Hard Truths

Hard Truths

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 : Hard Truths

PAIRINGS : Harry/Fleur

RATING : M

A/N: Big thank you to x102RedDragon and NerdDragonVoid for beta'ing the Chapter. Harry learns some restraint and learns a few hard truths.

Will try and focus on the rewrite for a while, had a lot of fun writing this chapter. It's a bit shorter than the others, but I tried to take in the comments about me being too verbose, I hope it pays off.

Please be sure to review, criticism helps me grow as a writer!

Stay safe and until next time, enjoy!

At first, it sounded like a lullaby.

Not that he could ever remember hearing one with particular clarity. Petunia certainly never did him the service of singing one, although he doubted she could sing anyways. It could've been his mother, but yet, this was a voice cut from a different cloth altogether. A melody that seemed intent on waking the sleepers.

" Rennervate." The same voice incanted softly, " Finite."

Harry groggily opened his eyes, the world was dark around him, his vision still plagued by bright, white spots, blood continually dripping down his face from his presumably broken nose. When his vision cleared he found himself looking into the beautiful, ocean blue eyes of Fleur Delacour. She seemed anxious, given Harry's current state, he couldn't say her worry was unwarranted if he looked as bad as he felt.

"Hello." A familiar voice greeted lightly.

"Fl..Fleur?" He stuttered out painfully, his jaw protesting painfully at the provocation.

His response clearly gave her some ease as she let out a sigh of relief. She gently grabbed his jaw, tilting it to and fro observing his injuries. He let out a little wince when she twisted too far and she frowned.

He felt her place her wand under his jaw, not unlike Draco did before, except this time the presence exuded a calming presence, which was not unwelcomed given his current state.

" Comprimo reintegro. " She whispered, the reaction was almost instantaneous. His nose shifted back into place and his jaw righted itself, both echoing in the compartment with a sickening crack.

" Perspicuitatem ." His vision began to clear up and the white faded into the colours of the scenery.

" Oculus Reparo" Seemed to be the final spell, snapping the frame of his glasses into place.

"How do you feel?" She questioned him gently, lifting him into a sitting position.

"As I looked," He japed, although she clearly wasn't in the mood for jokes. "Not great but better now, thank you."

"I distinctly remember having a conversation many hours ago about not getting into trouble. Now imagine my surprise when you fail to show up at the opening feast and I find you looking like you fought a manticore in a compartment on the train? You're lucky the point-me spell was so accurate, else you'd be en route to London already."

"I.." he began but Fleur cut him off with a glare.

"Do you want to divulge what you were even doing to end up in this state?" She said, in a tone that reminded him very much of a young Hermione.

"I… was following Malfoy." He admitted sheepishly, "He found me and got the jump on me as they left the train."

Fleur looked incensed and soon became irate. "Do you always attempt to circumvent our best efforts to keep you safe with acts of idiocy?"

"I don't need to be kept safe." He bit back. "I just… I made a mistake."

She let out a snort at his statement. "I found you in a pool of your own blood looking like the Hogwarts Express itself hit you, not exactly an amazing endorsement of your refusal to be protected or counselled. You should've listened to me when I told you to let it lie."

He was forced to concede that point, begrudgingly.

"I still think he's been ordered by Voldemort, he was talking of how something was going to happen at Hogwarts, he was talking about Voldemort. I'm sure of it."

"Did he say he was working for Voldemort?" She asked, arching an elegant eyebrow. "Did you get any proof?"

"Not in so many words." He admitted meekly.

"So you uncovered school gossip?" She said dryly, "What a find. Tell me, who does Draco Malfoy have a crush on?"

"It's more than just gossip Fleur." He argued, "You don't know him as well as I do."

"That's where half your problems come from." She said, "You're blinded by your hatred of him."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. It's clear as day. What grounds do you have to believe he's under Voldemort's orders? Other than the fact that you dislike him and his father had joined the Death Eaters?"

"He's been carrying around a silk bag, I don't need to tell you what that means."

"Heaven forbid the boy buys silk," Fleur said, dramatically. "You're not going to see sense if your ears are unwilling to hear it, Harry. He might have something, but that's our job, not yours."

"I'm not going to ignore something if I could stop it."

"See where that attitude gets you?" She said, stretching her hands out around her, "Sure. You could've learned something useful. But what if Draco Malfoy was made of something harder? What if he was truly lost? Then you'd be dead, alongside anything you learned."

"Don't you see?" He tried desperately to convince Fleur, "He's distancing himself from everyone and he admitted he's not going to be at Hogwarts for long, it means something. Something is happening at Hogwarts and he's behind it."

