18 On the role of the little man in politics

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14 July 1995 Delacourt Manor.

Dinner is my favourite time at the Delacourt house, because Fleur always sits next to me at the table and often asks in her gentle voice to pass her this or that dish. And when our hands meet over the table, her cheeks turn slightly scarlet, as if an electric shock were transmitted through the interlocked fingers.

After our return from the reserve we tried not to advertise the feeling between us - it was enough for us to realise that we were no longer alone. The unicorn's gift of communicating our emotions to each other at least occasionally helped us a great deal, too, or I would have gone to Fleur's room the next night to say good night, and I would hardly have left right away.

When I returned to the house after my journey, I only looked slightly reproachfully into the eyes of Delacourt senior, who, catching my hint, shrugged his shoulders as if apologising. He and I made no further sign that we understood each other. But I was clearly aware that if Jean-Claude did not raise the question of my relation to his daughter in a little while, I would do so myself, on my sixteenth birthday at the latest, though it would be very difficult for me to endure a whole year. But I did not doubt Fleur's attitude towards me, nor my feelings towards her, after the outburst of emotion which had taken place between us that evening in the woods, in the slightest degree.

My sweet musings were interrupted by a sudden rumble from somewhere below the front door of the mansion, followed by the roar of the alarm.

- An attack! - Jean-Claude jumped to his feet, grabbing his wand. - Marie, take your daughters to the women's wing of the mansion!

I rushed after the politician, regretting that Ciaran had gone off on his own after the morning training session, and there were only two fighters in the house, counting me.

Halfway into the buffer zone on the ground floor, which had caught my eye on my first visit to the Delacourt house, a shout, amplified by magic, came to us.

- Jean-Claude Delacourt, come out and take responsibility for the insults inflicted on my kind!

- It's Marcus Riordan! - Jean-Claude turned to me, spitting out phrases in rapid succession. - So they decided to have a vendetta rather than send a formal challenge to a duel! Mr Potter, the rules of vendettas between families are simple - women and children are not touched, but men can be killed, and the affected clan will not complain to the Ministry. But try not to kill, if you survive.

When we looked out into the buffer room, we saw that the attackers, waving their wands, were pushing the only surviving guard up the stairs, the second guard, surrounded by a pool of blood, was lying at its base. However, the defence room created by Delacour's ancestors had already justified its existence - two unconscious or dead bodies were already lying between the tubs of flowers, unable to dodge the guards' spells because of the numerous obstacles.

Jean-Claude, assessing the situation, immediately sent down Bombarda, which showered shrapnel on all the attacking mages, among whom I recognised my recent opponent, Domenic Riordan. The other three mages who looked like him were clearly his father and some of his closest relatives.

In the carnage, I realised another advantage of the non-verbal magic Ciaran was about to teach me - its use not only saved my breath, but also allowed me to verbally abuse my opponent without being distracted from casting spells aloud.

All I could do was weave one spell after another at top speed, trying to make my attackers as uncomfortable as possible. Soon Jean-Claude and his guard were pushed back from me by three mages I didn't know, and I was once again confronted by Domenic, who clearly wanted revenge for the Slash I'd received. This time my slightly older opponent did not hesitate to defend against my blows, still throwing more and more dark spells at me.

The brief moment I hesitated to get out of another jump cost me a cut wound on my left arm and a couple of burns on my chest, my sleeve instantly soaked with blood, my arm as if scalded with boiling water. I remembered my teacher's instructions, so I used the spell not to hit my enemy, but the railing beside him, jumping backwards with all my might. The bombardment hit the wooden railing and pelted Domenic with splinters, some of which penetrated his protective spells and camisole, so while he was trying to regain consciousness and get away from the wall where he'd been thrown by the blast, I cold-bloodedly cast Stun, Confundus, and rope. The young man's wand went down, rolling into a corner, and I darted towards the passage where Jean-Claude and the guard had retreated.

As I rounded the corner, I nearly tripped over the faintly moving bodies of the guard and another of my attackers, the bodies of which were decorated with horrific burns from fire spells of elemental magic. A little further down the corridor, Delacourt was struggling to fight off two survivors, covered in scorch marks from the flames that had torn through his shield.

