Chapter 10

As Harry stirred from his slumber, he awoke to a warmth pressed against him, the soft rise and fall of another's breath mingling with his own in the stillness of dawn. His eyes, slow to focus, found Dany nestled beside him, her form curled into his with an intimacy that spoke of both comfort and unease. Her silver hair, a cascade of moonlight, spilled over her shoulders, framing a face serene in sleep. Her violet eyes, even closed, hinted at a depth of mystery and sorrow.

For a breathless moment, Harry gazed at her, a mix of emotions roiling within him. The sight of her stirred a complex blend of affection and melancholy, a reminder of love lost and found again in the most unexpected of forms. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. The touch was tender, a caress of old affection mingled with new understanding.

Dany's resemblance to Fleur was striking, though the features were subtly different—where Fleur's hair was golden and her eyes a deep blue, Dany's hair was a shimmering silver and her eyes a vivid violet. It was as if fate had painted a familiar face with new colors, a transformation that both soothed and unsettled him. In the tranquility of her sleep, the familiar cadence of her presence stirred memories of Fleur—the warmth, the laughter, the quiet moments they had shared.

A pang of bittersweet longing gripped Harry as he marveled at the sight before him. Fleur was returned to him in this new guise, yet she was not the same woman he had known. He traced the contours of Dany's face with his eyes, noting the delicate differences that marked her rebirth. Despite the change, there was an undeniable familiarity in her peaceful repose, a connection that transcended the boundaries of time and form.

As the morning light filtered softly through the window, Harry found solace in the presence of the woman beside him. It was a reminder of the love that had once been, now resurrected in a form both new and achingly familiar. The quiet of the room was filled with the echoes of their shared past, mingling with the promise of what lay ahead.

Dany stirred, her violet eyes fluttering open to meet Harry's gaze. Her voice, a soft murmur carrying the lilt of a French accent he remembered from their past, broke the silence. "Bonjour, mon coeur," she said, her tone warm with a familiarity that felt both comforting and surreal. "It is good to see your face again."

The words transported Harry back to the days when he and Fleur had shared quiet moments of laughter and affection. He felt the weight of those memories pressing gently upon him, a mixture of nostalgia and tenderness.

Dany's gaze grew thoughtful as she continued, "I've noticed I can slip in and out of my French accent now. It seems I've picked up a few tricks along the way."

Harry nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Your accent suits you," he replied, his voice gentle. "But then, everything about you does."

The conversation turned somber as Harry's mind wandered to the darkness of the past. He recalled the brutality of the Death Eaters, the pain inflicted upon Fleur, and the vengeance that followed. He had wielded his fury with a relentless edge, a reckoning that had shocked even those who had known him best. Dumbledore had said that Harry's actions would have made his parents ashamed—words that echoed in Harry's mind, a reminder of the cost of his quest for retribution.

"I can scarcely imagine what you endured," Harry said quietly, his voice heavy with empathy. "The horrors, the darkness—it's beyond what any soul should bear."

Dany's hand reached out, her touch a gentle comfort. Her own heart bore scars, remnants of the past that lingered even as she tried to navigate this new existence. "I remember," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of reassurance. "But from the afterlife, I saw how you avenged me. The memories are distant, as though they did not happen to this body."

Harry listened, the depth of her words resonating within him. He nodded, his gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. "I'm glad you saw justice," he said, his voice steady. "And I'll be here with you, every step of the way. Together, we'll honor the past and embrace whatever future awaits us."

With the promise of unity and support, their shared understanding forged a silent pact, a testament to the enduring strength of their bond.

Harry's gaze lingered on the leather pouch draped around his neck, a relic from days steeped in both torment and affection. He traced the worn leather with a gentle touch, a prelude to reaching within and retrieving Fleur's wand. The wand, though aged and worn, still exuded a subtle grace that spoke of its storied past.

"I believe this belongs to you," Harry murmured, his voice a soft murmur in the chill of the room. His extended hand held the wand, its cool surface a bridge to a shared history laden with unspoken truths and old wounds.

Dany's eyes, deep and reflective, softened as she accepted the wand from Harry's grasp. Her fingers closed around it with a reverent familiarity, as if the wand were a tangible fragment of her past self. She shut her eyes, allowing the sensation of its presence to wash over her—a touch of Fleur's spirit that connected her to a bygone era.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the quiet as she clutched the wand to her chest. The gratitude in her tone was profound, echoing the unspoken bond between them, a lifeline to memories both cherished and painful.

