Innocence Burning

Innocence Burning

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 : Innocence Burning

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Massive thank you, as always to my Beta Readers x102reddragon and NerdDragonVoid who consistently remain up-to-date with my story, as demanding as it likely is.

I'm a bit later on this one than the others, mostly due to the fact this chapter in my plan started with a big chunk of exposition and was about half the length it currently is. So after lots of music, a few sleepless nights and a lot of stress, here it is. Chapter name was inspired by my 4 AM viewing of 'A Time to Kill' which is a phenomenal movie.

Wasn't overly proud of this chapter in the beginning but it came out to something I could certainly sit back and enjoy.

As always, the world's a big and dangerous place. Stay safe, happy and well and until next time, Enjoy!

There is power in sacrifice, Harry.

Dumbledore's oaken voice rippled in his ears as they walked through the foreign scenery of the Pensieve.

Large or small, universal or restricted. Blood or soul, peasant or Lord. There is power in loss.

Austere, grey walls rose high into the street. Each block of suburbia found an identical copy to itself on the adjacent. Unending walls broken only by windows obfuscated with grime. No doubt hiding families inside. But families he'd never get to glimpse, living life in the same poverty as Voldemort once had.

It was a district that had been struck by the Spanish Flu outbreak. One that had never truly recovered. The street was littered with pockmarks, deep gouges that seem to deter visitors. Bordered with fences to ward off thieves that stood twice the height of Harry and the bitter taste of smog seemed to burn through the enchantments of the Pensive to bite at his mouth-born from towering chimneys that rose high into the air.

Harry looked down the street to its end. "This is where it all began, isn't it?"

The man beside him stroked his beard. "In a way, I suppose it did."

"Did you know? Back then, I mean."

"What he would become?" The man shook his head, "No. Though as I once said, I weep for the boy who thought there was little more to life than servitude and suffering. But never for the man who saw other paths and continued still."

Pain and suffering are crude matters compared to some sacrifices.

"I suppose it doesn't matter." Harry said, his eyes drawn to the chipped street before his feet, "History has already been written."

Sometimes innocence is the greatest loss of all.

It echoed in his ears as they crept towards the imposing building at the end of the street, towering over all others as if lording its materialistic dominance.

Dumbledore shook his head, his beard twitching with the action.

"Perhaps not. History written is dead ink. We still live and while we stand, the ink remains wet. Malleable."

That is what we must learn - what a man can sacrifice, to become less of one.

The long hours had given way to longer days, days waned to weeks and before Harry truly knew it, over a month had passed since he had arrived at Hogwarts. A month and a half, ripe with Pensieve visits such as this.

He often thought he spent more time standing upon foreign ground, rather than familiar. But that was subjective, or so he supposed. He'd almost become as accustomed to the world above as he had the one below, guarded by pale milk glass and silver smoke.

"Anyone would go mad growing up here," Harry said, his feet tearing up a flowered weed grown from the cracks between the road.

It wasn't too hard for him to imagine the dirty street lined with beggars. The musty alleys lined with bodies and the pleas for food laden in the air.

"Squalor and scarcity rarely make for good companions." Dumbledore agreed, gesturing to the torn street, "War fosters many wounds, some refuse to heal."

They entered the tall building; it's worn wooden doors held open with the frantic rushing and squeals of children.

It was an orphanage.

I could've ended up here in another life.

They trudged through seas of intangible children as they ran to and fro, each passing through his person with a slight shiver. Children orphaned by war, as he was, though it appeared they at the very least had happiness, where he did not.

Harry looked around, trying to spot an unfamiliar child. "Is he here?"

He'd never seen him as a child, not really, anyways. There was little chance he could discern him from any of the others that roamed under the dull gaze of their Matron.

"He is." The man said solemnly, looking down a hallway, Harry seemed to recognise something akin to familiarity in his eyes.

"Should we go see?"

"No."

"Professor?"

The man was noticeably reluctant, and his eyes darted to the hallway and back to Harry.

That's understandable, I suppose. He extended his hand to him and tore the magical world apart in the process.

He took a brief moment, perhaps to collect himself or gather his thoughts.

"Not yet."

War fosters many wounds. Harry repeated the man's words. Some refuse to heal.

"Then what shall we do?" Harry asked.

"There is another we need to visit first."

The Headmaster turned and took a long stride towards a bench in the corner. It housed a small girl, ratty blonde hair fell from her head and she merely stared at the floor.

"Amy Benson." He announced, needing no provocation.

"Is she?" Harry left the statement hanging. The man knew what he spoke of.

"One of them?" He confirmed with a solemn voice. "Yes."

It was all he needed to say, for the words he needed to know were taught in lessons past, remaining to linger in his mind.

Sometimes innocence is the greatest loss of all.

The ascent out of the Pensieve was no longer as jarring as it had once been. With each new memory was an opportunity to practice. Born from that practice was the ease of which he returned to the world above. No longer ruffled and stumbling.

The Headmaster, on the other hand, was forced to stabilise himself. His uncovered hand grasping the corner of the desk, turning his knuckles white.

A man that, ostensibly, was still the epitome of power and wisdom was secretly withering away behind closed doors, wrought with frequent pain and running down a clock to his own demise. It was a hard truth to escape, he'd forget about it, only for it to come back and gnaw at his gut every time an errant thought strayed to the war.

Or every time he was forced to look in the man's aged face, to see pain shrouded behind his eyes.

The man had offered him some books, usually History. But his resolution to train Harry was mostly limited to glimpses into the past.

Though, he mused, I suppose something has filled that void.

"Alright, sir?"

"Fine, my boy." He rolled his shoulders back and began a sedate pace to his desk. Harry took the seat adjacent, as he did so many times before.

The usual silence reigned in the office as they mulled over the events. Or rather, Harry pondered as the older man observed him with a keen eye, willing to provide amendments and explanation where needed.

"Why not just kill them?" Harry asked, it was callous and cold but a prudent question.

"Truthfully?" The man rested his hands on the table, "Because he lacked the capacity to do so at that moment. Instead of two deaths, he stripped the innocence of three."

"How could he use that though?" Harry asked, "The ritual happened years later."

"Blood magic is complicated, far more esoteric than even divination. Too complicated to explain in the time we have, but it did not require ritualistic sacrifice. Merely that sacrifice be extracted to reach a goal."

