Flowerpot

As I See You, Or Scars As Windows to the Past, a harry potter fanfic | FanFiction Her fingers traced against the curve of my prominent collarbones, a fire so hot it felt cold branding my skin with the fierceness of her affection, but even this could not compare to the touch of her delicate, mercurial eyes. Eyes that looked at me with the pain of a lance through the heart, that made me feel alive In a way only death could.

''You are so beautiful," she whispered, and rage bubbled on the already boiling terrain of my heart, for how could such a vision of perfect beauty ever find in me nothing but disgust, how could eyes so familiar with the perfection of polished marble ever see beauty in the derelict walls of a building charred by hateful fire. How could the divine silk of her softness delight in the splinters that constituted me.

How could her pride stand in the face of such indelible proof of failure and shame?

My eyes must have hardened with my thoughts, for her fiery finger jumped in a twinkle to my tight lips, silencing words unspoken, clearing my mind away from anything but divinity. Her eyes changed colour faster than ever had I seen them, and I could no longer fool myself in tricks of light, she was not merely divine in look, but in substance, and I felt offended on her behalf, for such an avatar of purity to mar herself, even if only the tip of her finger, with not only the mud of mortality, but that of mine, that carried death on my wake from birth.

My body a warning for anyone foolish enough to try and get close to me.

Her eyes shifted to the testimony of my shame, the carvings on the perishable and putrid wood that made me, and I closed my eyes, the pain of her hardening face already too much in my mind for me to risk looking at it directly.

I should let her destroy me finally, so that, maybe, my redemption could come in the wake of it, even if I knew that the pieces that she tore from me would never be able to fit together ever again, jagged edges ripped by painful hope.

I could feel the burning traces of her over me, but I was not strong enough to gather if it was her touch or her unrelenting, judging gaze. The heat of it made the difference between us clear, and my very essence curled in shame and pain, for how could I have pretended to be something more than I was to garner the burning gaze of a being that I adored, knowing that my very presence was an affront to everything she was. Everything she embodied.

Deceiver. Liar. Seducer.

The familiar, hateful voice of my aunt invaded my mind, bending my spine with each imagined word, but then I could not help but laugh as the last one was uttered. Seducer, she said, as if I could ever manage. I was the moth snared by the light of the moon, pretending such light was a lamp, so that my presence was justified.

But when the lamp shade was lifted there was no doubt. Encased in delicate, ornate metal, the true beauty laid in the light inside, the lamp a mere container for glory even brighter than the hands of any man could compose, her nature wild and changing, bright and unshapable. Free and holding power that could not be made to obey.

And yet it complied with me.

But as the fire of her sketched over ripped canvas, painting a picture that I could never be, and despairing at the comparison between what she had thought of me, and the despicable reality in front of her. I supposed for her it would be hard to understand the nature of people that was nothing like her, whose substance itself was so far from mundane that words lacked in my inadequate tongue to even utter the roughest painting of.

I felt scorched, boiled to the point of melting, unshapen, all but for the parts of me that carried the mark of what I was. The line on my arm that denoted carelessness, and the bump on the other that showed lack of thought. The spots on my hands that denoted gracelessness. The sores on my fingertips that showed selfishness. The mark on my soul that showed death prowling in my shadows. Her sight saw all my mistakes on the scars they had left, but worst of all, I could feel her touch, her sight, on the wounds that were not visible to anyone but me.

As her flames burned over the empty, selfish part of my soul that endangered time and time again everyone around me, and the thought struck me with such strength that my lungs hurt.

'Flesh of a- a follower.'

Not even under the blaze of her truth scavenging gaze could I utter the word servant, even if it was how I had treated all of those that had suffered for me.

For the slim hope of a desire fulfilled; the hole that was haphazardly filled by the shredded pieces of the soul that had died for my continued desire of a life I was not worthy of, the ripped, flayed pieces where the life of him, of another one that dared love such an accursed being as me laid, a smile on the face that was snuffed because of my cowardice and egocentrism. Meaningless.

Sirius deserved so much more than being the bandages over my life, the balm over wounds lesser than his own.

I felt tears on my eyes as the pain another had endured when I should have instead was laid on the burning cone of her holy sight, where the ravings of a dying man far kinder and worthier than I could ever be extended yet again the curse that was the master of death's presence in this suffering world.

Dumbledore should not have had to lay his life for my own to endure, not when my own was so much lesser than his own.

My shame consumed me as judgement surely came upon the centre of me. The point on my chest that screamed of my terrible hubris. To be so self-serving as to scorn the embrace of fair death, to reject the just arms of Thanatos for a chance at something I did not deserve while uncaring of the cost.

I should not have come back to carry my pain to her life, to make her try and mend a broken soul.

I had felt pain in my life, but never had I felt such a thing. I was not dead from it on the spot only because death surely knew not to show his face in the presence of such luminescence, not regarding the indelible shadow of my presence.

No shadow could ever touch her.

Her finger pushed my jaw up, making my eyes level with her, a single whisper opened the doors to my pain.

"Mon Coeur."

A waft of cinnamon brushed me, and I was hers.

My heart broke when I saw her. Kaleidoscope eyes shining in the way I had fallen for, hair floating around her with a wind that did not touch anyone else, pale skin that glowed pearlescent, blinding, painful.

But not more painful than how she looked at me, with a face so full of compassion and care that it was all I could not to scream.

"I can feel you," she said, "I can feel you 'ere," she touched her chest, and then mine, "And I can feel you 'ere," she touched her forehead, and then leaned forwards until I felt her lips brush my forehead, my temples, my nose, my lips. "I can feel you, 'Arry, I know what you feel, I know what you think. I see it in your eyes, in your face, in your mind.'

Her lips came down upon mine again, honeyed, warm, soft, delicate and lethanous.

I lost track of time, I existed nowhere, and I would not have been aware of anything else where not for her roaming fingers, and how they found every little scar, every little spot, and with her careful touch I recalled every single moment of shame and pain in my life, every little failure.

The memories were muted by her heavenly kisses, her soft caress, her intoxicating warmth, her tantalizing warmth.

"I can feel you," She whispered, her body shifting closer until I could not remember the cold of the world, "I can feel you, and I will not stop until you can see what I feel when I look at you. You are beautiful."

"But Fleur, I- my sca-"

She kissed me again and we fell into the bed, my back against a soft mattress that felt uncomfortable when compared to her atop me.

"I 'ave enough beauty for the two of us mon coeur." She lifted herself, letting her hands run from my shoulders to my hips. "Every little scar I feel, every little imperfection… You are beautiful in a way I'll never be. People will see us together and not see you, but that will be their loss. And in a way, I am glad."

Her smile was sad as she looked at me, a finger circling a branched, charred scar on my chest, testament of the impossible, of surviving once more.

"I do not want anyone else to see you as I do, but at the same time I want everyone to know you as you are, to know 'ow much you are worth."

She leant down again and kissed me. My hands went to her naked back and caressed her, trembling, inadequate.

"I'm selfish."

And I could not tell if it was her to speak or me, I could not care for anything but the comfort of her hands on mine, of hers on me. I could not even tell which were her own and which were mine.

I cried as we met, I cried tears of pain, of joy, of triumph and of shame.

I will not stop until you see yourself as I do, I will not stop until you love yourself as I love you, she said back to me.

Of the Morn

Fleur shifted, drifting to consciousness slowly. Her movement was impeded by heavy arms draped across her but she only persisted long enough to get the errant hairs away from her eyelashes. Her warm cocoon of blankets and boy stilled and she cuddled in closer, too awake now to drift back off but utterly content nonetheless.

