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Fleur De Lis Chapter 22.
🕑 Added 2024-07-26 15:55:23 +0000 UTCContent Warnings: Teasing.
Pain.
Pain like nothing he had felt before exploded behind his eyes and for a brief second he was certain his skull would explode. The burning was horrendous. Nothing he did alleviated it and he struggled in vain against the ropes binding him to the statue while Pettigrew bustled around in front of him.
“What’re you doing?” Harry gasped. No strength was left in his body, no wand, he couldn’t even see more than a few feet in front of him. There was nothing more to do, he realized, but make peace with his death.
Pettigrew simply grunted in response.
“Preparing for my ascension into godhood,” the voice rasped. “I have dreamt of this moment, Harry Potter. I shall rise and you shall fall by my hand.”
Voldemort. It had to be Voldemort. It could be no one else but him. He struggled harder but it was no use. Getting free did not guarantee he’d be able to escape. Fighting him off was a laughable notion in his current state.
Surely someone in Hogwarts would realize something was amiss. Dumbledore planned to keep a close eye on the maze and the champions. Professors McGonagall and Moody were patrolling the outside of the maze. And Fleur…
Harry shook his head, refusing to give into despair. One of them would find out he was missing and raise the alarm.
How would they know how to find him? He had to get to his wand and figure out a way to throw up a signal.
The burning had subsided somewhat but there was still no strength in his muscles or clarity in his vision.
He was still alive.
Why?
“What’re you doing?”
“I told you, Potter.” Voldemort sounded mildly amused. “To think someone as talentless as you has frustrated my plans all these years. Things come to a head tonight. Faster,” he barked, presumably at Pettigrew. “I shall rise and you shall fall.”
“You keep saying that,” Harry rasped, running his tongue over his dry lips. His throat burned almost as badly as his scar. He struggled against the ropes once more but they refused to budge even an inch. “But I’m still alive. Worried you can’t kill me?”
Goading the homicidal maniac holding him active was probably not the brightest idea he’d ever had. But he saw no other way to get the answers he needed.
“A situation that I shall soon rectify,” Voldemort said. “Is it ready?!”
“A-Almost, my lord,” Pettigrew wheezed.
Harry squinted but he could only make out the tiny form of Pettigrew next to what appeared to be a cauldron. Harry felt his face heat up. The bubbling from the cauldron grew insistent and his stomach rolled at the pungent smell of rotting meat coming from it.
“Faster!”
Pettigrew whimpered. Harry heard a bang and then sizzling. A cloud of green smoke puffed out from the cauldron and obscured Pettigrew and Voldemort’s cradle from his already blurred vision.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to block out the throbbing behind his eyes. He concentrated on his wand, trying to summon it to him.
Nothing.
The sound of Pettigrew’s shuffling feet caused him to abandon his futile endeavor and open his eyes. The tiny, rheumy-eyed man was standing in front of him. He looked worse than the last time they’d met, which Harry didn’t think was possible. Wispy brown stubble covered his grimy-cheeks. He was a gaunt shadow of his former self and his fear-filled eyes darted around constantly. He held a silver knife in his trembling hand. Harry struggled against his restraints in vain, trying his best to get away from the sharp blade.
“Stop moving,” Pettigrew pleaded.
“Don’t harm him!” Voldemort screeched. “I want him in one piece, Wormtail.”
Harry went limp. He wasn’t to be harmed? After three years of trying, Voldemort was just giving up? Was that why he had made it through the year unscathed? He was lost in his thoughts and didn’t notice Pettigrew rip open the sleeve of his shirt.
He did notice the pressure of the knife’s tip digging into his skin. He tensed but Pettigrew simply nicked his arm and collected the trickle of blood that leaked out in a glass vial until it was full.
“I have it, my lord.”
“Good. Start the ceremony!”
“T-the others, my lord?”
“Once I have ascended, Pettigrew. Not before,” Voldemort growled. “Hurry!”
Pettigrew scurried back to the cauldron.
“Begin,” Voldemort commanded.
