Chapter 43

Fleur yawned as she picked at her breakfast. Her black coffee hadn't woken her up, and even her usual breakfast tray of bread, jams and fresh fruit wasn't giving her any energy.

Marie snorted as she gracefully slunk into the chair beside her, startling Fleur from her daze. The hall of Beauxbatons was busy now, abuzz with students tucking into their breakfast.

"What's funny?" Fleur glared.

"You look tired." Marie noted, stealing her uneaten yogurt.

"I'm fine." Fleur dismissed.

Her best friend snatched her wrist as she reached for another slice of the fresh baguette, examining her fingers. "Pruned fingers."

Fleur blushed. Thoughts of Harry had kept her awake all night. "I spent too long in the bath."

"Sure you did." The brunette girl mocked. "So, how did it go?"

"How did what go?" She replied casually.

"The latest in your attempts to steal my boyfriend away."

Fleur flinched, gaze snapping to her friends. "I'm—I mean, I didn't, I don't—"

Marie rolled her eyes. "Relax, mon ange." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I let you clean me after he takes me, did you think I didn't know you'd go for more."

She felt her face redden. She should have known her best friend would see straight through her.

Marie continued. "You once brought a team of stylists to school because that older boy complimented me instead of you, remember?"

Fleur ran her hand through her hair at the memory. She had been angry. She grasped for Marie's hand. "Am I an awful friend?"

"Oui." Marie squeezed her hand, bumping her shoulder. "But you're the best I've got, so it's okay." Her smile was teasing. "And I was never going to be the only one in Harry's bed anyway, non?"

Fleur sighed in relief. She couldn't lose her best friend, her Marie.

"So, how did it go?"

"'Arry is infuriating." The Veela girl tugged her hair hard. "Intoxicating, certainement. Powerful."

Marie looked at her knowingly. "Did you stay strong? Did you make him work for it?"

Fleur blushed, wrapping her hair around her face, so it would hide her. She peeked out between strands. "I…gave him une pipe in ze toilettes."

"Fleur!"

She winced. "And I let him touch me for ze 'ole show…"

"And?"

"And I licked his fingers."

Marie threw her head back laughing. "That sounds like Harry. He doesn't do traditional romance." She leaned closer conspiratorially. "Last time I was on my knees, there was another girl's lipstick on his cock."

"Non!"

Marie nodded. "And he told me he wanted to go deeper than the ring of lipstick."

Fleur choked. "Putain!" She shivered, just imagining it. Harry was so dominant.

Her best friend blushed. "But after, he gave me some paper roses, and he had written the lines from these poems I told him about, all across the petals." She sighed. "It was so sweet, I could not breathe. Je suis amoureux." She admitted.

"It is weird, non?" Fleur dropped her hand under the table, to grasp her friend's knee. "That we both…perform on the same man?"

Marie shrugged. "Wizards of power…you are Veela, you know this."

"I do."

"But it's not love for you."

Fleur bit her lip. "Non. But I cannot deny how I yearn for him, how I think of him always. Your silly poetry has meaning, now."

Marie squeezed her knee. "I'm happy for you." She raised her eyebrow. "So he didn't take you home and pound you like a prostituée Parisienne."

Fleur sniffed. "He says that I would close off political paths for him, zat other girls don't like me."

"Non!" Marie cackled, spewing some of her juice from her lips. "Can you imagine?"

Fleur glared, even as girls passed by their table and scowled at her. "I am very likable."

"You are." She wiped at her wet eyes. "Désolée."

The Delacour daughter clenched her jaw. "I 'ave a second date." She said proudly. "I will show a new side to myself."

Marie looked at her skeptically. "What did you do on the first date?"

"I took him to ze opera in Verona, to show I could be his trophy." She pulled her hair around her shoulder, looking around at the other Beauxbatons girls, all inferior. "Zat in the highest clouds, highest classes, I would still be a shining jewel." She struggled to find the English word — Marie had insisted they converse in English regularly, now she was dating Harry. "Elégante, oui?"

"Very élégante to suck him in the toilettes." Marie teased.

Fleur harrumphed. "He needed me. It worked, pas de problème. The men barely saw the stage. The women drew blood with their nails in the skin." She smirked. "A Non–magique boy will think of me until he dies."

"What will you do on the second date?"

She stroked her chin, idly tugging her tank-top down to show more of her cleavage to a gawping boy across the hall. "I will show zat I can be la fille d'à côté."

"The girl next door?" Marie raised her eyebrow.

"Oui." Fleur said confidently. "We will visit 'Arry's friends. His boys already want to fuck me, but I will show him zat I can befriend them. 'Arry will feel like a king, with a girlfriend zat everyone wants but only he has."

"That could work." Marie conceded.

