**Diagon Alley - The Next Morning**
Amelia Bones had always believed that leadership was best exercised from the ground up rather than the ivory tower. While other department heads spent their mornings reviewing reports from behind mahogany desks, she preferred to walk her beat—a daily patrol through magical London that kept her connected to the pulse of the community she'd sworn to protect.
It was a habit that had raised eyebrows when she'd first taken the position. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement conducting routine patrols like a junior Auror? Undignified, some said. Beneath her station, according to others. But Amelia had learned long ago that the real problems weren't found in carefully sanitized reports—they were discovered in overheard conversations, in the worried glances of shopkeepers, in the subtle tensions that only revealed themselves to someone who took the time to actually look.
This morning's patrol had been routine enough. Flourish and Blotts was already busy with back-to-school shoppers, despite it being summer. The proprietor of Magical Menagerie was having his usual disputes with Olivander about some escaped pixies, and the morning crowd at the Leaky Cauldron was the typical mix of Ministry workers grabbing coffee and tourists trying to look like they belonged.
Amelia moved through it all with the measured pace of someone who knew that being seen was half the battle. Her scarlet Auror robes—she'd never switched to the more formal department head attire, much to the consternation of her superiors—marked her as unmistakably official, while her easy nods and genuine smiles to the shopkeepers marked her as approachable. It was a delicate balance, but one she'd perfected over years of practice.
She was examining the security arrangements around Gringotts—always a good barometer for the current threat level—when something warm and solid collided with her legs with surprising force.
"What in Merlin's—"
Amelia looked down to find a large black dog pressed against her thigh with what could only be described as enthusiastic affection. The animal was clearly a stray—too thin, coat matted and dusty—but there was something about its bearing that spoke of good breeding beneath the rough exterior. Its steel-gray eyes held an intelligence that seemed almost human.
"Shoo," she said firmly, stepping back and brushing at her robes. "Go on, find someone else to—"
The dog's behavior became increasingly inappropriate, and Amelia's professional composure cracked slightly as she found herself in the undignified position of trying to disentangle herself from what appeared to be a very affectionate and poorly trained animal in the middle of Diagon Alley's morning rush.
"For crying out loud," she muttered, drawing her wand with practiced efficiency. A simple Repelling Charm should be enough to—
The air around the dog began to shimmer.
Amelia's wand froze halfway to casting position as she recognized the telltale signs of human transfiguration. The dog's form blurred and expanded, dark fur becoming dark hair, four legs becoming two, canine features reshaping themselves into something altogether more familiar.
And suddenly, impossibly, she found herself staring at a face she hadn't seen in twelve years.
Sirius Black.
The wanted posters hadn't done justice to how imprisonment had changed him. Where once there had been boyish handsomeness, now there were sharp angles and hollow cheeks that spoke of suffering endured and survival earned. His black hair hung past his shoulders in waves that managed to look deliberately tousled despite obvious neglect, and his gray eyes burned with an intensity that made her take an involuntary step backward.
But it was unmistakably him. The man who'd been her partner in both professional and decidedly unprofessional capacities, who'd shared her bed and her ambitions and her dreams of reforming magical law enforcement from within, who'd disappeared from her life in a single night of betrayal and violence that had left her questioning everything she'd thought she knew about love and trust and justice.
The crowded alley fell silent with the particular hush that preceded either violence or spectacle. Witches and wizards who'd been going about their morning business now stood frozen, their conversations dying mid-syllable as they processed what they were seeing.
Sirius Black. Britain's most wanted fugitive. Standing in the middle of Diagon Alley at nine in the morning, looking for all the world like he'd just stepped out for a casual stroll rather than escaped from the most secure prison in the magical world.
"Hello, Amy," he said, his voice carrying that same cultured drawl that had once made her pulse quicken despite her better judgment. "You're looking well. Authority suits you."
