Chapter 302 - 3

The second half of the year goes by in a blur of magic.

I design and complete my first ritual, with the goal of increasing my bodies swiftness and reflexes, whilst also encouraging it to continue to improve itself more quickly.

It is a success, my swiftness will continue to grow as I age but as with all ritualistic magic, for gain there must be sacrifice.

In this case, the murder of 3 hares, every 7 days for 21 days and an extraordinary amount of pain during the ritual.

On the night of the 21st, in the Room of Requirement, I drew a seven pointed star with my wand, the rune, Ehwaz, carved in the centre of the star. There are other runes placed throughout the star but non as important as that rune, to signify steady growth, reliable progress and smooth movement.

I pour out all of the blood collected through the process and kneel in the centre above the rune.

With a burst of intent, I set fire to the blood and I am ravished with pain.

When I wake, it has been three hours, but the fact I was still breathing ensured me that it was a success.

Still for the next two weeks, there is a constant ache throughout my body, not debilitating exactly but noticeable. Dumbledore takes one look at me in our next meeting and knows.

"Which ritual did you perform my boy?" He had asked me then, eyes in their eternal twinkle.

I handed him my notes in response. He went through, nodding and humming here and there, he made a few adjustments that he said would have reduced the pain for roughly the same benefits, but overall…

"A job well done Harry."

Whilst the rest of the school is stressed due to the workload and incoming end of year exams, my focus lies on the summer.

I'd rather not have to use the Knightbus or Portkeys, unregistered or otherwise, so I am left with one option.

I must learn to apparate.

One cannot apparate into the castle, nor can they disapparate away from it. I am not in the mood to test the validity of that statement, so at night, wrapped in the cloak of death, I leave the castle.

I walk until the wards are no longer bearing down upon me and then I centre myself.

I remember the feelings that surrounded me during the side-along with Professor McGonagall. I remember the words from the library books. I focus my mind on the destination, the image I had stolen from a third year's mind. There is no doubt in me. I can do anything.

I twist, being squeezed on all sides, and then I am there. Hogsmeade. Less chance of splinching if there's less distance. I arrive with all my limbs, but still, I conjure a mirror to make sure all of me is here… I am missing half an eyebrow.

I fix it easily and spend the rest of the night practicing. Increasing the distance with every jump. As the sun begins to rise, I decide on one last destination. Go big or go home they say…

I picture the street, the shabby establishment, the sign infront. I will it and I am there, standing before the leaky cauldron and the entrance to Diagon Alley.

I return back to the castle, pleased with my success and my continued existence.

Death via splinching would be an embarrassing way to go.

"Harry?" She murmurs, her head on my shoulder and both of her arms wrapped around my right. She's been quite clingy lately.

"Hmm." My eyes are on the diagram on the page before me.

"Why are you reading about plumbing?" Her tone sleepy. So that when I'm travelling, I don't have to use bushes if there's no civilisation nearby.

"Seems like it might be useful." I look to Hermione, she's half asleep already. We had practiced and studied for a few hours already. With Hermione practicing spells for the exams and me correcting and helping her if she needed it, which was rarely ever.

My eyes are drawn to the gold bracelet I gave her for Christmas.

I could have gotten her books but I could get her those whenever. Plus, the bracelet gave me a chance to try out enchanting.

Enchanting and Cursing were, in all reality, one and the same.

Cursing was the easier of the two because for most people, it was easier to drag up and renumerate upon negative emotions. It was why falling to the Dark Arts was so easy. It was easy to get stuck in a negative head space.

The aim of both was to imprint a set of properties unto an item and ensure that it retained those properties. Unlike regular charms, which fade after the spell is no longer being maintained.

The process was slow and delicate but once done correctly, payed off massively. With the help of some runes carved into the underside, I was able to pour into the gift my intent for warmth and light and comfort. When worn, one only had to think it, pouring magic into it and the bracelet produced a tiny ball of light that generated a feeling of warmth and peace.

When she came back from the break, after almost breaking my back with a hug, she said it felt like me. Like I was there with her. Almost like before.

She had asked me a few times if I could go into her mind again, so she could feel me there again, to "feel full again". I didn't know what to make of that.

I had said no and decided to make the bracelet for her, in the hopes… but I don't know if it'll be enough. You could always Obliviate her…

I slap the thought away. She was already tying me with her good feelings and emotions, If I Obliviated her, I could do more harm than good.

I look back at her, sleeping peacefully now. She had been studying more recently, and not just the first year content needed for our exams. Something about not wanting to be left behind. I turn back to the book, pushing the worries from my mind.

There's no need for them anyway. Even if she grows dependent on me, it doesn't matter. I have no plans of just vanishing.

Everything will be fine.

I sat my last practical, Defence Against the Dark arts, like all the others, already knowing the outcome.

Outstanding.

Of course, the results weren't given out, they wouldn't be until August, but I knew there would be no suprises.

I join up with my classmates and they are speaking to me and each other about something or another. We head to the great hall for dinner. We eat and the Headmaster is not present. He's a busy man, it makes sense. But my mind is not on that.

At the start of the year, the Headmaster had said that the third floor corridor was forbidden unless one wanted a painful death. The school year was almost over. Surely I couldn't leave without checking it out right? I had to see it!

But I know what is there already…

I find myself leaving the hall, my friends calling out to me, I pay them no mind.

I know already that the Philosophers stone is there. I want to see the third floor with my own eyes right? And if the stone is there, surely I want to see that too, right?

But I know the stone is fake…

From what Dumbledore said, "Nicolas? Oh he's a great wizard and a good friend. He makes me seem young still… he's been around for six hundred years and he still loves life… He'll probably still be around by the time I'm gone." , I know he would never give up the real stone. The one in the castle is a fake. Why would I want to see that?

Surely—

No.

And the compulsion breaks. The haze clears and I find myself facing a door, behind me is purple fire. Ah, the traps for the stone. Someone brought me here. Quirell? When did he—

Ah, the last exam. I let my guard down? When I turned to leave? Or was he just faster? …Stupid, so stupid.

He hit me with some spell. A compulsion or something else. I could just leave… I could just go back up to the castle… but he's expecting me, who knows what he'll do if I don't show and Professor Dumbledore's not here… I have to stay…

I turn back to the door in front, I take a breath and centre myself. Even as I contemplate turning back, I know I will not. I have been bored in that castle. There has been no challenge to overcome, no monster to slay. I am the chosen one aren't I?… This is what I'm here for.

I step through the door, with no fear or doubt. I cannot lose, faith wills it so.

Quirell is there, infront of the mirror, facing away from me. He turns with a slight smile.

"Right on time Harry." He says, no stutter whatsoever. I won't have to hear it ever again after tonight. "Let me remove the charm so you help me out eh?" He says raising his wand.

"No need Professor." I interrupt and he raises an eyebrow.

"You broke it? Quite impre—"

"Let me see if I've got this right professor." I begin. "You need me to help you get the stone from the mirror, because it can sense your intentions. So you confounded me and used a compulsion to bring me down here when I was doing the practical." He's looking at me but barely paying attention, as if he's listening to someone else. I know who.

"He's speaking to you right now. Isn't he?"

"What are you rambling on about Potter? Who is—"

"You know who." There is a cackling of laughter, I wince and Quirell flinches.

"Well done Potter. You figured it out." A sibilant voice speaks from behind the professor's head. "Turn around you fool!"

Voldemort snaps and Quirell hurries to do so. All this while I've been making my way closer, little by little. Just a touch and he's done for.

The turban comes down and he's monsterous. The face is deformed, ugly and a little snake-like. He's worse than I imagined…

"Admiring your handy work Potter?" He hisses, I make sure to avoid his eyes.

"Admiring, is not the word I would use."

"You see what I've become? …The lengths I must go to… to survive. I am like a—"

"Parasite." I say ahead of him.

"Then you know… what I need—get me the stone and you need not die tonight." He thinks me a fool.

I decide to play along.

I walk past him and face the mirror. Its content is different this time. Me, as I am today, in my school robes. The only difference is the red stone in my reflection's possession. He places it our pocket and gives me a grin. I pull it out and face my enemy.

"Yeesss. Give it to meee!" He hisses, the voice gaining strength. I throw it up and fire a silent Reducto at it.

Voldemorts face transforms into one of shock and horror. He begins to scream, Quirell begins to turn and I'm on them. The screaming doubles.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Like I'm being burned from the inside, my faint scar is on fire. My whole body is on fire. Quirell seems to be aswell, but he's not dying. The pain is coming down. The protection is not enough. Why… what's different?… Me. I took Harry's soul but I am not fully him. The body is his, so I share in some of the protection but the sacrifice wasn't meant for me. It's weaker because I both am and am not Harry Potter. I—

I am thrown off of Quirell, landing hard on the concrete, the air escapes my lungs in a gasp. The screaming has stopped. I take a moment to gather myself, rising slowly to my feet. I stagger but do not fall. I look across and Quirell is rising also, the back of his head smoking.

I look for my wand and find it on the ground a few paces to my right. I will it to me. It comes. There's warmth in our reunion.

"It seems, the Mudblood's protection has fallen." Quirell's voice rings out, but there's something off about it. It's not his. There's a subtle serpentine quality to it. Voldemort.

"Where did Quirell go?" I ask, genuinely curious and trying buy myself some more time to recover.