"I don't doubt that. There indefinitely is some plot or another, but Draco Malfoy is not a tool for Voldemort to wield within Hogwarts. Like I said in the Alley and if he is, Dumbledore will know about it. But sometimes the best way to trap your enemies is to play their plan out."

"So playing out a plan that we don't know is a better idea?" Harry asked.

"How many times have my ideas seen you bloody and bruised?" Fleur replied, a superior smirk across her beautiful features and Harry let out a barely audible sigh.

"We'll go with your ideas then, I guess." Harry shrugged although he smiled in return despite himself, it truly was infectious.

"You're learning," She deduced, "I'm not telling you to stop playing the game, Harry. I'm telling you that if you truly want to be an asset, Play it smarter. "

She stood up and extended a gentle hand, he grasped it and pulled himself up but his symptoms clearly weren't all remedied as he stumbled and staggered enough that Fleur had to wrap her arms around him to keep him steady when walking. Harry didn't know if it was him or the head injury but he found he quite liked the contact with the beautiful Witch.

"I was going to ask you to help me map the wards and secret passages tonight, but I fear you're in quite a state." Fleur said simply.

He shot her a smile and she rolled her eyes, they made it off the train at the station but all the carriages had been long since gone.

"How did you even get here?" He questioned. "It's a long walk from the castle."

She patted the pockets of her robes. "I flew here, But that doesn't look like much of an option anymore."

"What other options do we have?" Harry asked. "Either that or a long, long walk."

She sighed and thought for a moment before she pulled the miniature Nimbus out of her pocket before enlarging it. She gracefully swung her leg over the shaft and scooted forward, gesturing Harry to hop on behind her. He reached his arms around and grasped her midsection. If Harry was anyone else he may have tried to take advantage of the fact they were meshed together so tightly he could feel every contour of her body. Instead, he felt terrible, not only that he'd been treated like a punching bag, but he'd also dragged Fleur away from her first feast as a Professor.

They flew for a few minutes before they touched down where the carriages usually dropped students off.

"You fly well," Harry commented unsteadily, "Do you do it often?"

"I am Veela." She said simply as if that explained it all. "The skies were our domain long before any man."

"They had wings." He said, pretending to observe her with a keen eye. "I don't see any wings."

"Not yet." She warned good-naturedly. "I grew up near a Broom Racing circuit, I used to race myself."

"Were you any good?"

"I'm Fleur Delacour." She said as if that gave all the explanation needed.

"Is that an eloquent way of saying second place?" Harry said cheekily. "Silver always was your colour."

"I don't need to remind you that the Triwizard Cup was silver, do I?" She mocked.

"See, I don't need to remind you I won that tournament, do I? ." Harry returned.

"You mustn't be too injured if you can still try and be witty. Maybe you can walk by yourself from here, or do you just like being close to me?" She flashed an equally cheeky grin back and Harry blushed.

She let out a gentle giggle before they made it through the archway. Fleur felt Harry tense and looked for the source of it, to the left of the gates were a massive pile of trunks with Argus Filch trapezing through them, searching them individually. Draco was with Professor Snape, Harry could make out a piece of conversation.

"I can assure you, Argus, my student is not carrying anything illicit nor should his person come under any undue scrutiny, I've already searched the boy." Snape said silkily to the older man. Flich merely grunted and looked at the mountain of motley trunks he had to search and shooed them away. Draco stared at Harry intently, he would have assumed a cocky smile would've found its place onto his face as well. He felt his hand creep down towards his wand.

" Play it smarter ." Fleur reminded him, her breath tickling his ear.

He stopped reaching for his wand but the tension in his shoulders never abated. Despite what they all said, Draco was here on a mission and Harry would do his utmost to learn it.

They continued walking once they passed through the front gates, they soon entered the castle. She turned to him and with a quick flick of her wand transfigured his current clothing into his Gryffindor robes. She righted the collar and looked at his face a little harder and before he knew it, her wand was touching the gap between lip and nose.

" Scourgify ." She said brightly, the blood that remained on his face began to scrub away. Though Harry's eyes watered, it felt like his nose was scrubbed through by a metal scouring pad. He resolved not to let that happen again anytime soon.

They turned the corner and entered the Great Hall through the set of large doors. The feast was already in full swing and Harry had missed the sorting. Quite a few Gryffindors turned to Harry and their looks turned vacant with their proximity to Fleur. His friends all turned to him as he took a seat next to Ron.

"Where have you been?" Hermione hissed.

"Just talking to Fleur." Harry waved off succinctly, not all that keen to begin that certain conversation at dinner. He grabbed a pitcher and poured himself a healthy serving of pumpkin juice, imbibing cautiously in the sweet liquid.