"So he might have used that to make a Horcrux?"

"Perhaps," The Headmaster pondered, "Tom never let the death of anything go to waste, even if he did it without thought."

"So he could kill anyone and call upon it later?"

"Not quite." The man shook his head, "Death is a final state of affairs, static. There is power in death, yes. But to have lost something of great importance and linger in pain, that carries equal power - greater in some circumstance. Both were still alive when he enacted the ritual, enough so that their pain was a sufficient conduit."

"I still don't understand it." Harry frowned.

"I'm more thankful for that then you could ever know." Dumbledore said, "You needn't understand the magic behind it, only what Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop meant to Tom Riddle."

"Do they still live?" Harry asked hopefully, though he could tell by the man's face that the conclusion was written.

"Tom stripped them of what made them, them. They lingered on this mortal coil for some time but truly lived no longer. They went missing a short while after, presumably at Tom's hands."

"Where could he have learned it so young?" Harry wondered, "Hogwarts doesn't teach Blood Magic."

"He'd need a teacher, most likely." The bearded man said with a quirk of his mouth. "Blood magic is a dagger with no hilt. To grasp it at all spills your own blood, to wield it invites untold tolls. Waters too dangerous to swim alone."

"So he found a shark." Harry said.

"So it would seem." He said, fiddling with his gloved hand before he glanced at his pocket watch. "The hour is early, would you like to be excused from classes?"

He thought briefly on the matter, "I've got a big day sir, probably best to get it out of the way."

"Your dedication to your betterment is admirable Harry." The older man praised, "May it continue to serve you well."

"I did read those books," Harry said in return.

"Did you like them?"

He shrugged indifferently, "They were better than the last few, I suppose."

Saved me from writing more of Scrimgeour's 'letters'

"I'll be sure to procure some more for your next visit. I'd run along now, Harry, get Breakfast while it's warm."

"Of course, sir," Harry said, though he had a sneaking suspicion the man's dismissal was more to do with his tired eyes and painful grimaces.

Harry left the old man behind, he bid a farewell to Fawkes who now always seemed to be singing a mournful song. Soon with the gargoyle at his back, the tiredness bit at his eyes. He blinked away bleary vision and continued towards his destination.

He made his way to the Grand Staircase and stepped aboard one of the revolving staircases.

After a few minutes of the staircase spinning to the wrong junctions, it became apparent the task of getting to the Great Hall was not going to be as easy as anticipated. After a few more minutes, he abandoned the stairs two floors above the Great Hall.

He forwent his task of having Breakfast. Instead, he paced the old corridors above the Clock Tower Courtyard, the dull thump of the bell echoing through the air. Soon enough, he made it far enough into it that the antechamber below was in sight.

Harry could see the pendulum of the clock high in the ceiling, swinging to and fro in its repetitive interval. The faint ticking of its gears could be heard from the antechamber as he walked into it. Harry found he liked the view. It wasn't comparable to the far-seeing position the astronomy tower boasted, but the walk was far shorter, especially without the multitude of stairs.

A small flock of sparrows flew into the tower before settling on the ledge. Harry held his finger out, one particularly brave bird looked as if it would take the leap, but was frightened from flying by the loud clack and clank of steel on cobblestones. The birds took flight, fleeing from the tower.

"Neptune was palest before the eve, young Potter, the stars foretold me of your presence here."

Harry turned to find the culprit and was greeted by the towering form of a Centaur.

Or the staircase did, Harry mused.

"Hello Firenze, it's been some time."

The golden, palomino coat of his lower body sparkled in the morning light. He had trimmed his golden hair since he'd last seen him, instead of falling straight down, the majority was tied into a bun at the back of his head while two separate pieces fell behind him. But the most noticeable new feature was the garish scar that ran from his right collarbone to just below his left breast. It had scarred over but still looked fresh.

"The stars' blessing, Harry Potter." The centaur said in his baritone, moving to stand alongside Harry.

"You were looking for me?" Harry asked inquisitively.

"Of course. The darkness has obscured our view of the stars for some time. When we can gaze at the unadulterated heavens we are bound to follow their signs."

Obscured?

Harry was confused, he peered upwards into the cloudless morning, "How is your view of the stars obscured?"

"Foul magic is at work Harry Potter. I have not been with my herd for some time but I assure you our view is obfuscated, dampened by dark skies." He said looking mournfully at the sky.

Harry stepped around so they were next to each other. Harry never really stopped to think about how tall the Centaur was, Harry had grown considerably in the past few years but he barely made it up to his breast bone.

"So why did you need to talk to me then?"

"Sorrowful tidings are nigh. Both I and Sybil have consulted the stars and heard the same songs."

"What 'songs' are these?"

"We hear the tolling of bells, the clash of gold and seas of dark waves. At the centre, a fulmination. A snake skewered by chance."

Harry couldn't make head nor tails of the cryptic message. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"We can only divine destiny, never make sense of events before they happen, Harry Potter. We see only what is written in the stars, never less, never more."

"Professor Dumbledore once told me Divination is wrong more often than it is correct."

"Perhaps." He said in a faraway voice as he gazed upwards into the early morn. "But if I have mistaken good tidings in place of terror, calm for peril, that is my mistake alone. The reader may err, Harry Potter, but the fault never lies with the book."

He began to turn about and let out a small gasp pawing at the length of scar tissue. It pained him clearly.

"How'd you get injured, if you don't mind me asking?" Harry inquired, the scar was unlike Harry had ever seen, it seemed to periodically pulse a light crimson down the length.

"Bane is most vehement in his hatred of humans." He said gesturing back and forth at the diagonal scar. "For attempting to visit my herd I was gifted this token of our leadership from breast to navel."

"When we met Magorian, he didn't seem entirely terrible." Harry offered. "Is it so much worse now?"

Firenze snorted, but it sounded more like a whinny that his lower-half might muster. "Magorian was always a poor leader. He looked to the stars and saw tidings of hatred but was always fearful of making an ill-fated decision for the Herd. Bane is much more ardent in his distaste, he uses the shroud to gain control of the herd. Magorian is now leader of the herd in name only and remains only to honour our traditions."

He finished turning around, "But I have taken enough of your time Harry Potter. As I told you those years ago, even Centaurs have misread the stars and I sorely hope I have."

