Harry Potter must disappear
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3 June 1995.
The next morning I packed the most essential items. The photo album, the invisibility robe, both wands, - that was actually all that was left of the Boy Who Survived's belongings. I let the boucla out of the cage after some hesitation, sending a short note to Luna, asking her to take care of the bird. I looked at the broomstick, Sirius's gift to me, lying at the bottom of the chest for a long time, but I couldn't think of a way to disguise the bulky object without using magic, and the invisibility cloak couldn't hide the broomstick. It was with great pleasure that I secured a dozen twin dung bombs under the lid of my trunk - surely someone from the Order would poke their nose in there if they didn't find me in the house. As I passed another Order member hiding in the bushes under my cloak, I struggled to keep myself from stunning him. Turning back to the house, I took one last look at the swept garden paths, the trimmed lawns - though the years I'd spent had been hard, this was my past that needed to be said goodbye to forever. I didn't tell the Dursleys about my departure-the less they knew about it, the less they would be asked, even if their memories were turned inside out by Truth Serum.
The road to London, the taxi ride to the park I needed. A strange sense of liberation was slowly building up in me. It seemed that once I left this country, the memories of the people who had betrayed me would no longer be so painful. Fleur, who was sitting on a bench near the entrance, was wearing a slight spell of inattention - otherwise one could only sympathise with the unfortunate young men who would try to make an acquaintance with the most beautiful girl in their lives. When I got through the thin film of protective charms, I smiled at the only other person in my life who was close to me.
- How did it go? - The girl who approached me smelled deliciously of an unfamiliar perfume - a bizarre mixture of berries and flowers.
- Without difficulty, no one noticed me leaving the house once again. Uncle and Auntie know nothing, and won't be able to put me on my trail.
Fleur pulled out of her small purse the crystal of the international portal, which I had until then only seen in pictures and diagrams of a textbook on charms. With one hand grabbing my shoulder, the girl asked me to touch the crystal as well. Carefully reaching for the crystal with one hand, I placed the other on the girl's waist, wincing at my own audacity.
Smiling at my obvious embarrassment, the Frenchwoman clenched the crystal in her fist and uttered a single word:
- Portus.
A wave of magic swept over us, dissolving the surrounding space in a swirl of colours, a glowing orb surrounding us as we were swept along by the wind. It all took only a few seconds, and we were finally thrown to the surface of the multicoloured sea in front of a house in the old Gothic style, with sharp angular turrets on the perimeter of the roof and narrow lancet windows. The small park, on one of the paths where we emerged, was surrounded by a wrought iron lattice that glowed with the power invested in it, and behind the fence was a multilayered magical protection that shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow.
A stocky, blond-haired man emerged from behind a heavy door, wand in hand, and headed in our direction. The closer he got, the more his strong resemblance to my companion became apparent, and a moment later I was shaking hands with Jean-Claude Delacourt.
- Mr Potter, my daughter has told me a lot about you. - Jean-Claude had a look of benevolent consideration written on his face, but his eyes remained contentedly cold. A true politician, never showing true emotion. Fudge, who would have woken up in bed with Dementors, was a far cry from that mask.
- Mr. Delacourt, it's an honour to meet you and your daughter," I tried to flash my manners, remembering the etiquette lessons I'd learned in school.
As we entered the house, I found that Delacourt Senior did not neglect security inside the building: two magicians with the emblems of the Aurorat de France were on duty in the hall we entered. The large room was lined with tubs of flowers, vases, and other objects that would have prevented an attacker who came in through the front door from reaching the wide staircase to the first floor. As I looked round, I noticed that the hall was flanked by a gallery from which every inch of the floor below was perfectly visible. The Delacours must have been distantly related to Alastor Moody's bloodline-the paranoia of the house's creator was clearly no less than that of the old auror.
We climbed the wide staircase to the first floor, accompanied by the frowns of the stone gargoyles perched on the ceiling and the indifferent stares of the knights' armour and gleaming blades along the walls. I felt as if I had stepped into the pages of an old chivalric novel, with feuding noble families and fortified clans.
