Author's Note: Hello, thank you for reading my story. Please see my profile for information regarding canon compliance and a general timeline of my interconnected stories. While they are not necessary to read, my short stories add flavor and context.
Words can't express the deep appreciation I have for my editors ArmsofAtlas, HonorverseFan, Ajjaxx, and everyone else who took time to support my writing.
I own none of the rights, nor make money, nor gain fame, or anything else from Harry Potter.
Cheers.
Chapter 9: Snowdrift
Broken shafts of moonlight alighted upon her fur. The rustle of it silent to any ears but hers as she made her way through the forest surrounding the secretive home of her prey.
The mice had hidden well, using magic to cover their human stench so Werewolf senses would be useless at tracking them.
Unfortunately, they were used to dogs. Not true wolves. Wolves with a history longer and prouder than the dunderheaded drudgery of any wizarding line.
Her nose twitched at the rancid smell of dark magic hanging heavy in the air. The taste of it pervaded her tongue like a cloying slime. Her reflective, yellow eyes saw perfectly in the dark of night as she scoped out the fortified base at the foot of the wooded hill.
A minimal grouping of guards, likely to make transportation easier, faster, and less noticeable. Logical certainly, but less interesting.
The crescent moon above would give the wizards little vision as she stalked through their camp. It had been a weary thing, tracking the monsters who had killed her people. They had scattered in different directions and gone to ground. This would be the first of many such holes she would have to dig out so as to enact her revenge.
She crept closer to the camp, the pads of her paws placed so that her arrival was indiscernible even in the quiet of her surroundings. The tickle in her nose became stronger as she stopped before the first of the wards set to alarm the guards at any intrusion. She chuffed silently.
Lycanthropy, the disease, was virulent and dangerous. Afflicted through the cursed bacteria coating Werewolf teeth, it would corrupt the body of a victim and turn them at the next full moon. Such Werewolves were feral, rage-filled, monsters incapable of anything but pure instinct. What wizards didn't know was that this was not the norm. The cursed bacteria was really just a byproduct of much larger malediction.
Her father had called it 'magical rabies,' which had always made her laugh as a young girl. The truth wasn't far off. There were only a handful of pure Werewolf clans left and none of them remembered the cause of the affliction. Some claimed it was an ancient shaman curse, while others told tales of it being a gift from the Goddess so that Lycankind could take over the world.
Her grandfather believed that a single wolf from a purebred family had turned evil and all the wretched werewolves of today were progeny from his tainted fangs. She figured it didn't much matter where it came from, only that it was here to stay. Purebred wolves from the Nine Clans didn't suffer from the disease and retained the true abilities of their kind lost to the feral packs, though not many of them were left.
Passing through the ward was what Hirene imagined swimming through gelatin would be like. It clung to her coat as she walked through until snapping back into place after her tail swept across the boundary line.
Her ears perked to attention just in case. Silence.
Crouching low to the ground, she stalked the scent of the Azerbaijan officials and their pathetic magic. A single great leap had her slinking in through the third-floor window, her ascent as quiet as the wind caressing the leaves of the surrounding forest.
Barry, her husband, would be displeased that she came alone. However, she knew he would forgive her this selfish pleasure. As he so often did. He was a generous, gentle man. But even so, he understood the needs that fueled her. The wild that sang in her veins, as potent and terrible as the hot blood that her heart pumped double-time.
Her rough tongue slipped out to swipe at her nose as she regarded the slumbering wizard in his bed.
The Azerbaijan official rolled onto his side, muttering unintelligibly. He was the former head of the Department of Magical Game and Beasts. He oversaw the camps of Werewolves, because that was all they were to him. Game and beasts. Diseased or not, feral or not, they were people. Her people.
Her wolf sneered and snapped within her mind, eager to kill the offensive man-thing. But she waited, patient and calm until the guard outside the door walked away. Her ears twitched at his receding footsteps from behind the closed bedroom door.
His time had come. With an easy gait, she hopped up onto the bed.
The disgusting scent of the man's heinous magic overpowered her nose and coated her tongue. His hot, rushing blood did much to alleviate the rotten taste and smell.
She crunched her jaws around his neck and gave a hard jerk, ensuring the ruined throat separated entirely from the spinal cord. She wouldn't allow any to turn tonight.
Now that she was here, past the wards, her senses were able to pick up the heartbeats and scents of everyone present. Thirty-four wizards and witches would die tonight. None of them would be a challenge. Even if alerted, their spells would be absorbed by her thick fur, or ricochet off her gleaming claws and fangs.
Her brethren at Canavar had been the prey, now it was the wizards' turn. She padded ghost-like to the next room.
She would show these rabbits how a real predator stalked the night.
XXXXXXXX
Fleur was gone when he woke. The side of the bed reserved for her warm body was cold and empty. His body stayed still, arm outstretched across the lonely terrain making up her side of the bed.
Two days of this had been enough. The third would be the last.
Resolved, Harry got to his feet. A stretch caused a pop in his shoulder and shifting his head side-to-side created another. The cold wood underneath his feet made him shiver. He missed home.
The Potters had stayed in Azerbaijan with Mr Akingbade, resolved to help however they could. Hermione had made a brief appearance the second day before leaving in tears. She had taken it personally.
As his friend had left another had taken her place. 'Friend' may be a strong word, perhaps, but Harry was glad to see Dennis Creevey in any capacity.
The man was small in stature and thin. He wore a long trench coat that seemed to have an endless supply of pockets, all magically enchanted to hold all the supplies a photographer and artist could need. Harry had moved to greet him but had received a cool, blank look instead. Dennis had never forgiven him for his brother's death. He didn't need to. Harry likely would never forgive himself either.
It had been a lifeline to Harry in the bleak days after the war. Surrounded by people congratulating him, thanking him, assuring him that all these horrible deaths were not his fault… Dennis's furious blame and rage had felt real in ways nothing else did. It had seemed right in a sea of wrong. Someone had finally said what he thought they all should feel. Oddly enough, that had been an important first step in Harry's own journey towards healing.
Fleur had been his rock through it all. He could only hope that Dennis had found an anchor as well.
The young man had begun his job thoroughly, interviewing people and documenting the site with photos. He looked so like his brother that Harry's heart ached.
Shaking off the ghosts of his past and present, Harry walked out of the room, shrugging on a robe as he did so.
He found her staring out a frosted window in the kitchen.
Her gaze was distinct, affixed on something more than the plaster of the walls and tiled kitchen that surrounded her. She was withdrawn and guarded, an unwelcome change.
Blame was a poison he knew intimately, and seeing it run its destructive course through his wife was an unpleasant sight. She had always been so alive, confident, and colourful. Now, her feathers had wilted, turning frayed and grey.
She didn't react to his presence, continuing her silent vigil of the snow-covered expanse outside their rented cottage. A cup of coffee lay cold on the table as she twisted her wedding ring absentmindedly around her finger.
Walking up behind Fleur, he wrapped his arms around her midsection, pulling her flush to his chest. Her muscles tensed briefly but relaxed against his familiar presence. He kissed the side of her neck, exposed by the messy bun she had affixed her hair into, her wand holding it in place atop her head.
"We should go home today," Harry murmured into her throat, squeezing her tight. "It will help to see the girls."
Fleur gave a non-committal hum but said nothing.
"I know you want to help but Mal-Chin is right, there isn't much more we can do here. His plan is our best chance to -"
"'Arry." His name was spoken half as a plea and half as an admonishment. He went silent.
The only sound in the kitchen for a time was the beating of two hearts and the breathing of two tired souls. They watched the snow fall and sky dim.
