Part the Tenth—
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Dinner at the Burrow that evening was a tense affair. As soon as Mr. Weasley had walked through the door and promptly sat down to a waiting dinner, Harry had asked if he could accompany him to the Ministry the next day as he had “several appointments in wizarding London.”
Arthur Weasley had been shocked at the request, having just begun to cut his share of ham, but he wasn’t given a chance to respond.
“London, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley inquired. “Why ever do you have to go to London?”
“Several reasons,” Harry responded politely and then elaborated when she still looked at him sharply. “I have an appointment with Mr. Thicknesse at ten, then at noon I am meeting the Greengrass sisters at Gringotts, two hours later I’m expected at Twilfitt and Tattings with Eselde Kellan, and then I have to pick out Neville’s Yule present. I’m thinking he might appreciate a mature Devil’s Snare.”
“Thicknesse?” Mr. Weasley asked at the same time Ginny stuttered out, “T-T-Twilfitt and Ta-Tattings?”
“I’m sorry, dear, but it simply isn’t safe,” Mrs. Weasley said.
“That’s why I asked Mr. Weasley to take me in and then I can just go through the Floo everywhere else. I’m afraid it’s important.”
“Harry, if I may ask, why do you wish to see Pius Thicknesse?”
Harry took in a deep breath, debating what to say. Well, it would be in the paper on Christmas Day—as soon as La Princesse gave her approval via owl post, of course—so he might as well tell them everything. His Christmas wasn’t going to be terribly enjoyable anyway. “I am petitioning the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on behalf of my fiancé for permission to visit a prisoner in Azkaban.”
Silverware clattered around the table and Harry blithely took a bite of his roll, ignoring everyone.
“Fiancé, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, astonished. She glanced at her daughter speculatively before returning her attention to Harry.
“Yes.” He smiled. “The future Mr. Black.”
He nodded, ignoring the dumbfounded expressions on everyone’s faces except for Fleur, who was smiling to herself; Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were all looking terribly uncomfortable. Really, they should have known. They had, in fact, all watched him kiss Octavian goodbye.
“You actually asked him to marry you?” Ginny asked in a small voice.
“Hmm. I was planning to after Christmas break, but when we found ourselves under the mistletoe . . .” He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively.
“Anyone we know?” Bill questioned and Fleur laughed.
“‘Ee eez très beau et Français!”
“A foreigner?” Mrs. Weasley said derisively.
“Both of his parents are English but he was raised in France.”
“Death Eater bastard,” Ron muttered mutinously under his breath, pushing his plate away.
Mr. Weasley looked confused. “You’re engaged to a Death Eater?”
“No,” Hermione said primly, “to the illegitimate son of a Death Eater.”
“Better than an illegitimate bigoted Muggle-born,” Harry said softly enough for only her and Ginny to hear. She blushed. Louder, he said, “We’ve had this argument before, Granger. Last night, in fact. I don’t wish to fight with you about it again.”
Bill cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Harry. And, even though I’ve never met him, you have excellent taste—French accents are the sexiest in Europe and the Middle East, I think.”
Harry leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. “I know, right? Octavian’s is less pronounced than Fleur’s,” he grinned at her in apology and she smiled back, “but there’s something about how he never says the ‘th’ that gets me every time.”
“It’s the zed; it’s incredibly sensual. Tell me, does he actually insert French words into his sentences?”
“Boys, that’s enough!” Mrs. Weasley put in, and Harry raised his eyebrows at Bill suggestively. Fleur was blushing prettily next to him. “We don’t need to hear any more about your—proclivities.”
“Can accents really count as a proclivity?” Bill mused. “And I was only trying to find out everything I could about Harry’s fiancé as we’re the only two engaged men at the table. We’re on the brink of giving up our bachelorhood and yet not quite married. It’s almost surreal.”
“I don’t think you can really call me a bachelor. I’m sixteen.”
“See, Mum,” Bill added conversationally. “You can’t possibly say I’m too young to get married. Harry’s sixteen!”
“Thanks, Bill,” he grumbled.
“What eez ‘ees name, though, ‘Arry? I saw ‘eem up close and ‘ee was very ‘andsome and so well dressed.”
“Nür?” Bill asked, ears perking up.
“Er, yeah. It’s his middle name. Why?”
“Hmm,” Harry hummed in the back of his throat.
“What does eet mean, Bill?” Fleur turned to her fiancé.
“Light, I think.”
Harry smiled. “Fits him perfectly then.”
