Chapter 39: Closing Off
Harry stood at the edge of the property line, his emerald eyes taking in the ancient manor house crouched in the Yorkshire hills ahead. The perpetual fog swirled around its blackened stones, and sickly green light leaked from its windows like infected wounds.
Fucking hell, what a dump, Maria's voice echoed in his mind, dripping with disdain. Looks like something a diseased toad would call home. Do all Death Eaters have such terrible taste in real estate?
"Apparently so," Harry murmured, his lips barely moving. "Though I suppose when you're compensating for inadequate magical ability, gothic architecture helps with the intimidation factor."
Those are some serious wards though, Maria observed as the layers of detection charms, curse triggers, and defensive enchantments hummed with dark magic around the compound. Proper nasty stuff. Would give most wizards pause, I'd imagine.
"Good thing I'm not most wizards then, isn't it?"
Show off, Maria said with amusement in her voice. Go on then, let's see you work your magic. Literally.
Harry raised the infamous wand, feeling its warmth and comfort in his grip. No incantations passed his lips, no elaborate wand movements disturbed the air. The magic flowed from him like water from a broken dam, silent and inescapable.
The outermost ward flickered and died without so much as a whisper.
Ooh, barely even tried, Maria commented approvingly. I do love it when you show off properly.
Harry chuckled to himself as he continued dismantling one ward after the other.
"Piece of cake," he muttered, smirking.
Inside the manor, Alecto Carrow paced the length of the main hall, her boots clicking against the polished floor with each agitated step. The events in Hogsmeade had left her rattled in ways she refused to acknowledge, even to herself.
"You're wearing a bloody groove in the stone," Amycus muttered from his position sprawled across an ornate sofa. Healing potions had mended his bones and closed his wounds, but purple bruises still decorated his pale skin like grotesque jewelry. "Sit down before you give me a headache on top of everything else."
"Something's wrong," Alecto said, not breaking her stride. "Those Snatchers didn't just turn on us for no reason. Someone got to them. Someone made them forget who we were."
"Who cares?" Amycus shifted, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. "They're dead now. Problem solved."
"Is it?" Alecto whirled to face him, her dark eyes blazing. "What if whoever did it knows about this place? What if they're coming here next?"
Amycus laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the cavernous room. "Let them come. We've got thirty Death Eaters stationed here, plus all the prisoners in the dungeons. Anyone stupid enough to attack us is walking into their own grave."
Outside, another ward collapsed under Harry's relentless assault. Then another.
Thirty diseased toads, Maria mused in his mind, having felt it when Harry reached out with his magical senses to gauge what was waiting for him. That's quite the welcoming committee. Should be fun.
"Mmm," Harry agreed softly, his focus never wavering from his work. "And I can bet everything I've got that these lot have prisoners in the dungeons. Muggles and muggleborns to play around with."
Charming, Maria's mental voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Makes this all the more satisfying, really," Harry muttered, his expression darkening.
Oh, I do love it when you get that tone, Maria practically purred. Means someone's about to have a very bad evening. Which means more excitement for me! How are those wards coming along?
Harry's paid little attention to her salacious purr. The Carrows had a reputation for cruelty that stood out even among Voldemort's followers. If they were truly keeping prisoners in those dungeons, it wouldn't be a pleasant sight.
Focus on the wards first, Maria advised, sensing his thoughts. Can't help anyone if you get yourself killed walking into their traps. And I've invested too much in you to see you kick the bucket so quickly.
"Right you are." Another layer of defensive magic crumbled before him.
"The perimeter wards just went down," one of the Death Eaters posted near the windows called out, his voice tight with alarm. "All of them. Simultaneously."
Alecto's pacing stopped. "What?"
"Someone's here," the sentry continued, pressing his face against the glass. "I can't see anything, but the detection charms are screaming bloody murder."
Amycus somehow hauled himself upright, his hand moving instinctively to his wand. "How many?"
"I don't know. The readings don't make sense. It's like there's one person out there, but the magical signature is off the charts."
Alecto and Amycus exchanged glances. They'd both felt power like that before, in the presence of the Dark Lord himself. But the Dark Lord was supposed to be occupied elsewhere tonight, and it was not their place to question him or his whereabouts.
"Sound the alarm," Alecto ordered. "Get everyone to their positions. If someone wants to play hero, we'll give them a reception they won't forget."
The manor erupted into chaos as Death Eaters scrambled to defensive positions. Spells were checked, wands drawn, and all entrances were fortified even more. Thirty of Voldemort's most loyal followers arranged themselves throughout the manor, ready to repel any assault.
They never saw Harry coming.
It wasn't as if the front doors exploded inward in dramatic fashion like they might have expected. They simply… ceased to exist, the heavy oak and iron reinforcements vanishing as if they'd never been there at all.
The Death Eaters stationed in the entrance hall barely had time to register the intrusion before Harry stepped through the empty doorway, his expression as calm as if he were arriving for afternoon tea.
"Evening, inbreds," he said conversationally, his voice loud enough without a Sonorous in the sudden silence that enveloped the manor. "Lovely place you've got here. Very... atmospheric."
Recognition rippled through the assembled Death Eaters like a shockwave. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. Harry Potter was here!
"Kill him!" Alecto's shrill voice cracked like a whip from somewhere deeper in the manor.
The Death Eaters didn't hesitate. Thirty wands rose as one, thirty voices began the incantation of the killing curse in perfect unison. Green light erupted from their wand tips, converging on Harry's position with full intent to erase him where he stood.
Harry didn't try to stop them. Instead, he simply wasn't there anymore.
One moment he stood in the center of the entrance hall, the next he was behind the leftmost group of Death Eaters, his wand already moving ominously, his eyes growing with lethal intent. Three piercing hexes fired in rapid succession, each one finding its mark before the Death Eaters even realized he'd moved, felling three of them with fissures right through their skulls.
Headshot! Headshot! And another headshot!
Harry grinned, hearing Maria's excited shouts in his mind.
The killing curses, meanwhile, struck empty air and scorched the marble floor where Harry had been standing.
"Impossible," one of the Death Eaters breathed. "No one can move that fast."
Harry appeared behind another cluster of Death Eaters, this time on the opposite side of the hall. More spells flew from his wand—a bone-breaker that dropped one screaming to his knees, a cutting curse that opened another's wand arm to the bone, and a banishing hex that sent a third crashing through a window.