Finally, Fleur turned her head slightly, shifting her body so her weight settled against him. When she spoke, her voice was so soft it was nearly inaudible. She sounded small and scared and so terribly sad.
"I want to go home."
He rested his forehead against her neck and bit his lip to force the misery clogging his throat back down into his chest.
Had this all been his fault? If he had stayed in his bubble, in his comfortable home all those months ago… would any of this have happened? Did his idealistic hubris really cause such a horrible outcome? He thought he was doing what was right, thought he knew what that meant.
He wished he still did.
"Then let's go home, Sunshine."
XXXXXXX
The plan wasn't bad, just boring. Harry was used to being embroiled directly, not being relegated to the sidelines. At least, not since Fifth year.
However, even he could admit that Mal-Chin's idea was the one most likely to lead to success. After spending a few days in Azerbaijan with the ICW and attending speaking engagements, the Potters had made their stance and presence very clear.
News stories had been pushed out in droves across the entire wizarding world about the Canavar Massacre and the Potter family's hope for a better world.
Now, they were back in England and laying low to give the illusion they were still helping in Azerbaijan. At first, Mal-Chin had wanted to use polyjuice potion to really sell the scheme. But Fleur had burst that bubble by revealing Veela hair would cause polyjuice to turn poisonous. So, only Harry's form continued to make appearances, played by Neville, the only law enforcement operative who knew Harry's mannerisms and quirks well enough.
It was Mal-Chin's hope that dangling the bait of the Potters would be too tempting for Abbas, Ernst, and Dolohov to refuse.
So far, it had not proven terribly successful. A few paparazzi swarms and threatening letters but nothing too out of the ordinary had occurred.
Being back home had been good for other reasons, however.
Harry had missed his daughters with a desperation bordering on pain, the whirlwind of events tearing at the time he so cherished with them.
Unfortunately, Fleur was little more than a husk of her normal self. She played with the girls occasionally but secluded herself in the bedroom more often than not. He tried to give her space, knowing she would come to him when she needed to speak, but waiting was hard. So, he busied himself with the girls and providing support to his wife in small ways, like making her favorite foods and brushing her hair each night in contemplative silence.
It wasn't perfect but it did become routine.
The peaceful illusion was shattered abruptly however, when Lili awoke screaming from a nap in her bedroom one afternoon.
Harry had rushed into her bedroom to find her panting on the floor, her bedsheets rumbled into a ball on her mattress.
"What's wrong?" Harry questioned, his heart rate pounding. "Did you have a nightmare?"
"I don't have nightmares anymore," she stated firmly even as a slight tremor shook through her body, causing her balled fists to tremble.
"It's ok to have nightmares, Lili," Harry replied calmly, trying desperately to show her support and calm.
A little girl, already so desperate to be like an adult - adverse to showing weakness or being vulnerable - he didn't want that for her. He now understood from Fleur what that could mean and where it could lead.
"I have nightmares too, Moonbeam. Everyone does. It doesn't make you weak."
She shook her head violently in denial as though refusing to be the child that she was. Harry felt sick to his stomach. He had hoped that when she moved from her parent's bed to her own that the nightmares had ended, that she was alright. But it seemed naive now. Didn't he know better than most how long traumas could haunt you?
"Why did those men come for me, Papa?"
The world dropped from beneath his feet. his fingers convulsing, grasping at air. He hadn't been prepared for this question, had become complacent when she hadn't asked directly after the attack. Had hoped it would never come.
In his shock, the second question collapsed his ribcage with implications. "Why do you have so many scars?"
Fleur had warned him this day would come. The things children accepted unquestioningly would not hold forever but he hadn't expected it this soon. Or that it would wind him so thoroughly.
He also had hoped Fleur would be there, to bolster him with her presence and interjections. However, she had taken Fayette to drop off baked bread to Gabrielle briefly. She should be back soon but… perhaps it was important he do this one-on-one.
He picked up Lili in his arms and sat down on her bed, moving so she could sit beside him on the edge. He looked at his hands, inspecting the ridges and lines making up his palms. Those formed naturally and the scars interlacing them.
"I… your mother and I, well, your whole family really… we were in a war." He looked up at her, losing his train of thought briefly in her wide eyes. He looked back down. "It was against some truly nasty people that hated muggleborns and muggles and anyone different from them. It was a hard time and some people lost their lives. You know Uncle George?"
"Mhm."
"You know how he only has one ear?"
"Oh."
"Yeah. He-" the words collapsed in his throat. A memory of a freckled smile drifting before his mind. Resolving himself, he continued. "He had a brother, a twin, named Fred." This was much more difficult than he believed. Memories on their own were hard enough but communicating them more so. It felt wrong to let Lili in on his deepest shames, to share his burden with her. The burden of the Potter name.
"Fred died in the war. And Teddy's parents too. Lots of people."
"Is that where you got your scars?"
"Some, yes. Others…" He trailed off, his hand unconsciously drifting upwards. Tiny fingers gripped his wandering digits, stalling him. He started in surprise, eyes darting to determined blue irises.
"Where did you get this one?" She asked, her fingernails ghosting over the jagged skin lancing across his brow.
"I got this when my mum and dad died." The words came easier now, the trauma less personal somehow. He had lived all his life with them gone, had heard their stories and met their friends. It felt healed somehow, like a loss that you've lived with so long it becomes routine and unnoticeable. Like the scar tissue on his forehead.
"Did they die in the war too?"
"Sorta." Harry thought about how to proceed, how he could make a young girl understand. "They died in a war that ended but started again when I was in school."
Lili's nose scrunched as she digested the new information. Her eyes glanced his way only to return to the ground, lost in thought.
"What happened?" Childish curiosity bubbled to the surface of her voice, even as her timid tone bellied her uncertainty over asking the sensitive question.
"A really bad man attacked them. My mum and dad gave their lives to protect me. They were very brave and wouldn't let him hurt me. I was very lucky to have them as my parents." He watched his daughter carefully, focusing on her so memories wouldn't drag him backwards.
She nodded, then frowned. "So, you grew up without a papa or mama?"
"Yes. I did." He had meant to say the words firmly, calmly, but something in his voice cracked and the rawness caused Lili's head to swing upwards. Harry tried to smooth his face into a blank mask but it was too late. She had seen.
Tentatively, Lili reached out her hand and touched the phantom lines crowning his forehead with reverent understanding.
"You must have been so lonely," her gentle voice sounded like wind chimes. "I'm so sorry Papa," she gasped as tears welled up in oceanic eyes. Hiccuping sobs bubbled from her chest as salted water raced down her cheeks. He knew she didn't just cry for him, rather, this was the outlet she had needed so the dam of pressurized emotions could give way. Even so, the sight of his lovely daughter crying for the boy in the cupboard warmed him like nothing else ever had.
"Shh, Moonbeam, it's okay," Harry crooned, wiping away her tears with the pads of his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. "Don't cry for me, I wish more than anything that you could have met them. I know they would have adored you."
"Can you take me to see them?"
He hadn't been since Fayette had been born, to speak the news softly to an unhearing gravestone. The place had taken on a strange hollowness to him. He had seen and felt the essence of his parents before in a way that made the cold ground seem lacking in comparison. But that was only part of the larger truth to his recalcitrance. Reminders of loss marred the surface of his entire world but nothing seemed to inspire the whimsy of 'what if' quite like imagining a life with his parents.
Harry had never been sure of concepts like the afterlife but he had always hoped to see his mum and dad again. That perhaps the train would take him to a place where they would hug and kiss him the way he'd missed his whole life.
