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AFiF 4, Chapter 25: The Petals Three
🕑 Added 2024-11-30 10:57:27 +0000 UTCXXV. The Petals Three
A gentle, soothing wind pressed against Harry’s face. The boy lay back, allowing the French sun to wash over his exposed torso, singeing his pale skin.
I could get used to this.
A burst of bright light emanates from somewhere by the shoreline. Harry lazily looked over. One of the Toussaint twins lay with his face in the sand, the other guffawing loudly.
“Who won?” Harry heard a Bardot ask from somewhere to his left.
“Sylvain,” Oliver murmured in reply, “Again.”
Harry turned.
“Does he normally win?”
“I wouldn’t say normally,” Oliver frowned, “But he does win more than he loses, yes.”
They all watched as the fallen twin, Benoit, slowly rose to his feet, brushing off bits of sand and broken shells. An indignant look coated his face.
“You cheated!”
“And?”
Benoit growled. A wisp of violet magic spun across the beach, nearly hitting Sylvain square in the chest. Harry sighed.
“Do they ever do anything besides fight and be annoying?”
To Harry’s surprise, the often stone-faced Bardot girl laughed.
“No,” she said simply, “No, I don’t think they do.”
Fwoosh.
Something bright flickered behind Harry’s head for just a moment. He turned to find a tanned Cerise walking toward them, adorned in elegant white robes. With her bright blue eyes and braided black hair she looked oddly alluring.
But I prefer silver . . .
Harry blinked.
“I’m back!” Cerise smiled cheerfully, holding out a picnic box filled to the brim, “I bear gifts, too.”
Harry watched as Helene and Aurore scrambled towards her. He couldn’t help but frown.
“When do you learn to apparate?” he asked as Rosier passed the box.
The girl sent him an inquisitive look.
“I didn’t,” she said after a long moment. She pulled a familiar medallion out from beneath her robes, “I used this, remember?”
Harry nodded slowly.
I forgot she and Gabby have the same medallion.
“The benefits of Nepotism,” Bardot sighed, eyeing the medallion. She plucked a single grape from the box, popping it into her mouth, “Ahh, the joys of being a Rosier . . .”
“Aren’t you the little hypocrite,” Cerise laughed, “You’re mother’s the only reason you’re on the delegations to begin with.”
Adeline Bardot shrugged.
“If it benefits me . . .”
Harry stared at her for a moment before shaking his head.
“Gabrielle has one, too,” Harry noted, pointing at the medallion Cerise was tucking back behind her neckline, “Is it just the two of you, then?”
Cerise nodded.
“Just the two,” she repeated, “Unless Flamel had a change of heart, anyway -”
“Flamel?” Harry sat up, staring at her, “You mean Nicholas Flamel?”
Cerise studied him.
“You know him,” she decided aloud. Bardot snorted.
“Cerise, Flamel’s only a few steps down the fame ladder from Potter. It’s not impossible that Harry’s heard of him . . .”
But Cerise shook her head.
“It’s the way he said it,” the girl murmured, still watching him, “The air of familiarity . . . you know him.”
Harry shrugged.
“He gave his stone to Dumbledore in my first year,” he said simply. “I fought to protect it.”
Several heads flicked toward him.
“You had the Philosopher's Stone?” Oliver said breathlessly.
“Only for a bit,” Harry muttered, “Dumbledore destroyed it after. Said that Flamel decided he’d lived long enough.”
“And you believed that?” asked a loud voice incredulously. Harry spun around to find the Toussaint twins staring at him like he was a sputtering fool.
“No shit I believed it,” Harry said, bewildered, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”
Sylvian threw up his hands in frustration.
“Of course you fell for it,” the boy straightened up, staring at him with a superior expression, “I already know the answer, of course, but did you consider the possibility that the old coot was playing you?”
Harry gritted his teeth.
“No, I didn’t,” he said coolly, “Because I, unlike you, actually know Dumbledore. I can estimate his character based on the conversations I’ve had with him instead of having to rely on gibberish in stupid French tabloids.”
Sylvain growled, raising his wand.
“I see your inexplicable ego has returned.”
Harry glared.
“Hard not to feel superior when you’re across from a hairless ape with a wand. I take that away, what are you?”
Sylvain grinned.
“Take it away?” he crooned, motioning to his wand, “I’d love to see you try -”
Harry made a flicking motion with his fingers. The boy’s wand, which he’d been spinning between his fingers, flew across the beach.
