Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein Daphne is discarded, Hermione swots and considers her future, Harry seeks advice, Flitwick fails, Harry is mobbed, Ginny overdoes it, Harry seeks refuge, Fleur tries to provide it, and Hermione stays at Hogwarts.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 82 - The Beauxbatons Ball

True to his guilt-ridden words, Harry immediately confessed his indiscretions. Ginny's resultant emotional explosion could have singed the scales off a Ukrainian Ironbelly, and her shrieks of betrayal would have done any banshee proud. Harry's replacement Godric Gryffindor portrait soon concluded that he "hadn't signed up for this" and decamped for more congenial (or at least quieter) surroundings.

Harry had no such soft option. Unfortunately for his ears, but to the chagrin of the Castle's gossip-mongers, he had imbued his bed hangings with the strongest Imperturbable Charm that he could muster. Then he told Ginny the unvarnished truth.

Ginny, under the impression that Harry had invited her to his bed for more pleasurable purposes, shifted from shock to shouting with virtually no in between. Using language certainly not learnt at Molly's knee - unless the Weasley matriarch moonlighted as a fishwife - she called him every name in the book. His apology was so abject, and his guilt so transparently genuine, that Ginny eventually forgave him.

Her forgiveness was inevitable.

Ginny had invested a great deal of herself in simply attracting Harry. Most of her other friendships were ruined. She had forced herself to collaborate with that odious, smirking Malfoy ponce. Dumping Harry, however justifiably, would leave her far worse off than before. Besides, Harry was not just another beau - he was inimitable Boy Who Lived - the object of her fantasies ever since she had been old enough to fantasise.

So she tolerated behaviour from him that, from all prior boyfriends, would have earned a Dear John letter written in blood - their own.

Besides, breaking up with Harry over Daphne's dalliance would only reward the loathsome Slytherin. Ginny had no doubt that result was exactly what Daphne intended. If Ginny sent Harry away, it would be straight into Daphne's comforting embrace.

Even though Harry missed her anvil-sized hints that maybe he should take a knee, Ginny readily allowed him back into her good graces. Soon Ginny had come full circle - to the reason she originally followed Harry up the dormitory stairs. She wanted to prove to Harry that anything Daphne could do, she could do better.

How much better, Ginny was unsure. The evident failure of her supposedly "ultimate" Love Potion was worrisome. Harry's peculiar inquiry about "noticing any pink" bothered her too. Her pink bits were undeniably pink! What more was Harry looking for?

Ginny forgave Harry but most emphatically not Daphne. Their next encounter, in the Great Hall, promised to be monumental.

No one was let down, at least initially.

"You backstabbing, cold-blooded little harlot," Ginny hissed at the willowy Slytherin when they met the next morning just outside the Great Hall during the breakfast rush. "I turn my back for a minute, and you're all over Harry trying to steal my wizard!"

Given Harry's no-show, Daphne had expected something of this sort ever since she returned to the Castle. She pinned Ginny with a practised, haughty stare. "More like you abandoned him, I reckon," she replied equally cattily. "Last time I looked, you didn't own Harry - no more than Granger. He's not your house-elf."

"Damn straight," Ginny retorted, her voice gradually rising as other students stopped and milled about, watching the free show. "Harry chose me. I'll bet you had your auntie-poo enchant him for you….."

Daphne bristled. Face reddening, she snarled, "What a load of bollocks! My Merlin-given natural charms were more than sufficient, thank you very much! You're hardly one to talk. The Sisters told…."

Daphne stopped abruptly. Hogwarts had many pretty witches - she was confronting one - but one of her outstanding plusses in respect of Harry Potter was her discretion. His rapid return to the ginger harridan's side only solidified Daphne's belief that potions or other magicks must be implicated, despite her utter failure of proof. Burning her bridges absolutely was a very un-Slytherin thing to do. She would not air dirty linen in public.

Rather that escalate matters, Daphne shut them down. "I have nothing more to say to you … you're a waste of my time, not to mention a crashing bore," she dismissed Ginny contemptuously. Turning on her sleek heel, with poise Ginny could only dream of, Daphne stalked into the Great Hall with nary a backward glance. Her leisurely strut was itself a provocation - a dare to the Gryffindor to go ahead and hex her in the back.

Ginny knew she was on probation every bit as much as Daphne did. The redhead kept her wand sheathed, but unleashed an increasingly jejune verbal assault. She shouted at the retreating blonde, "If you even sneeze in Harry's direction I'll have a lot more than words for you … bitchy witchy!" Incandescently angry, Ginny was determined to have the last word. "This isn't over … I'll deal with you at the D.A!"

"Forget that, darling," Daphne drawled over her shoulder. "If that's how you see the D.A., I quit."

"Good riddance!"

With one minor - and one major - victory over the Slytherin slag, Ginny was left stewing before a lot of students who, with Greengrass leaving the arena, suddenly found they had other places to be.

* * * *

Daphne's instincts were, as usual, spot on. The Prophet had several amateur stringers at Hogwarts, ensuring that the next day's paper featured a vivid account of the spat. Besides factual details, the story presented rampant speculation over what may, or may not, have prompted the quarrel, and who was at fault.

Daphne delivered her "No bloody comment," so frostily that the next day's newsprint nearly froze where that quotation ran.

Nor was she the only potential source refusing to be interviewed. Sighing, Hermione put down the paper. She had been owled by a Prophet reporter hoping she would dish. Whilst Hermione had no doubt, from Ginny's reaction, that something serious - likely salacious - had transpired between Harry and the blonde Slytherin, Hermione declined to contribute her tuppence worth for public attribution. The reporter's owl left empty-handed, or rather, empty-legged.

She should not have cared, but did. Harry was Ginny's problem now, but still Hermione could not bring herself to ignore her ex altogether. She could - no, would - never feel indifferent about Harry.

The situation at least gave Hermione a sort of grim satisfaction. All men, even Harry, were sluts, given sufficient temptation. But Hermione had kept him - despite considerable temptation - to herself for more than eight months. Although Ginny was far prettier, she had barely kept Harry on the straight and narrow for eight days.

This petty point brought Hermione no joy at all. She remained bereft.

Harry, at least the Harry Hermione thought she had known, was better than that. For literally months, he had resisted that Brookings witch's charms. Her advances had been at least as strenuous - when Harry was unattached - but he had not succumbed because on some subconscious level he knew where his true emotions lay.

Or so he said.

Darkly, Hermione contemplated if Harry might be a bigger cad than she still allowed herself to believe. All she had was his word….

No, she had that spell Rita Skeeter had performed, whatever it was. It had proved Harry's veracity - a rare instance of truth reinforcing Skeeter's stock-in-trade.

Rita's result had convinced Hermione that Harry was the most sexually honest person anyone could hope to fall in love with. He could not lie worth a damn.

How could everything change so quickly … and so much for the worse? Harry was almost like a stranger, not at all who she thought he was. She would not put it past Daphne to…. Oh, to hell with it. Harry was no longer her problem, he was Ginny's. He was….

The situation was too depressing to think about. If she wanted her ideal Harry….

Aarrgh!

Hermione chose to bury herself in her studies. Her research did not lie to her; use her; leave her….

Hmmm…. The first in vitro results of the silver colloid solution were promising. If this worked, it would be a huge breakthrough. Thinking outside the magical envelope as only a Muggle-born could, Hermione was experimenting with Muggle chemotherapy - a treatment with its roots in Paracelsus - every medicine can be a poison; the dose makes the difference.

In late April she had exposed colloid-infused Petri dish cultures to strong, lens-focussed moonlight. Several cultures showed none of the characteristic transformations - even at 50X magnification. But the therapeutic range was narrow. Higher doses killed cells outright; a fatal drawback. Lower doses evinced minimal effectiveness; only slightly less of a problem.

After trials with nitrate and sulfadiazine, she wanted to test Muggle proteinised versions, formulation that included larger, metallic doses. Hermione smirked at the irony. Muggle uses of the stuff were worthless, scientifically bogus, and often dangerous - but when employed against certain magical maladies, the potential benefit could be enormous.

Maybe she should check the catalytic role of selenomethionine….

Her self-inking quill scratching away, Hermione revised her April results. If the May results were as good, Madam Pomfrey would contact St. Mungo's about in vivo studies and perhaps broach the possibility of clinical trials with the Beast Division (how she hated that name) of the Magical Creatures Department. Madam Pomfrey was quite supportive. Such ground-breaking research was precisely why Hermione had been selected as the first fellow of the Hogwarts Institution of Excellence programme.

St. Mungo's….

Hermione's stream of conscious thought process began contemplating what might happen after the term ended. Her summer prospects were a blessed positive in her lonely life. Paracelsus Huxley had proposed a "research internship" at the wizard hospital. His terms were so vague, the prestigious Healer seemed content to let Hermione study essentially whatever she liked.

And she had other offers. Achieving modern history's highest O.W.L. scores generated some interest, just not the interest she craved.

The goblins offered her a summer position at Gringotts. She could write her own ticket - legal, finance, wizard, Muggle - her choice. She would have the opportunity to learn Gobbledegook from real goblins, a rare privilege. The last wizard offered that privilege was a young Albus Dumbledore, before his Grindelwald dalliance cost him their trust.

The Unspeakables were also interested. They broached their own "research fellowship," which was, of course, classified. The catch was that she either agreed to join their office permanently or she would have to be Obliviated. As a sweetener, they promised to teach her the Homorphus Charm, fiendishly difficult post-N.E.W.T. magic that might prove critical to success of her current research project.

Now Professor Flitwick had asked to see her this afternoon. She suspected he would dangle an opportunity to stay at the Castle over the holiday. Of the other offers, only the goblins had included a secure place to stay. If she worked at St. Mungo's….

"Um … hi Hermione," an all-too-familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

"Harry," she answered through clenched teeth. "What brings you here?"