But now, he knew that no train would await him when his final breath lapsed. Fleur had warned him, long before he accepted her courtship dance, that the magic of their union would bar him entry anywhere but to her own resting place. The Place Beyond the Trees, Veela called it. His mind hesitated where his heart did not. Anywhere Fleur or their, at that time, hypothetical daughters, would end up was where he needed to be.
To love a Veela was a one-sided thing, to be sure. Their partners were asked to give up so much but he had never regretted his decision. Not when it had given him everything in return.
Harry looked down at his daughter as she wordlessly awaited his reply and knew that his choice had been the right one.
"Of course, witchling. Let me introduce you to your grandparents."
XXXXXXXX
Snow crunched underfoot as they made their way to the Potter headstone. The pavilion of Godric's Hollow bustled with activity but no one paid much mind to the pair hidden under deep hoods and cloaked in Notice-Me-Not charms.
Being seen in Godric's Hollow wasn't exactly Harry's idea of 'laying low,' but this was too important to delay. Not after Lili had gone so long bereft of the sort of closure he'd been unaware she needed.
The graveyard was largely unchanged by the passage of years. Fayette had been a summer child, but every other time he'd visited, snow had lain thick and heavy upon the ground.
He looked down at the small hand clenched tight in his grip, the young girl walking steadily but slowly forwards. She seemed uncertain but even so, no hesitation marred her steps.
Father and daughter stopped before the headstone and the world around them seemed to stop too. Snow continued to fall, clouds continued to roll, and muted sunlight still brightened the surroundings, yet, for all that, the two seemed to fall into a bubble separate from the larger world. A small space designated for greetings and grief.
Lili peered up at him and gave him a timid smile, her eyes slipping from his to brush against the symbolic stone before her. Her tiny hand slipped from his and she stepped forward, bending her knees to rest upon the ground with her atop them.
"Hi," she whispered. "My name is Lili, well, my full name is Lilianna Jaime Potter but my family calls me Lili, so… you can too." His little girl paused as though deep in thought as tears collected in the corners of Harry's eyes. She was so precious, so kind, so like her mother. He wished more than anything that his parents could have known his wife and daughters.
The dulcet voice of his daughter began again in a more certain tone. "It is almost Yule and I'm very excited. Mama always takes us out to the woods behind our house where we light lanterns in the snow. The little balls of light glow so prettily, snuggled into their snowy beds. Mama and Fayette, that is my little sister, and me all sing. Papa can't sing but he hums nice enough. Mama says the winter solstice is important to Veela, that our sisters and mothers who have been wandering through the year need to return home. I don't really get it but she says I'll understand after my Guiding." At this, Lili paused, biting her lip just like her mother did when she was afraid she'd said too much.
After a short pause, Lili began a new tangent. Her voice steadily grew in strength, though never louder. "But the best part of winter is Papa's hot cocoa. He said Uncle Hagrid gave him the recipe but that Hagrid originally got it from you, granddad. It is very, very good."
Her tiny hand that had been tracing the names etched into stone stopped their movement before sliding down and retreating to the warmth of a blue cloak. "Everyone says I have Papa's eyes but he told me that I have your eyes, grand-mère. That always makes me smile because I know how much Papa loves you. I saw some pictures of you in our family album, you are very pretty. My mama is pretty too but she has blue eyes, like my sissy."
"Papa told me about what happened to you. It made me really sad but I also think it was really brave!" Her voice cracked at the last word and the next time she spoke it was hushed. "It also made me proud to be named after you both. I hope I will grow up to be like you. Thank you for saving my Daddy. He is the best Papa in the world." With her final words spoken, Lili leaned forward to press her chilled lips to the smooth stone reverently. "Bye granddad, bye grand-mère."
Harry crouched next to his daughter, his hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder as they stared at the gravestone. The marker held a significance to them both now, a stone filled with possibilities and what-ifs.
"Even though you can't see them, Lili, I know they watch out for you. For us both."
The young girl sniffled quietly. "Do you think so?"
"I know it," Harry replied with a smile. "They will always stay close to you, even if you can't see them." His words stirred phantasmic memories that slithered against his skin. The frozen trees around the cemetery turned darker, taller, more foreboding. Yet, Harry felt a warmth he remembered like an eroding dream. A voice, so like his own, whispered in the echoing chambers of his heart, 'until the very end.' A gust of wind rustled through the snow upon the ground, sending up powdery flakes into the air in a swirling dance. The soft breeze ruffled Lili's cloak, like an acknowledgement. Like a promise.
With a soft grin and a light heart, Harry conjured mittens for his daughter's cold hands before helping her put them on. With a slight pop from misused joints, he rocked to his feet and brushed off the snow from Lili's clothes. With one last lingering look at the graves of Lily and James, father and daughter began trudging through the deep snow hand-in-hand as they left the churchyard.
"Papa?"
"Yes, Lili?"
"I fibbed before. I still have bad dreams sometimes." The confession came abruptly and its suddenness made him smile even as his heart clenched painfully.
"That's alright, Moonbeam." He tightened his grip on her mittened hand. "I do too."
XXXXXXXX
Briny waves surged up the chalk cliffs, their distance far enough away to be but muted thunderclaps to the rampaging force they truly were. Harry had gone with Hermione the first time she'd scoped out the place as a potential marital home.
Hermione had been dead set on owning and refurbishing a historical or culturally significant home. As such, she had dragged Harry and Ron to, seemingly, every derelict, abandoned, or otherwise inhabitable shack in England. But even Harry could admit, tired and weary of homes as he was, when they had first laid eyes on the craggy cliff face with its sprawling green expanse… awe was the only word to really describe it.
The beauty of the land had smashed into his ribcage to nestle close to his heart. As the stinging wind snapped off the saltwater to whip against his face, he had smiled and turned to Hermione who held a similar enraptured expression.
Fowler's Fall was a magical home that had fallen into disuse sometime in the 1800s; part of the roof had caved in, and overgrowth covered the majority of the stonework. But the large, two-story house had good bones and a view to take your breath away. Supposedly, some eccentric wandmaker had built the place and his esoteric contributions were enough to garner Hermione's seal of approval.
Accordingly, Harry and Ron had spent several months learning and utilizing magical masonry techniques. Though Harry could easily admit to it not being his forte, Ron seemed to have an overwhelming knack for the project.
Finally, Ron and Hermione's marital home was completed. She was a thing of beauty. Cool, grey stone, warm brown wood, and white trim, Fowler's Fall was completely restored. The old home sat proudly on a peak of The Seven Sisters chalk cliffs in Sussex.
What Harry lacked in the home repair magic, he made up for in the home defence area. Extensive warding and enchantments were applied to the home, bolstering the waning magics of the former owners.
The place had seen a fair number of sights, from Ron and Hermione's first years as a married couple to the eventual patter of little feet, a multitude of social gatherings for family or work, and now, it beheld the silent contemplation of Hermione and Harry.
They sat in rocking chairs on the porch, given an unobstructed view of the shining waters before them. The creaking of wood joining the orchestra of tossing waves and squalling gulls.
Harry felt the eyes of his friend graze him, as they had been doing for the last ten minutes or so. Deciding to end the questions, undoubtedly reaching critical mass in Hermione's mind, Harry quirked an eyebrow and rumbled, "Yes, Hermione?"
A long-suffering sigh. The creak of wood. A gull crying to his colony.
"I don't like this, Harry."
"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."
"Too much has happened and, as usual, it seems centred on you."
He craned his neck until a satisfying crack popped out instead of answering. He watched Hermione wince from the corner of his eye.
At his silence, she continued. "There is something we are missing. I think this is all connected, after all there is no such thing as a-"
"Coincidence."
