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 flavour and context.
Sincere gratitude must be given to LTCMDR Michal Drápalík and all the other great people who gave up their time to edit my story in the Harry/Fleur discord.
I own none of the rights, nor make money, nor gain fame, or anything else from Harry Potter.
Cheers.
Chapter 8: The Price of Circumstance
Orange light crackled with a spiteful energy, spasming across the ground and illuminating the night. Screams and shouted words overwhelmed the nocturnal noises of owls, insects, and creatures.
Colourful flashes were spat out in a rapid display until the last green glow faded and darkness returned.
Blood soaked the ground, staining it a scarlet so deep no amount of rain would ever wash away the taint, the truth of what had happened.
The moon shone overhead, full and bone-white.
XXXXXXXX
Gabrielle stayed for a few days before her work necessitated her return. Her absence left a hole that was hard to fill by the Potter parents alone but their renewed partnership allowed them to surmount the issue tolerably enough.
Lili had slowly adjusted to sleeping on her own again, though occasional nightmares still jarred her awake. It was both a relief and a misery that she'd discontinued asking after Jasmine. Harry could sense that, although she might not understand his reticence, she knew something irrevocable had occurred.
Fleur had struggled after the murder of her co-worker coupled with the revelations at work regarding Ernst's betrayal. She had been unnaturally quiet the first few days afterwards. It was a great boon that Gabrielle had luckily been able to extend her trip a tad longer to help her sister find equilibrium.
Harry's nightmares had expanded to involve the bloodied silver of both wife and daughter now. He faced sleep as an enemy, wary of what cruel end to his heart awaited him in malignant dreams. Nightmares more vivid than any Boggart could emulate had frequently caused him to jolt awake at night, reaching for his wand.
That someone was after Fleur at work terrified him. She was supposed to be safe there. The Edrith Institute took great pains to keep a secure facility due to all their secretive work and experimentation. Additionally, their own Wards and security enchantments were at the forefront of the field's study due to who worked on them.
Now nowhere was safe, if Mal-Chin was to be believed.
A Ward created to help people had been turned into a weapon of horrifying force. The ICW had quickly come to confiscate the Spellweaving team's materials on the subject and convened an emergency session to elevate the Ward to a restricted piece of Dark Magic.
The Edrith Ward team had been interviewed extensively on the project and most had been administered a Glawackus Compound to utterly remove all memories regarding the Ward.
Harry was watching firsthand how the Wizarding World attempted to remove dangerous magic. They'd not been successful with Horcruxes and he had little faith now would be any different.
Eventually, the week drew to a close and the listlessness pervading the Potter home dispersed somewhat at the upcoming chance to visit with family and friends at Angèle's upcoming gathering.
The day began with overcast skies but Harry held out hope that France would have a sunnier disposition.
He'd slipped back into the habit and role of chef, cooking up a light fare because he was sure the gathering would have a veritable feast to graze upon throughout the day.
The girls ate quickly, eager to be on their way. Fayette had picked up a bad habit of talking while chewing, the end result typically being sprayed food debris on her sister and the table. She would giggle madly and smile beatifically at any admonitions. Lili, meanwhile, had tried a broiled grapefruit for the first time. Her puckered face at the tartness caused Fleur to give a genuine smile. Harry felt it a victory. She was in higher spirits today than he'd seen her in a long time and vowed to do what he could to ensure it remained.
Fleur had looked forward to this day for so long, he desperately wanted it to go well. He held out hope that it would serve as a respite from the troubles that plagued their household.
His wife was resplendent in a green dress that dripped off her form. Her hair was braided in an elaborate crown about her head, wisps of hair tickling the sides of her face and neck. The dress had a mesmerizing pattern that seemed to swirl and shift with every movement. A slender slit up the side suggested but a glimpse of the long, white leg underneath.
The girls were formally dressed as well, though their sundresses looked far more comfortable than his own restricting suit.
Lili was bringing her violin and Fleur her cello. They'd prepared a duet to grace their cousin with as a gift. Fayette had sat still just long enough to make macaroni art for her offering.
Harry had forgone the arts and crafts of his family. Instead he was bringing a bottle of wine he'd found with a particularly funny name referencing a bird and temptation. He knew Angèle, at least, would appreciate it.
A jolt caused him to whirl around, a bubble of euphoria detonating within his chest. Sudden energetic joy infused his body and a foolish grin cut across his face.
Fleur smirked mischievously at him, tapping her wand against her open palm. "You looked like you could use some cheering up," she commented, eyes twinkling.
"I can't believe you hit me with a Cheering Charm," Harry replied jovially. "You minx, you promised you'd stop doing that." He laughed brightly even as the gears of indignant amusement turned inside his belly.
"No frowns today, mister," she retorted, wagging her wand at him. "This is Angèle's day."
"I know, I'm exceptionally excited about it!"
Fleur rolled her eyes. "Alright, maybe I overdid it a bit with that charm. I forgot how annoyingly chipper it makes you."
Harry couldn't even feel affronted on his behalf, instead he bellowed out a laugh far louder than the situation called for.
His wife winced, subtly shifting her body to slide away from him. He stopped her furtive, sneaking manoeuvre by lifting her up around the waist and spinning her around.
"I just adore you completely," he shouted, overcome with glee. Harry's mind was racing, he was just so positively happy to be spending the day with her, to be with his family and see the new-
The thought cut off abruptly and he set Fleur down on her feet. A headache was starting to form between his eyes so he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"A little too much oomph in that spell, I think, darling," he muttered.
Cool hands brushed his fringe of hair from his forehead. "Yeah, seems like it." She paused. "Maybe if you weren't so moody it'd affect you less," she teased lightly.
"Blame the victim, eh? Quite unbecoming," he grumbled without heat. She hadn't used a Cheering Charm on him since his dark moods as an Auror had pervaded their home. It had always been cheekily done and he'd returned the favour when she'd been pregnant and decrying her oval shape. The use of it now brought forth a fond nostalgia, snapshots of younger days fully lived blinking to life in his memory.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Let's have a good day, hmm?"
"Yeah," Harry agreed as he laced his fingers with hers. "A good day."
XXXXXXXX
Harry and Fleur arrived spinning, one hand each on the scruffy hat serving as their international Portkey, with the other wrapped around a daughter. Fayette squirmed in Harry's arm, impatient to be set free and loose upon the world.
Laughing softly, Harry tightened his hold as he looked around the idyllic countryside of Southern France.
The Potter family began their trek up the stone pathway leading towards the tasteful manor house of Fleur's cousin, Angèle Meridot.
"Do you reckon they use magic on their hedges?" Harry muttered enviously at the immaculate rows symmetrically spaced out along the lane.
Fleur spared her husband an amused glance as she tugged along Liliana by the hand. "I'm sure they'd be willing to share gardening tips with you 'Arry, but I'd suggest asking their house elf rather than Angèle."
He chuckled, "Yeah, you're probably right about that. The Chudley Cannon's have a better shot at the League Cup than Angèle knowing a single household charm."
"Don't let Ron hear you say that, you'll crush his spirit."
"If Chudley's record hasn't accomplished that yet, I think I'll be fine." A small huff of discontent at his knees reminded him where his daughter's allegiances lay.
"Faster daddy," Fayette said, patting him on the side of the face.
"Don't worry chicklet, the new baby will still be there in a few moments," Harry muttered as he tried to straighten his askew glasses without dropping his precious cargo.
Giggling, his youngest daughter batted his hand away from his spectacles before righting them herself.
"Thank you, sweetie," Harry murmured in appreciation, squeezing her a bit tighter.
"Mama always says to make sure daddy has his glasses on, otherwise he'll get lost and scared," Liliana sang as she skipped along between her two parents.
Shooting a betrayed look at his smug wife Harry responded, "I'm not scared of getting lost, I just want to always be able to see my beautiful daughters."
"And wife."
Harry looked pointedly away from Fleur, nuzzling his nose against the round cheek of a tittering Fayette. "Daddy silly! No tickles," she shrieked.
A low-powered stinging hex landing on Harry's bottom caused him to yelp in surprise. He glared suspiciously at Fleur who had started whistling while twirling her wand in the hand unoccupied by Liliana's hand.