He was everywhere and nowhere, moving through their ranks like smoke, striking before they could react and vanishing before they could retaliate. Each appearance lasted only seconds, just long enough to neutralize two or three more Death Eaters before he flickered away again. It was like fighting a ghost.
The Death Eaters spun in circles, firing curses at shadows and empty air while Harry picked them apart, taking all the time he needed to watch them squirm like the vermin they were.
Bodies began to hit the floor—some unconscious, others writhing in pain, a few ominously still where cutting curses and piercing hexes had found vital spots. The survivors scrambled to regroup, but Harry was already moving, flowing through their ranks like death itself. His wand never stopped moving, never fired the same spell twice.
Another piercing hex here, dropped one Death Eater dead, blood pooling out of his skull. Another cutting curse there, and another fell screaming, holding his decapitated arm desperately to himself. A bone-breaker sent a third tumbling down the stairs in a tangle of limbs where he landed on his neck, dying on the spot.
"Spread out!" one of the survivors shouted. "Don't let him pick us off one by one!"
Good advice. Unfortunately for them, Harry had no intention of picking them off one by one.
He stepped into the center of the entrance hall, raised his wand above his head, and unleashed hell.
Whatever it was that erupted from his wand had no name in any textbook, because it was no spell or documented magic. It was pure destruction given form, a wave of magical force that radiated outward in all directions. Windows exploded, walls cracked, and every Death Eater still standing was swept off their feet and hurled against the walls with bone-crushing force.
Painful grunts and cries echoed as bodies fell with thuds, the Death Eaters groaning pathetically.
In the sudden silence that followed, Harry lowered his wand and surveyed his work. Bodies lay scattered across the hall like broken dolls, some moving weakly, others ominously still. The grand staircase had partially collapsed, the marble steps reduced to rubble and dust.
"Well," Harry said mildly, stepping over a groaning Death Eater. A casual flick of his wand ended his life instantly. "That was rather anticlimactic."
His voice carried through the manor as he cast cutting curses and piercing hexes, easy, uncomplicated, and effective, ending all the painful groans and coughs. It easily reached the Carrow twins in their private chambers upstairs.
Alecto's face had gone pale, her hands shaking as she pressed herself against the reinforced door.
"He killed them," she whispered. "All of them. In seconds."
Amycus was frantically casting locking charms on the door, layering protection after protection until the wood groaned under the weight of accumulated reinforcement magic. "It's Potter. Harry Potter, right? But how? How is he this powerful?"
From somewhere below came the sound of Harry's footsteps, ominous and entirely at ease. Each step echoed through the manor like a bell signaling their funeral.
"The prisoners," Alecto said suddenly. "We can use the prisoners. Trade them for safe passage."
"You think Potter gives a damn about hostages?" Amycus laughed bitterly. "Look what he just did to thirty trained killers. You think he's going to negotiate?"
The footsteps stopped.
"My dear Alecto," Harry's voice was cheery as it drifted up from the main hall, but there was nothing pleasant about it. "My poor, beaten-up Amycus. I know you're up there. Why don't you come down and we can have a proper chat?"
The twins pressed closer together, their bodies shaking in genuine fright. In their terror, all they could do was seek comfort in each other's presence.
"We could run," Alecto whispered. "Disapparate. Get word to the Dark Lord."
"Potter's anti-apparition wards are still up," Amycus reminded her. "We'd have to get outside the property line first. Why do you think no reinforcements have come?"
"Then we fight our way out."
"With what? Potter just carved through thirty Death Eaters like they were first-year brats."
A soft sound from outside their door made them both freeze. It sounded like someone humming, and they both stared at each other, wide-eyed.
"You know," Harry's voice came from directly outside their door now, though neither twin had heard him climb the stairs. "I have to admit, I'm curious about your little operation here. The prisoners downstairs, the experiments I'm sure you've been conducting. Very inventive work."
The door handle turned slowly.
"How did you get past the wards?" Amycus demanded, his voice cracking.
"Oh, those old things?" Harry sounded amused. "They weren't particularly challenging. Rather like untying a shoelace, really. Though I suppose they might seem impressive if you're used to more... pedestrian magic."
The locking charms on the door began to unravel one by one, each protective spell dissolving like cotton candy in water. The twins watched in horror as their defenses crumbled without Harry even seeming to try.
"Stop!" Alecto raised her wand. "Stay back!"
The door swung open.
Harry stood in the doorway, looking perfectly relaxed despite the carnage he'd just unleashed. His robes weren't even wrinkled, his hair only slightly more disheveled than usual. He might have been visiting friends for dinner.
"Hello," he said pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by."
Both twins fired curses simultaneously, their wands spitting green and purple death. Harry didn't dodge. He didn't shield. He simply stood there as the spells seemingly struck him and... did nothing more than give his wand a subtle flick that went entirely unnoticed by the twins.
"That's what being inbred does," Harry remarked, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve as the unbreakable glass pane in front of him dissolved into nothingness, the twins being none the wiser. "Though you might want to work on your form. The wrist action is all wrong."
Alecto stumbled backward, her face white with terror. "W-What are you?"
"Disappointed, mostly," Harry replied, stepping into the room. "I was expecting more of a challenge. The rumors about the Carrow twins' magical prowess seem to have been greatly exaggerated."
He glanced around the opulent chamber, taking in the expensive furnishings and artwork. His gaze lingered on the single large bed, and his lips curved into an amused grin.
"I see you've invited me into your bedroom, " he said softly. "How... cozy. I'm sorry, but as much of a lecher as I am, you're too inbred for my tastes, Alecto. I'd be open to some other recommendations from among your friends though."
Amycus lunged forward with a desperate battle cry, his wand weaving complex patterns as he cast every dark curse he knew. Harry watched him approach with the same mild interest one might show a particularly slow butterfly, leaning out of each curse's way.
When Amycus was close enough to touch, Harry raised his wand.
The curse hit Amycus center mass, lifting him off his feet and hurling him against the far wall with tremendous force. He slid down the expensive wallpaper, leaving a dark stain in his wake, and didn't get up.
"Amycus!" Alecto's let out a shrill scream, her eyes wide with raw and primal horror, and it was the sound of someone watching their world collapse. She raised her wand again, her hand shaking and tears streaming down her face.