The three of us walked down a long corridor, lit by the wavering flames of witch torches, and found ourselves in a sitting room with a small table in the centre, where Gabrielle, who was smiling happily at me, and an incredibly beautiful woman from whom Fleur had clearly inherited her looks, were already seated.
- Mr Potter, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Marie Delacour. - I bowed to her hand, trying to behave as confidently as possible, but the very atmosphere of this house reminded me of the ideals of chivalry and courtly behaviour and made me speak in a more pompous and pretentious manner. - And my youngest daughter, Gabrielle," she said, blushing and extending her thin hand for a kiss.
We sat down at the table and spent some time eating a hearty meal, during which I was desperately afraid of doing something indelicate or choking on my food.
When our plates were empty and we leaned back contentedly in our chairs, the House elf changed the cutlery and placed the carafes of juice and wine in front of us. It was only then that Delacourt Senior allowed himself to talk business.
- Mr Potter, my daughter told me about your conversation yesterday.
- To be honest, Mr Delacourt, I'd really hate to cause you any unnecessary trouble. - I looked openly at the politician.
- For the man who rescued my daughter from the bottom of the lake where she was sent by a brilliant and great light wizard," the man said with a contemptuous grimace, "the doors of my house are always open, even if it does cause the Delacourt family some trouble. But that's not all I mean," he raised his hand warningly, preventing me from objecting. - In any case, a confrontation with the Dark Lord is inevitable if he gains the upper hand in England. The Ministry of Magic in England is unable to stop him: corruption, stupidity and cowardice of officials do not allow them to see beyond their own noses. Dumbledore, the great wizard and Grindewald's victor, appears to have locked himself away at Hogwarts and has no plans to do anything personally. The only person who can do something in such a situation is decidedly unprepared, untrained, and treated by all three sides as a bargaining chip, despite his status as a national hero. I'm sorry, Mr Potter, but it's true.
- If the Dark Lord seizes power in England, sooner or later he will turn his gaze to the other side of the Channel, which means a new war, no easier than the War of the Scarlet and White Rose, in which the colour of chivalry and wizards died, or the Second World War, unleashed with Grindewald's help. France doesn't need such a war, too many noble families have been interrupted in the last centuries, too much knowledge has been lost along with the empty manors locked away by family magic.
- And your solution? - I looked at the head of the Delacour family with timid hope.
- We will help you prepare for this war, Mr Potter. I don't see any other option in the long term. Betting on Dumbledore, or the Ministry of England, is long-term but imminent suicide.
- Mr Delacourt," I rose from my seat, flustered and amazed by the politician's words. - Notwithstanding what you have said about France's betting on my side, I believe your words that to you I am, above all, the welcome guest who saved your daughter. And I swear by magic and honour that I will not forget your words and your help.
A flash of magic surrounded my body with a glowing shroud and dissipated.
The rather short conversation with Delacourt had exhausted me like a full-blown Quidditch match, so I barely made it to my assigned room before collapsing onto the luxurious four-poster bed and falling asleep instantly. A few hours later I opened my eyes, feeling light throughout my body and an incredible sense of freedom from everything that had been weighing me down for the past four years. The feeling of being among allies and friends who had promised to help me prepare for my imminent encounter with Voldemort seemed to lift me, pushing even the bitterness of the betrayal of those left behind in England to the edge of my consciousness.
With a loud clap, a housekeeper appeared in the room, wearing an embroidered towel slung over his shoulder in the manner of a Roman toga. The coat of arms of the Delacours glittered in gold and silver embroidery on the white cloth-a silver horse reared against a golden sun and crossed swords. I regretted that I didn't know the heraldry required of heirs of ancient families, and once again mentally cursed the old man who had sent me to the Muggles for eleven long years instead of training me as a Potter heir.
- The hosts' guest was awake. What can Tinky do for the hosts' guest? - A squeaky voice, surprisingly similar to Dobby's, made me wonder how my faithful elf was doing in England.
- Call me Harry, Tinky. - I hoped my order would be enough.
- Harry is so kind to the unworthy Tinky, Tinky will call his hosts guest simply Harry. Harry, Master Delacourt asks to come down to the drawing room for dinner.
- Tinky, my clothes..." I looked helplessly at the wrinkled shirt and trousers from my sleep.