- Insendio! - the twin shouts of the Riordans.

 Before my eyes, Jean-Claude put up his shield, deflecting the powerful stream of fire from the two wands, but it was obvious that his spell was about to disintegrate and my possible father-in-law would be a charred corpse.

 - BombardaMa-Xima," the man who'd turned around, a relative of Delacour Riordan Sr. who'd continued to hold Delacourt Riordan Sr. in check, put up a shield, but my blow, which I'd put most of my remaining strength into, broke through the greenish sphere, hitting him in the stomach.

 A fraction of an instant later, a spray of blood splashed across my face, which I was horrified to recognise as blood when I put my hand up. The body sliced in half fell to the floor, the other man was thrown against the wall, down which he slid, leaving a crimson mark on the carved panelling. Jean-Claude, having added to his surviving foe's troubles with several Stunners in quick succession, lowered his wand in relief, heading towards me.

 I stared dumbly at the blood and shit stench of the severed body, at the red stained corridor, refusing to believe what I was seeing. A lump was rising in my throat. I killed a man. I killed. A man. Я. I killed. A man. Consciousness mercifully left me.

 As Ciaran told me later, I was unconscious for a couple of hours. During that time, an auror squad burst into the house, their commander listened to the owner of the mansion testify that he had no claims against the attackers, a medical team appeared, took six of the wounded, and spent a long time working on the slightly toasted Jean-Claude and my unconscious body.

 After hearing that I had just killed a man for the first time in my life and looking at the fragments left by my spell, the chief medic did not bring me to my senses, but simply healed all my wounds and left a battery of sedatives and sleeping elixirs. The aurors and medics departed, followed by the two bodies sealed in Muggle plastic bags.

 Delacourt himself called Fleur, who had come from the women's wing, and assigned her the role of nurse to my patched-up body, and went to rest - the aristocrat's body, which had been badly damaged by the fire, was also at its limit.

 When I woke up a couple of hours later, I saw a beautiful girl sitting in a chair next to my bed.

 - You know, this is becoming a tradition - me in bed, in bandages, and you in a chair with a book. - I did my best to smile at the girl.

 In the next moment, the image of a body torn in two, falling to the carpet in the corridor, surrounded by blood spatters, popped into my long-suffering head. Turning sharply pale, I clutched my hands to my throat. My stomach did some sort of horrible somersault.

 - Harry, what's wrong! - Fleur rushed over to me, pulling out her wand.

 As I struggled to control my vomiting, I could only mumble, "I'm sick...

 The girl, who was clearly better at healing magic than I was, whispered something quietly, and then the cramps in my stomach began to fade. I slumped back against the pillow, still shaking from the shivers running through my body.

 - I killed a man, Fleur. - Not an ounce of judgement in the beautiful eyes. Only the soft glow of sincere feeling that warmed me with an affectionate warmth. The attack of fear that she would recoil in horror from her unwitting murderer vanished without a trace.

 Involuntarily, I remembered what had happened during my years at Hogwarts. How would the students, and even my so-called best friends, react if they found out that I had killed a man, even if it was in defence... The fame of the next Dark Lord and the general bashing I would receive from those children who had grown up in a hothouse and had no idea what war was like. Perhaps the events of the end of the school year were too much for me.

 Soft hands began to knead my shoulders, chasing away the tension. I relaxed, giving in to the unfamiliar feeling of being cared for. Reaching out, I gently drew the dearest girl in the world to me, kissing her lips open.

17 July 1995. Archives Department, Ministry of Magic, England.

 Kurt Weiprecht, a humble official in the Magical Transport Division of the Ministry of Magic in England, sat in the archives. The client money given to him through third parties was enough to get him access to the Ministry's closed archives - the archivist on duty was just as fond of gold and was not happy with his salary.

