Of Blood and Wine

Of Blood and Wine

TITLE : A Different Kind of War

SUMMARY : Confronted with the daunting threat of war looming over Britain, Harry must prepare for the inevitable confrontation. But when an enigmatic French Beauty arrives to assist Hogwarts in preparation for the coming dangers, Harry soon learns that matters of the heart and battlefield are of equal difficulty.

CHAPTER TITLE : Of Blood and Wine

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: As always, a big thank you to x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid for keeping up with my recently turbulent update schedule.

Somehow, I've retained my momentum, to no one's greater surprise than my own. But here we go again. A little delve into some not strictly linear storytelling, but I always have fun in delving into the fact that the intent to impose hierarchy isn't a sudden thought. That there's going to have to be a lot more work done at large.

Anyways, that's enough from me. Enjoy the cheeky Witcher reference, some flirting, some emotions, a bit of growth and what I hope to be a good chapter.

Be sure to review, opinions outside my own help me grow and ensure the story is the best it can be.

As always, be safe in this turbulent world. Stay well and happy and enjoy!

The war drums had finished their song. Where passion and rage once dominated, it was replaced with an equally volatile pounding in his forehead. He'd fled far beyond the confines of the classroom, into open corridors and past flickering paintings.

His thoughts spun around in a confusing maelstrom in his head, his rudimentary Occlumency was no match for the intensity of the urge he felt nor the flurry of emotions that threatened to break from their confines. His thoughts continued their vortex in his skull, keeping him from clutching at one to form some sort of cohesive grasp on the events that had transpired.

His world shifted as though his axis was off tilt, everything was bathed in a crimson light as he staggered down the hallways to the Headmaster's Office. His scar throbbed violently in inconsistent patterns.

Still, Harry fought against the ache. His own mental constitution was the only barrier against the bombarding ache in his forehead. Although, it was a battle he was losing in earnest.

The pain soon became too much. He began to list too far to his left, like a ship sinking at sea, bouncing off of hard cobblestones and suits of armour. He crashed into an object he could barely see, a door that relented upon harsh contact with his shoulder.

His blurry vision offered little insight into his new dwelling, he struggled to get to his feet before he was sent backwards again. A lance of white-hot pain that smashed into his skull sent him sprawling, his eyes rolled backwards into his head, showing only milky alabaster in place of Emerald.

Yet he saw, although through eyes not his own.

Harry struggled to be free from the restraints of a body that was not his own, although to no avail. His protests were futile, his newfound limbs moved of their own volition, along with his voice and eyes. It felt not entirely dissimilar to when he was launched into Dumbledore's pensieve, albeit much more disorientating and constricting.

Adjusting to the sensation was hard, the substitution of familiar ground for foreign. His scar lost its ache and his blurry vision was shedded for a clear view of his surroundings. The changes were disconcerting and the events that led him there filled his stomach with dread, but his protests meant little against the force that urged him forward

The twilight felt hot on his skin, the gaze of moonlight harsh and oppressive. His very presence felt subjugated and narrow, in a way he couldn't describe. Every step he took rebounded off the hard cobbles. He should've been able to feel them underfoot, but the sensation was absent.

Before he knew it, a set of doors were ahead of him. Large, wrought iron that towered high above him towards the ceiling. Decorated by ornate heraldry that glimmered a golden glow in the bright, full moon. It was lined with silver and had an elaborate crest in the centre of the door, a large 'M' sat proudly, guarded fore and aft by two black dragons. The coat-of-arms sat upon two diagonal spears that were made of black stone, beneath it, a motto.

' Sanctimonia Vincet Semper'

Either side of the large entry stood men in black cloaks. Harry didn't recognise the first, a thick jaw sat upon narrow shoulders with fairly unremarkable features save for a discoloured patch of scar tissue above his right eye, straw coloured hair topping his head.

The other man, however, Harry could almost claim to know. He looked like Lucius Malfoy, although only slightly different enough that Harry could discern this was a different man. He could see a bit of Draco in him too, his cheekbones were high and tapered into a narrow jaw and his bright blonde hair fell just below his shoulders. His robes were finely tailored also, embroidered with golden details. His mere presence screamed aristocrat.

"Abraxas, Pericles." Harry greeted formally or rather, the body he currently inhabited did.

The voice wasn't his own, it was silky and smooth where his had only just shedded the last few vestiges of boyhood.

"Master." They both bowed lowly to him. Harry didn't like this at all.

"Shall we retire inside?" Harry asked. It was phrased like a question, it sounded like a question. But his voice carried a command that made the men relent immediately.

The inside of the house, or rather, manor was more outlandish if it was possible. Pillars of dark marble rose high into the ceiling and the ceiling was decorated every so many meters by large candelabras.

They soon led him to a wide room, a fireplace crackled animatedly off to one side. A long table filled a good portion of the empty space. Long and stained dark, the table held many occupants, all donning the same cloaks as the men he'd seen before.

A chair sat at the head of the table, standing taller than the others. He assumed it was reserved for the owner of the house, but the blonde man allowed Harry to sit there. The other occupants of the room lowered their head to his presence.

"Rise." Harry commanded and their heads raised, more unfamiliar faces.

Harry turned to the blonde man, "Abraxas, I trust you've made suitable arrangements in regards to your father?" He asked with a volatile undertone lurking below the polite words.

"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas was quick to oblige. "Caractus Burke was quick to oblige with a pox carrying rat, he's been given a month to live by his personal healers."

"I trust you've dealt with Burke accordingly?"

"Of course, My Lord, he's been interred in accommodations befitting his transgressions against yourself."