"…Well, I was wondering…." Harry swallowed nervously. "You see, I hope you meant it, back when you said … um … that you'd still, at least … stay my friend," Harry started awkwardly.

Projecting more calm than she felt, Hermione remained intimidatingly mute whilst Harry fumbled.

"It seems, well, I've got a problem … no, more like a situation, and Dumbledore's not around these days - probably chasing down something more of Voldemort's…."

Being no closer to knowing what Harry wanted than when he started, Hermione binned her silent treatment. "I'm hardly an adequate substitute for the Headmaster, Harry. If something's up with Voldemort, wouldn't you be better off talking to Shak? He's also your…."

"This isn't just about Voldemort…."

She shot Harry a pointed look. "Just about Voldemort?" Hermione repeated sceptically.

Harry continued his attempted explanation. "…At least not entirely, and it's Muggle, too, and you know more about Muggle stuff than practically anybody…"

"Harry, Blackie Howe could…."

"No, he can't," Harry stopped her. "I asked … some sort of conflict."

"Then, what?" Hermione's increasing exasperation finally burst through. Harry's tongue-tied tendencies were no longer so endearing.

No.

Do not go there.

"Oh, hell," Harry gave up. He pulled an envelope from his robes and poked it at her. "It's this."

Warily, Hermione took the proffered letter, carefully not touching Harry's hand. Instinctively worrying her lower lip, she noted a fancy, unfamiliar coat of arms on the front. Indelible gold and black blotches on the back meant the correspondent used magical sealing wax. Harry's expression was inscrutable as she unfolded fancy, watermarked Muggle paper….

"There's nothing on this," she stated sharply, wondering if this was some dumb trick.

"Oh, sorry," Harry apologised almost bashfully. Carefully avoiding her hand, as she had his, he pinched a corner.

Writing duly appeared. Hermione's eyes followed the instantaneously revealed text.

She gawked. Her eyes went wide. Hermione's mouth pursed to a little "o" shape and remained frozen until she finished. Her unfaltering grip and steady hands were a testament to her fortitude, as she carefully refolded the correspondence and returned it to its envelope.

"This could be huge, Harry." Hermione restated the obvious. "The alliance she's offering…. The Muggles could enter the fight against Voldemort. I only hope she knows what she's getting herself, and perhaps Britain, into."

"What do you mean?"

"Voldemort not only hates Muggles, but fears their superior numbers," Hermione reminded Harry. "That first prophecy - the reading from Voldemort's pensieve - its most straightforward meaning is exactly this kind of thing … Muggles joining with like-minded wizards to destroy his Dark ambitions. He won't let such a thing pass…. She's not with the Firm anymore. I hope she appreciates not having the same level of security she used to…."

Harry responded to what he thought was her point. "You think I should tell her `no,' then … for her own safety?" he asked, somewhat alarmed at the thought.

"No, I don't," Hermione clarified. "It's just a concern. I doubt danger deters her any more than you. Birds of a feather, I suppose…."

She sighed, but Harry's intense gaze bade her continue.

"No, but if she helps make the new P.M. take this seriously, then it's worth it," Hermione thought out loud. "I know they didn't impress you at Chequers, but if they knew what to expect - the Muggles, I mean. Blair may see things differently from Major. If we eased up on secrecy somewhat…. I'd say there's real synergistic potential…."

"Do you think she really means … she nicknamed her son for me?" Harry squeaked, as always uneasy with his fame. That bit of her letter still astounded him.

"I don't know what lying would gain her," Hermione sniffed. "The timing's plausible, and although Henry's a solid royal name, we haven't seen a Harry or Hal since the last king Henry. From what I know, which isn't much, she had precious little choice. Even a witch doesn't turn down a proposal from the Prince of Wales. Still, Voldemort's blood purity … she had to be terrified he would come after her or her family. Then, poof, the Dark menace is gone, along with the threat to her as yet unborn children, and you did it. She probably didn't have much say in naming the first one, but having more leeway with the spare…. Like I said, it's plausible."

"What do you make of all this business about AIDS, land mines, and so on?" Harry asked. "That's pretty Muggle, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione confirmed. "That's her quid pro quo. She helps us with Voldemort; you help in her various Muggle causes. She's famous for them, and you - well, is there any better way to spend all that money that you never wanted in the first place…?" Her voice trailed off, and Hermione stared vaguely into the distance.

Once a few moments dragged by, Harry filled the silence. "Do you think I should … tell…? I'm sorry, I shouldn't bother you with…."

"With what, Harry?" Hermione pounced. "I said I'd stay your friend, and I meant it, although it's hard…."

"Sorry, I didn't think…."

"It's okay." Her eyes and tone told different stories.

With a helpless look, Harry shrugged. "Do you think I should tell … umm … Ginny?" He had tried hard not to ask, but Hermione had insisted.

Hermione's cheeks reddened as if slapped, but otherwise she concealed the depth of her upset.

"I'm really sorry, Hermione," Harry backtracked. "I've wanted to tell you how much I wish I hadn't buggered up…."

"No, Harry, don't," Hermione forcefully shut him down. "Brutal truth was best. To answer your question - it depends on how serious you are about Ginny."

"What?"

"Well, once you've defeated Voldemort, if you want to spend your life and your money supporting Lady Di's pet charities, I strongly suspect she would happily accommodate you."

"Why do you assume that's what I want?" Harry grumbled.

"Why do you assume that's not what she wants?" Hermione stuck to her guns.

"Because … well she seems to have a perfectly proper, and properly aged, boyfriend," Harry pointed out.

"Harry, she had the future King of England," Hermione acerbically observed. "That hardly slowed her down when she wanted someone else. She chewed up and spat out Hewitt, Will Carling, and that poor heart surgeon - or so they say…. What would stop her if she decides that now she wants you?"

Harry was peevish. "Well, what if I don't want her?"

"Then you'd best tell Ginny everything - and be very careful, Harry, because between your magic, your money, and your mystique, I'd be quite surprised if, somewhere along the way, our dear Lady doesn't try at least to take you out for a test drive … and that's all I'll say on this subject. Goodbye, Harry," she firmly ended their conversation.

Harry had the good grace to leave when asked.

Hermione was thus spared the embarrassment of Harry seeing her break down in bitter tears.

* * * *

Professor Flitwick was diligently marking third-year test papers when he heard the soft rap on his door. It cracked open, revealing a sliver of Hermione Granger's somewhat bleary face.

"Ah, yes, Miss Granger - do come in. I apologise; I lost track of time, with all these exams … I without an assistant, you see…." Professor Flitwick seemed unusually distracted.

Hermione moved to seat herself in one of the chairs customarily used by students. "It doesn't matter," she shrugged with a voice that she hoped sounded self assured. "Whatever revisions are necessary, I'm more than happy to make."

Professor Flitwick let out a squeak and nearly toppled off the books piled in his chair. "Oh, no, Miss Granger, let's clear that up now. Your project is exemplary as always, and so much more involved than … charms for making new flavours of ice cream sundaes…."

Hermione blushed. Professors (other than Snape, she recalled) did not ordinarily disparage anyone's work to other students, but Hermione knew he meant Lavender's independent work.

Briefly Hermione thought Professor Flitwick might really have fallen, when his head vanished behind his massive desk. Soon she heard the diminutive professor's quiet footfalls.

Curious, but not nervous, Hermione watched Flitwick trot towards her. The professor's hand waved, and another identical chair popped into existence beside Hermione. He hopped into it.

"Miss Granger," the professor cleared his throat, "I asked for this appointment, not as your Charms Professor, but because I'm Head of Ravenclaw House…."

Now this was a surprise. "But I'm not in Ravenclaw, even if sometimes I think I ought to be."

"Well, you're not alone," Professor Flitwick chuckled as he sought a lighter air. "But what the Hat chooses, goes. Anyway, I'm here … and this is where it gets a bit sticky, I suppose … on behalf of two of my most accomplished seventh years…."

Hermione's face grew quizzical. "On behalf of?" she interrupted. She rarely spoke over a professor, but that was not Flitwick's current role.

"Yes, I'll understand if you think this is a bit abrupt, because, well, it is," Professor Flitwick ploughed ahead. "But until recently, neither of my students could contemplate such a thing."

Hermione restrained herself from being impolite. Uncharacteristically, Professor Flitwick was as long-winded as Dumbledore. She contented herself with asking, "Contemplate what?"

"You … that is, your availability," Professor Flitwick reached the heart of the matter as Hermione suppressed a gasp. "I thought … everyone did, that you and Mister Potter - you were entirely spoken for, and that was that…."

"You mean you're here because somebody's interested in me?" Hermione could not keep the shock from her voice.

"Not anyone, Miss Granger," his speech improved as hers deteriorated, "Mister Davies and Mister Carmichael are two of my finest students. I hope I can convince you at least to hear them out. Either of them…."

"But, why … and why, now?" Hermione lost all compunction about interrupting.

"Miss Granger, whatever your self-image after … well … I assure you, you are a most accomplished witch, and - please excuse my frankness - are regarded as desirable amongst your peers. Your O.W.L.s, remarkable, no historic, and two orders of Merlin…. I can only believe that Mister Potter was a fool…."

Were she thinking logically, Hermione would have understood. So many witches and wizards graduated Hogwarts with their romantic lives already set.

For once logic was the furthest thing from her mind.

"But I barely know either of them … and I'm Muggle-born," she resisted, fighting back tears. Her great romance had barely ended - she needed a chance to be herself, to learn who she was, for awhile … no-one else. Despite long lives, too many classmates rushed into adulthood.

Harry certainly had, although the prophecy was undoubtedly an extenuating circumstance.

"I assure you that neither," Flitwick switched to first names, "Neither Roger nor Edward care anything about blood status. Ravenclaw is the most meritocratic house. I daresay you'll find more obsession with ancestry amongst Gryffindors."

"But there … there are two of them," Hermione pointed out. "What's going on?"