Ron snorted. “I bet he gets into the Dark Arts in his spare time.”
Harry just ignored him.
“‘Ow old eez ‘ee?”
“Fourteen. His birthday is a few days after mine.”
“Cradle robber,” Bill mumbled.
“You’re one to talk. How old are you?” Harry asked with a teasing grin.
Bill glared at him in amusement and Harry cracked up, easing the tension that the silent Weasleys were creating.
“Well, I think we old nearly-married men should share a room over the holiday. We can talk about French accents to our hearts’ content,” Harry said, catching Bill’s eye.
He nodded solemnly. “Yes. If we can’t be with our French loves, at least we can commiserate with each other.”
“At least your fiancée is under the same roof.”
“So close, yet so far away,” Bill teased.
“Harry, dear, really,” Mrs. Weasley tried again, “I’ve put you in with Ron—”
“Charlie can sleep there,” Bill said quickly. “You don’t mind, do you, Charlie?” he asked. Charlie was trying to hide his grin behind his hand. “Excellent! See, all settled, Mum.”
“Harry,” Mr. Weasley put in, trying to sound like the voice of reason, “I know it’s not my place to approve or disapprove—”
Harry sighed. “Mr. Weasley. I like you, I really do. But trying to dissuade me from marrying or associating with Octavian will do more harm than good.”
Mr. Weasley looked at him with a curious gaze before nodding solemnly.
“Arthur!” his wife exclaimed. “Surely you can’t be thinking—”
“Molly,” he said softly, “Harry isn’t our son, and given that you have yet to persuade your own son not to marry, I doubt there will be any success in this matter.”
She sniffed. “Tell us about this—boy, then, Harry.”
Harry looked at her and his gaze softened. “His name is Octavian. He’s a fourth-year and he was raised in France. I think he was born there, too.” He sat thoughtfully for a moment. “He’s a pureblood. Very traditional.”
“He believes in the old ways,” Hermione said scathingly.
“And well he should,” Arthur mused. “You lose so much being—modern. Tell us more. Is he in Gryffindor?”
Harry shook his head. “No. Hufflepuff. He’s actually a Charms prodigy, oddly enough.”
Hermione’s head snapped up. “Don’t speak such nonsense.”
Mrs. Weasley looked over at her as if torn as to whether or not she should agree.
“He’s sitting for his O.W.L. at the end of this year and his N.E.W.T. at the end of next year; he was originally going to take them at the same time, but Flitwick got the examiners to move up his testing for his O.W.L. He’s already completed all the coursework for all seven years and is adapting charms and spells for extra credit.”
“Clearly not. Professor Flitwick admitted to me that Octavian’s his favorite student he’s ever had—including my mother.”
She looked at him, speechless.
Finally, he thought to himself.
Harry turned back to Mr. Weasley. “One of his best friends is a cousin of yours. Caspar Summers.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Weasley looked up. “How so?”
“Something about being descended from two sisters from the Black family.”
“My mother. She fell in love with my father despite her family’s wishes and, well, was disowned,” Mr. Weasley added.
“Another Sirius then.”
Later that evening, Mr. Weasley asked Harry if he would like to take a turn about the backyard—even though it was snowing—and Harry cautiously agreed. “Look, Harry,” he began, taking a deep breath. “I know I’m not your father, and I would never try to be, but as you’re engaged and don’t have anyone else—” He blushed in the darkness and pulled out an old battered book from under his jacket. “I had to get this for—someone. Never mind. He hasn’t needed it for years and I thought I’d pass it on. It explains everything you need to know about, well, sex with another man, precautions, male pregnancies, spells that might be useful.” His voice turned into a squeak at the end.
Harry blushed despite himself and he tentatively reached out and took the book.
Opening to the title page, he saw the name ‘Charlie’ written in neat cursive in the upper left hand corner and looked up at Mr. Weasley, shocked. Looking back down, he read the title, What Every Young Wand-Loving Wizard Should Know.
“Well, you can look at it later,” Mr. Weasley said nervously. “There are—diagrams and everything in there. I’m told they’re quite, er, informative. Anyway, once you’re done, you can give it to your Octavian if you like. If his father’s in Azkaban, he might not have anyone to tell him and such.” He laid a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder. “If you have any questions, any at all, you only have to ask.”
“Th-Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said, grateful. “This will be a help. I had been a little—confused.” He wasn’t entirely sure how sex between two males worked, and he certainly didn’t want to hurt Octavian trying to figure it out.