"You told me the same thing years ago, that you hoped the stars were wrong when you read them, were they?"

"One cannot fully fathom the truth of the stars, nor the intent of what the gods allow us to glimpse."

That's vague. Harry thought, But it's probably the best I'm getting.

In his experience with Divination, words were rarely just that.

"Nothing is written in stone, I suppose."

"No." Firenze agreed, "The stars are forever in motion, what is certain today is seldom so on the morrow."

"Thank you, for the warning, all the same."

"I bid you a safe farewell, Harry Potter." He trotted away, making the echoing clank of his horseshoes on the cobbles reverberate throughout the castle.

I'm sure I've had stranger mornings. He mused although none came to mind.

Harry decided that he would depart as well, breakfast called to his empty stomach and he had spent enough time talking to Firenze that the sun had risen enough and the Great Hall would have enough people in it that he wouldn't be eating alone.

Though, something ate at him. Firenze had always been decent to him. His exile didn't sit well with him.

Harry returned to the hallway. Hopefully, fate would allow him breakfast over troublesome stairs.

Harry continued his original path to the Great Hall, the grand staircase immediately providing a route to his destination as if the difficulties had been in his imagination. Soon enough he was on his way. As he expected, enough people were in the hall that he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. Ron and Hermione hadn't arrived yet, but given the fact that Harry hadn't slept, it was unlikely he'd see them for some time.

Neville was already seated at the Gryffindor table, using his new wand to practice some charms. Neville's new wand seemed a godsend for the usually timid boy as if the cherry wood had given him a healthy dose of confidence.

Gran reckons I need to learn how to use it properly, He had said, Reckons if I'm going to be fighting the Lestranges again, I better know enough to put them in the ground next time.

The Ministry had stoked a rage in the boy, for better or for worse. Harry wasn't quite sure yet.

At the current moment, however, he was trying to animate the forks at the table to walk. It wasn't the most straightforward of tasks, charming steel, given it was less pliable than the plastic soldiers they were meant to practice the charm with. He took a seat next to the practising boy.

"Hi, Nev." Harry offered brightly.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said, broken out of his concentration. He continued to try and perform his spell, he righted his fork and tried again.

" Motus Leporem!" He incanted forcefully, the prongs of the fork moved for a moment before the utensil listed aimlessly into a bowl of porridge.

"Why aren't you using the figurine Flitwick gave us?" Harry asked as he shoved a piece of toast into his mouth.

"Lost mine," Neville replied glumly. "Been trying to find something decent but nothing's working." he sighed.

"You could borrow mine?" Harry suggested, "I've already finished."

"Suppose we can't all be getting private lessons." The other boy smiled. Harry might've assumed Dumbledore, but the smirk spoke a different tale. They'd taken notice of his close interactions with a certain French witch.

His time with Fleur had grown exponentially and he found there were few words for her.

Slave Driver perhaps?

He had learned very quickly the word of Fleur Delacour was her bond. When she had spoken of them duelling and his own meagre style, he'd refused to believe either.

Now? He was thoroughly convinced.

Gifted also works, I suppose.

He'd had his fair share of bumps, bruises and broken pride. He'd limped enough nights back to her office or Gryffindor Tower to refute her skills. Their bouts were close, but there was no other way to describe the situation.

She was better.

But not for long, there had once been an almost insurmountable gap between them, born from the years she spent beyond school.

The gap had been closing under her tutelage, shrinking with every spell he learned and duel he fought. For every duel and spell she taught, he was conscripted to helping her in turn.

Sealing and opening derelict passages and tracing animated lines on parchment consumed much of his time. But he couldn't begrudge her his assistance, given all she had done for him.

Harry snorted in response, "Any time you want to start trading my place for yours, just say it mate."

"You keep your Dark Lords, I'll stick with forks."

"Sure I can't convince you?"

"Doing that fourteen-incher that Snape won't give up about would be a start."

"I'll settle for lending you that figurine." Harry said with a smile, "For some help in Herbology."

Neville's face seemed to lighten up at the prospect. "Yeah, that'd be great. What do you need help with?"

Harry let out a chortle as if it was already apparent. "That ruddy Venomous Tentacula, unless we've got some other bastard plant I need to worry about." He said sourly.

"I didn't know you were struggling," Neville said.

"I'm not really, but last time the bloody thing ate through the tip of my glove, anything that can go through Dragonhide I'd rather not touch."

The conversation seemed to taper off after that point. Harry continued to eat his breakfast in silence as Neville tried a few more times to animate the fork, to no avail, before digging into his first meal as well. Not too long after Fleur entered the hall, finding a seat beside Professor Sinistra.

Soon, the morning post arrived.

That had been perhaps being one of the oddest changes occurred, one he couldn't say he entirely expected. Morning post had been exciting, fun, for lack of a better term. A chance to bet on Quidditch scores, read some scandalous gossip of something or other and purchase products from the back of the Prophet.

Now it was very different.

Each morning was a startling fall back to reality. The possibility of what could fly into the hall was not lost on any of its occupants. Dark wings, darker words and empty Ministry platitudes were what every student feared hid behind unbroken seals.

A barn owl deposited a rolled newspaper in front of Harry, the rolled paper only narrowly missing his breakfast. Usually, the owls would try and stay around, take a knut back as a tip or try and snag some food. Today, however, they left immediately.

Must be a busy morning.

He removed the twine that bound the newspaper together, unfurling it to glance upon the front page.

No sooner did he read the words did the paper leave his hand, shoved across the table. Neville sent him a look and reached across the table, plucking the discarded newspaper within two fingers.

"Vampire attacks magic settlements in Exeter." Neville read aloud, though Harry didn't feel he wanted to hear it again.

"Not great." Harry remarked solemnly, "You know if anyone lost someone?"

"Way Colin was telling it, Lilith Warble wouldn't leave the dorm this morning."

Harry merely sighed in response .

"Make sure someone's with her, yeah?" Harry asked.

"I reckon we could get one of the fifth year Prefects to make sure she's not alone." Neville returned.

"If anyone decides to go to class that lost someone, make sure they take some of the older years with them."

"Reckon Slytherin will try and get them again?"

"I hope not," Harry said, "But after Copper? I'm not sure I have much hope in anyone not pouring salt in the wound for a quick laugh."