"Excellent, have him sent to Romulus Westhall. Cromwell ensures me he's been chosen as the leader of their pack." The man in question puffed his chest out at the mention. "Ensure he's sent as a gift, food or otherwise."

"Would it really be beneficial to add such ilk to our cause?"

"It's not your place to question our Lord." A heavy-set man warned. "You're alread-"

A raised hand stopped the man's tirade.

"As long as Westhall is amicable, any alliance born between us and the Scottish packs will be temporary." He explained, his silky voice commanding attention, "But if we wish to become the conquerors our birthright demands of us, we must find allies."

"Conquering with those beasts sounds counterintuitive to our plans, My Lord, surely more would join our cause without such impediments?"

Harwell Crabbe. Harry thought, looking at the heavy-set man, although the knowledge wasn't his own. The man sat across from him nodded in agreeance. Gilford Goyle. This one was thin, though his face was fat, marred with pock marks that had no doubt come from Dragon Pox that he must have narrowly survived.

Loyal, Harry thought, But lacking wit. Harwell seldom has a thought that Gilford didn't have first, likewise with the inverse.

He committed the foreign knowledge to memory, although he had no right to know any of it.

"Perhaps." Harry said, his voice carrying an edge it hadn't before, "There is some credence to your words, but little sense behind them. We cannot gather allies without strength. When the opportunity presents itself to gain both, Should we not take it?"

"We should spend our time gathering the Pureblood houses," Harwell said, "Mindless beasts are useless to us, let them taste our power by force should the need arise."

"Coercion leaves a bitter taste in the mouth." The silky voice said, "Power tastes best when sweetened by platitudes and courtesy."

"I agree with our Lord." The blonde man said, "The Werewolves are fickle beasts, but if offered sufficient grazing, they should heed your commands. We've a greater chance at bringing the foolish to heel with them at our backs."

Abraxas Malfoy, the silky voice echoed in his head as if it was his own, Of all my inner circle, only he is truly cunning. The majority are wrought from something more mild, burnished like bronze to preen and recite their heritage. But Abraxas is true steel.

Abraxas turned to look at Harry or rather, Voldemort. His eyes seemed to bore holes through Harry, although he was not perturbed. He truly was close to identical to Lucius and even Draco. His eyes were the same austere grey, his face was dissimilar in expression only. But there was an agelessness to him the others didn't possess. His eyes appeared to be wrought from stone and looked to betray as much as hardened rock.

This is a cold man. The silky voice praised internally.

He had enacted a plan to murder his own father, Brutus, without hesitation all at his behest. The Malfoy fortune would soon be beholden to their cause. His other followers had squandered it, paying fines for muggle baiting and hunting tore their fortunes apart. But now, galleons could persuade many allies.

"Having the werewolves at our backs is my concern." Gilford said, "If we're to offer them the means to sate their lusts, we need to gain ground if we wish to appease them."

"Enough." The man commanded and without hesitation, they obeyed. They had long since learned the price of insolence.

Cromwell Nott.

Last time he spoke out-of-turn despite their Lord's command, he'd been punished. Now, he kept silent until called upon. Hiding the shakes of his hands as corroded nerve endings kept him in line, the Cruciatus truly was a cruel curse.

"Abraxas, see to your father and ensure his death is clean." Brutus was no follower of his, but his seed had spawned one of his most valuable pawns. No, the man was no fanatic but his birthright earned him a quick end.

The blonde man ran off quickly to oblige without a spoken word.

"Pericles, have you made the preparations I requested?"

"Of course Master." He replied succinctly in a gruff voice. "The Malfoy dungeons have housed him for days."

"Very well." Harry replied in turn. Sensing their dismissal, the black cloaks started fluttering out of the door and into the manor proper. Harry sat there for another moment, before he followed.

Though he diverted, where they went right to the entryway, Harry went left. He himself didn't know his destination and yet, he did.

The dungeons.

Harry opened the door, it was heavy and made from dark wood, odd inscriptions carved into it. There was no slot for food nor air. He tapped his caramel wand onto the door and the inscriptions flared red before the door swung open.

Whatever Harry expected behind the door, this was not it.

It was an old man, or at least, relatively old. Suspended in the air in an odd pose, likely orchestrated by magic.

Harry began to circle the old man, he was either asleep or knocked unconscious if his closed eyes and soft breath were any indicators. Given the fact that he was suspended in a position that looked entirely too painful to fall asleep, he very much assumed it was the latter, rather than the former. He flicked his wand and a silent spell shot forward and buried itself in the man's gut, sending the man into a wheezing fit.

"Who.. are you?" The man croaked, his throat raw. It was clear he hadn't had any water for some time, his voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"Do you truly not recognise me?" He mocked, "I've been cursed by your features my entire life, yet you cannot see yourself in me. A true blessing, father ."

The man seemed to take a moment before realisation hit him. He let out a painful chuckle.

"So that bitch kept you?" The man spat, although lacking saliva, the attempt was little but pitiful. "That miserable whore of a mother should've let you dribble down her legs. You're no son of mine."

Harry felt a brief flash of anger and his wand flared to life, it didn't offer the same radiating warmth as his holly wand, not that he could feel it, but it lurched with an eager alacrity. A silent curse shot from it's tip, crossing the short distance with a red flash, drawing a deep cut across the man's cheek, he hissed in pain and spat at Harry's feet.

"You speak of my mother as if you're any dissimilar." He said, enunciating his words by pushing his wand into the open wound. "Yet here you are, a disgraced aristocrat with naught but an empty manor. Even your blood befouls my wand. You may have sired me, but nothing more. You imparted nought to me, where Merope gave me all."