"It will work. And," Fleur exhaled a heavy breath. "I will do ze hardest thing. I will make his girl friends like me."

Marie choked, snatching a glass of water to stop her coughs. "Good luck!" She spluttered.

Fleur eyed her friend with irritation. "I can make girls like me." She received a disbelieving look.

"There was a girl last year who tried to stab you while you slept."

She toyed with her silvery hair innocently. "My skirt was tucked into my panties when I left ze toilettes, it could 'appen to any girl, non? It's not my fault her boyfriend fell in love with me from just seeing my derriere." She scoffed.

Marie shook her head. "Our Quidditch instructor tried to curse your broomstick, Fleur. She was trying to kill you."

Fleur shrugged. "I did not know ze stable boy was her boyfriend. I just let him watch while I changed into my jodhpurs to ride ze Abraxan. He was ze pervert!"

Marie stared at her incredulously. "You stripped naked to get changed."

"I 'ad to lotion my dry skin!"

"Everyone else wears robes to ride."

"I am not everyone." Fleur said proudly. "Du coup." She fluffed her hair larger — that bitch Camille was watching her and Fleur knew the girl was insecure about her thin hair. "You should not victim blame."

"What about those three girls from the year below?"

"Huh?" Fleur examined her fingernails. One of them had chipped — she hoped it hadn't got stuck in her pussy. She had been rather vigorous last night.

And this morning.

"They were found brewing a potion that would make you cough your lungs up." Marie hissed.

Fleur blushed. "Zat was my fault, but they were mean to Gabby when she visited." She pointed her finger at Marie. "You were involved too!"

Marie scoffed. "You said we were going to bathe together, I didn't know you'd invited their boyfriends to watch!"

She bit her lip. "I should 'ave stopped there and not given them photos too."

"Wait, what?"

Fleur waved her hand dismissively. "Je m'en fou. These girls do not like me because they zink their men will leave them for me—"

"They did leave them for you—"

"But 'Arry is too strong-willed for zat." She nodded to herself. "He would not leave you for me, par exemple. He would just have us both."

Marie shivered. "Don't say it like that. Your fingers are already pruned." But under the table, her hand crept up Fleur's stockings, onto her bare thigh.

Fleur checked the clock in the hall. "But yours are not."

"We'll be late for class." Marie argued.

"It's just Potions, non?"

Marie licked her lips. "I'll meet you in the toilettes."

Fleur leaned to whisper into her friend's ear, making sure she blew a hot breath that vibrated through Marie's body. "S'il te plaît, put a finger dans le derriere? I need to be ready for 'Arry, if he wants to."

Marie looked at her, open-mouthed. "You'll need a fist to be ready for him, but if that's what you want…"

Fleur hugged her friend's arm, giddy all of a sudden. "Do not worry, mon ange. I will eat your pussy like a starving woman." Across the hall, a boy dropped his whole plate.

"You did that on purpose."

"Did what?" Fleur said cheekily. "From now on, Fleur Delacour will be ze greatest of friends, oui?"

"Fleur Delacour should stop talking about herself in the third person."

"And in return," Fleur sidled up closer. "You will ensure I am 'Arry's only blonde bombshell girl." She patted her arm. "You shall be his brunette and I shall be his blonde and together we will live." Fleur nodded to herself happily.

Marie smiled hesitantly, even as she nodded. But her eyes were on the owls that flew in, and the newspaper that dropped alongside their baguette.

She unrolled her copy of The Daily Prophet — Marie had insisted on paying for the expensive international subscription once she was with Harry.

Marie's smile flickered. "Uh, Fleur, you should see this."

###

Astoria hummed to herself thoughtfully, ignoring the way her classmates looked at her. Loud humming, stealing way too much of the bacon, her feet tapping on the stone hall floor — it didn't matter how annoying she was, when your sister was Daphne Greengrass, and when your family was protected by Harry Potter.

She was almost untouchable, and she wasn't afraid to play some games now she had the leverage. The Sorting Hat had put her in Slytherin for a reason, after all.

Everything always went her way, with a push or two.

She had to hum, anyway — she had a lot to think about. She'd dropped in to see Mother in the morning, taking advantage of the Healer's Note she'd manipulated Madam Pomfrey into giving her. "I…I need to see Mummy about my body, now I'm becoming a woman." She'd blubbered, and the older woman had fallen for it easily.

Now, Tori could Floo home whenever she wanted, which was mostly whenever she wanted Mother and Father to buy her something. It was fun, sometimes, being the younger sister.

This morning, though, Mother had barely noticed Tori. She was humming happily, flicking through fashion magazines, writing letters to handymen and gardeners, blathering about relandscaping their garden or the cost of gazebos.

Tori knew there was only one thing that could make Mother this happy.

Marriage.

