Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: Starting this chapter, the story picks up an 'M' rating for coarse language.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And to the DLP crowd for their critique of an early draft. Sesc helped with a German name in a previous chapter.
My apologies for the abated update rate of late. (Day job and all that--you've heard the story before). Here's a short chapter to tide you over. I hope to get Chapter 10 posted by tomorrow:
CHAPTER 9
Preparations
“Celeste, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
The slender, black-haired astronomy professor glares at her superior. “Albus, I'd like to know what happened last night to my standing stones. The portal stones are toppled and the midwinter sunset stone was shattered completely!” Her face is an angry scowl and her black eyes flash with irritation.
“I'm afraid that that would be young Harry's doing. I asked him to undertake a rather strenuous ritual last night in your standing stones and the results were a bit more dramatic than I had anticipated....”
“'A bit more dramatic?' What am I supposed to do with my fifth and seventh year students? They have just finished sarsen stones and are moving to trilliths! How can I do that with no trillithon entrances?” Her exasperated rant leads to tiny froths of spittle at the corners of her thin lips. This only seems to amuse the Headmaster more.
“Professor Sinistra, I ask you to work with Hagrid to repair the damage as best you can. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience and contact Mr. Potter with the bill for the repairs, as he will most assuredly pay for any damages to school property.”
The young professor stands and leaves the office in a huff.
Fleur enters the Hogwarts infirmary and goes to the last bed, where Harry lies. She passes through the privacy curtains and notices that his head is turned away from her, his chest, wrapped heavily in bandages. She draws closer and places his cloak next to his glasses on the white enameled table adjacent to the bed.
"Hello Fleur," Harry says wearily, his eyes closed.
"Harry--how did you know it was me?"
"You're part veela? Though I haven't turned into a drooling idiot, I assure you I can still feel your aura." He smiles, his eyes still closed.
"Harry, will you look at me please?" Fleur asks, her voice quavering slightly.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea. I'm still recovering from a spell I cast that didn't go quite as I'd planned, and it's sort of messed up my eyes." His tone bitters. "Besides, there are some images from last night that I'd rather forget. Seeing you right now won't help."
"Harry, I can explain,” she says, feeling a twinge of guilt.
"No, Fleur, there's nothing to explain--we're just friends, right? It's stupid for me to be upset about anything. Not with... well... you being engaged to Robért. You're being with Malfoy doesn't bear on that." He swallows heavily, uncertain whether to continue. "Though I'd like an honest answer to a question, if you don't mind. Feel free not to answer...."
She tries not to sound hurt by his comment. "I don't mind."
"Lying here, I've had lots of time to think....”
“Har...”
“Hear me out on this, please,” he interrupts, a bit more sharply than he had intended. “I know you're spying on me for your father and fiancé, Fleur." The witch inhales sharply. "Don't try to deny it, please--that would be insulting. I understand that you have obligations and I can respect that. Believe me, I know all about that. I was just wondering if... if you ever felt anything for me or if it was all just an act."
He swallows again, his eyes pursed tighter. "I mean, well, if it's an act, then I applaud your skill--I was convinced enough to even maybe start to fancy you...." His voice trails off and he turns his head away, his face tight with pain.
"Harry, it's not an act. I..."
"You what, Fleur?" His tone is flat.
"Harry, I.. I don't know what I feel. I'm confused. I feel so comfortable with you, so close to you..."
"But you love Robért." His voice is barely more than a whisper.
"I think so, yes."
"Pity."
"Oui." She takes Harry's hand, hesitantly, and is relieved when he doesn't draw away. The two sit together in silence for several minutes.
Madame Pomfrey pulls the curtains aside and sees the two together. Smiling knowingly, she bustles to his side. “Harry, I'm going to check your bandages now.” Harry nods absently. The closeness of the vela and the softness of her touch relax him, but he starts as the nurse pulls the bandages on his chest down. He opens his eyes, silver orbs glowing uncannily with their own light.
Fleur gasps. She looks from his eyes to his chest, marked by raised ridges of partially healed flesh, each a silvery-white hue, the ridges forming a matrix of complex runes glowing faintly in the dim light of the infirmary. After some fussing, the nurse pats Harry on the head and leaves.
Fleur looks quizzically at Harry. "Zis, it is from last night?"
