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Henri Potère, Saviour of New France by Anne-Marie
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Henri Potère, Saviour of New France

Anne-Marie

Chapter Two: Henri avec les Iroquois (Harry among the Iroquois)

For a second that felt like an eternity, Henri thought he had been mistaken. The woman said nothing. Then…

"Henri! Thank the Great Spirit! It is you!"

Henri knew he was grinning like a madman. He didn't care. Hermioniah didn't seem to either. She flung her buckskin clad arms around him in that impetuous manner he remembered so well from their childhood. "I didn't know it would be you, Henri. Damayaga only told me I'd meet men named Potère and Véslée."

"I am Potère. Henri Potère. And this is my friend Ronald Véslée."

Ronald stuck out his hand. "How do you do, mademoiselle?"

Hermioniah turned to him. "You are welcome to our country, Ronald Véslée." She did not take his hand. They did not shake hands among the Iroquois. Henri would have to tell Ronald that later, since Ronald looked a bit annoyed at what he probably perceived as a snub.

"Merci," said Ronald.

Hermioniah bowed and then went back to Henri. "But Henri, what have you been doing all these years? You must tell me!"

"Well…"

"What I am saying? Not here, of course. You must tell your tale after you are fed and comfortable in my father's house. It is only a short paddle from here. My canoe is just down the bank."

The birchbark canoe lay half out of the water upon the bank. Designs had been painted in red upon the bark, designs Henri remembered well, the symbols of his mother's people.

"Did you paint the canoe?" asked Ronald. "It's beautiful."

Hermoniah laughed. "Painted them and built the canoe."

Ronald stared at her. "All by yourself? I mean, forgive me, but I never thought this was woman's work."

"What is woman's work then?"

"To spin and weave, to mind the children, milk the cows…" his voice trailed off, probably realizing that there were no cows in the wilderness for anyone to milk. "The women of my family are no strangers to hard work, mademoiselle, but they leave boat-building to us men."

"Do they?" said Hermioniah in what Henri recognized as dangerous tones. "How civilized of them." Then her face relaxed. "I will be honest. I am considered exceptional among my own people, as well as yours. Most women do not undertake the things I do."

Henri laughed. "I remember. My aunt would scold your parents for not bringing you up properly."

"What an awful woman she was. My father now blesses the day he was turned away from that village."

"Is he well?"

"He and my mother are still in the summer of their lives," Hermioniah answered to Henri's relief. There were so many hazards in the life the Iroquois lead. A few years earlier, there had been a smallpox epidemic which had killed untold numbers of people. He had worried about her and her family, hearing of it. Now it seemed they had all survived without harm.

"I had thought you might be dead," he explained. "Or married."

The smile left Hermioniah's face. "I was to be married, Henri. To the son of an Algonquin chief. He died of the smallpox a fortnight before we were to be wed. I vowed on his death never to take a husband."

Hermioniah said these words with the impassivity which characterized her people's approach to sorrow. Behind the composed face, Henri could sense the strength of her grief. She had loved this man, then. Curiousity overwhelmed him, but he knew how well her people valued their privacy. He resolved not to ask any further questions.

Ronald, however, babbled his sympathy. Hermioniah must have grown impatient with these condolences, for she at last interrupted him, "And do you have a wife, Ronald Véslée?"

"No," Ronald replied quickly, rather too quickly for Henri's taste. "And you may call me Ronald, you know. I am the last of my family yet unattached. My brothers are all married, save for Charles who is a priest. And my sister Ginevre is engaged to marry Henri here."

Henri had only a second to wonder why Ronald had not mentioned Lunette before he was distracted from that question by Ronald's mention of Ginevre. He blushed guiltily at her name, though there was nothing wrong about mentioning his future wife, was there?

Hermioniah had turned to Henri, her face as expressionless as before. "I wish you happiness, my friend," she said simply.

"Thank you," he replied, not knowing what else to say. There was no reason for her not to congratulate him. Ronald had been right in calling her a childhood sweetheart. He could - with a deal of embarrassment - remember his seven-year-old self trying to kiss her, and being pushed into a puddle for his pains. Yet that incident hardly bound them for life. She honoured the memory of a dead lover, and he had won the hand of the loveliest girl in New France. Friends do not grudge each other love. He forced a smile and began to tell her of Ginevre.

