PF06 of 20

Part the Sixth—
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest, Act IV, scene i

Harry did not want the day to end.  He and Octavian had spent much of the day in the Three Broomsticks ordering Butterbeer after Butterbeer to appease Madame Rosmerta as they ate all the various chocolates they had purchased, although they hardly made a dent in their horde.  Rosmerta had smiled at them affectionately as she saw Octavian constantly lean against his boyfriend and occasionally grab his hand when he got excited. 

They both ignored the stares they received, but instead laughed over stories of accidental magic during their childhoods. 


A cluster of Slytherins several tables over sneered at them, although Draco Malfoy merely reclined in his chair, a contemplative look on his face.

“Draco, it’s simply disgusting,” Pansy muttered under her breath, as she watched Octavian excitedly present Harry with a blood pop. 

He nodded noncommittally, his gray eyes taking in the interaction between the two. 

“I doubt his sire would be pleased,” she continued.

Blaise looked over at her coolly.  “It certainly explains what Granger and Weasley were going on about in Charms yesterday.”

“Oh?” Draco drawled, having not paid attention to the antics.  He could have cared less about Potter’s love life, although now—now, with him being seen openly with the illegitimate son of a member of the Dark Sect—things might get a lot more interesting.

Pansy snorted inelegantly.  “Granger grabbed his notes, which apparently had doodles all over them.”

Draco arched an eyebrow at her coolly, making himself look a great deal like his father.

“I caught a glimpse,” Blaise said softly.  “He was drawing—hearts.”  He wrinkled his nose as if the thought disgusted him. 

“Hearts?” Pansy asked in clear interest.

Blaise inclined his head.

Draco rolled his eyes.  “Anything else?  I doubt just hearts would have created that uproar at the Gryffindor table.”

Pansy laughed elegantly, brushing her dark hair away from her shoulder.  Draco looked over at the movement with interest and she smiled prettily at him.  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it—the rumor that the Weaslette started was that he was in love with Hannah Abbot.”

Blaise laughed quietly.  “Don’t see where she got that idea.  He wrote his own initials along with P. B. P. inside his doodles.”

Draco looked at him speculatively before his attention snapped back to the unlikely couple, his hands folded in contemplation.  “P. B. P.,” he said softly.  “Well, the last ‘P’ must be Prince.”

“I don’t see how Octavian Nür becomes P. B.,” Pansy stated.  “A nickname then?  What would an illegitimate pureblood see in Potter anyway?”

Draco’s eyes flashed at her before he smiled darkly.  “Pureblood—P. B.” 

“Is there a Prince who’s not a pureblood?” Pansy asked scandalously.  “I thought la Princesse was the only shame on that line.”

Draco shrugged, ignoring her comment, his eyes boring into Harry as he took in the changed appearance.  “Well, this certainly is—intriguing,” he said softly.

Blaise’s eyes flashed gold in interest and he leaned forward, showing that he was listening.

“How so?” Pansy asked, slightly oblivious.  “Perfect Potter’s gone and picked up yet another stray—this time an unwanted bastard.”

Gray eyes darkened slightly, but Draco let it pass.  “If that were all it was, then it would hardly garner my interest.”

“Is it because Prince is—” Pansy began, but she stopped when she noticed the anger brewing on Draco’s features.  “What is of interest, then?”

“Look at him.”

Pansy obeyed briefly before glancing back at her boyfriend, who sighed.

“Potter is known for picking up strays—as you say.  Blood traitors, Mudbloods, loony purebloods who are little more than a joke, werewolves even.  They’ve all fit in with his image of the innocent half-blood orphan.  He goes around acting like a Mudblood, dressing like one even.  Now, in a matter of days, he is doodling hearts declaring his—affections—for a pureblood and he even identifies his boyfriend not as ‘Octavian Prince’ but as the pureblood Prince.”

Pansy’s eyes widened and she looked over at Potter and Prince once again.  They were laughing quietly together, Prince’s small hand resting trustingly in Potter’s as he tried to force another blood-flavored lollipop on his boyfriend.

“Prince—albeit an illegitimate scion—is nonetheless born of the purest blood.  He is a pureblood traditionalist in every sense of the word.  Although la Princesse has remained neutral in the current conflict, as she must, her cousin is a well-known supporter as is Prince’s sire.  Prince himself, despite his innocence, has a known interest in the theory of Dark Charms.  With the right circumstances—and influences—he could develop into a master of the Darker Arts and lean toward pureblood supremacy.  And, out of all the witches and probably wizards at Hogwarts who have been throwing themselves at Perfect Potter, he chose Prince.”