"Hey Harry," A voice from his left sounded. He turned and found himself on the opposing side of Katie Bell's caramel eyes. "Heard McGonagall is looking to make you Captain."

"I'll refuse then, I suppose." He shrugged

"Why?" Asked the girl, astonished.

"There's a war going on." He pointed out, "I can't really justify spending much time on something like Quidditch. That and I don't know much about Quidditch plays."

"Something like Quidditch?" Ron asked, "Starting to sound a bit like Hermione there mate."

"So I take it you're not playing at all then?" Katie asked.

"I guess it looks like that, I suppose it'll be up to you to take the reins." Harry said, patting her on the back.

"Oliver will be rolling in his grave I reckon," She said, taking a sip from her goblet. "Losing his protege and all."

Harry snorted, "If I'm Oliver's protege, we've got more problems than just me quitting Quidditch."

"To our last cup then." Katie said, pinching Harry's goblet and raising it, before taking a healthy swig.

"I distinctly remember pouring that for me." Harry said dryly as the girl placed the goblet back down.

"Consider your cup for the Quidditch Cup." The brunette said with a wide smile.

"You can't do worse than I would've done." Harry placated the brown-haired girl.

"You'd be surprised."

"On second thought, you are pretty shite." He said in faux-agreement.

"Wanker." She swore, and for good measure finished off Harry's drink.

"Should I put anything on my plate, or are you inclined to ravage my dinner too?"

"I think it'll be safe," She said, a finger tapping her chin, "But I'd eat quickly anyways, just to be safe and all."

Harry piled roast beef onto his plate, he was desperately hungry. The alcohol and getting treated like a punching bag for a litany of different people worked up an appetite. He'd barely had the first bite when Professor Dumbledore rose to his winged lectern in the centre of the hall. The Headmaster tapped his wand onto one of the golden wings, letting out the harsh, clangorous noise reminiscent of a gong.

"To begin with, We have two new additions to our staff. Miss Fleur Delacour, whom I'm sure you all remember from the Triwizard Tournament has graciously returned to assist in safeguarding the castle against danger." Fleur in the meantime rose and gave a small curtsey before retaking a seat. She received a smattering of applause, mostly from her male audience.

"Whilst she is conducting her duty, she has powers congruent to those of your Professors. Please do not impede her as she goes about her duties. Reprising his role as Potions Master, we have Professor Horace Slughorn. As a result of such an appointment, Professor Snape will be moving to take the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts." This garnered small applause, mainly from the Slytherin table.

Dumbledore let the small applause disappear before he began. "Now, to grim news. You were all searched upon your entry to Hogwarts and I believe you have a right to know why." The man abandoned his lectern in favour of walking closer to the tables.

"Many years ago, a student walked these halls, not unlike you. He was a model student, knowledgeable and kind. But under the veneer of civility and intelligence he hid a darker side. He perverted many to his cause within these walls and he would seek to do so again. His name was Thomas Riddle or the moniker he chooses to use now, Lord Voldemort." The hall seemed to morph in an amalgamation of gaps and mutterings.

"His return was obscured from you for more than a year. But I shall not spin falsities for you, the danger is real, not only and not only within the Isles, danger seldom pauses to rest. Voldemort will try and sway you with whispers of becoming a conqueror, of gaining power."

"But you shall find nought but servitude and suffering in the arms of Voldemort. You needn't look any further than our own Cedric Diggory for confirmation should you feel disinclined to listen to my counsel. Your choices are your own, scorn or praise the Dark Lord as you wish. But do not mistake my words, nor his intentions. He shall seek to wield you as weapons against one another within these walls to divide you, to see you do battle in this very school. His greatest weapon in this war is not the crude matter of spells and wands, but of minds - your own minds. His greatest weapon in this war is you, don't let it be so."

His tone backflipped in an instant. "Well! Pip, pip! Off to bed!" He said before vacating the hall quickly. The remainder of the hall was as quiet as crypt, the only noise was the prefects ushering the younger years to their common rooms. Harry was lucky he indulged in a few sandwiches in the Conductor's compartment as the food promptly disappeared with the Headmaster and his stomach growled in anguish.

He watched Ron and Hermione begin to escort the first years to the Common Room. He stood up from the bench to head to the common room as well.

"Mister Potter." A stern voice spoke from behind him, dragging his attention from his quest to get some sleep. He turned to lock eyes with the speaker, it was Professor McGonagall wearing her usual attire. "The Headmaster has requested I escort you to his office." She made a gesture with her hand that he was to start walking.

They made it out of the Great Hall, it was surprisingly desolate but Harry supposed that the Headmasters words had a profound effect on many of them. Everyone had always felt safe with Dumbledore at Hogwarts. For him to admit that danger still lurked likely had a profound impact on the student population. Harry couldn't fault them for not being too jovial.