"You're no son of mine. You little cunt!" He spat again, this time in Harry's face. A quick flick of his wand and the spit vanished, another flick and a white spell shot from the pale wand, a sickening crack later and the old man's capacity to speak was stunted by a broken jaw.

"You couldn't be more correct. I am no son of yours. I am a conqueror, the last heir to Salazar and House Slytherin. Destined for greater than living out my days as the spawn of a filthy muggle."

The man tried to say something, but his injuries withheld his words.

"You shall die tonight, alone and forgotten. But your name can fill a footnote in the history books, father. You are the key to my ascension."

The floor was covered in a complex pattern, Harry assumed in his limited knowledge of the content that it was some form of runic circle, Hermione had a fascination with them in third year. He summoned a knife from the table, it was bright silver, almost white and adorned with jewels down the tang of the blade. Harry gripped the cutting edge and ran it through his palm and surprisingly he felt it, cool steel parting his skin and a wake of crimson following.

He began to cover the pattern with blood, clenching his fist to draw the crimson ichor free. Harry began to feel the effects of blood loss but the circle was soon covered in blood. He then took a ring off his left hand and placed it in the middle of the circle. The smell of iron hot in his nose.

Harry gingerly ran his wand over his palm, sealing the wound before looking at the battered old man, he had an expression of perpetual terror and Harry felt his lips curl into a cruel grin.

" Avada Kedavra. " Harry said simply, his voice full of malice.

The man didn't seem to understand the words, but he understood the implications. His body threw his arms back instinctively as if to save himself, the body's final gambit to prolong life. Harry too was thrown backwards beyond view.

The world was black around him as he descended back into his own body, a perilous descent with the scent of iron still hot in his nose.

His eyes rolled back into their rightful position, he was still prone and apparently in a broom cupboard. He'd thrashed quite a bit judging from the damage. He rose to his feet and took some tentative steps before expelling the contents of his stomach all over the floor.

His head no longer pounded and his scar didn't ache, but it now bled, dripping ichor into his eyebrow and coating the side of his face. He reached a gentle pair of fingers to the weeping wound, they came away sticky though the wound didn't drip the crimson blood he was expecting. Instead his fingers came away coated with a darker liquid, near black and more viscous than blood. His fingers seemed to aggravate the wound as its efforts to expel the dark discharge begin with a newfound fervour, running down his face to form a thick pool on the floor.

Harry didn't know what to feel.

On the one hand he felt the contents of his stomach lurch again at the blasé nature Voldemort went about killing or the ritual afterwards. But on the other, it felt so much like it was his doing. He experienced what Voldemort did. Retrospectively it was easy to be disgusted by the act, but when he was in the body of Voldemort, he felt the pleasure, the perversion and he enjoyed it. Maybe it was just him experiencing what Riddle felt, or maybe the two were becoming more akin then he cared to admit.

He'd had more visions of Voldemort than he could count, his fifth year had been plagued by them. Although this one stood out. It felt more like a lecture, like he was being taught something, rather than goaded, as odd as that was.

The ritual too, it was at the heart of it all. Whatever it did to that ring was important but what he couldn't figure out was why he saw this. Was Voldemort bold enough to try another ruse through their mental connection or was it involuntary? There was nothing there to suggest it was another attempt to trap Harry, but if not that, then what?

A few shaky steps forward and he grappled with the worn door frame as he battled vertigo. A few more careful steps and he'd developed a sedated pace that kept his head from spinning. He debated going to the Hospital Wing, but he'd made it closer to the Headmaster's office, his original destination.

With some longer, purposeful strides his pace quickened and he found the nausea settled for the moment. He was unsure what time it was or rather, how long he'd been in a trance for. But judging by the empty hallways save for the idle chatter of the portraits, he'd wager they were all still in class. The trek to the Headmaster's Office was fairly uneventful.

As always, the gargoyle stood vigil as the resolute protector of the Office.

"Manticore Minties." Harry tried, hopefully the man didn't change his passwords often.

The Gargoyle gave a brief nod before it stilled, moments later it stepped aside and the familiar spiral staircase was yet again on display. He reached the top of the stairs and saw the man in question. Professor Dumbledore was sat at his desk, peering over his half-moon spectacles at one missive or another at his desk.

He was especially enraptured in its words given the fact he failed to give Harry the cordial welcome that he'd always given. As Harry slowly approached the desk, the wizened wizard looked up at him, he looked noticeably worse since Harry saw him only hours ago, his face was gaunt and it appeared he hadn't slept.

"Harry? I didn't ask for you." The man asked, his voice laced with concern. If Harry thought the Headmaster looked off, then he shuddered to think of his own appearance. Black ooze still stained his face, his scar flared an angry red and his face was pale. The man flicked his wand and the discharge vanished, or so it felt like.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

"To be honest sir, I'm not too sure myself." Harry admitted, his voice laced with uncertainty.

The Professor made a gesture with his hands to continue, Harry obliged.

He told him of blood that pounded in his ears, that whispers in his ear to strike down Snape and the vision of a young Voldemort, undergoing a ritual at the cost of his father's life. With each detail that Harry divulged, the Headmaster grew paler as if each word was a blow to his person. After Harry had finished recounting the day's events, the Headmaster relieved his face of his reading glasses, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, he did not give any indication that he was about to answer.

"Please, sir." Harry begged, he could see Dumbledore's internal struggle on the matter, he was unsure of why he seemed so conflicted but he was desperate for answers. "What's happening to me?"

Sighing once more, Dumbledore acquiesced.

"I don't fully know." The old man said simply.

"I don't need 'I don't know', sir." Harry replied, "I need to know what's happening to me."

"I fear no answer I have will give you what you seek, Harry." The man said sadly. "But perhaps we can start from the beginning."