Ron and Hermione hadn't shown up to breakfast yet. Resolving to go on without them, Harry left his breakfast half-finished. He lost his appetite and headed to class early, it couldn't hurt with Snape and he'd rather be free of the depressing atmosphere, even if he was trading it for an oppressive one.

It seemed like the entirety of the castle was silent. He made his way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom without any hassle, the majority of people were still eating breakfast. The room was empty save for Ernie Macmillian in the front of the class. Harry took his regular seat in the middle row and waited for the class to begin to fill up.

Soon enough, students filed in, filling the class up to its regular capacity. Ron and Hermione eventually came and took their seats wordlessly beside Harry. Though Hermione looked a bit flustered.

Must've been a good argument.

Soon enough, like clockwork, Snape barged in. He always made a habit of walking in after all the students, maybe for dramatic effect, Harry didn't quite know. But this time, it was different. He stormed in and one could feel the anger radiating off him, the blinds that had been perpetually closed since Snape walked into the classroom were raised in a similar fashion as if he was disgusted by the presence of the darkness. A bright light bathed the room for the first time in a while.

He stomped to his desk and turned around quickly.

"The events of last night need no introduction. I warned you when this class started of the dangers you would face. Last night students lost their parents, brothers and sisters. A crucible envelops these Isles and will melt any of you not hardy enough to survive what ensues. Your previous instruction on the issue of Vampires was insufficient to protect you in the face of the new threat they now pose." He stepped aside, his wand flared and the chalk began to write a spell upon the board.

CLARA SANCTORUM

TWO REVOLUTION FLOURISH, RIGHT TO LEFT DIAGONAL SLASH, JAB

"A spell used by Albanian hunters to incapacitate Vampires and their subspecies. Vampires are vulnerable to all forms of natural light, being fire or sunlight. Observe."

Snape turned to face the wall and clearly said the incantation and followed the wand movement, though Harry doubted he'd really needed it. A beam of yellowish-white light blew out of the tip of his wand, followed by three bright pulses of light that had Harry rubbing his eyes in protest.

"You will master it before the week is out or you shall no longer be present in this class. This war will strip you bare if you let it, do not let it. Now practice." He finished, storming out as quickly as he entered.

" Merlin ." Ron swore, "He's on it today."

"You'd want to hope so, Quirrell was meant to teach us about Vampires in first year." Harry said.

"Well, if Voldemort ever wants to start using Iguana's, we'll be onto him."

"That'll be the day." Harry laughed lightly, "I thought the Vampires were still confined to the covens in Minsk?"

"Tirana." Hermione corrected.

"Tirana." Harry repeated, "They're far from home."

"Not all of them," Ron shook his head, "Dad reckons he met a few of them when he was writing stuff for the Wizengamot. Though I'm more concerned with what Snape's trying to do with this duelling."

"What, the tournament?" Harry asked, "I suppose he wants us to get a proper look at how it's going to be."

"Not sure I like Snape being the one to be running it though." Ron snarked, "When has that bastard ever not tried to make our lives hell? This'll surely be the same."

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't reckon it's a bad idea, he wants us to get a measure of what it's like," Harry said, practising the wand movement. "The price for overestimating your abilities is far harsher out there, they want to make sure we stay alive I suppose."

Ron murmured what sounded like acquiescence but didn't say anything further, Harry returned to his spellwork as motley flashes of light illuminated the classroom.

Soon their class concluded and they moved onto the next - Transfiguration. Which in comparison to Defence Against the Dark, operated at a much more sedate pace. Much like DADA, it was relatively quiet. Some conversation had begun and dispersed quickly under the harsh gaze of Professor McGonagall. They were practising conjuration and the Deputy Headmistress had expressed the utmost importance of concentration in the matter.

" Pario Rete" Harry incanted softly.

He'd chosen to conjure a statue of the Gryffindor Mascot, a little lion statuette shimmered into existence before him. It was pretty much exactly like he envisioned it, which he found was integral in conjuration, more so than transfiguration. He failed to envision his lion correctly in the last lesson and while it looked like an excellent puddle, it was a poor lion.

Still, the statue was a fine effort, from the details of the mane to the texture of the body. It was perhaps a bit misshapen, lacking refinement in many areas, but it was good enough.

" Motus Leporum." He followed his initial incantation with an animation charm, soon, his lion let out a silent roar and rolled over, before stilling.

Deciding that maybe he could try the spell silently, he vanished his latest attempt and tried again.

Pario Rete, he incanted internally.

The results were to be expected, the lion was much less refined, it's edges were shaped and resembled some form of contemporary art rather than the fearsome beast. Seeing he had little luck but deciding to try again, Harry cast the same following spell internally,

Motus Leporum .

His statuette didn't even manage a step forward, it's blocky leg lifted and it teetered for a moment before falling.

Harry continued his efforts to cast the complex charms non-verbally, by the end of the class he'd achieved a more refined version that managed to walk on its own, as well as ten inches on the properties of non-animate conjuration.

They broke their spree of classes with Lunch, which was thankfully much less distressed. He broke into a quick lunch with Ron and Hermione. Little was said between the trio, the day was busy and they sorely needed food but Harry noticed the indecipherable glances between the pair. Soon enough, they'd filled their stomachs and were sent towards their last class of the day. They made the arduous trek down to the dungeons to begin Potions.

Harry was keen to see if Ron's performance could be repeated again given he recently had a habit of being the best, despite his record of abysmal and lacklustre results. Slughorn had taken note of his achievements and couldn't help but praise the 'budding potioneer.' They took their regular seats inside the classroom and soon enough, Slughorn began the class, as jovial as ever despite the situation.

"Today!" He announced in an upbeat tone with his arms in an open gesture. "We will be brewing the Draught of Rage, a potion that evolved from what we believe Northern Europe as a means for Scandanavian Mages to enrage the warriors of their tribe. You will find the instructions on page eighty-seven and I have the ingredients prepared."

Harry got to work, collecting the typical obscure ingredients. Dragon's blood, Hippocampi spines, A Doxy wing, Malaclaw antennae, A leaf of the Venomous Tentacula which Harry felt a sadistic satisfaction in tearing it from the plant. Almost revenge for the plant ruining his set of good gloves. The esoteric nature of the ingredients continued to grow as the list went on, thankfully they were all in minuscule amounts or Harry imagined Hogwarts would be bankrupt.