They stepped aboard one of the shifting staircases, it was taking its time to revolve to the next landing. Professor McGonagall decided to speak. "I do hope, Mister Potter, that I might persuade you to take the Quidditch Captaincy this year?"

Harry shook his head at her. "I don't think so, Professor. I wasn't sure I was going to play this year. I love the sport but I don't know if I can justify spending so much time on it, with what is going on outside."

Professor McGonagall frowned. "I would've hoped you would play this year, but I understand your decision. You more than any, Mister Potter, have a weight on your shoulders and I don't want to contribute to that unnecessarily. Though I think I'll come to miss the assured place the trophy had in my office."

"I'm sure Katie will do an excellent job."

"Yes, Miss Bell will have quite a task set out in front of her with the training of a younger team. It is truly a shame, dare I say it, you were one of the best Mister Potter."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry said simply. The remainder of their journey passed in relative silence.

They arrived at the gargoyle guarding his office, he peered at them from his perch.

"Manticore Minties." Professor McGonagall said clearly, the gargoyle stepped back from its position standing vigil and the spiral staircase appeared, ascending to the Headmasters Office.

"I'll leave you here Mister Potter, good night." McGonagall said before turning about and disappearing down the same corridor they just walked through. He ascended the stairs, steeling himself to see the carnage he wreaked the last time he stood in this office.

He finished the final few steps and came face-to-face with the Headmaster's Office.

It had been enlarged, Harry noticed immediately, where a hoarded room used to lie, the walls extended on either side in a much wider berth then before. The Headmaster's desk still sat upon a raised dais with stairs on either side. He could make out Fawkes' Perch and a large golden pillar with glass, but the Headmaster was noticeably absent. Though in place of his various trinkets were individual glass display cases with plaques on the front. With the Professor absent, Harry decided to take a look. There were maybe thirty in the room at present, many were filled but some towards the back of each room were empty. Harry decided to walk to the closest, in it was a scarred chest piece made of some kind of hide. Harry flashed a look at the plaque below.

The Hebridean Black Breastplate of Sir Theseus Laurier

Sir Theseus Laurier fought in intermittent conflicts in South Africa in the early Twentieth Century to halt invading Witch Doctors from influencing and experimenting on the Muggle Population. Laurier led sixteen separate sorties against the Witch Doctors, pushing them North, out of the country. The breastplate was a gift from South African Wizards as a sign of respect, imbued with many of their traditional enchantments.

He's clearly redecorated. Harry mused. Last time he saw the office it was in a considerable state of disrepair, now that void seemed to have been patched with artifacts. The next case was a gnarled piece of wood, likely about the size of Harry's leg if his estimates were correct.

The Battlestaff of King Gradlon

Ruler of the Magical Kingdom of Bretagne, said to have raised the city of Ys from the earth itself. When Sirens destroyed the city's break wall, and the city flooded, sinking it forevermore. King Gradlon rode his winged horse against the Sirens, banishing them to the depths of the oceans with his staff.

"Hello Harry." A voice said from the back of the office, shocking Harry out of his stupor, he didn't hear anyone enter. "I see you're admiring my new choice of decor."

"They're nice Professor." Harry said, "If you don't mind me asking why didn't you display them before?"

"Alas, I never felt the particular need to show off my collection. But recently, I've had a change of heart," He smiled at Harry. "Just some of the few items I collected as Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock. Even my predecessor, Headmaster Dippet contributed to the collection."

A feeble, white-haired portrait behind the Headmaster's desk seemed to say something, but Harry didn't hear it.

"Have you had them for long?" Harry asked, "They seem ancient."

"Quite some time, I felt now more than ever that they'd be a prudent reminder of the task ahead."

"Reminder sir?" Harry queried, "Of what exactly?"

"Tell me, Harry." The man assumed his grandfatherly tone, "Do they have something in common?"

He'd only seen two, but he assumed well enough what the connection was.

"They fought in wars?"

"A piece of a puzzle, perhaps, but not the full image." The man said, taking a step towards the displays. "They're stories, not complete ones either."

"Stories?" Harry asked, confused.

"Indeed," The Headmaster said, placing his hand atop the case containing the breastplate. "Laurier was indeed a good man in his youth. But war changed him, as it changes all that have the misfortune of experiencing it reign. He returned to England a hero and left the world a bigot. A drunkard so intent on policies of suppression against others that he was murdered in his own home by those he sought to stomp under heel."

The man took a step forward and placed his hand again on the case, but rather the case that held the gnarled wood.

