbledore, and Harry sat around the small kitchen table, their focus on a thick folder lying atop the table.

The Daily Prophet had “broken” the story on Harry Potter’s trip to Diagon Alley. It had not taken long for “anonymous tips” to alert the government that it was Perenelle Flamel who had accompanied him to Diagon Alley. Between Harry being heralded as a traitor to England, the Flamels being labeled enemies of the British Ministry, and Dumbledore being bashed for his spirited defense of recently convicted murderer Octavius Pepper, now on his way to Azkaban, the editorial section had been rather busy as of late.

Today, Dumbledore had arrived at Flamel manor to speak to Harry about his options. It had been an anxious three days, with the Flamels wishing to save all dialogue on the matter until Dumbledore had arrived. Once again Harry had found himself in the dark, a problem he intended to sort out immediately.

“Whatever happens,” Harry said, breaking the silence, “please don’t leave me in the dark anymore. If it has to do with me, I want to know, no matter how bad it is.”

“This is a very serious matter,” Dumbledore spoke gravely, “and we wish for you to be as well informed as possible before making any decision. We have no intention of hiding anything from you.”

Nicolas inclined his head slightly in agreement, but Perenelle still looked reticent.

“Harry, I understand your view on the matter, but some of the topics we plan to delve into tonight…might be rather traumatic for you. Are you sure you really want to expose yourself to this?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes, I am. These are things I’m going to have to deal with sometime, so I want to be prepared.”

Perenelle started to interject, but Nicolas placed a hand on her shoulder, causing her to reconsider.

“Well, Harry, after viewing your memories in the Flamels’ pensieve, I am certain that the woman you saw outside Madam Malkin’s was none other than Narcissa Malfoy,” explained Dumbledore.

“Malfoy, eh?” Nicolas interjected. “Throughout the years, they have always been a family of Dark tossers, though I have had no experience with the recent generations. Has anything changed?”

Dumbledore shook his head.

“Narcissa, formerly Narcissa Black, is wedded to Lucius Malfoy, the sole child of Abraxas Malfoy. Lucius was projected as a member of Voldemort’s Inner Circle, and only avoided an Azkaban sentence by claiming to be under the thrall of the Imperius Curse.”

“Was it possible that he was telling the truth?” Perenelle asked.

“I am afraid not, my dear,” Dumbledore answered. “Lucius Malfoy is one of the most powerful politicians in England, possessing considerable sway in its various legislative bodies. It cost him a great deal of gold and influence with the all evidence stacked against him, but he was able to eventually clear his name.”

Harry thought this was all grand, but didn’t exactly explain why Narcissa would have recognized him. Dumbledore seemed to read his thoughts, as he sighed deeply.

“In my estimation, Voldemort may have entrusted his horcrux to Lucius Malfoy. Not long after the ordeal at Stonewall Orphanage, I paid a visit to Gringotts, and spoke with a few of the employees that I am on good terms with. I found that Lucius Malfoy had submitted a petition to claim the Potter vaults, with the tenth anniversary of your alleged death approaching. Lucius was turned away by the goblins, which would have been an indication that you were still alive, Harry, and thus stood in his way.”

“Albus, that is absolutely horrible!” Perenelle exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me that Lucius sent the ring to Harry, all because he wanted even more galleons?”

Dumbledore nodded, a solemn expression upon his face.

“Sadly, that is exactly my point, as Lucius Malfoy is heartless enough to attempt something so heinous. I do not know what Voldemort told Lucius regarding the ring, but suffice it to say he must have had a compelling reason.”

Harry found himself disgusted by Dumbledore’s theory. He would gladly trade any amount of gold to have not had that monster within his head.

“According to your theory,” Nicolas broke in, addressing Dumbledore, “the horcrux would have known who sent it. Do you think that Harry made a visit to Malfoy Manor?”

“I fear so, old friend. Ever since that day at the orphanage, I have pondered how the horcrux was able to acquire all the materials necessary to mount the attempt upon my life. Perhaps it was less complex than I ever considered, and Voldemort simply had Lucius send him all the supplies needed.”