Harry went about making the potion. His wand lit the flame beneath the cauldron and he began to put the ingredients in. A quarter ounce of Dragon's Blood that turned the simmering water a dark crimson and emitted a volatile hiss, he sliced the Hippocampi spines finely and pushed them in, dissolving as they hit the water. The ingredients and their preparations continued, followed by a series of clockwise and counterclockwise turns and convoluted instructions on turning the heat on and off to keep the temperature exactly right.

By the time Harry had concluded, his potion was a measly one shade away from perfection, the blood-like potion bubbled with hidden danger. Slughorn began to make his rounds as always, scooping a small vial out and vanishing the rest. By the time he got to Harry, he gave his sample a small sniff.

"An excellent effort my dear boy, though I'd say you didn't remove all the membrane from the Doxy wing, alas, a mistake many a young potioneer makes. However, it does not devalue such a terrific effort." He gave Harry a beaming smile, he felt pretty good about it until of course, he made his way to Ron. The perfect potion in colour, consistency and potency.

"Excellent work Mister Weasley as always! I imagine the Mages of Scandanavian would pay you a hefty sum of livestock to have a sample this potent."

Ron grinned and the man continued to the next person.

" Excellent work, Mister Weasley." Harry mocked softly, so only Ron could hear him.

Ron began packing away his equipment. "Sod off."

"If Keeper doesn't work out, at least you'll have a job." He congratulated and Ron stuffed a ratty book away into his bag.

With his final closing remarks about how there would be no homework, Harry began to pack up his equipment. Slughorn approached Harry.

"A word, if I may, Harry?" Momentarily bewildered about what it could be about, Harry nodded.

Slughorn waited for the class to clear before he started talking, Ron and Hermione shot him confused looks but he merely shook his head.

"I haven't received a response from you if you're coming to the party I'm hosting, you do remember it is tonight, yes?"

Bugger.

Harry had been so caught up in recent events he'd forgotten to respond to the missive Slughorn had sent over a week ago, he'd brushed it off at the time and subsequently forgot.

"Of course sir, I apologise for not replying earlier," Harry said awkwardly. "NEWT year and everything."

"Ah!" He said clasping his hands together, "No harm, no foul. I shall expect yourself and your date at my office at eight' o'clock this evening."

Shite.

Harry had forgotten all about the date.

"Is a date mandatory, sir?"

"Having trouble deciding Harry?" The man said slyly, "No, It's not mandatory."

He stepped a bit closer so that he could whisper.

"But between you and I, of course," The man's voice was harsh in his ear, a product of being so close, "Some of the crowd coming tonight might take umbrage to the fact you haven't taken the time to find a date."

He stepped back. "Not me, of course! But best to avoid any confusion."

"Of course sir." Harry agreed, dreading the thought.

"Dare I say it, I can't imagine you'll have much trouble finding a witch to decorate your arm, even on such short notice."

"You're too kind sir," Harry said, desperately battling the frown that threatened to spill onto his features.

"Nonsense." The man waved him off, "But you best be getting ready rather than talking to an old man."

Flattery may be the way to the man's heart.

"I'm sure you're the vision of youth, sir," Harry said.

The man let out a loud, boisterous laugh.

"Maybe tonight once the mead breaks out Harry! But for now, you best go gather your date."

He flashed Slughorn a forced smile before dashing out, he had nothing to wear and no date, but he very much had to be at this party, if only to observe the man.

His mind began to race, who to take?

Hermione was going with Cormac McLaggen, though everyone already knew that. Ron and Hermione had been warring for days over that decision.

She's out. He thought with a frown.

Ginny was dating Dean Thomas and given the amount of time they spent in the Common Room, that'd be an awkward conversation with Ron, Dean, Fleur and a plethora of other Weasleys.

She's out too.

Luna would probably be free, but while they were good friends, whether they were that good was debatable.

Dental based conspiracies and invisible creatures might be off-putting.

But of course, the option that had been at the forefront of his mind was the riskiest one.

Fleur Delacour.

It was perhaps the riskiest of the options, but the only one that really made sense.

But he couldn't show up without someone else. He needed her even if only as a defence against the myriad people Slughorn had brought into the castle to meet. Fleur was his best choice, his only choice.

I think you'll find socialites and sorrows go hand-in-hand. She had said.

Perhaps, it was unnecessary dramatics. Perhaps, it was a jape to scare him. But part of him thought it was neither.

Perhaps it truly is that perilous.

Fleur had always mockingly bragged about being a 'budding socialite' herself. Harry decided now was as good a time as ever to put that theory to the test.

He peered left and right and saw no sign of Hermione or Ron. He tore off to the other side of the castle, the route to her office ingrained to his memory.

I've been there often enough.

Long strides helped him cross the castle with ease. He didn't need to consult the Marauders Map to find her. Fleur always made a habit of always reading before dinner. It was one of the few predictable things about her.

Where am I going to get dress robes?

He supposed he could transfigure some robes, but fashion wasn't exactly his forte nor was complex transfiguration. He had his robes from the Yule Ball, but they were sure to be ill-fitting.

He could sneak out of the castle and get to Gladrags before it closed, but he'd have to see Fleur ensure the colours were matching, after his long day he looked forward to a casual day and winding down into the weekend. Instead, he'd gotten a headache, but developing a positive rapport with Slughorn was imperative.

Soon enough he arrived at the familiar sight, he rapped on the heavy wooden door thrice and after a brief moment, it swung open.

"'Arry?" She asked, confusion evident on her face, "You're very early."

"Yeah..," He responded lamely.

Maybe I should've rehearsed this.

"Lost for words?" She teased, leaning against the doorframe.

She had an amused look on her face, crossing her arms as she leant against the doorframe, prompting him to continue with an arch of an elegant eyebrow.

"I need a favour, a big one that is."

"Is that so?" She asked, confusion morphing into interest. "Has Scrimgeour delegated another of his tasks ?"

Scrimgeour often demanded much, for little. But he had little choice. Fleur, however, was no great fan of the 'Old Lion'.

"Not yet." He shook his head, "I've still got to write that letter, but I haven't gotten anything new."

"So you don't need my help with our esteemed Minister, what do you need?"

"I need a date to Slughorn's Party." He said abruptly.

To her credit, if she looked shocked she certainly didn't show it, though her lips pursed and her irritation was clear.