"It seems our friend Quirinus could not handle the pain." He smiles at me as he says it, making a mockery of Quirell's features. "The body is mine." He looks down to the remenants of the stone then, rage swallowing his eyes.

"A fake!" He bellows.

"Did you really believe Flamel would let his life's work be used as bait?" I'm stalling but I know it is pointless. Dumbledore will not come.

"In my position, could you afford not to chance it Harry?" He grimaces and feels Quirell's wand. It doesn't sing or whisper. It is subservient. I know our conversation is almost at an end.

"I would never be in your position." He looks to me then, expression calm.

"Hmm, perhaps. Well, this has been a good talk Harry, but I'm afraid this is the end for the Boy Who Lived. You live no longer." I know what is coming. Those two words. I hear the whistling of the wind and then—

"Avada Kedavra!" The words are snarled out.

There is hatred. So much hatred in his voice and those words. There is a flash of green and then—

Protego Au Papilionis.

The words resound in my mind. And I am consumed by a swarm of golden butterflies. One of the countless butterflies disappears in a puff of gold smoke. Others fill the space it leaves behind.

Voldemort will be shocked, so I do not hesitate. I transform some of the butterflies into stainless steal spikes and send them hurling at him. I slow some of the remaining butterflies' rotations, keeping them around me to the side incase the need arrises and begin to fire spells down at the Dark Lord.

He is not idle, he dodges all the spikes, letting them imbed themselves into the wall behind him. He deflects the incoming spells, dodges and returns fire. His pace is not what I expect. It is slower. He's not used to controlling Quirell's body…

I don't let myself be bogged down by errent thoughts. I feel the intent of the spells hurtling towards me, pain, entrail …expelling? Blood boiling? Freezing? Both after the other.

I don't have the time to accurately assess. I assume he wants me to use the butterflies, and once they are gone, I will find another killing curse at my face. It would be the obvious thing to do. It would be the safest option too, so I don't do it. I dodge. Barely.

He cracks a smile, knowing I have seen through him but he is not upset by that. He is pleased.

He twirls the enslaved wand above his head, the spikes pull themselves from the walls behind him as I dodge the last of his initial onslaught. He transfigures them into a silvery shiny liquid and then conjures more of it from the air to join them.

I hurl more spells, Bonebreaker, Bombarda, Reducto, Confringo. At the same time I attempt to transfigure the floor he's standing on into mud but he deflects my spells back at me and I'm forced to abort.

The liquid surrounds him, shining, he laughs and all of it barrels towards me. Acid. …the butterflies will have no affect—I have to—

I split my focus and summon a normal Protego in front of myself to catch the acid whilst forcing the butterflies to begin to swirl around again.

A good choice, as I hear the hateful words and see, once again, a flash of green which is taken by one of the swarm.

A spell cuts through the butterflies and hits my shield with a Gong. I grimace, straining and am pushed back.

To my surprise, no other spells follow.

"My word Harry." He's smiling, no hint of effort having been spent, whilst I feel sweat on my brow and the brewing of a headache."The rumours do not do you justice. I am impressed."

I look around, there are scorch marks littered all over from deflected spells. He's miniaturised a shield and held it on the tip of the wand, so that when a spell comes in he can quickly deflect them. It should take less energy than a shield but it's more risky. …I could probably learn how to do tha—

I'm low on butterflies, and he knows the weakness in the shield now. I'll have to recast the butterflies, and I'll make sure to cast a Protego at the same time. Still, I need something…

I look to the scorch marks and remember his deflection.

Something clicks and I am struck with Inspiration.

"I aim to please, My Lord." The mocking wipes the smile from his face. "You're slower than expected… new body giving you trouble?"

"Oh, just settling in Harry. Growing pains, if you will." His smirk is cruel and wide, he's all teeth as he says,

"You're looking tired Harry. Tired and scared. We're about to speed things up—" That is what I'm afraid of "—I hope you can keep pace." Before the words finish leaving his lips, the spells begin to rain down. I summon both shields at the same time.

The difference from before is night and day.

Previously I'd say we were about the same speed, if maybe I was a little ahead. He was toying with me before, that much is clear. He had to get used to the body, which is sickly, having been hosting him for a year and he was curious about what I could do. It seems the curiosity is sated.

For every spell I throw, I receive three in return. Some of my own spells are even deflected back at me, there is no end to it and his pace keeps rising and his magic keeps rolling.

Heavy. Hot. Angry.

That is what his magic is, just anger and hatred.

This is what that loveless birth led to…

I continue to bear the wave, sweat dripping down my head and then I conjure 10 snakes and sic them on him.

His face is incredulous and he bursts out laughing.

"Really Harry? Did you learn nothing at this school? Snakes against a Parslemouth!?" I am not so stupid.

As he hisses them into submission, I begin.

I cast Protego Au Papilionis twice in quick succession and then I focus on heat and warmth, power and pain, life and light, hatred, passion, aggression, love… everything.

I transfigure the butterflies and I conjure fire.

I pour all the emotions of life into it, the red hot flames Roar out from my wand and join the fire that the butterflies have become. The fire rushes forth, bearing down on Quirell's surprised face. He intercepts the flames with a shield. Resisting. I pour more of myself into the flames, my every passion and dream, all I have wanted to see in life, my will to live, my very soul, Everything.

The words leave my lips of their own volition.

"Ignis Vitae."

The flames are pushing Voldemort back, yet it is not enough, so I add more strength still.

Fire is the element of power, of passion. It requires desire and will to keep it going. It takes energy and drive to maintain it. It is destruction and rebirth. Fire is life.

I am willing to give it mine.

I hear the cawing of a Phoenix, the roaring of Dragons. I see the vastness of the sun and the carelessness of a bomb. I smell burning. I feel ash on my body. I taste victory.

The flames continue to hammer Tom's shield until there is a small pop, it cracks—

—and SHATTERS.

Lord Voldemort does as his name says and flees from death.

I hear two cracks and the flames flood where he used to be, destroying the wall behind as well in their rage.

One crack was from the shattering of the shield. The second was from Tom Riddle accomplishing the impossible. I hear a third from behind me. I am in shock. The spell wavers and ends as I stop feeding it.

You cannot apparate inside Hogwarts.

Yet as I turn, my eyes do not deceive me. It is a known fact that Voldemort could shatter wards with his apparition. Dumbledore could do it too.

However, it is also a known fact, that no one can apparate into, or disapparate out of Hogwarts, because the wards are simply too strong.

As I look at him, l cannot help but laugh. He is laughing too. Both of us are laughing at the absurdity of it all.

I am about to die.

The previous statements remain true. He shattered the wards in this room only, as he apparated and reappeared in the same room before the wards could reconnect and bounce him out. He did not get out scotfree though…

His left arm is simply gone. His torso and part of his face are badly burned. So much so that the skin has melted and you can see fried muscle underneath. He's painting in exertion.

Still he laughs, though he should be dead. He is only standing because of unicorn blood. He underestimated me. He should be dead. We both know it. He is not. And as we laugh together as if we are old friends, as if this is the funniest thing in the world, we both know that—

I am about to die.

"Harry… never did I expect…" His voice is hoarse and weak. There is a sadness to him that almost makes me laugh again.

I am deathly cold. Ignis Vitae took all the heat from my body and bones. I feel drained, dead on my feet. I am panting, I will not last long. The unicorn blood will sustain him for long enough. I have no way to win.

I am about to die.

There is no preamble, no warning or announcement. The spells begin to come. I feel their intent and shield. It strains me, my nose begins to bleed, gushing red blood, I continue to shiver and pant for air.

He does not try the killing curse. He knows that will not work. I will shield against it. I designed that spell to be as less taxing for me as possible. Most people would call the spell suicide, as you cannot see from behind it. Most people are not me. I do not need eyes to see.

The Protego is draining me quick. I need to change something…

I remember what he did, I envision the shield and shortening it, encasing the tip of my wand in it. The spells continue to come.

I am about to die.

I sense the spells, their shape, their power, their intent. I match them, counter them and deflect.

No, I would like my entrails to say. No I don't want my brain to rot. No I like my blood unacidic. Again and again. Over and over. I continue to deflect.

I haven't even read up on half of these spells before, but their intent to maim and to harm me is clear. However, I like being unharmed, so I continue to deflect. Even as I am pushed back little by little, I continue to deflect. Even as I'm a clipped and staggered, I continue to deflect. But I know I am only delaying the inevitable. I know that—

I am about to die.

—with every spell I continue to tire. I continue to slow. Yet somehow, somehow, he is speeding up. I deflect—

And I am blindsided. He transfigured part of the floor into a great big vine. It wiped me, with my shield just barely coming in between us. Still I am sent flying.

I land with no breath in my lungs. We have been fighting for what seems like hours but I know it must only be minutes.

My body is cold. So very cold…

I am shivering, panting, bruised, cut and drenched with sweat as I try to make it to my feet. I fail. I try again and this time I succeed, looking up to my advisary.

I am about to die.

Voldemort is sad. But there is joy and the beginnings of pride on his face. It disgusts me but I appreciate the sentiment.

"You fought with bravery Harry." He begins to spin the wand, there is a spell coming. "Perhaps, if we had met in a few years instead…" He's charging the spell slowly, he and I know there's nothing I can do, he wants to savour this moment because he and I know—

I am about to die.