"I wouldn't," Harry advised without a care in his voice. "You've seen what happens to people who try to fight me. I'd hate for you to join your brother quite so quickly."
Alecto's wand hand trembled fiercely, but she didn't lower it. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
Harry tilted his head, considering the question. "You know, that's an excellent question. Why am I here? It's not revenge, though I suppose you might deserve it for cavorting with the wrong sort. It's not justice, though the world will certainly be better without you."
He began to pace slowly around the room, his wand held loosely at his side. Alecto tracked his movement like a cornered animal, too scared to even muster the courage to fling a spell in his direction.
"I think," Harry continued thoughtfully, "it's simply because I can. Because you're here, and you're evil, and removing you from the world is no more complicated than stepping on an insect."
"The Dark Lord will—"
"Will what?" Harry's laugh was soft and genuinely amused. "Kill me? He's tried, more than once. And so have others. How do you think that worked out for them?"
Alecto's wand finally dropped from nerveless fingers. The fight went out of her all at once, leaving her sagging against the wall like a puppet with cut strings.
"Please," she whispered. "I'll tell you everything I know about our operations, our plans, our—"
"I already know everything I need to know," Harry interrupted gently. "Your usefulness, such as it was, ended the moment I walked through your front door."
He raised his wand one final time.
"Any last words?"
Alecto opened her mouth, perhaps to plead or curse or scream. She never got the chance.
The killing curse took her cleanly, without pain or struggle. She simply... stopped. Her body crumpled to the floor beside her brother's, and the Carrow twins were no more.
Harry stood in the sudden silence, looking down at the two corpses with a raised eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. After a moment, he tucked his wand away and turned toward the door.
He had prisoners to free.
The dungeons beneath the manor were everything Harry had expected and worse. Dozens of cells carved from living rock, each one holding someone whose only crime had been existing in a world where blood purity mattered more than human decency.
The locks opened at his touch, the cell doors swinging wide to reveal hollow-eyed prisoners blinking in the sudden light.
"You're free," Harry told them simply. "There are portkeys in the main hall that will take you to St. Mungo's. The healers should be expecting you."
Some wept. Others stared at him in disbelief. A few were too broken to do anything but follow his gentle directions toward the stairs.
Harry remained below until the last prisoner had been helped to safety. There were a few muggles in the group as well, but they were not his responsibility. He was sure the healers would coordinate with the Ministry to properly deal with them.
As he walked up, he took some time to survey the scene he'd left.
Thirty Death Eaters dead. The Carrow twins eliminated. An entire base of operations destroyed.
Harry smiled and with a sharp crack, he took down his anti-apparition wards and disapparated into the night, leaving behind only silence and the lingering smell of dark magic finally purged from an ancient house.
Somewhere out there, Voldemort was probably just beginning to realize how badly his evening had gone.
Little did he know that Harry Potter was just getting started.
XXXXX
The world stopped spinning with a jarring thud that sent Fleur stumbling forward. Her knees buckled as the portkey released its hold, the familiar nausea of magical transportation washing over her in waves. She steadied herself against a marble pillar, breathing deeply as her vision cleared and the spinning sensation faded.
The British Ministry's International Portkey Terminal stretched before her—a vast chamber with soaring ceilings and gleaming white marble floors marked with dozens of arrival circles. The air hummed with magical energy, and the sound of multiple languages filled the space as travelers from across Europe materialized and departed in flashes.
"Bloody hell, that never gets easier," muttered a wizard near her, shaking his head as he gathered his scattered belongings.
Fleur smoothed her traveling cloak and fastened her scarf once again, her eyes scanning the terminal for the exit signs. Even with her scarf, she was attracting a lot of attention from various male wizards around. Closing her eyes for a second, she steeled herself and brought her allure firmly under control, watching as the stares slowly waned.
Security was tight, and it brought a small frown to her face. She was truly here. In Britain. In the middle of a war zone. The thought should've scared her, but she felt nothing but determination course through her.
"Fleur Delacour?"
The voice was distinctly female, cheerful, and surprisingly familiar. Fleur spun around to find a young woman approaching her with a wide grin. The woman had long, dark purple hair that seemed to shift subtly in the magical lighting, and she wore dark, form-fitting robes with what looked like Auror insignia on the collar.
"I..." Fleur blinked in surprise, her French accent more pronounced as uncertainty crept into her voice. What was an auror doing here? "Oui, I am Fleur Delacour. But—"
"Nym Tonks," the woman said, extending her hand with an easy smile. "But everyone calls me Tonks. Well, everyone except Harry, but he's different." She let out a short laugh. "He told me you'd be arriving today. Asked me to come get you."
"'arry?" Fleur's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "You're 'is friend?"
Nym's grin widened as she gestured for Fleur to follow her toward the exit. "That's one word for it." She paused, studying Fleur's confused expression. "He was pretty insistent about it, you know? 'Nym, make sure you reach her just as she arrives. She shouldn't feel out of place or anything. You know what this country's like with veela and such. So just get her over and I'll take care of the rest.'"
They walked together through the bustling terminal, weaving between clusters of travelers and Ministry officials. Fleur noticed how Nym's eyes constantly swept their surroundings, and she realized it must be a habit developed as a result of extensive professional training and current dangers as well.
"I appreciate ze welcome," Fleur said carefully, "but I 'ave already made arrangements for accommodation. Zere is a small inn near Diagon Alley zat—"
"Oh no, you don't." Nym cut her off with a shake of her head, her pink hair shifting to a more vibrant shade. "Harry was very specific about this. You're staying with us, and that's final."
"With you?" Fleur stopped walking, her blue eyes widening. "But I cannot impose like zis. I 'ave money, I can—"
"Look, Fleur—can I call you Fleur?" Nym didn't wait for an answer. "Harry was adamant about this. Absolutely would not hear otherwise. Said something about proper hospitality for someone who traveled this far to help us out in this environment." She placed a gentle but firm hand on Fleur's arm. "Trust me, if I let you wander off to some inn and something happens to you, Harry will have my head. And considering the times we're living in, that's not exactly a figure of speech."
Fleur studied the other woman's face, searching for any sign of deception or ulterior motive. All she found was earnest concern and what appeared to be genuine warmth.
"I do not understand," she said slowly. "Why would 'arry go to such trouble for me? We 'ave not spoken since ze Tournament, only letters, and even zen..."