Pettigrew whimpered but complied immediately. He tipped the vial, pouring Harry’s blood into the cauldron. The mixture inside bubbled and threw up a cloud of red smoke.
“Blood of hated enemy, you shall protect your foe!”
Pettigrew waved his wand and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. The grave below him burst open and a long, white, dirt-covered bone dug itself out of the ground. It flew over to the cauldron and paused there, suspended over the bubbling liquid.
“Bone of the father, you will rejuvenate the son!”
The bone dropped into the cauldron and the mixture hissed and bubbled for a few seconds before throwing up a cloud of thick, black smoke.
Nothing happened after that for a few seconds. Harry stared at Pettigrew with squinted eyes. The diminutive man seemed to have shrunk even further, holding the trembling knife in his left hand. The blade was pressed against his right wrist and Harry could see that the pressure was enough to pierce the skin. Droplets of blood dripped into the cauldron but nothing happened.
“Wormtail,” Voldemort hissed.
“Y-yes, master.” Pettigrew visibly deflated. He pulled the knife away and brought it down in a fast arc, slicing his right hand clean off. The hand dropped into the cauldron. There was no smoke, simply a violently boiling mixture the consistency of mud.
Pettigrew’s sharp cry pierced the silence of the graveyard but he was given no opportunity to recover.
“Now, Wormtail!”
Pettigrew shuffled over to the cradle and lifted out a bundle of blankets. He cradled Voldemort in his right arm and used his uninjured left handle to pull away the blankets covering his figure.
Harry couldn’t hold back a gasp when he saw the figure underneath. It was the size of a baby. The most grotesque and monstrous baby in existence with a wrinkled face and spindle-like arms that had folds of skin hanging from them. Two vertical slits sat on Voldemort’s face in place of a nose and his eyes reminded Harry of burning coal embers. Red and filled with malice.
Pettigrew carried the squirming figure to the cauldron and dropped him inside.
Drown, Harry pleaded to no one in particular in his mind. Please drown. Let Pettigrew have fucked up the ritual.
The mixture sizzled and bubbled for a good few minutes. Harry and Pettigrew could only look on helplessly, each wishing for a different outcome. Harry kept struggling against the ropes binding him in place but the strength was seeping out of his muscles. The ropes around his chest dug into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt and scraped it raw as his chest rose and fell with every ragged breath. He turned to his wand, willing it once more to return to his hand.
It refused to budge.
The sound of an explosion drew his attention back to the cauldron. The spark of hope was snuffed out the second the blinding white light fizzled to nothing, leaving behind fragments of brass and a tall, otherworldly naked man standing in the exact location of the now-destroyed cauldron.
Voldemort was tall, thin, and barely human. His skin was the color of ash, something that made his glowing red eyes pop even more. His body was smooth and formless.
“Wormtail,” Voldemort rasped, raising his arms. “Robe me.”
“Y-Yes master,” Pettigrew sobbed. He shuffled over to where the cradle was, hugging the bleeding stump of his right arm to his chest. He retrieved a dark gray cloak and shabbily draped it over Voldemort’s naked form.
“Wand,” Voldemort demanded coldly. He smacked Pettigrew’s hand away and adjusted his robes with his own hands. His unnaturally long fingers were pale and resembled bones.
Pettigrew perked up. He pulled out a thin wand with a bone hilt from within his robes and held it up for his master.
Voldemort’s satisfied hiss rang in his ears as his bony fingers curled around his wand. The dark lord raised his arm and shot a jet of green into the air. Harry didn’t need to look up to know he had conjured the same skull and snake that had disrupted the World Cup Final.
“Your arm, Wormtail.”
“Master… master,” Pettigrew sobbed. He was kneeling next to Voldemort and rocking back and forth. The mousy man raised his ruined stump in the air.
“Your other arm, Wormtail.”
“M-master!” Pettigrew wheezed. His rocking intensified. “You promised! You said I would be rewarded. Master, please!”
“Give me your arm,” Voldemort said coldly.
Pettigrew bit back a sob and withdrew his bleeding arm. He raised his left one in its stead and watched as his master ripped away the stained sleeve of his shirt to reveal the mark it concealed.