He sighed, taking in Potter’s changed appearance.  “I mean, look at him.  In the matter of a few days, he has stopped dressing like a Mudblood and is presenting himself as the heir of a pureblood line.  Yes, he’s dressed casually,” Pansy looked in interest and saw that there was a hint of a gray t-shirt above Potter’s casual knit top, showing that he was relaxed and not out to impress society at large, “but his wizard coat is hand-stitched and probably cost upward of five thousand Galleons.  He compliments Prince and his upstanding pedigree perfectly.”

Silence surrounded the three as they continued to watch the couple. 

“So, yes, Pansy, this is more than of casual interest.  If with the right influences Prince could go dark, it is clear that perhaps, just perhaps, Potter might not be that far behind him, although I doubt he would be more than a grayer neutral, especially if their—affection continues to grow.”

“I wonder where he got the coat on such short notice,” Pansy mused to herself.

Blaise shrugged.  “It doesn’t really matter.  What is of import is that he is wearing the garment as if he has the right to wear it, which he does.”

Draco smirked.  “Perhaps Le Petit Prince may not be as much a stain on his lines as previously thought.”


Harry’s stomach was so sore; he could barely keep up as Octavian rushed up the path to Hogwarts after they had spent several hours in The Three Broomsticks.  Twilight had fallen over Scotland, and Octavian was smiling widely.  As he went through the school gates, his eyes scanned near the Forbidden Forest before he called out happily, “Henri Jacques, les lucioles!”

He turned, smiling brightly, before rushing up to his boyfriend and kissing him delightedly on the nose.  Harry blushed, stunned, before stuttering, “L-les lucioles?”

Octavian grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the outskirts of the forest.  “Oui,” he responded breathlessly, before he paused.  “Are zey not ze most magical thing you ‘ave ever seen, Henri Jacques?”

Harry looked at him with confusion, trying to catch his breath, before he turned his attention to where Octavian was gesturing. 

Hundreds of fireflies covered the mossy ground near the edge of the forest, glowing brightly in shades of yellow and red.

“Zey are intellegente, non?” Octavian said happily.  “Les jaunes et les rouges—’Ufflepuff and Gryffindor.”

“I-I did not know they were magical,” Harry admitted softly as he sat down on a bit of rock, pulling Octavian down next to him.

Octavian looked up at him with an open expression.  “Zey are not, but when I was a small child, I thought zey were.  J’étais idiot, peut-être.

Harry shook his head.  “You could never be foolish.  And they are magical, like you.”

“Zey are my favorite.  I brought a jar of zem in my satchel when I first came to ‘Ogwarts all ze way from France.”  He sighed sadly before looking away, his eyes glowing in the reflection of the myriad of lights.  “Zey were my only amis when I was small.”

Harry smiled softly, not taking his eyes from the wizard in front of him.  Octavian was so sweet, so innocent, so perfect just the way he was.  Hesitantly, he reached out and brushed Octavian’s hair over his collar.  “My first friend was a boa constrictor that I set on my cousin Dudley about a month before I turned eleven.”

Octavian looked at him, shocked.

“Sadly,” Harry continued, “I may have accidentally released him from the zoo and he left to go to Brazil.  I hope he made it.”

Votre premier ami était un serpent?” Octavian asked in a small voice.  “And ‘e did not eat you?”

Harry shook his head, laughing.  “No.  He was quite friendly.  Very polite.  Thanked me for releasing him and everything.”

Octavian gulped.  “So what Justin said was true?  You are a Parselmouth?” 

Harry stilled and looked steadily at his boyfriend, waiting for his reaction.  Would Octavian turn away from him as so many had in his second year?

“Well, zat explains ‘ow you were friends with a snake,” he mused after a pause.  “I do not think I would like to parler aux serpents.  Ze Muggles used to throw zem at me.”

“I was chased by dogs.  Not very fond of them in general anymore,” Harry responded, relaxing.  There was only one dog he had ever tolerated—and that was Padfoot.

“I do not care for les chats.”

Harry laughed.  “Hermione has a rather annoying one.  I think it might be part Kneazle.”

“What’s it called?”

“Crookshanks.”