"Gradlon too was a good man once. He raised massive earthworks to house the magical population of Bretagne. But it was said a Siren stole away his wife, fearful of her beauty matching their own. When she died, the Sirens and the rising sea fled to the safety of the channel and Gradlon stained the waning waves with the blood of Sirens and innocents alike to fill the void they left behind."

"Neither of their stories say anything of what happened to them afterwards." Harry noted, still struggling to comprehend the tales, or rather, history.

"Indeed." The man said, "I imagine when I've returned to the earth, they shall sing the songs about me and mine. Of my triumphs and battles fought. Of the man who conquered Grindelwald and yet, they shall forget all my many faults. The songs they sing will be pretty, but hollow when the day closes."

"Wouldn't you rather that sir?" Harry asked, "That people remembered you as a Hero?"

"It's a nice thought isn't it?" The man said offhandedly, "But when they sing those songs and tell those tales, the aspects that made us remember, that we need to recall will be absent. No one will remember why Grindelwald fell to Dark Magic, but they'll remember how I fought him. It makes for an exciting tale but it shall matter little when the next Dark Lord rises because we couldn't remember our faults."

"That's why you want them?" Harry asked, "To remember our faults?"

"Yes, my boy." The older man agreed, "Oftimes, tales are just that. Illusions that we weave to help children sleep at night. Sometimes, we twist them beyond recognition until they only suit our purpose. Sometimes, they're even lost to memory. But so rarely are they ever the truth and rarer still do we ever learn from them."

Harry pondered that revelation.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Harry?" The man prompted, his eyes twinkling. Harry thought a moment longer.

"Voldemort, I suppose." Harry guessed, "His story has been forgotten, no one really learned anything from him."

"Not yet." The man amended, procuring a thin vial that held what looked like a cloud of writhing white energy. "Not while we remain."

"A memory sir?"

"Not mine, I'm afraid." The man explained, thumbing the stopper from the bottle, emptying it into his Pensieve. "A Hitwizard, one who saw more than any man ever should and a key to understanding the enigma that is Tom Riddle."

The man poured the vial into the ornate Pensieve, coalescing from its captivity like smoke as it fell downwards. The water sprouted tendrils of white, soon turning the entire surface to something akin to milk glass. It seemed to conceal the memories behind a thin layer of what looked like morning mist.

"Shall we go?' The Headmaster asked and Harry nodded.

It looks like I'm about to be baptised. Harry thought, staring at the Pensieve's odd shape as he joined the man into a broken descent downwards amidst misted memories.

And baptised he was though not through mundane means of water or fire.

Through something more malevolent all together.

Harry grabbed onto the desk that the Pensieve sat upon, almost risking plunging himself back into the depths of the memory in an attempt to steady himself. An uneasy silence sat heavy in the Office of Albus Dumbledore as Harry returned to his seat.

"They were mad, weren't they? Harry asked quietly.

"Indeed," The man agreed, his eyes uncharacteristically dull. "A vein of corruption always ran within the Gaunt Family. They, as I'm sure you know, trace their lineage back to Salazar Slytherin. They married cousin to cousin, brother to sister in an effort to keep said line pure . Purity wasn't just an obsession for the Gaunt's. Lineage was their lifeblood, it ruled them and in the end, it ruined them."

"I see where Riddle got it from." Harry said, his voice hard.

"Contrary to common belief, the madness that plagued the Gaunt line did not affect Tom. Merope was the first in seven generations to breed outside of her own kin. No, oddly enough, Tom likely began his life the sanest of them all."

"Then what changed?"

"The same beast that turned the owners of those artifacts. We are not the sum of our circumstances, nor is fate certain. But we are victims of them. Tom grew up amidst four wars, two muggle and two magical. All he ever knew was hatred and scarcity. Where men and wizard alike dealt in blood and ichor, rather than diplomacy. Chasing a legacy he always dreamed of having, but could never truly find until he came to Hogwarts. He might've been the sanest of his family, but he could not escape his circumstances. In the end, circumstances ruined him far worse than the slobbering malevolence and rhetoric of the Gaunts ever could."

"You sound like you almost feel sorry for Riddle." Harry frowned.

"I do, in a way." The man said, his eyes staring past Harry at the wall. "Never for the man that he became, but for the boy he once was, the boy he could've been."

I wonder if I could've been that boy.

"But I don't do this to sympathise with Tom but to understand him, his own history begets his downfall. Of that much, I am certain."

"Do you really think understanding these memories will help us defeat Voldemort?"

"Voldemort's defeat does not, cannot, lie with martial means. He is a symptom, albeit a large one, of a pestilence that's been in this world for centuries. Pureblood cabals, bigotry and hatred have led to cycles of war, discord and famine since the time of the First Warlocks. We can eliminate Voldemort, but his ideology will persist. We can abate the symptoms, but the sickness remains uncured. We merely sign another armistice until they gather their strength and prepare to impose their hegemony once again."