Harry had to squint but he could make out the vague outline of a skull and snake, the same symbol that hung ominously in the air. He watched as Voldemort pressed his thumb into the symbol. Pettigrew’s pained shriek pierced the silence once more.
And then, for a few minutes, absolutely nothing happened. Pettigrew lay curled up in a ball, wheezing and sobbing as he hugged his injured arm to his chest. Voldemort completely ignored his presence, instead preferring to walk the perimeter of the graveyard.
However, just as he was beginning to hope that something had gone wrong and his plan wouldn’t work, Harry heard the swishing of cloaks all around him.
He looked around desperately, counting ten figures in hooded cloaks arranged in a semicircle around the statue he was bound to. Voldemort strode to the middle of the semicircle, standing directly in front of him. He raised his arms wide in an embrace, his expression a mixture of triumphant glee and cold fury.
A figure to Harry’s right broke ranks and rushed towards Voldemort. Harry’s hope of an attack was dashed as the hooded figure fell to his knees.
“My lord…” breathed an oddly familiar voice. “You live.”
“No thanks to you, Lucius,” Voldemort said coldly. His foot twitched and Harry could have sworn he was fighting the temptation to kick Malfoy. “You abandoned me.”
The hooded figure looked up with such speed that the hood fell away and a familiar mane of silvery-blonde hair spilled out of it. The locks tumbled down the man’s shoulders. Malfoy ignored everything around him, his pale face turned up to look up at his master.
“We thought all was lost, master,” Lucius mumbled. A murmur of agreement broke out amongst the gathered crowd. “We waited in the shadows for your inevitable return, gathering strength and recruiting new allies.”
“Liar,” Voldemort hissed. “You were all rats. Scurrying away from what you thought was a sinking ship. Traitors. Unworthy.”
“My lord!” Malfoy pleaded. Even from a distance, his fear was palpable. “My lord, we thought you had fallen. I… we… all of us…”
“Not all,” Voldemort corrected silkily. “Some stayed true. They happily paid the price. They are not amongst us but they shall join me soon and be rewarded for their loyalty.”
“O-of course, my lord.” Malfoy attempted to kiss Voldemort’s hand but was pushed away unceremoniously. He landed on his ass and a thickset man close to Harry chortled. Malfoy ignored the humiliation. “If there is anything we can do to make amends-”
“You will get an opportunity to prove yourself soon enough, Lucius,” Voldemort cut him off. “Retribution for those who did not heed the call-” his eyes coldly surveyed a couple of the empty spaces in the semicircle “-shall come too. But first.”
Voldemort turned to look at him and Harry’s scar exploded once more. He bit his lip in a futile attempt to suppress the cry bubbling in his throat.
“Welcome our guest of honor, Harry Potter!” Voldemort crowed. “This is the boy you’re so afraid of. This is the boy you think defeated me, the greatest wizard since Salazar himself. Well, today you shall see him fall.” Voldemort waved his wand and the bindings around him disappeared. Harry dropped to the ground with a groan. “Wormtail. Fetch the boy his wand. Let us see how he fares against me.”
“M-my lord!” Pettigrew wheezed. “I beg you.”
Voldemort clicked his tongue impatiently. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw the dark wizard wave his wand again. A shimmering silver ribbon shot out from it and wrapped itself around Pettigrew’s stump. The short man screamed in agony as it attached itself to his bleeding wrist, slowly, painfully forming into a new metal hand.
Within seconds he had a brand new hand in place of the one he had sacrificed.
“Fetch the boy’s wand and give it to him, Wormtail,” Voldemort instructed coldly. “I won’t ask again.”
Pettigrew stumbled to his feet and scurried over to the area where he had kicked Harry’s wand. It took him a few minutes to find it. He walked over and handed it to Harry before stepping away, avoiding his gaze the entire time.
“Stand up and face me, Harry Potter. Be a man like your father,” Voldemort hissed in a mocking tone.