Octavian scrunched up his nose before turning again to watch the fireflies.

“Awful name, I know, but it came with it.”

“I prefer my owl, Prospère,” Octavian said.  “‘Ee was a gift for being Sorted.”

“Prospère?  As in Prospero?” Harry inquired gently.

Mais ouiPapa sent me Prospère along with a copy of Ze Tempest.  Your Shakespeare was a squib, after all, from a very old family.  ‘Ee is a favorite among purebloods.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry responded.  “Why The Tempest in particular?  Why not MacBeth or A Midsummer’s Night Dream?”

“Oh, ‘e sent those as well.  Each year I get a new play.”  His face clouded.  “Zis year ‘e was to send me Faust.”

Harry bit his lip in nervousness.  “I-I heard what Professor Flitwick said to you the other day.”  He blushed when Octavian’s head snapped toward him.  “Is he unwell?  In St. Mungo’s perhaps?”

Octavian shook his head before leaning his back against Harry’s legs.  “Non, but I am unable to see ‘im at present.”

“I wish I could say it gets better,” Harry whispered sadly.

He ran a hand through Octavian’s hair in comfort and the two just sat in silence, watching the fireflies blink magically at them, feeling the earth turn beneath their feet as dusk turned into a black October night.


Harry couldn’t help but smile as he entered the common room in Gryffindor Tower, a bag of uneaten sweets in his hand, although he had insisted Octavian take most of them.  He still felt slightly sick from all of the sugar, but he found he couldn’t care. 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione cried as she flung herself in his arms, teary-eyed.  Harry caught her—barely—as he stumbled backward.

“Er, Hermione,” he greeted, patting her back awkwardly, wishing to relieve the sudden pressure of a girl against him, against his sore stomach.  “Are you all right?”

“It was horrible, mate,” Ron said, coming up to his two best friends.  “We saw Katie Bell, cursed, on our way back from Hogsmeade.”

Hermione finally pulled away and began to brush the tears from her eyes.

“Is she all right?” Harry asked, alarmed.  He rather liked Katie.  She was a decent friend and an excellent Chaser.  She’d never hurt a fly off of the Quidditch pitch.  Who would curse her?

“She’s in the infirmary and they’re thinking of transferring her to St. Mungo’s,” Hermione responded.

Ron looked darkly at the floor.  “Must have been Malfoy.  I just have this feeling.  Nothing good comes from his sort.”

“Couldn’t have been,” Harry responded without thinking.  “He was sitting by us all afternoon and evening with his friends.  Never left his table, so he couldn’t have cursed anyone.”

“Yeah, but he could have cursed her before,” Ron continued before Hermione hit him. 

“You’re sounding as paranoid as Harry was at the beginning of term,” she said hotly.

“But it’s Malfoy!” Ron attempted to defend himself, but Hermione just ignored him.

“And where were you all day?” Hermione chastised Harry and he sighed, moving away from the portrait hole.  Knowing this could possibly be a long argument, he sat down next to a bemused looking Neville, who was fast becoming his best friend.

“How did the coat work out for you?” he greeted and Harry smiled happily.

“Brilliantly.  You and Eselde were right, of course.”

“Consider it an early Christmas present, then.”

“Neville—” Harry began to protest but the other Gryffindor put up his hand.

“I won’t hear anything against the idea.”

Harry huffed.  “All right, but only if you give me a list of your dream Christmas presents.  I don’t care if there’s some rare plant on it such as the Mimbulus mimbletonia, as long as you can tell me where to get it.”

Neville smiled warmly at him. “Done.”

“Harry,” Hermione warned as she took the seat across from him.

“Hermione,” he responded cheekily. 

“Where were you?”

“I thought you knew.  I was on a date.  A rather brilliant one actually.”  He turned to Neville.  “We decided to eat so much candy that we would get sick, and I think we succeeded in our goal.”

“Who was the lucky girl then?” Ron asked stupidly.  Clearly, Ginny had kept the revelation that Harry was gay to herself, and Ron wouldn’t accept what was right in front of him.  “We only saw you with that boy you’ve been sitting near for the past few days.”

“Octavian,” Harry supplied.

Ron scrunched up his face.  “Prince?  The Death Eater bastard?”