His gloved hand drew his long wand, the old wood decorated with clusters and knots.

"Think of the memory." He ordered simply.

"Do I have to?" He responded, equally as simply.

"Not if you don't wish it so," The man assured him, "But it would help me greatly."

Harry was mute, he merely nodded and the man pushed the harsh tip of his wand into Harry's temple as the raven-haired boy closed his eyes. The skin screamed in protest, a lance of pain arcing down his jaw. But the wand pulled away and the tension he barely recognised was there was extracted as well.

The wisp of memory came away, hanging onto the tip of the Headmaster's wand by a barely visible thread. But it wasn't like the Hitwizard's memory, this one seemed lifeless. Where the other wriggled and writhed, this one remained still, blown by the small draught in the room.

The man flicked his wand, freeing the thread that was hung upon its tip. Its descent towards the water of the Pensieve was slow, far slower then it had any right to be. It contacted the dark surface and instead of turning the surface into the shimmering milk glass as the other one had, the surface remained blackened as if burnt.

The memory had sunk, condemned to the depths of the Pensieve.

"Peculiar." The Headmaster said absentmindedly, definitely not addressing Harry.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Harry asked, nodding towards the ornate bowl.

"No." The man announced after another brief moment, "It's not. Something protects your memories."

"I didn't use Occlumency." Harry defended, "I came straight here after it happened."

"Would that it be so simple." He said, stroking the knot in his beard. "Few memories are protected from a Pensieve's scrutiny. There is a reason why they are so coveted amongst collectors, there is power in their enchantments."

"Few memories?" Harry pointed out, "But not all?"

"The prediction of a Seer is likely the most notable," Dumbledore said.

"You think I gave a prophecy?" Harry said, dumbfounded.

"Nothing of the sort." The man refuted, "These protections are intrinsic to the art of Divination, as unreliable as it is. No, something else protects the memory."

"What does it mean then?" Harry said, his temper rising again. "If you know so much about it, why is it happening again, like this? "

"Wise men and fools ofttimes try to interpret visions and dreams, and magic itself ofttimes laughs at our errors." The Headmaster mused, in a jovial tone that stoked Harry's anger.

The man was treating it like a game.

"I could no sooner tell you why you saw what you saw." He said, offering Harry a short glance, "I cannot fathom the contents of your visions, but perhaps I can discern their relevance."

"Then tell me." Harry said tersely.

Dumbledore eyed him for a moment, before speaking.

"First, it would be prudent for me to explain what I can glean from your own explanation."

Harry nodded his consent and the man began.

"Your incident with Professor Snape, while volatile, was not entirely unexpected."

Harry furrowed his brow, "You expected this to happen?"

"To some degree," The man confirmed, "I asked that Severus provide a test for you, but it appears my confidence in him was misplaced."

"It's always been misplaced." Harry snarked.

The man simply ignored his words in favour of continuing.

"There are said to be primaeval warrior cultures that thrived on the call to battle, the rush of adrenaline and power that comes with taking a life. They say some were once employed by the ICW, powerful mages that beat back Dark Lords. They're little but tales."

"Illusions," Harry added.

"Precisely." The man agreed with a smile, "More oft than not, the ICW Enforcers are merely butchers with little regard to their surroundings, a story to sell their innocence. Agamemnon was depicted by Homer in his magical texts as a 'Battle Mage', but again, mere tales. You are no more a man fuelled by bloodlust than I, nor does your reaction make you anything more or less than that of which you are already."

"Professor?"

"You experienced trauma, Harry." The man explained softly, "Worse than all but few have to go through. Severus, against my wishes, stoked a fire already raging. You responded, not entirely out of turn and certainly not in a manner that's unexpected."

"So what is it then?" Harry asked, "Why is this happening to me again?"

"That's the cost of war, Harry." The man said, "It affects us all. Those who have the misfortune of seeing it reign. That was its call, the heat in your chest, muscles pulled taut, the thump of blood in your ears. Every man feels it at least once, those who fight it are the better for it. Those who don't often don dark cloaks."

"That doesn't explain the voices," Harry said.

"No it doesn't." The man relented, "But I believe you know well enough how you saw what you saw. You needn't the reminder that your skin is far more than skin marred red and purple. Your connection will persist until one of you perishes."

"So why is he showing me this? " Harry asked, "It had no point, there was nothing there, not like the other ones. Nothing to lure me anywhere."

"I don't think he truly controls the contents of the visions any longer. I think, perhaps, you glanced into his mind, rather than the inverse."

"I didn't do anything." Harry defended.

"Of course," The man agreed, "I believe his attempt to possess you at the Ministry went awry. There remains little explanation of why the Dark Lord is now so fearful of entering your mind, perhaps it became a far more daunting task than it once was."

"So you think I saw something from his mind? Do you think it means something then?"

"I do." The man simply nodded. "I believe you witnessed one of the first-generation meetings of what would later become the Death Eaters and you witnessed something far more important afterwards."

"The ritual?"

"Indeed. But first, I might explain the vision to the extent I understand it."

Harry once again nodded his head and the man began.

"Tom coerced many to his ideals in these halls. Abraxas Malfoy, Cromwell Parkinson, Harwell Crabbe, Gilford Goyle and Nelson Greengrass were the first of many. All prominent members of our society, disillusioned by increasing muggle-born rights, hiding behind antiquated laws to enact their revenge. They all wanted change desperately. Where the Wizengamot failed them, radicalism did not. Their views were rigid, and their dogma strict - the old ways were paramount."

"Why does that memory matter though?" Harry asked, "They're all dead."