"Yes, exactly. So I think we should consider the possibility that Dolohov is working with Ernst, Abbas, and who knows who else!"
"It seems increasingly likely that is the case."
Hermione huffed, irritation colouring her voice. "What is wrong Harry? This isn't like you. Typically, you'd be charging into some harebrained scheme and dragging me and Ron along for the ride."
"Tried that, didn't work out very well."
"Ok, fine. But why do you seem so composed all of a sudden?"
Harry contemplated the question for a while, turning it over in his head carefully before answering, his words selected with extreme caution. "I fell apart when Fleur and Lili needed me. Now they need me to be strong for them. I don't want to let them down again."
Hermione chewed her lip, her chair coming to a halt. "Are… are they alright?"
Harry felt a crack in the Occlumency shields he'd surrounded himself with. The jolt of panicked fury jabbing at his mind's fortress. Medically speaking, you were not supposed to rely on Occlumency in day-to-day life. Wizards and witches could become addicted to the numbness, and finding empathy again was far harder than abandoning it.
Mind Healers cautioned against using Occlumency as a coping mechanism, but Harry wasn't using it for his benefit anyways. He wasn't the one drowning in despair and nightmares, at least not recently. A strange sort of calm had befallen him even before he'd begun to use mental barriers to offset the trauma bubbling to the forefront of his mind. It was a detachment quite similar to the dispassion he'd felt towards the end of the war.
Like he knew that whatever happened, he'd meet it head-on. The time of fear and uncertainty was over and, even though he couldn't quite see the storm on the horizon, his instincts told him it was there. Inevitability was something he knew well, something he could weather.
But unlike the war, when his own well-being seemed so insignificant, now there were people that relied on him. People whose lives mattered so much more than his own. It was a terrible outcome to consider, really. Sacrificing himself had always seemed fairly easy. He'd grown up being told he was worthless, had seen example after example of other people, like Dudley, being put before him. So putting himself in danger for others seemed like a forgone conclusion, something he'd never stopped to analyze before Fleur had asked him to leave the Aurors, her belly ripe with their firstborn.
He knew, without a shred of doubt, that he'd die for his family. If it meant him or Fayette, he would toss himself over every time. That was easy, simple even. That wasn't the problem, that wasn't what kept him up at night. It was the aftermath. The nights of grief he wouldn't be able to hold them through, the tears he couldn't wipe away, the terror he couldn't console.
Occlumency gave him the separation necessary to scrutinize these topics that were such an emotional minefield otherwise. But, like a loveable bull in a tea shop, Hermione was going to barge in and demand he confront the worries the oncoming storm posed.
Hermione shifted in her seat next to him, prompting the realization that he'd basically ignored her question for longer than he'd intended. Apologetically, he glanced her way.
"Sorry, lot on my mind. They…" The barriers fell, a tidal wave of sensation overtaking him. His eyes stung. "They don't sleep. Not really. Lili, she has-" he bit his lip hard, the pain jolting him from the dizzying shock of his emotions collapsing in on themselves. "Really bad nightmares. Not just of the abduction attempt but of hurting her friend. She hasn't shown so much as a feather since the attack. I'm worried she is repressing herself and what kind of damage that could do." He took a shuddering inhale of the salted air. "Fleur won't speak. She just sits there, staring. Sometimes she doesn't leave our room all day." He let out an explosive breath. "She hardly eats."
His eyes wandered to Hermione's wide brown stare. "I don't know what to do, Hermione. I don't know how to help them."
He felt his best friend's hand worm its way into his grip, her fingers clenching tight. "You are doing exactly what you need to, Harry. I promise you. You being there might not seem like much, but it is so very important."
"I feel like I should be doing more, I'm just at a loss for what that is."
"That just means you care, Harry. And I know you do. You've always cared fiercely for others, but especially for your family and friends. You're being the support Fleur and Lili need, that is enough for now. Healing isn't something that you can force on other people. Sometimes they have to do a bit of it themselves before they're ready to let you in to help."
"Are you speaking from experience?" Harry replied hollowly, the humour dead before the words even broke the air.
"Yes, you moody git."
He gave a sharp bark of laughter that fizzled out abruptly. "Don't know how you put up with me all those years."
"You were worth it."
"Hmm."
"I'm serious, Harry. You can't fix everything. Being a hero is all well and good but that isn't what your girls need right now. They need a father. That is a far tougher job. It requires a different sort of courage, the bravery to be patient. Prop them up while they find themselves again, and when they are ready, show them how loved, cherished, and safe they are."
"I've never been a particularly patient bloke."
"Not when we were kids, no. But we aren't seventeen anymore, we aren't those people anymore. So much has changed for us, even if the world appears stuck in place. Just because everyone else refuses to move forward, doesn't mean we can't. You've grown, I've seen it first-hand. Maybe it's time you see it too."
He knew she was right, much as it galled him. It had been a bitter realization at the time, but the way she framed it made so much sense. He wasn't the same boy anymore. That was true. But perhaps that wasn't a bad thing. Perhaps, it was time he laid the burden of his past self to rest. Being a father to Veela chicklets was enough for any man's shoulders, he hardly needed to keep dragging the baggage of a seventeen-year-old around as well.
He'd been wrong before. It had seemed like a difficult choice, between doing what came naturally and what was necessary. The decision had nearly split him in two. But now, with clear eyes, he could see Hermione's wisdom for what it was. Growing up and changing was natural, even good. Seventeen-year-old Harry wasn't what his family needed now, they never would, and that was ok.
It was freeing.
Like Atlas shrugging off his mountainous obligation, Harry stretched. The muscles of his back popping pleasantly. Blissful release rippled across his soul, cleaning away the accumulated gunk of the ghost that had been housed there for so long.
It was a joy, sublime and profound, to understand yourself and your part to play. To reconcile that role against the mould you'd been formed from and finally be happy to know who you're meant to be.
Not many would understand the liberation, but then, he supposed, not many had shouldered what he had so young.
"I think you're right, Hermione. As usual." He gave her a cocksure grin. "I'm glad I've grown too, because I used to be rubbish when it came to weepy girls."
"Don't be a cad and get home, where you belong."
He leaned over to peck his dearest friend on her cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, "for always listening… and being my support."
"You do the same for me, Harry," she replied, beaming. "Now go," she shooed him, "and give my love to Fleur, Lili, and Fayette."
XXXXXXXX
Harry jerked awake as a fist crunched into his face. His hand lunged towards his wand holster, gripping the wood tightly against his palm as he rolled off the bed in one fluid motion. Crouching, he surveyed his surroundings, tensing his muscles to leap away from oncoming spellfire.
Fleur contorted on their bed as though on fire, her sobs and gasps puncturing the stillness of the night like hammer blows. Her mumbling was interrupted by apologies, both shouted and whispered.
It was not often that Harry woke to a nightmare that was not his. The oddness of the situation momentarily stunned him as Fleur continued to thrash.
Blackened futility clawed at him. He hated how his daughter and wife were struggling, how he wished he could shoulder their burdens. Taking on their nightmares was his fervent wish but he knew it was impossible. Instead, Harry clambered back onto the bed so that he could grab the flailing wrists of Fleur. He pinned them over her head, pressing his torso against hers, which arched into him. She writhed for a bit as he spoke to her, calmly and with soothing words. Slowly, her terror subsided and blue eyes flickered open.
"What are you doing?" She squeaked, her voice hoarse, staring up at him.
"Nightmare," he muttered, rubbing his groin where a knee had jutted into.