Narrowing his eyes at her, Harry ruefully responded. "And wife."
Sunlight glinted off Fleur's teeth as she beamed at him.
Just as they reached the front door, it burst open to reveal Angèle in all her glory. Faded blue overalls with a single clasp hanging undone off her left shoulder, a frayed white t-shirt peeking out.
She blew a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes as she looked over the new arrivals critically. "Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up? The Potters, I'm honoured."
Fleur gave an unladylike snort. "I should have known. Are we the only ones you told to dress formally?"
Harry glanced down at his slacks and jacket, hoping this meant he could forgo his damnable tie.
Angèle's biting of her bottom lip was all the answer Harry and Fleur needed. "I guess you all better come in then, most everyone is already out back," she said while opening the door wide.
Liliana darted through the open entry and Fayette renewed her squirming. Setting her down, Harry watched as she toddled off after getting an affectionate pat on the head from Angèle.
Fleur stepped forward to greet her cousin, kissing her on the cheek. "Thank you for having us, how is she?" Fleur questioned. "How are you?"
They received a brilliant smile in response. "She's perfect," Angèle breathed.
Stepping forward, Harry pulled his friend into a warm embrace. Kissing the top of the blonde head in greeting. "I hope she isn't perfect," Harry joked, "her mama needs to receive her penance after all."
Smacking his shoulder lightly, Angèle laughed. "I was as angelic as my namesake, I'll have you know."
"Your parents brought it on themselves, giving you such a name. How could you become anything other than a total imp?"
"Speaking of names," Fleur sighed, shaking her head. "You know she will never forgive you."
"What do you mean?" Angèle responded bemused. Harry saw a small smile of understanding flash before being smothered in careful aloofness.
He grinned as Fleur tapped a finger against her cheek. "Let me see, ah yes, you purposely named a Veela Léna?"
Angèle's cool demeanour dissolved as she failed to stifle her giggles. Visibly mastering herself, she looked down her nose at Fleur snootily. "It will build character."
"I pity you when she finds out its meaning," Fleur remarked, stepping into the home.
"Everyone is in the backyard," Angèle stated, pointing Harry in the right direction while grabbing his wife's hand. "Will you help me get the drinks?" The new mother asked her cousin, who nodded while shooting Harry an apprehensive look.
He shook his head, sending the detained woman a smirk of acknowledgement. He didn't doubt for a moment that Angèle would drag Fleur into some sort of trouble. She always did.
Leaving the womenfolk, Harry strode towards the direction he'd been directed towards.
Angèle had a gorgeous home, if a tad ostentatious for his tastes. Lots of whites and silvers made the place seem too cold and sterile for his liking, even if he could appreciate the fashionable style. Eclectic but exceptional pieces of art hung along the walls. Angèle's husband, Badru, a Swahili wizard, was an avid collector.
The sound of laughter and chatting filled the air as Harry moved towards the backyard. Sliding the glass door open and shut behind him, Harry took stock of his surroundings. Angèle's manor was beautiful, undeniably so, but she had bought the property for the garden. It covered an expansive lawn, with flowerbeds enchanted to hold blossoms of any type of climate. Buds from all over the world bloomed here, filling the air with cloying sweetness. Hedges rose chest high throughout, looming over the flowers they framed. At the garden's centre was a hulking granite fountain, a focal piece that unfailingly drew the eyes of any guest. Harry could easily admit how impressed he'd been the first time he'd seen it.
Harry's father-in-law Matisse, stood next to Badru and Angèle's father, Remy. Badru was beseechingly gesticulating in wild motions while the older men guffawed bodily. Catching sight of Harry, the man waved him over.
"'Arry, my brother, come here. I need your help against these ridiculous old goats," he shouted. Harry chuckled at his friend's distressed look as he strolled over. Badru was a rather huge man who hailed from Cameroon. His size a sharp contrast to his extremely gentle nature.
Harry waved at Apolline, his mother-in-law, who was talking gamely with her sisters Celine and Novalise. The three older women were marvellously beautiful, an elegance inherent to them that could only ever be gained from experience, wisdom, and maturity. Celine had the golden hair her daughters had inherited while both Apolline and Novalise were graced with silver.
The youngest of the sisters, Novalise, gave him cheerful smile and a tiny wave. Her hair was cut extremely short to her head and her hauntingly periwinkle eyes glinted in the daylight. She sat comfortably in a wheelchair.
Celine was the oldest, and the most like their mother, or so Harry had been told. She was tall even sitting down, her posture rigid. Baubles hung from her neck and wrists, while feathers and corded leather decorated her flowing hair. She was a wanderer, like her namesake, and never stayed in one place for longer than a month. Stories flowed freely like wine from a cask when she deigned to speak. The stopper of her typical silence giving way to the rich tales of her adventures, decadent and full bodied.
Estelle, the newly-minted auntie sat beside them, looking bewildered at the blanket-wrapped babe in her arms. The Quidditch player was muscular and stocky even tempered by the supernatural genetics of her family. She was a serious sort but well-intentioned and fiercely protective. And bald, Harry noted with some surprise. The golden hair he'd always seen tightly plaited missing.
Harry's daughters were tugging on the hem of Apolline's dress and chattering excitedly, their grandaunts listening indulgently to the side. He couldn't make out what they said but their rambunctious attitude infused him with joy.
Lili's inherited resiliency was heartening, her smile inspiring. She was a living example that wounds close, even while danger loomed overhead.
Reaching the circle of men, Harry clasped arms with Badru, whispering a congratulations upwards at the giant man. After ending the embrace, Harry shook Matisse and Remy's hands before playfully tugging Matisse's beard. "Old goat is right," he joked.
Matisse scowled as Remy burst into laughter again. "I'll have you know that women find my beard refined," the Frenchman snarked before an arrogant gleam came to his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to hear such jealous utterances from a man incapable of growing his own."
Harry rubbed his clean-shaven jaw regretfully. "Can't seem to grow one that doesn't make me look scruffy," he admitted.
"Maybe when you're older, eh?" Remy teased before laughing again. The French-Canadian wizard had an easy humour about him and a rich, full laugh.
Harry clapped Remy on the shoulder. "So, grandpa is it? Here's to hoping your granddaughter is less mischievous than her mother. For Badru's sake if nothing else."
Remy's smile grew to enormous proportions, a slightly glazed look in his eye. "Grandpa," he said lowly before his dazed look disappeared. "My daughter was an utter angel growing up, I'm sure Léna will be too."
Harry was skeptical, the man had a bias bordering on delusion when it came to the devil named Angèle.
Badru shook his head, obviously impatient to get back to the conversation Harry's arrival had interrupted. "'Arry, tell me the truth of my daughter's birth. These buffoons are no help. When I first took Léna into my arms I felt some sort of magic at play. I couldn't look away from her, the healer's had to hit me with a reviving spell just to snap me out of it." Badru suddenly looked worried rather than perplexed. "Was it some sort of accidental magic? I've read all the books and accidental magic shouldn't happen till she is two at least," he fretted.
Harry reached up to grip the concerned parent's shoulder. "No need to worry, it is perfectly natural. What these old coots," he shot an exasperated look at the two laughing men, "should have told you was that it is natural when holding a Veela chicklet for the first time."
The new father's face scrunched in confusion, "but I have natural tolerance, Angèle said, and I know occlumency."
"Neither of those matter," Remy interjected. "And it will never happen again."
Matisse nodded, "It happens to all father's who hold their Veela daughters for the first time. The primordial magic passed down through their heritage is recognizing the father and compels him to cherish and protect her."
Harry snorted, "Not that they need it." He peered over at his two daughters, chirping over the babe in Estelle's arms. "Adorable little things."
Badru visibly relaxed, letting out a great gust of breath. "So no danger? No accidental magic too soon?"
"None." Harry assured him, patting his elbow, just as Angèle and Fleur arrived through the backdoor. Gabrielle, followed closely behind them carrying a tray of drinks, looking like she had just arrived.
Fleur's long emerald dress billowed behind her in the Autumn wind that swirled by. The garden was charmed extensively to be warm year round but could do little about the gusts themselves other than keep their bite away. Her waist-length hair hung loose and her impossibly blue eyes snapped to Harry's as a smile broke out across her face. He beamed back at her, eyeing her graceful figure appreciatively and obviously.
She cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement before trailing her eyes up and down the length of his body. A coy smirk worn that promised much. With a twirl of platinum hair, she turned to follow Angèle towards the picnic table where the women sat.
Matisse took Harry by the shoulder, jolting him effectively from the lascivious thoughts he had been having about the man's daughter. Trying not to meet his eyes, Harry allowed himself to be steered over to a secluded part of the property, stopping on their journey for Matisse to pour himself a glass of wine from the bottles Angèle had brought out.
Sitting down on the picnic table, Harry and Matisse settled. Curious, he waited for his father-in-law to begin whatever conversation was on his mind.
Matisse swirled the liquid in his glass while staring at it absently. Harry watched him thoughtfully, it wasn't often the Frenchman seemed at a loss for words.
"Many years ago, I told you that being with a Veela was hard, do you remember?" Matisse looked up as Harry nodded affirmatively. "You've experienced some of it, correct?"
"Yes."
"The papers?"
Harry grit his teeth. His former jovial mood dying and turning black while his expression became thunderous.
"They've not said nice things about my granddaughter or her mother."
"No," Harry ground out. "They haven't."
Matisse took a sip of his wine and winced. "Not very good," he said under his breath. Meeting Harry's eyes, he smiled. "I think my niece likes to hide the good wine when I come by as revenge. I once informed on her to my sister-in-law after catching her sampling my cellar when she was fifteen."
Harry felt it prudent not to mention the bagged wine he'd seen Angèle gleefully pouring into empty bottles earlier in the day.
Matisse sighed. Harry followed his gaze and they both fondly watched Fayette and Liliana race around the backyard with their frolicking family members in tow.
"Dark creatures," Matisse muttered mutinously. "Honestly."
Harry continued to observe his daughters. Liliana scampering away from Gabrielle who gave chase, squealing in delight. Fayette determinedly tottering after the older girls, not wanting to be left behind. Liliana had a small scattering of feathers sprouting across her arms and neck from the excitement. They were becoming paler, Harry noted, leaving the grey hue of a chicklet for a familiar snowy white. Her Telling was fast approaching.
Matisse pulled him from his quiet musings, "did you know I was the first French Ministry official to be openly married to a 'non-human,' Harry?"
Harry scratched his jaw, giving a sidelong look to his father-in-law. "No," he said, "Fleur never mentioned it."
"I expect she doesn't remember. She was born a few years after I became Head Auror and was only nine or so when I was promoted to run Magical Law Enforcement." Matisse turned fully back to Harry, his posture demanding attention.
"I met Apolline as an Auror cadet. Veela in France are almost unheard of so I just assumed she was a beautiful woman. I courted her as I would any other. My naivety must have amused her. When she found out my job, however…" Matisse trailed off.
"Suffice to say, she was unhappy. She took me aside and explained what she was. To say I was shocked doesn't really do it justice. The Ministry at the time had a fierce no fraternization policy with non-humans, I could've lost my job just for being seen with her."
Harry's blood ran cold as the genial, warm man across from him seemed to shrink inwards. A flicker of pain crossed Matisse's face as he continued, "we decided to keep the relationship a secret. I would sneak her in and out of my home under the cover of darkness, we ate in muggle hamlets far away from any wizarding folk… It is my greatest shame."
Harry gripped Matisse's arm, who was visibly struggling. "No one can blame you for that. It isn't your fault," Harry said vehemently, "just the circumstances."
The older man gave him a watery smile in thanks before continuing, "I loved her more than anything, but I was afraid and I let that control me instead." He sighed gustily. "By the time I worked my way up to Head Auror the regulations had relaxed but no one dared be the first to come out as a 'creature-lover,'" Matisse spat the phrase. "I made her wait years, Harry. Years . Treating the woman who owned my heart and soul no better than a mistress. I knew it hurt her but I was weak."
Matisse looked over at the subject of their conversation. Apolline glowed in the sunlight, a gorgeous, regal woman who a stranger would never guess was nearing sixty, let alone a grandmother. A smile adorned her face as she bent down to ruffle her grandniece's hair.
The Frenchman's eyes softened. "I had been Head Auror for a couple years and had a solid reputation. My life was on track, headed to the top. Then I came home one day to Apolline crying. I was so afraid, thinking 'this is it.' She can't take it anymore. The secrecy, the pain." A moment of half-remembered fear bolted across the man's face before his lips tugged upwards. "Instead she rushes to me, laughing, tears streaming down her face. 'Pregnant,' she told me. I about fainted."
Matisse stared down at his clasped hands resting on the tabletop. "It hit me at that moment. I couldn't allow my daughter to live like this, to be a secret, to believe her father was ashamed of her." He looked up at Harry beseechingly, willing him to understand. "I wanted to shout her existence from the rooftops, not hide her away." His eyes drifted to Fleur, laughing as she spoke to her cousins. "She gave me the strength to do what was right, what I should have done for her mother years before."
The conversation paused as both men watched Fleur shove Angèle with her shoulder playfully. Apolline's posture making it clear she was scolding them both..
The conversation continued after a short while watching the women across the yard. "There were calls for my resignation after the Ministry Ball where I first revealed my wife. The death threats followed soon after. Aurors resigned in protest of my command." Matisse pinched the bridge of his nose. "I retained my job solely because it was clear England's Voldemort problem was becoming a European one." He barked out a laugh devoid of humour. "Hell, the Minister at the time pulled me into his office and told me as much. That a 'creature-screwer' was at least better than a Death Eater."
"Death Eaters had already started infiltrating the French Ministry?" Harry questioned.
"They were everywhere. After Britain's Minister, Eugenia Jenkins, got forced out of office, it became clear that Voldemort was starting to make inroads with purebloods in other nations as well. People forget that the Italian Minister of Magic elected in 1976 was basically a puppet for the Death Eater regime there, didn't even hide it really."
"Regardless," Matisse continued, "I kept my job because I had at least established myself as an anti-pureblood supremacist, which was a small list at the time in any nation's government."
Matisse met Harry's eyes again. "The death threats were horrifying. How someone could write such things makes my blood boil to this day. I still get them occasionally. There was a resurgence after you married my daughter, of course."
Harry jolted, "why didn't you say anything?" He began concernedly.
Matisse waved him away irritably. "Don't get off track, they aren't important and you aren't to blame. Don't be pig-headed." Harry's father-in-law paused, softened. "My point is, that throughout all of Fleur's life, she has been in danger. Reviled by fools who see a creature, hated by her father's enemies and those who see her as a political weapon against both me and the Equalist agenda."
"Where are you going with this?"
"Let me amend my statement to you from all those years ago. Loving a Veela is difficult, being a Veela more so, but being the father to a Veela is a nigh impossible task."
Harry's hand clenched on the tabletop, knuckles turning white. The faded scar reminding him of the importance of not telling lies noticeable from the stretching of his skin. "Your job may have put Fleur in danger but my name alone almost got Liliana killed," Harry hissed.
Matisse gave him an unimpressed look. "Fleur was nearly kidnapped twice. Once when she was three and another when she was seven." Ignoring Harry's stunned expression the older man continued, "she probably doesn't even remember them. But I do. I'll remember them for the rest of my life. What I'm trying to tell you, Harry, to use your words from earlier, is that you aren't the one at fault here. Just the circumstances."
The sound of giggling girls, carried over by a cool breeze, did little to ease the oppressive tension hanging over the picnic table where the two men sat, staring at one another.
"I'm scared."
The whispered admission was so quiet Harry looked up in surprise when Matisse responded simply. "Me too."
A slightly plump hand gripped the clenched fist Harry had in front of him, the fingers shockingly strong and calloused. The grip firm.
"You heeded my advice when we first met and I'm thankful for it. You've given Fleur a good life, yes, but one built on love and respect. When I was your age I thought I could keep Apolline happy by granting her a lavish lifestyle. Perhaps, I just felt guilty from my shame of hiding her away. Who knows? Regardless, I know now that all I managed to give her was nothing more than a gilded cage. Don't do the same to your daughter. A cage is still a cage, even if it is made to keep one safe. And don't," Matisse paused, ensuring he had Harry's attention, "blame yourself for the actions of monsters."