“There,” said Harry blankly as the wand landed somewhere in the sand, “Now you’re just an ape.”
The French boy was practically frothing at the teeth. Harry watched, satisfied, as the boy silently turned away to retrieve his wand.
“I’d have thought you were too old for a bout of accidental magic,” Bardot noted as Sylvain left. She eventually shrugged, “I suppose it worked in your favor.”
The others nodded in uncertain agreement. Behind them all, a glimmer of curiosity sparked in Cerise’s eyes. She motioned to them with her pinky before tapping on her forehead. Grasping her silent message, Harry delved into her mind.
‘That wasn’t accidental magic.’
Harry couldn’t help but laugh.
First the Fiendfyre from Grace, and now this. She knows a bit too much about me.
He pushed a message of his own into the girl’s skull.
No, it wasn’t.
‘You’re hiding your skill.’
Harry shook his head. He slowly rose to his feet, moving to sit beside Cerise.
“That’d be boring,” he whispered, “I’m just . . . not correcting them.”
It’s not as though I particularly like most of them anyway. They’d only try to use it against me.
“You’re very interesting, Harry Potter,” Cerise said, “Very, very interesting.”
Harry smiled.
“You think so?”
“My mother does,” Cerise murmured. He watched as she pulled a thin card. It was pure white, adorned with a golden emblem.
“What is this?” Harry asked as the girl passed the card to him.
“An invitation,” said Cerise simply, “My family throws a Gala every Solstice. You’re invited.”
“Solstice,” Harry frowned, “That’s the twenty-first, right?”
“It is,” Cerise nodded, “You don’t have to worry about being alone, either. Everyone will be there - myself and Oliver, and your silver-haired friend, too.”
Harry grinned appreciatively.
“I suppose I might as well go, then . . .”
He trailed off. Emerald eyes fixated on the golden emblem that adorned the card. He’d seen it twice before - across the wall of the Cellar, but much more importantly -
On the Truest. This symbol was carved into her back.
Harry cleared his throat.
“What’s with the flower?” he asked, tapping the golden rose on the card. It spanned most of the cover, three fallen petals lying at its base.
“Our emblem, of course,” Cerise said, “My grandmother designed it.”
Harry paused.
“Vinda?”
“Vinda,” Cerise nodded in agreement.
Million of questions spun webs around Harry’s mind like an immortal itch. His lips parted, and his tongue rose -
Don’t.
The boy sighed, and the two of them stared away from the sandy shores and toward the horizon and the setting sun.
-(xXx)-
A short, painful letter sat atop the surface of his dresser. Harry felt as though he were going to be sick.
‘Borgin doesn’t have the book. Sold it to someone a few weeks ago. Good luck with Dumbledore.
Theo’
A gust of frustration escaped Harry’s lips. He brushed the letter aside, his fingers tugging painfully at the ends of his hair.
“Harry?”
Harry turned. Astoria Greengrass stood at the very end of his room, watching him with her head hanging between his open door. She looked worried. Harry watched her lips quiver as she spoke.
“Are - is everything alright?”
Harry nodded.
“Perfect,” he said, struggling to keep the bitterness from his voice, “Just perfect.”
He made for the door. The small blonde girl didn’t step aside as he neared.
“Luna says you’re going about it the wrong way.”
Harry froze.
“What?”
Astoria shifted slightly.
“I - I’m not entirely sure what she means,” she said quickly. She said it as though she feared displeasing him, “She just said something about a diary. That trading it would end poorly.”
Harry gritted his teeth.
Her dreams are getting a little too accurate.
“And she came to you instead of me?”
Astoria nodded.
“She said you wouldn’t listen if she said it.”
“Right,” Harry laughed dryly, “Well, you tell Luna it’s rude to eavesdrop. Even if it’s when she’s sleeping . . .”
That might make me a hypocrite.
He brushed past Astoria. The small blonde girl reached for his arm as he left.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said earnestly, “You - you know that right?”
Harry turned. There was something desperate in her eyes.
“Of course I do, Tori,” Harry whispered. He gently tugged his arm free from her grasp, “I - I just need to ask Dumbledore about something, alright?”
Astoria nodded. Harry sent her one last look before hobbling down the compartment and down to the next.
Lonely flames flickered beneath the mantle. The common room was empty - something Harry found surprising, considering how often Hermione could be found reading within the ebony armchair. He moved past it, pushing the door out of the train open with a mighty shove.