Fleur bit her lip, eyes downcast and half-lidded. The dejection painted on her face and posture irritated him. He didn't want her to continue soaking in misery but some inner turmoils had to be worked on alone. That didn't mean he couldn't support her and be there when she needed someone to lean on. Much as it would pain him to watch her heal on her own, he knew, from his own scars, that it was what she needed most.
Huffing, Harry encircled his arms around the slender form of his wife, her hips slotting perfectly to his own. He held her briefly, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear until her heart rate settled.
Even as she calmed, he knew there was no hope of further sleep for either of them. So instead, he picked her up from their bed, nestling her close to his chest as he walked to the porcelain bathtub in the adjacent room. He shifted her gently in his arms so that he could free a hand to turn the tub's knob. A gush of heated water spewed from the faucet to begin filling up the basin where he tenderly placed her. Fleur drew her knees to her chest and stared at the rippling water that was quickly rising up her legs and towards the tops of her knees.
Harry reached over her head to grasp the assorted bathing supplies before beginning to coat her hair with a sweet-smelling soap.
His fingers dug into Fleur's scalp, kneading and rubbing the skin while thoroughly lathering her luscious platinum locks. Long after her hair was well-covered, his massage continued. His rubbing attention finally caused Fleur's shoulders to droop from their tense position. Cupping water in his large palms, he began to pour and rinse the suds from her crown.
It became methodical. Cup, pour, rinse, rub, cup, pour rinse, rub, the pattern forming with ease.
Neither spoke as he continued to wash her, her body moving fluidly with his gentle coaxing. Fleur barely moved unless prompted, going limp and still as his scrubbing hands roamed her body.
Afterwards, as Harry got up to snatch her a towel, he noticed teartracks making their way down her face, mixing with the water droplets shining like jewels upon lily-white cheeks.
Without thought, Harry dropped the towel to the floor and climbed into the bath, his nightclothes instantly becoming soaked and saturated by warm bathwater. He manoeuvered himself behind Fleur, bringing her trembling body against his chest, in-between his outstretched legs.
He held her as she cried, never once making a sound. He held her when she began to sob brokenly, and her face became blotchy and eyes red. He held her when she spoke about her nightmares, when she confessed the guilt that ate away her insides like acid. And when she was done, the last sob hiccuping out of her abused throat, he continued to hold her as he shared the terrors that stalked his own dreams and his own guilt.
For hours they stayed in the magically warm bath, soaking in the comfort only a soul that understands your most intimate pain can provide.
For hours they held one another, healing.
XXXXXXXX
The Potter home seemed to be inhabited by a family rather than ghosts the following day. Lili seemed brighter and Fleur ate and interacted with the girls with seeming normality. They ate meals together and even laughed occasionally.
Fleur began to heal rapidly after assuming her role as a mother once again. Being surrounded by their daughters proving to be a balm to her soul that he alone couldn't have soothed as thoroughly or quickly.
She was far from normal, or even ok, but her harrowing silences and gazes at nothing had been reduced, which he took as a serious victory.
The craziness of the last few months had stretched the Potter family thin, so Harry revelled in having time and solitude with his girls. He cooked, cleaned, and played. Every night the family would sit on the huge rug in the family room listening to music, singing, practising instruments, or teasing one another over games like exploding snap.
He had missed these intimate moments and regretted allowing them to fall to the wayside since Lili had started school in August.
Days passed and winter set in hard. It rained or stormed more often than not, and the air became chilled. Christmas was fast approaching, and with it, the usual family hijinks occurred. Gifts were procured resourcefully for family and friends, as buying them in-person was not possible, and decorations slowly but surely began to festoon every available inch of their home.
The girls became excitable with festive energy that was irresistibly contagious. Even as the world continued to collapse around them, inside their bubble of warmth and love, the Potters continued their difficult journey of healing.
Eventually, Harry and Fleur spoke in depth about the past few months, laying bare all the hidden and stashed away feelings caused by their recent trials. It was already proving to be a hard but rewarding night filled with heavy conversation.
Fleur was nestled against his side as they watched the fire crackle merrily in their fireplace. The girls were long since put to bed and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the muffled shrieking of stormwind brushing against their home outside.
"'Arry, you wanted to keep your family safe and to do so you did what had been done to you. I don't fault you for that, after all it was how you were raised, what you had been taught . All the people you looked up to, Dumbledore, Remus, Sirius, the Weasleys… they all eventually knew part of the misery you experienced there but did nothing. They put your safety above all else and kept you at the Dursleys," she spat the name balefully.
Realization crept over him at her words. They rang true but painful. "So I am destined to repeat the mistakes made against me?"
"No, you foolish man," Fleur rejected affectionately, her hand cupping his cheek. "You are a wonderful father and husband, in part because you saw great examples of what you didn't want to be. But some aspects of our character gets shaped by the lessons we learn growing up."
She averted her eyes briefly. "I knew of the death threats my parents received when I was growing up. I had seen one, once, when my father had left the letter open on his desk at home. It was clear they were scared but even so, they let me live my life to the fullest I could. Pushed me to make friends and find myself. You see the correlation?"
He nodded. "We had similar situations but different examples set for us growing up. I never thought of being kept safe as a failing of Dumbledore. I just accepted it because I didn't know any better. Even when the possibility of living with Sirius arose, it always seemed insubstantial."
Fleur paused, cocking her head to the side to appraise him. "I assume no one ever told you about the disappearances of black-haired boys with green eyes directly after the war?"
He blinked and shook his head slowly, urging her to continue.
"Death Eaters and those loyal to Voldemort were hunting anyone who resembled you for a few years. Around thirty-two children went missing, I believe. It was horrible. That said, I can understand Dumbledor's desire to hide you away… but I weep for the childhood you lost because of that decision."
He swallowed thickly. No words seemed capable of making the journey up his throat.
"You called wanting to hide Lili away from the world a mistake earlier but I disagree, partly. Neither of us are entirely right or wrong, my love. Nor was Dumbledore's choice incorrect. Such things aren't so binary. Sometimes good people just have to make the best of bad situations. The answer is somewhere in the middle between us. The examples set for us are different, yes, but we choose to follow them or not. But in times of stress and fear… I don't fault you for instinctively reverting to what you knew . Afterall, it did help you survive, so it was effective if nothing else."
Harry let out a gusty sigh. "I hear you, and appreciate what you're saying. But I still wish I had handled the situation better… I shouldn't have hidden my intentions from you or been so obstinate."
Fleur sent him a curvy grin, "you are a man, obstinate is typical, no?"
"A stereotype unfortunately proven true in this regard, I'm afraid. I've let my fellow men down."
Her fingertips traced her lips in an act of blatantly effortless sensuality. "I disagree, I think you've given your fellow men an ideal to strive for." Cerulean eyes tracked his body appreciatively, suggestively.
Instead of responding with words, he gave her a roguish grin as he twisted their bodies so she lay flat against the couch cushions. Tenderly, he wrapped his fingers around the delicate bones of her wrists, bringing them upwards and over her head. With her arms outstretched, her back arched delectably, pressing her curves firmly against him. In a single, gentle manoeuver Harry gripped both her wrists with one hand so his other could be free to roam the hills and valleys of his wife's figure. It was well-mapped territory but no less marvellous for the familiarity. Fleur held a mysticism to her that no other woman could hope to match, a primal surge of possessiveness coated his tongue and pumped in his veins.
Supple, sensuous, enrapturing… and his .
Fleur's dilated eyes communicated the dark pleasure she received from his proprietorial perusal of her body.
"You're a miracle." His voice raspy with poised energy, his expression one of wonder and worship.
A flash of pink tongue invited him closer.