And Tori wasn't getting married, not this young, not before Daphne. Which meant they'd signed a betrothal agreement for Daphne…and the only eligible bachelor who'd come to dinner recently, the man that made Daphne act all weird, the man that had saved their whole family, was Harry Potter.

Daddy was working on the Potter accounts. Mother was planning on rejuvenating the Greengrass gardens.

Daphne was getting married.

Only, Tori realized, her older sis didn't seem to know it. That wasn't uncommon — Daphne wasn't one for a traditional romance, and Harry probably didn't want to sour his attempts by letting her know that he'd already given their book an ending.

But…he also couldn't let her go. Tori sighed happily. That was so romantic.

Harry would be the perfect addition to the family — and the most powerful foundation to ensure Tori could continue being the spoiled brat for years to come.

Next to her, Tracey stabbed her fork into her bacon, glaring at the Gryffindor table as she did most days.

Tori frowned at her. If Harry was going to be family, that meant family protection had to go both ways. Tori loved Tracey, but she wasn't family. So if Tracey had a problem with Harry…

It might be up to Tori to snip away her sister's sweet sapphic relationship before it became a real problem. Tracey's love for big sis was adorable, but not if it came between the marriage that would solidify the Greengrass family for generations to come.

Astoria cleared her throat. "Mother says hi, by the way. I saw her before breakfast."

Tracey turned away from boring holes into Harry's skull. "Oh, how is Auntie? I haven't seen her in ages." She let her auburn hair fall over her face. "I miss practically living at your house for half of summer."

"All things change, I suppose." Tori said lightly. "But she's good. Glowing, actually. She's ordering things by the dozen. Chairs, tables, gazebos, tablecloth, buffet tables."

Tracey stared down at her plate, barely listening. "Oh? She's planning the next Greengrass summer social already?"

Tori stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "She's ordering everything in white."

"That'll look nice."

The youngest Greengrass daughter pinched the bridge of her nose. Tracey wasn't usually this dense. "I've never seen her this happy, maybe Father signed a big deal."

Tracey's head snapped around. "What sort of deal?"

She shrugged. "Maybe they signed some sort of pre-agreement for Daphne. She's at that age."

Tracey's jaw cycled open and closed. "B-but they'd tell her first, wouldn't they?"

"I'm sure they would." Astoria smiled reassuringly. "Daphne would be furious if they made a betrothal agreement without telling her, wouldn't she?"

"Of course she would, she wouldn't sign anything without telling me—"

"Then it can't be that." Tori agreed.

"It can't be." Tracey stewed, crossing her arms. "Unless…oh, that fucker." She muttered. "He thinks he can take her away from me, he thinks he can just throw his money around and make her his wife."

"Huh?"

"He's gone over her head, made a deal with your parents." She shook her head. "Over my dead body." Her fork clattered to her plate. "Over my dead body." She repeated.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing." Tracey grabbed her napkin and wiped her mouth, then tossed it aside. "I'll take care of this."

Tori put her hand on her arm. "Don't do anything stupid, Trace."

"I won't." She stood up suddenly as Daphne arrived for breakfast. Tori watched as the auburn-haired girl marched past her confused sister.

Daphne sat down, rubbing her bleary eyes. "What's she mad about?"

Tori shrugged. "No clue." She smiled to herself. Tracey would take a shot at Harry, who'd smack her down, leaving the girl with no illusions as to her ability to keep Daphne all to herself.

It was better this way — Tracey would be too mad to plan anything smart, and Harry was too powerful to be hurt by her. She hoped Harry wouldn't hurt Tracey too badly, but golden hero Harry would never do that.

Tori nodded to herself, sipping her pumpkin juice noisily, ignoring the glares of her classmates.

Everything always went her way, with a push or two.

###

Harry felt Hermione's hand stilling his bouncing knee. He was nervous, which was unusual. The Great Hall was buzzing with the sounds of breakfast, every bench full, every table chatting away.

There was a lot to talk about — was Harry the hero or the villain of the Ministry attack? Who would replace Amelia Bones in the delayed election? Would the Ministry crumble away?

But he knew that the morning's paper, when it arrived, would turn the buzz into a mania. Rita had owled ahead to warn him. Today was the day.

He could barely eat his toast.

"…all I'm saying is," Ron shook his piece of toast threateningly. "Malfoy's not half the seeker Harry is, and their team is only competing because of brooms and Beaters. We miss Fred and George. Next year, our Beaters will be a year more experienced, we're going to crush them. Maybe we'll even get better brooms."

Neville wrinkled his nose. "Malfoy will just buy his team the newest ones."

Ron scoffed. "Now Daddy's gone? They'll be tightening their belts. I wouldn't be surprised if that whole family falls away."