Their gazes met, a silent dialogue passing between them—a mutual acknowledgment of the paths that had led them here. It was a recognition of loss, of love, and the strange threads of fate that had bound their lives in ways neither could have foreseen.

Dany's voice carried a note of wistfulness as she asked, "Do you still have the engagement ring you gave me?"

A wistful smile touched Harry's lips as he reached back into the pouch, his movements practiced and tender. He produced the engagement ring, its delicate form catching the dim light with an ethereal glint. The intricate designs of the band spoke of a love once given, now a relic of both promise and pain.

"Of course, Dany," Harry replied, his voice imbued with a warmth that spoke of enduring affection. "I swore to keep it safe, did I not?"

The ring, with its golden gleam, was offered to Dany. As her trembling fingers reached out to take it, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between them, a fleeting touch that carried with it the weight of their shared history. In that brief contact, there was a profound sense of intimacy and recognition—a bond that defied the passage of time and the twists of fate.

With a tender smile, Dany slid the ring onto her finger. Her eyes misted with tears as she looked at the symbol of their past love. The ring, once a token of their commitment, now stood as a poignant reminder of both what had been lost and what might yet be regained. Its presence on her finger was a silent vow, a promise of continuity amid the uncertainties of their current lives.

In the stillness of the morning light, surrounded by the echoes of their shared past, Harry and Dany found a moment of deep, unspoken connection. Their bond was reaffirmed in this simple act, a testament to a love that, despite the ravages of time and fate, remained steadfast and true.

Dany's eyes sparkled with a blend of excitement and urgency. "I can't wait another day to become Mrs. Potter," she said, her voice brimming with anticipation. "Let's make it happen, Harry. Let's begin our future together, right here, right now."

Harry's expression grew serious as he took her hand, their fingers entwining in a gesture of both commitment and contemplation. "About that," he said, his voice edged with thoughtfulness. "How would you feel about adopting the name Peverell instead of Potter?"

Dany's brows furrowed slightly in curiosity. "Why Peverell?" she inquired, her tone curious and engaged.

Harry took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. "Westeros already has a House Potter in the Reach. Using that name might not serve us well. But Peverell—that's different. It sounds Valyrian enough to stir intrigue. Most believe the old Valyrian houses were extinguished in the Doom nearly four centuries ago, leaving only shadows of their former glory. By choosing Peverell, we conjure an air of ancient mystery and draw attention to ourselves. This will help us safeguard Jon."

Dany's eyes widened with realization. She understood well the impact of such a decision, given her own Valyrian heritage. "I see," she said thoughtfully. "By using Peverell, we not only evoke the lost grandeur of the Valyrians but also shift focus away from Jon. As the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and King of the Seven Kingdoms, he must remain shielded from unnecessary scrutiny."

Harry nodded in agreement, his face reflecting a mix of relief and determination. "Exactly. Peverell will draw the eyes of those who play the game of thrones, keeping them occupied and intrigued by our apparent connection to the ancient Valyrian lineage. Meanwhile, Jon remains in a position of security, free from the immediate dangers of the political machinations around him."

Dany's expression softened as she considered the name. "Peverell," she repeated, letting it roll off her tongue. "It has a certain elegance and mystique, bridging our past with the future we're striving to build."

With a smile of mutual understanding, Harry reaffirmed, "Mrs. Peverell it is, then. Let us step into this new chapter together, united and vigilant."

As Dany contemplated her new name, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. The name Peverell, with its echoes of Valyrian history and its strategic advantage, symbolized both their shared legacy and their commitment to protecting Jon. Together, they prepared to forge their path forward, bound by love and the complexities of their intertwined destinies.

Deciding to embrace the new day, Dany set about transforming her appearance with the practiced precision of a skilled enchantress. Her gaze, steady and resolute, focused on the intricate task at hand. Drawing upon her deep well of magical talent, she prepared to channel the essence of Fleur Delacour—a name rich with memory and emotion.

Selecting a delicate necklace from Harry's belongings, Dany anchored her glamour charm to it. This necklace had once been meant as  a wedding gift from Harry to Fleur, a cherished artifact imbued with personal significance. As Dany wove the enchantment, her movements were deliberate, each gesture precise and measured. The glamour charm she cast was both complex and demanding, reflecting the advanced skill Fleur had once displayed as a magical protégée.