Professor Flitwick regarded her quizzically. "Why, you would choose, of course. Both approached hours apart. With Mister Potter.…" he paused delicately "…out of the picture … they expressed interest in initiating a courtship, but as you said, neither knew you. They asked me to act as intermediary. I suppose I'm not very good. I've never done this before."

Hermione's head was spinning. Suitors? Her? Nobody save Harry had ever…. No, that was wrong. Ron once expressed…. She frowned. How could she have forgotten Victor, who proposed…? And she had long suspected that Neville….

Okay, so maybe she was less repulsive to the opposite sex than she had convinced herself.

"It's not you," she told Professor Flitwick. "It's me not being prepared for the message."

"I understand fully," Flitwick sympathised. "It's not often that a witch receives news of intent to declare - let alone two."

"De - Declare!?"

"Of course," the professor stated firmly. "I had long chats with both. I refused to intervene until I was one hundred percent certain that their intentions were both serious and honourable. They are - and both have excellent prospects. Edward, of course, is Head Boy. He is particularly keen mind on Arithmancy, and has accepted a management trainee position at Ipswich and Strougler's, the magical world's largest maker of Dark Detectors. Roger, as you probably know, stands to inherit a considerable fortune, including property in Diagon Alley. From your time with Potter, I'm sure you wouldn't object to that. Either would be overjoyed to escort you to the Beauxbatons ball…."

Professor Flitwick continued describing the felicitous financial attributes of his House's two sterling candidates for Hermione's affections, but she had stopped listening.

`Did I hear right?' Hermione thought. `He thinks I was attracted to Harry's wealth. He doesn't know me at all. That, more than anything, kept me away from Harry for so long. If he's that wrong about me, so are these two boys. They have no idea what makes me tick. No! This is too fast, and too soon. They'll want a formal declaration before graduation - less than a month away. What then? A marriage commitment before my seventh year?'

Hermione almost choked.

`I'm not in love … I doubt I ever could be … with either. I'd be a trophy. This would be a bigger disaster than being with Harry…. Hell, being with Harry wasn't a disaster…. Not being with him is….'

"I'm sorry, Professor, I can't do this," Hermione blurted, bringing Flitwick's recounting of Carmichael's academic accomplishments to an abrupt halt.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm just … not ready," Hermione tried to avoid explaining. "I feel I'm being rushed. It's too soon. I'd mess it all up, and make everyone miserable. I need time…."

"Can't you please give them a chance? What about the ball … try that, at least," Flitwick pleaded.

"NO!" Hermione almost screamed. Then she gulped. She had never, ever yelled at a professor before - not even Snape. "I'm sorry; it's too much, too soon. I'm not ready to move on, yet…. I'd hate myself…."

Hermione bolted for the door. She still had desires, but they no longer resembled her life's harsh reality. Her mental wounds were festering, not healing.

* * * *

Ginny shivered with excitement. Finally her færie tale dreams - one of them - were coming true. Tonight she and Harry were emerging from all the goblin concealments. Hiding was over. They were attending the Beauxbatons ball, together, the way she had always imagined it.

She was determined to make it a night to remember. To be one hundred percent sure, she added a double dose of potion to Harry's water bottle at this morning's team practise. Earlier, she had risked a chat with Ron, who remained furious at her. She demanded this additional practise, because she "didn't want to be embarrassed" by what she now called - along with almost everyone else - the "Viktor Krum all stars."

The elves provided fancy triptych mirrors for each girls' dormitory room to help ball goers dress. Ginny happily twirled in her nearly skin-tight ball gown as her friend Kelly applied a charm for erasing panty lines. She learnt it from a magazine that would scandalise both of their mums.

The gown was green, of course - to match Harry's eyes. To avoid any Slytherin connotations, especially after that incident with She-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless, Ginny had added abundant bright trim in Gryffindor colours.

Ginny's first hint that the ball would be less than the mythic experience she envisioned came before she even stopped twirling.

With the Scottish weather warming, the girls kept their windows open for last minute owls, mostly bearing corsages from their dates (Harry's magnificent lilac concoction unfortunately clashed with her dress). Ginny almost hopped out of her neatly concealed knickers when a wobbly owl hurtled past her and, in a shower of feathers, collided with her mirror reflection.

She recognised Errol as the semiconscious bird flopped to the floor. Ginny squeamishly removed a message from his spasming leg, expecting a letter from Mum. Instead, the post bore her father's distinctly angular handwriting.

My dearest Ginny:

I'm sure you are eagerly anticipating the Beauxbatons Ball and your upcoming Quidditch match. I trust you will acquit yourself admirably at both. I'm writing you and Ron to emphasise that this has become no ordinary ball. The French Minister for Magic and several other dignitaries will be attending - all because of your date. Understand that demands on Harry's time will be more than you'd prefer. Please accept this with grace.

You need to appreciate the symbolic importance attached to this event, coming so soon after the great tragedy that Beauxbatons and our French allies suffered. Whilst you should rightly be flattered that Harry single-handedly killed a Basilisk to save your life, at present that incident also resonates quite strongly with the French, due to their recent unfortunate experiences with such creatures.

Please be on your best behaviour - a message I am also sending your brother. You two remain on probation from prior incidents, and a repeat - for any reason - would disserve both our country and our cause, as the French political situation is unsettled at the moment.

Your loving father,

Arthur

Ginny had visualised her first major event as the Boy Who Lived's consort as a stage on which she would shine - as she knew she could. She had not expected to be under microscopic scrutiny.

No matter what might happen, Dad - serving as Head of the Department of International Cooperation - was ordering her to hold her tongue and turn the other cheek.

She would be measured all night. Could she perform with as much aplomb as the woman Harry had invited to the Ball before its postponement?

No pressure.

Harry awaited her at the base of the stairs. He looked so handsome Ginny almost swooned - until she realised his brand new royal blue dress robes with silver trim had almost certainly been selected by a serious, and seriously evil, rival for Harry's affections.

Ordinarily, Ginny would have insisted that he change, or at least Transfigure his robes to a different colour scheme. Not now. Harry had to be at the top of his game. Coming closer, she could see tension in the set of his jaw.

It was time to turn the other cheek, and probably not for the last time.

The measuring began almost immediately.

They were still in the Castle when Professor Shacklebolt pulled Ginny aside. "You can't be wearing that to this ball - not to Beauxbatons of all places," he hissed in a deadly serious whisper once he had them alone in a convenient niche.

"But the green matches Harry's eyes, and the rest are Gryffindor colours," she protested.

"Be that as it may," the Jamaican-born former Auror dismissed her objections. "Green, red, and yellow are also the colours of the African liberation movement…."

Seeing Ginny's uncomprehending stare, Shak added. "That movement toppled the French colonial empire in Africa - around when the French Minister and his senior staff would have been assuming their first responsible positions. You can't insult them like that…."

Oh.

Somehow, Ginny felt, Hermione would have avoided such a faux pas.

Shak informed her that the green could stay, but not the trim. Ginny settled for lavender frills that at least matched her corsage.

That bumpy, or grumpy, start deepened with Ginny sensing ambivalence in Harry's goblin escort's attitude towards her. She could cite nothing overt - goblins were more discreet than that. Rather, unless required to do otherwise, they essentially ignored her. In stark contrast, the goblins took pains to anticipate anything and everything Harry might desire.

But once Harry and Ginny passed through the portal to Beauxbatons, she left all negative thoughts behind. The French palais truly did resemble a palace. Everywhere, it seemed, floor to very-high ceiling windows welcomed the setting sun's rays. The airiness of the school's broad corridors and arched doorways was the antithesis of Hogwarts' solid, stolid stone construction.

Beauxbatons' whitewashed interior walls and extensive use of pastel colours reinforced this contrast. By comparison Hogwarts Castle was positively dour. The cavernous sunken Beauxbatons ballroom provided more of the same, with mirrored walls creating a sense of infinite space. Massive yet delicate crystalline chandeliers - dozens of them - completed the scene, resembling brilliant inverted wedding cakes.

Their entrance to the shimmering ballroom was everything Ginny could have dreamt. The couple's names were announced bilingually. As they presented themselves at the top of the wide pink marble staircase a fanfare sounded, then came an eruption of flashing lights as every wizard camera in the room focussed on the pair.

Clutching Harry's arm tightly, Ginny descended the stairs. She was in heaven - the belle of the ball escorted by her own Prince Charming. At long last she was living her dream. In a joyous fog, Ginny almost floated towards the welcoming crowd.

That was the last time all evening Ginny felt even remotely that way. The welcoming crowd was not welcoming her.

At the base of the stairs they were swarmed. Ginny had a brief opportunity to perform her best curtsey for the French Minister and the school's Hagrid-sized Headmistress. Then she was buffeted and bumped as a horde of French swells, very few resembling students, competed for Harry's attention. Less than a minute later, Ginny had been separated from her famous date and relegated to the company of overly made up and overly coiffed French witches - any one of whom Ginny was convinced would have jumped at the chance to run off with her Harry.

This predatory crew was not even decent company. Ginny spoke no French, and when her new-found companions deigned to speak English, they mouthed vapid platitudes and inconsequential chatter. More disconcerting, her foreign interlocutors frequently turned to one another and start jabbering away incomprehensibly in their native tongue.

They were probably talking about her. A cold sense of being condescended soon enveloped Ginny.

She wanted, above all, to be at Harry's side, but the crush around him only grew worse. Forcing her way through that throng meant at minimum considerable pushing and shoving, and more likely a few well-placed hexes.

Her father's recent admonition came to the fore - she must not make a scene. The shaky Anglo-French entente might hang in the balance.

Appalled at her treatment - and that Harry had not come after her - Ginny eventually slouched to the sidelines. Buffets stood at either end of the ballroom, but she would have to brave another scrum, and maybe lose track of Harry altogether….

…To get real food.

The attentive Beauxbatons wait-staff - genuine humans, not servile house-elves - liveried in chalky blue and gold, circulated throughout the ballroom. They offered many hors d'œurves, but Ginny wrinkled her nose at some, and found most others woefully undernourishing

But the flutes of bubbly champagne….