He nods. "They'll fade in a few days. Same with the eyes."
"I was in the garden when it happened. Are these?" She reaches to touch one of the runes on his chest, but he draws back from her and pulls the brown, coarsely woven, wool blanket over his exposed chest.
"They are something I'm not going to talk about. But you've seen them before?"
"Oui."
"On your father." It isn't a question.
A long delay. She nods, slowly, swallowing heavily, a questioning look on her face.
Harry's voice hardens. "Please tell your father that I know of him and his associates. Tell him that I have made it my life's mission to destroy the one who has betrayed us." Fleur looks at Harry with surprise as Harry closes his eyes and turns away from her. He dozes off after several quiet minutes.
Fleur leans in to kiss him gently on the cheek. "I will tell him, Harry."
Outside the curtain, an unseen man smiles.
Charlie,
Mate, thanks again for the armor. It saved my life today--I was in Hogsmeade when I felt something on my back and shoulder. When I got home, I found three poisoned darts embedded in my clothing. They didn't get any further because the armor stopped them. Good thing they weren't aiming for my head!
You were right about what you said in your last letter. I talked with the person in question and got some answers, finally! I can't go into detail now, but thanks.
I have a question though. Can the armor get wet without ruining it? The reason I ask is....
Robért nods at petite, buxom serveuse, who removes the plates from the luncheon, poulet sauté vallée d'auge with watercress and caramelized apples, and replaces them with two small plates, each with a few slivers of creamy fromage and raspberry preserves, for him and his mentor. The brunette smiles demurely, catching the younger man's eye and fluttering heavy, dark lashes. She tops the wine in their glasses, a crisp white vintage kissed with apple and oak. As she departs, her hips, accentuated by her dark skirt, sway slightly more than necessary for balance. Robért's eyes follow.
His companion, an older man with dark hair and eyes and smooth robes of midnight blue, sips his wine and regards his charge with amusement. “I understand, Robért, why you come here, and it certainly isn't for the pedestrian quality of the Normandy cuisine, but I do wish you wouldn't force me to suffer so....”
He surreptitiously raises a privacy ward around their table, his wand hidden beneath the pale yellow tablecloth, and meets his apprentice's eyes. “Let us get on to business, shall we? Legilimens.”
Over the course of the next several minutes, Gerard Delacour scours his protegé's memories to see what he has learned from his daughter. He is dismayed to note that Fleur's information has been increasingly less complete of late, her professionalism lapsing dangerously. This last meeting is more distressing in what she had left out about le Survivant than in what she had reported.
He breaks the spell and Robért blinks, disoriented, and takes a large swallow of wine. “Interesting. So le Voleur had the boy join the rune on the eve of Yule. This is curious timing, given the proximity of the third task. My other spies confirm this as well, though I could not see his runework in detail. Could you, Robért?”
“No, Faucon. Your daughter merely glimpsed a portion of them, and even then, not clearly enough to discriminate among the possibilities.” He clears his throat, obviously upset, and says bitterly, “Rather, her attention was on the boy and not her responsibilities.”
“A most amusing development with their companionship, would you not agree, Robért? One that plays to our plans beautifully. You shall not oppose it.” The older man has a sardonic, almost predatory smile.
“Sir?” His voice is measured, toneless, though his cheeks flush.
“Why deny such a simple means of dispatch, mon apprenti? Le Voleur is a fool to permit his charge, a boy of some power yet little training, access to a known spy. This offers us many possibilities. Indeed, I would have encouraged it myself had I felt Fleur were amenable.”
Jealous anger flashes in the younger man's eyes before he calms. “Sir, if I may, what of the boy's last statement, about their Dark Lord?”
He sighs, leaning back into the soft, high-backed chair. “Yes, Chevalier and I too have heard of his impending return. I admit, there is possible merit in allowing les Voleurs to destroy one another. I shall communicate the boy's words to Chevalier, although it changes nothing. Continue as planned unless you hear otherwise from me.”
Harry pokes at the mass of shredded cabbage on his plate, repulsed by its strong odor.
“Beer and brats, Harry--manna from Heaven!” Sirius shouts and takes a large bite from his sandwich, his excitement contrasting starkly with the dreary dankness of the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place. Though it has been cleaned, it still retains a cold, oppressive quality that scrubbing fails to abate.