"If you ask me, I think you made quite an impression on him," Nym finished with a knowing smile. "Look, why don't you save the arguments for Harry himself? He'll explain it better than I can, and frankly, he's the one you need to convince if you really want to strike out on your own."
The logic was sound, even if the situation felt surreal. Fleur found herself nodding despite her reservations.
"D'accord. Very well. But only until I can speak with 'arry and make proper arrangements."
"Brilliant." Nym's smile returned to full brightness. "Come on then, let's get out of here before the evening rush starts. The atrium get absolutely mad around this time."
They made their way through the Ministry's main atrium, past the golden fountain and the steady stream of witches and wizards going about their daily business. Fleur couldn't help but continue to notice the increased security presence—more Aurors than she remembered from previous visits, their eyes sharp and hands never far from their wands.
"It is worse than ze reports suggested," she murmured, watching a group of plainclothes Aurors escort a nervous-looking wizard toward the lifts.
"The reports don't capture the half of it," Nym replied grimly. "Things have gotten pretty bad over the past few months. That's part of why Harry insisted you stay with us. London's not safe for someone traveling alone, especially someone as..." She gestured vaguely at Fleur's appearance.
"As what?"
"As bloody gorgeous as you are," Nym said bluntly. "Veela heritage makes you a target in more ways than one these days. Death Eaters have some particularly nasty ideas about magical creatures and their descendants."
A chill ran down Fleur's spine at the casual way Nym delivered this information. The war was not just about blood purity anymore—it had evolved into something darker and more comprehensive.
"'ow is 'arry 'andling all of zis?" Fleur asked as they approached the visitor's exit. "Ze pressure, ze responsibility... 'e was just a boy during ze Tournament."
Something shifted in Nym's expression—a softness that hadn't been there before. Her voice took on a warmer tone, almost protective.
"He's grown up fast, our Harry has. Faster than anyone should have to." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "He's strong, stronger than he knows sometimes. But he carries too much on his shoulders. Always thinking he has to save everyone, fix everything." A small smile played at her lips. "It's one of the things that makes him so..."
She trailed off, but Fleur caught the unfinished sentiment. There was something in Nym's voice, and it made her feel that the woman carried deeper feelings than simple friendship or professional respect for him.
"So what?" Fleur prompted gently.
"So Harry," Nym finished with a slight laugh, but her cheeks had taken on a faint pink tinge that matched her hair. "You'll see what I mean when you meet him again. He's not the same boy from the Tournament."
They emerged from the Ministry into the late afternoon London air. The city bustled around them, but Fleur noticed the subtle signs of a society under strain. Fewer people on the streets than expected, watchful expressions, the quick, furtive movements of people eager to reach their destinations, and a seemingly dark cloud that hung over everything. It felt awfully depressing.
"Right then," Nym said, taking Fleur's arm. "Hope you don't mind side-along Apparition. It's the quickest way to get where we're going."
Before Fleur could respond, the world compressed around them with the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tube. The journey lasted only seconds, but when they materialized, Fleur found herself standing before an elegant park in what appeared to be a well-to-do London neighborhood.
"Where are we?" she asked, looking around at the neat Georgian townhouses and manicured green space.
"The neighborhood is called Grimmauld Place," Nym replied, reaching into her robes to withdraw a piece of parchment. "Here, read this and memorize it. Then burn it."
Fleur took the parchment and read the neat handwriting: "Harry Potter's residence may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London."
Her eyes widened as understanding dawned. "A Fidelius Charm?"
"The very one. Harry's the Secret Keeper now." Nym pulled out her wand and held it ready. "Nasty bit of magic, but necessary these days. You can't be too careful about who knows where you're sleeping at night."
Fleur read the address again, committing it to memory before touching her wand tip to the parchment. It burst into flames, the ashes scattering on the breeze. As the last of the parchment disappeared, the world seemed to shimmer before her eyes.
A house materialized between numbers eleven and thirteen Grimmauld Place, as if it had been squeezed into existence from thin air. The building was tall and narrow, with grimy windows and a black-painted door bearing an ornate silver knocker.
"Mon Dieu," Fleur breathed, staring at the impossible sight.
"Takes some getting used to," Nym agreed. "First time seeing a Fidelius reveal itself?"
"Non, but... zis is different." Fleur's voice was barely above a whisper. The magnitude of what had just happened was settling in her mind.
Harry had told her where he lived—a place under the Fidelius. He had entrusted her with knowledge that could endanger not just him, but everyone living in that house. The level of trust such an act represented was staggering.
A warm feeling began to spread through her chest, something light and bright that she couldn't quite identify. He trusted her. After years of no contact, after she had simply appeared in his country uninvited, he trusted her enough to share one of his most closely guarded secrets.
"You alright?" Nym asked, noticing Fleur's stunned expression.
"Oui, I..." Fleur shook her head, trying to organize her thoughts. "It is just... 'e 'ardly knows me. To give such trust..."
"That's Harry for you," Nym said with fond exasperation. "Always been too trusting for his own good. Course, his instincts about people are usually spot on, so maybe he knows something the rest of us don't."
They approached the front door, which opened before Nym could knock. The hallway beyond was dimly lit but clean, a vast improvement over what Fleur imagined such an old house might normally look like.
"Home sweet home," Nym announced as they stepped inside. "It's not much to look at, but it's safe and warm, and that's more than can be said for most places these days."
The sound of voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the house, accompanied by the clatter of dishes and the warm smell of cooking food. Despite the grim exterior, the house felt lived-in and welcoming.
"'arry is 'ere?" Fleur asked as Nym led her down the hallway.
"Should be back soon. He's out on some business on his own, but he's supposed to return by dinnertime." Nym glanced back at her with a grin. "Fair warning—you're not the only guest we've got staying here. Harry's developed quite the habit of collecting beautiful witches."
Nym winked playfully as they entered a comfortable sitting room where two young women were seated on a well-worn sofa, engaged in what appeared to be intense conversation over a stack of books and parchment. Both had the slightly harried look of students deep in study, but they looked up with bright smiles as Nym and Fleur entered.
"Ladies, I'd like you to meet Fleur Delacour," Nym announced. "Fleur, these are Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. They're staying here as well."
The blonde girl—Hannah—bounced to her feet with an enthusiastic smile. "Oh, you're the one from the Triwizard Tournament! Harry's told us so much about you."