Creak.
Invitingly green grass stretched onwards. There was very little snow covering the Beauxbatons grounds - far less than Hogwarts, no doubt. Harry gently closed the train door behind him, his eyes quickly flicking to the tall thin man adorned in shocking orange.
“Come to ask me something, Harry?” the man asked without turning. Harry frowned.
“Was it that obvious?”
“To me, I suppose,” Dumbledore sighed. Harry edged closer until they were standing side by side, “Though when one is older than me, they tend to notice patterns when they occur. History repeats itself, so they say . . .”
Silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Getting impatient, Harry broke it.
“You’ll be pleased to know it’s not about the Resurrection Stone,” he said loudly, “You can consider that proof I’m not chasing after my parents, if you want -”
“That is something you need not prove to me, Harry.”
Harry faltered.
“I wanted to ask you about blood magic,” he said eventually, “The third truism, more specifically.”
An unreadable expression flickered across Dumbledore’s features.
“I’m afraid I can not help you, Harry.”
Molten heat roared within his chest. Harry’s eyes glowed a violent, sickly green.
“You don’t understand,” Harry said roughly, struggling to control his tone, “You’re my last option -”
“It is you who does not understand, Harry,” said Dumbledore sadly, “Though it saddens me to see you would not give me the chance to enlighten you.”
The light from Harry’s eyes flickered. Guilt gnawed at the boy’s insides. It was quickly drowned in a pool of desperation and need.
“Go on,”
“Do you remember our conversation at the end of your second year?” the headmaster enquired, “In my office, of course.”
Harry frowned.
“I think so,” he mumbled, “What about it?”
“You asked me about your friend Emily,” Dumbledore reminded him. Harry felt a faint aching in his chest, “About what she was like when she was your age.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Harry snapped, “I was there.”
“Then you’ll recall my response, no doubt.”
“You didn’t remember,” Harry mumbled, uninterested, “She obliviated you during some Hogmseade raid . . .”
A sinking feeling permeated his stomach. Harry turned to him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dumbledore shook his head. Harry felt something angry build within him.
“You forgot about rituals? What the fuck do rituals have to do with Emily -”
“I can only guess, Harry,” said the headmaster tiredly, “I imagine she performed a great many rituals during her lifetime, some of which I was no doubt aware of. It would certainly explain why the knowledge was purged from my mind -”
“And you never remembered?” Harry hissed, “You never bothered to relearn?”
“No Harry, I did not,” said Dumbledore firmly, “Lady Voldemort is not the only person who holds a strong connection to rituals. The whole thing is a subject I’d rather not remember.”
He means Grindelwald.
Harry gritted his teeth.
“They want the diary,” he told the old man, “That’s the price for the third truism.”
Dumbledore frowned.
“The diary is of little consequence, Harry,” he whispered, “It is destroyed -”
“They don’t think so,” Harry interrupted, “If we’re being honest, neither do I.”
The aged headmaster shook his head.
“The destructive qualities of Basilisk venom are mythically infallible, Harry,” he said with certainty, “The diary’s power is destroyed.”
Harry stood still. After a long moment, he mustered the courage to speak.
“I didn’t destroy the diary with Basilisk venom.”
The headmaster frowned.
“I have not forgotten your aptitude with Fiendfyre, Harry, but at the age of twelve -”
“I didn’t use Fiendfyre, either.”
Understanding flickered in Dumbledore’s tired eyes.
“Emerald death,” the old man murmured. Harry felt shame churn in his stomach, “It reeks of death and destruction in a manner identical to Basilisk venom. I would not have known . . .”
“You didn’t,” Harry whispered, “I was worried you would.”
The old man turned away. Harry waited in horrible silence for him to speak once more.
“But you failed.”
“I did,” Harry nodded, “At least, I’m pretty sure I did. The diary fixed itself.”
“Odd,” the man mused, more to himself than anything, “That should not be possible . . .”
“I think I didn’t mean it enough,” Harry supplied, “I - you’ve got to mean it, don’t you?”
Professor Dumbledore nodded blankly. Harry felt his stomach churn again.
“But you did not.”
“I -” Harry shifted uncomfortably, “I - I didn’t.”
Albus Dumbledore straightened up.
“And now they want it back . . . Bellatrix, I presume?”
Harry nodded.
“Will you oblige?”