Harry glared darkly at him and refused to answer him.  He did not care who Octavian’s father was; it didn’t matter as far as he was concerned.  Octavian was his Octavian, he suddenly realized.  His father could be Voldemort for all Harry cared, although he couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord sending his son Shakespearean plays and Hufflepuff ties.  He also doubted that Dumbledore would allow Octavian in Hogwarts if that were the case.

“Yes, Octavian Prince, my boyfriend.”

Hermione sighed and looked away but Ron stared at him incredulously. 

“You are not a poof!” he said a little too loudly. 

Harry rolled his eyes.  What was it with the Weasleys declaring that Harry was straight?  Yes, he had dated Cho for a few weeks the year before, but that had clearly been a mistake, and how could any girl measure up to Octavian’s silent self-confidence tinged with a genuine innocence?  He couldn’t even think about kissing any girl now without feeling slightly ill.

“I thought I just said that I had a boyfriend,” Harry responded, angry.  Honestly, at this moment in time he didn’t really think of himself as gay.  He wasn’t straight either.  He was just attracted to Octavian.  If it didn’t sound stupid, he would proclaim himself an Octavian-sexual and be done with it.  But Octavian was male and, Harry had to admit, even Draco Malfoy of all people was more attractive than any girl in the Gryffindor common room.

“But you can’t have,” Ron reiterated, looking at Hermione desperately.

“Honestly, Ronald,” she said.  “It’s probably just a phase.  It’s normal at our age.  At least he’s not playing around with the Dark Arts in his curiosity.”

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously.  “Octavian’s not a phase.”

“Of course he’s not,” she replied dully, looking at Crookshanks who had curled up in her lap.  She began petting him.  “But you shouldn’t try to change yourself—with the glasses and the coat,” she said disdainfully, her nose suddenly up in the air.

“I thought you liked Hannah Abbot,” Ron mumbled to himself, still confused.  Everyone just ignored him.

“What’s wrong with the coat?  I imagine it’s the type of thing my father or Sirius wore when they went out in public.”  He looked at Neville for confirmation and he nodded. 

“Sirius Black,” he half-choked, still not used to thinking of the pardoned-convict as anything other than a mass murderer, “would definitely have worn a wizard’s coat.  I’m not certain about the Potters.  They’re not as old of a family as the Blacks, although they were respected.  Probably.”

“Your father married a Muggle-born,” Hermione sniffed, as if that said everything.

“And Octavian’s dating a Muggle-raised half-blood, but he still wears one,” Harry stated coldly. 

Hermione looked at him dangerously.  “Slughorn didn’t invite me to his gathering,” she accused.

“I know, he told me.”

“Only his most promising students are invited,” Lavender said, cutting into the conversation.  “Gorgeous wizard coat, Harry,” she complimented before turning back to Hermione.  “Clearly he doesn’t see you as one of the most promising.”

Hermione glared.

“I think it’s more that he views her as a hypocrite,” Harry said, holding her gaze, “for condemning someone for being illegitimate.”  He still hadn’t forgiven Hermione for that slur, and he doubted he would even if she were to apologize.  All she did was try to control every aspect of his life and boss him around.  Where others had been irrationally cruel to her when she had started at Hogwarts, she now parroted the same behavior and held grudges against most purebloods, even if they had never insulted her own heritage.  When had she gotten so—mean and little?

“My parents are married,” she snapped.

Lavender, however, was looking speculatively at her.  “When?”

Hermione flushed and Lavender nodded.  “Thank you, Harry,” she said by way of a farewell and, sighing, Harry decided to escape the common room and all the gossip that he could already hear being whispered around him.


Katie was moved to St. Mungo’s before the weekend was through and the state of her condition traveled through Hogwarts before classes began on Monday morning.  What perhaps was more surprising, however, was that although the curse on Katie was discussed, it was only mentioned in passing.  The far juicier piece of gossip was that not only was Harry Potter gay, but he was dating Octavian Prince.

Snape, if possible, was even crueler to Harry than usual in Defense Against the Dark Arts, making snide comments about perversions and illegitimacy, although the latter comment was as often as not directed at a red-faced Hermione. 

Hermione was not speaking to Harry, and he found that he did not care.  Harry did not like to be deliberately cruel—except occasionally when it came to Draco Malfoy, but that was only on very special occasions—but she had gone too far when she had attempted to tell Harry he shouldn’t be friends with Octavian because he was illegitimate.  Just thinking about it made bile rise in the back of Harry’s throat.