* * * * *

The people of Hermioniah's village had turned out in full force to greet the Frenchmen. As a people, the Iroquois were - to put it gently - not so friendly to the French, who pushed ever further into their territory and aided their traditional enemies in wars against them. However, on a personal level, there were friendships between individual Iroquois and Frenchmen. Sometimes even more than friendship, as Henri's parents had proved. In this case, Damayaga, a highly respected elder and warrior of the village had vouched for the friendliness of Potère and Véslée, and Damayaga's word was law among those who knew him.

No sooner had Henri and Ronald waded to shore from the canoe than the older man embraced them like sons. "You are the very image of your father," he told Henri. It was a greeting that Henri was accustomed to from his father's old acquaintances. Twenty years earlier, Damayaga had guided Jacques Potère down these rivers and lakes into the heart of Iroquois territory, where he had met Henri's mother. As a child, Henri had not known this, or known that the great warrior who visited his village from time to time was watching over him for M. Dumbledore. All this he had only discovered a couple of years ago. He had a thousand questions for Damayaga, but they would have to wait. For the moment, the order of the day appeared to be celebration. The villagers swarmed around him, asking questions about New France and his journey here. They were particularly interested in the colour of Ronald's hair. Those Frenchmen they had seen before had obviously not been redheads.

Inside the longhouse were the preparations for a feast. Henri and Ronald coughed and spluttered a good deal as they made their way down the smoke-filled long inner corridor of the great house. From experience, Henri knew that they would soon get used to the atmosphere, but it was a great shock to the system after weeks spent outside in the fresh air.

"No proper ventilation," whispered Ronald. "And what do you suppose they'll give us to eat?"

They came at last to the small booth where Hermioniah's parents dwelled. They looked in very good health, though Henri ruefully noted that Hermioniah's father was not nearly so tall as memory made him. Both her parents were ecstatic to see him again. They wanted to hear all his life's story immediately, but Damayaga prevailed on them to wait till after the feast.

The feast did not live up to Ronald's standards, but Henri was used to the food of the Iroquois and tucked into the roasted meat and maize with pleasure. His appetite, brought on by days of strenuous journeying on small rations, delighted the women who'd prepared the meal. He was quickly becoming very popular. Ronald, on the other hand, was earning quite a few glares by the way he poked at his food as if it were poisonous.

When everyone had eaten their fill, pipes were taken out and passed around. Henri was no smoker, but took a ceremonial puff without complaint. The pipe was a symbol of peace, and he wanted everyone to be assured of their peaceful intentions.

Then Damayaga stood up and told the whole story of Henri's parents, of his close encounter with death as a baby, and how he had been brought up among the Iroquois. The listeners nodded. Many had already heard the tale, most probably, but Damayaga told it well, and after a brave warrior these people admired no one more than a good storyteller.

At last, it was Henri's turn to speak. He cleared his throat and tried to remember the grand style of their speeches. "The intendant Dumbledore, he who sheltered the people of New France like a father, took me from my mother's family so that I might learn the ways of my father's people," he told the assembly. "I have learnt much in all these years away from the wilderness, but I have not forgotten all that I learnt among the sons of the forest."

Ronald rolled his eyes. Henri pretended not to notice.

"I have an enemy. He is like me, half of your blood, half of the blood of the Frenchmen. Unlike me, he denies his Iroquois blood. He calls himself by a French name, the Sieur Vol de Mort, though is father was Iroquois. He seeks to rule the French colony, and then to destroy the Iroquois. I am here to stop him from doing this. Will you aid me?"

There was no doubt in their answer. They all swore their assistance. For the first time since Dumbledore's death, Henri and Ronald were not alone in their quest. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Henri poured out his thanks.

Snuggled among warm furs that night, the two boys discussed the day's events.

"These people aren't too bad," pronounced Ronald, careful to whisper. "Georges and Wilfred had me half-convinced they would burn us at the stake.

"They are a terror to their enemies, Ronald, not to their friends."

"And that Hermioniah. She's rather pretty, you know. If she were washed up…"

"Don't even think about it, Ronald."

End Notes:

Damayaga is an OC, though if he existed in JKR's Potterverse he'd be among the many surprising people Dumbledore has recruited to the cause. In watching Harry's childhood in the wilderness, he performed the same function as Mrs. Figg.

As for Hermioniah's dead fiancé, he was somewhat like Viktor Krum. Only he's dead now, so we'll only hear about him, not meet him.