In the early hours of the morning, comfortably cloistered in warm English flats and detached from the real world in deliciously sure ways, she could revel in this simple contact.

Beauxbatons’ cold Triwizard Champion could not be more different from this half melted marshmallow of a witch content to lay awake in her love’s arms. That perhaps could not be wholly attributed to the silly little boy she’d fallen in love with, but he was the largest part of her current state of bliss to be sure.

The first time they embraced he didn’t even return it, shivering and more than a little enthralled as she threw her arms around him on a platform over a cold lake. He mostly just shook in her arms. She didn’t think much of it at the time, she was preoccupied with thanking him for saving her sister then turning to thank the lanky redhead beside him, which in hindsight was unnecessary because said Weasley boy played no part in the rescue but alas… She was hardly in a state of mind to think objectively on the subject.

Had she been she would’ve noted how nice it was to hug him, even then, when he was too scrawny and young to be the subject of any real longing.

Fleur did not hug.

Allure was a fickle tool, incredibly useful and incredibly cumbersome in equal measure, and it’s inherent value was largely up to the Veela in question. Gabby, who preened under attention and delighted in misty eyed boys, wielded hers with rapier finesse and therefore would not hesitate to exalt the empathetic magic’s virtues. Fleur was always more reserved. She cherished the sanctity of her own mind, and actively avoided the wash of foriegn emotions on the shores of it, so she tended more toward harsh control and strict avoidance.

It did not occur to her then, all those years ago, what it meant that she could wrap the knobbly-kneed boy in her arms and kiss his cheeks and feel nothing as she cried thanks at him for his rescue of Gabby. It took many years, to be entirely honest to this very day, almost a decade later in fact.

He pulled in a deep breath, the sound magnified as it passed through his nose, and his chest rose to press into the tip of her nose. She smiled, content in the warm cage of his arms, and as he exhaled she leaned forward to press a small kiss to his chest.

“Good morning my love,” he mumbled, his French truly horrid, and in that moment she had no desire to tease him for it.

“It is,” she agreed, pressing a second kiss next to the first, and he tightened his grip on her. This place, in his arms with the blankets pulled all the way over her head to rest around his shoulders, was her favorite place in the world.

He squeezed her for a few heartbeats and then leaned back, moving to release her, and she snaked her arms around his back to lock him in place. He chuckled softly, and though he began to fight her verbally, he did not make to escape the bed again.

“We have work mon coeur.”

“We can skip.” She mumbled, not opening her eyes and not speaking above a whisper, as if she could deny the starting day through sheer force of will. Most that had met her would not doubt it.

“No,” he laughed, and his own denial was mutinously loud. Full volume, and belying how much further along the process of waking up he was. “I can not.”

She pouted, brow furrowing and lower lip jutting out so far it touched his collarbone. To him it probably felt like a third kiss, but that was hardly a problem.

“Not even once?” She asked, knowing the answer, but unwilling to forego an attempt at convincing him.

“Auror work waits for no one, not even the most beautiful woman in the world.”

He explained, and it was sweet enough that she didn’t even mind the rejection.

Curse-breaking work was far more lenient, not to mention the fact that she had far less attachment to her line of work than he did to his. For these reasons, and these reasons alone she told herself, she loosened her grip on him.

He did not flee immediately, instead the blanket shifted around her, and then he was joining her in her warm muffled world. She whined as his shifting posture loosened the arms around her, but did not complain when the hold was supplanted by the first proper kiss of the day.

Then he was out of the bed, off to begin his morning routines, and she was grumbling at the wash of cold air that rushed in to take his place under the blankets. It faded fast though, and she was once again warm and content as she half drifted off listening to the sound of his shower starting up.

Hugs were not so bad, and she was once again grateful for the skinny little English boy that saved her sister and set her on this path to pure bliss.

Of See you Soon

Fleur swept over, her silvery hair bounced in the early summer breeze. Harry had caught himself staring at that hair all too often, though in the warm sunlight of June it glowed, as if perfecting an already unrivaled work of art.

“’Arry,” Her voice was thick with her accent.

Not that Harry dared to complain, her “’Arry” would be forever in his memory.

“We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope," she said.

He wished the dead weight in his stomach hadn’t reappeared, he thought he was passed that, he had known this day was coming. Fleur grinned at him, perfect teeth glistened.

“I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my Eenglish."

Secret fantasies flew through his mind, lessons in front of Gryffindor Common Room fireplace, meetings near broom closets. He grinned, wishing his face to not give away his thoughts.

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

Fleur beamed.

"Good-bye, 'Arry," Fleur said, leaning in towards him. "It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"

Her arms gently wrapped around him, pressing herself against him.

Harry blinked.

Fleur Delacour enveloped his every sense, and he loved it. All too soon thought she pulled away and ran off towards the carriage, Madame Maxime waved her in. Fleur turned and waved one last time.

Harry sighed, the weight in his stomach missing.

He had never before had a hug that was pleasant. Fleur had opened an entire new world to him.

Hugs were fantastic.

With Bennet

Gabby had always felt at home in the spotlight, under the gaze of others, their misty eyes yearning for her attention or, in some cases, the scornful eyes of significant others who’s better halves she had stolen the notice of. It wasn’t her fault that she was beautiful, right? Designer clothes and shoes, the best hairstyles, and the usefulness of an allure were all the weapons she wielded every day, ensuring that she was spotted. Viewed. Desired.

It was difficult to be the younger sister of a war hero, especially one married to Harry Potter.

After graduating from Beauxbatons, against her family's wishes, she left home, deciding that a career in modeling would suit her just fine. Exciting destinations, meeting people, and being the center of attention at every gig. “What do you need, Gabby? How can we help, Gabby?” These were the calls that she heard everywhere, a constant reminder that she wasn’t Gabrielle Delacour, Fleur Delacour’s sister, but Gabrielle Delacour, top fashion model.

Drinking, drugs, sex, so much sex, fed her baser instincts and she reveled in it.

Except hugs. Gabby hated being hugged, the foreign sensation filled her stomach with an eerie feeling. It just felt wrong.

Until she met him.

Going back to France for the first time in almost a year, she was excited to see Fleur and Harry, the latter of whom had taken to being the big brother she never had with all of his heart. Sure, she protested in public, decrying any need for such an idea, but privately, she loved it. Since meeting him on that cold morning in February, the two had formed a kinship that she shared with no one else. An unspoken agreement that he’d always be there for her, like a warm blanket.

It was for that reason alone she didn’t storm out when they said a friend would be joining them.

“I promise, we’re not trying to set you up,” Harry had said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder as she scowled, “We just haven’t seen either of you in quite some time and you’re both leaving town again soon, so we figured we’d combine the dinner.” He gave that cocky smile of his, the one she knew meant he thought he was being funny. He usually was. “He’s some sort of hotshot like you. You’ll get along great.”

It would be years before Gabby admitted that, as usual, Harry had been right. Their friend was charming, funny, and very polite. A world traveler, like her, he had regaled them with tales of his latest exploits, and she had been utterly captivated by him. When she looked back on that night, it wasn’t the stories, his dashing smile, or witty rapport that she remembered, but the fact that he never once looked at her the way most men do.

He didn’t get glassy eyed or that hunger for her in his looks, despite her best efforts. She had earned a bruise trying, her sister kicking her under the table when she attempted to allure the man. Instead, he had just been himself, and that drew her in even more.