The casual familiarity of the greeting—the childhood nickname he'd been the only one brave enough to use, delivered with that slight smile that had always meant trouble—hit her like a physical blow. This was the voice that had whispered endearments in darkness, that had argued magical theory over breakfast, that had promised her forever on nights when forever seemed possible.
This was also the voice that belonged to a convicted murderer who'd escaped from Azkaban and was currently standing close enough to touch her in a crowded public space while every instinct she possessed screamed at her to draw her wand and end this before it could begin.
"Sirius," she managed, proud that her voice came out steady despite the chaos in her chest. Twelve years of discipline and training warred with twelve years of unanswered questions and carefully buried pain. "I should arrest you."
His smile widened, revealing teeth that were still white and straight despite everything prison had tried to do to him. "Should you? How interesting that you'd put it that way."
Around them, the crowd was beginning to stir. Whispers started at the edges and spread inward like ripples on a pond—"Sirius Black," "escaped prisoner," "dangerous"—while people began the slow backward shuffle that preceded either panic or the arrival of reinforcements.
Amelia's hand tightened on her wand, though she didn't raise it. Not yet. Something in his posture, in the way he held himself, suggested he wasn't here for violence. If Sirius Black had wanted to harm her, he wouldn't have announced himself in the middle of a crowd. He was too smart for that, too calculating.
But then, she'd once believed he was too loyal to betray his best friends to Voldemort, so perhaps her judgment where he was concerned couldn't be trusted.
"The investigation," he said, his voice dropping to the sort of intimate register that suggested this conversation was meant for her alone, despite their very public audience. "I know about it. I know you're the one reviewing the evidence."
"I'm conducting a thorough examination of all available materials," Amelia replied carefully, falling back on official language while her mind raced through protocols and procedures. Should she call for backup? Attempt to apprehend him herself? Try to clear the civilians before he did something desperate?
"And what has that examination revealed so far?" Sirius asked, taking a step closer with the fluid confidence of someone who had no doubt about his welcome. The movement brought him close enough that she could smell leather and rain and something else—something that triggered memories of late nights and early mornings and the sort of passionate arguments that had usually ended with clothing scattered across her flat.
"You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. The truth was, she could discuss it if she chose to. She was the Head of DMLE, and he was—technically—the subject of the investigation. There were precedents for such conversations, though none quite like this.
"Can't, or won't?" His eyes searched her face with uncomfortable intensity. "Amy, I know you've seen the evidence. The Priori Incantatum results, the spell signature analysis, the witness statements that were never properly taken. You know what it means."
The crowd was getting restless, conversations growing louder as people debated whether to flee or stay to witness whatever was about to unfold. Someone would call for Aurors soon, if they hadn't already. This moment of strange intimacy in the middle of chaos couldn't last much longer.
"It means," Amelia said carefully, "that there are significant questions about the original investigation that need to be answered."
"It means," Sirius corrected with gentle firmness, "that you know I didn't do it. That twelve years ago, you sent an innocent man to hell because it was easier than admitting the system had failed."
The accusation hit like a slap, all the more painful because it carried the weight of truth. Amelia had been a junior Auror then, not involved in the investigation, but she'd seen the evidence—or what passed for evidence. She'd believed what she was told, accepted what seemed obvious, never questioned why someone she'd known intimately was suddenly capable of mass murder.
"I wasn't involved in your original arrest," she said, though the words felt like a weak defense even to her own ears.
"No," Sirius agreed, his voice softening with something that might have been forgiveness. "But you never questioned it either. You never wondered why the man who'd shared your bed for two years, who'd held you when you cried after your first Dragon Pox case, who'd promised to reform the Ministry from within alongside you—why that man would suddenly turn into a monster."
The intimacy of the memories he was invoking made her chest tight. Around them, the whispers were growing more urgent—"Should someone call the Aurors?" "Is she going to arrest him?" "Why are they just talking?"—but Amelia found herself lost in steel-gray eyes that held far too much knowledge of her weaknesses.