"If this is your attempt at romance, I can see how your attempts at relationships have gone so stellar in the past." Wincing a little, Harry was quick to defend himself.

"No, it's just…" He struggled to find words to placate her, "I need your help, desperately. I need it to go well and you're the only chance I have."

"Is it to do with your little 'Quest'?" She asked, standing up from the doorway.

Harry nodded, He knew she wanted to know, it was eating at her not being able to know all his secrets, suffice to say he had quite a few.

"So you've conveniently forgotten about it up until now?" She asked, her hand coming to rest upon a cocked hip. "You saw me yesterday and you honestly couldn't remember then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Well, It was Slughorn that reminded me. Told me it would be best if I had a date."

"An astounding impression, I'm sure." She drawled, "Who's going?"

"I'm not too sure of that."

"So I'm to be your date to a party and you've got no clue who's going?"

"I could always ask Ginny."

" Ginerva would be honoured, I'm sure of it." She mocked, "When does the party start?"

"Eight," Harry replied meekly.

"So you've given me," She flicked her wand to check the time, "A little under three hours to get ready. Did you wait so long as to ensure I couldn't say no?"

"No! No no… I've just had a lot on my mind as I said, I forgot."

"Do you have robes for tonight?"

"No." He said sheepishly, meeting her ocean eyes.

"Do you have any idea how terribly irritated I am at you?" She sighed but some amusement crept back into her voice.

"Uh. Possibly?" He admitted, though the fear of refusal had shedded and her features had softened.

"Get in here, I'll shower and transfigure you something."

For the first time since Slughorn reminded him, Harry could breathe easily.

Harry crossed the threshold into her office and took a seat at the familiar recliner that he'd be using to nurse his wounds after their nightly bouts. She quickly retreated into the bathroom and a moment later, the shower turned on.

He tried to occupy himself at first, but she was in the bathroom for a lengthy amount of time, he started peeking around the room. The minimalist decor had persisted, even as she had finished unpacking. The antechamber that served as her office still only decorated by a few pieces of fine furniture.

He rolled his wand between his fingers and sat back in the chair, waiting until she returned.

A generous amount of time later, the shower cut off and she exited. Sounds began to emanate from the room, presumably drying spells and the likes. Soon enough she stepped outside of the Bathroom, blindsiding Harry.

She wore a light blue dress that hugged and accentuated her womanly curves. Her hair was up as it so often was when she worked or when they duelled, but tonight two elegant wisps of her silver fell from either side of her head and framed her angelic features.

She was beauty incarnate. Harry felt his mouth go dry and his heart pound furiously in his chest.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

In times like this, that was all he could cling to.

A simple mantra, but effective. That was his shield, the only barrier that stopped his errant thoughts from straying into dangerous territory. It was a simple truth - Fleur Delacour was astoundingly beautiful. So much so that Harry could seldom remember a time where another had even come close. She was intelligent and witty, funny and wise.

A beautiful, foreign witch that possessed the power to bewitch men. The bane of witches and wizards alike, she was engaged and most importantly, she was a friend.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

Simple, yes. But the words were all he had.

If he were any lesser a wizard, he might've succumbed to that desire. The urge to seek her out irrespective of whatever ties she held to the Weasleys like he'd seen many do when they were bought face-to-face with her.

It was times like this where he could be grateful he was no lesser wizard.

She turned to him and gave his outfit a once over, his brief moment of being dazed flying past unnoticed.

"I'd tell you to shower but we haven't got the time." She said, her lips quirking in thought.

I get the feeling that was intentional. He mused, a small act of revenge for his lack of decorum.

He hid a smirk that threatened to cross his features.

That would've given up the game.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, didn't have Herbology today."

Without giving Harry a moment to respond, she began to flick her wand like an artist making precise strokes on a canvas. The length of his robes shortened at the front and lengthened at the back, a dark green trim emerged from the edges. Harry began to observe the changes, it was fairly reminiscent of his Yule Ball robes although a tad more refined, which was surprising given the fact they were tailored by a seamstress, but Harry found he liked these much better. Another spell shot from her wand, coating him in a vaguely floral fragrance that he found he liked a fair bit.

She checked the time using the ornate clock that sat upon the far wall rather than her wand.

"We best be on our way." She announced, "I trust I don't need to remind you to be on your best behaviour?"

"When am I ever not on my best behaviour?" He replied cheekily, though his jape didn't seem to elicit any amusement.

"I'm serious, Harry." She deadpanned, "These gatherings aren't strictly social. I told you, no one is here to reminisce with old friends. They wish to know how the spoils will be split."

"Spoils?" Harry asked, "I doubt they'll be vying for Slughorn's collection of robes."

She paused for a moment and turned to him, her head cocked.

"Do you think the meeting at Hogwarts is happenstance?" She asked, though there didn't seem to be anything but genuine curiosity behind her question.

"I don't think much is a coincidence." Harry said, "Slughorn wants everyone to meet the 'next generation' of witches and wizards."

"Maybe." She said, her voice oddly soft. "More likely, they want to find for themselves how their pieces will land."

"Pieces?"

"Some men play Quidditch, some learn spells, some hunt game. But some play a different game entirely. To them, everyone is a plaything, every person a piece to be moved and bartered at their behest. It's a gambling wizard's game, Harry. They're here to see which side deserves their final gambit - to see if Dumbledore can truly win this war."

"Of course he can." Harry scoffed with feigned confidence. "Dumbledore almost killed him at the Ministry."

He neglected the words in the back of his head.

This is your war now.

They'll be looking at the Chosen One too.

"But how long does he have left? He couldn't beat him in the First War. What makes the Second so different? If he can beat him, how long will it take?"

"Have some faith." Harry said sourly, "He's the only reason Voldemort isn't in control of Hogwarts."

"These aren't my words, Harry." She said softly, "These will be theirs. How much longer can the great Albus Dumbledore last? They'll ask, ten years, fifteen ?"

Fewer, Harry thought sadly, Far fewer.

"Armando Dippet lived until three hundred and something," Harry said, remembering the feeble painting in the Headmaster's office. "He could have another two hundred years in him."

"Armando Dippet didn't fight wars, Harry." She said, her voice still far softer than it usually was. "Dumbledore has fought how many? Three? Four?"

"I'm not sure I want to talk about it, Fleur," Harry said.