As they both said their goodbyes to Fleur and Harry, walking together out of the wards, she briefly wondered if she’d see him again.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Gabby,” he had said, turning towards her. Gabby swayed slightly, realizing that she had potentially drank a bit more than necessary. “Will I see you again?” She smiled at him and, again, noticed that his gaze remained neutral, that charming smile affixed on his face.

“I’d like that,” she said.

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the fun they’d had that night, or perhaps it was the company, but she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. Instinctively, his own arms wrapped around her, a brief, normal hug between two people occurring before they broke apart. With one last smile, he disappeared.

Gabby froze, momentarily unable to comprehend what had washed over her. She hated hugs, they were nasty. Yet, her chest had filled with warmth and comfort in his embrace, as if a piece long missing had been slotted into place.

Perhaps hugging Luc Bennet was the only hugs she needed.

Harry had never seen Dumbledore look so distraught, so worried, and so concerned at the same time.

McGonnagal’s look of worry and disappointment was almost as bad.

Madam Pomfrey looked professional, and Harry wondered that this probably wasn’t the first time this had happened in the school.

Harry was glad Snape wasn’t here. He was already under too much stress at it is.

Fleur’s face was stony, but her hand held his in a vice grip and he returned in kind.

After a few moments of silence, Dumbledore sighed.

“Harry, Miss Delacour, I…well, there’s not much I can do, or say, but…I must express my disappointment in your…carelessness, especially given the current situation.”

Fleur scoffed.

“I must also do the same, Mr. Potter, Miss Delacour, in all my years I never expected this from you Mr. Potter. And you Miss Delacour, as a member of the faculty of this school, why, I don’t have words-”

“Oh please, Minerva, this isn’t the first time and won’t be the last.” Madam Pomfrey interjected, scoffing, “Even during the first war, young people are still young people, even in war, and no matter their posts.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, and seemed to be about to retort, but Fleur interrupted her.

“If you want to blame someone, Professors, blame me,” She silenced Harry with a look, “I was the one who…started this, and Harry,” she blushed, “offered to use protection, and I refused, thinking the potion would be enough.”

Madam Pomfrey sighed and Professor McGonagall just looked at Dumbledore who was looking at the couple with an unreadable look.

“Sadly a common mistake in this school, Miss Delacour, and given your and Mr. Potter’s magical capabilities, I am not surprised, however, what happened…happened, and now we need to…deal with this situation in the best way possible.”

Fleur’s other hand immediately went to cover her belly, while Harry glared at Dumbledore, he could already see her features start to sharpen.

“I refuse to harm my child, Headmaster!”

Harry looked murderous.

Dumbledore looked taken aback, his hands raised, and even McGonagall took a step to stand between Fleur and the Headmaster, facing him, earning a look of gratitude from Harry.

“I would never ask you to…do this against your will, Miss Delacour, I am aware of your people’s difficulty with conceiving, and even then…however, there are forces in this country, who would like nothing more to hurt you and your child to get back at Mr. Potter, there are also, other…considerations.” He gave Harry a significant look.

Harry had an idea of what he meant, but he still wanted to hear it.

“When a Wizard or Witch over 15 conceives a child, they are considered an adult, by laws older than the Ministry itself. And as so, the protections over Privet Drive have begun to disperse, it’s no longer safe for you there, Harry”

Harry nodded.

“It’s simple, then, ‘Arry shall live with me in France, my family’s state is very secure and Voldemort hasn’t moved to the Continent yet.”

“He will come after me, Fleur, and I can’t…can’t risk you, both of you.” He squeezed her hand.

“Non, I will not leave you! I promised I would fight by your side!” [9:44 PM] “Love, I can’t risk you and…the baby, please.”

Harry rarely called her love, more out of embarrassment than any lack of will, and Fleur valued each and every one of those times he did it.

She also found it hard to resist when he asked for something using it.

But she knew Harry couldn’t resist her tears, as seen his when his determination started to soften when tears rolled off her cheeks.

“If I may, I think I can offer a solution.”

The couple looked at the Headmaster, who smiled softly, “When I realized what had happened, I took the liberty of going to Privet Drive, and applying certain spells that would fool someone into thinking that the protections are still in place, they may not be able to stand to a closer inspection, but they should be more than enough for misdirection.”

Fleur nodded thoughtfully, while Harry looked at the Headmaster in surprise.

“You want Voldemort to think I am still in Britain? While I go to France?”

“Yes, and I believe your father, Miss Delacour, can apply a Fidelius Charm on your state.”

Fleur smiled that secret, smug smile that made Harry blush, “Something to that effect, Headmaster.”

“But I still need to fight.” Harry ignored Fleur’s glare, and looked at Dumbledore.

“You told me, sir, only I can do it, I want…I want to make the world safe for my family, I want my child to have a future.”

McGonagall covered her mouth, and Dumbledore looked at Harry as if he was seeing another person for a moment, before he smiled, he looked almost proud.

“Your mother once said the same thing to me, Harry, many, years ago, when she joined the Order along with your father.”

Harry nodded, “Then you know I am serious, sir.”

Fleur held his hand with both of hers, she looked between proud and resigned.

“I never doubted it Harry, very well, given the current circumstances, the Order will set up a ruse, to make Voldemort think Harry is still at Privet’s Drive, while, after the end of the school year, Harry and Miss Delacour will relocate to the Delacour State in France, there are several things we must discuss before then, but for now, I think that’s enough.”

“Snape can’t know, Professor, or he will…”

“Professor Snape will never inform Voldemort of this development, and neither must you or Miss Delacour let this become common knowledge.”

“Well, their relationship is already an open secret in the school” McGonagall murmured.

At this, both blushed.

“Something that Tom won’t care that much about, not until he decides to move against Harry, and by then, Miss Delacour will be safe.”

Fleur looked like she wanted to protest, but a look from Harry stopped her.

“Well, it is late, and I believe we all could use a rest, we shall talk again later this week.” The young couple rose and left the office, quickly reaching Fleur’s(though it could be called theirs) quarters, where she rounded on Harry.

“‘Arry, I…can’t stay cooped up in a mansion while you fight a war.”

“But you have to, Fleur.” He framed her face with his hands while he looked into her bright blue eyes, and Fleur was surprised by how mature he looked then, “I won’t be able to focus unless I know you are safe, that you’re both safe.” He placed one of his hands on her belly and she hugged him, sighing in the crook of his neck.

“I can’t lose you, ‘Arry, I can’t raise our child alone.” Harry hugged her back, squeezing and kissing the crown of her head.

“You won’t Fleur, I promise you…after all someone has to teach her how to fly a broom and play Quidditch, ‘cause you certainly can’t.”

Fleur chuckled weakly at that, “Well, then someone needs to teach him how to sing, because you, mon coeur, certainly can’t.”

“Him?”

Fleur stood back, and smiled at him, far more composed, “A mother knows.”

Harry smiled back, as if a weight lifted from his shoulders, he knew it wouldn’t be easy, he still had a war to fight, and friends to confront, and then…he had a family to take care of, his own family, with the woman he loved, and their child, and he had to organize a wedding, even if it was to be a private one.

A sense of determination filled Harry, one stronger than he ever had, he would improve himself, he would do his best. And he knew he would win, and also that he would come back because he had more people to protect now, and not only that.

He had people to live for.

“Oh, and ‘Arry, you will come with me to France to tell Maman and Papa, I am sure Gabby will also be thrilled to be an aunt.”