"Indeed and for most of them, almost immediately after they joined Tom's movement. But the ideology persisted, has it not? We've beat them countless times before Harry, but yet they remain. It's not enough to merely best them. If we cannot establish peaceful coexistence with them we're doomed to follow the same bloody path forged a millennia ago - war will be all we've ever known, ever will know."

"You've already told me about this." Harry noted, "Only yesterday. I know what you meant."

"Then you were granted a glimpse of exactly what I described and something more. I don't believe that to be happenstance."

"So I'm seeing what you tell me to see?" Harry asked tersely. His scar began it's dull throb again.

"Not what I tell you Harry. But what you needed to see. Something I, regrettably, kept hidden for fear the right time would never come."

"You're telling me I needed to see a man murdered?" Harry spat, "I needed to faint in a broom cupboard like a child?"

"No, but you needed to learn a truth, one I hoped to never have to speak of." The man pulled open the drawer of his desk and from it, he procured a silk bag.

He pulled the drawstrings loose and emptied the contents onto the table with a small clang.

It was the ring from his vision, split into two at the midsection. The face held a dark emblem, a triangle with a circle in its grasp, bisected by a single line.

"The ring?" Harry asked aghast, "How did you find it? Why do you have it?"

"Luck." The man said simply, "But it represents something far greater than we could ever imagine. This -" He said, gesturing towards the ring before taking a long, bated breath.

"Is a Soul Jar - A Horcrux. This is what you saw."

"A Horcrux?" Harry asked, testing the foreign words on his lips.

"Magicks of the soul and blood," The Headmaster explained, "Old and foul. There are some things that even the worst would not befoul themselves with. Voldemort had no such compunctions, the murder of his father sealed the creation of the ring. A man you're all too familiar with, I imagine."

Harry had a brief flash of memories. Bursts of red and green flaring across the dark night, lifeless eyes staring at him, stone angels that wouldn't let him free and above all, a serpentine figure rising from a bubbling cauldron like a demonic phoenix from the ashes, eyes a volatile crimson.

"What do they do?" Harry asked, staring intently at the ring sat upon the table.

"They tether him to this mortal plane, while they linger, so shall he. Forever bound to this earth while his objects persist."

"How many are there?" Harry asked, his throat suddenly dry.

"I've destroyed one, as have you."

"The diary?" Harry guessed after a moment.

"Precisely." The Headmaster agreed, "What you saw before it was happenstance, perhaps, but not what came after. The Dark Lord would not dare flaunt what he holds closest. I believe you may possess the ability to receive glimpses of these Soul Jars by your connection to him, but not by choice. Neither yours nor his."

"I've only seen the ring." He pointed out, his voice shaking somewhat "Can we really make a judgement after one time?"

"You also saw through the eyes of Voldemort's familiar, which may very well be another of his Horcruxes."

"Then let's destroy them." Harry resolved, "If I can see them, we can find them."

"You're not ready." The man said simply, "I fear you won't be for some time."

"Then train me." Harry returned quickly, "Then let me fight him."

"I cannot." The man said simply, "Martial might alone cannot hope to defeat Voldemort. Nor can you hope to match his power or knowledge. The disparity between you is too large to span in decades, let alone months. Tom was gifted, even among prodigies, the idea that you can match him alone is a fanciful tale. I had once believed that my own prowess would be more than a match for Tom and even I was misled."

"But it's not just Voldemort, is it sir?" Harry asked. The Headmaster's face seemed suddenly dull at his words. " Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott. All those faces in my visions, they might be dead, but their children aren't, you said it yourself. They're coming. What good am I to anyone if I can't even protect myself?"

His face was still dull, like it was the day before and yet, it held the slightest of sorrows. He'd seen it before in a few faces - Sirius, Moody, even Scrimgeour. Men who'd seen war and did their utmost not to spread its tools. His reluctance suddenly made sense, even if it was infuriating.

"I cannot." He said again.

"Why?"

Harry asked and his words felt like they seemed to echo around the room, even the portraits remained still. It felt less like a question and more a demand, although he didn't expect it, the man obliged.

Dumbledore grabbed the tip of the glove he had taken to wearing on his right hand, he winced in pain as the dark accessory came free. Harry immediately saw why he chose to wear it, his hand was blackened as if charred, veins rippled beneath his skin pumping dark blood around his hand. His ring finger was the worst, the bone was exposed and blackened. Tendons spasmed periodically, as if rigour mortis had already set in, the dead muscles flexed and the Professor let out a harsh hiss.

"Alas, a necrotic curse I missed, in my hubris, I failed to give the item the proper respect. A failure I paid dearly for. Given the diary had no similar protective enchantments I imagined the same for the ring. Professor Snape has discerned a way to slow down the process, but I'm afraid I am not long for this world." He said gravely, his face even more hollow than before.

"How… How long?" Harry choked, bile rose at the back of his throat, their greatest hope in the war to come, the one light in a sea of darkness was cursed, living on borrowed time.

"The end of the year, if I fight the curse sufficiently well, but even now it drains my magic. I'm unsure just how long I have." He said sadly, "This had always been your duty, Harry, to follow footsteps you couldn't see towards a destiny you couldn't comprehend - Voldemort's footsteps. Within you lies my legacy, the hope of a world better than the one we've always known.

Harry didn't answer, how could he? His world was crashing down around him, the world that already seemed destined to pile a great weight for him to bear. But this was worse, far worse. The only reason Voldemort hadn't initiated open conflict was fear of Albus Dumbledore, without him, the Magical World faced a threat with no remedy.

"Teach me then." He said quietly, "Let me do my duty."

"I shall." The man said, relenting in an equally as soft voice, "But not yet, there is more to life than duty."

"My life has only ever been duty, sir."

"I know, my boy and that fact stings more than blackened skin ever could."