"People change," she said, though the protest sounded hollow. "The war changed everyone. Look what it did to the Longbottoms, to the McKinnons, to—"
"To you?" Sirius interrupted gently. "Yes, it changed people. It made them suspicious, paranoid, willing to believe the worst of anyone. But Amy, you knew me. You knew me better than anyone. Did you really believe I was capable of betraying James and Lily?"
The question hung in the air between them like a blade. The honest answer was no—she'd never truly believed it, not in her heart. The evidence had been overwhelming, the political pressure immense, the grief and shock of that terrible night had made clear thinking nearly impossible. But deep down, in the place where instinct lived, she'd never been able to reconcile the Sirius she'd known with the crimes he'd supposedly committed.
"It doesn't matter what I believed," she said finally. "The evidence—"
"Was fabricated," Sirius finished. "By someone who knew exactly how to manipulate the investigation, how to use the chaos and grief to prevent proper procedures from being followed. Someone who needed me gone, who needed James and Lily's real Secret Keeper to disappear before anyone could ask inconvenient questions."
His voice was growing more intense, more passionate, the carefully controlled facade cracking to reveal the fury that had sustained him through twelve years of imprisonment. "Peter Pettigrew, Amy. The real traitor, the one who's been hiding as a pet rat while I rotted in Azkaban for his crimes."
The name hit her like cold water, washing away the haze of memory and emotion that had been clouding her judgment. Peter Pettigrew—the fourth Marauder, the one who'd supposedly been killed in Sirius's vengeful rampage. If he was alive, if he'd been the real Secret Keeper...
"You have proof of this?" she asked, her voice taking on the professional crispness that meant she was thinking like a law enforcement officer rather than a woman confronting her past.
"I have enough to raise reasonable doubt," Sirius replied, matching her shift in tone with one of his own. "Which, combined with the complete lack of proper procedure in my original conviction, should be sufficient for any competent investigation to recommend immediate release pending full review."
He was right, and they both knew it. The case against him had been built on circumstantial evidence and assumptions, rushed through in the chaos following Voldemort's defeat. Modern forensic techniques would likely tear it apart in hours.
"If the investigation concludes that you were wrongfully imprisoned," Amelia said slowly, choosing her words with extreme care, "full exoneration would include restoration of all rights, titles, and responsibilities that were stripped at the time of conviction."
"Including," Sirius said with quiet intensity, "my legal right to custody of my godson."
And there it was—the real reason for this theatrical public confrontation. Not revenge against the system that had failed him, not even personal vindication, but Harry Potter. The boy who'd been placed with relatives instead of his designated guardian, who'd grown up believing himself alone when he had family who loved him.
Around them, the crowd had grown larger and more restless. Amelia could see the distinctive scarlet robes of Aurors pushing through the press of bodies—her people, responding to reports of Sirius Black's appearance, ready to take him into custody with force if necessary.
She had perhaps thirty seconds before this situation moved beyond her control.
"Sirius," she said urgently, "you need to leave. Now. My people are coming, and if you're arrested before the investigation concludes—"
"I know," he said with calm acceptance. "But Amy, I needed you to see me. Not the wanted posters, not the propaganda, but me. The man you once trusted enough to plan a future with. I needed you to remember who I really am before you decide whether justice means sending me back to hell or giving me a chance to reclaim my life."
The Aurors were almost through the crowd now. Amelia could hear Kingsley Shacklebolt's distinctive voice calling for people to stand clear, could see the organized movement that meant her team was preparing for a potential confrontation.
"I remember," she said quietly, the admission torn from her chest despite every professional instinct screaming at her to remain neutral. "I've always remembered."
Sirius's smile was radiant, transforming his ravaged features into something that echoed the young man she'd fallen in love with all those years ago. "Then you know what the right thing to do is."
"Boss!" Shacklebolt's voice cut through the morning air as the Aurors finally broke through the crowd. "Step away from the fugitive!"