Harry paled, and fighting a war didn’t look that scary right now.

“Good morning,” He said as his eyes twinkled with mischief, as well as memories long forgotten. “What can I get you, miss?” She seemed taken aback by the professional demeanour, and a brief look of confusion flitted across her face as she probably wondered what was going on.

“Harry…?” Her tone of voice was light yet questioning as she tried to make sense of the situation. “Harry Potter?”

Harry grinned. “It’s good to see you again, Fleur. Been way too long, huh?”

In hindsight, he should’ve known that maybe - just maybe - there might’ve been people that took his reclusivity rather badly. Harry was unaware of such people existing, unaware that anyone cared enough for that to happen.

Well, at least he found out eventually.

Fleur narrowed her eyes, and took a deep breath. A very, very deep breath. “Where have you been?” She asked in a deathly silent voice. He opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off. “No, where have you been?” Each word was sharp, and clearly enunciated. Anger rolled off her very tongue - manifested through her tonality and words of choice.

“I, uh, was going through some stuff?”

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?” God, was she scary.

“Telling you?”

Fleur snorted derisively, and glared at him. “I’m expecting an actual answer, Harry. You left, and we tried to find you - I tried to find you - but couldn’t.” If he squinted just right, he could probably make out a hint of concern in her angered gaze. “Where were you?”

Location: The Astronomy Tower

Fleur Delacour had been lonely since she arrived at Hogwarts. Since then, she had taken to exploring the magnificent castle and; one night, while walking up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, she thought she heard the sounds of a violin playing.

Curious, she reached the top of the stairs and carefully opened the door. Peeking through, she caught sight of a young boy who looked no more than Fourteen with a mask covering the left side of his face with a mop of messy black hair and mesmerizing green eyes. As she watched the young boy play the violin, he began to sing:

"No one would listen No one but her Heard as the outcast hears

Shamed into solitude Shunned by the multitude I learned to listen In the dark, my heart heard music

I long to teach the world Rise up and reach the world No one would listen I alone could hear the music

Then at last a voice in the gloom Seemed to cry "I hear you. I hear your fears, your torment and your tears."

She saw my loneliness Shared in my emptiness No one would listen No one but her Heard as the outcast hears

No one would listen No one but her Heard as the outcast hears"

Song inspiration: No One Would Listen. Lyrics by David Zippel for the film adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera.

“What’s in the case?” A curious teenager asked his ‘grandfather’.

“I believe a tool similar to this was used to assassinate the French minister of magic.” Said enigmatic grandfather replied.

“You’re gonna make me ask aren’t you?”

“Of course I want you to think about this, not simply have me tell you. Why do you think most battles between wizards are close range skirmishes and not large scale battles.”

“Accuracy, power, and speed. It’s harder to aim at longer distances. You need more power to make sure a spell can make it longer and have a noticeable impact. Finally, the longer the distance the easier it is to react to a spell.”

“Correct, during the time when wizards were more common, and didn’t need to hide, this tool was one of the ways wizards got around those problems.” With those words, the grandfather opened up the case on the desk in between them.

Inside was a most unnatural bow. It was a recurve bow made from a strange blue wood with a pure silver string. Where the arrow would notch was a shaft of wood permanently attached to the string. It still had an obvious handle, but where the bridge would normally be, the ‘arrow’ was sticking through a ring just wide enough for the arrow’s shaft. Harry hesitantly reached out his hand and touched the string. “Is this… unicorn hair?”

“Indeed. Now my boy, shall we see if it still works?”

“Yes”

A smile graced Harry’s face as the memory played out across. The crack as the shield around Hogwarts fell brought Harry back to the present. Harry stood up atop the astronomy tower as he took the bow out of its case.

Harry stared down at Voldemort’s army as it advanced on Hogwarts. With a spell he temporarily enhanced his eyesight as he picked out the members of the inner circle, his lieutenants, before finally setting eyes on the big man himself.

Taking a deep breath, Harry raised the bow and pulled back. The string drew back with the arrow extending as the tip always remained just outside the ring. The moon came out from behind the clouds to shine down on Harry as the string seemed to glow with moonlight. The arrow started to glow with a violet light as more and more power was poured into it.

Finally he released the string as the energy along the arrow screamed forward in front of the string. The energy seemed to enlarge as it left the bow shooting across the sky like a comet nearly breaking the sound barrier. The violent energy struck at Voldemort himself as he hastily threw up a shield. The resulting explosion managed to take out many of the surrounding army. After the first spell many more followed of varying colors and effects striking at different portions of the army.

Omake: Harry: “CALADBOLG!”

Dr. Dumbledore sat at his desk as he let the words on the sheet of paper in front of him sink in. The discovery laying behind them unheard of in the magical science community; unconsidered even. It wasn't anything anyone could have predicted. Developing a vaccine from this would change the lives of many women forever, that is for sure.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore got up from his seat and walked over to the gene-screening machine that produced the result he held in his hand. Entering another sample from the cotton swap and adding a liquid solution to the sample, he placed the fresh vial into the centrifuge, before pushing the lid that protected the device down. The high pitched hum calmed his nerves, the thought of confirmation harrowing but exciting as well.

"Good Morning Mr. Potter, thank you for coming in again despite your busy schedule," Dr Dumbledore greeted the young man, his eyes doing their usual twinkly thing.

"Think nothing of it. I had a gap and am happy to be of help, Doctor," Harry replied somberly. "What is it you've found?"

Reminded by the discovery of last night, the older man straightened nervously before turning toward his office. "Of course, please follow me. There's news that may be of great interest to you."

"Nothing alarming," he assured, raising a hand to stop Harry from expressing any worry. "But...I admit, this will make waves."

Taking a seat opposite of Dumbledore's desk, Harry waited silently for the man to close the door to the room and take a seat in the much larger chair behind the desk. With trepidation and a reluctant hand, the old wizarding scientist brought forth a single sheet of paper that was covered in numbers and numerical formulas and long, hyphenated words. His name, while upside down, was perfectly visible on the top of the paper.

"Mr. Potter, when we heard that you had held a conversation with the leader of the Veela nation, we'd thought you to be a...charlatan, if you will. We'd thought you were able to hold your own based on some sort of mental training that has overcome the limits that other wizards and muggles have never managed to achieve."

"So I've been told many times," Harry nodded, his face devoid of emotion. "But looking at your face, I gather you've discovered a new explanation for my new found talent."

“Yes,” the older man agreed quickly. “I have.”

“However, allow me to present the facts of this situation again, before we address the nature and magnitude of the discovery.”

Harry shrugged, raising his hand to urge the older man to continue.

“Thank you, Mr Potter.”

“What do we know about the Veela Gene?” Dumbledore asked. ”Not much, except that it allows women, and only women, to gain superhuman strength, the ability to diffuse gases through the pores in their skin and that ignite when coming in contact with oxygen. Furthermore, Veela can manipulate their ability to diffuse amortentia-like hormones that affect males, and as recently discovered, females as well.”

“Except for me,” Harry provided.

“Exactly,” Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Except. For. You, Mr. Potter. No one in recorded history has ever been able to remain entirely unaffected by the so-called “Allure” of Veela.”

Shrugging again, Harry raised an eyebrow at the man. “So, tell me then. What is it that makes me ‘immune’ to the Veela Allure?”