If he hadn’t realized it before, now he knew that cruelty could reside in every heart and people wouldn’t hesitate to beat you even if you were already down.  He had been disillusioned about the Muggle world before he could properly remember that his name wasn’t “Freak” or “Boy.” 

Within a year of attending Hogwarts, he realized that the wizarding world could be just as prejudiced against others, but he had thought, clearly in ignorance, that Muggle-borns would be more tolerant of others.  Clearly, though, he was just as wrong in this as he appeared to be in his original view of wizarding society.

At dinner, he noticed that Dumbledore was once again absent and he briefly wondered if he would arrive in time for their lesson later that evening.  When he approached the gargoyle, however, it moved aside for him and Harry briefly turned to Octavian who had walked with him.

Henri Jacques,” Octavian said quietly, looking down at their entwined fingers and biting his lower lip absently.  His black eyes turned upward and he looked nervously at Harry.

“What is it?” Harry inquired.

Octavian sighed.  “It is just—I would wish—” He paused before rushing out, “I would wish zat ozzers would not expect you to be anything but neutral—on both sides of ze current conflict.”

Harry looked at him, perplexed.

“I may be innocent, oui, je sais.  But I come from a line of Slytherins and was taught to be clairvoyant.”

Harry looked at him, confused, and was determined to look up the word later that evening.  Clearly, it meant something other than what it sounded like.

“As a pureblood ‘eir of a known ‘ouse, you should be given zat option, but you never were, were you?  I know zat Le Seigneur Noir ‘as not given you a choice, which is your right.  It is ze way of our lives.  ‘Owever,” He took a deep breath, “zose who are charged with la protection des enfants should not, no matter les circonstances, even suggest or ‘ope zat a child will take a role.  Comprenez-vous?”

His dark eyes looked up at Harry imploringly, begging him to understand his meaning.  “C’est faux,” he whispered softly.

Harry stared at him dumbfounded.  No one—no one—had ever wanted him not to get involved.  Hermione, when they were younger, would talk about rules, but she was determined to stand up to Voldemort even when they were children of twelve.  Ron threw himself into any situation after Harry and wanted Harry to go after Ginny even if he were to get killed.  Mrs. Weasley tried to keep information from him at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, but it was only because he was too young.  Even she would look at him when she thought no one was looking with a sense of expectation.  Sirius had even encouraged him, in a way, to take part in the war when he was only fifteen years old, offensively rather than defensively.  And Dumbledore—Dumbledore was—

Without even thinking, Harry grabbed Octavian and buried his face in his hair. 

No one had wanted neutrality for him—a chance for him to remain completely outside of the war.  They all wanted something from him, a savior, a Chosen One, their precious boy-who-lived.

With Octavian, though, he was beginning to realize that he was none of these things.  He was Harry—just Harry—as he had always wanted to be.

Merci,” he whispered into Octavian’s ear and, before he could second-guess himself, he chastely brushed his lips against Octavian’s before disappearing up the flight of stairs leading him to a lesson a part of him no longer wished to attend.

“You have had a busy time, I believe,” Dumbledore greeted him when Harry entered the office.  His hand was still charred black and Harry noticed that a Pensieve was already sitting on his desk.  “I believe you were a witness to Miss Bell’s unfortunate accident.”

Harry looked up at him, startled, before shaking his head in the negative.  “No, sir, Ron and Hermione saw it happen.  I was at The Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore questioned, his eyes glinting oddly in the light of the Pensieve.

“Yes, sir, I’m surprised you haven’t heard.  It seems to be the most talked of event of the weekend, even over Katie’s accident.  How is she, sir?”

“Not well, but she will survive.”  He looked thoughtful, probably debating internally whether or not he should continue on that line of conversation.  “If I may inquire, what was so extraordinary about your visit to The Three Broomsticks to have eclipsed Miss Bell’s condition?”

Harry shrugged.  “I went on a date.  It seems it was rather controversial.”

“Ah, the ways of the young, sometimes they elude even the wisest,” he stated.  He indicated the seat across from him and Harry took it, glancing up at the portraits lining the walls.  “May I inquire what was so controversial, Harry?  I had thought you fond of Miss Granger, and I doubt there are many who would object to her.”

He looked at Dumbledore, confused.  “Hermione?  No.  Definitely not.”  He sighed.  He had never been interested in her that way, and after everything he’d learned about her true nature, he knew that would never change.

Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised.  “Who was the young witch, if I might ask?”