Harry sat silently, pondering Matisse's words. He scratched his nails along the textured wood of the picnic table. The fear was still there but the sharpness had dulled somewhat. He wasn't okay, that was still a ways off. But he was better. "Does it get easier?"
Matisse smiled, "not really. It is the curse of being a parent, I suppose. But," he gestured at the little girls playing tag, "they make it worthwhile."
Harry watched the little Veelas as they gambolled blissfully, and smiled.
XXXXXXXX
"I'm sorry."
The words hung in the air, Harry couldn't help but feel the stinging inadequacy of them. Fleur turned from her dresser, laying her hairbrush upon the wood. A privilege lost.
She glanced at him before speaking. "You are ready, then?"
He nodded. "I know you want Lili to go to school but I am still… I'm struggling with it."
His wife cocked her head at him, face impassive. "And you think I'm not? I am terrified, just as you are. The thought of my daughter being harmed keeps me up at night too. I even wake from nightmares as often as you do, so why do you think I take her safety less seriously than you?"
Harry breathed through his nose and grasped blindly for calm. "You seem less 'affected' than I have been, I suppose."
"That is a gross disservice to me, 'Arry."' Fleur's eyes blazed, an incandescent fury burning bright and brief in brilliantly blue eyes. "You mistake my hope for detachment. I want what is best for Lili, I want her safe, yes, but able to grow too. I don't believe them mutually exclusive. You do. That is the line in the sand you've drawn. Not I."
"I know. I'm sorry. It was what I foolishly believed, not what I now understand."
She quirked an eyebrow at his confession. "So next year? She can go to school?"
"We will figure something out," he agreed. "So long as the Dolohov mess has been resolved."
Cerulean eyes narrowed. "What if it never resolves?"
Beseechingly, Harry held out his hands towards his wife. "Then we will figure that out too. I don't have all the answers, Fleur. But I'm willing to try. Can't that be enough? For now?"
She nodded sharply. An accord struck.
"You've been a foolish man, my husband." Her clipped words clearly indicated her disposition towards him but her tone hinted at exasperated fondness.
"Yes, I have."
The admission caused a silver eyebrow to raise. Plush, pink lips pursed before speaking, "You've been spiralling since Lili's article, the ICW conference made it worse, and now the attack." A pause. "We've been out of the public view for so long, we've forgotten how out-of-control it can be, how it changes us for the worse."
"I've been in the spotlight since I was eleven, Fleur. I know how awful it can be." His rebuff was uttered without conscious thought, propelled by a twinge of childish annoyance at her statement. He wished he could take it back as soon as it left his lips.
"You have no idea how bad it can be," a tone devoid of emotion. Dead. Desolate.
"You are right. I don't." A backpedal too little and late. Pieces falling into place from conversations over the years, most specifically the conversations Fleur avoided.
"That Heir of Slytherin tripe your second year, the hatred of the houses your fourth year, the papers labelling you a liar in your fifth. At the end of the day Harry, they at least still considered you human."
"I know."
"Stop agreeing with me."
"Fleur I-"
"You have no idea what it was like." Her splintering shout froze Harry to the spot. "To have your race taught about in Magical Creatures class," her voice became steady as she angrily wiped the steaming tears from her eyes.
"To sit there while a male wizard lectures at you, incorrectly I might add, about the salacious creatures called Veela." She scoffed, tossing her long hair back imperiously. Violent, beautiful.
"To have him stand you up in front of the class as a third-year and ask you to 'transform' so everyone could see." Her voice, no longer a shout, was soft but venomous, "to hear the class laugh when the teacher got angry because the shift wouldn't happen. Because you couldn't even feel the Veela inside past the humiliation and fear."
With a wall of heat, Fleur's clothes burned away. Her thick, white plumage bursting out along her body. Her long, sharp beak forming from her dainty nose and pouty lips. Her blue eyes dilating, the bright hue darkening until the colour was indiscernible from black. Her delicate hands and tiny feet turned scaly and taloned. The vertebrae in her back stretched like a ladder, making her taller, formidable. Her hips grew fuller as the muscles, while always evident around her body, rippled and swelled.
And wings. Massive white wings unfurled from her back, making the room turn sweltering with their reveal. The heat increased and the white feathers that coated the appendages turned a metallic silver.
Each quill now shone like a mirror, replacing the softness with a cruel edge. Her wings retained their flexibility and their power of flight, even as the feathers became daggers. From afar, they would seem scaly to the unknowing eye; a Veela's most potent protection.
She was unbound. Magnificent as she was terrible. Unbreakable as she was vulnerable. Her allure swamped the room with its cloying heat. Boiling Harry alive and threatening to send him to his knees. The magic of her allure hummed so powerfully that he felt his bones vibrating to the tune.
He took a step forward. And another. The Veela watched in interest as he approached, head cocked to the side. His hand trembled as he reached out, slowly, cautiously; eventually burying his fingers in the now downy feathers upon Fleur's chest, over her heart. The armoured, mirror-like quills shifting white where his digits touched. Magic sang to magic. Like recognized like. Wings wrapped around him as Fleur gave a melancholic trill.
Harry's hand grasped Fleur's taloned one, bringing it up to the side of his face as he locked eyes with her. She always was so hesitant while shifted, he knew her fears about his breakability were well-founded, but he trusted her implicitly. He wanted to show her that she could trust herself too.
Eventually, with little fanfare, Fleur's form shimmered back into the more familiar visage of his wife.
She seemed small and shaken, evidenced by the slight tremor in her shoulders and hand that reached out to grip his own.
In the secretive, dappled cove of his heart, Harry had always viewed his wife as the sun. A fiery, warm star that burned with a bright passion so searing and live-giving that all was burned and re-made in her presence. She had long ago turned the barren desert of his desiccated soul into a verdant place all her own. Yet here, now, she was unquestionably the moon. Cold, hard, and terribly lonely.
When she finally spoke it was with difficulty.
"I allowed them to change me," Fleur's whisper dug a pit into Harry's chest, gouging him out, leaving a breathless wound in its wake. He hadn't heard such a broken tone since the war. "I hated myself for being different, tried to repress everything Veela about me. I strove to be only a brilliant witch, but nothing more. I was lesser for it."
The words dug into him, burrowing through the muscle and sinew of his chest, forcing his ribcage to expand in order to accept the bitter realizations being spoke aloud. They made their home there, a heavy toxin that was as solid as steel, frigid as ice. The woman who had loved him so beautifully, who had married him, given him children... she lay bare and battered before him. He had been blind to the scars she bore, those she hid from the world. The locked away pain buried in the soil of her soul.
He raged futiley at the memory. A great gnashing of teeth and stomping of feet would do nothing. Nothing at all agaisnt the trecherous phantasm that slithered with the subtlety of shattered glass in Fleur's mind. Instead, he listened. It was all he could do.
"I was a pretty, prideful, hideous girl, 'Arry." Fleur seemed to withdraw inwards, shame evident in her body language. "I was willing to forsake everything, willing to let it all go just because I was tired of being called a creature. Willing to even forgo my Guiding. Giving up my chance to ever change fully into a Veela, to force myself into a dull life while all that was Veela in me shrivelled and died."
"Fleur, you wouldn't have. You-," Harry was cut off by a sharp gesture from his wife.
"I would have. I planned to." A look of self-disgust marred her stunning features. "I will always remember how my mother sobbed when I told her. She begged me, 'Arry," Fleur shuddered, "a mother begged her daughter to not ruin herself. But I would have."
The platinum-haired witch looked away, seeing far more than the room that surrounded them. "I would have given up much to be a normal witch, willing even to sacrifice the most magical aspect of myself, dooming my potential in the process."
Harry looked at her steadily, "without the Guiding, your magic… it would have…" he trailed off, his question evident.
"Most of a Veela's magic is intrinsic to her nature, rejecting it would have granted me my wish. I would have been nothing more than a beautiful, but otherwise ordinary witch."
"But the Spellweaving Institute, your Charms," Harry tried to reason, his mind whirling at the sheer loss Fleur was describing.
"I would have worked a simple job, found a nice man and settled down. Raised non-Veela children. I would have lived, even loved. But I would not have been whole."