“Where does this leave me?” Harry asked, rather put out that yet another person was after him. It never really seemed to end.

“It did not take long for Narcissa to relay your sighting to her husband, and for him to then discover that the woman with you was Perenelle. The Ministry knows about you because Lucius most likely sold the information to a Ministry insider, gaining himself more favors.”

Nicolas continued the explanation.

“Since the Ministry will shortly know where you have been all this time, they will probably try to file an injunction against us, and attempt to seize custody of you, seeing as how we are not your legal guardians.”

Harry, incredulous, looked to Dumbledore for conformation.

“Alas, Nicolas is right, Harry,” he confirmed.

“I don’t believe this!” Harry exclaimed. “Those idiots tried to make me look like the next Dark Lord. I’m not going to let them take me away!”

Perenelle reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Harry, we have no intention of letting that happen,” she assured.

“How? I’m going to Hogwarts. Won’t the Ministry just take me at King’s Cross?” Harry asked, feelings of hopelessness washing over him.

Nicolas and Perenelle exchanged heavy looks, before she addressed Harry’s question.

“No, not at all. According to Dumbledore, the over-expansion of the Ministry has left it with few competent employees amidst a sea of mediocrity. We can find a way around any net the Ministry sets up at King’s Crossing.”

Perenelle stopped for a moment, trying to find the right words. When she resumed, her voice was more quiet, serious.

“What concerns all of us more deeply is what happens once you arrive at Hogwarts, since you are correct, it would be impossible to elude the Ministry while there. If you are to attend Hogwarts, we must put protections into place.”

“How?”  

“As of right now, Harry, you are a legal English citizen,” Nicolas stated, “without a legal guardian. That is currently a perilous state for you, since the Ministry has the laws on their side. However, if you were no longer bound to the constraints of the English Ministry, there would no longer be an issue, as they could not touch you.”

“How is that possible?” Harry asked, not understanding what Nicolas was getting at.

“Claude Delacour holds a high position within the French Ministry, and has the Minister’s ear. He is willing to help out, and could secure French citizenship for you, putting you under the protection of the French government. Under this scenario, you would attend Hogwarts as an exchange student.”

Shock temporarily flooded his senses. Become a French citizen? The whole idea sounded preposterous. Yet, the French Ministry probably wouldn’t try to make a pariah of him, a clear benefit. It could solve all his problems.

“That sounds like it might work,” Harry admitted, slowly warming to the idea. “What do you think would happen if I did nothing?”

“In all likelihood the Ministry, in accordance with British wizarding law, would place you with your closest blood relations within the wizarding world, the Malfoy family,” Dumbledore answered gravely.

Harry’s blood boiled at the thought. The Ministry thought it would be okay to take him away from people that cared about him, and stick him with some Dark family that tried to kill him?

No fucking way.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Harry answered.

At his reply, the three adults sent uncomfortable looks at one another.

“What’s the catch?” Harry groaned.

“Well,” Perenelle began hesitantly, “Claude has two conditions that must be met.”

“What does he want in return,” Harry sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that the only three people in this world that would ever unconditionally help him were seated at the same table.

“Well, it is not what you are thinking. Claude took a liking to you, and does want to help you. He just wants to be assured that you are cared after properly.”

Of all he had steeled himself for, that was not the condition he was expecting. That seemed reasonable, as he was already…

Harry’s thoughts trailed off as he realized Claude’s condition, which explained the uncomfortable looks the adults were exchanging.

“Wait, so Claude will only push the citizenship through if you both apply as my legal guardians?”

The Flamels both nodded nervously, uncertain of what Harry’s reaction would be.

“Yeah, that would be great!” Harry exclaimed. “Did you two really think I wouldn’t want that?”

Perenelle let out a small sniff, while Nicolas let out a nervous grin.

“I would have figured the thought of another year with me would be enough to drive you away, screaming in terror.”

