Part One – Rain Dance

The room buzzed with an undercurrent of nervous energy. Nervous yes, but optimistic too; despite some dodgy moments, the Wizengamot Weekend had been a success beyond any reasonable expectation. And now – Hermione looked around the room, at Daphne and Luna, Alex and Ginny – Harry had summoned them here. Not in Harry's (admittedly very nice) trunk, but here, his study at Slytherin Hall. The beating heart of the manor where the fates of nations would one day be hammered out. The first council in this place.

 

And she – and the other girls – were it.

 

Daphne stood. What conversation had been ebbing and flowing between the girls came to a halt. Daphne raised a wand of Yew and Thestral, precisely as Harry walked into the room and handed it to him with the graceful precision that spoke of a movement practiced a thousand times before.

 

“Thanks, Daph,” Harry stated. The other girl curtseyed, her cheeks going very pink, and returned to her seat. In this intimate group, in these private moments, Slytherin masks had a way of falling by the wayside.

 

“Good morning, girls,” Harry said, a grin making its home on his face as he did so. “I've got some very exciting news today. Headmaster Lockhart confirmed that he'll have a draft ready in two weeks, and we'll be going to the presses in six. So...” He paused, and tapped his wand towards the wall. The blackboard that had been standing against it bounded forward with the enthusiasm usually reserved for excitable dogs, stopping beside Harry with a jerk and then spinning itself over.

 

On the board were five words. What Do I Believe In?

Hermione leaned forward. The other girls followed.

 

“The Gray has been a power broker between the two major factions up till now, but after last weekend we are the power. And with that new position, we need a platform that is aspirational and proactive.” Harry frowned a little. “Extremely proactive, as a matter of fact.” He nodded at Daphne. “Assuming Voldemort is able to move up his schedule just as we ourselves have been doing, we need to tear at least a third of the dark and a third of the light out of those camps and into our own by the end of next year. In the long term, we need at least a third more of both camps to be satisfied enough with our vision that they won't be inclined to too openly or too passionately contest it.”

 

Harry paused again. “I owe all of you so much, and your council has meant more to me than I can easily say.” Hermione felt her cheeks heat up, too. “I'm going to propose a plan within a plan. Something that all of Magical Britain can follow and aspire too publicly, but also that in private will help us, well... best.”

 

“Are we going to Antarctica?” Ginny asked, raising her hand.

 

Harry shook his head. “No. We're going to thread the needle between Luna and Hermione's pros and cons about that in the abstract, and focus on making Gairsay, our home, a fortress for whatever the future holds. But the crux of the plan... belongs to Alex.”

 

Alex jumped at that, looking suitably shocked. She remembered Alex moaning that Harry had not seemed particularly receptive to her more noble and traditionalist points of view. Her face betrayed her lack of any idea as to what Harry could now have meant by that.

 

He smiled. “The Gray in general - and myself in particular - are going to use the book release to put forward a new vision for Britain before the country. Centered on family magic and house rights.” He gestured between Alex and herself.

 

“Basically, we're going to very publicly advocate for a system that incentivizes and promotes our national wizarding tradition as the anchor of our society and what it means to be a British witch or wizard, but with a liberalization of meritocracy for those who accept those conditions. We will help muggleborns and newer non-noble families establish their houses and begin working towards their own family magics, but explicitly on the expectation that they become fully part of our culture.”

 

“This won't be universally supported,” Hermione said slowly when Harry gestured towards her. He nodded in agreement.

 

“It won't, but the elevation of family magics will massively benefit and advantage a lot of the pureblood and noble houses – at least in the short term before our own sponsorships kick in – and that should stay many hands that might otherwise wish to pull the whole thing down. And the light anti-traditionalists will accept this as the price of real advancements for muggleborns and non-nobles, especially now that we've stripped my father of much of his support. The 'light' side of the Light has taken a lot of hits lately – some of the more traditionalists have more sway, even if they haven't outright defected to us yet.”

 

“They'll lose that dominance though if you plan on outright annexing a third of them,” Daphne added. Harry made a non-committal noise of agreement, though now his grin was feral. “But by then, it will be too late to do much of anything it.”

 

“Now, the play within the play – how this concerns us.” He waved his wand and the blackboard flipped over, now showing a familiar map of Gairsay Island and its environs.