"'e 'as?" Fleur found herself oddly pleased by this revelation.
Susan rose more sedately, extending her hand with a warm but reserved smile. "It's lovely to meet you properly. Harry said you might be coming to help with the war effort, even though he doesn't understand why you'd put yourself willingly in such risk."
"I 'ope to, yes." Fleur shook both their hands, studying their faces with growing curiosity. They seemed genuinely pleased to meet her, but there was something else in their expressions when they mentioned Harry's name.
"Harry saved Hannah, Susan, and her aunt from a Death Eater attack on Bones Manor," Nym explained, settling into an armchair. "They've been staying here ever since. Hannah came as well—they're practically joined at the hip, these two."
"It was the least we could do," Susan said, her voice taking on a fierce edge. "After what those monsters did to our home, what they would've done to us all..." She trailed off, her jaw clenching.
"'arry saved you?" Fleur asked, noting the way both girls' expressions softened when his name was mentioned.
"Saved us is putting it mildly," Hannah said, settling back onto the sofa. "He was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Took on all the Death Eaters single-handedly while Susan and I could only shield each other. We helped out a bit as well, but he did it all."
"He was incredible," Susan added, and Fleur didn't miss the slight blush that colored her cheeks. "So brave, so powerful. I've never seen magic like that before from someone so young."
"Course he was," Nym said with obvious pride. "That's our Harry. Can't seem to help himself when it comes to playing hero."
As the three women continued to sing Harry's praises, Fleur found herself listening with growing attention to the subtle nuances in their voices. There was admiration there, certainly, but also something deeper. Something more personal.
Her veela heritage had always made her sensitive to the emotional undercurrents around her, and right now those senses were practically humming with awareness. She closed her eyes briefly, extending her magical consciousness just slightly, and what she found made her gasp.
Harry's magic was everywhere in this house, woven into the very walls and foundations like a protective blanket. But more than that, it was intimately connected to the three women sitting with her. Not just connected—intertwined. Wrapped around them like invisible threads of warmth and protection and something else. Something that spoke of deep emotional bonds and physical intimacy.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at Nym, Susan, and Hannah with new understanding.
They weren't just grateful refugees.
They were Harry's lovers.
All three of them.
The realization hit her like a physical blow, leaving her momentarily breathless. A strange emotion twisted in her chest—something dark and possessive that she didn't recognize and didn't like.
Why should she care who Harry Potter chose to share his bed with? She had no claim on him, no right to feel anything about his personal relationships. They had shared perhaps a dozen conversations during the Tournament and afterward on parchment, nothing more.
But the feeling persisted, growing stronger as she watched the three women continue their animated discussion about Harry's various heroic qualities. The way Nym's eyes lit up when she spoke of him. The protective edge in Susan's voice. The dreamy expression that crossed Hannah's face.
Fleur didn't like it.
She didn't like it at all.
And she had absolutely no idea why.
Chapter 40: Connection
Albus Dumbledore sat slumped in his chair behind his desk, his face pale and drawn with pain. His right hand—blackened, withered, and clearly cursed—rested limply on the armrest while Severus Snape worked over it with his wand, muttering incantations under his breath.
"You were fortunate I was able to contain it to your hand," Snape said, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "The curse on that ring was specifically designed to kill, Albus. Quickly and painfully."
"Yes, I rather gathered that," Dumbledore replied with a weak attempt at humor. "How long do I have?"
Snape's jaw clenched. "A year. Perhaps less. The curse is eating away at you from the inside. I've managed to slow it, but I cannot stop it entirely."
"A year." Dumbledore nodded slowly, as if confirming something he'd already suspected. "That should be enough time."
"Enough time for what?" Snape demanded, finally looking up from his work. "To continue playing your games? To manipulate more pieces on your chess board?"
"To ensure Harry is ready," Dumbledore said quietly.
Snape's expression darkened. "Potter. Always Potter." He returned his attention to the cursed hand. "You're placing all your faith in a boy who wants nothing to do with your people anymore."
"Perhaps. But he is still our best hope." Dumbledore's good hand reached for a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk, popping it into his mouth. "With the Horcrux inside him gone and him being the master of the Elder Wand, Harry is truly poised to defeat Tom once all the Horcruxes are destroyed."
"You assume he will cooperate with your plans."
"He will do what must be done when the time comes."
Snape let out a harsh laugh. "You haven't been paying attention, Albus. Potter has changed. He's not the malleable boy you once knew. After what happened with Andromeda Tonks..." He shook his head. "He sees the Order for what it truly is now. A tool for your manipulations."
Dumbledore sighed, his blue eyes dimming behind his half-moon spectacles. "I know Harry does not see the Order favorably anymore. What happened with Andromeda was... unfortunate."
"Unfortunate," Snape repeated flatly.
"Yes." Dumbledore said regretfully. "I made a mistake. I see that now. But there might be differences between us, Severus, yet those differences won't matter when the time comes. Harry will understand that defeating Tom is more important than our personal conflicts."
Suddenly, the fireplace flared green. Both men tensed—Dumbledore straightening in his chair despite the pain, and Snape melting into the shadows as if he'd never been there.
"Albus? Are you there?" a voice called from the flames.
"I am here," Dumbledore replied, quickly drawing his sleeve down to cover his blackened hand. "You may come through, Kingsley."
Kingsley Shacklebolt stumbled through the fireplace, his usually composed demeanor shattered. His eyes were wide, his breathing heavy, and his robes were disheveled as if he'd been running.
"Albus," he gasped. "You need to hear this. I just came from St. Mungo's. There's been an incident—a major one."
Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression grave. "What kind of incident?"
"A group of prisoners just arrived. Two dozen of them, maybe more. All of them were being held in a manor belonging to the Carrow twins. Tortured, experimented on. The Healers are overwhelmed."
"The Carrows." Dumbledore's voice hardened. "How did these prisoners escape? Did the Order—"
"No." Kingsley shook his head vigorously. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It wasn't us. Someone attacked the manor. Killed every Death Eater inside. All thirty of them, including Alecto and Amycus Carrow themselves."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Thirty Death Eaters? That would require significant force. Did Voldemort's followers turn on each other?"
"That's what I thought at first." Kingsley ran a hand over his bald head, still looking shaken. "But the survivors, they all told the same story. It was one person. One wizard who stormed the place alone and killed every Death Eater in the building."