I do not have my cloak, I didn't take it to the exam, but I can still disillusion myself, I may yet still escape…

I think of Dumbledore and I remember the words from "Rituals, the beginning of magic." , to gain something, one must sacrifice.

Albus believes the power he knows not, is love. I do not agree with the sentiment. Lily Potter could not be the only mother to love her child.

But maybe the answer is to love them enough to give up everything. She could have stood aside but didn't. I can try to flee, I may even succeed, but this monster in human flesh would go on to win. I cannot have that. I will not let him. Even as I die, I will win. Fate wills it so.

I will it so.

I wipe the blood from my nose. …just what I need, fate continues to smile upon me…

I drop my wand, my trusty friend. I have no need for it.

This is old magic.

I begin the ritual with my blood, pouring my intent into it, tracing tiny runes at my side. Tom will think I try to Shield myself. He is wrong. Only my blood will be spilled in this castle.

For what I want to gain, I must give up everything. I will die so he can never harm them. So he will find himself unable to do damage to the people who reside in this castle.

I power the ritual with my death, my body which will disappear to leave nothing of me behind and any memories of me these inhabitants have. They will remember that there was a Harry Potter O.M, if someone reminds them, but they will not remember the face, nor any emotions they may have felt for me, anything they've seen me do, anytime we've spent to together, I take it with me so they may live.

I will Vanish.

Neville will not remember that he had a brother, who wanted to see him grow and do well. He will not remember why and how he got the Cherry wand that he now performs spectacular magic with. He will not remember promising to get stronger so that I didn't have to "waste" my time on him. You need no more strength.

I add it to the spell.

Hermione will not remember why she has the bracelet and the feeling of emptiness, the feeling of loss and ache in her chest and mind, as if something is missing. She will feel tremendous pain, all because of me. It will be my doing. I am leaving her behind.

I add the feelings the realisation brings to spell.

Ron will not remember all the things we have done, our meeting on the train, our friendship, his constant apologies over Scabbers, me helping him get better with magic, so that he is no longer in my or his brother's shadow. One less shadow for you Ron.

I add to the spell.

Dumbledore will not remember our meetings and conversations, my questions and his explanations, our jokes and talks of the future. I have forgotten to live Professor.

I add that to the spell

The twins, and the rest of Gryffindor, the other houses, Susan and her aunt, McGonagall, Flitwick, Snape…

I am about to die, and no one will know.

Throughout all of this, Voldemort has been charging up his spell, lightning sparking off of the wand, it's almost ready. He speaks now.

"I will make sure they remember you—" They won't and I add even that to the spell. "—and what you could have been. Nevertheless, this is the best first duel back I could have asked for. You have made me feel alive." He pauses, looking at his injuries and then smiles at me with pride.

With his blood loss from the missing arm and his burns, he looks worse off than me, though I am bruised and littered with scrapes from half-dodged, half-deflected curses. The unicorn blood keeps his body alive and well, even in such a broken state. He continues on with affection.

"Be proud, Harry." He lets loose the spell, white lightning forks its way towards me. I know it is certain death.

It's approaching warmth is so in contrast to the cold that has seeped into my body and bones. As it nears, I welcome the heat. The cold from Ignis Vitae is washed away, though I still hear it's Phoenix caw. I do not know if I have completed the ritual, if I have given enough…

I have given all I am. It'll have to be.

I feel all encompassing heat and hear Voldemort's final words…

"You were special."

And I go to join the reaper.

Death is strange.

I cannot help but think, though I shouldn't be able to. I feel cold and warmth and cold again, alternating, though I should feel nothing. I hear murmurs and sobbing and begging, though I should hear nothing but deathly silence.

"Harry… wake up please. We need you. … I need you."

"The castle isn't the same without you mate…"

"Everyone is waiting for you Harry…"

"Ickle Harrykins…you can't… you still owe us …and we owe you..."

"Headmaster… it's as if all the heat has left his body… almost as if he were in contact with a Dementor… what spell was he hit with Headmaster?"

"That, I do not know Poppy… a question for young Harry once he wakes… He will wake, yes?"

"It was touch and go for a while…we just need to keep him warm."

"Miss Granger, it's time for—"

"Leave her be Poppy."

"Headmaster, she's been here for three days already! All the others leave and come back in the mornings, she…"

"I do not believe she means any harm… besides had she not… let her be Poppy."

Time seems to move strangely here, it's like I am in a dream. The voices keep changing, their words are hard to discern but they seem familiar…

It takes me a while, far too long, to realise that I am not, in fact, dead.

There is a weight on my chest, it is warm unlike the rest of me.

I open my eyes and am met with the most familiar set of hair. Hermione. I take in my surroundings.

Beds on every side, draped in white linen sheets only visible due to the moon light streaming in. The hospital wing. …How? I remember the lightning… the heat… how am I here? …How am I still alive?

The table to my right was overflowing with sweets, cards, gifts and well wishes. My wand is there also, too far to easily reach, my body feels weak and Hermione is lying on top of me, her body over the white blanket. I'm freezing, not as much as before but… I'm underneath, she must be cold too…

I listen with that sixth sense, calling for it, I will my wand to my right hand. The response is eager and it comes.

'I am here my friend.' It seems to say.

The rush of warmth is almost enough to make me sigh. Still, it is not enough, the chill remains.

I think of nights by the fire, cozy and warm, underneath thick blankets. I release my intent and feel her sigh unconsciously into my chest. I conjure a simple blanket and have it fall over her shoulders. The different sensations arouse her from sleep.

"Wha—" It takes her only a moment to look around, feel the warmth and the blanket draped over her. She looks to me, her eyes beginning to grow wide in shock. As I look at her, I remember what I almost did, the pain I almost caused her.

Looking to her eyes now as they grow wide, I see the feelings of joy, need, worry, relief, so much relief it hurts, and I realise I would have broke her.

I did this… unknowingly but still, I did this. Selfishly because I thought she would be the only one who might be able to keep up. I made her my friend and gave her no say so and now I am depriving her, for fear of the consequences of my actions.

"Y-you're—" I look into her eyes and I fall in. I don't bear my weight down upon her, but I am not subtle. I let her feel me.

'I am here.' I feel it as her mind recognises me, almost instantly trying to grab on to me, to stop me from leaving, as if I could vanish at any second.

'Harry!' There tears in her eyes. 'I thought-we thought… y-you were so c-cold and w-weak.' She is rambling, even in her mind. I wrap my mind around hers so she can feel me in every direction, telling her,

'I am here.'

As she tells me she's sorry, even though she has no reason to be.

'I am here.'

As she begs me to stay with her, to not vanish, to not leave her behind.

'I am here.'

As she pleads with me to let her be useful, to let her and my friends in, to let her help carry my burden as I have apparently done for her and for them.

I do that for the rest of the night, holding her as she sobs into my neck and lulling her back to sleep.

I wake to twinkling eyes and the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore. Not just because his favourite student is alive but also because of the position he has found him in.

Hermione asleep by my side still clinging on to me.

Dumbledore grins. I scowl. He raises up five fingers and exits the infirmary. I wake Hermione, telling her that Dumbledore is outside. She blinks at me like I'm an idiot, so when the professor returns, she is still in the bed, wrapped around my right arm as we sit against the headrest.

"You gave us quite a scare my boy." His eyes in their jovial twinkle, he doesn't seem surprised at Hermione's continued presence, he seems rather pleased in fact.

"If it wasn't for Miss Granger, I fear…" my death to him seems like the worst possible outcome.

"I have been meaning to ask about that actually." Looking from the Professor, to the witch at my side. "I should be dead, and where is Voldemort?"

"Voldemort!? What are—"

"Yes Miss Granger, it seems your Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor was carrying him on the back of his head." He says beaming, disposition still cheery, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. Hermione seems lost for words. He looks to me, winks and continues.

"You have miss Granger to thank for that." Hermione gathers herself.

"You were acting strange. After your practical, something seemed off…"Her voice is soft as she speaks, she tightens her grip on me, as if I might fade away, as she continues.

"Midway through dinner you almost sprinted from the hall. I thought you had went to the room o—" she looks to dumbledore and decides against saying it. "—the room. But you weren't there. And I remember what you said, months ago, in Quirell's lesson. About you acting strange—not yourself." She pauses for moment, the professor conjures a glass and some water for her to drink. He gives me one aswell. She carries on after a sip, giving him a grateful smile.

"So I rushed to the headmaster's office, the gargoyles wouldn't move, I told them it was an emergency, I was about to blast them apart." She gives Dumbledore a sheepish look, he just smiles pleasantly and motions her to continue.

"Erhm. Yeah, but they moved before I could. The office was empty, barring the portraits. I asked them where the Headmaster was, but they said he was away on very important business. That's when I saw your Phoenix, Professor, though he looked a bit ill, no offence Professor,—"

"None taken Miss Granger." He says with a chuckle.

"—I asked him to get you, I said harry was in danger and he disappeared in a ball of fire."

"I'll take it from here my dear." He smiles at Hermione and then looks to me.