“Precisely, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore nodded again while staring into Harry’s green eyes. “It is precisely because of that word that you are able to do the things you did with President Delacour.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve discovered that you possess a code in your DNA which allows you to produce an enzyme in your body that enables you to process and break down the hormone ‘Allurin’,” he revealed finally.

“So you’re saying-”

“You,” he stopped him again, “Are perfectly and, infinitely so, untouchable by the Allure of the Veela nation. You, Mr. Potter, hold the genetic key that could turn the tide against the Veela overlords.”

Continuation by D J Kopper

Harry smiled, he leaned back in his chair, and the sudden change in demeanor set off red flags in Dumbledore's mind. Unfortunately for him, and the United Kingdom as a whole, he was too caught up in his own fervor to pay head to them.

"So can you extract it? Or otherwise synthesize it?" Dumbledore was already nodding excitedly before the questions had fully formed.

"I think we can my boy, I think we can."

"You got everything you need?"

"Well a few more blood sam-" The wizened old doctor was starting to say, but then he realized that Harry was not talking to him. The red flags waved wildly in the wind and he reassessed the young man before him.

He was lounging in the little chair and looking down at a little mirror in his palm. He'd just spoken the question into it, and he was nodding in response to an answer Dumbledore hadn't heard.

"Veela allures are one thing," Dumbledore's protégé said, and his voice was cold now. "But president Delacour can be very ... persuasive all on her own old man."

There was the unmistakable thud of boots from outside the room.

"What have you done?" He whispered in horror, and the door behind Harry was blasted open.

A dozen hit wizards marched in, slicing the pie and training wands on him as the room was deemed clear.

"Playing for my own greater good." He told the old man and he was smirking at him, completely unphased by the explosive entry of a squad of killers. The steady click of approaching stilettos sounded from behind the young doctor.

Dumbledore watch with resignation, aware of his fate now, as slender arms slid around Harry's chest and clung to him. A face, devastating in its beauty, appeared over his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his neck just under the ear. Those cold veela eyes were all for Dumbledore though.

"Well done mon coeur." She said, without looking away from the older Doctor. (edited)

Dumbledore sagged in abject defeat as the last great hope for humanity turned in the arms of its greatest threat to kiss her.

A Different Kind of Immunity: Morning After

He stared out onto the vast gardens of Versailles with a touch of melancholy. He'd heard much of this place, about the historic significance it had held for the French nation, for the people who fought for a republic. A people that fought tyranny to their own ends.

He smiled at the thought of irony. He was in the most iconic place for what history recorded to be the beginning of the end of an ancient political system, the end of the divine right to rule.

"You find the garden more enticing than my bodice, Arrrrry?" A sultry voice purred from the large bed behind him. "If you were any other, I'd make you jump of the balcony."

The words may have sounded like they had been uttered in jest but the fact remained; Had he been any other man, she have gone through with it.

"I was merely giving the gardens the appreciation they deserve, Madame President."

"Call me Fleur, Arry," she corrected with a slight set to her jaw. "It's the least I can I do after what you've done to me."

He eyed her carefully, guarding his gaze while letting his glances travel along her hidden skin.

"I hope it was to your satisfaction, Fleur."

"Ah...your were sublime, mon maitre."

Maitre. Master. She mocked him. She had to be.

"You were an awe-inspiring lead. Your instructions are a credit to you," he insisted, his fist clenched behind him.

Her sultry smirk flattened to a bored line, the mirth sprawled across her face gone.

"Fine then. Since you feel you've done your duty to your country, I'll accept the terms. Consider them payment for services rendered to the French nation," she spoke with finality. Getting out of the bed and putting on her silk robe that hugged her like a second skin, she walked over to her vanity before eyeing his reflection in the mirror.

"You may go, Mr Potter."

Without another word he did just that. Not turning once to gaze at her again. The door closed with a satisfying thud behind him.

Crack

She breathed heavily into the mirror, her rage barely unhinged.

Crack Crack CracK

Broken glass stuck to her knuckles but was burned away by her fire momentarily. Her gaze remained on her own fractured reflection.

"I'm beautiful. I'm Fleur Delacour," she recited, almost manically. "I'm power. I'm might. I'm the Veela Queen."

"I will make you mine, Harry Potter."

Set after Harry's first Quidditch practice:

“Hey Harry, Lee has found a flesh-eating rose bush outside the greenhouses. Are you coming along?”

“I'll give it a pass Fred,” Harry replied after a moment of consideration. His aunt loved roses in every colour and variation so naturally he had come to hate them with a passion. And the whole “flesh-eating” part didn't sound very promising either.

“Oi, I'm George.”

“Yeah, I'm Fred. Katie, you coming with us?”

“No, I'm fine here Fred, away from the flesh-eating plants.”

“But I am Fred, you are George,” the other twin objected, sparking an argument who was who.

“Is that - Normal?”

“I have no idea. This was my first training as well.”

Harry looked up at that. Everyone else had been flying like they had been on the team for years while he had been floating around above their heads, looking for the snitch again and again. “Katie, right?”

“Yes, Katie Bell, I'm a year above you. And you, well everyone keeps saying that you are THE Harry Potter but I honestly don't get what that's all about.”

“Me neither”

After a moment of silence both kids began to laugh.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever flown an actual broom or just those awful ones?”

“Just the school brooms.”

“Well, we can't have that. Come on!”

“What - where are we going?” he wanted to know as the brunette dragged him out of the locker room.

“Back out. Trust me, if you believe that you can actually fly on that garbage, you need to think again.”

Harry launched himself into the air and began to test the limits of the Comet. It wasn't much faster than the one he had borrowed from Madame Hooch, but unlike that antiquity, Katie's broom was able to fly in a straight line and, at the same time was much more responsive. Flying was much easier if you didn't have to struggle against the charms which held you in the air, or anticipate that the old brooms might suddenly lurch sideways.

While Harry was having the time of his life, Katie stood at the edge of the pitch slack jawed, staring at the maneuvers her fellow teammate was doing. She was no stranger to aerial acrobatics, her uncle had taken her to the Farnborough Airshow last September, but what Harry was doing up there was putting that to shame. Neither those crazy Soviets nor the laws of gravity could hold a cradle to the stunts her new friend was pulling off.

Gone. It was gone. Broken. A single moment, a single slip, and it slipped from her fingers, never to return. Her hands trembled as she stared, eyes wide, unseeing. Gone. It had seemed so strong, but one action, one mistake, and it had shattered, irreparable forevermore. Tears slipped from her eyes as she fell to her knees. She was such a fool. Fleur felt her daughter’s hand on her shoulder, the little girl’s voice telling her mother that it would be alright, that they would just have to pick up the pieces. But it wouldn't. Fae wouldnt understand. Fae couldn't understand. It had meant too much to her and without it, she felt… hollow. Empty. But… her daughter was right. As Fleur Delcaour stared at the shattered remains of her favorite mug, its bold lettering, lettering that once read 'Best Wife in Forever', scattered on the kitchen tile, she realised that all she could do was pick up the pieces, and move on. Maybe with a quick Reparo to boot.

Alternate Titles

• Fleur being a Drama Queen

"Have you ever fallen in love, Agent?"

"Inpecteur. Inspecteur Delacour of the Direction Centrale de la Police Judicaire."

"Spicey. You possess flavour, Miss Inspector."

"Is this a game to you?"

"Yes. No. Maybe? What is life if not a game? It has a starting line and at some point, a finish line. Anything in-between is fair game."

"Fifteen people are dead. All within five miles of your home."

"What can I say? Bad luck? The world is a dangerous place. Perhaps they were at the wrong time at the wrong place."