Beauxbatons served the real thing, not any faux, magically suppressed, never-do-anything facsimile.

A major difference between Hogwarts and Beauxbatons was lack of any minimum dinking age at the Palais. At the first proffer of a tall glass filled with pale yellow liquid, Ginny was shocked.

The second time it was offered, Ginny was pleased.

After the third time, Ginny - thus fortified - sought out her Hogwarts friends.

She found Connie Marpeth and Rommy Vane socializing with their dates, but no sooner had Ginny Summoned herself a chair, someone announced something in that baffling language. Loud music commenced almost immediately.

Ginny fruitlessly sought Harry, but his mostly French admirers still monopolised him. Her so-called friends, eager to dance, abandoned her.

At least the champagne bubbles tickling her throat felt nice.

The rest of the evening flowed in something of a blur.

Harry eventually must have insisted on finding her. She had long considered her brother Percy a git and a toady, but Ginny was never happier to see his face when, through the whirl of dancers, he appeared - leading Harry to her.

Ginny leapt at the chance to dance with Harry. But whilst her mind was willing, her body was surprisingly clumsy. Her pratfall leaving her seat nearly sent both of them sprawling. Once on the floor she stumbled, stepped on Harry's feet, and was constantly on the edge of looking foolish. Finally, during a long, slow song, Ginny fell asleep whilst draped over Harry.

Other girls were almost constantly trying to cut in. Ginny rapidly tired of her graceless and maladroit efforts at dancing, so Harry led her to a table off the dance floor. Bowing to the inevitable, Ginny conceded that, provided Harry changed partners every song - and solemnly swore never, ever to dance with a certain Slytherin whose gown matched his - she was content to watch from the wings.

Champagne kept Ginny company whilst Harry played the leading role fate assigned him. She had enough good sense to keep out of trouble.

Trouble certainly did try.

Ginny almost hexed some nasty Irishman whose name she did not catch. He introduced himself as a Chaser for the team that Hogwarts would soon play and made several snide comments about how badly his teammates would defeat her team. Krum, he claimed, would not even try for the Snitch until his team was at least 350 points to the good. The swaggering, soon-to-be opponent boasted that only an hour would be needed to amass the requisite score.

Despite her Dad's injunction, Ginny's half-sloshed hand was on her wand (in a thigh holster as thoroughly camouflaged as her knickers) when Harry magically reappeared and ordered the berk to bugger off.

Harry seemed upset and apologised for not paying more attention to her. He complained that everyone at the ball was trying to shake his hand, ask him about Basilisks, or thank him for agreeing to French Auror training over the summer holiday.

That last only depressed Ginny, reminding reminded her that she was underage. Her parents would never consent to her spending unchaperoned weeks with Harry in France. Harry had not decided where he would stay, although he had plenty of housing offers. He joked they were from the parents of half the witches at Beauxbatons.

Somehow, Ginny did not find Harry's stab at humour amusing.

Even less amusing was Harry's blunt demand that she stop drinking champagne. Before Ginny could compose a response, Harry grumbled about his "work never being done" and again turned back to the dance floor. Presently, she spotted him with another of those awful, condescending French witches.

Mutinously, Ginny downed the remainder of her latest flute on one gulp. Shortly thereafter she concluded, urgently, that she best find a loo and freshen up.

Staggering for the nearest exit, Ginny encountered someone looking for all the world like a silver angel.

"Can I `elp you?" Fleur Delacour solicitously enquired.

Fleur was about the only non-Hogwarts person Ginny recognised. Ginny was intensely aware that throughout the evening the dazzling French witch had not been dancing with, or otherwise fawning over, Harry.

Instead, Fleur had been acting the proper hostess, hovering in the background and keeping Harry's dance card moving. Ginny had seen her enforcing the "one dance" rule - precluding any of Harry's all-to-numerous female admirers, French or British, from lingering.

"I have to pee," Ginny mumbled, her words noticeably slurred. "I thank I drink … I think I drank too much champagne."

"Zen we agree," Fleur responded. "`Ere, let me show you zee staff WC."

Once the pair of witches, one gliding the other stumbling, reached the bathroom, Ginny needed more than merely to empty her bladder.

The contents of her stomach decided it was time to run for the exits.

Fleur helped Ginny clean up. "I zeenk you should lie down a beet," she recommended.

With the room spinning about endlessly, Ginny found much merit in Fleur's suggestion. How it happened, Ginny hardly knew, but she soon felt the welcome downy softness of a French featherbed mattress.

"Aaaah," she exhaled. Humming to herself - futilely trying to stop the rotational sensation she felt even when flat on her back, Ginny did not hear the softly-spoken French incantation….

"Endormi."

Instantly asleep, Ginny was oblivious to the next spell, "Colix porti."

* * * *

At the explosion of lights, Harry's grip on Ginny's arm tightened. Although both Shak and Percy Weasley (Dumbledore was conspicuous by his absence) told him his arrival at Beauxbatons would cause quite a stir, he was still shocked to confront the situation first-hand.

Once down the stairs, Harry and Ginny were engulfed by a mob of amiable and admiring French magicals. In no time, Madame Maxime formally presented Harry to the French Minister, M. Constantanon. According to protocol, Harry introduced Ginny, shook hands with the Minister, and declared how delighted he was to return to France, and see Beauxbatons.

Like most diplomatic niceties, it was a lie.

Decorum quickly vanished. A seemingly endless flow of French-speaking wizards and witches jostled Harry this way and that. They pawed at his hands, patted him on the back, tried posing for pictures, and offered hastily composed praise concerning Voldemort, Basilisks, and even Harry's date.

Whilst Harry had followed a helpful hint from Hermione a few days earlier - using his Aural Pensieve to brush up on his French - he had a terrible time following the rushed conversations.

When someone mentioned his date, Harry made an effort, if not to retrieve, at least to locate Ginny. From within this mass of surrounding humanity that was easier said than done. After some doing, he managed to catch a glimpse of her, almost obscured behind Madame Maxime's considerable left hip.

He saw Ginny chatting seemingly amicably with several, he supposed, French ministry wives. She looked tolerant enough, if perhaps bored.

Harry thought she would far prefer calm and boring to the alternative intense glad-handing he had to endure.

The chaotic scrum eventually became an impromptu receiving line conducted by the French minister. Harry tried staying close to the manifestly rejuvenated Beauxbatons Headmistress - a way of mutely signalling his support - but his effort was futile. Harry also tried responding to half-understood pleasantries in his own rusty French. As far as he could tell he committed no glaring faux pas.

That was the objective - as debated with Shak and Percy and as explained in Arthur Weasley's detailed, four-page post - to finish the evening with the anti-Voldemort Entente Cordiale preserved and hopefully enhanced.

Dutifully, Harry plastered on his social smile and did his best to make nice even to people who spoke too fast to follow or who overenthusiastically thumped his back or kissed his cheeks.

One conversation Harry understood all too well. The current French Maréchal reminded Harry how his predecessor, Fleur's father, perished in a Death Eater attack. The Maréchal sought to finalise arrangements for Harry's exchange visit for Groupe d'Intervention training over the summer holiday.

Under Shak's prodding, Harry had given this commitment some thought. He proposed to arrive at the Groupe's headquarters outside Limoges following recuperation from an abrupt time change. He would start the Monday after returning from the Pacific Magical Gathering that Dumbledore had also urged that he attend.

Harry did not know if Hermione would still go to Hawai'i. Dumbledore had also invited her….

The Maréchal turned to Harry's curriculum whilst training with the Groupe. Harry opted for all the offensive magic he could learn, and something the Maréchal called "enfortission" - loosely translated as "mental toughening." Even after Stonehenge, Harry still feared losing control of his elemental powers in the heat of battle. He remembered how they had surged when … Hermione … had been endangered.

He had avoided catastrophe then by focussing intently on a critical spell. Harry knew he had to stay focussed.

Harry refused outright to consider Unforgiveable training. The French ministry licenced Groupe members to kill, double-nought-like. Harry simply could not be the cold-blooded killer that mastery of the Killing Curse required. With difficulty he accepted his performing magic that could result in death - as the Ashrak and Stonehenge (his Scottish outburst being pure loss of control) demonstrated - but Harry refused to cultivate specific intent to kill.

When Harry finished discussing matters with the Maréchal, food was being served. Numerous French delicacies - largely unrecognizable, but tasting mostly gummy, creamy, or rubbery - were pressed into his hands. Harry maintained his good humour until being offered sliced seiche with caviar topping. He could see what this was and refused it, a bit too brusquely.

Harry was munching pâté-covered Melba toast with members of the French counterpart to the Department of Mysteries when the music started. A nearby witch immediately asked him to dance.

Before he knew it, Harry was being passed between various older witches whom he assumed - they all spoke breathlessly fast - were Ministry personnel, wives, or - knowing the French - "official" mistresses.

Madame Maxime thoughtfully rescued him. Harry told the Headmistress he had had enough. She nodded and made a show of asking him to dance. Using her bulk to great advantage, she cleared a path through the swirling couples towards almost the only familiar face in the room (save Fleur Delacour occasionally flitting about, managing the ball) and deposited him with Percy Weasley. Harry immediately buttonholed the Ministry protocol chief whilst fending off yet another overly squeezy French witch old enough to be Percy's mum.

"You will take me to Ginny, now," Harry demanded. As the ball progressed, Harry felt that same vaguely peckish, rather randy feeling he remembered from his recent trip to Bavaria. What then happened….

Apropos of that experience, Shak had specifically warned against crossing such a line at Beauxbatons. Whilst Harry would certainly encounter many willing (and discreet) witches, the potential for trouble was high, especially with Ginny present….

Only with Ginny could Harry legitimately alleviate this licentious feeling in some secluded Palais hideaway.

But … where was Hermione…?

Don't think about that - stay focussed.