Instead of transforming back into Padfoot and fleeing, instead of drawing a wand or threatening civilians or doing any of the desperate things a cornered criminal might attempt, Sirius Black did something that surprised everyone present.
He raised his hands in surrender, palms open and empty, the gesture of someone who had no intention of resisting arrest.
"I surrender myself to the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he called out, his voice pitched to carry to every corner of the now-silent alley. "I invoke my right under the Wizengamot Statute of 1692 to proper legal representation and a trial before my peers."
The formal language, delivered with aristocratic precision, reminded everyone present that Sirius Black wasn't just an escaped prisoner—he was the heir to an ancient pureblood family, entitled to certain protections under magical law regardless of the charges against him.
It was a brilliant move, politically and legally. By surrendering publicly, with dozens of witnesses, he'd made it impossible for the Ministry to simply disappear him back into Azkaban. By invoking his statutory rights in front of half of Diagon Alley, he'd forced them to follow proper procedures whether they wanted to or not.
"Clever," Amelia murmured, too quietly for anyone but him to hear.
"I learned from the best," he replied with a slight smile that acknowledged their shared past and the legal training they'd once discussed implementing together.
As Shacklebolt and his team moved to secure the scene, as anti-apparition wards sprang up around the alley, as the crowd pressed closer to witness this unprecedented spectacle, Amelia found herself facing a choice that would define not just Sirius's future, but her own integrity as Head of DMLE.
She could follow standard procedure—arrest him, process him through the system, let bureaucracy and politics determine his fate while she maintained professional distance and protected her career.
Or she could do what her instincts had been telling her for weeks as she'd reviewed the evidence, what her heart had known for twelve years despite the pain of believing otherwise.
She could choose justice over convenience, truth over political expediency.
"Auror Shacklebolt," she said clearly, her voice carrying the authority that made grown wizards snap to attention, "please escort Mr. Black to a private interview room in the Ministry. He has requested legal representation, and I want him processed according to full statutory requirements."
"Ma'am?" Shacklebolt's confusion was evident. Standard procedure for escaped prisoners didn't typically involve interview rooms and lawyers.
"Mr. Black has surrendered voluntarily and invoked his legal rights," Amelia explained, meeting Sirius's grateful gaze for one brief moment before turning back to her subordinate. "Until the ongoing investigation into his case is complete, he will be treated as any other suspect awaiting trial."
Which meant holding cells instead of Azkaban, legal representation instead of summary judgment, due process instead of political expedience.
It wasn't exoneration—not yet. But it was hope, and for a man who'd spent twelve years without any, that was more valuable than gold.
As the Aurors moved to escort Sirius away, he paused beside her one last time.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the words carrying the weight of everything they'd once been to each other and everything they might yet become.
"Don't thank me yet," Amelia replied, though her voice was gentler than it had been since he'd first appeared. "The investigation isn't complete. There are no guarantees."
"No," Sirius agreed with a smile that was equal parts gratitude and the old reckless confidence that had always made him impossible to ignore. "But for the first time in twelve years, there's hope. And that's enough to start with."
As he was led away through the parting crowd, Amelia stood alone in the middle of Diagon Alley, surrounded by whispers and speculation and the weight of a decision that would either restore an innocent man's life or destroy her own career.
But looking at the faces around her—the curiosity, the excitement, the sense that justice might finally be served—she knew she'd made the right choice.
For the first time in twelve years, Sirius Black would get his day in court.
And she intended to make sure it was a fair one.
—
**Château Delacour - Private Beach - Mediterranean Coast**
The Mediterranean sun blazed overhead like a benevolent tyrant, turning the private beach into a paradise of white sand and crystalline water that sparkled with the sort of impossible blue that belonged in travel brochures rather than reality. Harry stretched out on the sand, his enhanced physiology drinking in the warmth with something approaching euphoria. Every cell in his transformed body seemed to hum with contentment, as though he'd been specifically designed for this climate, this temperature, this perfect balance of heat and sea breeze.