"It's a truth you can't escape Harry," She said, "Be it from my mouth or theirs, half-truths or hard truths, confronting them is easier than running."

She was sombre, serious. A stark departure from her usual tone. "How do you know this?"

She gave a soft snort in response. "The French invented the social rendezvous, and we're nothing if not masters at our craft."

"I don't plan to be there too long anyways." He admitted, "I just want to talk to Slughorn a little and then hopefully get out of there before it gets too serious."

"Sometimes, that doesn't always go to plan."

"I'll keep trying until it does." He resolved.

"Alright then," She relented, "Though as payment I expect you to tell me what exactly you're getting from this."

"One day, I just might." He replied vaguely.

She finished some final touches to his transfigured robe before she announced it was perfect.

She took Harry's arm and led him out the door.

He wondered if he was truly ready for all this. He started with thinking it was little more than old men debating Ministry policy and getting drunk. Now? It seemed altogether more nefarious.

He supposed it didn't truly matter if he was ready.

Into the Viper's nest I go.

They made their way to the sixth floor. The majority of students would've retired to their Common Rooms so the long journey was made relatively quiet, save for the odd comments Fleur made on paintings that caught her eye. Thankfully, none flickered as they had those weeks before, but she'd stop to point out artists whom she admired.

Soon enough, they arrived at the office. Harry gave a quick glance to the Marauder's Map which he'd taken to keeping on him regularly to keep eyes on specific individuals. It contained many names he'd never heard but he imagined he'd be thrust into the deep-end beyond the door.

Fleur knocked, giving three small raps on the door, soon enough the plump form of Professor Slughorn to open the door.

"Harry, My boy!" He boomed. "The lovely Miss Delacour as well! Please, come in. I've many people here eager to make your acquaintance."

And so it begins.

Harry groaned internally, that was precisely what he was trying to make a conscious effort to avoid, yet here he was now being led around by Slughorn. Fleur flashed him a knowing smirk and they set out into the room.

It was large, larger than any of the other offices he'd been in, it more than rivalled the Headmaster's even. But it seemed claustrophobic given the sheer amount of people piled into it. A circular table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by ornate pillars. A desk sat in the back right corner and in the other three, a variety of settees and lounges that people were sitting upon.

Slughorn practically dragged Harry and by extent, Fleur across the room, almost bowling over a House Elf rushing around with plates stacked so high towards the ceiling that it looked more akin to a moving table.

"Here we are Harry, Eldred Worple!" A stout, bespectacled man turned around at his name, breaking conversation off with a tall, gaunt man wearing crimson red robes.

"Ah, Mister Potter! A pleasure." He said excitedly albeit very quietly. "Worple, Eldred Worple. Britain's premier author on all matters of Vampiric Magizoology."

Both the man's small hands clasped his right hand tightly, giving it a series of firm shakes.

"I'm sure that's a very lucrative field," Harry said after a brief pause.

"Oh indeed, indeed!" The man agreed, perhaps thankful he got some recognition.

"And Miss Delacour," Slughorn announced, "Who is currently assisting Albus in some work around the castle."

"A pleasure," Fleur said, her voice sickeningly sweet with a politeness that was almost certainly feigned.

"The pleasure remains mine, my dear." He said, brushing his lips against her knuckles, enunciated by an elaborate bow that looked decidedly archaic.

The man stopped and seemed to realize something. "But I'm being terribly rude!" He stepped aside and the pale visage of the taller man stepped forth. "My colleague, Sanguini."

The man's face was pale but the shadows under his eyes were extremely prominent as if he hadn't slept in ages. He looked reasonably emaciated too. Despite his robes looking fairly well-tailored, they hung off him like ill-fitting rags.

Harry knew the experience well.

"Mister Potter." The man said in a dark voice, his voice more a hiss then conventional chatter. Though Harry wasn't exactly listening to him, rather the elongated canines that fell from his mouth. Fleur was close enough behind him that he felt her tense at the same realisation.

The Vampire Author came with a Vampire.

The emaciated man did not attempt to exchange pleasantries and received none in return. Harry's eyes flicked back to Worple for a moment.

He's either incredibly dull or there's something else at hand.

Slughorn was fairly quick on his feet though. detecting the harsh glare and no response was likely going to become very awkward soon. He offered a quick pleasantry and ushered Harry to the next guest.

The reputation comes with practice I suppose.

Suddenly, he felt like cattle being bought and sold at will. Passed around by old men and subjected to lengthy introductions that seemed to be never-ending. Even in a room that wasn't extremely large, he felt like he waded through the sticky subject of politics for an age. Fleur being by his side was his only saving grace.

It was her that would whisper advice in his ear while his conversation partner was distracted, providing counsel when he felt out of his depth. Which was often. Soon, free from the overbearing clutches of proud men, the pair made their way to a less populated corner of the room.

"How was my political debut ?" He asked, glad to be free from the oppressive atmosphere, even if that relief was only fleeting.

"Sloppy." She said although the smile on her face told a different tale. "But better than most."

"Such high praise." Harry scoffed

"I've seen better."

"I didn't know you trained many in how to get passed around by boring, old men for hours."

"An hour and a half, Harry." She amended, "You've got a long path ahead, still many more guests to be greeted."

"Looks like the dream of getting out of here before midnight was just that."

"Get yourself a drink." She suggested, "Slughorn seems to have spent quite a bit of money on it."

At some point in the night, she came into the possession of a wine glass. Bringing the ornate glasswork to her nose, swirling it and finally bringing it to her lips as she'd shown him nearly two months ago.

"Good?" He asked as she sipped idly on the crimson liquid.

"Expensive." She said simply, "You might want to indulge yourself, it looks rude not to partake in the Host's refreshments."

"Is expensive always good?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Sometimes, but not always." She said, removing the glass from her lips, "Perhaps, there should be less talking and more observing anyways."

"I think I've done enough observing for tonight."

"You've never done enough observing in this setting." She said, "If you think you have, you're a fool."

She nodded towards a heavy-set man. Straw-coloured hair sat upon a large head that seemed to laugh with all the boisterousness of Slughorn himself.

"Who's he?" She queried.

"Louis Capaldant," Harry recited with relative ease.

Merlin knows I've heard it enough.

"French Gastomagus, he works in the Preservation Department."

"Did he ask you anything strange?" Fleur prompted.