Percy had more good news. First, the French Minister and his entourage would be leaving in less than five minutes, leaving the remainder of the ball "to the kids." Second, yes, he would happily escort Harry to Ginny and prevent his being waylaid in the process. Percy was concerned about her. Ginny was consuming more champagne than Percy thought wise. Could Harry put a stop to that?

Percy thought - and Harry agreed - that those two spending time together was an altogether splendid idea.

Whether it would be quality time remained to be seen.

Harry was equally happy to dance with Ginny, and eventually more, but her ecstatic greeting turned into a lurch into his midsection. Had he not caught her under the armpits, Ginny would have face planted ingloriously into the Beauxbatons ballroom's ebony and butternut parquet dance floor.

In Harry's arms, Ginny stabilised, but she was in no shape to dance - or much else. Through two songs, Harry essentially dragged his stumbling partner about the dance floor. Throughout Wonderful Tonight, Ginny just draped herself around Harry's neck. That area ached noticeably before the song was over.

If dancing were difficult, the thought of shagging Ginny - or any other girl - in her inebriated condition was a definite turn off. Assisting Ginny back to her table, Harry told her that, in his opinion, she should neither dance, nor drink, any more this evening.

Before his lecture was done, a pert French brunette witch bravely asked Harry to dance. Resigned, Ginny told him, "All right, dance then, but no more than once."

It would hardly do if the Boy Who Lived of the hour were unavailable through no fault of his own.

Harry danced for over an hour, taking turns with one young witch after another, some French, others from Hogwarts. Surprisingly, the Beauxbatons witches knew as much about his second-year Basilisk encounter as his schoolmates. No matter how knowledgeable, though, none of Harry's partners managed a second round. If they tried, the Beauxbatons hostess, Fleur, sent another eager member of the queue to Harry's rescue.

Occasionally, Harry chanced a glance at Ginny. True to her word, she stayed put. Unfortunately, she was not as diffident when the ever-attentive Beauxbatons wait staff continued plying her with champagne.

Seeing that, Harry's face reddened. He would put a stop to it. He was about to have words with Fleur, when there came a less-than-gentle tap on his shoulder. Harry turned to find himself face to face with someone familiar - yet … not….

"Ver ist Her-my-oh-nee?"

Harry had not spoken to Viktor Krum in nearly two years - his last words being a hex in the Third Task's maze whilst Viktor had been under the Imperius Curse.

"Viktor?" Harry responded. "I'm surprised. What brings you here?"

"Team match in Paris," Viktor grunted. He was not to be diverted. "I vont to know vere ist Her-my-oh-nee?"

Harry had no good answer. "Umm … dunno. Haven't seen her all night."

That was true. Harry had occasionally espied Ron and Luna - and ignored them as resolutely as they did him. The third member of the erstwhile Trio had not made an appearance all evening.

Viktor scowled - almost sneered - at Harry's ignorance. His expression of utter disdain, so at odds with everyone else's attitude, raised Harry's hackles. "What's it to you?" he dismissed the surly Bulgarian.

Viktor refused to be brushed off. "I vont to ask her qvestion, and she hasn't answered my letters," the testy Bulgar persisted. "Not that it's any of your business now."

"Really?" Angered by the Bulgarian's implication, Harry could not resist twisting the verbal blade. "I'm sure the answer's still, `no'."

Viktor's countenance darkened. "Maybe vot vas then is not now - thanks to your foolishness," he returned Harry's volley. "I at least had courage to ask."

Only everyone's repeated admonitions to avoid incidents at all costs kept Harry from flying at Krum like a werewolf at a rival pissing on his territory. In his anger, he barely kept from betraying a secret that almost surely would caused Viktor to become the aggressor. "No is still no. When I…. I ought to go…."

"Da … go bock to your … little girlfriend," Viktor growled in his ominous Terminator-sounding voice. Under his breath the rival Seeker muttered some Bulgarian imprecation that sounded extremely insulting. Finally, he threatened, "Ve vill crush you, at Hogvarts…. I vill knock you off broom." Viktor turned on his heel and with near military precision marched off.

Harry had the good sense to hold his tongue. Searching out Ginny, he saw her conversing with a stranger. Ginny looked tense, and the wizard's robes bore insignia resembling Viktor's. Harry ran the interloper off, but Ginny was not particularly pleased when he again told her to lay off the bubbly.

Retreating to the dance floor and his distaff admirers, Harry mechanically worked through several more songs - the last one by Piaf, about regretting nothing, but seemingly everything, captured his wistful, almost melancholy mood perfectly.

Whilst Harry felt intangible emptiness in his soul … his bladder felt precisely the opposite. After emerging from the loo, Harry could not bring himself to re-enter the glittering ballroom - when his spirits felt so … whatever the opposite of "glittering" was.

Harry retreated to the semi-darkness of an outdoor pergola. The night air in late May was warm and inviting - everything … in there … was not.

Harry noticed the grey boulder nestled not quite behind a nearby potted plant. He nodded to a French Auror guarding the area - security was extremely tight. Harry strode to the railing and looked across the Palais' manicured grounds. He breathed the bouquet of spring blooming roses, lilacs, and marigolds. It looked so peaceful in the pale moonlight.

What was he doing here?

What was he doing at all?

He wanted to shag Ginny, he supposed, but not like this. She was too drunk to be a satisfactory partner. But did he really want her? Hanging over his entire evening, like a dolorous fugue in the background, was Hermione's spectral image … even though, as far as he knew, she had not attended the ball.

Why was she…?

He had to stay focussed.

Could he sneak out somehow and return to Hogwarts?

Slim chance of that. He was tonight's star attraction - having the lead role in this cage. Even now, people were probably looking for him. Harry had not brought his Invisibility Cloak, although goblin Cloaking magic could do in a pinch.

"`Arry? Ees zat you?"

He turned, and saw Fleur wafting to him, looking positively ethereal with her impossibly blond hair and her silvery gown shining in the nearly full moon.

With heartfelt warmth Harry greeted her. "Hi, Fleur, nice ball. I suppose you've been in charge of this."

"Zank you, `Arry," Fleur batted her eyelashes at the compliment. "But eef eet ees zo good, why are you out `ere?"

"Too much of a good thing, I guess," Harry shrugged with a wry smile. "Are they already asking after me?"

"Non."

"Then how did you know to look for me?"

Fleur smiled. "Part of being een charge … I `ave access to zee Palais' map. I saw your mark and decided to check. Would you razzer be left alone?"

The night seemed a bit warmer - the perfumed air in the lilac-wreathed pergola a little sweeter. He recognised the sensation as low-dose Veela allure, but in his current state Harry chose not to care.

"Not really," Harry sighed, "I want…. I'm just tired of being passed around."

What he really wanted, Harry was certain was not possible.

"Eh, vrai," Fleur sighed alongside. "I'm sorry `Arry. Maybe I should `ave warned you myself what eet would be like…. Perhaps, eenstead, you would like a tour of zee Palais avec moi…. You know, zee defence position, eet can be yours eef you want."

"Sounds good," Harry shrugged, not sure whether he meant the tour or the DADA job.

"Zees way, zen," Fleur directed, taking Harry by the hand. "I weell start weez our Deefense classroom and office."

* * * *

Fleur throbbed with nervous anticipation. She had strongly advocated pressing onward with the Beauxbatons ball in the face of the Basilisk tragedy. Scattered criticism of it being "disrespectful" of the dead circulated, below the surface, in some Beauxbatons alumni circles. Fortunately, Madame Maxime - after being revived by out-of-season Mandrake sent from Hogwarts - was on her side. She agreed that school morale, even the honour of the nation, required that Beauxbatons press forward from the massacre.

The stakes, already high, rose further when Minister Constantanon expressed a desire to attend. His ministry was irrevocably tied to the anti-Voldemort alliance with the English. In France, Harry Potter symbolised that alliance.

The Minister was also demonstrating his support for Beauxbatons' somewhat beleaguered Headmistress.

The revelation, in the wake of the Basilisk-caused massacre, that Harry - at age twelve - had dispatched a Basilisk with a broadsword only increased the Boy Who Lived's already substantial cachet.

His presence on French soil became an irresistible magnet for politicians, celebrity seekers, and hangers on of all stripes.

With the Headmistress weak from her ordeal and busy with the Fifth Estate's investigation, it fell to Fleur to balance outside social pressures with the need to ensure a proper and entertaining evening for the students of both schools.

Only a fraction of Fleur's nerves were professionally related.

Should all go according to plan, she would lay her own claim to Harry Potter's heart tonight.

When Fleur left Hogwarts to assume the suddenly vacant Beauxbatons Charms professorship, she never expected to have that chance.

Then, Harry seemed enchanted by a woman - in no sense merely a girl - whom Fleur respected, and more importantly whom Fleur conceded that Harry loved. Somehow something had happened. Even now, Fleur could not fathom what had transpired.

Amazingly, Harry had cast Hermione Granger aside, by all accounts quite abruptly. He was now on the arm of Ginny Weasley, a girl Fleur hardly knew.

Her brief contact with the Weasley girl had not been endearing.

On a couple of occasions, whilst dating Bill, Fleur had encountered Ginny. At Harry's dreadfully dreary town house, Ginny had been reserved and stand-offish. She had seemed threatened by her beauty and Veela heritage. That had been a year ago Christmas.

Bill had brought Fleur by the Burrow during the Easter holiday. In her own environment, Ginny had been downright catty. Fleur overheard her conversing with Ronald, the next youngest of the Weasley brood. Ginny had described her (Fleur) with an unfamiliar word. Bill had been helping her with English, so she had asked him.

The word meant spit.

After that, Fleur had simply ignored Ginny Weasley - a relatively simple task. Whilst Fleur's relationship with Bill deepened, his younger sister had been away playing Quidditch.

Then Bill died - killed at her family estate in Ambazac. Fleur's last trip to the Burrow had been for Bill's funeral. There, if looks could have killed, Ginny's would have been an Unforgiveable. Ginny hero-worshipped her eldest brother nearly as much as she did Harry. Ginny plainly blamed her for Bill's death at the hand of the Death Eaters.