"You make me sick, Mr Potter."

"So hurtful, Inspector. So full of hate. Why? Why not instead tell me about your first love?"

Slap

"Hm, you have a firm hand. I recognize a form in your swing. Perhaps you love to hurt."

"Never. I'd never hurt those I love."

"How can you be so sure? We are all the same. Fighting to stay alive, to find ways to survive this game. And clearly, someone is hurting others to stay to achieve that. You would hurt me for those you love."

"That's not the same. You are vile. You don't know anything of love, of loving someone."

"Ow, Inspector. How can you say that when you can tell that my eyes only hold my inner most sacred love for you."

“As a matter of interest, what were you thinking about?” Remus asked with great curiosity.

Harry was a little tired from the spell but as he sat down on the step into Remus’ office he responded, “It’s not happy exactly. I mean, it is. But it’s...complicated. It isn’t just happy but safe as well. It’s the safest I’ve ever felt…” He trails off caught up in the memory.

Remus contemplated whether or not to ask more before Harry continued of his own volition. “She had hair that strangely enough looked closer to white or silver and the bluest eyes I can remember seeing.” A small smiler slipped across his face. “She was holding me in my crib and talking, simply, talking. I’m not even sure what she was saying but I felt warm...safe.”

He paused for a moment before continuing, “I’m still not sure if it’s real or not.” He turned to look at his professor. “You were one of my parents’ best friends, do you know who the girl could have been?”

“As a matter of fact, I might.”

Alternative

“As a matter of interest, what were you thinking about?”

“The first time I rode a broom.”

“That’s not good enough, Harry, not nearly good enough. You need something more powerful, pure, primal even...” Remus trails off trying to describe it best.

“Sorry, I’m a little lacking when it comes to happy memories. Should I just go out, drag a girl into a broom closet, and snog her or something?” He asks incredulously.

“As your teacher no.” A small smirk appears on his scarred face, “As your friend, that could be the very thing you need to succeed with the patronus.”

Thus commences Harry’s attempts to get a memory powerful enough to fuel a patronus.

Lover noir, lone, dark, my prince Come to me, you're mine long since. Let pass this harlot, fair but all lies Love her illusion, your life her prize.

Fire, scorning, my red gone See the temper, lover, she has shown. Break her hold, it isn't all bonne If not, our fates will fail, even if sewn.

Escape, flee, oh maiden scarlet girl Forever mine, his toes I'll make curl.

Message 1:

Many a day we have spent together, and none of them I regret, only the fact our days are finite weighs me down. Eternity by your side I desire the most. Find the next clue in the room I spent much time in, though you always insist I do not need it.

Message 2:

Another step closer to finding the treasure, my darling. Ever since we started dating, you have every day proven I made the right choice to approach you. I am so happy I decided to go work on my english after the tournament. You can find the next clue where I store what you tell me I do not need, for what is inside is more important.

Message 3:

Rest easy in the knowledge that you found another clue. I must congratulate you on your skills. Know then that the next clue can be found where we shared many a moment teaching each other, and then enjoyed the fruits of our labours.

Message 4:

Read this with a smile, you deserve it, and I love seeing you smile. Only one more clue to go before you find the treasure. You can find it in the room where we both spend less time than we would wish.

Message 5:

Yes, this is the final clue, good job, my love. The treasure you seek is hidden outside the house, where we have store our supplies that make sure we do not freeze in winter. I can only say I enjoy watching you procuring said supplies.

Fleur is telling Harry something more in those messages, of course. 😉

Part 1

They met in the hallway, as usual, an almost desert part of the Temple, a single glance, a single look, was enough for them to communicate.

One hour.

Our room.

It was an abandoned training room, probably forgotten even by the systems.

But not by them.

As Harry pressed her against the wall and kissed her as if he was a man dying from thirst and she the sweetest of waters, Fleur found herself grateful for it.

They didn’t have much time, so their secret meetings were almost always intense, physical, silent.

Save for the sounds they couldn’t help making.

“Harry…” she grunted as he kissed the place between her neck and the collarbone, biting on it, the bastard.

But she knew today they would talk, they had been on this song and dance, dating, as they took to calling, for long enough that she could tell.

Soon, when they had dealt with their ‘baser urges’ Harry looked at her, reticent and hesitant, and Fleur inclined her head.

“You can always talk to me, Harry, I hoped after all we’ve been through…”

“I know, Fleur, I know, it’s just...my Master.”

Fleur’s eyebrows raised, and she bit the inside of her mouth.

“What about him? Does he know...about us?”

Harry snorted, “I already told you I think he knows, Master Dooku is too perceptive.”

“Well, since you aren’t telling me we’re leaving the Order then, what about it?”

Harry’s eyes widened at her declaration, but he soon recovered, “Well, the truth is, he has been thinking of leaving the Order himself, after...Galidraan.” He closed his eyes, as if fighting off the memories, and Fleur caressed his face.

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault, or even his...the Council...” she stopped when Harry placed his hand over hers and squeezed it lightly.

“I know and he knows it too, but, it’s even more than that, I don’t think Master Dooku believes in the Jedi Order anymore, especially after what happened with Qui Gon.”

Another painful exhale, and Fleur’s other hand reached up and began caressing his face.

“I am sorry Fleur, I know you have your own problems...”

Fleur scowled, “Harry, I know that man was like family to you, and compared to that, me arguing with my Master all the time isn’t much to look at, now tell me why we stopped so you could tell me a member of the High Council is thinking of leaving the Order.”

He snorted, a small smile playing on his lips, and brought her closer.

“Because I am thinking of going with him.” he turned his face and missed the glint that entered her eyes.

“You are?” Her voice wasn’t as shocked as he expected.

“Yes, I agree with him on many points, but, Fleur, I don’t want to pressure you-”

“Would he take another Apprentice?”

Harry looked at her in surprise, and she laughed at his expression.

“Harry, you know I never fit in, and unlike you, I don’t have a supportive Master, and...my skills with the Force aren’t as appreciated as yours.”

“Now, that’s not true.”

“Harry, my Master is almost kicking me out of the Order, in fact, I think your Master stopped her from doing it.” She stopped talking when her eyes got moist and her voice broke a little, after a few moments of silence Harry brushed off a tear, “I am one of the best duelists, I can lift stones even some Knights can’t, and I can read minds from across a ship, but this stupid, emotional thing she can’t see past of, and it’s all she can talk about, I don’t how long I can take it, and I doubt she will recommend me to the stupid trials unless I become a-an emotionless doll like her!”

Harry hugged her tighter, and began caressing her silver tresses, not so cordial thoughts about Master Luminara in his mind.

“I will talk with him, it’s just, I-I have my doubts, about leaving…”

“Harry, I overheard Master Drallig talking the other day, and he said you’re one of the best in the Order, Knights included.” Harry sighed and Fleur scowled.

“You’re past hearing what those stupid, scornful little Padawans say about you, they are just jealous, and what I am saying is that we will be fine, I know the Galaxy is a dangerous place, but together. “ she interlaced their fingers, “we can do it.”

She felt him nod, and smiled, “Harry, without the Order, we won’t have to hide our love, or ourselves, we can finally be who we are, no Code to shackle us, I am sure Master Dooku could teach you techniques you couldn’t even imagine, and together, we can master them.”

Another nod, and Fleur closed her eyes, “And Harry, we will be able to have a family.”

As Harry tightened their embrace, Fleur knew she had convinced him.