 Folder after folder was cursorily looked through with Kurt's blinded eyes and put aside. The client demanded a copy, or better yet, the original will of the Potter family. Weiprecht had some suspicions about who the customer might be, but he had sensibly put them aside and didn't bring them up, lest he inadvertently get himself in so much trouble that he couldn't handle it later. Then again, the money he had been promised more than covered all the risk - a heavy bag of "expenses" as a separate item, and a pleasantly jingling advance. Kurt liked money that gave an elderly, unassuming official a sense of power and permissiveness, at least for a while. So he spent the second hour digging through old papers in search of the right document. The archivist on duty, Alex Brodwin, a small, stubby, bespectacled fellow, ran from the entrance to the room where Kurt was sitting, fearing that someone would catch them, or remembering about the safety of the card catalogues entrusted to him.

 At last Kurt opened another thick folder where, among other papers, lay the Potter family will, written, judging by the date, a fortnight before their deaths. When he saw that the will was genuine, Kurt marvelled at the signatures of the Minister and the head of the Wizengamot in the corner of the folder, stating that the case had been classified. After reading the will itself and satisfying his irrepressible curiosity, however, Weiprecht realised that the case was worth all the money he had been promised. The stack of Potters' materials was immediately carefully reduced and hidden in Weiprecht's pocket, and the original large dusty folder was neatly laced up by the official's skilful fingers as if nothing had ever been taken out of it.

 Turning around to face Alex, who had come running to put the files away, and waiting for him to put everything away, Kurt tossed him a small, jingling pouch halfway across the room while pulling out his wand with his other hand.

 - Thank you, Mr Weiprecht! - And at the same time it sounded:

 - Confundus! Obliviate! Stupefy! VingardiumLeviosa! - The fallen unconscious body of the archivist on duty, with the memory of the previous evening erased, was gently laid by levitation on the sofa, and the smiling official went home to inform the customer's agent that the necessary file was in his hands.

 A couple of hours after the letter he had written, Kurt made his way to the agreed upon location, where in exchange for a shrunken folder pulled from his pocket, which was cursorily reviewed by the agent, he received a plump pouch full of gold coins.

 The big game, in which the modest official served as a tiny cog, had begun. The material, the disclosure of which could cause a great deal of trouble even to the most serious political players in England, together with the agent went to France, to a politician capable of disposing of this wealth, for once daring to play fair with his partner.

 On the seventeenth of July, at breakfast, the smiling Jean-Claude, with an innocent look, told me the news that made me incredibly "happy": in three days' time, on Thursday, his wife would be giving a ball at the estate on the occasion of her birthday. Naturally, as a guest of the Delacour house, I was expected to be present at this dignified event, and to help in any way I could. Even what I had learnt in my etiquette lessons over the past month and a half was enough to make me realise that I was in for a real chastisement. But Fleur, who sat across from me at the table today, gave me such a piteous and pleading look that it was like a stab to the heart that I naturally agreed, causing me to smile with joy and the promise of a worthy reward to come through our emotional connection.

 With the look of a man who was not expecting any other response, the politician informed me that in that case all activities for the day would be postponed until the day the ball was over, and I would have a new meeting with the couturier. The knowledge I had received from my teachers did not allow me to ask why I should not limit myself to the changes of clothes I already had - the ball was going to be a big one, which meant that the clothes should be made especially for it....

 Henri, the couturier, who came to the estate that same day, this time brought with him almost nothing of the ready-made dress. Instead, he was followed into the room by a large stack of rolls of fabric, as well as many tools gleaming with sharp steel.

 I spent the next hour as if I were in Ciaran's training - I bent, flexed, waved my arms and legs, squatted and stood, while several sartorial metres measured unknown parameters, reminiscent of a visit to Ollivander's shop long ago. But the old master always sent only one ruler to measure the client, Henri the couturier calmly started and controlled the work of two or three. And he had time to record all the measurements made, causing me the deepest respect for such abilities to telekinesis. Finally, satisfied with what he had achieved, Henri once again carefully looked into my eyes, asked if I was going to change the colour of my contact lenses before the ball, and then went to work.

 I was sitting in a nearby chair, and what I saw looked a little like the workings of a Muggle assembly line. Apparently, the couturier wasn't afraid to entrust some of the work to house elves, so after drawing some complicated shapes on the fabrics-as he explained to me, fragments of my future clothes-he leaned back in his chair, letting the small, long-eared creatures use the tailor's scissors to carefully cut out the pieces.