The past few weeks at Château Delacour had been a revelation in ways he'd never anticipated. Beyond the structured aura control training—which was progressing remarkably well under Apolline's expert guidance—there had been something else developing. A sense of belonging that felt both natural and slightly overwhelming, as though he was finally discovering what home was supposed to feel like.
His suppression bracelet gleamed silver against his wrist, its runes shifting lazily in the afternoon light as it contained the enhanced magical signature that had made normal social interaction impossible back in Britain. Here, surrounded by people who understood powerful magical auras and knew how to work around them, he could almost forget how dangerous he'd become.
"'Arry, you are getting too much sun," Gabrielle announced from her position building what appeared to be an architecturally impossible sand castle nearby. At ten years old, she possessed all the Delacour beauty in miniature—silver-blonde hair that caught the light like spun starlight, blue eyes bright with intelligence and mischief, and the sort of unconscious grace that spoke of her Veela heritage. "Your skin, it is turning pink despite your enhanced constitution."
Harry glanced down at his arms, noting that she was right. His transformation had gifted him with enhanced healing abilities and general physical resilience, but apparently that didn't extend to complete immunity from Mediterranean sunburn.
"Thanks for the warning," he said, reaching for the bottle of sun protection potion that Apolline had insisted he use. His enhanced hearing picked up the sound of someone approaching from the château—light footsteps on the stone path, the distinctive swish of fabric that suggested someone wearing the sort of flowing summer dress that had become Apolline's signature style during his stay.
But when he looked up, expecting to see Harry's hostess bringing them refreshments or checking on their afternoon activities, he found himself staring at Fleur instead.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Fleur Delacour at fifteen was already devastating in normal circumstances—the sort of supernatural beauty that made grown men walk into walls and experienced politicians forget their carefully prepared speeches. But Fleur Delacour in a swimsuit was something that belonged in art galleries or possibly religious texts dedicated to the concept of divine perfection made manifest.
The blue bikini she wore was modest by most standards, but on her it became something approaching a weapon of mass distraction. The color matched her eyes perfectly, creating a harmony that drew attention to her face before inevitably traveling downward to catalog curves that seemed to defy several fundamental laws of physics. Her silver-blonde hair was pinned up to reveal the elegant line of her neck, with strategic tendrils escaping to frame features that could have launched a thousand ships if Helen of Troy hadn't gotten there first.
Harry's enhanced senses, usually such an advantage in understanding his environment, now betrayed him completely. He could smell her perfume—something floral and sophisticated that seemed designed to short-circuit higher brain functions. He could hear the subtle acceleration of his own heartbeat, could feel heat that had nothing to do with the Mediterranean sun rising in his cheeks, and was suddenly, acutely aware that his body was responding to stimuli in ways that were both entirely natural and utterly mortifying.
"Bonjour, 'Arry," Fleur said with a smile that suggested she was completely aware of the effect she was having and found his reaction both amusing and flattering. "I 'ope you do not mind if I join you? Ze sun, it is perfect for swimming today."
"Of course," Harry managed, his voice coming out slightly higher than usual despite the deeper register his transformation had gifted him. "The beach is... I mean, you're welcome to... that is, it's your family's beach, so obviously you can..."
He trailed off, realizing he was babbling and that Fleur's smile was growing more amused by the second. Beside him, Gabrielle giggled with the sort of knowing mischief that suggested she understood exactly what was happening and found it thoroughly entertaining.
"'E is being shy," Gabrielle informed her older sister with scientific interest. "Look 'ow 'is face is turning red! And 'is 'eartbeat—I can 'ear it from 'ere with my Veela senses. Very fast, like a rabbit."
"Gabrielle," Harry said with as much dignity as he could muster while his traitorous body continued its rebellion, "your observations are accurate but not particularly helpful."
"I think they are very 'elpful," Fleur said, settling onto the sand beside him with fluid grace that made the simple movement look like choreography. "It is good to know zat I still 'ave zis effect, even when you are protected by ze suppression bracelet."