Neville shook his head. "Noble Houses never fall away, as much as I hate to say it. They're too big. Narcissa Malfoy is the queen of high society, she'll keep them at the right dinner tables."

Dean gulped down his pumpkin juice. "No idea what high society you guys are on about, but I'd like to see her bent over a dinner table. She is gorgeous, even if she does look at you like she can't believe you're allowed to breathe the same air. She bumped into me before the train last year, and I apologized to her!"

Harry stayed silent as Hermione used her thumb to circle his hand under the table.

The owls were flying through the window.

The papers dropped.

Every hand reached out to take it.

Harry winced as he saw the front cover. The photo of him and Cissy. Narcissa wore a small white dress that showed plenty of skin, her head tilted up to gaze at him lovingly, while he stared at the camera firmly, his arm wrapped around her waist.

Rita had said she must have a photoshoot to convince people. On the cover, Narcissa reached up to stroke his jaw, a choker of red and gold around her neck. The Potter colors. Harry's House Ring was on the finger of the hand that tightened possessively over her waist.

The headline was loud. POTTER MISTRESS NARCISSA MALFOY: HOW LORD POTTER HELPED ME GRIEVE AND I LEARNED TO LOVE AGAIN

Underneath that, the sub-headline advertised an exclusive twelve page insert. Interviews with Narcissa and Lord Potter, the guilt she felt on losing her abusive husband, how Harry told her of Lucius Malfoy's death months ago and protected her health and estate.

Little enticing quotes ran along the left of the front cover — Rita had gone all out.

HARRY: She Is The Guide I Needed Since I Lost My Mother.

NARCISSA: I Will Follow The Lead Of Any Wives He Finds.

THE INTERVIEW YOU HAVE TO READ TO BELIEVE — "He Taught Me What Real Love Was, Inside The Bedroom And Out"

MISTRESSES - The SORDID truth and the SILENT advisors — The Hidden SEXY Side Of Pureblood Families

HARRY: What I Say Goes. She Won't Change My Values.

THE PHOTOSHOOT — NARCISSA BLOWS MINDS, HARRY BREAKS HEARTS

The hall exploded, but even over the sound, Ron's yell of "Holy shit!" resounded around the room.

"Harry, you sly dog!" Dean gasped.

"Fuck me sideways." Seamus shook his head. "You are a secretive bastard, Harry, there's never a dull day."

Ginny looked sick.

Ron scrunched his hair up, his eyes wide. "Is it true, Harry? Are you really banging Malfoy's mum?"

Harry smiled uncomfortably. "The article is true."

At the High Table, Dumbledore was patting his beard clean of the coffee he'd choked out, while Professor McGonagall was shaking her head. Snape looked like he'd taken a bite of something rotten.

Neville's fingers traced across the cover photo, the boy struck silent.

Across the hall, the Slytherin table was in uproar. Daphne was reading the article closely, using the papers to hide her face. But all eyes were on a shocked and pallid Draco, who was staring, unmoving, at the cover of the Prophet.

His cup of tea spilled over his lap. Pansy was trying to say something to him, but he wasn't moving. Finally, Goyle splashed him with a glass of water.

Only then Draco look around, his face reddening. He stood up but he couldn't look over at the Gryffindor table, couldn't meet Harry's eyes — he ran out of the Great Hall.

Ron was rocking back and forth. "This is the best day ever. You're fucking Draco's mum."

"Language, Ron." Hermione chided.

Ron looked at her, bewildered. "Language? You don't have anything to say? Harry's with Narcissa Malfoy."

Hermione shrugged. "I hope that her…neediness doesn't affect your grades, Harry."

Ron goggled.

Across the hall, Harry could feel girls watching him speculatively.

Narcissa had told him that they'd think this was good news. They'd be glad to see someone so experienced would be able to manage the House, so that they, as the wives, could focus more on the prestige of the position and lollygagging at endlses parties. And, if Narcissa Malfoy herself was willing to be his mistress, what did that say about his value as a partner?

Cho was eying him up. Susan looked taken aback. Even Pansy Parkinson was staring at him.

Neville clinked his glass of pumpkin juice against Harry's. "I hope that you won't let her change you, Harry. I don't mean any disrespect, and I'll always have your back, but I don't trust anyone from that family."

Harry smiled at him ruefully. He thought about the last he'd seen Narcissa — stretched out over Apolline's well-fucked and passed out body, looking over her shoulder as her babydoll rose up over her bubblelicious behind. "My love, would you like me to clean up or…aren't you finished?" She'd asked seductively, arching her ass up.

"Don't worry." Harry told Neville. "She's had…quite a change of heart."

###

Tracey stepped out behind the statue as Draco walked closer. The boy looked tired, his eyes puffy, hair messy, tie askew.