"So it's not just Voldemort's defeat that lies in these memories?" Harry asked.

"In a way, I suppose, the contents of those memories provide ample context of the man who became Voldemort." The Professor explained, "They let us see the conditions that gave rise to his ideology. They show us how he could become the man he did, but they also show us something else. Something far graver."

"Professor?" Harry asked, confused.

"I told you all those nights ago, Horace had a greater reason for being here. All those years ago, he gave Tom Riddle the answer to a question he'd longed for - a method to circumvent death. Horace has always been the scholarly sort, he delved into the esoterica of some of the darkest magic. He told Tom something that night, something that keeps him tethered to this plane of existence, whilst he is bound to this world, he can never truly be banished."

Harry felt it again, the immense pressure on his shoulders again, like the weight of the world wanted to drive him into the floor. Not only did he have to first discern and decipher the methods Voldemort used to gain immortality, he had to be strong enough to best him.

It took a moment for Harry to absorb the gravity of the situation. "How…" He swallowed what felt like a lead weight. "So we need him to tell us?"

"We do, but he's far too reticent to share the truth with us."

"Why?"

"Horace is a socialite. A collector and an enthusiast. The currency he has always coveted was favours and names, both of which are invaluable to a man cut from the same cloth as Horace Slughorn."

"He can't be that powerful, I doubt half of us had heard his name before today."

"The throne is a position of grandeur, Harry, that is without doubt. But some prefer the comfort of the backseat, of being the power behind it rather than the face."

"To pull the strings I suppose?" Harry guessed.

"Indeed. None of the recognition, yet all of the power. Horace is nothing if not ambitious."

"How do we get the information from him?"

"As I said, Horace was an ambitious man. Yet, he favoured no student more than a young Lily Evans. For all his obsession with names and power, he befriended a muggleborn girl. Whatever may be said about your Mother, Harry, she truly was a gifted witch. He cared for her deeply and I daresay he shall care for her son equally. ' The Chosen One' is a title that has never found its way into his collection."

"So you need me to find a way into his collection?" Harry asked, unable to keep distaste from his voice.

"Simply make yourself available." The older man said, "Horace has seldom resisted temptation. Make yourself available and your opportunity will arise."

"Why haven't you just asked him yourself sir?"

"Would that I could, Harry." The man explained, looking sombre, "Horace was never the same man after the war. His own involvement contributed to the death of his favourite student. A sin, I fear, he shall never stop atoning for. But the man only speaks half-truths and falsities to me. Fake memories in place of real ones. We need hard truths Harry and I cannot get them."

"I'm not sure."

"You may yet be our only chance of persuading Horace, Harry. I'm afraid our reservations will have to wait for safer tidings."

Harry nodded, there wasn't a whole lot else to do. It seemed every moment the weight grew in intensity.

"Well then. Before I release you to the comforts of your own bed, I fear I have one more item on our agenda."

"Of course, Professor." Harry responded.

"I've been told you may have had an altercation with Mister Malfoy aboard the Express?" The older man asked, leaning forward. His eyes seemed to hold an edge that would dissuade him from lying - not that he would anyway.

"I did," Harry said, having the good sense to look abashed.

"Fear not, I shan't chastise you Harry. I fear you've paid your dues enough for one night." The man seemed to lean closer, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "But I'd implore you to heed my advice. Do not push Draco Malfoy any further than you already have, lest he reacts."

"I'm sure I could beat him sir." Harry argued, but he couldn't help but wonder whether his impudence was born from the afront out of his feelings for Draco, or his besting of him.

"You are uniquely talented, yes." The man acquiesced, "Although I speak not of his prowess versus yours. It appears we've so easily forgotten the contents of this discussion. Martial might is not a ubiquitous solution for every problem that you'll ever face. Sometimes the wand is mighty, but just as often picking up the quill will suffice."

"He's brought something with him to Hogwarts, sir." Harry tried, desperate to make the man see reason. "I'm certain of it. We-"

"I'm well aware of the fact a plot surrounds Draco Malfoy, Harry." The man interrupted gently.

"So why let him come back to Hogwarts?" Harry questioned pointedly, "Surely that'd risk more people then expelling him."

"As opposed to letting him roam free under the tutelage of his father and others?" Dumbledore pointed out, "If we ever want anyone to see our way of life as superior, they need to know it's different. If we incarcerate a boy that's been coerced by his father his entire life, shall he ever see us as better then what he's always known?"