"You see Harry, I had left Fawkes behind whilst I was on ministry business because the poor bird doesn't like being seen around his burning day. But he came to me, with the news from Miss Granger. We arrived just in time, you see. Fawkes surrounded you," …the heat I felt, the second Phoenix caw…

"You had left Lord Voldemort in quite a state my boy, missing his left arm up to the shoulder—" that was from his apparation, the wards get most of the credit for that one. "—burns so severe I could see parts of his skull, the bones and the muscles underneath the skin. Yes, you did quite a number on him. I was able put down Quirinus' body but our Dark Lord fled in some kind of dark cloud. After all the work you did Harry, I must apologise for not being able to do my job in capturing him." He sighs and the twinkling of his eyes dim a little. He seems genuinely disappointed to have "failed" me.

The room is silent as I take in all the information. It seems I survived on plain luck.

I remember Ollivander's words about me and my wand. "Snatch victory from the jaws of defeat." My wand wood's reputation for good fortune. I suppose it would have been a win-win for me. I die and Voldemort couldn't harm anyone in this castle, or I live to beat him the next time we meet. I will.

"You wouldn't happen to know what spell hit you to cause such symptoms, would you Harry?" He seems genuinely puzzled, "Your body heat was basically nonexistent, It was almost like you'd been in contact with Dementor. I would have had Fawkes stay with you these last three days to generate heat but all that strain so close to burning day tired him out."…oh. They thought…

"I wasn't hit with a spell like that sir. No, these symptoms are my own fault… I was in a bit of a bind, we were dueling and he was gaining the upper hand. I had to do something. And then it clicked. Like you said Professor, sometimes, inspiration strikes." He's shocked but extraordinarily pleased also, both of their attention is on me. The worry they've been feeling is palpable in the air.

"Ignis Vitae. It's what I used to burn him, but fire needs fuel so…"

"Fire of life… So it was using your body heat, your energy and just beginning to leach from your soul… An incredibly powerful but volatile and incredibly dangerous spell Harry. If we hadn't gotten to you in time… I would not recommend using that spell lightly my boy." I feel Hermione squeezing even tighter. My soul!? "Fire is life. I am willing to give it mine." …what the fuck was I thinking…

Wait.

"When I had hit him with it Professor, for a moment, just before he Apparated—"

"He what?" Dumbledore's tone was one of complete bafflement.

"You can't apparate inside Hogwarts Harry." Hermione whispered in my ear, she probably thought I was confused or misremembering.

"I know. I know how it sounds but… Somehow he focused on shattering only the wards in that room to apparate behind me. It cost him an arm though, the wards are too strong to try that and leave unharmed. He would have died if not for the unicorn blood." They're both stunned. I continue on.

"Anyway, when it hit him… it felt like the drain from me left and it was taking from him. Maybe the spell takes fuel from whatever thing with life it's in contact with, but if there's no such thing—"

"It takes from the caster." The three of us finish together.

"You'll have to show me the memory of that night my boy."

Madam Pomfrey enters at that moment, she looks at us, sees me up and instantly she's running tests, asking questions, feeding me foul concoctions. Are you trying to kill me woman?…

I cough and Hermione is patting my back, helping me through.

She's shooing the Headmaster away, she needs space to work, she says. He's a nuisance, she says. She's doesn't even seem to acknowledge Hermione, even though she's arguably the one in the way.

The Headmaster leaves with these parting words.

"We'll have to make sometime for dueling in our meetings Harry. We can't have you in the infirmary after everyone now, can we?"

He looks to us, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, and Miss Granger, you're welcome to attend."

We enter the hall and heads turn.

A hush falls, complete silence for a beat and then…

Applause.

Building steadily, spreading from one side to the next.

We don't pause, remaining on our path to Gryffindor table. The applause, the silence, the staring… we know they are not for us. They are for who we walk with. They are for him.

Harry Potter.

Some small part of me was jealous at first. Of the attention he received, of his effortless brilliance with magic, of his confidence, of …everything really.

Not Anymore.

When I was younger, my gran would tell me stories about my father, the kind of man he was, how strong, how confident, how skilled… all the things he was before that dreadful night. She wanted me to be like—she wanted me to be him.

I wanted that too… But I am not my father.

They thought I was a squib at first. That I was useless. "A waste of Longbottom blood." that is until Uncle Algie dropped me from the window and I bounced.

I received no apology from either of them, I wasn't surprised. There was no apology for when I almost drowned in Blackpool either, so I hadn't been expecting one. Just a "Good" from Gran and a "So you aren't totally useless" from Uncle. They were just happy I wouldn't bring shame to the family. Funny that.

Still, even after all that, I didn't meet the expectations. I liked to spend time in the greenhouses, I didn't much care for Qudditch, I was shy, I was clumsy…

I was nothing like Frank and Alice Longbottom.

They were brave Aurors, I was just Neville…

So when Gran gave me da's wand after a visit to St Mungos, where they still couldn't recognise me, and told me to use it, like Da would've wanted…

I couldn't possibly say no. I couldn't let everyone down again.

When I met Harry on the train, I realised just how much I was failing. He was in the same position as me damn near. Worse, maybe. At least my parents were still breathing, I could visit them.

The expectations on him were higher, what with being the Boy Who Lived and all. That didn't seem to bother him though, he was everything I wasn't and exactly like the books they had written about him.

I tried to get the hat to put me in Hufflepuff but it wasn't having it. Gryffindor was the place for me, it said. …I didn't believe that for a second.

To my surprise, I'd made friends. Sure there was some mean jokes and comments at first… but it was just teasing.

Plus Harry made it better. Included me in things when he was around, asked for my opinion, always let me talk and listened as I went on about the difference between a Flitterbloom and Devil's Snare and other fascinating plants, even though for some reason, like everyone else, I knew he didn't care much about Herbology.

He partnered with me a few times in potions when no one else wanted to "and because It gets on Snape's nerves." He said, grin bright. He spoke to me and tried to help me get better at magic without any judgement and then…

"You are not your father… give this to your grandmother and she'll get you a new wand."

I don't know what was in that letter but it did the trick. We went to Ollivander's the next day, some part of me thought we wouldn't find one, that I'd gotten my hopes up for nothing, that'd I'd be letting everyone down again. And this time not just Gran, but Harry too. I'd never be able to live with myself.

My fears were unfounded though.

"Cherry and unicorn hair, 13 inches, how very curious… Cherry, a wand of truly lethal power my boy, paired with unicorn hair which is known for its consistency… you'll do great things I think, yes…"

I didn't really understand what the mad wand maker was talking about, but I had a wand. My very own wand, and I had Harry, my brother, to thank for it.

I decided I wouldn't waste the opportunity, I pushed myself, day and night, to catch up to the others, more than that, so I could be of use, so I could help Harry if he ever needed or wanted my help.

I failed at that too…

Harry needed help and I wasn't there.

When I saw him there, in the infirmary, looking so pale, shivering… all I could see was my parents. Other people—stronger people, fighting so I, weak, pathetic, helpless Neville wouldn't have to.

I hated it.

"Nev… mate, are you alright? You've been spacing out for a while. You haven't even touched any of your food!" That was Ron. Tapping me as he said it. He was trying to bring the mood up, but looking at him…

I saw the same feelings in his eyes, the same uselessness, the same anger, the same self hatred, as our friend almost died, because he didn't think we'd be any use.

Because we were weak.

"Neville." Harry. His voice was calm, you wouldn't even be able to tell that he was still feeling the after effects of that night. I look up to him, his eyes have got that subtle green glow to them. "I told you—all of you," he looks around our section of the table, but his eyes are on Hermione, beside him as always, Ron and me, across from him.

"I am fine. Stop worrying, and stop beating yourselves up over it. It's done. You weren't there—yes, but I wouldn't have wanted you to be anyw—"

"Harry—" "Mate—" "We could've—"

"Enough."

We shut up. He goes back to eating and that's that.

Even as the feast continues and comes to a close, I cannot let it go. Even as Headmaster Dumbledore announces that Slytherin have won the Quidditch cup and we, the House cup, the thoughts still remain. Even as we board the Hogwart's Express, the next morning, the pit in my stomach still doesn't abate.

I'm still drowning in thoughts as we exit and I watch after Harry.

He moves around, greeting the Weasleys first. The entire family is apologetic about Pettigrew, but Harry laughs it off, telling the parents what good friends Ron and the twins have been to him, how good of a prefect Percy is. He leaves them after some private words with Ron.

Hermione leads him to her Mum and Dad, the latter of which he shares a laugh and a firm handshake, with Hermione smacking the both of them. He hugs Hermione goodbye after parting words I cannot discipher.

Then he's ambushed by Madam Bones and Susan, who he greets with a smile. Even the Malfoys and other families, as our fellow first years try to introduce their "friend" Harry Potter to their parents.

He turns back to me, smiling, no hint of discontent on his face but I know he tires of these meetings, now with people he hasn't spent time with and he does not care for. I join him, leading him to Gran, who I spotted whilst he was busy.

"Madam, it's lovely to speak with you, in the flesh this time."

There's a hint of a smile in his voice and I see something I never thought I'd have the privilege to see. Augusta Longbottom, my always sour grandmother, cracking a smile. It is small, but for this hard faced woman, she might as well be beaming. I have seen it all.

"Harry Potter O.M, my Neville writes often about you…" He looks back to me, grinning. I can physically see the smug "oh really?" In his eyes. I pull my wand to dare him to ask, he just laughs, messing with my hair, I swat his hand away. He forgets I'm older…

"All good things I hope. Neville's the best friend—the best brother I could ask for." Grandmother looks at me, her face softening and there's an emotion I cannot understand in her eyes.