Harry laughed slightly, before addressing the Flamels.

“Seriously, both of you have been the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You really seem to care for me, which is something that I can’t ever recall having. Why wouldn’t I want you two as my parents?”

Perenelle burst into tears at Harry’s declaration, unable to hold back the tide any longer. She got up from her chair and came behind Harry, enveloping him in a crushing hug. Nicolas chuckled slightly at Harry’s sudden oxygen decrease, and tapped her on the shoulder.

“I am just as elated as you, dear, but perhaps you should let go, while we still have a living child to adopt.”

Laughing, Perenelle relinquished her grip, wiping at her wet cheeks.

“What was the second condition?” Harry asked, now able to breathe again.

“Claude mentioned that even if your citizenship goes through, as does all the necessary paperwork to get you into Hogwarts, the Ministry might try to ban you from attending. If, and only if that occurs, Claude would expect you to attend Beauxbatons,” Nicolas explained.

“Why does that matter to him?”

“Well, even though you are not well known in France, it would be a publicity boost for their own educational institution, which still lags behind Hogwarts in terms of reputation. Claude thinks that one day you might do great things, so he would like to be able to say that a French school produced that greatness. More than anything, it is a case of national pride.”

Nicolas stopped his explanation, and let out a large smile.

“Besides, Harry, what French politician is going to pass up the opportunity to make the English Ministry look like fools?”

Harry laughed in response. He supposed it made sense.

“Harry,” Perenelle broke in hesitantly, “have you given any thought to attending Beauxbatons at all? I mean, sorry Albus, but it has been well established that Harry has enemies in England. Is it really the best idea for him to attend Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

“None taken, my dear. With that being said, I would prefer to be able to keep a close eye upon Harry. Under my watch, I firmly believe I can protect Harry from any Ministry interference.”

Harry thought Perenelle’s idea was good, but really wanted to attend school where his parents had. Besides, who wants to learn French?

“I still want to try Hogwarts,” Harry confirmed, “but you can tell Mr. Delacour that if Hogwarts does not work out, I will definitely transfer to Beauxbatons.”

Perenelle didn’t look surprised by his decision, but slightly worried.

“At the first sign of trouble, Harry, please let us know. None of us here wants you to get hurt at school.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Well, it appears that is settled,” Dumbledore stated, eyes a-twinkle.

Harry couldn’t agree more. Despite Voldemort being out there somewhere, a Ministry that wanted to paint him as evil, and the rapid approach of his arrival at Hogwarts, he was struck by the sense that perhaps everything would be alright after all.

-

Author Notes:

Odd, posting a chapter ahead of schedule. Next one should be coming towards the end of the month, but as always, I’m vulnerable to the vagaries of real life.

This is the final chapter in the pre-Hogwarts Flamel arc. The next arc chronicles Harry’s first year at Hogwarts. Coming up is the first Hogwarts chapter, which will include the Sorting. I’m curious to see what House people think he’ll be sorted into (Hint: I already know, and tried to hint at it). All guesses more than welcome.

Any comments, suggestions, or criticisms would be deeply appreciated, and inspire me to write as opposed to playing video games. I’ll make an effort to answer every review I get.

Thanks to my co-conspirators, darklordmike and Mira Mirth, for their valuable assistance with plotting, characterization, continuity and grammar. Their combined efforts probably save me at least a week of editing every chapter, and are deeply appreciated.

DLP Thanks:

Demons in the Night, Ceebee, Psihary, The Lord of Chaos, DarIm, Luda

Early into the writing of this chapter, a close friend and co-worker of mine took his own life. Despite serving his country faithfully in both Iraq and Afghanistan, once again war took a person whole, and spit them out broken. He deserved far better. While he probably would have ridiculed my time-consuming hobby if he’d known about it, I can think of no better way to honor him than through something I pour so much of myself into.

Rest in peace, Bradford Roche (1981 – 2009). If there indeed are other worlds than this, may they treat you more kindly than this one ever did.  

Thanks for reading.