The casual acknowledgment of the attraction between them made Harry's enhanced body temperature spike even higher. Over the past few weeks, there had been moments—during their French lessons, during family dinners, during quiet conversations on the château's terraces—when the connection between them had felt almost tangible. But this was different. More direct, more immediate, more impossible to ignore or rationalize away.
"Fleur," he said carefully, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation, "I should probably mention that my... enhanced condition... seems to be making certain responses more intense than they might otherwise be."
Her laugh was like music, warm and genuine and completely without mockery. "Mon dieu, 'Arry, do you think I 'ave not noticed? Your draconic 'eritage, it makes everything stronger, non? Your senses, your magic, your..." She paused delicately. "Your reactions to stimuli."
The way she said 'stimuli' made it very clear that she wasn't talking about his enhanced hearing or improved vision. Harry felt heat that definitely wasn't sunburn spread across his chest and down his arms.
"It's complicated," he said finally, settling for honesty since attempts at sophisticated conversation had clearly failed him completely.
"Ze best things usually are," Fleur replied, stretching out beside him with the sort of casual elegance that made every movement seem deliberate and graceful. "But 'Arry, you should not be embarrassed by your body's natural responses. You are almost thirteen years old, with 'ormones zat are already complex made even more so by your transformation. It would be strange if you did not react to... stimulation."
Harry stared up at the cloudless sky, trying to process the surreal nature of this conversation. Here he was, discussing his physical reactions to feminine beauty with possibly the most beautiful girl in magical France, while her ten-year-old sister built sand castles and provided running commentary on his vital signs.
"Besides," Fleur continued with the sort of matter-of-fact directness that was becoming characteristic of their interactions, "I am a Veela. I am designed by magic itself to be... 'ow do you say... appealing to potential mates. Ze fact zat you find me attractive even through your suppression bracelet, it confirms what my magic 'as already recognized."
She turned onto her side, propping her head up on one hand to study his profile with the sort of clinical interest that somehow managed to be both scientific and intimate. "Ze mate bond, it creates resonance between compatible magical signatures. Even suppressed, your magic recognizes mine."
"Is that what this is?" Harry asked, gesturing vaguely at himself in a way that encompassed his elevated heart rate, heightened awareness, and general state of adolescent confusion. "Mate bond recognition?"
"Partly," Fleur agreed with a slight smile. "But also, you are an almost thirteen-year-old boy looking at a girl in a swimsuit on a beautiful day. Some reactions are simply... 'ow you say... normal teenage boy responses rather than mystical magical connection."
Gabrielle looked up from her sand castle with renewed interest. "What sort of normal teenage boy responses? Are zey ze same as ze magical ones? 'Ow can you tell ze difference?"
"Gabrielle," Harry said with the sort of patient resignation he'd learned was necessary when dealing with her insatiable curiosity about magical theory, "some questions are probably best saved for when you're older."
"I am ten," she protested with wounded dignity. "I am plenty old enough to understand basic 'uman biology and magical creature mating responses. Maman 'as explained ze theoretical framework to me already."
Harry turned to stare at her. "Your mother explained mating responses to you?"
"Bien sûr!" Gabrielle replied as though this should have been obvious. "We are Veela. Understanding ze biological and magical components of mate recognition is part of our basic education. Just as young dragons learn about territorial behavior and treasure 'oarding, young Veela learn about attraction, bonding, and ze psychological changes zat accompany mate identification."
She returned her attention to her sand castle, adding what appeared to be a historically accurate portcullis to the front gate. "Though I admit, ze practical application is proving more complex than ze theoretical framework suggested."
Harry felt his brain trying to process this casual revelation while simultaneously trying not to focus too intensely on the fact that Fleur had stretched out beside him close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"More complex how?" he asked, partly from genuine curiosity and partly because focusing on academic discussion felt safer than acknowledging the way his enhanced senses were cataloguing every detail of her proximity.