No, Fleur did not like Ginny Weasley, and the feeling was mutual.

Nor was there respect. How the littlest Weasley had managed to win Harry where she, Fleur, had failed was a mystery - and a state of affairs Fleur would not let continue.

Fleur knew she was prettier than Ginny Weasley. She also considered herself cleverer. Fleur had not only graduated second academically in her Beauxbatons class but been her school's Triwizard representative. From her time as adjunct Charms Professor at Hogwarts, Fleur knew Ginny had no academic distinction beyond Prefect, a one-in-five chance. Ginny was better at flying and Quidditch - worth something, given that Harry played. But in every other skill Harry needed to defeat Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Fleur believed she far outclassed the Weasley girl.

That last was the most important. More than anything in her life, Fleur wanted revenge against the brutal murderer of the two men she cared about most - Bill and Papa.

Everything Fleur learnt about Harry confirmed and reconfirmed her belief that he - more than Dumbledore, any Auror, indeed more than any witch or wizard - was fated to be the instrument of Voldemort's destruction. Harry, however, could not do it alone. Even if not in love with Harry now, Fleur convinced herself that she could grow to love him.

With that love, and with her undeniable magical and other skills, Fleur was determined to assist Harry in doing what he had to do.

Only one other was equally - perhaps better - suited than she for that role.

Harry was not with Hermione any longer.

It was Fleur's turn.

Fleur prepared by both action and omission. She made no particular effort to warn Harry that the Minister would attend the ball and what that would entail. Harry, Fleur supposed, was now used to such things.

Ginny, she hoped, would not be.

A "concession" Fleur extracted from her Ministry further increased interest amongst the Beauxbatons student body. Mentioning similar English press accounts, Fleur persuaded her Ministry to borrow Harry's pensieve memory of killing the Basilisk from the English Aurors.

The week before the ball, that memory debuted at Beauxbatons.

Harry's memory was a huge hit. Everyone thanked Fleur.

Fleur also devised several schemes to sideline Ginny Weasley during her planned seduction of Harry Potter.

Ultimately, no intricate plotting was necessary.

Ginny proved overly fond of Beauxbatons champagne.

As Fleur anticipated, she was equally unprepared for the crush surrounding Harry. The redhead exiled herself to a table from which she sullenly watched others monopolize Harry. Ginny initially seemed surprised even to be offered champagne, but after one refusal her ennui set in.

Ginny accepted the next proffered glass.

And the next - and so on.

As the Palais' Charms Professor, Fleur had also cast the charms that kept the champagne at precisely 7.5 degrees. Her Chilling Charm, when synergised with another charm of her creation, did more.

Noticing Ginny's amenability to champagne - and doubting, from her visits to the Burrow, that she had much experience, Fleur flounced into action.

Taking care not to interact with Harry, Fleur wafted past Ginny's table and cast a covert Périmètre Charm across the wait staff's route. This charm gave the staff instant knowledge when Ginny (anyone within the boundary) wanted her glass "refreshed."

It also activated the Chilling Charm's secondary function - adding precisely two drops of Enjoyment Elixir to each flute of bubbly. The Elixir was the antithesis of the infamous Hogwarts Lust-Powder-in-the-punch incident. The tiny dose did not change the drink's taste, or alter anyone's basic inclinations. It merely provided positive reinforcement for what Fleur's target already wanted to do.

The charm was spatially limited. Others at the ball might occasionally imbibe an enhanced drink when happening to be near Ginny Weasley, but every flute she lifted was thus fortified.

From a safe distance, never approaching Ginny, Fleur watched Harry's girlfriend drink herself into a stupor.

As Fleur suspected, Harry eventually tired of constant attention. Headmistress Maxime helped him escape the crowd. Not long afterwards the Minister's party departed. Fleur's simple but effective plan then worked to perfection as Harry tried dancing with Ginny. She was too inebriated to do anything more than hold on.

After only a couple of songs, Harry gave that up as a bad job.

Beauxbatons' admiring students would have mobbed Harry just as their parents had earlier - except Fleur undertook to manage the queue to give everyone a chance, if willing to wait for a dance with Harry. Nobody, however, received more than one turn.

Harry and Ginny both appreciated Fleur playing the proper host. The only fly in the ointment was a crew of travelling Quidditch players who had wangled a last-minute invite through the Ministry.

Unknown to Fleur, who was indifferent to the sport, they were to play Harry's Hogwarts team in a couple of weeks. Injecting sports rivalry into the mix complicated matters. Several visiting players - including Viktor Krum, who should have known better, acted boorishly. Fleur strove her best to defuse potentially awkward situations, the most volatile being Ginny's older brother Ronald.

Fleur expected Ronald to make a fool of himself, but that boy's taste in partners had improved. His date - a blonde woman unknown to Fleur - prevailed on Ron to call it a night and leave before the fiery redhead did anything stupid.

Presently, Ginny stood and started weaving unsteadily towards one of the ballroom's exits. Phase two began.

Fleur intercepted Ginny near the door. Her luck held as Ginny needed a bathroom break. Fleur guided Ginny to the right place, as Ginny thanked her for disciplining the Beauxbatons witch population in respect of Harry.

Accepting the younger girl's thanks, Fleur had to marvel at her naïvety.

If only she knew.

Continuing to make Fleur's task easy, Ginny promptly threw up in the ladies' room. As Fleur helped tidy her up, Ginny confessed this was her first time drinking a significant amount of anything alcoholic. Fleur proposed that she sleep it off, and in her woozy state, Ginny readily agreed.

Fleur never mentioned Anti-Alcohol Potions or Sobering Charms that could alleviate her situation almost instantly, and Ginny never thought to ask.

With Sleeping and Door-Locking Charms, Fleur had Ginny hors de combat in a matter of minutes.

She returned to the ballroom, ready to collect Harry.

Zut Alors!

He had left.

She knew Harry would never abandon a damsel in distress - his rescuing Gabrielle two years ago proved that. Worst case scenario - he might be looking for his lost drunken girlfriend.

As quickly as she dared without attracting attention, Fleur ducked through a side door. Reaching a painting, she tapped the foot of the ballerina on the far left. The secret passageway behind the painting led to the Palais' new command center, where Fleur consulted a comprehensive map of the building and the grounds. To her immense relief, Harry was in the back pergola, alone except for one of the omnipresent guards.

Fleur suspected Harry had had his fill of the ball, crowds, stifling protocol, and (with luck) his inebriated date. She had used minimal Veela allure all night - for greasing the social wheels and keeping the ball running smoothly, but not enough to attract extraneous and unwelcome male attention.

Stepping into the pergola, she flexed her allure to maybe three out of ten. She wanted to attract a certain male's attention, but not threaten him. Harry's pushback had caused failure of her prior overture.

She invited him on a private tour of the Palais.

Harry willingly accepted.

First Fleur escorted him to the Defence classroom and its adjoining office. Embarrassingly, Beauxbatons' facilities were not of Hogwarts quality. The classroom was rather barren and space for practical training was substandard. The professor's office was musty and cluttered with the antique devices of Beauxbatons' equally antique instructor. Quickly, without betraying too much chagrin, she moved Harry onwards.

They were near Fleur's own Beauxbatons house, Burgundy-Lorraine, so she decided to show off its common room. Aside from more windows and lighter background colours, it rather resembled its Gryffindor counterpart. However, the residents - forty-seven first, second, and third years too young to attend the ball - were visibly in awe of Harry, which made him uncomfortable.

Fleur had overlooked that complication. Asserting her academic persona, she forbade autograph seeking and extracted Harry from his juvenile admirers in less than ten minutes.

Avoiding the other houses, she showed Harry upper form classrooms for the four major subjects. Beauxbatons' Potions facility particularly impressed Harry. It featured gilt floor-to-ceiling windows that actually opened and separate brewing stations with Muggle-style ventilation hoods. In a brewing accident, each hood's charmed fan activated automatically.

Harry confirmed that the Potions classroom at Hogwarts was a dreary dungeon with poor circulation.

Passing from room to room, Fleur slowly augmented her Veela allure. Far from objecting, Harry he grew more attentive to her descriptions.

Fleur's Charms classroom, consciously modelled after Professor Flitwick's, was last on the tour. Aside from being larger, as befitting Beauxbatons' greater enrollment, it would have fit neatly in Hogwarts.

They exited through Fleur's office, decorated with feminine, but not frilly, chalky blue furnishings and numerous pictures of herself, her sister, and her family. Pride of place went to two gilt frames where her father and fiancé still lived.

Fleur confirmed that, like Hogwarts, her office and the Charms classroom shared a door but did not actually adjoin. Harry noticed moonlight streaming through the windows at different angles.

"`Arry, I regret zat I cannot show you notre Queeditch Peech," Fleur mentioned with pain in her voice. "Eet ees being reconstructed to eencrease eets secureety. You should see zee faculty apartments, to `elp you evaluate the Deefence offer zat I'm sure weell follow your defeat of Voldemort."

Harry smiled wryly and rolled his eyes a bit. "Never count our Fwoopers before they hatch. That's a big if…."

"`Our?' Why zank you, `Arry. I have absolute faith zat you weell prevail, and I weell do everyzeeng een my power to `elp … zee souls of Beell and Papa demand no less."

With that declaration, Fleur took Harry's hand and led him down the moonlit hall. His single "Thanks, Fleur," drew a squeeze of her hand.

Through free association, staff housing shifted to housing generally, which in turn led to where Harry would stay whilst training with the Groupe d'Intervention.

"`Arry, `ave you decided where tu … you weell stay zees summer when you train with zee Groupe?" she asked whilst slowing her pace. Her allure rose again.

"I've hardly given it a thought," Harry confessed.

Fleur looked at him sharply. "Perhaps you should."