Everyone gathered in the graveyard laughed. Pettigrew’s tearful chuckle infuriated him the most. Harry growled and pushed himself to his feet, shooting off a stunning spell just as Malfoy scurried away from his master.
Although his rage helped him overcome the throbbing behind his eyes and he had massively improved over the course of a year, he was nowhere as skilful as the opponent he was facing. Voldemort batted away his furious spell like it was nothing more than a minor annoyance.
Harry rained a flurry of offensive spells on the man, pulling up every single hex and curse he had learnt and practiced with Fleur. Every single one was either blocked or deflected by Voldemort without much effort.
“This,” Voldemort hissed. “This is the boy you were all so afraid of. This is the boy you thought was powerful enough to defeat me. A weak, talentless nobody who got lucky.” He ignored Harry’s presence and looked around at his gathered followers. “He survived because his mudblood mother-”
Harry roared in rage and shot off a blasting hex aimed squarely at Voldemort’s chest. For a second he was certain he had succeeded, that it would hit, but Voldemort turned at the last second and avoided the spell. It crashed into a marble bust and shattered it into a thousand tiny pieces.
Harry focused his attention on the shards of sharp stone and used a quick succession of fairly simple charms threaded together to send them flying towards Voldemort. Voldemort managed to turn most of them to dust but some got through his spellcasting and ripped into his skin, leaving thin, long cuts on his face and the arm he’d raised to protect himself.
Harry’s moment of triumph was short-lived.
“Crucio!” Voldemort roared.
The spell ripped through his hastily constructed shield and made contact with his body. Pain akin to a million knifes stabbing him consumed him and he dropped to his knees, helpless before the fury of the Dark Lord.
“His survival was nothing more than pure luck,” Voldemort continued after a few seconds as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t a duel as much as ritualized humiliation. The man wanted to see him torn down in front of his followers. That was the only reason he had kept Harry alive. “He is no match for me. He cannot kill me. No one can. I cannot die. I am your god,” Voldemort declared.
As one, everyone in the graveyard dropped to their knees.
“My lord,” Lucius whispered. “Forgive us. We were weak and lost faith.”
“You shall get a chance to prove yourself, Lucius.” Voldemort lazily raised his wand and aimed it at Harry. “But first, I shall rid myself of the vermin that has been plaguing me for over two decades. It is time you died, Harry Potter.”
Harry raised his wand. He knew defiance was futile but he owed it to his parents, to Fleur, to Hermione and to all his friends to go down fighting.
I’m sorry, Fleur.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A jet of bright green light broke through the darkness of the moonless night and raced towards him. He felt detached from his body, like he was a mere spectator to a duel he had no business fighting. His arm raised itself of its own volition. He felt his lips move and a jet of red light shot out of the end of his wand. The green cut through it effortlessly and raced towards him, dragging him towards his inevitable destiny.
He closed his eyes, and the darkness was replaced by shining brightness within seconds. He could hear a faint birdsong in the distance.
Heaven? It felt too peaceful to be Hell.
And then his face felt warm. It was hot, too hot. He could feel the heat rolling off of flames nearby and within seconds his guess as to where he was changed. A cruel joke, then. A hint of Heaven to amplify the cruelties of Hell.
He opened his eyes to be greeted by a wall of flame all around him. He tensed as an arm wrapped around him and pulled him into a body, shielding him from the heat of the flames around them.
“Hi,” Fleur whispered. She was battered. She sported a black eye and swollen lip, and Harry could see bruises marring the pale skin of her neck.
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. Surely the powers that be were not this cruel.
“Are you-”
“Dead?” Fleur shook her head. “Neither are you. We’re both going to make it. You’re not allowed to die on me, Harry Potter. Not so soon.”
She wrapped her arms around him protectively, shielding him from the fire burning fiercely all around them. In the distance, Harry could still hear the faint birdsong.
“What’s going on?”
His question was answered as the flames petered out within seconds, revealing a massive, majestic bird standing between them and Voldemort.
“Hello, Tom.”
Harry looked up to confirm the source of the quiet voice. His heart soared at the sight of the old Headmaster. Albus Dumbledore was standing next to them in his ostentatious robes of midnight blue, his wand clutched in his wrinkled hand.