"Not now, Tracey." He mumbled.

"It has to be now, Draco." Tracey said firmly. "We have a common enemy, so we need to talk."

Malfoy scowled at her. "We have an enemy we can't touch, you fool. He fights the Dark Lord. Are you a Dark Lord? No, you're a fucking half-blood and he's a fucking monster."

Tracey smirked at him. He was angry — that was where she wanted him. "Monsters still have to sleep, Malfoy. He's right here, in this school, in the same classrooms, in the same bedroom. He walks these same corridors. He eats the meals we do, drinks the same juice."

"What's your point?" He snapped.

"There will never be a better opportunity that right here, right now. The Dark Lord doesn't attack him because the Dark Lord isn't his schoolmate. We are."

Draco looked queasy, shaking his head. "I'm not looking to die like my father. You got us to attack him once and he made us look like fools."

Tracey nodded. "We didn't know what he was capable of, then. We'll have to be sneaky, we can't duel him. But I have a plan—"

Draco paused, running his hand through his hair. "I can't…there's no beating him."

Tracy sneered. "Then you'll submit, just like her mother. Where do you think he goes, at lunch times? Do you think she sucks him off while he eats the meal she prepared—"

"Shut the fuck up, Tracey—"

"Do you think he coats her face?"

Draco growled, pulling out a wand that shook in his hand. "Tracey, I swear to Merlin—"

Tracey held her defenseless hands up. "I'm just saying, Malfoy. She chose to bend over rather than fight. At the next big social, when the men go into the Smoking Room for cigars after dinner and the wives stay outside. The men always bring their Mistresses in, right? You know what happens in those rooms, don't you? It's a show-off, it's a status thing. Everyone will see her."

Draco looked like he was going to be sick. "Stop it, stop talking." He took heavy breaths. "Okay…what-what did you have in mind?"

###

"Cockroach Clusters." Harry told the stone gargoyle, waiting patiently as it moved aside.

Inside the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore waited with two cups of steaming tea.

Fawkes chirped happily at the sight of him, his scarlet feathers glowing faintly in the dreary gray of the winter day.

"Harry, my boy, thank you for coming to see me."

He shrugged. "I'm sure you're concerned, Professor. I wouldn't want you to worry."

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled, even as he looked sheepish. "I have prided myself on seeing the best in everyone, Harry. But over the years, Narcissa Malfoy has made that difficult."

"I can appreciate that." Harry stirred his tea. "I had plenty of reservations too, at the beginning. But when I heard of Lucius' passing, it was appropriate pureblood etiquette to inform her."

"And?" Dumbledore said skeptically.

"And," Harry sipped his tea to hide his face as he thought back to their first encounter, making her dress up for him in her finest lingerie so he could make love to her. He'd filled her so fully her stomach bulged with his cock and seed. "I found a woman unlike my expectations."

"Oh?"

"In a…changed environment, set free from Lucius, she is kind, intelligent, warm." Harry pondered. The other night, while he'd slept next to the sticky form of her debased daughter, Cissy had crept in to place Chocolate Frogs next to the bedside table, in case he woke up hungry. "She's very thoughtful." Harry finished.

"I'm merely worried about her effect on you. She might encourage your…less compassionate side, should it even exist, my boy."

Harry coughed. Cissy had encouraged him to throat-fuck Apolline while the Veela slept, which wasn't very nice. "Rest assured, it is I who affect her, bringing out the lighter side of her. She's helping me rebuild House Potter, and I need her guiding hand."

"It's an admirable goal." Dumbledore admitted. "I…it is not my place. I am trying to stay out of things. I still see the young you, I still see you as the baby in Lily's arms. But I have to say, Harry, that I'm not sure that this…arrangement is what James and Lily would have wanted."

Harry didn't take offense. It was true, after all. "I'm sure they wouldn't. But they would have wanted me to bring House Potter back to strength. For centuries, we stood as a bastion of Britain's magic and power, a symbol too, before the Boy-Who-Lived was even coined as a term. I have to bring it back and to do that, I need a…"

"A learned hand?" Dumbledore suggested.

"I like that."

"It is her whispering tongue that worries me."

Harry laughed. "She's not going to turn me dark, Professor. You know me better than that. The real benefit is that she'll give me a seat at the table with those that would rather shovel dragon dung than be seen with you, Professor."

The Headmaster chortled, adjusting his spectacles. "There is a large element of society who could be talked round, I suppose. I have failed, at times, in reconciling with the more conservative faces."

"Narcissa will get me in the room with them, at the very least."

Dumbledore held his hands up. "Then, my boy, I shall submit to your greater wisdom."

"It was you who showed me that everyone deserves a second chance, Professor, so your wisdom informs my own."