 Then Henri, with a wave of his wand, without any spells, just direct mental control, began to sew the pieces together one by one, gradually revealing the long tailcoat to me. I watched as the needle danced along the pieces of cloth hanging in the air, held together by magic, following the gestures of his slender, outstretched fingers. And the magic gradually released the blanks, giving way to ordinary threads. The House elf, a couple of whom were always hanging around him, were also busy working with scissors and needles with silver threads. Apparently, the master could entrust the embroidery to the servants.

 Taking advantage of my free time, I began to recall the duties I was to perform at the ball. First, I was to meet the guests together with the Delacourts, and then Fleur and I would take the most senior of them around the hall, offering them seats at the small tables, each of which was designed for a certain friendly family, and then, after exchanging a few sentences, we would go back to meet another group of guests. Secondly, immediately after the opening dance of Jean-Claude and Marie Delacourt there was our dance, which I had to practise to perfection in the evenings for all three days - although I already knew this dance, any mistakes were unacceptable. Thirdly, Fleur and I were not only to enjoy the entertainment, but also to entertain the guests, that is, we were to move about the room and keep the audience engaged in conversation, grouping singles together as far as possible, and so on. I thought I'd rather face the Dark Lord again in a duel-it would be much easier for me than to smile, keep a straight face, and behave like a proper scion of an aristocratic family for the entire ball. However... If I killed the Lord, I would have to restore the Potter family to glory and influence, and at such receptions many agreements are reached and a great deal of authority is earned among the aristocrats.

 At last my musings were interrupted by Henri completing the initial model of my costume. The couturier, waving his wand, sent me a white lace shirt, grey soft trousers, stitched along the seam with silver thread, a grey camisole of unknown fabric, rather stiff to the touch, similarly decorated with silver embroidery and soft low leather boots.

 After I changed under his demanding gaze, I went to the mirror, and then the same story was repeated: squats, arm and leg raises, bends, flexes, and other delights. At some moments Henri, muttering something to himself under his nose, corrected imperceptible to my eye deficiencies. Finally, the fitting of the suit was completed, and having advised me to take care of the appropriate watch, ring and neck chain in advance, the couturier went to torment the other members of the Delacour family with his rulers. I, on the other hand, handed the elves the suit I had prepared for them and headed to my room to change for my visit to Gringotts to collect the money.

 In the corridor we ran into James, who, taking me to the library, shoved a small volume of family history into my hands, which I was to read and, if possible, more or less imagine. James's general idea was that I was the son of his older brother Alan Britton, who had gone to Australia with his wife twenty years earlier. Alan had never returned to France, and the Britton family was not originally French, but rather English, so even good genealogists, of whom there were many, could hardly catch me in a lie. I was, in James's version, Harold Britton, who had returned to France to stay with my uncle, in order to complete my education at Beauxbaton with dignity, to take the external examinations for four courses, and to continue my studies in the fifth.

 James had also brought me portraits of my intended parents - indeed, in some ways similar to the appearance created by Miriam's efforts, and I marvelled once again at Delacourt Senior's foresight.

 Finally, throwing the book with the history of the Britton family on the bed in the room, I went in search of Fleur - I didn't want to go shopping for status jewellery alone, especially since the girl who'd lived in the politician's family since childhood knew much better what to wear and in what situation.

 I knocked gently on Fleur's room and waited for an answer. At last light footsteps sounded, and I saw the Frenchwoman smiling happily at me.

 - My lady, allow me to take you for a little walk.

 - Is that what you want, monsieur? - The girl grinned, accepting the game, and only in her eyes I could see the tenderness and warmth I wanted.

 - A devoted admirer, struck by your beauty, asks me not to break his heart, suffering from a sincere feeling, and to keep him company for a visit to the Parisian jewellery shops.

 Fleur laughed.

 - I see my most devoted admirer has mastered the language of compliments. Wait for me in the drawing room, my faithful knight, I'll be ready soon.