We spend a few minutes more talking before Harry decides it's time for him to leave. He turns to me, pulling me in close to whisper, one hand on the back of my head.

"Nev. I know this is still eating at you—you feel like you've let me down, you haven't. You could never. It's good that you want to get stronger, to get better at magic, it's great. Truly. …But do it for yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone else." He releases me, I feel myself nod and respond in agreement. But truthfully I disagree. He looks to me with those eyes that seem to see everything, gives me small smile and walks away waving.

Harry Potter was the first person to place no expectations on me.

The first to listen to me without judging. He brought me close even when I was useless with a wand, when I was a squib in all but name. He spent his precious time on me. He told me I could do great things, that in this world I could be anything I wanted.

I know now what I'll be. I know now what I'll do.

I'll gain strength, knowledge and power. I won't ever be weak again. I'll make my parents prouder than they already are.

I'll be useful, if, and when Harry ever needs me. As a shield, a sword or just a friend. Whatever it is, I'll be by his side.

After all, that's what brothers are for.

I could say that today was long and tiresome, but that would suggest that today was in anyway unique compared to the last few years of my life.

Work, sleep, work. Work, work, work and then sleep. Over and over and over again.

I step through the doors of the apartment, walking past the kitchen and dining table. I think I'll watch Les nuls tonight.

I'm almost to the bathroom when I stop. Something is off.

I turn around. Searching, finding nothing and then…

There.

At the dining table, a young man, I cannot tell his age. Dark hair, clear skin, eyes the brightest shade of green I've ever seen. How did I not see him…

He begins to speak, most of his words mean nothing to me. There are some words I recognise but my English is not good. Worse than that, even. But it is a stupid language and I have no interest in learning.

He doesn't seem surprised or upset that I don't understand him. And he shouldn't be. I am though. He is in my home after all, completely unwanted and unwelcome.

I am about to order him out but something about his eyes… if I didn't know any better, I'd believe they're glowing. I need to sleep, I'm imagining things.

"How is my accent Mattéo?" The French that comes out of him is smooth, practised, as if he's lived a full life in Paris. If he could speak like that, then why… W-wait—

"How do you know my—" Enough of this! "Get out of my home!" I snarl, he just smiles.

The audacity.

It doesn't seem like he's got a weapon on him. A good right hook, then I'll call the police and I can carry on with my night. I step to him, only then noticing the red stick in his hand. Was he always holding that?

"Ah, don't worry Mattéo, I'll be out of your hair shortly." Before I can get even closer, my body seizes up. I cannot move whatsoever. My body doesn't want to respond to me, my eyes, my mouth, my legs and arms… all useless. I strain and strain and still—nothing. Panic grips me. W-what is happening?

"I hope you know this was not personal Mattéo. I simply needed someone who could speak French, and speak it well." He's closed the distance between us, speaking in a kind, welcoming tone, as if we are friends, as if we had just shared a drink at Café de Flore.

Somehow, I know this paralysis must be his doing. He doesn't seem surprised by my predicament. ...How has he done this? I would ask why, but I already know the answer.

He's going to kill me.

His words make no sense, he can speak French perfectly after all. I haven't done anything for him. He's toying with me. He's going to kill me and I still can't move!

"Relax Mattéo—" Relax!? "—This will all be over soon." He raises the stick up and gives me a slight smile that he must think is comforting. It's not. Not at all.

"I am quite a capable wizard, so you won't remember a thing of this meeting." What the hell are talking about you psycho? I continue to strain and struggle, trying to resist, to move, to overcome whatever this freak has done to me. But I can't, all my resistance is useless.

"Thank you for everything my friend."

His emerald eyes pull me in, I have never seen anything quite like it, it's almost enough for me to forget that I am being held captive in my own home by some strange man, with some strange power and that he is about to kill me.

"Obliviate."

A strange word in perfect French and I know no more.

Paris truly is beautiful.

I had been here before. Once, in my world, decades from now. The difference in time was clear, as it was everywhere in this world, but the character, the soul, the people, remained the same.

I had been in Paris for three days, the Non magique side of it anyway, enjoying the freedom, the ability to stretch my legs for the first time in nearly a decade.

Twisting, I apparate down from the roof, landing in the alley with a soft crack. My destination for today, Place Cacheé, France's version of Diagon Alley.

As my steps echo across the cobblestone, the sun begins to set, highlighting the skies a blazing orange.

I turn the street and find the entrance, just as it was described in the British Ministry's brochure. I step through the bronze statue and the world is lit with life and magic.

Where in Diagon Alley the buildings are slanted and leaning, here, they are straight but no less magical in appearance.

The square is surrounded by shops and apartments on every side. Signs and posters charmed to draw the eyes and pull you in. The windows are filled with all different types of products, wands, brooms, cauldrons, carriages. I see teacups dancing in front of the store, Café L'Air De La Siréne, welcoming customers in to my right.

There is brilliant magic all over, and if I thought Paris beautiful before, I think it captivating now.

The people are going about their evening, paying me no mind. I am nothing special to them, the aging potion and glamour charms have done their work.

I walk for a while, taking in the sights, losing myself in magical Paris and all it has to offer. My reverie ends as I feel a trickle of rain.

Clouds darken above, my eyes land on Le Gobelet Noir, the sign shows what looks to be alcohol being poured into a goblet, then being reversed and rising back into a bottle. The sign repeats the action. Each time the alcohol is different. I decide then where I will be spending my evening.

The tavern is mostly empty.

There are a few Patreons scattered throughout, a gaggle of middle aged women gossiping over something or another, a blue robed man enjoying some kind of fish stew, a group of four shabbily dressed gentlemen in the back corner who seemed to be staring, eyes partially glazed, at a blond haired girl taking a drink from the bar. They don't pay me any mind, their eyes focused solely on the girl, and when she turns, I get a glimpse of her and I immediately understand.

She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

Flowing silver hair which drops to the small of her back, frames her soft oval face. Her eyes are wide and a deep, deep blue. There's a faint silvery glow to her pale skin which seems unnatural but somehow accentuates her beauty. I feel something as she looks at me, a pull, a need.

I should walk up to her. Talk to her. Show her some magic. No, wait. She sees magic all the time. Something she's never seen before… I'll do a backflip. Yes! They don't do that in France. I'm sure of it. Yes I'll—

Are you hearing yourself? Why would I ever—

I want her to like me. I need to make her like me. I need—

No I don't.

I am Harry Potter, and so the allure breaks.

It was similar to a compulsion, if in an abstract sense. It only took a moment for me to brush the feelings off and I continue to the bar without pausing. I order myself a drink without looking at the witch, who can only be a Veela.

The bartender, a squat looking fellow, hands it to me absentmindedly, his eyes glazed over, for a few Bezant and I turn to find a seat at one of the many empty tables.

I feel her eyes on me as I make my way to a table so I can nurse my drink in peace.

I had stayed with the Dursleys for two weeks before I sent them off on a trip to Spain. The very same day, I left Little Whinging behind. When I arrived in Dover with the knight bus, an experience I will never repeat, I found a boat due for France and snuck aboard using the cloak and once we were close to shore, I began to apparate.

Getting to Paris was simple. I could have apparated directly from London, the distance wasn't the problem but I had been to Paris only in another life, years from now. I couldn't trust the image in my head to be entirely accurate with 1990's Paris.

To be honest I had no exact plans, I just wanted to see more of this world. I'd probably stay for a few more days, maybe week before moving on. Perhaps Italy. Wands were said to originate from Rome right?

"May I sit here?"

The girl from the bar stands before me, her magic a captivating flame, in it I see shades of what looks to be birds of prey.

I look up at her, and can't discipher her age. One eyebrow is hiked as she stares at me, waiting for an answer. There is a confidence about her, she's used to getting what she wants. I almost say no on principle. But instead…

"Sure, go on ahead." She sits, pleased. I take a sip of my drink, and though it burns on the way down, the buzz it gives me is well worth it.

She's staring at me. I do not mind, so I stare back. There are other eyes on me aswell. The men from before.

For three of them, their magic is sickly and yellow, like a mangy dogs begging for scraps. It feels…Wrong. Only one of their member has magic that seems remotely 'normal'.

I do not turn to them but I keep my guard up. It seems they had their eyes on this one, though I am not surprised, Veela are hard to resist.

I break the silence.

"So… what is a Veela like you, doing in a place like this?"

"Part-Veela, and it's considered rude to ask that in such a way, Monsieur…?" Her expression inscrutable as she says it.

"Pierre. You may call me Pierre." I allow a smile to grow across my face.

"Some would consider it rude to stare non, Mademioselle…?"

"Isabelle." A lie but that's all right, I'm lying too. I look around the establishment pointedly, and then look back at her. She sighs, seeming to almost collapse into her chair from the invisible weight on her shoulders.

"I was looking for part time work. …I love Maman and Papa but they can be so …overwhelming. I just needed something for the summers, when I'm not at Beauxbatons."

"Not much luck I'm guessing."

"No one wants to hire a part-Veela, and those that do…" Her face scrunches up in disgust, she takes my fire whiskey and downs it. I raise an eyebrow and order another.

"I wouldn't dwell too much on it, people have a tendency to fear that which is unique and special." That elicits a small laugh.