"One person," Dumbledore repeated slowly. "Did anyone see who it was?"
Kingsley met his gaze, and Dumbledore saw something like awe mixed with disbelief in the Auror's eyes.
"It was Harry Potter, Albus. Harry did this. Alone."
The office fell into absolute silence.
Dumbledore stared at Kingsley, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and something that might have been fear or perhaps grim satisfaction. His good hand gripped the armrest of his chair tightly.
"Harry," he whispered finally.
"The prisoners were very clear," Kingsley continued. "They said he appeared after all the fighting was done. Calm, composed, like he'd just gone for a walk. He opened their cells, told them they were free, and set up portkeys to St. Mungo's. Some of them saw the carnage in the entrance hall. Bodies everywhere. The place was destroyed."
"Thirty trained Death Eaters," Dumbledore murmured, more to himself than to Kingsley. "The Carrows were formidable duelists. For Harry to have defeated them all..."
"There's more." Kingsley's expression grew even more troubled. "One of the survivors, a witch named Martha Pemberton, she tried to leave St. Mungo's before we could properly debrief her. Said she was scared. Death Eaters picked her up within an hour. We don't know what happened to her after that, but..." He trailed off meaningfully.
"Voldemort knows," Dumbledore finished. "He knows it was Harry."
"Almost certainly."
Dumbledore sat back in his chair, his mind racing. This changed everything. Harry wasn't just avoiding the Order or refusing to follow his plans—he was actively waging his own war against Voldemort. And from the sound of it, he was winning.
Thirty Death Eaters dead in a single night. The Carrow twins eliminated. An entire base of operations destroyed.
This was the work of someone who had abandoned restraint, who had chosen to fight without mercy or hesitation. This was not the Harry Potter he had known, the boy who valued life and sought peaceful solutions.
This was someone else entirely.
"Albus?" Kingsley's voice broke through his thoughts. "What do you want me to do? Should I try to contact Harry?"
"No." The word came out sharper than Dumbledore intended. He softened his tone. "No, Kingsley. It's clear that Harry is fighting this war in his own way now. We must respect that, even if we don't entirely understand it."
Kingsley frowned. "But Albus, if he's taking this kind of action alone, without coordination or support... he could get himself killed. Or worse, he could escalate this conflict beyond our ability to control it."
"Harry has made his choice," Dumbledore said quietly. "And perhaps... perhaps I drove him to it with my own actions. The best we can do now is continue our own efforts and hope that when the final confrontation comes, we will be fighting on the same side."
Kingsley didn't look satisfied with this answer, but he nodded. "I'll keep you informed of any developments."
"Thank you, Kingsley. You've done well to bring this to me so quickly."
After Kingsley left through the floo, Dumbledore sat in silence for a long moment. Then, without looking toward the shadows, he spoke.
"You can come out now, Severus."
Snape emerged from the darkness, his expression unreadable. He studied Dumbledore carefully before speaking.
"So. Potter has finally embraced the power you always knew he possessed."
"It would appear so." Dumbledore's voice was heavy with something that might have been regret or resignation. "Though I fear he has embraced it in ways I never intended."
"You wanted a weapon against the Dark Lord," Snape said coldly. "You have one. Does it matter if that weapon refuses to be wielded by your hand?"
Dumbledore didn't argue. How could he? Snape was right. Every manipulation, every secret kept, every piece of the grand plan that had required Harry's ignorance—all of it had led to this moment.
He knew this was a possibility, that someday, Harry might have to kill. He didn't think that day would come so soon, or that he would seek to kill instead of being forced to.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had finally had enough of being controlled. He was his own person, and now he was taking matters into his own hands.
XXXXX
Fleur woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, and she was momentarily disoriented before her memory caught up with her. She was in Grimmauld Place. Harry's home. She was in Britain now, under the Fidelius Charm's protection.
The bed was comfortable, far more so than she'd expected from such an old house. She stretched lazily, surprised by how well-rested she felt despite the previous day's travel and the emotional whirlwind of meeting Nym, Susan, and Hannah.
Those three young women. Harry's lovers.
The thought sent an unwelcome twinge through her chest again, but she pushed it aside as she rose and went through her morning routine. A quick shower using the en-suite bathroom—surprisingly modern compared to the house's exterior—and she dressed in casual robes suitable for a quiet morning at home.
She made her way downstairs, expecting to find the kitchen bustling with activity. Instead, she found... nothing. The house was eerily quiet and empty.
"'ello?" she called out softly. "Is anyone 'ere?"
There was no answer.
Frowning, Fleur turned to head back upstairs, thinking perhaps everyone was still asleep, when a sound caught her attention. It was faint, coming from somewhere below. A rhythmic noise, like... magic being cast?
She followed the sound to a door she hadn't noticed the night before, slightly ajar and leading downward. Curious, and thinking someone must be down there, she pulled the door open and slowly descended the narrow staircase. The sounds grew louder with each step—the distinctive crack of spellfire, the hum of powerful magic being channeled and released.
Fleur's eyes widened when she felt the thick essence of magic envelop her as she descended. The sheer power she could feel was unlike anything she'd felt before. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused at the threshold of what appeared to be a training room.
The sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her throat.
Harry Potter stood in the center of the basement, his wand moving in complex patterns as spell after spell erupted from its tip, slamming against the magical barrier erected right in front of the wall. But it wasn't just the magic that made her freeze.
He was shirtless.
His torso was bare, his skin glistening with sweat as muscles flexed and moved with each casting. He'd changed a lot since the tournament, she realized as she stared, having filled out, grown taller, and broader in the shoulders. Sweat dripped down his muscular back as he pivoted, launching another spell at one of the targets near the far wall with enough force to make the stone shudder.
For a long moment, Fleur could only stare.
The magic he was wielding was powerful. Raw. Volatile. The kind of magic that most wizards spent decades trying to master, and he was throwing it around like it was nothing. Each spell was precise, controlled despite its power, and the sheer force behind them made the air crackle with energy.
However, there was another reason why she stood frozen her in place, feeling like she was being forced her to stare.
The veela inside her was responding to him in ways she'd never experienced before, and it froze her in place. Her magic was singing, reaching out toward his powerful, volatile energy like a moth to flame. It was intoxicating. Dangerous. Completely unlike anything she'd felt before.