 

“Obviously, we have already been making inroads among many muggleborn families – we will steal the cream of the crop into our direct protection and employment, as we have already started doing – and the cream of that crop, we will take on as vassals – before anyone else truly appreciates we've jumped the dueling handkerchief. The Shoe, The Windmill and The Box are now more under our control than anyone else in the country truly understands, and I expect we'll manage two wands per school per graduating year for every year going forward and also going back maybe the last decade.”

 

“Wands that have no familial ties or connections to any other noble house.” Luna added in a dreamy whisper.

 

“And that was always the rub,” Harry admitted. “We need wands without any dual loyalties to other families beyond House Slytherin, and trying to lock down vassalages alone on that scale is like using a magical anvil to catch a plimpie.”

 

“So assuming on average that four of five muggleborn Hogwarts graduates are both a good fit and can be snagged by us – maybe lowering to three of five when everyone else catches on, we should be able to 'catch up' to the more networked noble families by the time we graduate Hogwarts in terms of sworn wands and familial loyalties.”

 

“They'll only be one generation of wands though, and very young at that. My father – and others – have connections that run four or even five extant generations, and oaths of loyalty going back centuries before that!”

 

Harry nodded solemnly. “But it's a start. And we will aggressively recruit from other magical non-nobles as well, as well as increasing our connections to the other noble houses. We are seeking to rule from the top of the nation, not to secede from it as a muggleborn hideaway.”

 

Daphne returned his nod. The other girls quickly did so as well, though in Ginny's case it was clearly more a case of simply following along.

 

“Anyway – point two – the island itself.” Harry waved his wand and the upper northeast quadrant of the main island, as well as the smaller island just off the coast lit up an emerald green. “The hill around on which Slytherin Hall rests as well the parcel belonging to House Granger will be, in perpetuity, our own personal space. The Grangers unique among the vassals, are family.” Hermione's heart felt like it might explode. “And so naturally, this part of the island is entirely our demesne.” He turned to Daphne. “My lady, this will be yours to rule.”

 

Daphne let out a very un-Daphne squeak of equal parts surprise and pleasure.

 

Harry prodded his wand at the map again, and The Penninsula, a circle of land connected to the rest of the island only by a narrow isthmus, and that formed one side of the island's natural bay, became silver.

 

“This will be Millburn's Square, taking its name from the bay, the most northern all-magical town in Britain. It will have enough room for five hundred souls at full capacity – though it will be many years before we have that many long term residents, even if we end up hosting war refugees - as well as room for a magical high street. We'll go even more slowly there though, so as to not to offend any of the families already doing business at Hogsmeade or any of the enclaves... yes, Alex?”

“Millburn's Square! Really!?” She looked around, the other girls looking at her rather nonplussed. “I mean it's not bad, I suppose,” she mumbled, sounding more just a little put out now rather than completely indignant. “But it's such a waste! Harry's Cove. Port Slytherin. Castle Salazar! How often do you get to name a whole city after yourself!?”

 

Harry shook his head. “Well for one, city is a long way off from what it is. It's going to house our vassals – all except the Grangers, obviously. But every resident of the city will be subject – in all senses of the word – to the Slytherin court.

 

“But that's all the more reason to give it a really grand and important sounding name!”

 

It was Daphne, not Harry, who answered. “No, it's the opposite. It's precisely because it will be a fortress of Lord Slytherin hiding in plain sight as a town, but totally loyal to him that it needs to sounds harmless to the rest of Magical Britain.” Daphne paused. “It is a fortress, isn't it, my Lord?”

 

Harry nodded. “The space for this town is not large – the Peninsula is only a few hundred meters across in any direction. Liberal use of expansion charms will be needed to make the requisite number of houses and make them comparable living standards to Hogsmeade. But here, we will have a fortress – a sanctuary – that those loyal to me – to us – will be able to come when the war breaks out in full.”

 

“Five hundred people in total though... say that's one hundred families. That's a lot of vassals.” Hermione said aloud, voice going quiet as she did the arithmetic.

 

Daphne let out an slight cough. Hermione turned to face her. Daphne looked a bit... embarrassed, that was the word. That wasn't a look she often thought of with the witch she considered her other best friend.