"I'm not sure Draco would ever come over to our side willingly." Harry frowned,

"It is indeed a great victory to best your foes in combat." The man counselled, "However, the greatest victory lies elsewhere. When you can make a foe see your ideals, through your eyes, as opposed to closing theirs forever. Only then, have you truly bested them."

"Of course sir." Harry said he saw the man's point, even if he didn't fully agree with him.

"The night quickens Harry, I believe I've held you here for far too long." The man stood up from his desk. "I shall be sure to contact you for our next meeting. Otherwise I believe you'll find perseverance will help you greatly in getting into Gryffindor Tower."

Harry bid the man good night and descended down the same stairs he'd ascended some time ago. Although he felt far heavier as he walked away, the Headmaster's gargoyle staring intently at his retreating form.

Hogwarts seemed uncharacteristically still, or so he thought.

The hallowed halls were silent. Whatever griseous-hued moonlight that made it into the castle undispersed by the stained windows seemed dull. Even the various cries and snoring and in the case of Sir Cadogan, longsword duels seemed muted.

He'd debated going to Gryffindor Tower, but there he'd likely be confronted with friendly, familiar faces. Although he'd like to see them, he desperately didn't feel up to the task of false cheeriness for sake of appearances.

The night was too late to seek out Fleur, even if he'd want to. She'd likely be settling into her own office and hence, Harry was left to his own devices.

Those same devices carried him to the left-hand corridor of Hogwarts' seventh floor as he paced to and fro in front of the stone wall. Idly noticing the tapestry of the wizard who seemed forever bound on dodging ineloquent trolls and their flailing cudgels.

The door appeared and he threw himself at it with eagerness, or at least, as much eagerness as he could muster.

The room before him laid barren. He'd only wished to be alone and the room saw to it. Spartan, barren, vacant. All words that had shot into his mind, all meaningless in the end only words to describe how utterly empty he felt at that moment. He might've been able to mask that fact from himself. The room, however, was a different story.

Though at this point, he'd long since left his pity behind with the scores of letters demanding his death. He'd shed his guilt for Sirius, even amidst the turmoil of his life, however, in this instance, only one emotion truly ruled him.

His heart thumped hard in his chest, his scar throbbing in unison with every harsh beat. The tendons in his arm ached and pulled taut, a power rippling through them that ached to be released.

He palmed the holly shaft of his wand, it felt white-hot in his hand, yearning to be used. The urge to exhaust himself into sleep was nigh intoxicating, slowly atrophying his resistance until all that was left was wrath.

His wand twitched with sudden alacrity and he levelled it at the emptiness of the room and in a way, the emptiness he felt. He thumbed every groove of the wooden shaft, committing it to memory.

Play it smarter. Fleur's voice echoed in his ears almost cruelly.

He could still feel the contours of his wand, even as he tossed it to the floor and the warmth it brought left him, leaving only austere coldness in its place.

He wanted to let go, to release what he held within, even his magic wanted it. But the rational part of him, however small it was in that moment, knew it was futile. The release would be temporary, the feeling of relief fleeting. Try as he might, his issues wouldn't solve themselves no matter how wroth he was, nor how many spells he cast in the empty room.

He could've willed a bed into existence, but comfort wasn't at the forefront of his mind.

He stared aimlessly into the rafters and beyond that ascended high into the roof, a mirage of stars glittering across the roof like the Great Hall.

If he was hopeful, the false stars and imposing wooden beams might give him some newfound guidance. If he was realistic, they'd be an idle distraction until the sweet song of slumber rang true and his current situation faded into nothingness.

Harry awoke at the behest of the morning, the first few lances of sunlight shimmering through windows that he was confident weren't there when he'd entered. He gathered his wand and set out towards the tower with dawn's first swords of morning at his back.

He found himself outside Gryffindor Tower, a muttered ' Perseverance' had the Fat Lady awake, startled, before swinging the portrait open with a loud screech. The common room was fairly desolate outside some who looked as though they might have slept there. He quietly bounded up the stairs to his dorm in hope his absence wasn't as conspicuous as he felt it was.

He was greeted by a series of drawn curtains, save his own. At the very least, no one had seen his entrance. Fleur's transfiguration of his robes had deteriorated and his jeans and shirt had returned. He fished a proper set of red-trimmed robes from his trunk and set off towards the shower.

Occupying the one of the shower stalls he undressed and twisted the handles, revelling in the warm water that ebbed away the tension that pulled his muscles taut. He hadn't known how long he spent under the watchful gaze of the showerhead, but his thoughts were interrupted.

The door opened and a moment later, the shower turned on.

"Dean?" Harry guessed through the stalls.

"Seamus." An accented voice of the Irish boy called out.