"I suppose as far as compliments go, I've heard worse." Ah…

"You think I've been captured by your allure… Not a bad assumption, but still, an incorrect one." She arches an eyebrow, curiosity blooming in her eyes. "Your allure, Isabelle, would have me dance for you. It would have me make a fool of myself for a smile and debase myself for a laugh. On lesser men it would work—has worked before, I'm sure." I meet her deep blue with my emerald green. "And though your eyes are enchanting, your beauty captivating,… I am not lesser men."

She is prideful, I can tell. And with me taunting her, dismissing something which is apart of her cherished heritage, it is no surprise when I feel the intensity of the allure, that warmth and feeling of larthagicness increase until what I can only assume is full blast.

It has no effect.

I blink at her. The bartender trips, I levitate our drinks wandlessly, stopping them from spilling and bring them to our table. Her face transforms into shock at the casual display.

She remembers herself, looks around and manages to look a bit ashamed.

The rest of the patreons are in various states of disarray. Eyes glazed over, one of the men was in the middle of taking off his shirt.

"I think I have proven my point, yes?"

"Hmm." is her reply as she tilts her head left, gazing at me as if I am a puzzle to solve.

"As I was saying then, people fear what they cannot understand."

"I guess…" Isabelle says, drumming her fingers on the table, her hands looking for something to do.

"You needn't guess. Why do you think we formed the Statute of Secrecy?" There's a lull in the conversation as we drink and look at one another.

"You're not from around here, are you Pierre?" The question and conclusion draws a raised eyebrow from me.

"No." I take a sip, smacking my lips. "What gave me away?"

"For one… Pierre is silly fake name." I snort as she says it, smiling. "Also, no one here really brings up the Statute after…"

"Grindelwald." My voice is not a whisper but it is not loud enough to carry to the rest of the bars occupants. It makes sense, he brought Europe to its knees and almost destroyed Paris. Still, ignoring the issue will not make it disappear…

"Yes." She drinks from her glass, staring at me all the while. "No one wants to be called a sympathiser, though I agree with your sentiment 'Pierre'." She doesn't seem to care that the name is fake.

I don't need to enter her mind to see the prejudice and discrimination she's faced on account of her birth, it's written all over her face. She needs to vent, so I ask her why Veela are treated in such away. She tells me of the nature of Veela.

Stereotypes are generally born from some amount of truth, however they normally only apply to a minority of the group. It is the same with Veela. They have been characterised as home wrecking sex fiends. Sirens, who come in the night to steal men, from good relationships—from good women.

This belief stems from the fact Veela can taste/sense a person's magic. When they find one that is attractive to them, they decide to pursue it. The look she gives me as she talks is not exactly subtle. Younger Veela and those without restraint have charmed and stolen men from their wives and so have given Veela the reputation they have today.

The other reason they are discriminated against is because they are not human, and as such, part-Veela like Isabelle are half breeds.

It's as simple as that.

"Let's talk about you." She says, leaning forwards, elbows on the table.

And so we do.

I tell her about Britain, life at Hogwarts, the people, the ghosts, the ever moving steps. She chimes in here and there, with a comparison to Beauxbatons, or to laugh or ask a question.

We talk like that for who knows how long, she meets my eyes frequently, I don't fall in, not yet anyways. It's gotten late, we seem to be the only occupants left and at some point we've moved to a cozy spot by the fire. She leans against me, her pale face now rosy red from the alcohol. I decide then that she's had enough.

"You don't have somewhere you need to be do you?" She says, throwing signals in the hopes that I'll bite. I decide to.

"No." She's about to take another drink and I vanish the alcohol in her glass. She looks to me aghast. My eyes are on the bartender. She smacks me lightly with her hand.

"Tell me more stories then, Pierre." She knows the name is fake, yet doesn't seem to mind. The name is funny to her.

"I think he wants to close up." I say, nodding to the bartender who's dozing off, whilst his enchanted bar cloth tries to wipe around his head.

"You could come to my room if you'd like." The words are casual enough but I sense a nervousness that wasn't there before.

"You have a room, here?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.

"Non. At Centre de villégiature du Croissant, I am here for the week, job hunting. I could floo back home every night of course, but… I just needed a reason to get away from Maman and Papa."

"I suppose I can find a few more stories to tell non?" I respond with a smile, her eyes light up and her grin is all teeth, perfect, straight and white teeth.

We leave the tavern, she holds my right arm with both of hers and as we walk, I ask her questions about Place Cacheé, she's eager to answer.

We're only a few minutes away, she says, we could have been there by now but our pace is slow and peaceful with no urgency whatsoever.

I hear them then.

Howling.

Isabelle freezes on my arm, horror ruining her fine features. I look up and the moon is full.

I sense the magic before I see them. Sick and wrong, twisted and yellow, feral and angry. There is a familiarity to them. I've sensed them before. The men from the bar…

Three werewolves emerge before us, snarling and howling, blood dripping from their claws and fangs, the stench is rancid. Did they kill their friend?

They were tracking our scent it's seems. Waiting for us—no, not us.

Their eyes are hungry, sliding over me, focused solely on the young woman by my side. I feel 14 inches of Redwood drop into my right hand. I grasp the cloak in my pocket, look to Isabelle, she can escape if needs be.

The apparition point is too far, they'll catch us easily if we try to run, and I'd rather not get splinched trying to shatter Place Cacheé's anti apparition jinx.

I pull out the cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders, she makes a confused noise as she turns her head partially to look at me whilst still keeping an eye on the werewolves who have been inching closer and closer, snarling all the while.

I assumed they'd just rush us, but they seem extra focused on Isabelle. Does her allure affect them even now?

"What are you doing!?" Her sharp whisper goes ignored. I have no idea if she can duel, and I don't have the time to find out.

"Isabelle, cover your eyes and don't speak."

As soon as the words leave my lips, I cast a charm to hide her scent. Noting their prize has disappeared, the wolves launch themselves at the only human left, me, hungering for flesh. Their speed almost catches me by surprise.

Lumos solem.

The sun has come to earth, the brightness of the light wrecks havoc on the beasts sensitive eyes but I know that will not be enough, so I give them no time to recover.

I tap the ground twice with my wand, transfiguring it into quicksand to slow their movement. A twirl of my wand in the air to conjure dozens of small razor sharp blades from the wind follows, I send them raining down on the beasts.

They are lacerated and shredded. Made nothing more than pincushions by my will, two fall silent, dead.

One more remains, having retreated from my initial spell, miraculously still alive. Transformed as it is, there is no higher function or reasoning, so instead of giving up or fleeing, it uses the bodies of the dead werewolves as a stepping stone to escape the quicksand, taking flight in hopes of capturing me with its canines. I am about to put it down when it is swallowed up by a plume of raging blue fire from its right side.

Isabelle removes the cloak, grimacing.

"G-god that s-stinks." She's turns her nose away from the roasting wolf and gags before putting out the flames.

She looks to me, trying to put on a brave face but her hands are shaking. It seems like she's about to hyperventilate.

It hits me that I've just killed two people. I should probably feel something. But as I look to the massacred creatures and remember the sheer terror on Isabelle's face, I cannot bring myself feel anything for them.

They shouldn't have tried to kill me.

I hear running and shouting in the distance. Aurors. She seems to realise aswell. She puts the cloak back on, I disillusion myself.

We are gone before they arrive.

Isabelle opens the door to her room and collapses onto bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Well… that was something, non?" There's a subtle tremor in her voice.

"You didn't have to do that." I say sitting beside her.

"I—I…"

"But thank you anyway, …I know that was hard." She grows defensive, as I knew she would.

"I am not some damsel who needs saving!" She sits up glaring at me. "You didn't need to hide me, I'm not weak. I'm not use—"

"I didn't say you were and you aren't any of those things."

"Then why am I shaking!?" She brings up her hands to show me the tremors. "Why do I feel nauseous? And why are you not? We're about the same age—" I'm technically younger but that would break you"—and you look completely fine. If I'm not weak, why do I still feel so scared?" She deflates, the heat and energy in her voice gone.

"It's normal Isabelle." I cup her cheek, bringing her eyes to mine. "You did well, and that fire spell… I've never seen anything like it."

"It's Veela magic. I can only do it with a wand, since I'm only part and it leaves me drained after." Her demeanour is demure, so unlike the confident witch that walked up to me at the tavern, but her eyes, those ocean blue pupils, never leave mine.

"If you can do that when you're scared Isabelle… you can do anything." I pull her into a hug. "Besides you need not compare yourself to me, I am—" I forget myself, and almost laugh at the slip "Pierre." I finish with amusement in my voice. She pulls back with a giggle.

"Oh I forget, I sit in the presence of the Great Pierre." Her are eyes shining with mirth and her mood is beginning to rise.

"You jest, but my point, dear Isabelle, is that you are unique. You are special. You can do things others cannot. Take pride in that."

I kiss her then.

She draws her body flush against mine and makes a pleased little sound in the back of her throat.

I pull back, the hunger in her eyes is not dissimilar from that of the werewolves we just slaughtered together. I know the hunger will be reflected in my own. She parts her lips, yearning for more and I fall into her mind.

I had been weary, she wasn't fully human, I didn't know how much of an affect that would have. I needn't have worried.

I am met with a sea of flames and birds rising from the depths, each a different colour and weight. Representing a different emotion and memory. I find mostly Want and Need rising to the surface.

I wrap myself in flames and dive deeper. I think of identity and call out into her mind. The same thing I did to get Mattéo's name. I see images of her childhood, her parents, her sister and then a name. I almost laugh.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour.