Yellow lips, hard and unyielding, sharp but smooth, and oh, so warm. He consumed her and it was as though Harry was kissing the sun.
Healing was a laborious process. One of quiet moments, unwavering support, and tender attention. But occasionally, healing also meant being reminded of what joys living could bring.
The night was waning but Fleur slept easily, her puffs of breath slowly edging to the light snores that whispered of deep sleep. Every so often her nose scrunched, giving off the impression that, somehow, the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks tickled her while she slept.
It was such a beautiful, peaceful sight that Harry couldn't bring himself to sleep. Instead, he contented himself in the vision that was his wife dreaming.
XXXXXXXX
The Floo flared and a bell-chime sounded, signalling an incoming call. Due to the way the Wards and protective enchantments were set up, anyone not privy to the Fidelius Charm would be unable to even Floo call. So, Hermione had designed a way for him to accept the calls himself, by sticking his head through the fire instead. It occasionally caused a few hard bumps but was, ultimately, the safer method.
As soon as he stuck his face through the emerald fire, glad tidings met his ears, uttered by the excited voice of Mal-Chin.
"Hirene captured the Azerbaijan officials responsible for the genocide, Harry."
Harry pulled his head out of the fire briefly so he could rest it against the cool stone of the fireplace. A sigh of something like relief shuddered out of his body, the tense muscles between his shoulders relaxing slightly. Finally, progress. The sort of progress that could bring answers and, perhaps, safety.
Leaning forward, Harry re-connected to Mal-Chin via the Floo.
"Were Ernst and Abbas there?"
"Abbas was but we are still looking for Ernst. Shouldn't be long now that we have his hidden partners as well. I'm actually headed to the Edrith Institute tonight so I can pick up some of the documents Almeida recently dug up on him, if you care to join? I can give you a full brief then."
"That sounds good, we will head that way."
"I'll have ICW agents coordinate with your Aurors as a precaution but since our gambit out here worked everyone should still think you're in Azerbaijan anyways."
"Alright, we will meet you there." Harry paused. "And thanks, Mal-Chin. You've no idea how relieving this is."
A short while later found Harry and Fleur swirling into being at the Portkey landing of the Edrith Spellweaving Institute. The place was empty, devoid of the typical hustle and bustle commonly associated with the place. There were no interns running to and fro nor any researchers having a hurried lunch on the grounds. Fleur nodded in greeting to a few security wizards stationed at the entrance, their duty continuing long after the hours most employees went home.
As Fleur led Harry deeper into her place of work, he began to recognize the twisting hallways that would lead to her own lab and office. Instead of taking them, his wife took a left that led to a wide, open atrium with multiple fireplaces. One burned brightly, disgorging a yawning Desmond, who started rather comically in surprise at seeing them.
"Fleur? Harry? Is that you? What are you two doing here?" The man questioned distractedly, adjusting his spectacles.
"We received a call from Mal-Chin to meet him here, apparently they made progress with their investigation."
Startled, Desmond's mouth hung open before splitting into a wide grin. "Really? That is excellent! What's the news?"
"Oh, we aren't quite sure yet," Fleur replied, "but feel free to join us for the debriefing."
"That sounds much better than working on the weekend," Desmond joked as he moved towards them.
"What has you coming in on your day off?" Harry asked politely. He knew Desmond through Fleur's work but hadn't interacted with him much personally.
A glower overtook the man's smiling face briefly. "Been trying to keep busy with a new project now that the ward… well," he coughed uncomfortably. "Anyways, my new experiment has some wrinkles that refuse to be stamped out." A sigh. "Damnable things."
"Oh? What has you stumped?" Fleur questioned, unveiled interest evident in her eyes and posture. She had a thirst for magic rivalled only by Hermione's. No wonder he was so fond of both. Neither had lost that wonder of magic that had been so imbued in his own life, even after all its tragedy.
"Just the Arithmancy behind it all. Never been particularly good with that stuff. And now that that traitorous bastard, Ernst," Desmond spat the name, "is gone, my Department has to wait for a new Arithmancer to be onboarded."
"What exactly does Arithmancy do?" Harry asked. "I know the basics but I guess I never realized how important it was."
Desmond squinted off into the distance before speaking. "Magic behaves in strange ways occasionally. Arithmancy is, basically, a runic mathematical expression of magic. So, seeing a spell's construction in an Arithmantic array can be really informative and show you what went wrong or what you need to change. The nullification ward, for instance. During its creation it would randomly affect things that passed over it whether it was magical or mundane and we had no idea why, until Ernst figured out it needed stabilization charms.
"The ward was exceptionally wonky," Fleur interjected with a small grin. "Remember, the kneazle who began to teleport? The kettle that sang? I heard from Almeida that an experiment gone awry is what changed your eye colour from brown to green."
Desmond smiled, his supernaturally green eyes shining in the light with good humour. "Yeah, the eyes were a rather odd accident but some ladies seem to like the change," his tone was jovial as he playfully leered at Fleur, who laughed in response.
She met Harry's eyes and tempted him with a flash of white teeth and upturned pink lips. "What can I say?" She murmured. "Green is one of my favourite colours."
"No one can refute your good taste," Harry replied fondly.
"Oh, looks like Mal-Chin just arrived with Naba," Fleur exclaimed, waving to the new arrivals dusting themselves off Floo soot.
The ICW wizard nodded genially in greeting as he made his way over to the huddled group. His rolling gait more akin to a saunter than a walk. He wore his typical suit jacket and glossy shoes. His glowing eyes furtively looked about the hallways and room surrounding them. Naba followed behind much more conservatively. She wore a bulky shirt that covered much of her form with black slacks, a wide-brim hat sunk low on her forehead. The clip of her shoes sounded oddly loud in the vacant room.
"Glad you could make it, Potters," the young agent stated, "and it is always good to see you too, Desmond." Each of the men shook hands while Fleur and Naba exchanged pleasantries.
"I didn't realize you were bringing Naba," Harry murmured to Mal-Chin. "Is she doing alright?"
"Oh, I think so. Still blames herself, which is hard. But she has been instrumental in our investigation so I figured I'd bring her along as well."
Harry nodded, casting a concerned eye towards the woman standing solitarily away from the group.
"By the way, Auror Longbottom contacted me about a woman he was investigating, an Olivia Ansley?"
He blinked. "Right, uh, she was a muggle woman that had a kid in Hogsthorpe, Lili's school. I didn't know he was following up with that."
Mal-Chin shrugged noncommittally. "Anyways, he said he couldn't find anything about her. She has no documentation in magical or muggle records. So, I ran her internationally. Can't find anything on her with the matching descriptors."
Harry chewed his lip, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as though someone was watching him. He brushed off the feeling. "That isn't exactly impossible. Lots of people fall through the cracks. I never exactly got the feeling she meant me harm."
Another shrug. "I trust that, but I also wouldn't trust her if you see her again. A woman with a kid shouldn't disappear into thin air like that, it is odd if nothing else."
"Damn," Harry muttered, scuffing his shoe against the tiled floor. "It always feels like more questions come up anytime we get any answers."
"You should remember that as part of the job, being an ex-Auror and all. It only gets worse working with the ICW."
"I don't envy you."
Mal-Chin grinned good-naturedly before sobering. "Anyways, I wanted to debrief you fully on what has been happening in Azerbaijan, can we find somewhere to talk?"
"Sure," Harry replied before motioning at Fleur to snag her attention. She drifted away from her conversation with Desmond.
"Are we ready?" She asked, her voice subdued.
"Is there a place where we could have some privacy?" Mal-Chin inquired. "I don't like being in wide-open spaces."