"I didn't get to catch up with you on the Express, how was your summer Seamus?" Harry called back politely.

Seamus wasn't particularly pleased at Harry's presence at Hogwarts last year and it was a tear in their usually friendly relationship, one that hadn't been completely mended he imagined. But with everything that seemed to be on the horizon, the last thing Harry wanted was more enemies at his back.

Seamus seemed to ponder the question for a little moment, that or he was too busy showering. Harry had no way of telling through the shower walls.

"Not too bad," He said, his accent hard to decipher through running water. "Me Mam's been worried about all this business with You-Know-Who. Not much good for anyone these days."

"Well it's good to see you back anyways Seamus." Harry said.

He got a little murmur of affirmation through the stall wall, there wouldn't be any apologies between the two but it was nice to know his hatred of Harry had abated.

Harry finished his shower and dried himself off before anyone else entered, gingerly pulling his robes over his head. He decided to find a home in his bed for the foreseeable future. He decided the morning couldn't be that new if Seamus was getting ready.He stepped silently to his bed and fished his father's Auror Handbook from his trunk. He'd taken to reading a portion of it every night.

He'd progressed through the defensive charms and shields though he hadn't had the opportunity to read at the Burrow before he progressed further inwards. He'd always heard that the Aurors' main goal was incapacitation of their foes, but the book weaved a different tale.

Harry couldn't tell if the war was an impetus on how they reacted to a threat but the manual detailed all sorts of gruesome spells. It seemed lethality wasn't solely the staple of Death Eaters. Broken bones and crushed foes seemed to be caveats of the Auror force if the book gave any accurate insight.

It included far more than that of course, of how to bend some spells and a brief introduction into the art of duelling. Given Harry had no formal training in the art save from a few lessons from Sirius, it offered some prudent advice. Harry resolved that one way or another, he'd have to test the skills he'd been learning eventually. Though he prayed it wasn't another life or death situation. Harry had been reading for some time before Ron's snores stopped pounding his ears with consistent frequency.

"Hullo" A voice called weakly a few moments after the snoring stopped. Ron peered through his curtains groggily.

"Hey mate." Harry called back, closing his book.

Ron stretched a little and let loose a loud yawn.

'Where were you last night?" The redhead asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Had a meeting." Harry said, "Dumbledore needed to see me."

"The whole night?" Ron frowned.

"I came in late." Harry tried.

"Well, Dean reckons he went to get food past midnight and your curtains were open then."

"Maybe he was really going to see Ginny?"

Ron muttered something Harry couldn't hear, but it sounded like something not to be repeated in polite company.

Harry sighed as the internal conflict rose again. Last time he involved anyone in his 'problems' the consequences were dire, he was noticeably reluctant to endanger them again. Given the battle was fated to be between him and Voldemort, it made more sense to Harry at the very least to bear the burden alone. He'd be forever haunted if he led another to their death.

"So what's up?" Ron tried again.

"I can't tell you mate, after everything we've been through you know I would if I could, but I can't, Dumbledore's orders even." Harry was practically pleading with Ron, the less he said about his troubles the better.

It felt cruel to hold back information from those who had stood by him through every hardship, but he felt it was crueller to look the Weasleys or the Grangers, anyone in the face and explain they wouldn't be coming home because Harry Potter dragged them along into a war that wasn't theirs. The Ministry battle was bad enough on that front.

"I get it mate, I do, Hermione might not be so understanding." He stated offhandedly.

Harry was exulted at Ron's acceptance of the matter, though he winced when Hermione was mentioned. She certainly wouldn't be so blasé about disappearances he wouldn't, couldn't explain.

"Mental?" Harry asked.

Ron took a brief moment to ponder.

"You know, I think so." He agreed

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said, "For understanding and all that, I appreciate it."

"Add a sir to that and I think we'll be even."

"You know," Harry said in faux-wonder, "I am really interested in what Ginny and Dean were doing last night."

He didn't see the pillow that careened into his face, but it was a price he was willing to pay for the moment to take some weight from his shoulders.

These were problems Harry was unsure if he could face, let alone drag others in.

Though, he pondered internally. I wonder if Fleur might know how to get information out of Slughorn.

She'd so often bragged that the French invented the dance of socialites gathering information under the guise of civility and shrouded by pretty clothes and drinks. He imagined she'd relish at the chance to get to prove her mettle on her homefront.

Maybe, just maybe. He thought, maybe he had an escape from the madness before it truly began.

Slinging himself from his bed, Harry pulled the Marauders Map out of his trunk. Although the hour was still early, the beginning of Breakfast waned closer as the day progressed further. An idea formed in Harry's head, perhaps Fleur's Office needed to be blessed with its first visitor.