She hoped he could convince his Master.

Harry had been warned by his father law that this would happen, even by his wife, though his mother in law had just laughed and said she trusted him, Hermione had given him and Fleur some Muggle books on child rearing, and Arthur and Molly some tips on raising siblings close in age.

He had thought Jean was joking about the fire, he wasn't joking. And Hermione's books had little counsel to give on Veela children, Molly and Arthur did have some useful counsel when dealing with Twins though, even if Fred and George would only rarely set things on fire.

He thought about that as he walked in on the room, brought by the sounds of his girls fighting, apparently there was a reason Fleur and Gabrielle were somewhat distant in age.

With practised ease, he flicked his wand and a shield sprung up to block the little fireball from hitting the couch, it also had the effect of making the two belligerent parties stop their fight cold, two sets of eyes, blue and green turned to look at him in horror, he also used a small jet of water from his wand to put out the fire on the new, velvet curtains they had bought in Turkey.

"Papa!"

Harry just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Where is your brother?"

"Here, Papa." A small voice said from the other side of the room and Harry saw his youngest get out from under his Cloak, green eyes like his own watching his older sisters warily.

"Sorry, dad, I tried to stop them, but-" before the other two could interrupt Harry stopped them with a glare, he turned to his son.

"It's okay, Sirius, you are not in trouble, go to your room, and good thinking with the Cloak." Harry had discovered it was fireproof and more than one people said they were doubtful it could be damaged, even with magical means. As his boy smiled at him and exited the room while looking worryingly at his sisters, Harry took a moment to glance around the living room.

The curtains were blackened by the fire, the walls were full of small scorch marks, there were small, downy feathers everywhere, most from the destroyed pillows and newer ones, from the girls, the couch he and Fleur had bought in Italy was ruined and that nice Chinese vase Cho had sent was singed, it was probably charmed against fire, thankfully.

Harry looked between his two eldest, Veela Twins, a rarity among them, according to Fleur, so similar but so different, Lilian was silvery blonde with his green eyes and Rose had his black hair and Fleur's blue eyes, opposites, and their personalities balanced in such a way they were either the best of friends or at each other's throats, Harry pitied the day they attended Hogwarts(he didn't know but McGonagall planned to retire around that time) because according to Fleur, those fights could get nasty as they reached puberty, especially, and Harry really hated to think that about his girls, if they were interested in the same boy, he honestly pitied the poor sod.

Shaking his head to clear those thoughts, Harry focused on the present, when he fixed his daughters with his most dissapointed stare, and channeled Fleur the best he could, because, according to her, he was way too forgiving with the children, "I don't care who started it, you're both grounded, and what really makes me sad is that you both would try to hurt your own sister, and endanger your own little brother, who is not resistant to fire!"

Both girls immediately started crying, and Harry had to work hard to not run and comfort them, 'They need to learn discipline, if they think you'll always pat their heads things will get much worse when they get older, believe me.' his wife's voice told him.

"Papa, I-we would never hurt Sirius, and I-I wouldn't hurt Rosey either, I was just so mad!" Lilian exchanged a look with her sister and they both hugged each other, Harry noticing the downy feathers on their arms were receding.

"It's true Dad, we were just fighting over, over-" she looked at the center of the room, where a half burnt doll lay there and came back to crying.

Harry who was a 'big softie' according to his wife, couldn't resist anymore and embraced his daughters, who cried in his chest and they tended to do, not that Fleur was unloving by any measure, but they always were closer to him, and Sirius to Fleur, something that seemed to amuse his father in law to no end.

As he looked around the room, half-way scorched by fire, covered in feathers and all but soaked by water, Harry snorted as he held on his crying Veela daughters.

"That certainly wasn't the books"

There was a Veela very mischievous

dating a man very adventurous.

“Let’s bake a cake!” she declared.

Together their best they tried.

The mess they made is still quite infamous

Arianne wasn't so sure anymore.

She craned her neck to look up at the underside of the balcony, as she'd done from the car window everytime she picked up or dropped off her sister. It felt different now, outside the car, and different wasn't necessarily good.

Her father came around the back of the car, floating her truck with him and she looked up at him with big watery eyes, suddenly on the verge of tears as anxiety consumed her. He smiled and knelt beside her and a single tear fell as she heard her mother break out into fresh sobs behind her.

Her father swiped it away with a thumb and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Don't do that little chick," he whispered, and tapped her nose gently with a finger, he was smiling but his own eyes looked misty. "Your mother will never let you go then."

Arianne laughed even as another tear escaped. "I don't wanna go, papa," she said quietly, in defeat, finally admitting it.

"I know baby girl, but guess what?"

She didn't, but he carried on nonetheless.

"You sister didn't want to either," her eyebrows rose in surprise, Liliane had never said a bad thing about her time at Beauxbatons. She had filled Arianne's head with endless visions of how great it was. "The night before, she asked maman if she could stay, and look how fast she fell in love with it."

Arianne could hear Liliane telling her maman it would be okay, the older woman absolutely being consoled by the teen. It made her feel a bit better about it all, and her momentary fear began to lose ground in the wake of the excitement that had dominated the summer.

"Besides," her father said, and he lowered his voice even further. "I've shrunk your broom and stashed it in your trunk, so you have to go, so you can figure out how to unshrink it."

Arianne's eyes lit up, and the last of her anxiety faded.

"Now, go say bye to maman little chick," she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gave her papa a proper smile.

He stood and ruffled her hair, and she protested on principle, though she was far from upset, and too soon he moved to his eldest daughter. Arianne caught sight of her mother's distraught face as she realized it was time to say goodbye to her little baby.

With a resolve to calm her down just as Liliane had, she marched over and hugged her mom around the middle. Fleur laughed and ran smoothing hands down her head, rectifying the mess her father had just made.

"It's okay maman," Arianne said, proud that she'd kept a waver out of her voice.

"I know little chick," Fleur said, and she sounded reassured, not as weapy as she usually was when dropping Liliane off. "Because you're the strongest little chick on the planet."

As if to prove her point, Arianne squeezed her mother's legs and refused to let go until Liliane pulled her focus asking if she was ready. Her pounding heart spread a new feeling through her veins now, excitement. The two Potter girls turned at the doors to wave, their parents held each other by the car, and waved back, and they turned and disappeared from sight.

A tear fell from Harry's eye as he watched his youngest daughter, his little broom prodigy, his chaotic little spitfire, disappear into the school that had changed his life forever.

"You big softy," his wife teased, and he shook his head, forcing a chuckle to purge out the shakiness in his voice.

"You're one to talk," he quipped, and she rolled her eyes and reached up to dry his cheek.

"Come mon coeur, we still have one little chick, let's go rescue him from papa," she climbed into the car and he followed, off to get their last little chick from the Delacours.

"Rescue papa more like," he chuckled as he followed her.

"I don't ever want to hear another joke about my teary goodbyes," she said as gravel crunched in the car pulled away. "I will rat you out so fast."

He laughed, a real one this time. "But of course mon coeur, now come here."

He opened his arms, and she crawled across the armrest to sit in his lap and resume her lifelong task of sorting out his hair. The familiar action was so ingrained in both of them that it acted as instant soothing for both sides.

Their daughters were off to school, one for the first time, but it would not be so long till the first holiday. And besides, there were houses in the village, maybe it was time to reach out to his realtor.

These thoughts, and Fleur's nimble fingers, helped bridge the gap that Arianne's first semester of school created, and they headed home to collect their son.