"Well," Gabrielle said with the sort of scholarly precision that would have made Hermione proud, "ze books say zat mate recognition should create immediate certainty and complete emotional clarity. But I find zat I am experiencing more... uncertainty? Confusion? Ze recognition is definitely zere—my magic responds to yours in ways zat are quite obvious. But ze emotional component feels less like certainty and more like... 'ow do you say... anticipation?"
Fleur nodded agreement, her expression growing more serious. "I experience something similar. Ze magical recognition is unmistakable, but ze emotional attachment feels like it is still developing. Growing stronger each day, but not yet complete."
Harry considered this, grateful for the shift toward intellectual analysis even as his body remained acutely aware of every breath Fleur took, every small movement that caused interesting shifts in her... posture.
"Maybe that's normal," he suggested, forcing himself to focus on magical theory rather than the way sunlight played across Fleur's skin. "I mean, you're both still young. Gabrielle especially. Perhaps the emotional component of mate recognition develops gradually, in sync with natural maturation?"
"Zat would make sense," Fleur agreed thoughtfully. "Ze magical recognition provides ze foundation, but ze emotional bond builds over time as ze individuals become ready for actual bonding."
She paused, her blue eyes studying his face with uncomfortable intensity. "'Arry, 'ow do you experience ze recognition? What does it feel like from your perspective?"
The question caught him off guard, forcing him to examine sensations and impulses he'd been trying very hard not to analyze too closely. "It's..." He paused, searching for adequate words. "It's like my magic recognizes yours as something that belongs with it. Like finding a missing piece of a puzzle I didn't know was incomplete."
Both sisters nodded as though this made perfect sense to them.
"And emotionally?" Fleur pressed gently.
Harry was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the Mediterranean while he tried to understand his own feelings well enough to articulate them. "Safe," he said finally. "You both make me feel safe in ways I've never experienced before. Like I could tell you anything, trust you with everything, and you'd still want me around."
The admission hung in the afternoon air, more intimate than he'd intended. But looking at their faces—Fleur's soft with understanding, Gabrielle's bright with something that might have been joy—he realized it had been the right thing to say.
"Zat is ze emotional foundation," Fleur said quietly. "Ze trust, ze safety, ze sense of belonging. Ze romantic attraction, it builds on zat foundation as we mature."
"Speaking of romantic attraction," Gabrielle said with renewed mischief, "Fleur, I think you should know zat 'Arry's 'eartbeat 'as been elevated for ze entire time you 'ave been 'ere, and 'is scent..." She paused, tilting her head with scientific interest. "It carries markers zat suggest significant physical arousal."
"Gabrielle!" Harry protested, feeling heat flood his face that had nothing to do with sun or fire magic.
"What? It is simply biological data! Very interesting biological data zat confirms ze theoretical framework we 'ave been discussing!"
Fleur's laughter was warm and completely without judgment. "She is right, you know. Your body, it is responding exactly as it should to ze presence of a recognized mate. Zere is nothing to be embarrassed about."
"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered, pulling his knees up slightly in what he hoped was a casual gesture that happened to provide strategic concealment. "You're not the one whose body is apparently broadcasting intimate details to anyone with enhanced senses."
"Actually," Fleur said with a smile that was equal parts sympathetic and amused, "my body is also responding. Veela physiology includes certain... adaptations... when in ze presence of our identified mate. Gabrielle's scientific observations could probably catalog my responses as easily as yours."
Harry's enhanced hearing immediately picked up the subtle changes in her breathing, the slight acceleration of her pulse, the almost imperceptible shift in her scent that his transformed senses identified as something approaching arousal. The knowledge that she was experiencing similar physical responses to his proximity sent heat racing through his system that made the Mediterranean sun feel cool by comparison.
"Right," he said, his voice rough with strain from trying to maintain conversational normalcy while his body insisted on responding to stimuli that felt designed to overwhelm his rational mind. "So we're both... that is, the mate recognition is creating mutual... responses."