“We all are at first, whether we love men or women. Only natural.” He paused. “I leave at nine for the Ministry. Will that give you enough time?”
Harry had slowly begun to flip through the book and closed it hastily when he saw a rather vivid—and realistic—illustration of a blond wizard sucking off a groaning brunet. “Er—yes, Mr. Weasley. I don’t have to see Mr. Thicknesse until ten.”
“Make sure to dress smart,” he said, turning back to the house.
Harry, both embarrassed and entranced against his will, quickly opened up the book again with only the starlight and a few hovering fireflies for company.
The Ministry of Magic was exactly as Harry remembered it. Wizards and witches bustled around in their robes and Harry stood out from them, as he had the last time he arrived for an appointment—though this time, it was a positive distinction.
The summer before Harry’s fifth year, he’d had to attend a disciplinary hearing after performing underage magic, and had worn a pair of nice Muggle slacks and a corduroy jacket—looking thoroughly like a Muggle-born. Now, however, he stood out as a pureblood heir of fortune, wearing a similar outfit to the one he had worn the day before. He not only looked like he belonged at the Ministry of Magic but also like he was part of the elite of wizarding society, gracing the Ministry with his presence. The only alteration that could have made him appear more imposing would be the addition of a walking stick.
Somehow, though, Harry thought he would never adopt that particular fashion—unless Octavian murmured in his ear that he thought it would be sexy.
He’d do just about anything Octavian suggested if he growled his accent sensually while doing it.
He sighed. He was a lost cause. After only two months, Octavian had him wrapped around his finger—and Harry really didn’t mind at all.
In fact, he rather liked it.
The wizard who registered his wand nearly shook just at the sight of him before he even knew his name. When he turned, he was rather surprised to see a stunned Draco Malfoy standing on the other side of the Atrium with his rather prim looking mother.
He nodded his head toward Harry, shocking him, and Harry could only nod back. They ended up in the same overpopulated lift and Harry was surprised to see that they were going to the floor where he had his meeting later on.
“Lord Black,” Malfoy greeted, stunning Harry even further.
“Malfoy.” He paused. “Please don’t call me that at Hogwarts. I’ll never hear the end of it from Granger.”
Draco smirked and his mother watched them curiously. Several other occupants in the lift looked on in shock as the Chosen One conversed civilly with the son of a convicted Death Eater.
“Don’t tell me, she’s pulled another scene since Slughorn’s Christmas Party.”
“Attempted to. I’m afraid she was overruled by a conversation on the merits of French accents.” Harry chewed the formal words in his mouth but didn’t show any outward sign that he was unused to speaking in such a way. He almost felt like he was speaking a Jane Austen novel, though Harry seriously hoped not. He didn’t see himself as an Austenian hero and refused to accept that he might be one of the heroines—as Octavian could never fit that particular role.
Draco laughed casually in the back of his throat, exuding a sense of calm, although his gray pallor refuted it. “Should I ask who you were having this conversation with?”
“Bill Weasley. He’s engaged to Fleur Delacour.”
Draco hummed slightly and nodded his head in acknowledgement. When Harry got off the lift, Draco and Narcissa Malfoy followed him and Mrs. Malfoy cleared her throat prettily. “Introduce me, Draco.”
He looked at her, a hint of astonishment in his gray eyes. “Of course, Mother. May I present, Harry Potter, the Lord Black. Potter, my mother, Narcissa Malfoy, daughter of the House of Black.”
“You’ve changed since the last time I saw you,” Narcissa observed before offering her hand.
Harry graciously accepted it—once again thankful to Daphne Greengrass for selecting the book on pureblood etiquette—before responding, “And you have not changed at all, Mrs. Malfoy.”
“What brings you to the Ministry, Lord Black?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Thicknesse in about half an hour.”
Draco’s eyes flashed. “We have one now.”
He and Harry stared at each other before Draco added tentatively, “You’re petitioning to visit Azkaban?”
“Yes—for Octavian, of course.”
Mrs. Malfoy’s blue eyes gleamed at the name, but she said nothing.
“I hope they’re not giving you difficulties, as well. Not allowing prisoners to have visitors is inhumane.”
“I am surprised, Lord Black,” Mrs. Malfoy stated calmly. “I would have thought you of all people would approve of such measures.”
“My godfather suffered in that place for twelve years—alone—and now my fiancé is being denied the right to see his own father. I don’t care who his father might have murdered or tortured. Octavian still has the right to see him.”