Dumbledore sighed. "Spoken like an adult. The curse of teaching, Harry, is that all your students grow up so fast."

"And use your lessons to walk on different paths." Harry nudged.

The old man looked a little embarrassed. "I admit that I'd hoped you'd romance a light family, with a good girl to fatten you up, like Miss Weasley."

"I'm eating plenty, Professor." Narcissa had even fed him a sandwich while he pumped into Helena, recently, holding her daughter's legs up and wide while he ate. Harry had given her something to eat too.

"It's not my place—"

"As you keep saying—"

"But when I hear of stories like Miss Delacour coming to Hogwarts libary in order to see you…" Dumbledore shook his head. "There are a lot of temptations out there, Harry, and there are unknown powers behind each of them. A pincer behind every treasure."

"I know." Harry agreed, amused. Fleur was trouble even if she wasn't, as Dumbledore thought, being egged on by the manipulative Veela Court. "But when you were a boy, ten centuries ago—"

"It was only five, thank you." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"Would you have foregone such temptation?"

Dumbledore peered sternly over his half-moon glasses. "You will not tempt me, as I know you want to do, to discuss the attractive merits of Miss Delacour, no matter how good a story it will make when you retell it in The Three Broomsticks."

"Guilty—"

"But I can imagine why a teenage boy would be attracted to a woman, yes."

Harry tilted his head. "Am I still a boy?"

The Headmaster sighed. "You could be fifty years old and still be a boy to me, Harry. That is the curse of old age."

"And I will always think of you as old." Harry raised his tea in cheers.

"You were less impudent when you were younger." Dumbledore chided him, but he was smiling.

"Narcissa is corrupting me already."

They sipped their tea in unison.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there." The Headmaster said suddenly. "At the Ministry." He looked out of the window, his smile wry but bitter. "Too many hats, as people keep telling me. I am in too many places wearing too many hats."

Harry shrugged. "It is what it is. Tom planned it that way. But we need to stick together when next he attacks. Together, we can kill him."

"Yes." Dumbledore said, but he didn't meet his eyes.

Harry studied him. The old man had many secrets, but there was one that rankled. "The prophecy was revealed to Voldemort and I both, at the Ministry."

Dumbledore looked pained, every bit his age. "I'd feared as much."

"You didn't tell me, but you knew."

He looked tired. "I did. You heard the full prophecy?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore joined his hands and looked directly at Harry. "Can you forgive me? Can you forgive me for not trusting you? I feared…I feared so much."

"You should have told me. Trained me."

"I'd hoped I could give you a childhood. I thought I owed that to James and Lily."

Harry hesitated. He wanted to believe the best in the Headmaster, but experience told him differently. Tom's and Harry's both. "Is there anything else you aren't telling me?"

Harry knew Dumbledore knew of the horcruxes, that he suspected Tom had created them. How else could Tom have revived himself?

But why did the Headmaster hide it?

"I'm telling you everything I knew for certain." Dumbledore told him simply.

Harry couldn't trust him, because behind the twinkles, there was so many secrets. Fawkes chirped.

"We'll be stronger together, next we fight." Harry let his tea cup clatter down on the saucer. "I'd like to fight with a wand I can trust, side by side with the greatest wizard of our time."

Dumbledore gave him a proud smile, his gaze wistful. "I'd like that. I'd like to fight by your side before I reach the next great adventure."

"But you know," Harry looked to the window, to the lake and the mountains beyond. "The world I make with my power won't be the world you seek. I want rights for Muggleborns, for minorities, for goblins and centaurs and everyone else, but the noble houses are important to me too."

"Purity of blood matters not at all, Harry." Dumbledore frowned. "You know this. It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."

"I know that. I also know that Houses, pureblood Houses, they can be the power that changes society, where the Ministry fails. Amelia believed in institutions and so do I. I think my House and others are institutions of genuine power."

Dumbledore looked at him, baffled. "Institutions that should do what?"

"My House alone can sponsor a whole class of Muggleborns into Hogwarts. My House alone can source potion reagents Britain doesn't have. My House, alone, can shelter, fund and employ a dozen Muggleborns when they leave Hogwarts."

"Your support comes with many stipulations, my boy." Dumbledore said sourly. "The practice of Muggleborn researchers working for Pureblood houses is…rife with problems."

"It's not perfect, but power is never perfect."

Dumbledore sighed, looking up at the portraits that decorated his walls. "On that much, we can agree. I had hoped that education would ensure that Muggleborns and half-bloods were just as capable as any noble student, and change would come from that."

"It has, and it will."

"Has it? Miss Granger is attached to your House, isn't she? She is the brightest of the year."