 Half an hour later, the clatter of heels forced me to tear myself away from the book I was diligently perusing in preparation for Ciaran's next lesson. Fleur, as always, was absolutely adorable. Dressed in a slim emerald dress with a narrow neckline and small low-heeled shoes, she was captivating to look at. Her hair flowing over her shoulders, a slight blush on her cheeks, my heart skipped a beat and hammered in my chest like a hammer.

 - Fleur, you amaze me more and more every day. - I kissed the hand held out to me, honouring it with an affectionate smile. - Every time I think it's impossible to be more beautiful, you surprise me again.

 Smiling embarrassedly, the girl gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and walked over to the fireplace, casting a spell to light the fire. Throwing Flying Gunpowder into the fire, I put my arm around the girl's waist and stepped forward, shouting the name of a magical cafe in the centre of the Parisian equivalent of Diagon Ally.

 As soon as we emerged, I realised that my intuition had not deceived me - two tables away, facing the fireplace, sat people I didn't know. The Riordan heir and his friend, who remained unnamed at the time. My wand was instantly in the palm of my hand while my body, in addition to my will, shrouded the girl, who had not yet had time to orient herself.

 To my utter surprise, however, Domenic pulled his wand out of the pouch on his belt, put it down on the table defiantly, and headed in our direction with his hands in front of him. Fleur, finally noticing the unpleasant visitors, tensed perceptibly behind me. I stroked her shoulder reassuringly with my free hand.

 - Miss Delacourt, Monsieur, I want to apologise to you for the unfortunate incident between us and its aftermath. - Domenic bowed.

 Fleur stepped out cautiously from behind me, looking at the aristocrat carefully.

 - Monsieur Domenic, I hold no grudge against you for what happened. - My Horcrux's inherited ability to think came in handy. Then the skills taught by my teachers came into play.

 - Allow me to introduce myself, Harold Britton. - At the sound of my surname, Domenic nodded understandingly," James was well known in his own way in the magical community of France.

 - Domenic Riordan," we exchanged handshakes. - Miss Delacourt, Monsieur Britton, let me introduce you to my friend and associate, Angel Borgia.

 Angel, the young man I had stunned in the café, bowed politely. I could see that he was not too thrilled at the prospect of bowing to us, which his friend had imposed on him, but good manners prevailed.

 - I too, in turn, apologise for what happened, my friend and I had a few too many drinks.

 A new handshake, Fleur gave each young man a charming smile, though she was still tense to the max.

 - Gentlemen, - I slowly raised my hand, interrupting the conversation that was about to begin, - unfortunately, my beautiful companion and I are in a hurry, but it is very likely that we will soon meet you in Beauxbaton, where I will be a fifth year student from this year. It was very nice to meet you.

 Domenic and Angel said goodbye, returning to their table, and Fleur and I walked towards the exit of the hall.

 Once outside, Fleur exhaled a sigh of relief.

 - I thought it was going to be another duel... Apparently Marcus Riordan decided that the insult to the clan was outweighed by the fact that they were still alive, though you and your father could have killed them all in the attack, and you would have been within your rights.

 - You know, I don't think it upsets me. - I wiped my faintly sweaty forehead with my handkerchief. - This is not the time to make unnecessary enemies. Though for your smile, lady, I'd do anything!

 The gentle touch of his slender fingers on my arm and his clear gaze filled me with joy.

 The visit to Gringotts and the long trek through the jewellery shops that followed had exhausted me, as it always did. Fleur proved to be incredibly demanding with all the accessories I needed. In the end, I was the lucky owner of a thin gold chain around my neck, a silver ring with a grinning lion's face on it, and a fine watch with an enamel cover depicting the plot of some chivalric novel: a girl throwing a handkerchief out of a window and a kneeling young man in knight's armour. Compared to the amount of money I had paid for Tsimus's consultation, however, the cost of the purchase seemed quite insignificant.

 I smiled a little at the thought of Zimus and Arrataia-I hadn't told Fleur how much their help had cost me, aside from the unicorn blood. The vial in which I had collected my blood had long since been delivered by owl mail to Cimus' castle, along with a dimly glimmering vial of unicorn blood.