“You proposed then,” Draco stated.
Harry was surprised when he found himself smiling softly at Malfoy of all people. “I did.”
“Draco, dear,” Mrs. Malfoy said softly, looking at her wristwatch.
“Of course, Mother,” he replied and a few moments later, Harry stood transfixed, watching them go.
What had just happened? Why was Malfoy being civil—polite, even—to him? How did he just have a decent conversation with Malfoy?
He was utterly astonished.
Shaking himself from his reverie, he went to find Mr. Weasley’s office, hoping that in half an hour he would have a favorable answer. It would be the perfect Yule present, he thought, for his Octavian.
When Harry finally Floo’d back to the Burrow later that evening, he was loaded down with several bags. His day had been more than productive. After taking one look at Harry, Pius Thicknesse had shaken his head to himself before signing off on two sheets of paper—one for Octavian and another for Harry—to give permission to visit Prisoner 4821 in February, startling Harry.
A few hours later at Gringotts and he had carefully picked out an betrothal ring—as well as two wedding bands—with the aid of Daphne and her excitable younger sister Astoria. “It’s so romantic!” Astoria had claimed. She was a rather pretty fifteen-year-old witch with large blue eyes and strawberry blonde curls. When Harry had mentioned that he had seen Draco Malfoy, her eyes had brightened considerably, and all she could talk of over the next ten minutes was how aristocratic he was in his bearing.
Harry secretly wondered if Pansy knew the much more attractive Astoria might soon be encroaching on her territory.
Eselde had been everything that was helpful at Twilfitt and Tattings, and Harry came away with three sets of formal robes, five casual ones, and had ordered seven wizard coats that would be delivered to him by owl within a fortnight. He also found himself the owner of two different pairs of dragon-hide boots, a jacket of the same material, and various slacks and pullovers—all black or a dark gray. “You must look the part,” Eselde had commented softly when Harry protested. “Do you want to look like a pureblood Lord or not?”
Neville’s present had been the easiest task of the day, although seeing Devil’s Snare again brought back some rather vivid memories from first year.
He shuddered. He hoped Neville enjoyed it.
As he shot out of the fireplace rather inelegantly, his bags went sprawling everywhere, though fortunately they had been charmed so that the contents wouldn’t leave the bags unless they were deliberately removed.
Hermione was sitting in a corner with Ginny and Ron and glared at him accusingly. Harry just stared at her in return.
The next few days passed by with little tension.
Harry mainly stayed in the room he shared with Bill, reading in detail Spungen’s Guide to Pureblood Dynasties. He had owl ordered his own copy, which had arrived just before the winter break. Although the tome was enormous with a royal purple leather cover and its title bold in gold, it weighed relatively little. Harry figured it must have a permanent Featherlight Charm on it, unlike the library’s ancient copy. He was glad he had purchased the deluxe edition.
On Christmas Eve, he sent Hedwig off to France with Octavian’s belated Yule present. He knew his fiancé celebrated the old holy days and that Hogwarts’ calendar forced him to miss Yule with his mother, but he hoped his present—both documents he had received from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in an elaborate box—would make up for it. He wished he could see Octavian’s face when he opened it, but it was enough to know that he was giving Octavian what he wanted most—to see his father.
At about noon when Harry knew he couldn’t hide anymore, he trudged downstairs with his copy of Spungen’s under his arm, and was surprised to see a worn-looking Remus Lupin sitting happily in the Weasley kitchen.
“Woah, Harry, what have you got there?” he greeted, motioning to a seat beside him, which Harry gladly took.
Harry carefully set the book down and Lupin looked at it curiously, his eyebrows rising into his ash blond hairline when he read the title. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Lupin look more astonished.
“I didn’t know you were interested in pureblood lines,” he said softly and Harry blushed slightly.
“I am, actually, and I’ve been studying the old ways and pureblood etiquette, as well.”
Bill Weasley walked into the room and smiled at the comment. “Harry,” he explained, “is engaged to a pureblood traditionalist. How are you handling the inevitable withdrawal so far, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes glinted at the inside joke. Bill had stated rather enthusiastically their first night as roommates that Harry would go through “le withdrawal Français,” as he called it, if he was separated too long from Octavian’s accent. Harry had laughed at the time but now he knew exactly what Bill had been talking about.
Lupin, however, looked completely surprised—at both parts of Bill’s speech.