"He wanted to know if we thought we could win the war without the help of the ICW."

"What did you tell him?"

"Not much." Harry shrugged, "I don't know myself."

"Good, what about him." She said nodding to another man.

They stayed there for a moment. Harry stuck reciting the length tales about each guest. Martin Theander, The head of Qwik Quills who gifted Slughorn ' The most amazing red-eagle feather quill every year.'

Adrian Wilkes, a magical photographer for the Daily Prophet who ' could've done so much better' He ran into Worple and his Vampire more than once, his dissertation on ' The effects of Vampirism on Magic' was to die for, apparently .

He kept reciting names, putting quotes and occupations to them until Fleur was happy, or rather, until their host decided to make another appearance.

"Enjoying ourselves are we?" Slughorn asked from behind.

They turned to, the man's face was red and sweat beaded at his forehead. He seemed quite thoroughly sloshed.

It seems like drinking is his guilty pleasure.

"Of course." Fleur said, not to be taken off guard "Quite a beautiful blend Horace, you've clearly spared no expense." She complimented.

"Of course not my dear, only the best for such a prestigious gathering." The two engaged in a conversation about one bottle or the other while Harry tried to get his own drink. He only managed to catch the tail-end as he continued to look around.

"I have an Egyptian vintage, quite rare too, you know? But I imagine you've heard all about such with your fiancé in Egypt."

"Australia." Fleur corrected.

"Oh, apologies." The man said, "Albus told me he was in Egypt yesterday."

"I assure you, the Headmaster is mistaken." There was a tenseness in her tone and tightness behind a smile that didn't reach her eyes. The ocean seemed considerably darker against the face of the drunk man.

"Very well." The man relented, "I shall leave you to it."

"Are you okay?" Harry asked gently behind her, her very posture seemed off at the plump Professor's work.

"Fine." She assured succinctly.

Harry might've thought to push the issue. But if she wished to keep her thoughts private, that was her prerogative.

Merlin knows she hasn't pushed me on half the things she could've.

He'd been debating whether or not he should drink the alcohol provided, given he was under the watchful gaze of Slughorn the entire time, Harry protested against it, but now that he was gone Harry was emboldened, anything to make the terribly dull night go faster. A passing elf dipped it's tray as it walked past.

"Would the sirs be liking some Tingly Meads?" It asked politely, resplendent in significantly better clothing than they usually wore. Harry took one of the generously filled glasses and brought it to his lips. He swirled it in his mouth, it tasted sweet like honey and Harry found he liked it quite a bit, he swallowed it and a tingling sensation covered his body.

I guess I found out why it's called that .

He kept gingerly sipping it as Slughorn returned, dragging them both back into the fray of scheming old men, boring conversation and the facade of politeness. The sips turned to gulps and the glass turned into multiple and then some.

Like most magical alcohol, it had the uncanny ability to get the drinker horribly intoxicated very quickly.

A more than welcome prospect for the both of them as they navigated dark waters full of cunning men and complex plots.

Soon enough he found Fleur again, the pair bid the Professor a good night and Harry made to escort Fleur back to her office.

There were no other words for it; they were both terribly drunk. Harry to pass the dull night quickly and Fleur because she claimed she ' absolutely couldn't let a vintage this good go to waste on dullards that couldn't appreciate it.'

Though, perhaps she had another motive. However, she was a remarkably well-composed drunk.

They began their slow sedated journey back to her office, giggling and talking their way there.

"Happiest moment?" She giggled to hide a little hiccup that Harry thought was quite cute.

Her face was flushed and she leaned on Harry to stand straight. Harry followed a similar strategy as they both held each other up.

"Probably when I met Sirius and he told me about my parents, you?"

"When we were little, Gabrielle had a big stuffed Griffin. We made Maman make it levitate and we spent the day eating berries flying on a stuffed animal."

Harry struggled to think of a good question. "Favourite colour?"

She chuckled, "Terrible question, but blue. You?"

"Green."

"How woefully unoriginal."

"How is mine unoriginal?" Harry scoffed.

"It's the colour of your eyes." She said as if it was simple.

"So what? Yours is blue."

"Blue's the colour of wisdom and intelligence." She boasted, "Green is just green ."

Harry harrumphed, "Whatever, it's your turn."

She seemed to ponder the question for some time, looking a bit indecisive. It was a nice change, she kept her emotions so guarded, but in her drunken state, they were all the more clearer.

"Have you ever dreamt about me?" She smirked.

Harry didn't want to answer.

Well, when in Rome.

"Once."

"You can't just say once! You've got to tell me!" She exclaimed.

"That wasn't the question." Harry defended.

"Well, I've amended the question!" She said, seemingly proud of herself.

He sighed. "I dreamt after I saved Gabrielle you gave me a 'proper thank you'." He said, embarrassed.

"A proper thank you?" She asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"You know." He said, his cheeks hot.

"No, I don- Oh!" She exclaimed as if she had cracked a great code.

She gave another small giggle. "Is that right?" She asked in mock anger. But her tone shifted in an instance.

"Was I good?" She asked, her low voice laced with a seductive tone that made him thankful for the low-light.

"Fleur." He warned.

"How did you have me?" Her blue eyes seemed to smolder through the darkness.

That was certainly an area even drunk Harry didn't want to delve into. "Alright! Alright! You win." He conceded with his cheeks still burning.

Luckily, they were already at her door. She slipped her wand from somewhere Harry didn't see, though his brain filled in the gap. She went to tap it on the door, but it slipped from her grip.

She bent over to grasp the fallen Rosewood, giving Harry an accidental flash of her perfectly sculptured behind. He was quick to look away, even in his drunken state.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

The mantra was quick in his head, but some recess of his mind ingrained the image into his very being.

She picked it up off the ground and successfully tapped it on her door, opening it. She turned around to face Harry, unbeknownst to her inadvertent malfunction.

"Even though you sprung it on me, I very much enjoyed the night, the first time I've had fun in a while." She said in an uncharacteristically harsh voice given how upbeat she was mere moments ago.

She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, the corners of their mouths just meeting. It smouldered with a forbidden heat. Harry found he enjoyed the sensation far more than the mead.

She's your best mate's brother's fiancé.

He repeated it over and over as she gave a small smile and disappeared behind the door into the office beyond.

Maybe I can just enjoy it this once.