"Does he know?" Harry asked fearfully.

Dumbledore shook his head, "I'd surely regret the implications if he did, but at the present moment, I'd say he's unaware of the destruction of the ring. Tom was never one for patience. If there was an opportune moment to attack, which my injury most certainly is, he would've struck."

He looked at Harry mournfully. "My boy, I need you to know I never intended to leave this burden on your shoulders. It was our war and it pains me more than any curse to know I'll leave this world with it still plaguing the youth. I'll impart to you the knowledge imperative to the defeat of Voldemort. I'll give you as much as I can, for as long as I can, but this war is yours now Harry. It's always been yours."

Harry wanted to form a rebuttal, tell him he had to stay, that he was their only hope. But it was futile, his words stilled at his lips and his breath became ragged. Dumbledore seemed to notice.

"Mayhaps, Harry, it would be best if you headed to your dorm to rest, I fear today's events have had quite a significant impact."

Harry nodded, his feet guided him out of the room and down the stairs, his head started to spin again but not in the same way as before.

"Harry." The man called out again, but said no more. He no longer looked like the powerful wizard that fought at the Ministry.

He looked like a sad, old man.

The air had been sucked out of his lungs and it felt like a sledgehammer was thumping his chest. His feet dragged him to his destination without his mind fully comprehending where he was going, he didn't remember consulting the Marauders Map, nor the long and winding track he took around the castle to get there.

But sure enough, he winded up at her door.

He barely lifted his clenched fist to knock on her door before it swung open and beyond it stood the beautiful face of Fleur Delacour, that of which he'd been seeking counsel and comfort in for over a month.

"'Arry? What's wrong?" Her words broke the fragile flood wall that had held his torrent of emotions from spilling onto his face.

The first tears began to fall, he hadn't shed tears since Sirius died. It made him feel weak, more of a child then he had a right to be given the situation. But he didn't exactly epitomize caring at the moment. She noticed the tears fall and brought him into the room. It smelled of her, the fragrant mixture of rosewood and vanilla that just smelled familiar.

He stumbled forward across the threshold into her office, she was clearly surprised by the action and moved from his path. She helped him towards one of the plush chairs of her office, of which Harry didn't have time to take note of.

She stood next to him as he sat down, Harry's head rested briefly on the shoulder of her robe, his eyes weary from the few shedded tears and lack of sleep. She put a hand on his shoulder and met his emerald eyes with her ocean blue.

"Is it important?" She whispered as if a louder voice would aggravate him.

"Yes." He whispered back, though not looking at her.

"Is it urgent?" She prompted again, her voice quiet.

"Not really." He said, there wasn't much he could do.

"Then sleep." She requested. "You can think about it later."

If he was thinking rationally, he might've protested. But the room was warm and the chair comfortable, the smell of vanilla overtook his senses. His eyelids wavered, their final gambit against slumber before lowering. Drifting into a well-deserved albeit short slumber.

He awoke a few hours later, he felt better save for a terrible kink in his neck that came from sleeping in an awkward position. He looked around the room expecting Fleur to be in it, though she was nowhere to be seen, the moderately sized room was empty save for Harry. He could, however, hear the pattering sound of water hitting the floor and resolved it was likely she was in the shower.

He peered around the room to take in the surroundings. The decor was very minimalistic in its design, it looked entirely out of place with the rustic and medieval design of Hogwarts. Sleek tables jutted from the wall to act as a desk and bookshelves, there was very little else save the recliner Harry had perched himself in, a fireplace and a single door, which Harry could only assume led to a bedroom and the bathroom if the noises were anything to go off.

Her scent lingered in the room, between that and the decor the room was decidedly Fleur Delacour.

She emerged a few moments later in a fresh set of light blue robes, using a charm to slowly dry her hair.

"Hey." Harry offered awkwardly.

She snorted in amusement, "Not exactly what I'd say after crying on someone's shoulder but I suppose it works."

He had to let out a little chuckle at that. "Seeing as you've conscripted me to your service, I'd say I should get some repayment."

"Will coming into my office in this state be a regular occurrence?" She asked with an arched, manicured eyebrow.

"It is a nice shoulder." He agreed, thankful for the distraction "I've definitely seen worse."

"Such high praise." She drawled in a tone that made it clear it was a jest, "I'm sure Ron's would suffice."

"Nah, just hasn't got the same ambience." He shrugged.

She smirked at him and continued drying her hair, but didn't break the sudden silence.

"That's it?" He queried "You're not going to pester me as to why I came here?"

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No, not really." He admitted.

"Then I won't ask unless you need another shoulder."

"I appreciate your respect for privacy." He said gratefully.

That was a significant difference, Hermione would pester him until he relented and Ron would ignore the problem completely.

"I'm sure I could guess anyways." She said confidently.

"I doubt that."

"Would you take some advice?" She asked and he found himself nodding.

"Sure." He nodded, taken aback by her sudden shift.

"You're Harry Potter." She began.

"Very astute." He added with a smile.

She shot him a glare but didn't falter.

"You have a great task ahead of you if the papers are to be believed." She said, turning to look directly at him. "Adversity will be all you ever know if you let it - don't let it. There's nothing admirable, nothing to be gained, by lowering your head and accepting what is."

He didn't know what was more perturbing. The fact that he was so easy to read that she'd surmised most of the reason without a second glance. Or how hard the words echoed within him.

"What else is there?"

"Everything." Fleur said simply, "It's your decision."

"You make it sound far easier than it is." He said sombrely. "It's a bit more difficult in reality."

"For a lesser wizard, perhaps." She said, "You are no lesser wizard. You're a Triwizard Champion, you've fought Voldemort. If you wish to change the world around you, you need only start somewhere."