“It’s horrible,” Harry complained. “English just sounds too harsh to my ears now. I think I’m spoiled for life. Fleur’s accent is lovely, but it’s not the same as Octavian’s.”
“There’s my man,” he exclaimed, taking a seat next to Harry and sipping at his holiday eggnog.
“You’re engaged?” Lupin asked softly.
Harry didn’t have a chance to answer.
“Yes, he is,” Bill confirmed, “to a Frenchman. He’s going through withdrawal over the accent. It gets me every time when I have to be away from Fleur for more than a night.”
“Aren’t you a little young?” Lupin said hesitantly, but Harry shook his head.
“No. According to Ministry law, we can be married as soon as January first. I think we’ll wait a few months, though. Early summer at the latest, hopefully.”
Lupin sighed. “So, tell me about her? Anyone I know?”
Harry looked at him oddly. It must have come as a large shock if Lupin had missed him saying ‘Octavian’ just moments before. “Yes, actually. Octavian Prince. He was the first-year in our train compartment at the beginning of my third year.”
Lupin blinked a few times. “Hmm. Prince. Excellent student if I remember. Never knew either of his parents, I think.”
“His mother was only seventeen when she had him, but you might have known her. I think she was in Slytherin. Lucrece Prince?”
Lupin thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I really don’t remember. Who’s his father?”
Harry shrugged. “A Death Eater in Azkaban. I don’t know who exactly—but it doesn’t matter,” he added when Lupin opened his mouth.
“His father’s in Azkaban?”
“Yes. I’m beginning to get the feeling that I might be responsible for him being there.” He shivered at the thought. He turned to Bill. “Do you think it would be weird if I wrote him a letter of apology?”
Bill choked on his Firewhisky.
“Hey!” Harry exclaimed. “I’m already drafting a letter asking for his blessing in marrying Octavian. Do you think it would butter him up, maybe?” He looked worriedly between Lupin and Bill. Bill was now laughing outright and Lupin looked completely shocked at the idea.
“I think Sirius and James would have a heart attack,” he muttered to himself.
“It’s my life, Remus,” Harry warned softly. “Please don’t be against this. You won’t win.”
Bill stilled and watched the two apprehensively.
Lupin only sighed. “Of course, Harry.”
Christmas dinner, unfortunately, did not go as well. The first of Harry’s wizard coats had arrived. It was deep red and black brocade and he thought it would be perfect to celebrate the day. When he appeared at the table dressed as a pureblood, Hermione snapped.
“Harry, take that ridiculous coat off,” she ordered.
“It is a bit formal,” Mrs. Weasley said coldly. She had been almost ignoring Harry over the past few days, but he hadn’t really cared as he had spent most of his time pouring over Spungen’s. He couldn’t find the exact name of the half-blood Prince as the Princes, much like the Blacks, had a tendency to disown wayward children. They would still appear but in gray print. Their spouses were never recorded, however, and only occasionally would a child be listed. Octavian, fortunately, was one of these children though his name was in gray.
“It’s Christmas,” was Harry’s only response as he sat down at his seat next to George (he thought) and Lupin.
Conversation settled down and Harry and Hermione ignored each other until a very windswept Prospère flew in through the window, landing heavily on Harry’s shoulder and dropping a package on top of Harry’s plate.
Hermione glared at the owl, but Harry just laughed and petted its ruffled feathers. “Bonjour, Prospère,” he greeted in French as he gave it a generous piece of ham, much to Mrs. Weasley’s horror. “There’s a good boy. Did you have a long flight from France?”
Prospère cooed at him, nuzzling against his head. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the table at large before getting up with the owl now in his arms. He hurried up the stairs, depositing the tired owl on his bed with a several owl treats and a fresh bowl of water. Petting him a few more times until the bird settled down, he ran back down to his present.
Hermione was holding and inspecting it before Harry snatched it out of her hands. “It’s rude to touch other people’s mail,” he said coldly.
“I was just checking—”
“What? For Dark Spells?”
She paled considerably when Harry guessed the truth.
“Great, just great,” he mumbled before settling himself back in his chair.
“Well, Harry,” Lupin said quietly, trying to be supportive and yet not quite managing it. “What did he send?”
Harry smiled before grasping a table knife and tearing off the brown paper that simply read “For My Henri Jacques. Joyeux Noël.”
When he looked at the gift, he gasped. It was a pristine tome made from actual parchment and not mass-production magical paper, the leather cover completely devoid of any ornamentation.
“Is it a journal?” Lupin asked beside him and Harry quickly opened up to the first page that was blank.