Harry looked over and saw nothing but pure fear wrought across Voldemort’s otherworldly face.
“That name is dead. I buried it a long time ago.”
“You’ll always be Tom to me,” Dumbledore said softly. “Abandon this foolish quest, Tom. There is still time-”
Voldemort roared and shot off another killing hex, this time aimed at the Headmaster. Dumbledore’s wand barely twitched. The head of a marble bust close to them ripped clean off and raced into the path of the oncoming spell, easily deflecting it.
The crowd of followers gathered around them did not move to assist their master. They simply looked on, each seemingly afraid to attract the venerable Headmaster’s attention. Fawkes circled in the sky above them, the flames streaming from his wings turning night to day.
A figure to Harry’s right was the first to overcome their indecision. They raised their wand but a flick of Dumbledore’s wrist sent it flying in the air. The Headmaster hadn’t shifted his attention away from Voldemort and Harry could only marvel at the Headmaster’s skill.
Fleur kissed his forehead and for a brief second, the pain disappeared completely. Although her voice was weak and hoarse, she began to sing, her melody intermingling with Fawkes’ song. She sang of rage and betrayal, of fear and pain and loss. One by one the hooded figures around them fled, some almost immediately, while others lasted for a few minutes before they gave in and disapparated.
Only Dumbledore and Voldemort remained. They both appeared to be unfazed by the haunting melody reverberating around the graveyard as they circled each other. Voldemort shot a few more probing attacks in Dumbledore’s direction, all of which were easily deflected by the older wizard.
“So unimaginative, Tom,” Dumbledore murmured. “You always relied on brute strength and one day it shall fail you. That is how I know Harry shall eventually beat you. You cannot defeat an equal opponent in a duel with such feeble attacks.”
Voldemort roared. An army of skeletons rose up from their graves and descended on them. Dumbledore turned the ones approaching him to dust with a quiet spell. Harry raised his wand and aimed for the ones shambling towards him and Fleur, blowing them apart one by one with blasting hexes.
“Let the dead have their peace.”
“There is no peace in death,” Voldemort growled.
“And therein lies your folly, Tom. This fear shall be your undoing.”
Voldemort conjured up a tornado of flames in response. Fawkes dove in its path, absorbing the fire within his body before nimbly swerving to avoid a killing curse directed at him. The fight between the two wizards devolved into a flurry of hexes and curses. Harry could see that, unlike Voldemort, Dumbledore was holding back. The Headmaster seemed intent on incapacitating and capturing Voldemort instead of outright killing him.
The fight continued unabated until Voldemort growled in frustration and shot a killing curse in Harry’s direction. Neither he nor Fleur were in any condition to deflect it and Dumbledore was forced to pause his attacks to protect them. He was too slow to intervene but Fawkes was not. The phoenix dove into the path of the curse and blocked it with his body, erupting into a massive pillar of flame. Voldemort took advantage of the Headmaster’s distraction and turned into a cloud of smoke, disappearing into the night sky. Dumbledore sighed and walked over to scoop up the tiny chick squirming in a pile of ash.
“What you did was incredibly brave, Miss Delacour,” Dumbledore said gravely as he walked over to the injured couple. “You could have been killed.”
“Did you really think I would have stayed back because you asked me to? When I knew Harry was in danger?”
“I suppose not.” Dumbledore’s lips quivered under his bushy beard. “You would have made a fine addition to our student body, Miss Delacour.”
“You get my sister,” Fleur smiled tiredly. “Trust me, I am the restrained one. She would have burnt down this entire place down the minute she landed.”
“What happened?” Harry asked, studying the various injuries on Fleur’s face with a frown.
“Krum tried to kill me. He’s in the hospital now,” Fleur said grimly. She coughed and spit out blood into her hand. “The next time he tries it I’m not going to stop with burning his hands.”
“He was under the influence of the Imperius, Miss Delacour. He was not himself.”