 In one of the shops, a small gold pendant in the shape of a unicorn standing on its haunches and squinting at the people around it with its eyes made of small sapphires caught my attention. I took advantage of the fact that Fleur was looking at a display case with some crystals in the far corner of the shop, and quietly showed the merchant the pendant. I slipped the jewel into my pocket and walked out of the shop with Fleur.

 We sat down at a table in the same cafe where last time we had a little... duel, and having received a reproachful look from the owner, who recognised us, we started to have lunch. Waiting for a convenient moment, I took Fleur's palm and gently placed the golden unicorn in it. When I took my hand away, I watched the girl, who understood the secret meaning of my gift without any words, attach it to the chain around her graceful neck. At the same time, in the girl's eyes and in the emotional background I perceived, I read what I lacked for happiness.

 - You know, I think this conversation is a little premature, but... - I ran a hand through my hair, gathering my thoughts. - I was talking to my godfather on Through the Looking Glass the other day. I'd asked him when my dissolute Sirius would decide to settle down and continue the glorious Bleek family, now that he was the head of the family.

 Fleur listened intently, still not sure where I was going with this.

 - Sirius told me one thing... That as long as the Dark Lord lives, he doesn't want to risk the fate of others. His status as the Lord's enemy makes him a target. Ch-ch-check, I'm saying it all wrong. - I ruffled my hair again. - Then I thought he was absolutely right, because I'm just as much a hostage to my position, one of the Lord's main targets in the coming war.

 The girl looked at me in a way that made my heart ache, and I hurried to continue.

 - But then, one evening, while reading a book I'd borrowed from the library, I found a philosopher's saying that in the years of trials and wars one should not deny oneself the joy of living, because there may very often be no "after" at all..." My voice strengthened.

 I drew my wand and drew a circle in the air, whispering the Muffliato silencing spell, which I'd put as much power into as I could. A distinctly humming sphere of silence enveloped us.

 - Fleur, I don't know, but I hope and will do my best to survive this war and defeat the Lord. You have given me what I have lacked all these years-a sincere feeling that I dared not even hope for, thinking I was not worthy of such happiness. - Now I was mentally thanking Arrathaira, who had left me with a piece of the thinking skills taken from the Horcrux.

 I took my beloved's hands in mine.

 - When I am sixteen and of legal age, I want to ask Jean-Claude for your hand in marriage. Will you marry me, my love? - It was the first time I could say the word aloud.

 When Fleur finally looked up, she was looking at me in a way that took my breath away, and I promised myself that I would not be deceived by the trust and love in the Frenchwoman's gaze... my beloved.

 - Yes," it was said with such happiness that I, too, was swept up in the flood of emotion I now shared with her. Slowly and gently I kissed the small hands, as if sealing our secret agreement. The golden unicorn in the neckline of her dress, the symbol of our love, winked slyly at me with a sapphire eye.

 When we returned home in time for dinner, we met Marie and Jean-Claude in the living room, giving instructions on how to prepare for the ball. After appraising the items I had purchased, Marie gave Jean-Claude a gentle nudge, pointing at her daughter's face. Only my acquired powers of observation allowed me to notice this brief non-verbal dialogue between my beloved's parents. Sitting down at the table, I intercepted her father's gaze directed at the pendant and Fleur's face. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, making sure I was the only one who noticed. And I nodded just as slightly. The slightly raised right palm of the politician's right hand, with the ring finger tucked underneath, on which the wedding ring gleamed, reflected a beam of light from one of the lamps in my direction. The fingers of my right hand, which I reached for my fork, folded into a ring for a second at the same time as another affirmative nod. The politician's calm smile and his briefest glance into the face of the nodding Marie was my answer. Without a word, the matter was brought up, discussed and resolved in my favour, although from the outside it seemed that we were absorbed as always by the inimitably delicious dinner prepared by the elves. Though such a swift resolution of the matter confirmed my suspicion that Delacourt had planned everything in advance. I didn't resent him for that, though, and I think I can see why.