“Must be,” he whispered before Charlie leaned in to take a look.
“Not necessarily. There is a traditional belief that it is a bad omen if the first page is written on.”
Harry looked at him, perplexed, but did as Charlie suggested, gasping when he took in the ornate second page.
“She’s beautiful,” Bill said, awed. “Handwritten and illuminated by a scribe.”
Fleur bent over her fiancé to get a closer look and smiled brightly. “Oui. C’est vrai. I believe zat zees particular style eez from zee Paris Scriptorum—La Conciergerie. Very elite, ‘Arry. You should be ‘onoured. Zey only take on commissions and are very choosy as to zeir clientèle.”
“Well, what does it say?” Fred asked from across the table, dying to know what the mysterious fiancé sent.
“The Darker Side of Protective Charms,” Harry read out in a smooth voice.
Hermione gasped and Harry narrowed his eyes at her, closing the book carefully. He caressed the cover reverently, imagining almost that it was his Octavian. The book was priceless for so many reasons. He loved Octavian with all his heart and in that moment, he knew, without a doubt, that Octavian felt the same way.
“He’ll make you go Dark,” Hermione proclaimed to the table at large and all of the adults said nothing. Bill quirked an eyebrow at her and Fleur pushed her silvery hair behind her shoulder indignantly. Fred and George, who had been unusually quiet, didn’t speak, while Ron and Ginny obviously agreed with Hermione. “You know it’s true, Harry,” Hermione whispered brokenly. “His father’s a pureblood supremacist. He’s been raised that way and now he sends you this dark book—”
“It’s on Protective Charms and it’s hardly dark. Gray, perhaps, but not dark.”
“He’s changing you, Harry!” she declared, which was a statement no one could refute.
He stared at her coldly. “Perhaps, Granger, I want to change.”
A knock sounded at the door. “I wonder who that could be,” Mrs. Weasley said, and quickly got up. The door opened to reveal Percy and the Minister for Magic but no one apart from a distracted Mrs. Weasley seemed to notice.
“You know I’m right,” Hermione said. “You’ve changed. You go around wearing pureblood rings and coats,” she spat the word. “You walk around the Burrow with a copy of that horrid book on pureblood lines. My God, you’ve even gotten permission to visit Azkaban to SEE A DEATH EATER,” she shouted at the end.
“Are you quite done?” Harry asked coldly.
“Get rid of it,” she demanded, her icy tone matching his.
“WHAT?” he shouted.
“You heard me. Get rid of it. The Weasleys don’t want a Dark Arts book under their roof.” She looked at Mr. Weasley for approval and he looked apologetically at Harry before nodding his agreement. “See?”
“It’s not a Dark Arts book,” Harry insisted. “How prejudiced are you? It’s on Protective Spells.” He clutched it to his chest. “And it’s a gift from my fiancé. How cold-hearted are you?” he demanded.
“He’s as worthless as his Death Eater father,” Ginny put in and Harry glared at her. He’d had to lock his door every night since he had arrived at the Burrow, Bill using advanced spells, and still in the middle of the night he could sometimes hear the door rattle.
He couldn’t quite figure out why Ginny felt like she had to enter the room, especially since she was dating Dean—and he really didn’t want to think about it.
“Octavian is not worthless,” he insisted before taking a deep breath. “Well, thank you for dinner,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll be gone within half an hour.”
“Harry—” Lupin began but Harry cut him off.
“Remus, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here anymore. I just—can’t.”
He looked up and saw a shocked Percy and Scrimgeour standing near the door. “Percy, Minister,” he greeted before regally sweeping past them. Within half an hour his trunk was packed, despite the pounding on his door from Merlin knew who, and he dragged his trunk past a still present Scrimgeour.
“Mr. Potter—” he began.
“It’s Lord Black, Minister,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I really must go.”
“But Dumbledore,” Mrs. Weasley gasped.
“—thinks that I should not associate with my fiancé because he was born out of wedlock. He seems to think it’s all right to talk to Granger, though, when she’s a bastard.” Shocked silence rang through the Burrow. “See you Bill, Fleur.” And with a handful of Floo Powder from his own personal stash and a whispered “The Leaky Cauldron,” he left a shocked group of Weasleys.
French to English Translations.
Très beau et Français. Very handsome and French.
Bonjour, Prospère. Hello, Prospère.
Joyeux Noël. Merry Christmas.
Oui. C’est vrai. Yes. It’s true.