With each encounter with Voldemort, Harry noticed, his scar grew. And he was sure that it was not good news. With each encounter with Voldemort, his temper and his self-control worsened. And yet, he also knew, he would stand against the Dark Lord until all his strength left him. It takes several brushes with death before Albus Dumbledore is sure and confides in Harry. Voldemort used a foul ancient ritual and imposed a piece of his soul upon Harry. And this fragment was now struggling to come to the surface. Should that be allowed to happen, Harry would cease to be. However, Albus knew of no way to remove the soul fragment.
Fleur Delacour was proud of the traditions of her people. The Veela had a long and proud history, even if many of their traditions had been left behind now. She was quite sure that not since the times of her great-grandmother none of her relatives had kidnapped nor tortured a single man. And yet her experiences lead to her instincts screaming at her. It was time to revive a tradition from the old times. In the past, Veela would sometimes swear themselves to heroes on an important quest, to heal their wounds, to slay their enemies, and should the worst occur, to keep them company in their dying moments. Tales of Harry Potter had reached Beaxbatons, of course, but meeting him in person proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did not lack valour. And then the Dark Lord came back. She knew they fought and would fight in the future until the battle was decided.
And she knew what she needed to do. After consulting with her grandmother, Elena, she ventured to Britain, found Harry Potter, and swore the most solemn vow a Veela could swear. Her life, her loyalty, were his, for she knew his quest was an important one.
Hearing of what plagued the young hero shook Fleur to the core. She remembered old tales of her people, the depravity of Koschei the Deathless, the horror of Baba Yaga, yet this… this went beyond those, albeit it seemed familiar somehow. Not even wise Elena knew of a way to help them, however. But she knew of one who would.
Yet the quest to reach Gamayun, the prophet and divine messenger, knowledgeable about everything in creation, would be far from easy. None knew where to find her. But Elena still gave then hope, directing them to the ancient ancestress of all the Veela, to Stratim, and to her kin, the sorrowful Sirin and the joyful Alkohost. One particular day every year, those two leave the Underworld and visit a certain place in our world. They are Gamayun’s kin and surely would know where she resides.
The journey would be fraught with danger, the worst of which were the very beings they sought. For no mortal man who heard their song ever wanted to leave and followed them to the Underworld, eternally in their thrall. Perhaps no less threatening are Voldemort’s agents and other seeking Sirin and Alkohost. For it is said that the fruit tree on which Alkohost alights produces fruits with miraculous powers of healing.