"Of course, follow me." With a twirl of her blue robes, Fleur led the odd assortment down a corridor towards the Administration offices.
As they walked, Harry noticed Naba trailing behind. Her clearly downtrodden demeanour made him grimace and fall back so he could walk beside her.
"Hey, you doing alright?" The words were paltry and insignificant, however, he hoped that the sentiment embedded within them would reach her.
Her one eye gleamed up at him in the muted artificial torchlight. "Not quite but I'm getting there," she replied, her gaze slipping away from him towards her feet.
"You know, Fleur blames herself too. But neither of you are at fault for what happened."
"Did you not blame yourself after the war?"
His steps faltered. "All the more reason. Take it from someone who has been down the road before, it is a pointless, needless journey."
"Hearing that doesn't stop my feet from following the path, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, I understand. Knowing something intellectually doesn't always translate to your emotions."
"Blame isn't really the issue anyways," her words took on a strange edge, catching Harry's attention. "I know exactly who is to blame and I want them to get punished for it."
The woman's diminutive, ragged form turned steely and hard, her face taking on sharp angles previously unseen. "Surely you felt the same way when you hunted remnant Death Eaters."
"I suppose, in a way," Harry responded carefully. The topic shifts a tad unsettling, he didn't want to discuss the rage and hate he had felt. The grief-fueled missions and violence that had coloured his Auror days.
With some relief, Harry noted that the group had made it to the administration offices and were walking through the doorway into a conference room. Disengaging from Naba, he moved over to stand by Fleur, grasping her hand for comfort. Whether it was for her benefit or his own, he wasn't readily sure.
Mal-Chin stood at the head of the long table, looking over the assembly.
"So, as you all know, Hirene and her wolves were tasked with tracking down the Azerbaijan officials who fled after the Canavar Genocide. She has been remarkably effective. Though she hasn't cooperated with the ICW agents like she was supposed to. Regardless, just last night she raided the compound where Abbas was hiding." Mal-Chin met Harry's eyes. "Unfortunately, he was able to escape after being transferred to ICW custody."
"What did you just say?" The cold voice frosted his lungs, cooling the air around him in its frigid, incredulous anger.
"Hirene turned him over to ICW agents that were then attacked en route back to our base of operations. I received word right before I headed here."
The calm town of Mal-Chin only chaffed further. "How did you idiots lose him?"
"There is obviously an informer in our network, we are constricting information even further and will be more careful in the future."
"Don't give me that bullshit," Harry erupted. "If you and your agents fucked up, then fine. But don't spout that bureaucratic-"
"'Arry." Fleur placed her hand on his bicep, her tone soothing. "Let him explain."
Crossing his arms, Harry glowered at the incompetent fool across from him. All these Aurors and ICW agents, completely useless. No wonder Dark Wizards seemed to have such an easy time of rising up if this was what they were up against.
"I understand this is frustrating, it is for me as well." Mal-Chin grimaced. "The good news is only Abbas was able to get away. All the other captives were retained, including the former Azerbaijan Minister of Magic."
Harry snorted.
Mal-Chin spared him a look but continued undaunted. "Hirene is on his trail as we speak, if anyone can find him, it is her."
"And Ernst?" Fleur asked, her voice wavering only slightly.
"Still at large. Every captive we have has corroborated his involvement. He seemed to have an intermediary or an accomplice, but the memories of everyone have been wiped by the Glawackus Compound."
"Don't you find it weird that only the accomplice was wiped from their memory?" Harry spared a brief glance over at Desmond, who appeared deep in thought. "Why would they not erase Ernst as well?"
"We suspect because Ernst was already a known fugitive. Hardly necessary to hide someone we already knew was involved."
"What are the next steps?" Fleur asked, her voice holding a terrible calmness.
"I've decided to stop sharing information from this point forward, even with you all. Just as a precaution."
"So this was not really a brief and more a final statement of the facts," Harry retorted irritably.
"I'm afraid so Mr Potter."
"Grand."
"We appreciate your continued help on this matter and will inform you promptly of any further developments."
"Uh-huh." The dismissive tone caused Mal-Chin's back to straighten.
"Well then, I'm headed to pick up the documents from Almeida and then I'm returning to Azerbaijan. Mr Akingbade has every ICW agent running ragged out there, it's a real shit show. Mr Akingbade hasn't been happy with the amount of casualties but she claims they were in 'self-defence.' Mal-Chin's scrunched face confirmed the incredulity in his voice. "I truly am sorry for this poor state of affairs."
The sheer apology evident on the man's face caused Harry's demeanour to soften incrementally.
With a slight groan of empathy, he nodded. "I can imagine the amount of work and stress you are under," came his wry reply. "I'm glad you are on the case, we will hope to hear more good news soon."
The men shook hands, their grips tight and determined. An understanding passed between the two. Harry gave a small grin of acceptance as their clasped hands detached from one another. Fleur stepped forward to offer her hand as well and hugged Naba goodbye.
"Stay strong," the Veela whispered.
"You as well," came the muttered reply as the woman disengaged from the hold.
Naba and Mal-Chin turned and began walking down the corridor that would lead them to the record's office, where Almeida was set to meet them.
"She will be alright, Fleur," Harry stated, pulling her shoulders against his side by the arm he wrapped around her delicate waist. "And you will be too."
"I hope so."
"Are you two headed back home?" Desmond inquired from his position beside them.
"Yes, we better be headed back," Fleur replied with a gentle smile. "Are you staying to work?"
Desmond heaved out a large sigh. "Unfortunately. I don't do well with free time on my hands."
"I know the feeling." Fleur chuckled lightly as they began moving back down the hallway that would lead them to the Floo Atrium.
Hauntingly familiar green light was the only warning.
Harry's muscles moved before his mind did, a Holly wand dragging through the air and transfiguring the floor into a tower, warping the tiles from its base outwards.
A cacophony of sound erupted from the hastily constructed stone pillar as the spell hit, spewing debris and sharp shards outwards. A few embedded themselves in his outstretched hand and turned cheek.
Desmond took the brunt of the explosion, as the spell had been intended for him. His body flew backwards to smash against the wall. His head made a sickening crunch upon contact and he was slumped over unconscious before even finishing his fall to the floor.
An instinctual pivot was paired with a high-power defensive spell that bubbled outwards, encasing his wife, who had drawn her own wand in a single, practised action.
Antonin Dolohov stood smiling from across the foyer. Three men hovered next to him in hooded cloaks.
Questions ran rampant in his mind, how had Dolohov found out their location? Who had let him into the Institute's Wards? But all of these burned away as Harry's focus shrank down onto the most important aspect of the man's appearance.
Hate and rage surged forwards to beat against the inside of Harry's chest, his Occlumency shields rising too late to stamp the emotion out before its poisonous, distracting effects coated his tongue. The resentment coiled viper-like in his dead, black stomach. This was the man who had dared threaten his family.
The Death Eater was exactly as he remembered him. A brutal, too-wide smile on a twisted, pale face. He had been a muscular, broad-shouldered man during the war but looked half-starved and feral. Not unlike Sirius after his escape from Azkaban. His long, dark hair hung lankly about his sallow cheeks, still wrenched in a grin so bastardized as to be nearly unrecognizable from human emotion. A wild light gleamed from his eyes that darted between the two Potters gleefully.
His voice was smoky and self-assured. "You've gotten slow, Potter."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened briefly before relaxing into a better fit for duelling. He kept his wand trained on Dolohov, his wrist loose, as he answered. "I'm fast enough for you."
"Maybe. If you were alone." The man's burning eyes flickered to Fleur and a horrible fury beat at Harry's mental barriers, cracks forming along the walls of his concentration.