She couldn't move. She knew how mortifying it would be if he noticed her standing here like some star-struck schoolgirl.
But she couldn't move.
XXXXX
Harry had felt Fleur the moment she'd started down the stairs. Her veela allure was controlled, tightly leashed, but still noticeable enough to make him aware of her presence. He'd continued his training routine without pause, though his awareness of her never wavered.
Oh, you've got quite the delicious audience now, Maria's voice purred in his mind, dripping with amusement. Little veela can't take her eyes off you. Why don't you put on a proper show for her?
Harry's lips curved into a small smirk as he shifted his stance. Why not?
He launched into a more complex series of spells. Each spell was more powerful than the last, and he could feel Fleur's magic responding to his, could sense the way her carefully controlled allure was beginning to slip just slightly as she watched.
That's enough of a show, I think, Maria said after another minute, her voice thick with satisfaction. Any more and you'll have her melting into a puddle on the floor.
Funny how just a few flashy spells seem to affect her so much.
Oh, you silly boy! It's not flashy spellcasting. It's a veela's innate magic interacting with a powerful wizard's own. It would've happened even if you were sleeping like the dolt that you are.
Okay. Power it is then. Still pretty vain in my opinion.
It's her feelings, dumbass. What do you take a veela for? Slut for any strong wizard? Nothing would happen if the veela doesn't have feelings for her mate. And this one? Oh my, if she was any weaker, she would've thrown herself at you already.
You'd have liked that, wouldn't you? Harry laughed softly and ceased his casting, lowering his wand as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Releasing a deep breath, he turned around, putting on his best surprised expression.
"Fleur? I didn't know you were awake."
Fleur jolted as if she'd been struck, her eyes widening as Harry turned to face her fully. She definitely wasn't in control of herself right now, not with her magic still singing in response to his presence.
"I... I 'eard sounds," she managed, her accent even thicker than usual. "I thought someone was down 'ere."
Harry smiled and walked toward her, and Fleur found herself surprised—shocked, really—when she realized she had to look up to meet his eyes. When had he gotten so tall? He'd been shorter than her during the Tournament, but now...
Her eyes widened when his arms came up to embrace her, but he stopped at the last moment, chuckling softly.
"I'm sweaty," he said, his voice warm with amusement. "You probably don't want that on you first thing in the morning."
Fleur's breath hitched as she watched him raise his wand with a casual flick. The sweat vanished from his skin, leaving him clean and smelling faintly of magic and something very masculine that she found oddly enticing. Then his arms came around her, pulling her into a gentle embrace.
She melted into it without thinking, inhaling greedily as his scent filled her senses. Her veela magic flared, singing with approval, and she found herself pressing closer before she could stop herself.
This was bad. This was very bad. She'd never reacted to anyone like this before, never felt her magic respond with such intensity to another person's presence. It wasn't just attraction—though there was plenty of that—it was something deeper, something that spoke to the veela side of her nature that she usually kept so carefully controlled.
Harry's hold tightened for just a moment as her allure flared and washed over him, his body tensing against hers. Then he relaxed and gently pulled away, giving her a brilliant smile that made her heart skip.
"I'm really happy to see you," he said, his voice sincere. "And I appreciate you coming to Britain at such a dark time. Just to support me... it means a lot, Fleur. Really."
The veela in her sang at his appreciation, preening under his words, and Fleur had to fight to maintain control. She took a shaky breath.
"I am just doing what I feel is right," she managed, her voice not quite steady. "You 'elped me in ze past. You 'elped Gabrielle when you didn't need to. I am beyond grateful for zat."
Harry's smile faded slightly, a small frown creasing his brow. "I didn't do it because I wanted something in return, Fleur."
"Non, non!" She was quick to reassure him, reaching out to touch his arm. "I did not mean it like zat. What I mean to say is... you are my friend, 'arry. And I want to be zere for you in your time of need."
The smile returned, softer this time but no less genuine. Before Fleur could prepare herself, Harry pulled her into another embrace. This time, though, she had better control. She hugged him back, her arms wrapping around his waist as she let herself accept that this felt... nice. Safe. Right in every way.
When they finally pulled apart, Harry was grinning.
"Come on," he said, gesturing toward the stairs. "Let me get dressed properly and I'll make us some breakfast."
Harry led the way up from the basement, magic swirling around him briefly as clothes materialized on his frame—a simple and comfortable set of shirt and trousers. Fleur followed, trying not to think too hard about how her body was still humming with delight from their embrace.
The kitchen was bright with morning sunlight streaming through the windows. It was a surprisingly cheerful room despite the house's grim exterior, with warm wooden counters and copper pots hanging from hooks above the stove.
"Where is everyone?" Fleur asked as Harry moved to the stove and began pulling out pans and ingredients.
"They went to Greengrass Manor," Harry replied casually as he started cracking eggs into a bowl. "Had some things to discuss with Daphne, Astoria, Tracey, and Evelyn."
Fleur didn't recognize the names. "Who are ze Greengrasses?"
"Close allies," Harry said, and Fleur didn't miss the subtle shift in his demeanor when he mentioned them. His voice softened, and there was a warmth that made her feel that it was more than a simple alliance. "Daphne and her younger sister Astoria, along with their friend Tracey Davis. Their mother Evelyn is... well, she's something special. They're great. Strong. Loyal."
The way he spoke about them, the tone of his voice, the slight smile that played at his lips—Fleur noticed it all. And it was confirmed by the subtle shift she felt in his magic that the veela inside her recognized. These women were his lovers too, weren't they?
It irked her, that twinge of... what? Jealousy? Possessiveness? It returned. She knew she had no right to either, no claim on Harry Potter beyond friendship. But the feeling persisted nonetheless.
Just how many women was Harry involved with? She wasn't a stranger to the concept of polygamy. After all, in the older days, harems weren't uncommon among powerful magical families. But she hadn't pegged Harry as someone who would want or have one of his own. He'd come across as shy during the Tournament, unsure around girls, with barely any female interaction outside his friend Hermione.
To see this side of him was shocking, to say the least.
She kept her thoughts to herself, though. It wasn't her place to broach the subject, not when she'd only just arrived and didn't have that kind of relationship with him.
At least not yet, she couldn't help but think.
Harry moved around the kitchen as he prepared breakfast for them, and Fleur found herself staring at him once more. He'd become graceful in a way he hadn't been during the Tournament, confident in his movements and entirely comfortable in his own skin.