 

“Our Lord will have many vassals of course, but it could also be that while we five are a closed circle, even with social respectability concerns aside it may well be that there are other witches who may reside here, less in sight of the public's eye and imagination, whom our Lord might wish to keep within proximity to the manor and whose children might be of interest to House Slytherin.”

 

Daphne trailed off. Silence settled.

 

“The Outer Harem.” Luna offered by way of explanation that nobody had particularly asked for. Luna turned to Alex. “You've been doing a good job, there too. Not only giving our Lord a concrete backbone for his political ideology, but Cresswell and the Carrow twins? Good work, Alex!” Luna beamed.

 

Harry tapped his wand with unnecessary force against the blackboard. The remainder of the island, shaped roughly like a hand and wrist holding the hill that housed Slytherin Hall, turned red.

 

“And this space, between ourselves and our vassals will serve both geographically and symbolically as a middle ground. The groves and gardens which make up much of this space, as well as the gardens in our own demesne, will maintain the wards but will be accessible to island's inhabitants. We'll also have a common broomfield and lichfield as amenities for the village, and Luna's menagerie will be open to the public both hear and from the mainland on select days, so as to keep our image as a benefactor to al wizards and witches.”

 

“Any questions?” Harry asked. Nobody lifted a wand.

 

“Right, so – that'll be that then. Fortress island, thread the needle of traditionalism and national unity with a dash of carefully controlled meritocracy, and that's that.”

 

“Is that really all, my Lord?” Daphne asked, sounding like she didn't quite believe it. Nor did Hermione. Yes, fleshing out their overall public strategy and learning how Harry fully intended to use their home – and the special place House Granger had among it – was nice, but it wasn't totally the sort of thing that felt worthy of being their first ever council at Slytherin Hall.

 

“Not in the least,” Harry said cheerfully, and gestured to Ginny. “Our Future Lady Potter asked what we might do with regards to one William Weasley, and I admit it is not an easy question to answer. At the end of the day,” Harry ignored Ginny's growing pout, “Bill is your brother, and after seeing how the animosity has turned out between me and mine, I'm loathe to instigate something there. Furthermore, I do not want to cause your mother or father any further grief. If anything, I am going out of my way to bring Percy to the gray as painlessly as possible, but that's a story for another time.”

 

“Buuuuuuut,” Ginny pleaded.

 

“But!” Harry agreed. “Your hearing actually provided the missing pieces. There's a lot of memories in here that I haven't really paid much attention to for a variety of reasons, not least of which is to keep myself going stark raving mad reliving decades... but seeing our esteemed Monsieur Delacour triggered a memory.”

 

They had not been particularly pleasant memories from Voldemort's point of view, but Harry had put enough of them together to paint a fairly decent picture of events in hindsight.

 

“For all his support of one Karl Marx and how this applies to the wizarding proletariat, Bill Weasley is not too far off from falling head over heels for one of the Beauxbaton champions, the niece of Monsieur Delacour who is – please pardon the phrase, her words, not mine – now entering a period of teenage revolt and looking to 'slum it'. But not quite so much that she would settle for less than the heir of a pureblood british house.'

 

“My brother is going to marry a Frenchwoman!” Ginny gasped, sounding equal parts scandalized and thrilled. “The nerve of him, after all that about how I should marry a muggle!”

 

“Oh no, not just a Frenchwoman, or even a French witch.” Harry chuckled. “A French veela.”

 

Silence fell around the room.

 

“My Lord – is it... you know I have not questioned you before, and I am not in the habit of doing so now. But is it that this... ah, veela, is to be taken unknowingly from Bill and added to your... official... harem?”

 

Daphne sounded like she were walking a tightrope made of a single strand of acromantula silk.

 

Harry laughed, pushing out his hands in a clear motion of denial. “Goodness no. I couldn't give a toss about Fleur Delacour. Which is why, in fact, she matches up potentially to solve another one of our problems quite nicely.”

 

“Ladies, you mission for the next week until my portkey for Paris is this: How do you propose we sell Monsieur Delacour the younger into signing away his temporary grunge bohemian beatnik, quarter veela teenage daughter into a marriage contract with Lord Slughorn?”