The boy’s fingers curled.
“You’re not making it easy to truthfully say no.”
Dumbledore’s eyes glimmered with what could only be described as disappointment.
“You can not control anything that surrounds you, Harry,” the man sighed, “Only your reaction.”
Harry bit the inside of his lip. He slowly turned to the man once more.
“Would you stop me if I went to give the diary to them?”
Professor Dumbledore shook his head.
“This is your test,” he whispered, “Either swim to shore or drown in your obsession -”
“I’m not chasing the Hollows -” Harry said angrily, gritting his teeth.
“I never said you were. But you are chasing, of that there is no doubt.”
The headmaster finally turned to face him. A steely, piercing expression loomed over him. Harry fought the urge to flinch, only half succeeding.
“I grant you a great deal of leeway, Harry,” Dumbledore told him, “Simply because I understand. So often I see a younger me.”
“But?”
“But,” the man’s jaw clenched, “I know my failings. Obsession ate away years of my life. More importantly, it took the lives of many men far braver than I.”
A glimmer of desperate hope welled up in Dumbledore’s eyes.
“I can only pray it does not happen again.”
With that, the old man hobbled off, leaving a pensive Harry standing outside the gleaming Hogwarts Express.
-(xXx)-
“You seem distracted.”
Harry looked up. The silver locks of Gabrielle Delacour glimmered beneath the moonlight. Wrapped tight around her was the black hoodie she’d stolen from him during their latest venture.
Harry frowned.
“I suppose I am,” he murmured, “Everything’s going wrong . . .”
“This is about the Astoria girl, yes?”
Harry nodded.
“Yeah, it is.”
His thoughts drifted as Gabrielle moved to sit beside him. The image of Emily’s diary swam through his mind. Harry’s fingers twitched.
“Not to be rude,” he started, his eyes focusing on the French girl, “But we hadn’t planned on hanging out today.”
Gabrielle watched him carefully.
“No, we did not.”
Harry paused.
“Luna?”
“Is that what her name is?” Gabrielle mused aloud. Harry turned to her, “Yes, she spoke to me - if that’s what you’re asking, anyway.”
“What did she say?”
“That giving up the diary would cause you great pain in the future,” the French girl pursed her lips, “You never mentioned this diary, by the way.”
Harry shrugged.
“It never came up.”
“Never came up,” Gabrielle repeated, unimpressed, “We spent hours specifically talking about your secrets.”
“I told you the important bits,” Harry frowned, “Astoria’s dying. I’m trying to save her. And it looks like giving the diary to Bellatrix is the only way to really accomplish that -”
“And Bellatrix Lestrange, famed terrorist - she’s your friend, isn’t she?”
Harry nodded. He watched the girl for a moment.
“Do you disapprove?”
Gabrielle shrugged.
“I’ve never met her. It sounds terrible on paper, though.”
Harry snorted.
“Trust me, I know . . .”
He rose to his feet, his fingers brushing against thin blades of grass. Harry turned to Gabrielle.
“If I tried returning the diary, would you stop me?”
Well-hidden distress poured from the girl’s pores. She stared at him with determination.
“The Luna girl said it’d hurt you,” Gabrielle noted, “That it would hurt you badly -”
“And you believed her?” Harry said, forcing his voice into something incredulous.
Gabrielle stared at him, her eyes narrowed.
“Of course I didn’t,” she snapped, “She changed my mind.”
“How?”
A faint tinge of pink coated Gabrielle’s cheeks.
“That - that’s no concern of yours.”
“Right,” Harry felt rather impatient now, “Right, that’s really helpful, that is -”
The gleaming red paint of the Hogwarts Express dominated his vision. Harry’s mind reel, slipping from one scarlet memory to the next until eventually he found his mind surrounding a naked woman bathing in blood. Harry stirred.
“Gabby?”
“What?”
“You want to help me, right?”
The girl stared at him as though he’d grown a third eye.
“Of course I do!”
“Right,” Harry held out a hand, helping her up, “I have an idea, but it’s a hail mary of sorts -”
“A what?”
“Nevermind,” Harry shook his head, “The point is, I need you to come with me.”
Gabrielle stared at him curiously.
“What for?”
“Moral support.”
-(xXx)-
Strong Scandinavian winds tore at them for the second time in a week. Harry threw his hood over his head, grimacing uncomfortably.