The magic took hold with a gentle shimmer. Dany's features began to soften, adopting the ethereal beauty that had defined Fleur. Her hair, once a striking silver, now cascaded in golden waves that sparkled like sunlight. Her eyes, previously a deep violet, shifted to the same enchanting blue that had characterized Fleur's gaze.

Within moments, Dany stood before Harry, transformed into an almost perfect replica of Fleur. The glamour charm was a marvel of magical craftsmanship, a testament to the depth of her skill and understanding of enchantments. Her golden hair gleamed in the light, and her blue eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief, evoking a sense of wonder in Harry.

As she twirled gracefully, her golden locks catching the light, Harry's eyes widened in awe. "Although the golden hair suits you," he said, his tone a mixture of nostalgia and affection, "I must confess, I'm  partial to your original silver hair." His gaze lingered on her, filled with admiration. "But regardless of the color, you'll always be beautiful to me, Dany."

Dany's smile was both warm and wistful. "Thank you, Harry," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of playful charm. "I'm grateful for the chance to honor Fleur and to continue our journey together." 

The necklace, now glowing with the enchantment of love and magic, rested against her neck—a symbol of both past and future. In it, Dany embraced not only Fleur's appearance but also the legacy that connected them, weaving their shared destiny into the present.

—

As Harry and Dany stepped into the magically expanded trunk, they found themselves engulfed in an opulent chamber of memories and elegance. The space unfurled like a hidden treasure trove, revealing a wardrobe of garments that had once graced Fleur Delacour. The air shimmered with an almost tangible aura of enchantment, each piece a testament to Fleur's unparalleled taste and refinement.

Dany's gaze swept over the array of clothing with a mix of wonder and reverence. Her fingers traced the delicate fabrics, each touch evoking the ghost of a bygone era. Gowns of flowing silk, resplendent with intricate embroidery and delicate lace, were draped with an air of melancholy grace. Robes shimmered like stardust, their beauty an echo of a past world now lost.

"This is..." Dany began, her voice scarcely more than a breath, "beyond words." She marveled at a gown with a sweeping train, the fabric whispering secrets of a time when Fleur had walked the world with effortless elegance. The sheer beauty of the clothing was almost overwhelming.

Harry, standing beside her, could not help but smile wistfully. "You always had a gift for choosing garments that spoke of her inner grace," he said softly. "And you always wore them with such poise."

As they continued to explore the wardrobe, Dany's attention was drawn to an ensemble that seemed both timeless and fitting for their current journey—a sumptuous dress paired with a cloak that could only be described as regal. Yet, it was an object tucked away in the corner that truly caught her eye. 

A suit of armor, resplendent in red and gold, lay partially concealed. Its craftsmanship was apparent in every intricate detail, each etching and curve reflecting the skill of its maker. Dany approached with a reverent touch, her fingers tracing the ornate patterns.

"It's a marvel," she murmured, her voice a blend of awe and admiration. "I've never seen armor of such artistry."

Harry's expression grew tender as he regarded her. "That armor was meant for you," he said quietly. "You often spoke of my own armor with such fondness—'chevalier dans une armure brillante,' you would call me. So I had this crafted by the Goblins, intended as a birthday gift for you. But fate, it seems, had other plans."

Dany's eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and emotion. She ran her hands over the armor once more, the weight of Harry's thoughtful gesture sinking in. It was not merely an exquisite piece of craftsmanship but a symbol of a love that had withstood trials and separation.

"I... I am at a loss for words," she whispered, her voice catching with emotion. "Thank you, mon coeur. This gift means more to me than you can imagine."

As she looked at the armor, a profound sense of connection enveloped her. The armor was a relic of the past, a bridge between the lives they had led and the future they were forging together. In the stillness of the room, surrounded by the echoes of Fleur's past and the promise of a shared future, Dany felt a deep, abiding sense of unity with Harry. The garments, the armor, and the love they symbolized wove together into a tapestry of enduring affection and hope.

—

Emerging from Harry's chamber, Fleur draped in the invisibility cloak, they find Jon and Robb standing vigil near Lord Stark's Solar. Jon's face is shadowed with a solemn gravity as he steps forward. "I've apprised Robb of the situation," he says, his voice low and firm.

Harry meets Robb's gaze, which carries a blend of curiosity and the stark edge of concern. "Robb," Harry begins, his tone unwavering, "I must impress upon you the magnitude of what has transpired. The woman who was once Fleur—now Dany—she is with us, and her presence is a secret of utmost importance."