"That didn't stop just about everybody I met tonight from offering to put me up," he added, exaggerating only somewhat. "That is, everybody with a daughter near my age…."

"Well, what deed you expect, `Arry? You are quite rightly een demand," Fleur stated an obvious fact.

"A little less demand would be quite alright, thanks."

"`Arry, `ave you ever wondered `ow eet ees zat zee Groupe, such an élite force, ees `eadquartered een a proveencial town like Limoges?" Fleur asked.

"Before tonight, I didn't know," Harry admitted. "Bet you know the story, I can tell…."

"I do," Fleur sighed.

Harry squeezed her hand. "I'll listen, if you want to tell it."

"Merci, `Arry. After zee Greendelwald war - and zee great Muggle war - our Ministry thought we `ad been too soft, too deefensive. Papa, `e `ad fought in zee Resistance…. Zee Eenglish, zey staged raids weez zeir special services, and against Greendelwald avec a magical equeevalent of zee Muggle double-zero agents. `E decided to do zem one better…. Before `e became Maréchal, zee Group was `ees unit; Papa created it. Eet ees based in Limoges because zat was très conveenient for `eem."

"Okay," Harry amiably interrupted, "but how does that affect my situation?"

"`E chose Limoges because our family estate ees less than twenty keelometres away. Zere ees steell a working Floo connexion between Papa's study and zee Groupe commandant's office…."

"Fleur, are you suggesting…?"

"I would like you to stay weez me," Fleur requested, barely looking at him. "Eet ees conveenient for you, and I weell feel safer weez you zere…. I `ave not spent zee night since Beell and Papa were murdered, and I `ave to get over zees…. Eet ees my eenheritance."

Intentionally, or not, Fleur's Veela allure spiked with the invitation.

She stopped in her tracks, bringing a rather bedazzled Harry to a halt. Fleur produced her wand from … somewhere … in her silvery gown, which to Harry seemed even more form-fitting than before.

"A sample Beauxbatons faculty flat," Fleur explained, her voice low. She tapped her wand on the doorknob. It glowed faintly yellow. "Alohomora."

The flat lit automatically as Fleur entered, Harry in tow. "`Arry, I `ope you accept my `ospitality. Eet comes weez many benefeets."

The air grew thick with Veela magic. Harry wavered. "Umm … I'm thinking…. Such as…?"

"Zee première benefeet … c'est moi," Fleur whispered. She stepped forward, slipped one hand behind Harry's neck and drew him into a toe-curling kiss.

With Fleur's breasts pillowed deliciously against his chest, Harry's mind began wilting, whilst other parts of him did just the opposite.

Gasping for breath, Harry came up for air. The minute part of his brain still capable of reason prompted him to mutter. "But … Ginny…."

Fleur released him and stepped back. Harry nearly toppled over from the vertiginous aftereffects of their kiss. Her glittering gown accentuated her magnificent figure's every curve.

"Geenny?" Fleur spat the name through pouty lips. "She ees safe - sleeping off `er stupor alcoholique. She ees not worzy of you, and you know eet…. I am. Argentilleaux!" she incanted.

Instantly, the flat's unobtrusive white light became a silvery gleam bathing every square centimetre in a sparkly glow - every bit save Fleur's gown.

Interacting with the pearly light, Fleur's lustrous gown all but disappeared.

"Fleur…." Harry's jaw dropped. She needed no spells to erase panty lines. Every bit of her was visible, from her dusky points displayed on firm, ample breasts, to the dramatic curves of her waist, to the cardioid tuft of golden hair adorning her cleft. She was impossible not to ogle - as she right well knew.

Responding to Harry's obvious desire, she clasped his hand and breathlessly professed, "I believe zat only through love weell you destroy zee sorcier malin Voldemort. Come, let me show you…." Fleur whispered.

Fleur led Harry into her bedroom. Her gown reappeared when she entered the silvery light's shadow. She dropped his hand, lifted her bouncy blonde hair and requested. "Unzeep moi s'il te plaît."

Harry's hands trembled as he complied. Even his uncertain touch sent goose pimples rocketing all over Fleur's bare back.

Her shimmering dress fluttered to the floor. Fleur faced Harry and began returning the favour. Her hands likewise quivered in anticipation.

"`Arry, first I weell show you what we call zee French arts," Fleur purred. "Zen we can conteenue een search of zee `Armonic Convergence." Fleur was virtually certain Harry knew what that was - she had seen irrefutable evidence.

The atmosphere in Fleur's boudoir thrummed with musky Veela allure. Harry, his mind awash in a warm stream of lust, surrendered to these feelings. Daphne had been enthralling. Fleur was all that and more. He trusted her motives.

"Miroit absolût," Fleur incanted. Everything in the room, save its two occupants, instantly became reflective. Harry gulped. It was just like….

Fleur toppled Harry onto her impossibly soft yet supportive mattress and pounced. Well-placed charms vanished their remaining clothes, and she was as good as her words.

Everywhere the mirrors reflected Fleur's perfect female form. It was just like….

Until Harry attempted to articulate what he was feeling.

"Aaah, aaah, aaaaaaahh, Hermiiiooooneeee…!! OOOWWW!"

All the pleasure suddenly ceased - replaced by pain so intense that it threw everything inside him into hard reverse.

Harry's eyes flew open. For one panic-stricken moment, he feared she had bitten him.

She had only squeezed really, really hard. Ominously, she now gripped him with what looked more like talons than fingers. Her face was no longer the ideal of female pulchritude. Her platinum hair and pale skin had merged and plumed. Her fierce expression resembled a harpy eagle.

Veela rage.

But only for a moment.

Veela despair.

Before Harry could react; before his brain could process his manhood's endangered position; Fleur's familiar features returned - except for the melancholy cast of her face.

She spoke, her voice with laden with resignation. "`Arry, I do not compete for seelver medals dans l'amour … not when zee gold ees not even een play." She let go of him. "You know me bezzer zan zat. I do not settle for second best."

The Veela beauty had mentioned no names, but Harry knew precisely of what - and about whom - she spoke. Unbidden thoughts had been wandering through his brain almost from the moment he arrived at Beauxbatons. They finally burst through in what was almost a moment of passion.

He had failed to stay focussed.

Harry's tongue felt thick as he conceded she was spot on. "I'm sorry, Fleur."

"Not `alf as sorry as moi," she replied with a sigh. "Allons-y, zen. When you are dressed, vraiment, we need to deescus what just `appened, and what steell needs to `appen."

* * * *

Thump.

The solitary figure hunched over a cluttered table hidden in the rear of the Hogwarts library closed the heavy, leather-bound volume with a sigh. That was enough theoretical research for now.

The moon would be full in only a couple of days. Her apparatus was as ready as it could be. All the revising in the world was useless without practical results. Healing was not string theory.

Frowning, Hermione Granger dug into a pocket and withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment. She had postponed her decision as long as she could.

Her choices were due tomorrow. That deadline was firm.

A quick "Displia," and her quill was poised over the fateful form. Her first choice was easy. Arithmancy terrorised most of the Hogwarts student body but was a snap to her logical mind. The Hogwarts Arithmancy curriculum had nothing left to teach her. She jotted a tick mark in the appropriate box.

She also selected Charms. Pride of place, if nothing else, demanded selection of at least one of the big four. Charms had always been the easiest - as recently confirmed by her airborne cottage. Professor Flitwick had awarded her Charms project full marks and then some. Its complexity was an entirely different magnitude from, say, creating self-tickling gloves or bowties fashioned from a couple spigots of flowing water. Even Harry's new, improved Tunnelling Charms paled by comparison.

As one of the big four, Charms matched Defence. Adding Arithmancy, she would outdo Harry - pride of place.

When Hermione broached her plan to Professor Flitwick, he heartily endorsed it, his only regret being loss of his most talented student.

Should she choose more? Her conversation with Professor McGonagall had been similar, except Hermione felt that she had more Transfiguration techniques still to learn. Nonetheless, Hermione had little doubt she could achieve passable, if not necessarily year-leading, marks in every subject she was taking - Potions, DADA, Runes … whatever.

If she took all her N.E.W.T.s now, she would be obligated to leave Hogwarts a year early. That would end her constant contact with Harry. Would distance alone reduce her constant heartache? Would the incessant depression she felt ever since … the incident … would it ever end…?

She wanted to be her own witch, but could she?

She could start her Healing career immediately. Healer Huxley had been more than chuffed to agree to her one condition - teaching her the Homorphus Charm - when she had chosen to summer at St. Mungo's.

The Unspeakables … the persona they projected to the outside world put her off, and the prospect of Obliviation was a deal breaker.

The goblins? They were too much under Harry's influence. She had to emerge from his shadow.

Harry.

Taking all of her N.E.W.T.s now would separate her from Harry. She would leave; he would stay.

No. Not yet, anyway.

Hermione had promised him, and herself, that whatever happened between them romantically, she would at least remain his friend. She never made promises without intending to keep them, even if their romance had broken in totally unanticipated fashion. Leaving Hogwarts early - contemplated solely because of Harry - would be a most unfriendly act, no matter how amply justified.

Harry still needed her to defeat Voldemort and survive. The last year, indeed the whole time she had known him, left no doubt on that score. He would try, with or without her - that was certain. Her absence dramatically increased Harry's odds of dying in the attempt.

If she let that happen, she was no friend at all.

Sighing again, Hermione dropped her quill and refolded the parchment. Two N.E.W.T.s were enough. Harry was only taking one.

For all her dithering, the outcome was predestined.

Ron was right. She was pathetic. She was still in love with Harry and probably always would be.

Returning from the drop-off box outside Professor McGonagall's office, Hermione's lone footsteps echoed in the Castle's deserted corridors.

Time to prove it again.

The usual curfew confined the lower years to their common rooms. No other Prefects were about. Hermione Granger - winner of two Orders of Merlin and achiever of the best O.W.L. scores in modern history - was not attending the Beauxbatons ball. She would not be one more face in a crowd witnessing Ginny's triumph. It was one thing to stomach the girl crawling all over Harry at Hogwarts. In the Castle, she could avoid their coupling by leaving the scene.