 

Suddenly, Hermione considered that having to spend the rest of her life entertaining monthly dinners with the Carrow twins didn't seem so bad.

 

 

Part Two – Slugs and Snails and Veela Tail

 

 

Harry had barely gotten back his bearings after stepping out of the flying cloche and onto the terra firma of Arcachon Bay when a high-pitched voice rang out, “Monstre! Monstre!”

 

He shook his head as if to try and stave away a headache and looked around for the source of the voice, wincing slightly as he did so. Portkeys were hardly anyone's idea of a good time, even if the distances involved were just across The Channel. But adding on to that a flight from Paris to Aquitaine in a giant flying belldiately afterwards did nothing to improve his constitution, even if it did give an admittedly more spectacular view of the country than apparition would have done. Still, Jacques Delacour had put one of France's most famous methods of magical travel up for him, so he could hardly refuse it – especially given the the balancing act he intended to walk between gratuitously insulting the man, and then dangling a prize before him. The French after all, had a peculiar relationship with the Albion and the British lords who wielded it; half envious, half dismissive, and not a small dollop of extremely well-practiced and maintained indifference.

 

“Monstre!”

 

The voice screaming that he – and there was no doubt that the voice now was directed at him – was a Monster belonged to none other than a little girl with silvery blonde hair and wearing a pink dressrobe that managed to avoid catching so much as a spec of dirt despite its hem racing across the garden grounds. She looked about four or so years younger than himself; maybe eight, perhaps nine. And though she were calling him a 'Monster' loud enough to risk even the muggles hearing through the garden's wards, the look of awe and delight on her face was obvious, and the tone in which she was screaming at him was one normally reserved for children who might be shouting 'Father Christmas'.

 

“Bonjour,” Harry replied tentatively as she skidded to a stop before him in wide-eyed wonder. Then, to his complete surprise, her face shifted to an almost imperious look full of indignant expectation.

 

“Changez!” When nothing happened, she waved her hands and tried again. “Transformez!”

 

It was not often that Harry were at a loss, though he found himself at such, now.

 

“My apologies, Monsieur Potter,” an older, more worn, and decidedly male voice called out, its owner running towards them as if trying to prevent a dangerously bubbling cauldron from overflowing. “Ma petite, Gabrielle!” He scolded, sounding slightly winded as he did so. “I apologize again – ever since my brother returns from your country with words of a boy chimera, she has been filled with nothing but thoughts of meeting Monstre - Monsieur Potter. When copies of your Prophet arrived in Bordeaux, alors, but she has always been this way about the magical creatures. Les petites filles, non?” He finished with a weak laugh and a very gallic shrug.

 

“Changez! Changez!”

 

Harry chuckled. This was certainly an unexpected development; when he'd 'gone public' with his Chimera form, he had expected all sorts of fallout, and duly received as much. That being said, childlike admiration had not been among the branches of possibilities he had planned for. Still, it's not like anyone in Britain would actually care what he did with his form so long as he didn't do it in Britain - they took a deliberate indifference to things happening overseas – and perhaps a more playful show of force wouldn't do any harm. With a shrug, he transformed, and then his lion legs bent slightly in a facsimile of a bow to the little girl. The snakes on his throat hissing softly in a cacophony of snakey chuckles.

 

“Pleasure to you meet you, Madmoiselle Gabrielle.” Harry spoke in a rich baritone. Gabrielle gasped, and then began to clap enthusiastically. Monsieur Delacour gulped. Harry transformed back, and Jacques grabbed his daughter before she could say or do anything further, like demand a piggyback ride from a XXXXX magical creature animagus.

 

“I believe you have made her year,” the other man did his best to laugh as if they were in on a shared joke. Then he looked around, and at the great cast iron bell that was beginning to hum, signifying its preparation to return unattended to Paris. “Your Lord Slytherin, he is not with us?”

 

This was the tricky part. The closer they came to the big reveal, the more carefully Harry had to tread, lest the last people to be played for the ruse took it personally that he were playing silly buggers with them when the truth came out. This went double as Lord Slytherin's absence, and officially sending a teenage boy in his stead, however powerful that boy might be, was most certainly an insult.