"What of fate? Like those Veela romances we see on the shelves?" Harry questioned, only half-joking, trying desperately to find some sort of foothold. The blood was rushing in his ears, he felt lightheaded, sick. "You don't believe we were meant to be?"
"There is no fate, only decisions," she stated, voice assured.
Choices, he thought hollowly. Fleur had been his tether during and after the war, the simple thought of her absence sent him reeling. His mind splintered into weighty, frantic questions. How would he have survived without her? Would he have boarded the train had he not been secure in the knowledge that she waited for him elsewhere
"I can't imagine a life without you. Fate or no," Harry confessed with conviction, unwilling to give ground.
"And I love you for it," Fleur's eyes shone, "my romantic man," she finished fondly. "But you too, would have found someone to love and live with."
"I don't want anyone else but you. Nor do I want to walk on eggshells around each other anymore in private."
An amused look crossed the Veela's angular face. "An unfortunate idiom I'm willing to overlook this time…" A slightly bashful expression crept along her countenance. She picked up her hairbrush from the dresser, holding it out to him tenuously. An olive branch, a truce.
He reached for the brush but clasped his hand around her instead, pulling the bewitching woman against him. Blue and green found one another, while his other hand caressed the inhumanly smooth planes of her face. The woven ring of platinum on his finger burned hot, yet no pain was felt.
"I don't care for 'what if's' and 'could have beens,' all I've ever wanted since I was fourteen was you. That has never wavered and it never will. I am yours, completely and without end."
She did not answer him with words, pretty as they might have been.
Fleur's lips crashed against Harry's. Hard and yellow, unyielding but tender. The familiar taste and harsh nips splitting his being in twain. The half that responded in the now was confident and sure. Giving and taking with equal abandon. The other half, the half thrown back in the whirlwind of never-forgotten sensation, was kissing her for the first time. A young boy, broken and afraid. A quick kiss, at once both unsure of its reception and certain in its delivery had morphed into a claiming of absolutes. When a blue-eyed, platinum-haired woman had taken him in her arms and scooped out his insides so she could flood every hollow recess of him with searing love, joy and acceptance.
Two halves of the same whole.
The boy and the girl, the man and the woman.
His wife, shining like a lighthouse had beckoned him to shore. A little ship, daunted by the storm and wild waves left adrift. Unmoored and alone.
Now found.
He was finally home and she tasted of pomegranates.
XXXXXXXX
Harry woke to a lullaby.
Immediately recognizable as a song passed from mother to daughter that told the tale of the first Veela's courtship dance. The rich voice of his wife crooned it softly, barely above a whisper. She sang of love lost and found. Hearts bound together by silver twine.
He could feel her fingertips trace the locket scar above his heart with a brushing caress so delicate it brought tears to his eyes. Her touch was as soft as butterfly kisses but left a heightened awareness in their wake that smouldered.
Harry lay there silently; listening, revelling in the soothing touch of the woman who owned him. It had been a willing surrender, but a submission all the same. Although the twine that bound them together had grown taut, he'd never believed it would snap. To think otherwise would go against the choice he'd made in the snow-covered forest nearly ten years ago. Any room for doubt would have caused him to never have accepted the braided band of platinum that rested warm and snug around his finger.
He had accepted the inequity then. Fleur was free to love and live but he would always be hers. Only ever hers.
A choice. A surrender.
Both without regret.
The lullaby reached its close, the euphonious melody slipping gently away as though pulled by the tide to fade into the distance. Fleur's fingers journeyed from the locket to the large lightning-shaped scar that had nearly taken him away from her.
It had happened in a different forest and involved a different choice. A separate surrender. But it too had been made without regret.
The flesh was smooth and silvery. Certainly prettier than the other gnarled masses of scarred skin that marred his body. She had brushed her healing lips across the surface of every inch of traumatized flesh at one time or another. Her eyes never wavering from adoration to revulsion at his misshapen, battle-weary form.
Scars littered his bodies like leaves upon the ground outside, yet for all his mangled brokenness, Fleur loved him.
"You did not wake during the night."
Harry let the sugared voice settle over him before opening his eyes. She was right.
His wife was nestled against his side, her form propped up by a cocked elbow, a hand supporting her head. Platinum hair fell about the bed in lustrous waves, filling the room with the aroma of spiced wood slick with rain.
The luminescent landscape of her curves was barely covered by a tantalizingly thin sheet that stopped just under her navel. His eyes made a slow sojourn over the tight planes of her stomach to the rolling hills over her hips and the deep valley of her side. The long expanse of unblemished, silky skin rose to the peaks of her shoulders and the sensuous slope of her neck.
He could feel the sizzle of her gaze as she watched him. It snapped and crackled over his skin with a simmering energy that made his blood thrum and pulse sing. Memories of reconnecting in the dark and professions of love offered between gasped breaths shivered down his spine.
Unable to resist, his fingers began their own quest, trailing across the glory so brazenly displayed. Lily-white skin flushed from his wandering touch, leaving rosy ribbons in his wake.
How long had it been since they'd indulged in the tender intimacy of morning? The sleepy softness of waking to one another's gentle passion? A day without was too long yet he had starved them both of the simple affection for far longer.
They were both, he knew, tactile lovers. Relishing in the emotive feeling their partner's touch invoked. He had lived a childhood devoid of such fondness and she had similarly closed herself off from the unwanted advances during school. Now they could savour making up for lost time.
His hands made their delicate way to her throat. He could feel the spike in her own pulse underneath the pads of his fingers. Feathers blossomed along her shoulders and down her chest. The silver plumage eye-catching in the muted light of dawn. Pink lips turned yellow, blue eyes turned deeper like an abyss hinted at from the surface.
They drank in the sight of the other for a time, taking pleasure in the joy of being together again. Harry was reminded of the first time he'd confessed his ardour. How they'd danced underneath a sky so full of stars that the night lit up like the day. He'd been so overcome by her that it had slipped out of his mouth before he could stuff the words back inside.
She'd laughed gaily, never stopping their exaggerated waltz. He remembered how she spun from his arms, their hands still tightly clasped, her other hand arced gracefully away from her. How she'd looked at him with a smile and said the words back to him.
A river of memories swept through his mind of her, of him, of them. When they'd first shared a night together, how he'd been convinced that whatever tapestry their souls were cut from came from the same cloth.
The days, weeks, and months after the war when he felt hollow, shattered, and lost. He had retreated from everyone, seeking numb solitude. Yet Fleur had broken down the front door of Grimmauld Place, shining like the sun. She wore her sadness like jewels, her fierceness like a cloak. He'd been awed by her as she pulled him upright to crush against her chest. 'You'll never be alone again,' she had told him and that promise had been engraved into the soft flesh of his heart, stitched into the patchwork of his soul, burned into the skin of his ring finger.
"I'm pretty sure every moment in my life was for the sole purpose of teaching me how best to love you," Harry said, his voice husky from disuse. He'd spoken from the heart, overwhelmed by the scenes of the life he'd shared with the woman next to him.
Fleur smiled and she shone softer, brighter than an ivory moon. "You know…" she trailed off musingly. "I never believed in love, not really. I loved my family and saw how much my parents adored one another but didn't think I'd ever experience it so fully. But then I met you. And though my worries about our relationship took time to abate I realized something early on, something important."
Harry met her eyes as she spoke, hanging onto her words. "What was that?" He asked softly.
"That I trust in us more than I trust in love. Life was much simpler afterwards."
His heart fluttered in his chest at the shy, beguilingly bashful expression on his wife's face. He placed his hand alongside her cheek and she hummed appreciatively.
She opened the eyes that had closed momentarily at his touch. Her lips quirking slightly at the corners. "I don't think I've ever asked." She paused hesitantly and he caressed her cheekbone with his thumb for her to continue. "When did you first think yourself in love with me?"
Now it was Harry's turn to still. He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully although the truth was ready upon his tongue. Deciding he'd had enough deception, he spoke honestly. "That is a difficult question to answer. I think, really, that there are two defining moments. The direct answer is that it was a day like any other."
Fleur tilted her head inquisitive, her eyebrows drawing together. He chuckled. "We were sitting together, sharing a sofa, and reading. I was working on school and you on your Charms Mastery. It was raining outside the window of Grimmauld Place and neither of us was speaking. But every time I looked up at you I'd catch you stealing glances at me. That was the moment I knew that everything I'd ever want to do… I'd want to do with you."