But the ball was all about coupling. Beyond Ginny's parading about on Harry's arm all evening, breaking her heart all over again, Hermione would only inflict her misery upon anyone unfortunate enough to be her date.

After the debacle with Ron, that would be cruel. So Hermione managed to preempt anyone else from asking her to the ball. Neville and several Ravenclaws might have taken a chance, but she allowed nobody the opportunity.

Hermione simply wanted to be alone with her thoughts, dreams, and desires, however forlorn they might be.

She heard someone coming, and her naturally bossy Prefect instincts took over. Wand out, she turned the corner. "What are you doing out after…?"

A shocked Cho Chang nearly cowered in Hermione's wandlight. She immediately mumbled, "Sorry to bother you." Without another word Cho turned and tottered off in the opposite direction.

Cho had accidentally dropped something. Recognising it, Hermione called after the retreating Ravenclaw. "Wait…. Cho, you'll need this for your N.E.W.T.s." Cho's shoulders visibly slumped as the Chinese girl realised she had lost her sign-up sheet.

Warily, Cho approached. "Thanks … I know I can't have anything to do with the three of you - I could get expelled, even sent to Azkaban."

"Only if we object," Hermione instinctively corrected before adding, more sympathetically, "And I'm not objecting."

"Oh, I didn't know that," Cho reacted with somewhat more warmth.

"Well, they were supposed to tell you," Hermione stated, looking dissatisfied. She had never intended to ostracise Cho completely.

"Your orders, I gather," Cho accurately guessed. Hermione nodded, and Cho added, "Whatever. That's why I never personally thanked you. I'm told you gave the evidence that saved me from a Dementor's Kiss for … you know…." She hung her head in shame. "Thanks for not condemning me."

"Umm … I knew you weren't evil, Cho," Hermione honestly answered. "I can't say much, because I don't fully understand, but an evil banishing spell I used at Stonehenge left you behind. It only burnt away that awful tattoo of yours."

Looking into the distance, Cho admitted, "Yes, the Xiao Jing. That's how they … my father controlled me, you know."

"Yes … I know," Hermione revealed. "We'd sussed that out before we went after Ron. Finding him, and you, was the hard part."

"I'd have thought the hard part came after," Cho commented.

"Well, yes, there was … all that," Hermione readily agreed. "But I wasn't talking about…."

"But, how could anyone figure that out?" Cho groped for understanding. "Ron didn't even … none of them … knew even when Chinese New Years was. And that was easy by comparison…."

Hermione weighed how much to trust Cho. For months - ever since her release from her parents' thrall, Cho had seemed genuinely repentant. "We knew a brilliant Chinese wizard, he's dead now, and we had a spy in your House."

"Oh," Cho gave a surprised yelp. "That must be Luna. She was acting strangely - more than usual."

Hermione was instantly on her guard, afraid she had said too much. "I shouldn't say, but you should know - the terms of your release apply to everyone who fought at Stonehenge, not just the three of us," she warned.

"Merlin forbid, no," Cho replied, catching Hermione's drift. "I'd only want to thank her, too. You think I wanted to be You Know Who's bride or bear his bloody heir? To be a succubus? I'm certain he'd have killed me or turned me out the moment my usefulness ended. Right after childbirth, probably…. Actually, I totally misread Luna. I thought she was butch."

Hermione smiled wryly, given Luna's current dalliance. "Nope, little chance of that, I suppose. She's with…."

"Ron, I know." A melancholy, distant look glinted in Cho's eye. "You know, being controlled and all that was horrible, but being with Ron - I actually enjoyed him after I got used to…. Oh, I'm sorry…."

"For what?" Hermione was perplexed.

"You were interested in him, once," Cho answered shyly. "Umm … Ron told me…."

Hermione instantly switched from perplexed to affronted. "I'm afraid Ronald has an overly high opinion of himself. I've never wanted him other than as a dear friend. There's only been…." Afraid of bursting into tears, Hermione paused to restore her stiff upper lip. "…Harry."

Cho sighed, and laid a sympathetic hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Welcome to the club."

Hermione stiffened. "What club?"

"Harry's ex-girlfriend club," Cho laughed bitterly. "I'm the charter member. Now I've got company. You can be…."

She stopped as Hermione's expression hardened. "With all due respect, I rather think that Ronald isn't alone in self flattery. I would hardly put your brief time…."

Cho knew she had overstepped her bounds and backpedalled furiously. "Hermione, I'm sorry. That was a really lame attempted joke. I should have known it's still too soon for you … to make light of something like that…."

Hermione choked back something unintelligible. She doubted she wanted this sort of discussion with Cho, of all people.

"…You're spot on, too. I was only infatuated with Harry. I was … a wreck after Cedric was … was…." Cho failed to finish the sentence. Weeping, she sat down heavily on the cold stone floor.

Hermione, with some idea how it felt to lose a first love in cruel fashion, bent down and gently massaged Cho's shoulders. Cho tried shrugging her off. "Just … leave me alone…. I'll get over it…."

To her credit, Hermione ignored that request and sat alongside the weeping Ravenclaw. Cho would never get over Cedric's death - any more than Hermione thought she would ever truly put Harry's betrayal behind her….

Soon, Hermione, as well, was having a good cry.

"When they killed … Cedric … I think they killed … part of me…," Cho sniffled after a while. "It's ruined my life…."

"I've considered leaving Hogwarts … the whole wizarding world … because of … what's happened," Hermione commiserated.

"He still comes to me," Cho murmured. "Not frequently, but when I've been knocked unconscious somehow…. I think dead loved ones do that … at least magical ones…."

That possibility made Hermione feel a bit raw. She had never lost a magical loved one - let alone a lover - in such a permanent fashion. "If you say so…."

"He came to me … we had a long chat … whilst I was Stunned at Stonehenge," Cho went on, unburdening herself. "He told me he had talked to Harry … maybe when that cobble fell on him, I don't know. He asked Harry to help me…. He was such a wonderful person … and Harry, too, I'm sure…."

As Cho lapsed into more bittersweet tears, Hermione began comparing their situation. Cho had abruptly lost her first, greatest love, courtesy of Voldemort's Death Eaters. She had lost someone similar in Harry - but at least he still lived. She could talk to him; help him; be around him.

Poor Cho. For all her self-pity, Hermione realised matters could be worse.

Before Cho's interruption, Hermione had been on her way to visit the Harry she loved. It was dangerous, but it helped keep her sane when she felt so lonely and defeated, seeing him hold Ginny's hand, and more, all day long.

Maybe it would make Cho happier, too.

"Would you like to come with me?" she asked her odd sister in sorrow. "I was going where I could … er … think about … experience happier times…. I think it might do you some good."

Cho looked at Hermione blankly before shrugging, "Okay, I could hardly do worse than right now."

* * * *

Author's notes: Gryffindor's replacement portrait is mentioned for a reason

Malfoy is definitely worse

A "Dear John" letter is a breakup notice

Taking a knee here has nothing to do with sports, but means a proposal of marriage

The "pink" is the approach of a Harmonic Convergence

Daphne is for Daphne. Don't expect altruism from a Slytherin

Rita's spell was in Ch. 51

Silver colloid is mentioned in my "Bat" fic

The Paracelsus theory is accurate

The discussion of proteinized silver is accurate

Selenomethionine is a dietary supplement containing selenium; Selene is another name for the Moon

The first prophecy was in Ch. 45

"The Firm" is a nickname for the Royal Family

The consequences of the alliance would be for a Seventh Year fic

The Chequers incident was in Ch. 39

Harry/Prince Harry, the timing fits

Since Henry VIII, no prince named "Henry" has gone by "Harry"

Lady Di's charitable interests are accurate

All three are Lady Di's admitted or alleged lovers

The "test drive" line is from Lori's "Paradigm of Uncertainty" fic

Fleur had been Flitwick's assistant

Being herself and no one else is from Carly Simon's "That's the Way I Always Heard it Should Be"

Krum's proposal was first mentioned in Ch. 7

Courtship declarations were first mentioned in Ch. 44

Ed Carmichael as Head Boy goes back to Ch. 34

Davies' fortune was first mentioned in Ch. 20

Mental wounds not healing is from Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train"

Goblin concealments will help Harry

"Kelly" is Kelly Comerford, mentioned in Ch. 80

Red, yellow, and green, originally from Ethiopia (the only uncolonized part of Africa) form the flag of Guinea, the first French colony to declare independence; the same colors are used by Jamaican Rastas

Mervyn Troy is the obnoxious Irishman

Constantanon is "not constant"

The Aural Pensieve was introduced in Ch. 5

Franco-British treaties in 1844 and 1904 are called "Entente Cordiale"

The Death Eater attack on the Delacours occurred in Ch. 23

"Double nought" is a reference to 00 James Bond-type agents

Seiche is squid

Harry learned of Krum's marriage proposal to Hermione in Ch. 7

The Terminator reference is to Arnold's "I'll be bock" line

The Piaf song is "Je Ne Regrette Rien"

"Glittering ballroom" is from the Who's "5:15"

Lead role in the cage - from Pink Floyd's very aptly named "Wish You Were Here"

The out-of-season Mandrake came from Château Blackwalls

The Fifth Estate is the French magical parliament

Spit = phlegm

7.5 degrees centigrade is the ideal temperature for champagne

The Lust Potion in the punch was in Ch. 57

Beauxbatons houses are named after French provinces

French place names are accurate

Oral sex is called the "French arts"

Hermione used mirrors in Ch. 53

A harpy eagle is a South American raptor with whitish feathers

String theory is widely criticized as untestable

Harry's Tunnelling Charms will come in handy

Xiao Jing was introduced in Ch. 29

The cobblestone incident was in Ch. 44

The nature of Hermione's "visits" will become clear in the next chapter

62

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