"I guess I am pretty good." He agreed lightly as a joke, but he was far busier mulling over her words.

Perhaps she's right. He mused solemnly, I could've been preparing, instead, I'm weeping over things already written in stone.

Dumbledore's words were still loud in his ears as if the man kept saying them.

This is your duty.

This war is yours, it has always been yours.

She let out her infamous, melodious laugh.

"Pride fells even Dragons, Harry." She said, "It won't serve you well here."

"Thank you." He said, still thinking of her words.

"Well," She began, "I was going to ask for your assistance yet again but somehow you've found another way to circumvent your servitude. I'm starting to think you're just doing this to escape from my company. "

"What can I say? I've got a penchant for trouble." He shrugged.

"Still," She frowned, "I could really use your help."

"I've got just the thing," Harry said, drawing the Marauders Map from his back pocket.

"An old piece of parchment? Oh my, you shouldn't have." She said dryly.

"Not just any old parchment." He said with a dramatic flourish of his wand. "I solemnly swear I'm up to no good.." He tapped the parchment with the tip of the holly shaft, the map flared to life.

The lines formed eloquently like the stroke of an artist's brush, Harry was solely focused on her reaction, she looked just as enraptured as Harry imagined he did the first time he opened the map. She turned the parchment over in her hands, looking at it through the line with a keen eye.

"How'd you get this?" She asked incredulously, "This is an artisan's work."

"My father and his friends made it during their time here, it'll show you every occupant, every passage and every room in the castle." He spoke proudly, happy that she appreciated it as much as he did.

She levelled him with a wide smile. "This is amazing! Why'd you keep this to yourself?"

"A man's got to have some secrets." He shrugged, "I can't always be an open book."

"Well," She decided, "I suppose I could let you off helping this once."

She sprung from her seat. "Come on, let's go."

"Where to?" Harry queried.

"To an abandoned classroom." She replied, purposely evading the question.

"Why?" He followed up.

"So I can ravish you of course. What else do students do in abandoned classrooms?" Seeing his bright blush, she decided to take pity on him. "We're going to duel."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea." Harry admitted, fearful of the arrival of the war drums and the lust for combat.

"Scared 'Arry?" She mocked. "Wouldn't you be eager to prove the incident with Draco wasn't just a lucky shot?" She goaded him into it, mentioning Draco was a low blow, they both knew it.

"I still don't know if it's a good idea." He offered meekly.

"Let's stop you wallowing in pity." She suggested, "Let me teach you something instead."

"You seem to forget who was in first place." He japed.

"Let's have a rematch," She said, her superior smirk across her features, "Just to be sure."

Harry acquiesced in the end. He was just as eager to know what his reaction would be but even more so how he'd match up against Fleur, who always seemed so confident in her abilities.

Marauders Map still in hand, she decided on an area they'd use without anyone near. They soon arrived, throwing open the door in a disused section of the castle. The room was barren save a worn desk in the back corner.

They separated and headed to either side of the room, it was a dance they both knew well, they needed no instruction. They stood across from each other, their interactions were wordless, it all remained fairly self-explanatory. A brief nod from each of them had them both snap into a duelling stance.

Both of them stood side on with their wand straight out. With a quick piece of conjuration and a levitation charm, a piece of silk fluttered to the ground, both of them knew its significance, upon its landing, the duel began.

The silk descended, fluttering and tumbling through the air until it hit the ground, then the room erupted into bright flashes of light. Harry opened up with some spells from his Father's book, he'd developed a little chain of relatively harmless charms he was eager to test.

" Celeri Vero, Immobulus, Visus Conmoro, Mutare Manus!" He whispered, he hadn't had a chance to master non-verbal spells, but he hoped her not being able to hear him would give him an upper hand.

The revolution jinx shot out of his wand as he was forced to dodge a series of quick stunners fired from her wand followed by a spell that ripped some floorboards up and shot them at him in an arc. He was forced to duck, he watched as the jinx smashed into wooden planks that came to her defense as well as attacking Harry. They splintered on impact and the following spell immobilized the debris. The blinding hex fell against her bright blue shield and the hand swapping Charm suffered the same fate.

There was a brief detente between the pair as they assessed their next attack. Harry attacked first, unsure if it was due to him being quicker or Fleur luring him in.

" Bombarda, Immobulus, Pulsus!"

Seeing how the Immobulus stopped the debris, Harry had an idea. His Bombarda tore up a large section of the floor, the Immobulus stopped the debris mid-air and the wind charm shot the entirety of it at Fleur.

She managed to eliminate some of it with a quick gout of flames but was forced to fall to the floor in order to evade the rest. She seemed surprised at his offensive. Before Harry could comprehend her wand came to life from the floor. She transfigured the debris into a series of misshapen dogs that charged him. He managed to destroy two while the other two jumped at him, he twisted out of the way but was stuck as the wooden floor molded to encase his shoe.

While he tried to free his foot, one of the wooden dogs rammed him from behind, sending him sprawling. His wand was quickly summoned as he hit the floor, rather hard. His ankle eventually freed itself, but it too hurt from the impact. Fleur walked over to help him up, a bright smirk on her now flustered face. The duel wasn't particularly long but it was exhilarating, she offered him a soft hand and he took it.

"You're certainly better than I was at your age." She offered, still smirking.

"Not good enough." He said, playfully downtrodden. "That was quick."

"Not yet," She said, sticking her nose up mockingly, "But few can match Fleur Delacour."

"Awfully confident in yourself, aren't you?"

"Do I have a reason not to be?" She said, placing her hand on her hip. "That was a nice move with the debris."

"Didn't beat you though."

"Maybe this time." She offered, "But next time, watch your feet."