“Um, don't take this the wrong way, Sirius, but do people actually eat this stuff--real people, I mean, not dog people?” He pushes the plate away from him, the pale, boiled sausages holding no appeal.
“Sure, but not like that, obviously. You need mustard and a bun.” The older man deposits a toasted bun on the plate and slides a small jar of mustard toward Harry across the rough surface of the dingy, wooden table.
“Obviously,” Harry says noncommittally.
Remus smirks. “Don't look at me, Harry--you were the one who chose to come on Padfoot's night to cook. They're not that bad, really. Go on and try.” Harry nods and prepares his sandwich with as little sauerkraut as possible. He takes a small bite and chews slowly.
Sirius howls. “Just introducing you to the finer things in life, Harry. It's my job as godfather.”
“What, like with the brothel?” Harry asks, annoyed.
“Brothel?” Remus says, his expression a mix between horrified and terribly amused. “Do I even want to know?”
“Please. It was a gentlemen's club.” Sirius dons a look of mock hurt. “Don't worry yourself, Moony. Harry didn't want to go in the end, so we skipped the practical. I gave pointers with the pensieve instead.”
Remus looks at Harry, who blushes deeply, and opts to change the subject. “Harry, we're worried about you. You still can't cast anything, right?” Sirius's expression becomes solemn. He places his elbows on the table and steeples his fingertips.
Harry shakes his head.
“Are you sure you can't get out of this like you did the last one?” Remus asks.
“No, Bagman said I was stuck competing. He was put out to hear of my condition though--something's up with him.”
“No magic at all, Harry?” the werewolf asks.
“No spells, but I can do other magic--I can still fly a broom and use magical devices, though I'm getting closer to being able to cast. I can feel my magic there--if anything, there seems to be more of it, or more that I can sense anyway. I just can't pull it up into a spell yet.”
Sirius grumbles, “Are you sure the rune thing worked right? This would be just like Albus not tell you about the risks until after...”
“I'm pretty sure, Sirius. I know that my other ones are working better, which is a good sign. It'll just take time. Merlin needed about three months to recover....”
The two Marauders look upset. Sirius interrupts, “...by which time you may have to deal with yet another task. Couldn't you have waited until summer?” He stands, angry. “That's it--I'm going to go yell at Albus.”
“Look, it was my idea to join the rune then, so blame me, not him. And I'm not completely hopeless either. I've been preparing for this task assuming that I won't be able to do very much magic. But neither will the other champions, since it's underwater. I've watched Cedric and Fleur train and their silent spellcasting isn't much better than mine.”
“Unless they do a bubblehead charm,” Sirius mutters.
Harry continues, as if he hasn't heard his Godfather, “I bought a case of gillyweed, enough for several days or more, so I can breathe underwater and swim fast. I asked the twins to help on a special project and they've come through like they always do. Hermione even looked up a long-duration warming spell, but when I tried out the gillyweed, I found out I didn't need it.” Sirius shakes his head, unconvinced.
“That's great, Harry, but what happens when you run into, I don't know, grindylows,” Remus asks. “You do remember them from my course, don't you?”
“Horns, pointed fangs, green skin. Nasty buggers with long fingers. Like to strangle divers and pull them under.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, Professor, I remember.”
Remus gives him an annoyed look and answers primly, “Then you remember that they can be quite dangerous if you don't have a proper defense. Since you can't cast, you'll be at their mercy...”
“About that. Since I can't cast spells with my magic, I've been practicing doing other things with it.” He grins evilly. “I thought I'd try this instead.” He concentrates and draws his magic into a potent aura, imbuing it with as much predatory malice as he can. The two men jump back immediately. Harry reins in the aura and smiles innocently.
“Bloody hell!” the two men chorus.
“I've been able to do that for awhile, since Albus taught me this summer, but I can make a much stronger one now. The twins call it my 'don't fuck with me' field. It's tiring, so I can't keep it up all the time, but I've tested it and I know that it scares the piss out of the grindylows.” He scratches his chin dramatically and adds, “Does quite a number on Ron too, come to think of it...”
He takes a bite of his sandwich and grimaces at the taste. “Besides, if I run into something I can't intimidate, I can always fall back on plan B.”
“Plan B?” Sirius asks the obvious question.
“Blow shit up.”