“If he’s foolish enough to be Imperiused twice, that’s on him,” Fleur growled, her temper flaring. She stumbled to her feet and reached out to take Harry’s hand. Once he was standing she pulled him into a hug even though the action caused her to whimper. “I love you. I’m never letting you out of my sight.”
“Never?”
“Ever.” Fleur kissed his neck. “You’re not allowed to die, do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“We must be off.” Dumbledore coughed apologetically. “This graveyard is teeming with dark magic. We should not linger longer than is necessary.”
“How did you get here?” Harry asked, gently extricating himself from Fleur’s embrace. She seemed reluctant to let go of him but he could see she was in a lot of pain. He ignored the slowly subsiding throbbing in his head and bent to sweep her up in his arms bridal style before she or Dumbledore could react.
“Fawkes can bypass the wards around Hogwarts.” Dumbledore reached out and gently stroked his pet’s head.
“I grabbed Professor Dumbledore’s robes and held on for dear life.” Fleur shrugged.
“There will be enough time for stories,” Dumbledore said, looking around with an uneasy expression. “We must leave. Home, Fawkes.”
Dumbledore reached out and grasped Harry’s shoulder. He felt a tug behind his navel and a whoosh that sounded remarkably like the sound of flapping wings. His vision blurred and by the time it had cleared, they were standing in Dumbledore’s office and Fawkes was back on his perch.
Harry stumbled with Fleur in his arms, both landing on the hard floor.
“Ow,” Fleur whimpered, holding her side.
“We need to get you to the Hospital Wing.”
“Not so fast, Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely. “We must talk before you can leave this room.”
“Professor, she-”
“I’ll live. It’s just a couple of fractured ribs,” Fleur grunted as she pushed herself up into a seated position. “Can you help me into a chair?”
Harry nodded and gently grasped her hand, pulling her up to her feet. He pulled a chair for her, only sitting down once he had made sure she was comfortable and in as little pain as possible.
“What do you need to talk to us about?”
“I suppose we should start at the very beginning,” Dumbledore pressed his hands together and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. “I have suspected since the start of the year that Voldemort had secreted a spy in our midst.”
Fleur groaned softly.
“Maybe we don’t have to start at the very beginning?” Harry suggested. “We were there for most of it. My name coming out of the Goblet was some elaborate plan by Voldemort. He wants me dead and he wants to be the one to do it. So he set up the whole thing.”
“Quite so.”
“Was it Karkaroff?”
“Merlin, no.” Dumbledore chuckled humorlessly. “Igor Karkaroff is probably on the run as we speak. I doubt he will get far. Voldemort is not kind to those he thinks betrayed him.”
“Who, then?”
“Barty Crouch-”
“That makes no sense!”
“Let me finish, Harry,” Dumbledore said seriously. “Barty Crouch Jr. He is Mister Crouch’s son and has spent the last year masquerading as Professor Moody. There were tiny clues from the very start but I missed the thread connecting them until it was too late.”
“I’m alive,” Harry offered with a small smile. “I’d have died if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“You shouldn’t have been in that position in the first place, Harry. I’m sure the minutiae of what happened can wait. For now, you must know that Barty has been neutralized. He is being held under guard and the Minister has declared him insane. Fudge wanted to have the dementor’s kiss administered until I pointed out that an insane man is unfit for punishment.”
“Is he?”
“Insane? Highly unlikely. He has psychopathic tendencies, yes, and the Mind Healers at Mungo’s will enjoy working on him. But he is not mad in the traditional sense.”
“Why does Fudge think he is?”
“Because Cornelius Fudge has chosen to stick his head in the sand and make himself oblivious to the coming danger. He refuses to believe Voldemort has returned.”
“But we just saw him!”
“You cannot tell the Minister that. When he comes to see you, he will ask what happened. You cannot tell him Voldemort has returned. I do not think he can be reasoned with.”
“Englishmen,” Fleur snorted under her breath.
“If I can’t tell him the truth, what do I tell him?”
“The best lies have their roots in the truth. Tell him about the cup and how Barty had charmed it to be a portkey. Tell him it transported you to an unknown location and you were trapped there until we came to rescue you. You do not know what Barty’s intentions were but you doubt he was up to any good. Stick as close to the truth as possible and only lie by omission.”