"Precisely," Fleur agreed, settling back on the sand in a way that seemed casual but brought her close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of her skin. "Though I suspect yours are somewhat more... visible... than mine."
The truth of that observation made Harry seriously consider the advantages of transforming into some sort of cold-blooded creature that wouldn't betray his emotional state through involuntary physical responses.
"Ze good news," Gabrielle announced helpfully, "is zat zis level of mutual attraction suggests ze mate bond will be very strong once it is actually initiated. Ze bad news is zat you are both going to 'ave a very difficult few years waiting until you are old enough for proper bonding."
"Thank you, Gabrielle," Harry said dryly, "for that encouraging assessment of our romantic prospects."
"You are welcome! I am very good at practical analysis of complex emotional situations."
Before Harry could formulate a response to that claim, the sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention back toward the château. This time it really was Apolline, her elegant summer dress flowing around her as she made her way down the stone path with the sort of purposeful stride that suggested important news.
Even at a distance, Harry could see that her expression was more serious than usual, though her magical signature didn't carry the distress that would indicate genuine crisis. Something significant had happened, but not something dangerous.
"Mes enfants," she called as she approached their small group on the beach, "I 'ave news zat I think 'Arry will want to 'ear immediately."
Harry sat up straighter, his enhanced senses automatically cataloguing details of her approach. Apolline's posture suggested excitement carefully controlled by maternal discretion, her pace indicated urgency tempered by consideration for the peaceful afternoon they'd been enjoying.
"What sort of news?" he asked, noting that both Fleur and Gabrielle had also shifted to more attentive positions.
Apolline settled gracefully onto the sand beside them, her expression mixing satisfaction with something that looked like anticipation. "Sebastian 'as just received word from 'is contacts at ze British Ministry. Your godfather, Sirius Black, 'as surrendered 'imself to ze authorities."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow, sending shock racing through his system with more force than any of the physical sensations he'd been experiencing. "Surrendered? When? Where? Is he all right?"
"Zis morning, in Diagon Alley," Apolline replied, her voice carrying the sort of calm authority that suggested she had complete information and was prepared to share all of it. "In front of witnesses, to ze 'Ead of ze Department of Magical Law Enforcement 'erself. 'E invoked 'is right to proper legal representation and a trial before 'is peers."
Harry felt the world shift around him as implications cascaded through his mind. "A trial. He's going to get an actual trial."
"Oui," Apolline confirmed with evident satisfaction. "And given ze evidence Sebastian 'as already uncovered, given ze pressure from ze International Confederation, given ze public nature of 'is surrender... ze chances of exoneration are very good indeed."
"'E will be free," Gabrielle said with the sort of delighted certainty that suggested she'd been following the investigation closely. "And zen 'e can come 'ere to meet you properly!"
The prospect of meeting his godfather—the man James and Lily had chosen to raise him, who had suffered twelve years of imprisonment for loving Harry's parents too much to betray them—filled Harry with emotions too complex to untangle. Joy, terror, anticipation, and something that felt like the possibility of finally understanding what family was supposed to mean.
"Are you all right?" Fleur asked softly, her hand finding his with the sort of natural intimacy that suggested the mate bond was already creating deeper emotional connections between them.
Harry looked at her—at the concern in her blue eyes, at Gabrielle's excited smile, at Apolline's maternal warmth—and realized that the answer was more complicated than a simple yes or no.
"I think I will be," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion that had nothing to do with physical attraction and everything to do with the extraordinary possibility that his life might finally be about to include the sort of love and belonging he'd always believed was meant for other people.
As the Mediterranean sun continued to blaze overhead, as the waves lapped gently against the private beach, as the Delacour family surrounded him with warmth and acceptance, Harry Potter allowed himself to believe that perhaps the impossible was about to become possible.
His godfather was coming home. And for the first time in his life, Harry had somewhere—and someone—to bring him home to.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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