With a snap of his fingers, the elf swung open the doors of the huge wardrobe in the corner of the room, and a pair of trousers, a white cambric shirt with a lace collar and cuffs that I'd only seen in films about some Renaissance king, and patent shoes flew out onto the bed.
I dressed quickly and tried to smooth my sleep-damaged hair, and followed Tinky into the small living room.
As I stepped through the door to the living room, I noticed that at the table, besides the Delacourt family, was a bearded, long-haired man with a scarred face that looked to be in his fifties. In the next instant, the man grabbed a wand from somewhere, and a beam of Petrificus flew in my direction. I dodged the spell like a bludger, and the scabbard threw the wand into my palm. The man raised his hands with the wand upwards, smiling approvingly. Looking at the older Delacourt's satisfied face, I tucked the wand back into the scabbard.
- I apologise, Mr Potter, for such an extravagant way of introducing myself. This is Aurorat battle mage Ciaran of the Godefroy family, who has kindly agreed to join our little scam. He has his own interest in this matter.
Standing up from the table, the mage clasped my hand firmly with his calloused palm.
- It was an honour to meet a man who had eluded Voldemort more than once and even survived a duel with him at that age. - There was nothing but benevolence in his brown eyes, but the mage looked ready to burst into a flurry of spells at any second. I'd seen something like that only in Snape and Alastor-Krauch, but this man had none of the potionist's sarcastic hatred and pride, nor the ex-convict's paranoid wariness and aggression. An impenetrable confidence and calmness surrounded the fighter like a second aura.
After Ciaran and I had settled into our assigned seats at the table, Jean-Claude continued:
- Ciaran is one of our family's oldest friends, I invited him today because you absolutely need a teacher with sufficient skills in... combat magic. - After waiting for my rather confused thanks, the politician continued. - To be honest, Mr Potter, the task before me is quite difficult, and my wife and I and a couple of my good friends, which includes Ciaran, have been discussing your problem all along.
- Mr Delacourt, you are too kind to me," I looked at the smiling man with embarrassment.
- As my husband said yesterday, Mr Potter," Marie Delacourt interjected, "your problem is too important to the French Ministry, but it's also too delicate to be publicised. There are corrupt people in our country, and this manor cannot withstand a truly serious assault if the Dark Lord or Dumbledore send enough of their fighters here. So your stay here is best kept secret.
- If you don't mind, our family couturier and stylist will try to see how to change your appearance so that Harry Potter disappears for a while," Jean-Claude looked at me without a chuckle, and I could only nod in agreement. - After breakfast on Sunday, they'll work on your appearance.
- One more thing before we start dinner with the family. My wife is a financier working for the Ministry, and one part of her job is liaising with the French branch of Gringotts, so she was able to discreetly make enquiries - the Potter family was and is quite wealthy. Not as well off as the Malfoys you know, but enough for you and your children to make a decent living. However, there is one 'but' - the family accounts are now controlled by your guardian, and the bank statements and requests for your decisions are signed by him without your knowledge.
- And my guardian? - I was liking what was happening less and less by the second.
- It's Headmaster Dumbledore. - Jean-Claude turned gloomy. - So it is imperative that your family's property be removed from his control as soon as possible. Another friend of mine has agreed to take on the role of managing your accounts, but unlike the 'great light wizard' he will swear to you that he will only make decisions after consulting you and explaining their possible consequences.
- Would it be right of me to offer him some remuneration for this, Mr Delacourt?
- I think a regular fee for the manager would be sufficient, it would be a percentage of the profits generated by his work. - Jean-Claude smiled. - My friend is a real madman, his projects terrify the goblins every time, but he always stays on the plus side.
- Thank you for helping me.
- And in order to prevent the director from using your accounts in the future, I suggest that after the stylist finishes his work - go portkey to the London branch of the bank, so that those who will look for your traces will have the impression of your presence in England.
We spent the next half hour in a relaxed atmosphere of forks and spoons clinking against crockery. Although I still felt awkward, not always being sure of what to eat and how to eat it, I sometimes had to sneak a peek at Fleur, who was sitting next to me, occasionally handing over dishes at the request of her gentle voice. Finally, when we had had enough, we got up from the table, and then just went to our rooms, I had to think about what had happened.