Her eyes swirled and heat suffused her freckled cheeks. Fleur leaned down to press a gentle but unyielding kiss to his lips. Their hands tangled in one another's hair but she pulled away before he could become intoxicated from her presence.
"And the other moment?"
He should have known she'd not let such a slip go.
"That day by the Black Lake with the wind in your hair."
She blinked at him. "After the Final Task?"
"Yes. After that night in the Hospital Ward," he went quiet, struggling to voice how she'd saved him. "You came to see me again and everything felt so different. I was lost and afraid but there you were. And every day since."
"Forever," she promised.
"Eternally," he agreed, his woven ring burning hot. Her eyes glimmered as she bent to press her lips against his once more.
"So," she said, a hint of amusement colouring her voice. "It wasn't love at first sight?"
"No," Harry said, chuckling. "You ensnared my interest certainly, but it wasn't until the day at the lake that anything changed." She stroked the scars criss-crossing his ribs and chest as he spoke. "I'd refer to it more as… a sort of resonation. A realization. Like, 'oh, I found you. It is going to be you.' And that was that. It just took my mind more time to catch up to what my heart had recognized."
The fingers stopped along a jagged curse wound emblazoned on his abdomen.
"I always knew you were a romantic since the day you left a poem for me on our bedside table," Fleur started but was interrupted by his groan. She flicked his nose lightly in response, chuckling. "It was sweet," she admonished. "But you always find new ways to surprise me." Her eyes warmed and a smile rose like the dawn, her expression breathtaking.
In that silken, delicate moment Harry's ardour darkened, turning possessive. He was resolved to never give the woman laying next to him with such a beautiful soul reason to leave. Desire crackled through his core. He wanted to write upon her skin what pages would blush to bear. Wanted the ink of his devotion to seep and settle itself into her very bones, marking her as his just as she'd so indelibly marked him a decade ago.
She grinned in understanding, in reciprocity, as feathers erupted from beneath her skin in response to her own quickened pulse.
Their shared mood took a craving, eager turn.
He leaned forward intently, locking eyes with the woman before him. They were both, simultaneously, predator and prey. He ghosted his lips over her jaw and up to the shell of her ear. She shuddered as he spoke, his words a honeyed confession, a darkened supplication.
"I want to make you ache ." His voice low and forceful.
Fleur leaned over him, her breasts pressing against his chest so she could grip the flesh of his ear between her teeth. She tugged playfully. Her breath and voice were hot in his ear as she whispered her reply.
"Show me."
XXXXXXXX
The morning's golden-orange hues had brightened to the buoyant yellow of afternoon when the contented, restful silence of the Potters was broken by the humorous voice of Fleur.
"I think about your lips more often than I likely should. But less than I will tomorrow," she began, reciting the words of his poem painstakingly worked upon years ago.
Without hesitation Harry pounced upon her. Mortification affection guiding his searching hands towards her ticklish sides. She cried out in laughter, batting ineffectively at his chest and grasping fingers.
"You promised to never bring that up again," he chuffed in feigned betrayal.
"Come on," she whined, "it's adorable."
"I'm not supposed to be adorable," Harry responded gruffly. "I'm a man. We're supposed to be, I dunno, rugged and handsome."
Fleur gave him a blank look before bursting into guffawed delight. She stopped abruptly once she began snorting.
He smirked at her but wisely avoided the topic due to the grimacing glare she warned him with.
She reached up and cupped his face between her hands, rubbing her nose against the tip of his own. "My rugged, handsome, adorable man," she cooed, breathless giggles slipping out between the words.
He grumbled but couldn't hide his beaming smile from her discerning eyes.
The mire and muck that he'd been stuck in for so long seemed to have dissipated, or, at least, lessened. No longer did he feel suffocated by the fear and anxiety. It was still there, it would always remain now that the bubble of luxurious peace had popped, but he'd realized he was strong enough to bear it. With Fleur by his side.
His family had shown him that. They'd supported him with words and actions, like they always had. They believed him strong enough and now… now he did too.
The daunting problems that terrified him hadn't been fixed and fear still nibbled at his mind and heart but he'd reaffirmed a simple but important fact. While some choices were out of his hands, others were his alone to make. Death Eaters had chosen to target his family but how he responded was entirely on him.
The simple truth was, he didn't like what his choices had made him become. Those knee-jerk reactions made from terror and panic had resulted in him becoming weak, foolish, and fragile.
Now he'd resolved to make a new choice. A better one. One that would make him feel like himself again. Or, at least, the version of himself he was happiest with. The Harry Potter that had been formed from meeting and falling for Fleur Delacour.
The magic-cancelling Ward presented an alarming threat but he had some of the smartest, most loyal witches and wizards in the world on his side. If they could make it, they could figure out a way to keep people safe from it.
Harry had decided to trust. To trust the Aurors, Neville, Hermione, Fleur, and himself. Though the answers may not have made themselves known yet, he was confident that they'd be grasped soon enough.
Dolohov would be found. The Ward would be countered and Ernst brought to justice. Perhaps, even the ICW would one day fix their commitment to the rights of Sentient Beings.
He hadn't been so optimistic since before the ICW conference, it was a nice feeling to return to.
Fleur snuffled in her afternoon nap at his side, cuddling her face into the crook of his neck. He turned slightly so he could kiss her forehead.
"'M not a turkey, you're a turkey," she mumbled in her sleep. Harry stifled a laugh and basked in an intimacy re-found.
Sunshine, brilliant and yellow, pumped in his veins, pulsed in his heart. The colour most favoured by Fleur coursed through him as he lay upon the bed he shared with her. She was bright as the sun, gentle as the moon, and the constellation of her soul gleamed unerringly.
The cosmic, universal force of her expanded infinitely and contracted with crushing delicacy around him. He wondered at the marvel that slept in his arms.
Fleur drooled as she slept.
XXXXXXXX
A week later found the Potters standing on top of a cliff face in Azerbaijan. The scene below was an affront to humanity, an abomination of wizarding kind.
Dried blood tarnished the ground below, whole rivers of it viewable from the darkened strip of land that ran between burned buildings. The bodies had long since been removed. But their panicked last moments had left a mark that remained.
Harry would ensure it remained. That the dread and terror felt in the village by the cliffside would never, ever be forgotten. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists so tight that his nails drew blood from his cut palms.
Unimaginable anger coursed through him and for a brief moment, Harry thought he felt his scar throb in phantom recognition of his fury.
Naba was sobbing at his side, curled up against the ground. Her choking wails the only sound he could hear over the rushing of blood in his ears.
Fleur stood statute-like on his other side. She'd been mute since they'd received word and her silence was so deep that Harry believed her heart even beat soundlessly.
Her eyes looked almost grey in their sorrow, reflecting the ruined village in their opaque sheen.
Canavar, the government-mandated Reservation for Azerbaijan Werewolves lay before them. Huge lines had been burned into the earth in a sweeping circle around the village, the scorch marks almost appropo in their hellish use. Complicated runes stretched the entire length of the Ward-lines but the enchantment had since lost potency as their energy source was lost.
They had already accomplished their goal regardless.
A pogrom of horrifying size. A complete and utter cleansing of Werewolf kind in Azerbaijan, done in little over an hour.
The Azerbaijan Ministry had sanctioned the attack on a full moon, right as the Werewolves began to shift. The magic-cancelling Ward had been drawn and activated during the phase, causing the villagers to abruptly stop midway through. The emerging wolf-side had apparently disappeared, bewildered witches and wizards remaining.
The massacre had begun during the confusion.
Naba had been the one to notify the ICW after losing contact with friends in the village. Mr Akingbade had used one of the few non-optional provisions in the Sentient Being Protection Resolution to send an investigatory team.
An Emergency State of Affairs had been called shortly thereafter.
The Supreme Mugwump strolled towards the gathering on the cliff face. Hirene stalked next to him, followed by the stumbling form of Desmond.
"Harry, Fleur, Naba," he greeted shortly, nodding at each in turn. "We should talk."