I stretch myself around her mind, already decided in what I am about to do. At the bar, when she saw me and sensed my magic, she was already intrigued. I am probably the first she has ever wanted, and to find out I could resist her allure in such away, there was no way she'd let me go to settle for someone else. And I see those thoughts reflected in her mind. She wants me. She must have me. So I decide to ensure I am the only one she will ever want again. Turn about is fair play after all.

With every touch, every kiss, I enhance the sensations she's already feeling and add more on top of it. She cannot get us out of our clothes fast enough, she's on the edge of cumming before I'm even inside.

And once I slip into her depths, her release is immediate.

"Ahhh—!"

As her walls clamp down desperately, I flood her mind with Pleasure, Bliss, Euphoria and Ecstasy, linking it all constantly to me.

She is cumming again, with no gaps in between.

Her slender delicate back arches against my front, she's trembling and squeezing, the heat—all of it, it's too much. It is the most pleasure I have ever felt. I flood her without remorse.

Her magic tries to latch onto me, to mark me as hers, as is the Veela way, with her allure bearing down on me. Though she might have prettied them up in her story telling and made them seem like nothing more than innocent victims of discrimination, Veela are still classified as magical creatures for a reason.

If I let it, her magic will rob me of my higher functions and leave me as a slave to her will. I do not let it, but the pleasure from the process remains.

It has been years since my last and this body is just now undergoing puberty. I have no restraint, I lose myself as I am drawn in deeper and milked for all I'm worth.

Time ceases to have meaning.

I don't know how many times I've cum or where, there are fluids everywhere. I blink and we are on the floor. In the bathroom. The bed again. Sitting, standing. She's facing me, she's not. I'm on top. I'm underneath.

There are tears in her eyes, streaking down her beautiful face, yet still she clings to me, begging me to never let go, to never leave, to never stop. I am in her mind, every time she cums, I call her by her name. Not Isabelle but Fleur. She knows I am there. She feels me. And she grips me tighter. I release once again. She unravels like the flower she is and I double the sensations.

Her moaning is music to my ears.

Each time, I tell myself it cannot get any better. That there is no better feeling. This is the peak of the mountain.

I am always wrong.

I bottom out once again, her ass going flush against my hips, my every nerve is on fire. I double the feeling, the sun goes off behind my eyelids, the smell of her—sweet like marzipan that I know she loves, wet like the Great Lake, feral like the werewolves that tried to stop our lust—fills my lungs so much so, that I can't breathe.

I reflect my feelings off of hers, pleasure rips through me once again and my vision goes white. My last thought before both of us pass out brings a grin to my lips.

I am Harry Potter. I have come to France and I have ruined Fleur Isabelle Delacour for other men.

On nights like this, I can understand the appeal of astronomy.

The night sky is captivating, like a black canvas filled with golden spots, dotted about in a disorderly manner. Yet there is an inherent beauty in the chaos of the stars as they shine down upon me, the balcony, and the rest of Paris. I didn't think the skies would be this clear…less muggle light pollution maybe?

I feel a light breeze run by, leaving a chill on my potion-aged body.

Somewhere around sixteen to eighteen years of age. It was hard to get an exact measurement with the potion, the only thing exact, was this headache I was nursing, which I was going to assume was from overuse of the potion.

Aging potions were unique in a way. The amount of age your appearance gained depended entirely on the amount consumed. A few months would equate to few drops on the tongue. The time you got at that new age depended upon the quality of the brew.

I was a decent potioneer, in that I knew how to follow simple instructions, and as such I could give myself around 10 hours, give or take, with the potion. Still, hiding it from fleur hasn't been exactly easy. I have no right to complain though.

I brought this on myself.

I feel two arms wrap around me from behind, pale and soft to the touch. Her supple breasts press up against my back as she trails little kisses from my shoulder to the right side of my neck.

"My chérie… come back to bed." She says, her voice is soft as she murmurs in between kisses. "It's cold without you."

"In a moment." I look away from the stars and turn to her. I pull her around to my front.

The moonlight adds to the faint silver glimmer of her skin caused by her Veela ancestry. She places her palm on my cheek, caressing, emerald green meets soft ocean blue.

"What are you thinking of?"

My response is in her mind.

'It's not terribly important.' The sigh she gives is one of contentment when she feels me. 'Just thinking of tomorrow.'

'Did you change your mind?'

'I am not kidnapping the daughter of France's Head Auror.' She grows amused.

'Said daughter is ok with it.' Fleur's smile is coy as she thinks it.

'…Not the point.'

"I know…" she kisses me softly on the cheek and then on the lips. "Since you are leaving me—" I raise an eyebrow, bemused"—yes, yes, I know. But you are, indeed, leaving—" I aquiese "—come back to bed." Her hold on me is possessive. I allow her to lead me back until we are cuddled up under the sheets.

She will not admit that she will miss me, even though we both know she will. She's too proud for that, and it's not as if I will be gone forever.

"I will make something." Her declaration is said into the crook of my neck.

"Hmm?"

"I took enchanting as an elective. I am quite good." Her tone indicates she is more than, "quite good." I lace my hands through her hair and she gives a pleased shiver in response. "Something to let us see each other, even when we're apart Pierre" She finishes, smiling demurely up at me.

"…You know that isn't—"

"What does the name matter? I know you. And you know me. After these last three days… after I have felt you everywhere… I know you better than anyone else. I could find you anywhere, just by your magic. So I don't care about the name. You'll tell me when you're ready." She ends it with a kiss, hungry, not soft like previously. She gives me that particular look, yearning and needy.

I know what comes next.

Italy in one word can be summed up as indulgent.

With its great vineyards, soft fabrics and silks, the country and the people were notably hedonistic. The magical, more than the non-magical anyway. It seemed culture had away of sticking around, even all these years after the fall of Rome, the magical people still ate, and drank and partied as if they weren't on a time limit, as if they ruled the world. I suppose in some ways they still did. They still control the Vatican after all.

I spend a week moving from city to city, enjoying the sites non-magical or otherwise. The magical districts are filled mostly with potions shops, literature and art. Italy is apparently the home of innovation concerning the arts. Enchanted statues, living paintings and portraits, singing frescoes and the likes.

Staring down into the colosseum, I can't help but wander what it might have been like to have been born then. To experience Rome in all its glory. The brutality, the spectacle… I don't let my thoughts carry me away. I twist and arrive back on the streets with a soft pop.

Though the Italian ministry, or Autorità Magica Italiana, as it was known here, was quite lenient for some "small crimes", love potions and their abuse, I'd rather not have to deal with them in any capacity.

I still had some aging potions with me… but I was tired of the constant headaches. I had been relying on the cloak and notice-me-not charms since I arrived in Milan last week.

I'll have to return home soon. Sirius wanted to meet in August.

We had corresponded a bit at the start of the holidays, but I hadn't gotten any letters from anyone in a while. They were probably just busy…

I weave through the muggle crowds, turn the corner into an alley and apparate to a nearby rooftop for a better vantage point, the afternoon sun shining on my back. There.

Another squeezing sensation and I arrive at the entrance to Vicolo Nascosto, Rome's Diagon Alley. It's no Venice, but it's magical, it's Italian, and so it's captivating all the same.

I enter the first book store I see, moving through the aisles until I find something to peek my interest. My eyes are drawn to a dark book, its name printed on with purple ink. Alchimia, l'inizio.

Alchemy, the beginning… The topic hadn't come up much in our meetings …perhaps…

I purchase the book and walk for a while, in no rush, just seeing what catches my fancy. I find an apothecary. Why not?

The store is nothing special or unusual. What is strange, is the familiar magic I sense. Like fresh grapes in the summer sun.

I head deeper into the store, weaving past a few dancing cauldrons.

He's there, behind the till, distracted by the book in his lap. His hair is cut short, skin dark and tawny, with eyes of brown that one could mistake for black.

Blaise Zabini, or as Malfoy would say, the Poet of Slytherin.

I remove the glamour charm and call out.

"Zabini." He looks up at the sound of my voice. I see recognition grow in his eyes almost instantly, as they go wide with shock.

"Potter!? What are you doing here?"

"Sightseeing…" I watch as his composure returns with admirable speed. "I didn't take you for a working man." I add a hint of teasing to my tone, as I make a show of looking around the shop.

"You'd be right in your initial assumption." There's a smile on his lips now, it doesn't reach his eyes. "Mother was …entertaining guests, this seemed like a good a place as any to get away. Better than good it seems, if I get to meet Harry Potter. A good thing I sent all the workers away."

"My apologies." One would think the rumours about Mrs Zabini were over exaggerated.

One would be wrong.

"There's no need… It's in a fishes nature to swim is it not?" He gives a shoulder shrug, as if saying, "what can you do?".

"How are you finding Italy? Everything to your liking? You haven't gotten lost have you? It can be hard to navigate if you don't speak the language and constant translation charms can be—" My interruption is in fluent Italian.

"Oh, it was no trouble at all to navigate. The buildings, the people, the magic… stunning all around."

"I didn't think you'd be one to appreciate such fine culture." He says, he's looking at me as if I'm a pleasant surprise he neither asked for, nor expected.

"Oh? What gave you that impression?"

"Well, with the way Malfoy tells it… you two are best of friends." I stare at him blankly, blinking in the hopes he'll tell me he's joking.