 

“Alas, Lord Slytherin was called away on a very pressing matter at the last moment.” Harry shrugged apologetically. “I confess though I was eager to offer my services in his stead – I have always wanted to see this beautiful country of yours.”

 

Harry looked out across the Bay of Arcachon, where the great Dune du Pilat – the largest sand dune in Europe, stood. The sand dune had once also been host to a great sand castle that had been owned by the Delacours – it had been lost in the fighting when the French reclaimed Aquitaine in the death throes of Dimwiddie's empire. Now the family lived in Arcachon proper, in the shadow of the dune they had once ruled upon. Or more accurately, Henri Delacour of La Association Internationale de Quidditch maintained a respectably grandiose two story stone home and sizable grounds on the edge of town that might be pushing rather ambitiously at what it meant to be a chateau, it did not so by such a margin that anyone would openly deny the term without intent to start an honor duel. And even that was often empty, what with all the action taking place at Versailles that Henri spent most of his time in an equally grand home there.

 

Jacques Delacour, the younger brother, on the other hand had but a small townhouse with only half a view of the lost familial wealth to gaze out at, and a paycheck and stipend that was never quite enough for his half-veela wife's aspirations and sense of fashion and social calendar. He was, Harry had reflected on his quick study of the man, what Arthur Weasley might have been had Arthur not found himself a witch who appreciated the man more than the robes he wore. He was the sort of man long used to playing second gobstone, and Harry, unfortunately for Jacques, was going to exploit that like a goblin coming across an indebted wizard with a large familial inheritance. He felt a bit bad about that, granted, but the needs of the Gray came first.

 

Jacques still looked like he wasn't sure what was happening and much less how he ought to take it. Harry knew he only had access to the 'family' chateau after having begged his older brother for a place more appropriate for hosting a British lord.

 

And now after all the fuss and furor he had been snubbed by said British lord, personally.

 

“It is no problem at all,” Jacques replied at last, his occlumency rendering his face completely blank. “Come, then,” He began to walk back to the chateau, one hand firmly around his younger daughter's arm who had apparently gotten the message to behave, if her sigh of defeat were any indication, even if she kept stealing glances at Harry and giving him a mischievous grin.

 

As they entered through the front parlor into a room of brown sandstone walls lines with portraits of wizards and witches in a variety of fashions doing their best to look uninterested in their guest, a look of grim acceptance leaked through Monsieur Delacour's occlumency. “ 'Mister Potter, may I have the honor of introducing you to my eldest as well, my Fleur. Ma petite, this is Harry Potter, he is over from England.”

 

Harry did his best not to gawk. It wasn't so much that Fleur was beautiful – which she was – and that she knew it – which she did – but... Merlin, if she'd shown up like this in a few years time, Rita would have wet her panties just thinking about the scandals she could write up.

 

Fleur wore a black beret on her head and robes that she had clearly been modified to look extremely muggle, the hem cut away to above her knees. She held a cigarette in her hand that was almost long enough to be a small wand, and by the steady wafting of thick smoke coming from it, was clearly enchanted as well. She looked at him, doing her best to look likd, well, ennui personified: if ennui were inclined to fill the mind with a dozen dirty thoughts.

 

Harry offered a small bow while strengthening his occlumency shields.

 

“It is 'eir Potter, Papa,” Fleur corrected her father with an air of casual disdain. “It iz not good enough for 'im, I suppose, to be one of ze common folk.” She held her cigarette to her lips and took as long a puff as she dared, clearly less confident in the cigarette as more than a prop. “Of course, ze whole world is in ze thrall of the dialectic mystique of the Albion, non? Merde.”

 

Monsieur Delacour did wince now, and after a hurried word that Fleur should take Gabrielle upstairs, ushered Harry quickly through the foyer and towards the study at the far end of the hall.

 

“Harry – Heir – that is...”

 

“Please, Harry is fine,” Harry said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “I am your guest, and I appreciate you seeing me even with Lord Slytherin's last minute unfortunate change of plans.”

 

“Mais oui, well...” Jacques closed the door behind them and gestured towards a chair for Harry, moving behind his brother's desk, himself. A quill jumped out of its pen rest and bolted for the door, but Jacques caught it and jammed it back into its place with a clearly look of frustration evident even through his acceptable mask.