“Gabby, it’s too small -”
“Hush,” the girl snapped, pointing her wand at the blue hoodie he wore. It grew slightly with a flash of white light, “There you go. Much better.”
“Not really,” Harry murmured, waddling through the snow, “I’m light blue. I stick out like a sore thumb -”
“Black doesn’t blend in with snow much better, Harry.”
The ice lessened as they approached the stone fortress that was Durmstrang. They quietly slipped through an open window, making their way into the castle and down a series of long halls.
“Harry?”
“Hmm?”
“Aren’t you worried that this is going a little too well?”
Harry turned. Gabrielle hurried closer to him, her perfect skin still somehow glowing amidst the darkness of the hall.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Durmstrang, Harry,” Gabrielle pointed out, “It shouldn’t be this easy.”
Oh.
“That makes sense,” Harry muttered to himself, “They know . . .”
“They know?” Gabrielle repeated, bewildered. She tugged at his sleeve, “What do they know?”
“That we’re here, obviously.”
“What -”
Harry wrapped his palm around the girl’s lips before she could be any louder. He pulled it away a second later, her lips burning a hot pain across his skin.
“It’s like you want us to be found,” Harry moaned, shaking his singed palm. The ghost of Gabrielle’s yell echoed through the hall, “I swear you weren’t this loud when we snuck into the mountain -”
To be fair, she probably was.
“You were the loud one,” Gabrielle said hotly, “But that’s not important. Who knows we’re here?”
Harry frowned.
“The Scarlet Prophets.”
Gabrielle blinked. Harry couldn’t help but sigh.
“You probably know them as the High Order. The witches in white, remember?”
Recognition flitted through the girl’s features. She stared at him curiously.
“You think they can help you with Astoria?” she asked.
Harry grimaced.
“I hope so.”
They slipped down another series of halls, eventually coming to a stop before a familiar tower. There were no guards this time. Harry glanced left and right before stepping through the door, pulling a wary Gabrielle along with him.
“Harry, I don’t -”
A long, thin hall stood before him. Harry basked in the familiarity of it all, his eyes eventually falling upon the back of a woman sitting at the end of the hall. To his great relief, she was no longer nude.
“You’re back.”
Her voice was high and cold. The heads of the prophets that lined either side of the hall turned to him in unison as her voice jumped through the hall.
“I am,” Harry said somewhat lamely. He straightened up, gathering his resolve, “I need your help.”
The Truest’s head slowly rose. Her words echoed dimly through the dark hall.
“Do you carry the rose?”
“No, but -”
“Then we have nothing to speak of.”
The faceless witches along the hall turned, their hands reaching for their wands. Harry held up his hands in protest.
“Wait - I know something! Something about the rose!”
The witches froze. Harry watched as the back of the Truest’s head tilted with what he could only hope was intrigue.
“Speak.”
Harry breathed heavily. His fingers reached into his robes, pulling out the card Cerise had given him the day before.
“The Rosiers,” he said, waving the card before them, “Their emblem is your rose. Vinda Rosier changed their emblem to your rose after the Wizarding War -”
“Do you truly believe us so unaware?” the Truest frowned, her head falling. Harry was quick to shake his head.
“No,” he said hurriedly, “That’s not what I mean.”
He straightened up again.
“They’re having a Gala soon,” Harry announced to the hall, “I’m invited. I - I can scout for you. Learn more about the rose.”
Through the darkness, Harry could just barely make out the Truest tapping her fingers. After some time, she finally spoke.
“And what would you ask in return?”
“The third truism,” Harry breathed, “The last rule of blood rituals. That’s all I want.”
Something stirred within the narrow hall. Harry watched as the black mist that lined the wall covered the glossy red floors, the witches at either side of the hall shaking their heads in unison.
“No . . .” they murmured together, their voices like a faint chant, “No . . .”
Across the hall, the Truest rose to her feet. Harry watched as she turned, her pale breasts poking through from her thin robes and heavily jeweled veil.
“The third truism,” the Truest murmured, “Shall I not grant him his simple needs?”
“No . . . no . . .”
The Truest smiled helplessly, her milky eyes glistening.
“Fate has spoken, Harry Potter,” she wrapped her robes more tightly around her as she turned away, “Good night.”
“Wait!” Harry shouted in protest, “Please -”
All at once, the witches that surrounded him slashed their wands through the air. Light danced before his eyes, and Harry found himself across the world, buried face first in the French dirt.