"And she'll be the brains behind the most powerful House. These institutions are to be worked with, Professor. When war comes for all of us, the noble Houses will stand together. Dragon-hide clothing for every wizard that fights. Funding for the hospital. The best brooms for the Aurors." Harry stood up abruptly, marching to the window, to look out over the Hogwarts green and blue.

"You don't know…" He lost himself in Tom's memories, of all the Death Eaters he'd recruited. "You don't know how much of Tom's allure is by promising riches, employment, freedom. His greatest tool is a struggling economy."

Dumbledore stood too, his chair screeching on the floor. "How do you know how Tom recruits?" He said seriously. "How do you have such power, Harry? Will you tell me?"

Harry turned to him, his face solemn. "I won't."

"Is it the power he knows not?"

"Perhaps. And it's safer with me, because I know you hold secrets too."

Dumbledore's hands set upon his desk, his magic aura vibrating. "And as long as we both hold secrets from the other, we cannot stand side by side, two great minds and two great wands."

"But we will anyway, when it matters, because we share a common enemy." Harry told him.

"I hope we always will." Dumbledore said, lines of worry etching his forehead. "Before power ever came to you, you already held the greatest courage and the most true of hearts, my boy. Don't lose it, please. Surround yourself with good hearts, like Miss Granger."

"And Fleur Delacour?" Harry jabbed playfully, his eyes squinting.

Dumbledore laughed, the tension from the room punctured. "Perhaps. I have spent my life alone, because my ideal of good was too narrow."

"I'm finding the good in people that have been written off, giving them their redemption, the way you taught me. Like you did with Snape."

Like I'm doing with Bellatrix in a way, he thought to himself.

"Professor Snape, Harry."

"On that, we'll have to disagree." He said cheekily.

"I had hoped your newfound maturity would extend to Snape."

"No, I still think he should fall asleep in a bathtub." Harry admitted.

"Harry!"

"But I won't criticize your redemption projects if you don't mine."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I see now that you've led this conversation masterfully to your conclusion. It is less amusing, being on the other end."

"In my defense, I was only improvising."

"In my defense, I still see the boy in you, who needs many lessons still."

"The boy in me would spend the whole Christmas break in Fleur's manor in France, and probably the term too." Harry grinned. "It's the man in me that realizes I have responsibilities."

Dumbledore watched him as he stroked Fawkes' plumage. "Whatever your power he knows not is, I'm grateful that it has matured you as well as empowered you. Will you be here for Christmas break? The castle will be more lonely than ever, this year."

Harry paused. "I'll be here, some of the time. I have some people to visit."

In truth, he was planning on spending Christmas being balls deep in as many girls as he could. Maybe he could break Fleur in time for Christmas Day. Cissy had promised him a Christmas to remember, regardless.

"I'd like some socks, if you're buying. If you now have the Potter and Malfoy fortunes, perhaps you could spring for the finest silk, or bamboo." Dumbledore said innocently.

Harry snorted. "I'll see what I can do. I owe you for my first real Christmas — the cloak was the greatest gift ever."

"In retrospect," The Headmaster stroked his chin. "I should not have gifted an Invisibility Cloak to a young boy, even if it was yours by right. You haven't misused it, have you? In my old age, I'd forgotten these teenage years are a tempestuous time for girls and boys."

Harry looked at him with an chaste smile. He had spent the last few weeks tormenting Daphne. Catching her masturbating on her bed sometimes. Wanking himself off into her panties. Shrinking her whole wardrobe. Perving on her while she showered, if only because she was so beautiful when she was angry.

"Don't worry, Professor. I haven't done anything my father would disapprove of."

"An admirable deflection. Good afternoon, Harry."

"Good afternoon, Headmaster."

###

Voldemort had not visited Spain in a long time. He had forgotten what it was like to live here, the cycles of sleepy hours hiding from the sun and the roaring buzz as the city came to life in the dark hours.

The Spanish knew better than to have cities that never slept — they slept well and ensured that when they lived, they lived large.

That was true even in less youthful cities, like Granada. Granada was beautiful, even if he didn't recognize it like he had in his youth. Train stations and taxis, an infrastructure that turned from serving its people to serving the tourists that swarmed over its stones old and new, exploring a city perfectly laid before the snowy tips of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.

Every tourist would come to visit the Alhambra, the palace meets fortress complex that stood on the highest hills of Granada, peering out over the city, reddish walls the foundation of an architecture these tourists would not find in any other Western hotspot.

It was Islamic architecture at its finest, walls and floors tiled in gleaming mosaics, courtyards lined with mirror like pools, peaceful gardens now punctuated with the click of a hundred cameras.

But the man that Voldemort had come seeking was not in one of these buildings, but the other less celebrated palace inside the complex, the one built by Charles V to celebrate the triumph of the Christian Reconquista campaigns.