 

Harry pretended not to notice.

 

“I will be frank, Monsieur Delacour. A good friend of my Lord, Lord Slughorn, caught sight of your daughter's performance in the junior dueling circuit not too long ago, and as... well, he was smitten with her grace and character. Her jois de vivre.”

 

There was some truth to that. She had almost flambeed an American wizard, but she had certainly looked joyful while going about it, Harry supposed, though he doubted Lord Slughorn were aware of the match or what transpired at all.

 

“And I – that is my Lord – have been asked by Lord Slughorn to sound you out about your willingness to consider a marriage contract.”

 

Multiple emotions flickered on Monsieur Delacour's face. “And yet, your Lord Slytherin, and zis... Slug'orn, send you in their place? Forgive me, but it is unusual, non?” And insulting, the thought was delivered and received as clear as crystal even being unsaid through two layers of occlumency.

 

Harry sighed, doing his best to sound bashful.

 

“It is unusual, certainly. But I tell you this in strict confidence.” Harry leaned forward, inviting the other man into shared conspiracy. Jacques subconsciously took the bait. “Lord Slughorn – Walter, among his dear friends, of which both myself and my Lord are honored to be counted as such – is a rather sensitive and tender soul at heart, for all his gruff exterior on the floor of the Wizengamot or the pages of The Prophet. He is ill footed to be courting again after his wife's sad demise ten years ago, and the only thing a Lord like himself fears more than failing in the ways of courtship are to fail publicly and to be seen as a fool among his peers.”

 

Harry paused. “By sending me, Lord Slughorn protects his heart from not just possible rejection by your daughter, but from the slings and arrows of the Wizengamot's less tender souls. Plausible deniability, you see, should nothing come from this inquiry.”

 

Jacques nodded slowly. “It could be,” he said at last. “And Lord Slug'orn, he wishes a betrothal with my Fleur, you say?”

 

“That is it exactly!” Harry declared as if the man had just recited some long lost truth. “A betrothal contract. To take effect after Fleur graduates from Beauxbatons and reaches her majority. I cannot tell you how much he insisted upon that, when my Lord offered to broker a discussion. 'A young lady of her spirit cannot be denied a full education,' he declared to us both and would not hear a word otherwise.” Harry paused, visibly appearing conflicted as to what confidences he should share while actually conflicted as to just how high he could spoon the dragon dung.

 

Monsieur Delacour fidgeted behind the desk. Harry could practically see the man's many reasons for denying a match to an older man – and an English man at that – that he had never even heard of before, even if he were a Lord of the half-disdained, half-feared Albion.

 

“If my Fleur... that is a great honor, bien sur, but...” Monsieur Delacour's eyes suddenly took on a dangerous gleam that Harry had not expected in his mark of the man. “You will one day be a Lord yourself, is that not so? And the Potters are an important house in England, even before votre frere defeated Vous-savez-qui...

 

And you are more appropriate an age...” he trailed off.

 

Regardless of the fact he already had five girls in heart and three more potentially already in his, as Luna put it, 'outer harem', for all her potential virtues, Harry knew with absolute certainty that if he took a second witch out from Slughorn's nose, the man wouldn't stop opposing him even if it meant taking the Dark Mark himself.

 

“I confess, I did consider making my own case for your daughter's hand, even if it meant sacrificing my own honor,” Harry lied smoothly. “But truthfully, I could not bring myself to do it, to even truly think it. Not against a man as honorable and compassionate as Walter. To see his disappointment in me for such a dishonorable act, after all he has done both for myself and Britain, it would be too much for me to bear.”

 

“Alors.”

 

“Quite.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment, Monsieur Delacour's eyes going to a cabinet that Harry suspected held more than a little bit of brandy, but either stayed his hand because it was his brother's collection, or because he was talking with a boy barely past his thirteenth birthday.

 

“He is a good man, truly? Vraiment, this feels like such a rush, such a short notice!. I do not wish to offend, but-”

 

Harry held up a hand. “He is. A good man, that is. And it is only because... well, you know of our Albion magics, yes? Lord Slughorn is in a bit of a bind at the moment, and he neither personally nor publicly wishes to be involved in dalliances with multiple women, looking for the right 'fit'. Not when he believes he has found his Morgana here in La Belle France.”