He caught her staring and grinned. "See something you like, Fleur?"
The playful tease in his voice sparked something in her, and the veela side of her nature rose to meet his challenge.
"Per'aps," she purred, leaning against the counter with a small smile. "You 'ave changed since ze Tournament, 'arry. Grown up quite nicely."
"Have I now?" Harry's eyes glinted with amusement as he whisked the eggs. "You're not so different yourself. Still one of the most beautiful witch I've ever seen."
One of… Fleur didn't like it. But she didn't show how it affected her.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Fleur shot back, her smile widening. "Though I suspect you already know zat, non? With so many women around you?"
"Maybe I just appreciate beauty when I see it."
"And 'ow often do you see it, 'arry?"
"Often enough to know when someone's fishing for compliments."
Fleur let out a delighted laugh. "You 'ave become quite ze flirt."
"Well," Harry said with a roguish grin, "when you're surrounded with as many women as I am, flirtation comes naturally."
They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them crackling with a different kind of energy than his magic had produced in the basement. Then they both burst out laughing, the tension dissolving entirely.
"I'm surprised," Fleur admitted once their laughter had faded. "Zis side of you... it is very different from ze boy I knew during ze Tournament."
Harry hummed as he went about preparing their breakfast as a moment of silence set in. Fleur's smile faded, and a small frown grew on her face as she stared at him.
"'Arry?"
"A lot has changed," Harry said, his voice serious. "War does that to people."
"War… Is zat why you were using ze magic I saw you wielding downstairs?" She asked softly, walking closer. "It was... powerful. Volatile. Not ze kind of magic zey teach at Beauxbatons or 'ogwarts."
Harry sighed, his hands pausing in their work for a moment before he resumed cracking eggs.
"No, it's not," he agreed. "A lot has changed in the past year since Voldemort's return. Especially over the past few months."
"Changed 'ow?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, considering his words. When he spoke, his voice was measured but dark, and Fleur shivered at the look on his face.
"The Ministry is useless," he said bluntly. "Corrupt, incompetent, more interested in maintaining their own power than actually protecting people. The Wizengamot is a joke—a bunch of inbred purebloods playing political games while people die. And Dumbledore..." He laughed bitterly. "Well, let's just say the great manipulator doesn't know I've seen his true face and the reality of his useless organization. Posers, the lot of them. All talk and no bite, not even when one of theirs is suffering."
Fleur's eyes widened. These were radical views, the kind of thing that could get someone labeled a revolutionary or worse. But after what she'd seen and heard of this society so far, after the tension in the Ministry and the fear on people's faces...
She couldn't find fault in his words.
"So you've decided to take matters into your own 'ands," she said softly.
"Someone has to." Harry's jaw tightened. "The Ministry won't act. Dumbledore wants to play his long game of chess where everyone's a piece to be sacrificed for the 'greater good.' And meanwhile, Death Eaters are torturing and killing people every day. So yes, I decided to do something about it."
"Ze magic downstairs..."
"Is what's necessary to fight them." Harry met her eyes, and Fleur saw steel there that hadn't existed in the boy from the Tournament. "They don't play by rules, Fleur. They use the darkest magic imaginable, torture for fun, kill without hesitation. If I'm going to stop them, I need to be stronger. Faster. More powerful than they are."
Fleur took in everything he was saying, thinking about the sheer force she'd witnessed in the basement. "And ze others? Ze women staying 'ere? Ze Greengrasses? Zey know what you're doing?"
"They're all with me," Harry said simply. "They're my true allies, Fleur. They're going to be fighting alongside me, standing with me every step of the way. In this war, and what comes next. We're in this together."
The way he said it, the obvious care in his voice when he spoke of them—it made that twinge in Fleur's chest return. But she pushed it down, focusing instead on the bigger picture.
"It is dangerous," she said. "What you're doing. Going against ze established order, fighting a war on your own terms..."
"I know." Harry's voice was quiet but firm. "But it's necessary. This society, this government—it's broken, Fleur. Has been for a long time. Someone needs to break it down and rebuild it into something better."
"And you think you can do zat?"
"I'm going to do that."
The conviction in his voice, the absolute certainty—it was both frightening and impressive. Fleur found herself believing him, believing that Harry Potter might actually be capable of the impossible task he'd set himself.
Silence settled over them as Harry brought over two plates laden with perfectly cooked eggs, bacon, toast, and what looked like sautéed mushrooms. The smell was heavenly, and Fleur realized she was quite hungry.
"That's enough morose chat for the morning, I think." Harry said as he pulled out her chair for her with a small flourish, making her smile despite herself. "Milady."
"Such a gentleman," she teased as she sat.
"I have my moments." Harry took his seat across from her, pushing one plate toward her.
Fleur took a bite of her eggs, savoring the taste. "Zese are delicious."
"Thanks. Learned to cook young. My aunt and uncle weren't exactly the nurturing type."
There was a story there, Fleur could tell, but she didn't push. Instead, they fell into easy conversation about lighter topics.
It was comfortable, Fleur realized. Easy in a way she hadn't expected. Harry made her laugh with dry observations about Ministry politics, and she found herself opening up about her own frustrations with the limitations placed on her due to her veela heritage.
"People see the allure first," she said softly. "Zey never look past it to see who I actually am."
"I see you," Harry said simply, and the sincerity in his voice made her breath catch. "Always have, Fleur. You're brilliant, talented, kind, and brave enough to come here when you didn't have to. The veela heritage is just a part of you, not all of you."
That warmth in her chest bloomed again, spreading through her entire body. She smiled at him softly, her eyes shining.
"Thank you, 'arry. Zat means more zan you know."
They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, and as Fleur helped Harry clean up the dishes—he tried to protest but she insisted—her mind was whirling with thoughts.
She'd come to Britain expecting... what? To help fight a war, certainly. To support Harry in whatever way she could. But this—this connection she felt to him, this pull that went beyond simple attraction—she hadn't anticipated that.
Her veela magic was still humming contentedly in his presence, more settled than she'd ever felt it around anyone else. It recognized something in Harry, something powerful and protective and right.
And as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching him dry the dishes with magic while he told her an amusing story about one of his training mishaps, one realization solidified in her mind: Her decision to come here was going to change her life forever.
She just didn't know how much yet.