He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to hang heavy in the air. "This is no mere apparition of the past. Dany's return is a complex weave of magic and fate, bound by the trials we have endured. Her safety, and by extension ours, hinges upon our discretion. The ramifications of her presence, if exposed, could unravel the delicate threads of our future."

Robb's face hardens with resolve as he absorbs Harry's grave pronouncement. He sees the gravity in Harry's eyes, a reflection of the peril they all face. "I understand," Robb replies, his voice steady and resolute. "Your secret is safe with me. Whatever measures are required to protect Dany, they will be taken. You have my word."

Harry nods, a flicker of relief mingling with his resolve. "Thank you, Robb. Your friendship is more vital than you know. This is not just about Dany's safety; it is about preserving the fragile alliances we've forged and ensuring our future remains intact."

With Robb's pledge securing their confidence, Harry turns toward the door of Lord Stark's Solar. Each knock upon the wood echoes like a heartbeat, a herald to the crucial council awaiting within.

As the door to Lord Stark's Solar swings open with a soft creak, Harry, Jon, and Robb step inside, accompanied by the silent figure shrouded in the Invisibility Cloak. Lord Eddard Stark, seated behind his heavy oak desk, looks up with a gaze as sharp as winter's bite, his eyes scrutinizing the unexpected visitors.

"Lord Stark," Harry begins, his voice steady but laden with gravity. "We come bearing news of great import."

Lord Stark's eyes narrow slightly, his demeanor shifting to one of intense curiosity. "Speak," he commands, his tone firm and unwavering.

Harry proceeds to unravel the tale, describing the events that led to Dany's arrival at Winterfell and her connection to Fleur Delacour. He recounts the mystic intervention of the Old Gods, who facilitated the merging of Fleur's spirit with Dany's own, and the cryptic warning they delivered.

"It was the Old Gods who intervened," Harry explains, his voice carrying an undercurrent of reverence. "They aided in the merging of Fleur's spirit with Daenerys, a process fraught with peril. And they sent a dire warning: the Three-Eyed Raven, a master manipulator, seeks to use us for his own ends. His counsel, though seemingly wise, is laden with deceit."

Lord Stark and Robb exchange looks of astonishment, their surprise palpable. The Old Gods' involvement and the ominous warning about the Three-Eyed Raven are unprecedented revelations, adding layers of complexity to the already precarious situation.

As Harry concludes his account, the room is thick with tension, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Lord Stark's gaze lingers on Harry, the weight of the revelations settling heavily upon him.

"This is a matter of profound significance," Lord Stark says, his voice measured yet resolute. "We must tread carefully and keep Daenerys hidden from the King's party due in a week. To risk Robert's wrath would endanger us all."

Harry nods, acknowledging the gravity of Lord Stark's words. He gestures to the cloaked figure beside him. "Dany, you may reveal yourself."

Dany steps forward, removing the Invisibility Cloak to reveal her true form. Lord Stark and Robb watch with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. She then reaches for the necklace Harry had given her, the gem of which anchors her glamour. Touching the gem, her appearance shifts to that of Fleur Delacour, the transformation seamless and enchanting.

Lord Stark's expression softens from initial shock to cautious acceptance. "Very well," he says, his tone firm yet tempered with understanding. "We shall keep your presence secret from the King's party. Winterfell will offer you sanctuary, Daenerys. But be warned: should any harm come to our people because of you, the consequences will be severe."

Dany nods, her resolve clear and unshaken. "I understand, Lord Stark," she replies, her voice steady and resolute. "Thank you for your trust and hospitality. Winterfell will always be a sanctuary for me."

With a respectful nod to Lord Stark, Harry stepped forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the lord of Winterfell. "My lord," he began, his voice carrying a gravity that matched the moment, "I wish to marry Daenerys here, in Winterfell, beneath the ancient Weirwood. The traditions of the Old Gods demand such sacred rites, and I believe that our union should be sanctified in that revered place."

Lord Stark's eyes, deep and inscrutable, narrowed slightly as he contemplated Harry's request. The Weirwood, a silent sentinel through centuries of Stark history, loomed in their minds as a hallowed ground where ancient oaths had been sworn. After a moment's pause, Lord Stark's stern countenance softened just a fraction. "A union beneath the Weirwood would indeed be fitting," he conceded, his voice solemn and measured. "If it is your wish, Harry, then you have my blessing. May the Old Gods look favorably upon your bond and grant you strength and wisdom in the days to come."