 

Monsieur Delacour squirmed. Fair enough, Harry was having a hard time not squirming, too.

 

A look of defeat flickered over Monsieur Delacour's face. “My girl – she is not as she once was. She was like Gabrielle not to long ago. A happy daughter. But it is not so easy being part veela since attending school, and she has got all kind of strange ideas into her head. I am sure it is just a phase,” he added quickly if more than a little insincerely, “but this will.. it will not be a problem?”

 

Harry wished he had a drink now, if only to buy some time to figure out how to spin this in a way that at least sounded believable to his own ears.

 

“Lord Slughorn believes that in an ideal world, a young witch might follow her heart in all things, even those things that 'we stodgy old lords' may have a hard time understanding,” Harry said slowly, testing each word like poison on his tongue. “But he also understands his duties as a Lord of the Albion, and the duties this places upon him and also, his lady, at all times and in all things.” Harry kept going before he twisted himself into knots. “I am sure he would find a compromise so long as Fleur – in time – could meet him halfway. And there are still three years where this 'phase', as you say, could come to a natural end.”

 

“Deux,” Monsieur Delacour corrected with a sigh. “I am sorry, Mister Potter, I will need to think about it, great honor though it is.”

 

Harry nodded, time for the trump card if he had his man pegged as he thought he did. “My Lord and I understand completely. If this is something you need to discuss with Madame Delacour, the Lady Apolline, do I have her name right? Well! We would not want to be seen preventing you from doing so.”

 

Even through his occulumency, Jacques Delacour's surrender was visible and total. Harry felt a pang of something that felt suspiciously like guilt. Both wizards knew full well that if Apolline Delacour, who had married the wrong brother in the right family and resented it every since, got so much as a hint that she had been denied a place in British wizarding aristocracy by her husband, that would be the end of that. And the end of him.

 

“There is no need for that,” Jacques spoke with a gruff laugh. “The ladies, they talk and talk forever and complicate matters, between us ah... wizards, there is no need for that. My mind is resolute. Fleur will be happy.” He sounded like he were trying to make the declaration an incantation he could simply will into being.

 

Oh, what the hell. Yes he'd now buggered up Bill's life and possibly Fleur's (although who knew, maybe it would all end up working out quite well, Fleur might end up being just the right fit for a future Lady Slughorn), he could at least do one good deed while orchestrating this mess.

 

He pulled out the contract he had prepared. Monsieur Delacour pulled out the previously disobedient quill.

 

“I suppose the only question left then is where you'll send Gabrielle on her eleventh birthday,” Harry 'joked', voice light and innocent.

 

Monsieur Delacour looked up from the contract that he had only begun to read with a snap and stared at him. Harry made to chuckle with a tinge of embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I thought you would have... Hogwarts, as you might be aware, only accepts students from magical Britain. However, once your daughter is the expectant Lady Slughorn, as Gabrielle has not yet begun at Beauxbatons...” Harry let the pieces hang.

 

“She could attend Hogwarts?” Mister Delacour began slowly, grasping to the thought like a lifeline.

 

“Of course.” Harry said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She would be eligible anyway of course, under the same rules that allowed Miss Malfoy to attend even though she grew up in Sweden. And with Lords Slytherin and Slughorn advocating for her, admittance would be guaranteed. Anyway, something for you to think about, I suppose,” Harry said airily, as if he had already ceased to be thinking about it.

 

It was a well known French scandal to those in the French well knowing that Henri Delacour had tried – and failed – to enroll his own eldest at Hogwarts.

 

“Something indeed.” Jacques said at last. He smiled. “But that is for another time. Now we focus on my Fleur, and securing her future happiness.” Harry head jerked up and down so quickly he could have been a bludger enspelled by a free house elf. Whether that future happiness would be secured as tightly as a Gringott's vault, and see just about as much sunlight as one, was another question, but not one for Harry or Daphne anymore to worry about, thank Merlin. “Then you shall stay for dinner and we shall share the happy news with my wife and daughters.”

 

Harry smiled and took back the parchment, now with Jacques' signature attached to it. He already knew that he were about to be given a memory that would make a perfect Yule gift for his viscous little ninja.

 

~Fin