Harry stared into Phineas Nigellus Black’s calculating eyes.  “The young wizard,” he supplied, still looking at Phineas Nigellus.  “A pureblood.”  Phineas Nigellus was, after all, Harry’s direct ancestor through his grandmother, who was a Black. 

Two summers previous Harry had poured over the Black tapestry in private, delighted that his name appeared in small letters and that his father had not been blasted from the tapestry for marrying a Muggle-born witch.  Because he was Sirius’s heir, as well, he knew that many would view him as a pureblood despite his mother’s heritage, providing he married or bonded with another pureblood.  He even had the right to bear the name Black, although he had chosen not to act on it as of yet. 

The portrait looked startled, but Phineas inclined his head slightly in respect to his descendant’s heir.

The Headmaster looked at Harry and appeared to be seeing him in a different light.  “I can see how that might be controversial to Muggle-born students, but homosexuality has been welcomed in pureblood society for many centuries and accepted for a millennium before that.”

“That is not what is controversial,” Harry sighed, knowing that Dumbledore would hear of it anyway.  He might as well control the situation as much as possible.  “My boyfriend, although from two ancient lines, is illegitimate.”

Dumbledore’s eyes clouded dangerously.  “That, I fear, is not welcomed in wizard society at all.”

“I have become shockingly aware of that over the past few days,” Harry responded, his voice quiet in warning.

Dumbledore closed his eyes wearily, his age showing in the heavy lines of his face.  “Harry,” he began tentatively.  He opened his eyes, which focused piercingly on his student.  “I take it you refer to Octavian Prince?”

Phineas Nigellus still looked calculatingly at him.  “He has almost been legitimated,” he said calmly.  “It has been speculated that he did not wish to anger his mother and thus it has not happened before.  It was expected to occur on his seventeenth birthday.”

Harry looked up, surprised.  “I didn’t know that.”

“The heir is a descendent of our family.  The portraits gossip, naturally.”

“That is all speculation,” Dumbledore responded to the portrait, a harsh edge to his voice.  “His sire has funded his education, but nothing more.”

“It is not like you to object so, Albus,” Phineas Nigellus responded.  “There are several Muggle-born students whose parents are not wed.  I would not think you would hold to such an outdated pureblood prejudice.”  His voice dripped with disdain.

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed dangerously but he did not respond.

“Octavian is a Charms prodigy according to Professor Flitwick,” Harry addressed the portrait.  “I think that—apart from his birth—you would not object to him as perhaps becoming a member of our family in the future?” he asked quietly.

Dumbledore’s head snapped up, but Harry did not look at him.

“So serious so soon?” Phineas Nigellus laughed darkly, but Harry could detect no malice in his voice.  “You are a Black after all, young man.”

Harry smiled slightly. 

“I should like to meet this young man of yours, if it can be arranged.  He must be exceptional.  And a Prince!  His father’s line is also impeccable, despite recent events.”

“You’ll be happy to know that one of his closest friends is also a Black.  Caspar Bartemius Summers.”

“Yes, yes, quite talented, that one.  A Metamorphagus like my half-blood descendent.  The one who calls herself Tonks.  It is a Black trait, young man, and appears every few generations.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore put in, trying to look kind, “I do not believe that this particular association is wise.  You are, whether you like it or not, a figure in our world, and to connect yourself with—”

“As I said, sir,” Harry cut in, “most view it as controversial, but I will not hear a word against him.”

“I see,” he answered succinctly, before changing the topic to that evening’s lesson.  Harry looked at him darkly, surprised at his reaction to Octavian and wondering whether or not his boyfriend had been right.

French to English Translations.

Le Petit Prince.  The Little Prince.

Henri Jacques, les lucioles! Henri Jacques, the fireflies!

Intellegente, non? Intelligent, no?

Les jaunes et les rouges. The yellow and the red.

J’étais idiot, peut-être. I was foolish, perhaps.

Amis. Friends.

Votre premier ami était un serpent?Your first friend was a snake?

Parler aux serpents. To speak with snakes.

Les chats. Cats.

Oui, je sais. Yes, I (do) know.

Clairvoyant. Perceptive.

Le Seigneur Noir. The Black Lord (or the Dark Lord).

La protection des enfants. The protection of children.

Les circonstances. The circumstances.

Comprenez-vous. Do you understand?

C’est faux. It is wrong.

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