He does not. His lips quirk up.

"It's Malfoy…"

"True." He says with a laugh. I look to the side, picking up and beginning to inspect several potion vials. "But we never really got to speak did we? Barring the odd word in potions that is. So I had to take him at his word. You're a better brewer than the rest of our class though. Me, You, Malfoy and the Mud—" I turn with a raised eyebrow, he remembers himself. "—Erhm, Granger, seem like the only capable ones in our class." He doesn't even attempt to appear sheepish as he tries to slide past what he was about to say.

"Oh… don't give me that look. I don't hate Muggleborns you know. I'm not a Deatheater, just because of my house." He grins, even as I give no reaction. "Personally, I dislike everyone evenly." I see.

"Am I to take that as the opinion of Slytherin house as a whole?" I actually want to know how deep the brainwashing goes.

"I mean it should be obvious, but we Slytherins aren't a monolith." He gets up from his seat, moving to stand next to me where he shows me the best vial. As he talks, we begin to walk around the store, with him pointing out the best products to me. "You've got those like me, who don't particularly care one way or the other about blood purity. Those who do, …you know who." He seems particularly proud of the joke as he grins. "And those who are against it. Wisely, they don't voice their opinions where the likes of Montague can hear." He looks to me then, the humour in his face and tone gone.

"You probably think it doesn't matter at all. That maybe true. It might be stupid. But the exceptions, You, Albus Dumbledore,… Granger even, don't disprove the rule."

"And that is?"

"That Purebloods, on the regular, are stronger than Halfbloods and Muggleborns."

I burst out laughing.

"You know you don't believe that. Are they stronger, or are they just more knowledgeable? Are they stronger, or do they just have more resources?" He lets me speak without interruption, listening and pointing out the best Shrivel Fig.

"Everyone is allowed at Hogwarts Potter." The, unless they were halfbreeds or magical creatures, went unsaid.

"True, but not everyone is able to practice magic in the summer. Not everyone grows up surrounded by and immersed in magical culture."

"Life isn't fair, you of all people know that. What am I to do about the plight of Muggleborns?" He raises an eyebrow at me as we arrive at the shop window.

"I'm not asking you to do anything." I say, looking out at the Italian witches and wizards as they walk by. "I'm telling you that it isn't blood that dictates strength. There are weak and talentless Purebloods. And there are weak and talentless Muggleborns. Magic is what is important, Blaise." I feel his eyes on me. He's not dismissive, which is more than I expected from a pureblooded Slytherin.

"Magic blooms, only in the rarest souls. We can rewrite reality, we can raise the dead, we can brew luck, we can call down fire and any other element we wish… we can do all these things with a thought, yet most witches and wizards cannot cast basic spells, they must pay others to perform simple acts for them. They have no appreciation for the power fate has given them, so they sit, wasting their gifts and lives away. Still they have the gall, the audacity, to claim superiority over one another due to the "purity" of their blood."

I turn and meet his eyes with green ones. His sole attention is on me.

"We can do anything Blaise." I sigh "This summer, I decided to travel, to see some of the magical world. …A bit of freedom I thought. Well, I saw it. It was beautiful yet still… there's a strange disappointment in my heart. People who can do whatever they please, living in secret, for fear of destruction. Fighting amongst themselves about whose family is the most Pure, the most Ancient and Noble…" I don't know why I'm saying this to Zabini, but this has been bugging me since I saw France and I wanted a Pureblood perspective.

"What do you think about Muggles Blaise?" He's bewildered by the seemingly abrupt change but his answer comes only after a few moments.

"What does a man think about ants?" His answer is the Pureblood answer. It is the one I expect from all of them.

They do not know what I know. They do not know the capabilities of the Muggles they look down on. They do not know that they have been to space. They do not know of the advancements in Muggle weapons, in technology and the technology that is to come. They do not know that the Statute will fall and that they will die when it does. They grow weak and fight amongst themselves.

They who have been given every advantage by fate, are losing to the underdog who has had to claw their way up.

The Wizarding World has lost land to Muggles and continues to do so, due to their growing population. Magical beasts go extinct as they are too noticeable for the Statute to hide and cannot be cared for properly without living space which they no longer have. Witches and Wizards are outnumbered, around Eight hundred thousand to the Seven Billion Muggles.

"I think, Blaise, that with the way things are going, with ability of the average Witch and Wizard taken into account, if the Wizarding World is still left divided once the Statute falls… the Muggles will wipe us all out if we aren't prepared."

"W-what!? What are you talking about? Muggles, wipe us out?" He gives a confused laugh. The thought of it is hilarious. "Where's this coming from?"

"Have you ever heard of a Nuke, Blaise?"

"No…" The confusion in his eyes continues to grow.

I'm tempted to project the image into his mind, but I don't.

"You've heard of Fiendfyre haven't you?" He nods. "Good. Now imagine a Quaffel that contained Fiendfyre, being dropped from the sky and releasing it once it hits the ground." There's horror on his face. "Now imagine ten, one hundred, one thousand of them. …You get the picture."

"Y-you're lying. Muggles can't do that. T-they'd never be able to that!"

"They did that 50 years ago."

"You're lying." He stumbles back away from me, he wants to believe it's a joke, but he hears the seriousness in my tone.

I remember the Dursleys and the Cupboard.

"Blaise… Muggles hate each other for things as simple as the colour of their skin. Their gender. Their sexual preference." I meet his eyes, and I see the emotions rising to the surface, I keep going. "They hate each other because of the Gods they worship. They hate each other because some don't believe in a God. They hate each other because they believe in the same God, but worship him differently. They hate. That's what they do. …So when they find out about us, and the things we can do… when they find out that we could have cured their diseases, that a Witch was responsible for the eruption of Pompeii because she cast a dancing jinx on the volcano for no good reason, that we caused their Second World War, that we erase their memories on the daily, that a bunch of their random deaths and rapes are actually because of us? What do you think they will do? …They'll blame us for every problem they can't understand or solve. Even the ones we didn't cause."

"They'll hate." I continue on as he remains in stunned silence.

"I say all this to say, that muggles will not care about blood when the time comes, they will care about magic. … I say all this to say, that if wizards and witches remain weak, disconnected, and continue to fight over something as trivial blood… the streets will run red with them." I look back to the window.

"So what then? You want to unite the Wizarding World? Then what? Eradicate all the Muggles?" His voice is blank, I have drained him of all energy. He's not fully here.

"You called them ants no?" I hear myself say, as I think about the question but I do not have the answer, yet.

I just wanted to be free.

Free to do as I please, and I was …in a way. But as I travelled and saw…the restrictions… the hiding… the chains were looser, but I still felt like back then.

It was like I was back at the Dursleys as a toddler. I could move but not in the way I wished. I had no real control. There were things I should be able to do, but couldn't. I had no freedom.

I was the Chosen One.

What good was that title, if after I defeat Voldemort, the world ends only a few decades later. Even if the Statute didn't fall, somehow, I knew them. I used to be one of them. They'd probably blow each other up over something stupid and I'd get destroyed in the crossfire.

I remember the declaration I made to myself infront of Erised.

How can I live to old age in peace with that threat still out there? How can I leave my children to a world I know is destined for death, even if their nature is not revealed?

I can't.

"You're crazy." Perhaps. But I was brought here to save this world. I see that now. I just have to decide how to go about it. Thank you for listening Zabini, I needed this.

Zabini will not be the same after this conversation, I have revealed too much of the world to him.

I decide to release him of his burden.

"Blaise…" He looks to me, eyes still not really comprehending, I cast Petrificus Totales without incantation. Wandlessly, with my left, I keep him from falling over.

"I am sorry." I am not.

I plunge into his eyes and as I am falling, I see an Ornate barrier. Painted with images of Orchestras, Theatres and all the fine points of Nobility. The first person I meet with Occulemency.

I wrap myself in flames, I know without a doubt he cannot resist or weather this attack. He is a child. I am Harry Potter.

The shields look hastily erected. I smash down with a Red Flaming claw. The barrier shatters and the memories float up to meet me.

I split my focus, finding the memories of today, our conversation. I shred the latter half and at the same time—

"Obliviate."

—I wipe the memory. And then I reconstruct the conversation, projecting imprints and letting his mind fill in the gap. In the new memories, I do not ask him of muggles, I just tell him that magic is everything, and magic is what matters, not blood.

I pat him on the back, telling him I'll see him at Hogwarts, he gives me a small smile as he replies in agreement.

I leave the store feeling a little bit more enlightened. I walk for sometime, not particularly paying attention to where, just letting my mind wander, when I feel it.

The magic is familiar. Always moving, swirling from white to grey and back again. Never resting.

A black leather glove waves in front of me. Noticing it has my attention, it beckons and I follow. It leads me past the anti-disapparation jinx. The glove holds itself out for me to shake. I grab on, being squeezed through a tight tube and land on a roof with a crack.

I face Rome in all its beauty, feeling the familiar magic besides me.

"Lovely weather we're having." I say plainly.

"An astute observation Harry. However, I have a pressing question to ask."

"Of course."

"What are you doing in Rome my boy?" His tone is amused.

I turn my head slightly, meeting the twinkling eyes and beaming smile of one Albus Percival Wilfric Brian Dumbledore.

"…Sightseeing Headmaster?" The twinkling intensifies.