He smirked at her and rose to his feet, ready for another round.

He was thankful for the distraction, even if it had caused him a great deal of pain.

Apparently, her confidence was not without reason.

The conclusion was foregone from the first duel, she'd beat him fairly soundly even if his trick had almost caught her off guard. Though she was smarter for it and as the duels progressed into the day, his tricks soon ran out and his losses rose. Yet, he could feel himself growing already.

Now on his feet, Harry gingerly stepped on his sore ankle. He wouldn't have minded another round but he didn't doubt that if he continued his list of injuries would be all the more extensive. They set off back to Fleur's Office, him limping along with the assistance of a numbing charm and Fleur's shoulder yet again.

Fleur opened the door to her office and helped him inside, placing him down gently on the lounge chair. There was a smirk on her face, she'd proved her point. Past merit wasn't everything, current merit was all and she'd proved hers seven-fold in the last hour and a half.

Pride might fell Dragons, Harry laughed internally, But she's standing tall.

She left him in the chair and went to the corner of the room. She began to rummage through a pile of boxes in the corner. She was there for some time, flicking boxes and other objects he assumed she hadn't sorted around her.

She rose to her full height, a pair of darkened bottles and two glasses in her hand. She walked back over to Harry and conjured another chair, resting her bottle on her desk.

"Wine?" Harry asked.

"The best." Fleur confirmed with a grin.

He gave the glass a brief sniff. "Should you really be giving wine to students?"

"I find it's best after a duel." Fleur said, "I think if anyone deserves a drink, it's you."

"I forgot you were a connoisseur."

"I'm French." She said, ever the patriot.

"White or red?" She asked, presenting the bottles as if their colours made the choice make any sense.

"Is there a difference?" He asked simply.

" Is there a difference ?" She sighed dramatically, "You truly are a lost cause, I think I'll have to expose you to some more before my time is up."

"I take it that means more duelling?"

"Like I said, no protege of mine will be a lacklustre duellist."

"I thought we agreed my duelling wasn't that bad?" He said, acting more offended than he felt.

"You agreed to that." She amended, "I didn't."

"You told me I was better than you were at my age." Harry rationalized.

"Are you better than me at my age?" She said, her back turned to him as she weighed the bottles in her hands.

"Well, no."

"There's your issue." She said sweetly, verging on mocking. "You can have the white, you'll enjoy it more."

"As you wish." He said dramatically.

She poured out equal measures into both the glasses before placing the cork back into the bottle with her wand. She walked around to the other side of her desk, handing Harry his glass which he gently took by the stem.

"Sure you won't get fired?" He joked.

"Will you tell them?" She shot back

"I might tell Mrs Weasley." He threatened good naturedly, "I'd like to see that argument."

"Perhaps I'll tell Ginerva that you were drinking in my office instead." She returned, "I'd be eager to see her reaction."

"Go easy on me."

"Maybe for today." She relented with a smile.

Harry swirled his glass around in front of him, he'd seen Aunt Petunia do it hundreds of times. He feigned expertise as he pretended to look at the liquid while under Fleur's scrutinizing eye.

Then, as he would with any Firewhisky after the Quidditch Championship, he downed a sizable gulp.

He squinted his eyes and swallowed hard. It was incredibly sweet, or maybe it was sour. The sudden assault on his taste buds was shocking to say the least, but he swallowed the bubbly liquid all the same.

"I suppose this is what elegance tastes like?" He managed to get out after he swallowed, while Fleur laughed at him.

"I suppose some would say that." She agreed neutrally.

"Well," Harry said with a frown, "Elegance tastes like shite."

"How uncouth." She said in a voice that made her sound far older than she was, "You're drinking it wrong."

"You'd want to hope so." He said, "That tasted like death."

"Like this." She instructed, grasping her glass by the stem as he had. She swirled it and let it sit, before sniffing it. She rose the glass to her lips and imbibed in a small portion.

Harry followed suit, although much more reluctantly then the first time. He swirled it and raised it to his nose. It smelt like lemon, oranges maybe. He didn't really know the taste, it was less sweet than before, definitely more palatable.

Definitely lemon. He thought, the sourness making itself known.

"Do you like it?" She asked eagerly, swirling her glass idly in one hand.

"It's alright." He said, "Better than firewhisky."

"High praise, I'm sure of it." She said before taking another drink.

Soon, as the day turned to dusk and further to night, his sips grew more frequent. Their topics changed as did the colour of their wines and bottles. Soon, Harry finally made the decision he had far more wine than he should have. Although he was certainly not drunk by any means, he couldn't have been far off.

Though he felt gallant, like none of his worries would worry him any longer. Fleur reached across the table for the bottle and Harry redirected her hand to him, brushing his lips against her knuckles eliciting a little squeal and the hints of a blush as they both laughed good naturedly.

"How was that for elegance?" He asked.

"You're learning." She decided. "Wait until we find the Dragon Caviar."

Dragon Caviar? That can't be good.

The act was without intimacy. He doubted their relationship would ever be such, but he was thankful for her. Her words and counsel were one of the few things that he could count on in these turbulent times.

Fleur briefly retreated to the toilet whilst Harry continued drinking. He set his glass down on the table to bask in the momentary reprieve of little alcohol.

Dumbledore's words were still in his head.

This is your duty.

This war is yours now, it has always been yours.

He had resolved to stop wallowing in his sorrows at the Burrow, but that hadn't worked so well.

Yet, Fleur was right. Adversity cared little if he was strong or weak, happy or sad. His problems would come all the same.

I won't let anyone else die for me.

You're not ready. Dumbledore had said.

Not yet. Harry agreed.

But I'll get there.