He called himself Ibn Mawt, the son of death, and he was one of Voldemort's earliest tutors. Dumbledore had once spoke of him as the gateway to evil, which Ibn had been quite delighted by. He was a Persian dark wizard who was the teacher to every dark wizard, at one time or another.

Ibn Mawt was a master of nothing at all, but he had dabbled in every magic that every Ministry now censored or destroyed; blood magic, possession, animation, bone divination, lifelong curses.

As a young man, Voldemort had soaked up his lessons like a sponge dipped in blood, and had always been grateful to have a teacher for his first steps into the darkest of the arcane.

Voldemort looked up at the palace, letting the memories wash over him. Once upon a time, this place had been his home, his world. The floor at the top was veiled by magic — Ibn Mawt hid himself in the Renaissance palace, because it amused him to conquer the Christian building.

"Tom," Ibn would say to him, his teeth stained with powdered tobacco. "Look at me. I am a king with a palace, and I teach my magic to the orphans of this world. Am I not gracious?"

"Yes, Master." Tom would answer, without rolling his eyes.

Ibn Mawt was an odd man, but he was one of Tom's only tutors who still lived, one of the few he hadn't fallen out with, hadn't had to kill.

Which was why he was here today, floating gently up to the highest floor of Ibn Mawt's hideout.

Because Harry Potter had used blood magic, a whole creation of blood, a simulacrum of himself made from flesh and copper red. A blood guardian.

Dumbledore would not have taught him such a thing.

But Ibn Mawt would.

The top floor of the palace was still and somber. It still looked the same, the furniture a typical Renaissance mix of red velvet and palatial walnut, foregone by Ibn Mawt for the Persian carpets that lined the floor, surrounded by cushions for his complaining apprentices.

But the chairs were layered by deep inches of dust and when Voldemort walked on the carpets, his shoes kicked up clouds more.

Against the wall, there was one carpet rolled up, which he unraveled with a wave of his wand.

The carpet unrolled and with it came the body of his former master, more bone than flesh. His skeletal fingers held a plaque loosely, the message written in blood. NEVER STOP LEARNING.

Ibn Mawt's old catchphrase, immortalized with him.

Voldemort looked closer. The man was dead, without marks or wounds.

The Killing Curse, then.

He snorted. "One of your students came back for you, Ibn. This is what happens when you teach boys to be monsters."

He felt oddly disappointed, like he'd been robbed.

Was this what loss felt like?

No, it was only that it should have been he who killed his former master.

Ibn Mawt had been a good teacher, but not a kind one.

It had taken many years before Voldemort lost the scars of the man's teaching, the words etched in the skin of his back. NEVER STOP LEARNING.

Ibn Mawt would not go down in history, but if he did, it would be as the inventor of the blood wand. Every spell that wasn't perfect, the wand scarred the words into his skin.

It was a fast way to learn.

But not, it seemed, the way Harry Potter had learned.

Voldemort sighed, ascending to the rooftop of the palace to admire the rest of the Alhambra and the mountains beyond.

It made sense — the prophecy said it was the power he knows not. Ibn Mawt knew nothing the Dark Lord had not surpassed him in.

But there were few that could teach Harry Potter the power he now held, and not in such a short space of time.

Which left things not of this world.

Paintings, perhaps. It wasn't unheard of.

Rituals, certainly.

Possessed artifacts, similar to his own diary. Voldemort had once spent a month learning from a chess board possessed by a Russian wizard of renown. The chess board sought to corrupt him, but Voldemort had long since been corrupted. Eventually, the chess board begged to be destroyed.

Three ways to gain power, but all were doubtful.

Harry Potter was so powerful. Voldemort had taken years of blood, sweat and tears to get this powerful, even if those fluids had rarely been his own.

That left one other way.

Time.

Voldemort had watched his duel with Potter in the Ministry, in his Pensieve.

He'd studied it over and over, because he was a Dark Lord and a ruler and a visionary, but he'd always prided himself on being a student without equal.

The scene played in his mind.

Harry's eyes darted to the clocks on the wall, knowing time was running out. He was trying to speed time up, so he muttered a spell, a spell they both knew, an Egyptian spell, even if it was not meant for such a thing.

Nothing had happened.

Unless it had.

If Harry had gone back in time, then, Voldemort considered, it could be ruinous for him. What man could fight back against the mistakes of his past?

Time was one of the only ways Harry could have gotten so strong, so quickly.

And certainly, time was the power he knew not. Nobody understood time.

Voldemort smiled to himself as he watched the tourists queue, for palace entry and beverages both. These fools did not know they stood under the greatest Dark Lord who would ever live.

He was great because of what he'd learned, what he'd been taught.

And what he'd learn in the future…or the past.

If Harry had gone back in time, so could he.

"Never stop learning." His serpentine smile grew.