The two of them were huddled together on the couch in front of the fireplace: she had a book in hand, he had his arms wrapped around her.

He asked her if she’d run away with him were he to do so, and she nodded without a moment’s hesitation.

“Why?” He asked, perplexed.

“I trust you.”

"Oh, Harry, I think the Twins got you this morning." Hermione said, concerned.

"Huh?" was her best friend's response as he turned his tired eyes towards her, the dark circles around them only a bit better compared to yesterday. Hermione frowned looking towards said twins, who were laughing at something Lee Jordan was saying.

"I am going to speak to them, pranks are one thing, but you haven't been sleeping well for days Harry."

Harry looked at her oddly, and then grimaced, before frowning and rolling his eyes, confusing Hermione greatly.

'He must be so tired he's getting confused.'

"Hermione...what are you talking about?" He asked, resigned.

Hermione sighed, and picked up the hand mirror that her mother gave her this summer, opening and showing it to him.

Harry froze, his eyes widening while his jaw dropped, and Hermione was taken aback by the look of horror he had as he looked at his own reflection.

'It's not that bad, for them it's even tame.'

But Harry didn't seem to think so, he raised his hand, ever so slowly, reaching for the lock of hair over his right eye. He touched it lightly, as if afraid it would attack him.

The light green color was from root to tip, and looked even more prominent when set against his normally jet black hair.

'Must've been a charm, to color the hair like that.'

Her friend rose abruptly, almost tripping on the bench as he all but ran out of the Great Hall, leaving behind a very confused Hermione.

Harry ran into an out of the way boy's bathroom, going straight to the mirror to take a better look, he had to hold himself in the sink to not fall.

"Why. Is. My. Bloody. Hair. Green?" He was taking deep breaths, the feeling of vertigo almost overtaking him.

"..."

"Answer me! If you are going to stay in my head, then bloody tell me!" His voice broke, and he glared at his reflection, the lock of green hair almost taunting him.

But it wasn’t just it, for some reason, his black hair taunted him too, as did his chin, and the shape of his eyes.

Everything was right and wrong at the same time, as if he was two halves of different persons mashed together.

The pitter pater of water drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked around for a leak in the ceiling, but when he heard it just below him, he realized it was the sound of his tears hitting the sink.

He looked back in the mirror, the tear tracts were clear, even in the low light.

“I haven’t cried in years… don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“It’s okay to cry, and you know who you are, you just haven’t fully realized it yet.” that dreaded, young female voice spoke in his mind, the same one from his dreams and nightmares.

Harry fell to his knees, beyond caring if he was going mad or not.

“Who are you? Please, be honest.”

“I-I am you, Harry, and I am also not, I am…a part of you from before, but also someone different, we were separate once, but we…fused, and became more than the sum of our parts. But that world is long gone, and in this new one, most of what we were was, well, locked into me. You do however look very similar to how you were before.”

“That sounded like a bunch’a of nonsense, do you have a name?”

“...I think I was once called…Sothis.”

The name resonated in him like nothing else, a Deja Vu of something he hadn’t lived yet, a distant feeling of power and loss that would’ve drove him to his knees if he wasn’t already there.

“Sothis…yes, I think, I think that’s right.”

But she had told him more than that, he didn’t need to be Hermione to know that.

“You said from before…before what?”

” This world is cyclical I think, and even those like us are bound to its turns.”

“Those like us?”

”You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, we will remember in time, we have already begun, it will not be easy, but…I think you will like a lot of it, there was much hardship, but also much happiness there. Best you go to sleep, the dreams will get clearer with time.”

And the dreams did get clearer, in a sense, he remembered a large man he called father, he remembered learning how to swing a sword, how to fight.

He remembered a castle not as magical as Hogwarts, but a school nonetheless, and he remembered…teaching, but the students, there were no names or faces, all he got was a feeling of fondness for some, regret for others, and something he couldn’t identify for a few.

The flashes of battle were the worst, he remembered cutting men apart, the screams of pain, the smells, the anger and regret he felt at fighting, but overall, an encompassing feeling of purpose and dedication to something or someone, maybe even more than one someone.

He had gotten much better with his sleep schedule after that morning, even Hermione didn’t look so concerned.

His hair getting green was explained by an elaborate prank he had the twins do, and how he thought it looked cool, so he decided to keep doing it.

Professor McGonnagal was not happy, but turns out Hogwarts doesn’t have rules for student’s hair color, as long as they want it that way.

Malfoy calling him ‘Grasshead’ made him laugh more than he should.

It all changed when the delegations arrived.

First was the Durmstrang one, out of that ship, out of all the students that came out, Harry felt like he had to find someone. And while Ron was almost jumping up and down after seeing Krum, Harry’s eyes slid over the crowd, but he couldn’t find anything.

Then, came Beauxbatons. Harry couldn’t help but smile upon seeing the Pegasi, because how could they be called anything but, and for a single, crazy moment, he imagined two women in armor mounting them, but it was gone in the blink of an eye.

The carriage they pulled was incredible, a marvel of enchantments, Hermione had whispered, but the sense of anticipation that filled Harry made him almost not hear her properly, focused as he was on that carriage door. First was a giant of a woman, taller than Hagrid even, and following her.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught, a flash of fondness, nostalgia and a feeling he could only call love filled him.

Long white hair, blue-purplish eyes, and grace that couldn’t be natural.

She looked beautiful in blue, but it didn’t fit her, same as Harry though a Lion didn’t fit him, but red did. And Harry thought she would look wonderful in red and gold.

An aftertaste of Bergamot tea teased his tongue, one he had never drunk, but somehow knew the taste better than any other. The memory of a balmy, spice smell he recognized as from Carnation filled his nostrils, and Harry smiled, openly, happily.

He couldn’t tell you why, other than that seeing that girl he didn’t know the name of, did it for him, so easily he didn’t even have to think about it.

**”...And here we go again, I just hope you won’t burn this world for her dreams too.” **

Flashes of terrible battles passed by quickly, but Harry was beyond that, a single unifying certainty was in his mind.

“For her, I would.”

Fleur Delacour has spent her entire 18 years of life of searching. For what exactly is unknown. But there exists a fire within her that can only ever be tamed by her painting.

As a recent graduate of Beauxbaton's School of Magic, Fleur couldn't care less about Gamp's Law. All she's ever wanted, ever needed to was to paint. Her father, Sebastien, a man who's amassed a comfortable wealth promised her a gallery in return for actually graduating.

3 weeks she's been officially open and the gallery has a simultaneous feeling of emptiness and abundance. Walls are decorated with canvases of all sizes and filled with every hue imaginable. One area is filled with bold reds and oranges illuminating sunsets which reality could never create. Another holds almost photo like stills of Hogwarts, Beauxbaton's, and the Louvre. Fleur is merely proud of the failures she calls art pieces which have actually sold.

Peeking through a unassuming door in the back lies her studio. Already, paint flecks every surface. Bottles of paint are neatly organized in one corner contrasting to the canvases lay across the floor, hanging on easels, and across tables. This is the greatest external reflection of Fleur's self. A horrible, paint-filled mess lost in a sea of chaos in search of meaning. A constant strive for answers through the words she cannot say, expelled through her brush.

Immersed in another painting, this time of a hyper-realistic Diagon Alley, Fleur does not notice the man who walks into her space.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Fleur looks up to meet the green eyes of the stranger. And that flame, the one that never allows her to rest flares higher than ever before quelling to dull embers.

She must paint him.