“Why the secrecy?” Harry frowned. The world needed to know he was back. He was the greatest threat to their society and they would just pretend he hadn’t returned and was gathering strength in the shadows?
“I will explain everything to you later, Harry.” Dumbledore’s electric blue eyes flickered to Fleur for a brief second. “For now, please trust me. You should get Miss Delacour to the Hospital Wing without delay.”
Harry nodded. Voldemort was not an immediate concern.
“Thank you, professor,” Harry murmured. Dumbledore simply bowed his head in silent acceptance of his gratitude.
He stood and turned to Fleur, scooping her up in his arms. He ignored the grunt and the light slap to his chest. He simply marched to the door with her safely in his arms.
“You can’t carry me to the Hospital Wing!”
“Watch me.”
Harry’s smile grew when the door swung open on its own. He looked over his shoulder and received an amused nod from Dumbledore.
“You’re hurt too.”
“Well, you aren’t walking.” Harry glanced at her swollen left ankle. “So either I carry you or Professor Dumbledore does.”
“Fine,” Fleur huffed. “And to think Gabrielle says you’re whipped. You don’t listen to a thing I say.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of a suitable punishment once you recover,” Harry chuckled. “My concern for your well-being overrides everything, even my desire to be a good boyfriend.”
“You’re my boyfriend, are you?”
“Mhm,” Harry said proudly as the moving staircase carried them to the bottom of the tower. The gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office sprung aside to reveal an empty corridor.
“Just my boyfriend?”
“What else should I be, love?” Harry asked softly. Nobody accosted them as they made the short journey from Dumbledore’s office to the Hospital Wing. The castle was entirely deserted and Harry had to assume everyone was in the Great Hall to celebrate the end of the year and the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament.
“My lover.” Fleur rested her head on his chest. “My mate. The person I spend the rest of my life with. I want to be eighty and walk on the beach hand-in-hand with you, mon amour.”
Harry shivered as her hand slipped under between the buttons of his shirt. Gentle fingers traced small circles on his scarred skin.
“Is that all?” Harry teased.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind one or two babies along the way.”
“Just one or two?” Harry grinned and raised an eyebrow.
“I could be talked into going higher. Depends on how fun the process to make them is,” Fleur shot back. She snuggled deeper into his chest. Harry could see her eyes droop. “I bet we end up having an entire brood and then we’ll need Gabby’s help to watch them. She’ll teach them how to swear…” Fleur mumbled.
She had passed out by the time Harry entered the Hospital Wing. It was empty except for a bed at the far end of the room which had curtains drawn around it.
There would be time enough for children.
He would not let Voldemort steal the future Fleur dreamt of from them.
Notes:
Please check the expiry labels of stuff you buy from boutique cafes. Some are absolutely horrendous. One sold me milk that had expired 5 days before the date I bought it and oh, lord, was I suffering. I cannot catch a break, lol. I have said it before and I will say it again, I do not write bashing in my fics. My characters are flawed but realistic people so no cartoonishly evil Dumbledore. He will be flawed in this fic as well but I loved the chance to show just how badass Dumbledore is and why Voldemort feared him and I took it.
Comments
Brian Jordan
On the one hand, the sun is scheduled to rise in the east and set in the west so I'm sure Mr. Malfoy's schedule is incredibly open. On the other hand, a court jester should be able to get the attention of his audience. Of course, that's why he would need the traditional jester's garb: overbright colors and lots of jingling bells. Perhaps Fred and George could find something is his size....
R. Collins
I hear Draco's not doing anything important.
Nova Sana
I really love this take on Fleur’s character as well as the relationships that you have created.
Brian Jordan
My position on Dumbledore was the one J.K. Rowlings took in the first book: when his ideas were good, they were extremely good and when they were bad, they were very bad. Sadly everyone forgot the second part of that rule as the series progressed. Put simply, Dumbledore needs a court jester to remind him of his flaws. Suggestions anyone?