"I think you'll find I'm more than a pretty face," Fleur said cooly, her long wand held out daintily before her. A perfect stance to lull the unsuspecting into her supernaturally fast reflexes.
Dolohov gave an amused snort of derision.
Harry saw his chance. With a lunge, his wand snapped out a Petrificus Totalus and Stupefy simultaneously, the twining spells smacking into the chest of the hooded companion edging his way to the far left.
Dolohov gave a bark of laughter as the man slumped to the ground and then the fight commenced.
A wall of fire burned across the room only to fizzle out at the Protego charm Harry cast. Fleur waved her wand in an intricate sequence of spells, seamlessly flowing into the motions of the next in her arsenal. But she was firing blind. The huge flame wall had barely sputtered out before a crackling yellow whip arced out to wrap around the protective charm Harry had erected around himself and his wife.
His Auror training kicked in, identifying the curse immediately. It had been a deadly tool of Dolohov during the war. Just as the whip tightened and the shield shattered, Harry used Sectumsempra to cut the tendril of malicious energy before it could snap together.
In the interim, Fleur had shot a burst of curses at the cowled man to the left. The man slumped to the ground under her onslaught without having had time to even raise his wand.
The blitz of spellfire continued unabated as Dolohov fought both Fleur and Harry, the Death Eater's prowess on full display.
The battle maniac had always delighted in challenging multiple opponents to a duel, claiming it was the only way he could enjoy himself as otherwise the fights ended too quickly. At the Department of Mysteries he had won against Neville, Hermione and Harry simultaneously before defeating Mad-Eye Moody in a duel.
As they exchanged spells, a list of names scrolled through Harry's head. The victim list of this particular man was well-known to him. The Prewett brothers. Thirteen Hogwarts students including Colin Creevey. Remus Lupin.
A flash of turquoise hair and clumsy cheer steeled his heart and sharpened his focus.
Fleur was an expert duelist, having spent years on the international duelling circuit while at Beauxbatons, but her skill and elegant speed were matched by the ferocious power of Dolohov, who unleashed a torrent of curses from his wand with each swipe of his hand.
Harry was still painfully slow and unpracticed compared to his days as an Auror fresh from the war but his experience and training were embedded in his body. Phantom memories causing him to react instinctively to the flow of the fight.
With familiar ease, he and Fleur developed a competent teamwork. Her rapid-fire casting allowed her to pressure Dolohov while Harry's brutishly strong defensive spells were able to protect both the Potters from their enemies' deadly curses.
The Death Eater's ally was no slouch either, preferring to forgo offensive spells and instead concentrate on sowing discord amongst the Potters. The man continuously tried to transfigure the stone floor into a sheet of ice, but each time Fleur would counteract his attempt with a deft swipe of her wand.
Intermittent green jets were blocked by summoned furniture or towers transfigured from the floor tiles, which would explode upon contact.
Harry's body felt heavy as weariness settled in. The aches of protracted battle making themselves known even through the adrenaline that numbed him to his body's more common limits. Fleur's smooth and supple movements were akin to dancing as she dodged and flung her bright blue and orange spells across the room.
The frenzy of the battle reached its climax as Dolohov shot out his infamous curse. A snarling streak of purple fire making its way towards Fleur.
With a grunt, Harry swirled his wand in an arcing pattern to create a hovering yellow ball which swallowed the malignant blaze before popping back out of existence. The motion he used was slightly too wide in execution, which Dolohov pounced on viciously.
Fleur's offensive array petered out as she lept to intercept the volley of curses speeding his way. Harry moved to rectify his stance but in the interim, Dolohov and his compatriot were able to focus entirely on offence.
A flood of spells raced across the room, while Harry and Fleur struggled to regain their footing. He batted weaker spells away with a flick of his wand but was slow on intercepting a killing curse, the force of the explosion rocked him. A small white spell sank into his side before he could react.
Harry fell to the floor, banging his knee against the hard tile. With a practised motion, he made the most of his body's reaction, rolling away from the spellfire that sailed over his head.
To Fleur's credit, she didn't let up, continuing to give everything she could so as to keep Dolohov's attention on her and allow Harry time to regroup.
But it had been even longer for Fleur since she had last been in a duel, her skills had atrophied even if her reactions hadn't. As he struggled up to his feet, a spell raced towards him. His arm shook strenuously as he raised his wand in front of him, the ruined skin on his side pulling harshly at the movement.
He wasn't going to make it in time.
There was a flash of heat followed by blinding silver light and the sound of a spell ricocheting.
A wing stood outstretched before him. Huge and covered in feathers that gleamed metallic. So close to his face that their mirror sheen reflected his incredulous expression back at him.
Fleur stood slightly in front and to the side. Her clothes in tatters around her as the temperature became oppressive. Her allure pulsed out in furious waves. The hooded man stumbled backwards, tripping over his robe to fall to the ground. With a grunt, Harry flung a Stupefy at him which sank into the man's chest with a satisfying impact.
Dolohov stared for only a brief moment before the baleful gaze intensified, his Occlumency abilities allowing him to regain his senses. "Watch me kill your creature, Potter," he snarled, sending an Avada Kedavra towards Fleur.
His side was sticky and hot, the gaping hole sapping him of strength. His mind felt feverish from the loss of blood but Harry grit his teeth and, with a growl, snapped a final transfigured pillar into place to intercept the curse.
All the while, Fleur stood still, her wings outstretched to the sides while the reflective feathers adorning them seemed to turn orange at the edges. The allure became heavier, hotter, and more captivating. The sunset colour glowed, turning a smouldering red that outlined each individual quill, as though magma churned beneath.
The allure became a high-pitched keen, his eardrums popping painfully right before the sound of glass shattering assailed him.
She was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. She was witch. She was Veela. She was Fleur Delacour-Potter.
Harry did not know the extent of the Veela magic he witnessed, but his ring burned so hot that his skin smoked. It was enough for him to understand.
With an agonized grunt he lunged behind her towards Desmond's limp form and, with the last vestiges of his might, erected the strongest shield he could at a moment's notice. He barely made it.
An eruption of unimaginable heat, as though some primordial volcano of magic had burst open from within the diminutive, stunning form of his wife.
The world burned.
To behold her in that moment was to watch a sun implode, a star to die. A destructive purity breathtaking and petrifying in equal measure.
Incomparable heat blazed across the room, emitting from her glorious wings. Just the backdraft of it was enough to begin melting his shield. Yet, even as his defensive spell faltered, his ring shone brighter as like called to like. A tune indelibly woven as one.
There was a suddenness to the silence, a delay before his brain registered that all sound had ceased.
In that complete, perfect quiet Harry marvelled at his wife. Fleur stood tall and proud; her wings vibrating still with the hot hum caused by her unleashed allure.
His heart pounded from adrenaline and ardour, his ring pulsing like a living organ against his finger. The world felt unreal, colours saturated and bleeding. A distant realization lit up his brain, he was seeing the world as Fleur and her Veela sisters did. The extra colours, the bright contrasts, and refracting light. His brain was hot and the sensation tugged at a consciousness untethered by rationality.
It wasn't until an eyelid parted to reveal a midnight blue iris smouldering that he started to truly feel alive once more.
Author's Note: Trauma is a difficult subject to tackle whether it is in real life, reading, or writing. I hope you all are doing well and staying safe!
I love to hear theories about the overarching mystery. The wilder, the better!
To the one or two people out there who recognized the symmetry I was weaving between the graveyard scene here and the one in "A Lily By Any Other Name," you are loved and appreciated!