Turning to face the gathered assembly, Dany, her glamour shimmering with the familiar features of Fleur Delacour, spoke with quiet resolve. "Until the time is right, please address me as Fleur," she requested, her voice steady but urgent. "It is crucial that my true identity as Daenerys Targaryen remain concealed for now, for the safety of all involved."

Harry, Lord Stark, Jon, and Robb nodded in solemn agreement, each understanding the delicate balance they needed to maintain. The weight of secrecy hung heavy in the air, as did the understanding of the dangers that could ensue should Dany's true identity be revealed. The room fell into a thoughtful silence, each person reflecting on the gravity of their roles in the unfolding drama.

With Lord Stark's blessing granted and the plan set, Harry, Dany, Jon, and Robb moved with purpose out of the solar. The cold, stone corridors of Winterfell seemed to echo with the promise of both challenge and hope as they made their way toward the great hall. The normal rhythms of the castle—servants bustling, the clatter of dishes—contrasted sharply with the weighty matters discussed moments before.

As they approached the great hall, the warmth from the hearth and the bustling of the Starks and their household offered a fleeting respite from the seriousness of their meeting.

As they enter the great hall, Harry leads the way, his demeanor both resolute and calm. He introduces Dany, concealed under the glamour as Fleur Delacour, to the gathered Starks. The room buzzes with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue as they welcome the enigmatic French lady into their midst.

Arya, her sharp eyes fixed on Fleur, can't contain her curiosity. "Where have you been all this time?" she asks, her voice a blend of suspicion and genuine interest.

Fleur meets Arya's gaze with a serene yet guarded expression. "I was lost," she replies softly, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "After a great war ravaged my homeland, I traveled from Avalon, a distant land west of Westeros. My ship was caught in a storm, and I was cast ashore here, separated from Harry. I wandered, hoping to find a way back to him."

Harry steps in, his voice heavy with regret. "I believed she had perished in the shipwreck," he admits, his tone reflecting the depth of his sorrow. "The storm was fierce, and I assumed I had lost her forever."

Sansa's eyes widen in awe as she listens to their story. "You two are like star-crossed lovers reunited against all odds," she exclaims, her voice filled with admiration. "It's as if you've stepped out of a legend!"

Dany's smile warms at Sansa's enthusiastic reaction. "Perhaps we are," she muses, her tone both wistful and hopeful. "But now that we've found each other again, nothing will tear us apart."

Lord Stark, his expression grave yet accepting, nods at Harry's request. "Harry has expressed his wish to marry his betrothed tonight beneath the Weirwood tree," he declares. "We must make the necessary preparations with all haste, under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods."

Lady Stark's gaze shifts to one of cautious consideration as she weighs the task ahead. "It will be a tight schedule," she acknowledges, "but we can manage. We'll ensure everything is ready for the ceremony."

Sansa, ever eager to help, offers her assistance. "I can help with the cloak," she suggests brightly. "What colors and sigil will it bear?"

Harry's gratitude is evident as he smiles at Sansa's offer. "Thank you, Sansa," he says warmly. "I'd be honored to have your help."

He considers her question for a moment. "The cloak will be red with a golden phoenix," he explains. "The phoenix represents House Peverell, a lineage with a storied history."

The mention of House Peverell sparks a ripple of surprise among the Starks. Sansa's eyes widen in curiosity. "House Peverell?" she repeats, her voice filled with intrigue. "I don't believe I've heard of them before."

Harry nods solemnly, his tone reflecting reverence for the house he now represents. "House Peverell was an ancient house known for their influence in our lands," he begins. "They merged with House Potter many generations ago. Given that Westeros already has a House Potter in the Reach, I feel it's my duty to revive the Peverell legacy and honor their memory."

Sansa listens intently, her expression one of admiration. "It's a noble endeavor," she says. "I'm sure House Peverell will rise again under your leadership."

Harry's smile is one of heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you, Sansa," he replies sincerely. "With your help, I'm confident we can restore the honor of House Peverell."

The Starks rally to assist with the preparations, their spirits lifted by the promise of a new beginning. Surrounded by friends and allies, Harry and Dany, known to all as Fleur, stand poised to embark on a new chapter in their lives, united in their determination to forge a future together.

---

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