"Talk?" Hirene growled, her face ferocious and apoplectic. "There will be no talking. We tried it your way before. This is the result. Now we do mine."
Mr Akingbade moved to speak but Fleur's voice got there first.
"No," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "We can't resort to violence."
Hirene lunged forward and gripped Fleur by the shoulders, turning her roughly so they'd be face-to-face. Harry moved to intervene but Fleur reached out and stopped him.
"You can speak the pretty words of a pacifist all you want but it isn't Veela down there lying in a fucking ditch. They murdered children! Little children who hadn't even been Werewolves. They just lived here because their parents were forced to." Hirene's voice was bladed hysteria, cutting and frantic. Her eyes were wide and muscles bunched and bulged along her small but powerful frame. Fierceness given form and fangs.
"There isn't a single part of me that doesn't desire revenge," Fleur stated calmly, coldly. "I want the scum dead just like you. But that won't change anything. They'd just get replaced."
"Then I'll kill them too."
"Killing those in power will do little good, I should think." Mr Akingbade's voice drifted between the two women. "But we do have a chance to kill the ideology. This is the single greatest genocide of magical-kind since the 1300s. Even the most indifferent wizard will find this act disgusting."
"You would use the corpses of my people for your pathetic games of politics?" Hirene spat, letting go of Fleur's shoulders so she could face Mr Akingbade fully. "Choose your next words quickly and wisely." Harry was shocked to see her body begin to shift, tufts of white fur splintering out from her skin as her joints contracted and thickened.
A shift without the full moon?
The situation was defused, however, by the arrival of Barry who left the side of Almeida in a quick motion from where the two had been standing off to the left of the group.
Lanky, pocket-protector-wearing Barry walked quickly to his wife's side and wrapped her quaking form in his thin arms. He spoke quietly in her elongating ears and stroked her back in soothing circles.
The fur receded but the trembling remained.
Mr Akingbade looked completely unaffected. "The lives lost here will be the galvanizing force for further action. So that this doesn't happen again."
"Your rules do us little good. Paper won't stop this from reoccurring." Hirene's voice was subdued, a fire quenched by resignation while hatred smouldered beneath.
"Neither can you," Fleur said softly. "Even if you attack every Ministry that does something like this, you will not have prevented any deaths." Her eyes snapped to the Werewolf leader's. "And what happens to your people when you die? Maybe you get caught or maybe you pass of old age. But if all their hopes and protection rest on your shoulders then inevitably they will be left vulnerable again." She sighed, her hands rubbing her arms as though chilled. "At least the 'paper,' as you put it, can last."
"I know this is distasteful," Mr Akingbade cut in, "but perhaps there is a compromise of sorts."
Hirene turned to look at him, Barry's arms still wrapped around her.
"Abbas is currently on the run. Apparently, he and the upper echelon that planned the pogrom have fled the country once word that the ICW was getting involved reached them. They've been labelled as International Fugitives. But I could use some… contracted agents to locate them." His eyes turned hard. "Would such a temporary position interest you and your pack enforcers?"
Hirene's grin was dementedly wolfish.
Desmond inched further forward into the rough circle. The man stood roughly the same height as Harry did, but his shoulders were a tad narrower. His black hair hung messily about his head and he was dressed in a well-fitted blue suit. His glasses were chipped in one lens but Harry couldn't remember a time that they weren't similarly cracked. He was typically a gentle, politely intelligent man who'd always give candies to Lili or Fayette when they dropped by their mother's work.
The Ward Team Leader had always been kind to both Harry and Fleur and had been a key component behind helping Fleur become comfortable when she first joined the Spellweaving Institute.
Desmond pushed his glasses up his nose where they immediately began to slide down again. "I've finished inspecting the Ward lines." His voice was pained and his face tight. "They are unquestionably the Institute's project."
Fleur sagged against Harry's side in acknowledgement. Desmond sent her a sad, commiserating look. "I feel the same way," he spoke brokenly. "To think our work would be used… so barbarously." He took off his glasses so he could rub at his eyes. Harry felt for the man whose vision of stopping a Ministry incursion like Voldemort's from happening again had led to such monstrous events.
Mr Akingbade nodded. "Mal-Chin reports that multiple witnesses identified Ernst's photograph as the man who formed the Ward. He was working closely with Abbas's blood-purity group. The ICW agents are following the trail as we speak."
"And Dolohov?" Harry asked. "Was he here?"
Mr Akingbade shook his head. "We aren't entirely sure. No one claims to have seen him but I suppose he could have been disguised since his face is rather infamous."
Harry wasn't sure what the connection here was. Dolohov was a pureblood but was never the fanatic Bellatrix was. He didn't despise muggle-borns or 'creatures' like his fellow Death Eaters, merely found them to be beneath him. He'd joined for the chance to kill indiscriminately more than anything.
He suspected it didn't ultimately matter. If Dolohov wasn't working with Ernst initially, once he heard of a Ward capable of decimating any protective enchantment he'd attempt to make contact with the German traitor.
The target might not have been the Potters this time, but sooner or later their turn would come.
Naba wobbled unsteadily to her feet. "This is my fault," she moaned. "I told them to wait, to not attempt to escape from the camp. That the ICW Resolution would fix this." She pulled at her hair despondently, her brutalized face crumpling in dismay.
"You knew the Camp's Pack Leader?" Harry asked surprised.
The woman sniffled. "Yes, I've been making inroads with Azerbaijan after they started gathering Werewolves. Armenia has been doing the registry but hasn't started forcibly relocating anyone to a Reserve yet." She paused. "I thought this the more pressing situation."
"I didn't know they'd been planning to attempt an escape," Hirene noted, scowling. "If they had made it past the border, my pack would have accepted them."
Naba began crying again, her one good eye leaking milky tears. "I know. I'm sorry."
"This is what we get for trusting in the Resolution. In the ICW. Pathetic," Hirene spat. She turned on her heel and stalked off.
Barry gave a gentle smile at everyone before scampering after her.
The scarred woman sniffled, pulling her cloak tightly closed. She looked terribly alone, standing there, shivering. Harry's heart went out to her. She'd seen her family torn apart by the very Werewolves she strove to save… and now, even that, had turned painful, and became a form of loss.
"You had been with Abbas during the ICW Conference, did he give you any reason to think this was in the works?" Harry spoke gently, not wanting to tear open wounds, but gathering information was key in order to understand what had happened. An attack of this scale had to have been planned well in advance. Perhaps as soon as the vote was clearly tipped in the Resolution's favour.
Naba turned away slightly so he couldn't see her face as she dried her eyes. "No. I didn't hear anything. I wasn't even supposed to be there but I forced my way into the delegation. Armenia kept me close to make sure I didn't do anything outlandish but I wasn't ever included in actual discussion."
Harry cracked the knuckles on his left hand for want of something to do as he studied the situation from every angle known to him. Too much was unknown, the blank spots obvious and mocking, like attempting to solve a puzzle without reference and a good chunk of the pieces missing.
He voiced a question that caused Mr Akingbade and Fleur's attention to snap to the conversation and away from the ICW efforts below. "Why did they do this?" A pause as he rolled the question around his tongue. "I know they hate Werewolves but… to go to such lengths…" he trailed off uncertainly.
Mr Akingbade cleared his throat. "The geopolitics of this region have always been, well, let us say 'fraught' with interspecies conflict." He glanced apologetically at Fleur who nodded resignedly. "Azerbaijan and Armenia have been the battleground of numerous wars between Werewolves and wizards. There is centuries of bad blood essentially."
"It became much worse during Voldemort's rise to power." Naba's voice cut in, her face still turned away as she looked out over what had once been a village. "Europe has dealt with the Pureblood problem more acutely than anywhere else but out here… it has always been human against non-human." She turned introspective for a moment before continuing. "We don't care much about lineage unless you are կեղտոտ, unclean. Voldemort weaponized generations of hate, galvanized the fragmented Werewolf packs, and granted them resources. Twice. The wars were horrible, the loss of life immense."
"But why?" Harry inquired. "Why would he care what happened here?"
"It was Orion Black's idea actually." The name quivered in the air with potent energy as Harry turned to Mr Akingbade. The Supreme Mugwump gave nothing away, his face stony.
"What does Sirius's father have to do with anything?"
"He hatched an idea during the first war that gained Voldemort's approval. Mudbloods, blood-traitors, muggles, the whole lot of them were little more than animals in his eyes. So, why not turn them all into the creatures he thought they were? His ideology wasn't unique really, Mr Akingbade mused, "when the first outbreak of Lycanthropy occurred Purebloods thought it a divine punishment for 'mixing magical blood with mundanes.'"
What sort of nonsense was this? Harry felt ill, as acidic nausea seethed in his stomach. His vision swam and his bearing tilted as lightheadedness overtook him. How were you supposed to combat such ignorance? Such groundless, foolish, paranoid notions capable of surviving generations?
"The plan was rather simple. Werewolves are bound to follow their Pack Leaders, Imperious them and you have an army of magic-resistant bioweapons capable of spreading their plague. England, being an island, avoided a lot of the Werewolf wars throughout history. There are few Packs that call it home." Mr Akingbade threw his arms out in a grand, sweeping gesture. "Out here, however?"
"He could focus on England while the ICW was in a panic trying to control a new war and pandemic simultaneously," Naba interjected. "Whatever side lived would be severely weakened and if the Werewolves prevailed he'd have a new army to march on England."
"Had this ever been tried before?" Harry asked. "If such a thing were possible, surely others have attempted it?"
Mr Akingbade shook his head. "Once. When Galarys Thorrfinn was taking over the world in the 1300s, a Wizard ally betrayed him and attempted an Imperius. The curse was completely ineffective and the Wizard ripped in half."
The man began to pace along the cliff edge as he continued speaking. "Werewolves are naturally resistant to magic, similar to Giants. For a long time afterwards, people believed the Imperius simply didn't work on them. But Galarys, and I imagine Hirene, are different from their common brethren."
Puzzle pieces fell into place. "The shift?"
A brief nod of acknowledgement. "Purebred, for lack of a better term. Stronger in every way, capable of shifting without the full moon. Likely able to resist spells even more effectively." He shrugged. "Not much is known about them. The theory only came about in the last century when Cryptozoologists began documenting Packs in a less biased light and the two wars since then haven't helped the study."
Desmond spoke up from the side of Fleur, who he'd been having a subdued but comforting conversation with. "The Ward would be particularly strong against Werewolves. It would reduce their natural protections to nothing, leaving them vulnerable to attack since they can't carry their wand during a shift."
Naba began to cry again and Harry extended a hand out to rest on her shoulder.
Mr Akingbade heaved a sigh before calling for Harry's attention. "The wars here were particularly brutal. Tens of thousands died before Voldemort disappeared the first time. Thousands more the second time."
"So when they saw the Resolution gaining steam," Harry quieted as understanding followed his comment. Abbas would have been a young child during the first war. A soldier for the second. Who all had he lost? Parents? Children?
"Better to get rid of them all." Naba spoke quietly and her posture was diminutive. "It is a common thought out here because conflict seems inevitable, cyclical."
The Supreme Mugwump sighed. "Harry, there is something else I wanted to speak to you about. I've contacted a photographer to come document the Canavar massacre. I believe you know him. Dennis Creevey?"
Harry nodded mutely. He'd not seen little Dennis since the funeral. The young man had never attended a Memorial or responded to Harry's attempt at correspondence. The only one who claimed to have any contact with him was Luna. Apparently, he'd photographed some animals she'd discovered on a few cryptozoology expeditions. He'd made a name for himself both as a documentarian photographer and an artist. Some of his most famous work had used an old, vintage camera, but no photo produced by that particular camera was ever sold.
"He's a good choice."
Mr Akingbade nodded before looking around the weary group. "We are all tired. Let's reconvene tomorrow, we could all use some rest. Some time."
Fleur made her way over to Harry, wrapping her slender arms around his waist. She mumbled against his chest in a voice too low for him to hear. Clearly, she needed to get away, to find distance between herself and the remains of the village below. He stroked her hair reassuringly and said goodbye to the group before moving to Apparate them both away.
XXXXXXXX
It was hours later before Fleur spoke. They had eaten and readied for bed in silence. The hours had grown long and Harry had assumed they'd fall asleep without a word passing between them.
She had needed space and he'd tried to give it to her.
But eventually, she broke.
"I did this, 'Arry." Fleur clasped her palms together, resting her elbows on the table in front of her. Her back was arched and her head bowed over her hands. She shook. Trembling with tiny, spasming shudders. A strange choking noise hiccupped out of her throat as wracking sobs began to overcome her.
He leaned over, drawing the shaking form of his wife flush to his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around her.
He held her as she cried.
"They would never have finished that ward if I hadn't fixed their perimeter charms, without me all those people-"
"You can't think like that, Fleur."
She continued as though not hearing him. "They'd be alive. I fixed the stability problems, the ward fluctuated out of control anytime it was used, its own magical perimeter being erased by the nullifying effect. I figured out how to charm the wards to be conceptual rather than based on the typical demarcated lines wards use." Her rambling continued wildly, as though she was afraid to stop speaking, afraid of what silence would bring.
He took her firmly by the shoulders and forced her to meet his eyes. "Fleur, stop. Just listen to me."
Her eyes latched onto his, the blue of her irises was wild and pained. "I did this," she repeated.
The statement hung in the air for a moment. The words hanging like a sword over both their heads.
"No," he murmured forcefully. "You are not to blame."
"But-"
"No," he cut her off firmly. "You are no more to blame than… than I am for the war."
She stared at him mutely, her mouth formed words but no sound escaped her lips.
"It's not your fault," he reiterated, clenching her shoulders tight between his fingers. Willing her to understand from his sheer conviction. "I have to believe that and so do you or we're both damned." The words of her father drifted across Harry's mind. "We are not responsible for the actions of monsters."
Her head shook minutely. The strong, proud woman was lost and dazed. An indeterminable amount of time passed as they looked at one another, neither moving nor speaking.
"It is different," came her voice eventually. Fragile still, but alive and whole. "When your actions are the cause. They are words much easier to say than to hear."
"Yes," he agreed, "they are. But it doesn't make them less true."
Fleur looked down for a moment, a faraway expression on her face as she thought. When she spoke, she met his gaze once more. "Does it ever go away?"
He wished he could give her a different answer. One that would be hopeful and easy. A lie.
"No." His eyes drifted down to the floor. The wood turned to ancient grey stones beneath his feet. "It doesn't get better."
With some effort, he lifted his face to meet hers, and the room returned to the present. "But you do." He gave her a small smile that barely lifted the tips of his mouth. "You grow and change. You forgive and put yourself back together again. Some days are easier than others," as he spoke years of memorials flared in his mind, obscuring his sight and stiffening his muscles. "But I'll be here for you. No matter what."
She had always supported him staunchly, catching him when his knees buckled and spirit wavered. Years of being a pillar, holding him up through the miserable malaise after the war. When funerals weighed heavily on his shoulders and loss ached like a gaping hole in his chest. Fleur had remained. Like a moon orbiting the planet of his grief, shining soft light onto the cracked, desecrated land below. Her consistent, reassuring presence held a sort of gravity, pulling at the tides of his soul.
'In and out,' she had soothed, rocking him in their home after that first Memorial, teaching him to breathe.
Now it was his turn to be there for her.
He gripped Fleur's delicate wrists in his hands, wondering at their construction. He tugged her around so he could press her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her middle. His lips traced the sensitive skin of her neck in featherlight brushes.
He held her close and tight, trying to steady her with his solidness. Without words he took a breath, his chest expanding to press against the curve of her back. Her lungs filled with air in response and their rhythm harmonized.
They stood together in a small, cracked room and breathed.
In and out.
Author's Note : Léna is a French name that means "she who allures."
Obvious real world parallels here. I want to be clear that in no way is my intention to minimize or lampoon any past or current conflict. Stay safe, stay strong.
Additionally, and on a brighter note, pieces of art depicting Harry and Fleur have been created for this story. Some are by my fellow author and talented friend, DavidTheAthenai. I also have two commissioned pieces of art for Ch. 2 and Ch. 4. Both are absolutely gorgeous and you can see part of one as my profile picture. All the artwork is located in the Harry/Fleur Discord server - Art Gallery. Hope to see you there!