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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Four: Betting On Blood	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3021 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
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Harry watches as Fleur moves through the kitchen with a natural grace, surprised by how proper and in-place she looks there: he has never imagined something so homely as the kitchen being Fleur Delacour's domain, but she seems as at home here as she does anywhere else. Harry wonders if there's anywhere where she looks a fish out of water, and decides that there probably isn't. Fleur flicks on the stove with a wave of her wand, setting a pot on the burning ring and pouring milk into it, then setting within it squares of chocolate taken from a jar on the shelf.
The kitchen is large, high-ceilinged and with a lot of space between the counters, and when Fleur gestures for him to sit on a stool set at the counter, Harry does.
"I didn't know you cooked," Harry says, and Fleur laughs again, the sound ringing through the room.
"This is not cooking, Harry. But yes - everyone at Beauxbatons does." She takes a wooden spoon from a very expensive looking vase, where it is arranged with spatulas and other cooking implements, and she stirs the mixture within the pot. Within a few more moments, the scent of chocolate is thick on the air, and Harry can't help but breathe it in and relax under it. "We do not have House Elves to serve us," Fleur says, seeming amused at the very thought. "There are some caretakers to assist us, but cooking for ourselves, cleaning for ourselves - these are parts of our duties. We learn by doing. It's very important to do one's own chores, no?"
"Yeah," Harry agrees, giving a small nod of his head in agreement. "Yeah, it is. They don't teach us that here, at least, not in classes. We got given books of cleaning charms in our first year of Slytherin house, though. Do you have houses like we do?" Fleur shakes her head.
"We take on a similar relationship, but only with those of our own year. We all sleep together in a large, communal dormitory, forming our especial bonds based on our ages rather than our shared qualities." Fleur doesn't pronounce the "u" in the word, but Harry doesn't correct her. He likes to hear her speak as she sweeps around the room, tidying things that she apparently believes are out of place and occasionally stirring the pot on the stove. "Do you like being in an 'ouse?"
"Yeah," Harry says, nodding his head. "I never considered the alternative, to be honest, but I'm really glad to be part of Slytherin house - we take care of each other." Fleur nods her head in stout approval, and she takes the pot from the stove, pouring the hot chocolate smoothly into two mugs without spilling a drop and handing one of them to Harry. As she takes a seat beside him, crossing her ankles in the most ladylike fashion possible, she sweeps her wand behind her in a careless fashion, and she sets the pot and the wooden spoon to wash in the basin.
"I wish I could do magic like that," Harry says, shaking his head slightly. "You guys all do it without thinking, almost - it's amazing that you can do it without the incantations." Fleur smiles at Harry, cupping the mug in her hands and taking a delicate sip from it.
"It is something some people have trouble with," Fleur says, "but I have no doubt you will find it very easy once you begin. Magic becomes so natural, over time, and your wand movements become more fluid, your incantations silent, your magic more... Usual. No, that isn't the word I want. Natural says it well enough, I suppose. It is part of you now, Harry, but as you grow, you become part of it also. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think so." Harry brings the mug of cocoa up to his lips, drinking from it and finding it sweet, but not nearly as much as he expected. As Fleur settles her mug in her lap, she flicks up her eyes up to meet his. Harry lets the silence linger between them, broken only by the sound of each of them breathing and by the sound of the newly cleaned dishwear being stacked neatly upon the draining board.
"My grandmother said, Harry," Fleur murmurs, "that she saw a great crowd of people, laughing, and having good times. And as they laughed, the Death Eaters came, and she said there was blood running over the dry, brown ground. Like that in the colosseum, you know, Harry?" Fleur speaks very quietly and with an intense gravity Harry's never heard from her before, and then she takes a small drink from her mug. "You asked me if I was scared. I have not been scared in many years, but I am scared now: not for myself, but for you, Harry, and for the children here." Fleur reaches out, putting her hand gently on Harry's own, squeezing it gently, and she says, "You must lead these children. They know you, Harry, and you must be strong for them."
"I'm going to be," Harry promises. He realizes, with a vague certainty, that he doesn't feel the effect of Fleur's Veela allure at all, and when he realizes, he frowns slightly. Its affect has been lessened on him over the past while, but now he doesn't feel it at all, and why...? When Harry realizes, it's suddenly, and he stares into the dark liquid in his mug. Occlumency, obviously, blocks out the power of a Veela's allure.
"I've told you why I am scared, Harry," Fleur says, her tone smooth. "Why not tell me why you looked so sad?" Fleur's hand, still over Harry's own, is warm but dry, and Fleur leans towards him. For a strange, surreal second, Harry thinks Fleur is going to kiss him, but she simply leans closer, until their noses are nearly touching and they're eye to eye, and she says, "Is this about you and that young man? I saw the two of you walking down from the castle earlier today." Harry swallows, his mouth dry, and he feels his Adam's apple bob in his throat; Fleur's voice is hushed, and Harry finds himself unable to respond for a long few moments.
Then, he gives the smallest nod of his head.
Fleur takes back her hand, drinking from her mug, and the two of them sit in the quiet for a little while. "'Ow long have you been involved?" Fleur's voice is gentle, but she doesn't simper or talk down to him, and nor does she sound as involved as he knows Hermione would. She just asks the questions like they barely mean anything to her, and somehow, it makes them easier to answer.
"I dunno. Six months, I guess." The words come out without any feeling in them, and Fleur gives a sympathetic shake of her head.
"Ah, the romance of the young. Why is it that you broke apart?"
"Don't know if we have yet," Harry mutters. "Do you know who Elton John is?"
"I do not. Should I?"
"No." Harry drains the last of his mug, and he sets it down on the counter, putting his hands in his lap and tapping his thumb against the back of his other hand. "He's- because we're both- is it different in France? Here, it's not... It's not proper for wizards to be together." Fleur seems to consider the question, and then she flicks her wand, Summoning the magazine she'd been reading before Harry had come to talk to her. She flicks through the pages, and she settles on a double-page spread printed in glossy blues and blacks.
One wizard is stripped to his outer robe, hair dusting his chest and light glinting off of the oil there, and he's gasping into the mouth of a taller, fully-dressed man wearing even his pointed hat: beneath the calligraphy of the advertisement is a small, pink circle, and when Fleur taps it with her wand, the scent of the cologne it's an advert for comes up to meet Harry's nose, musky and slightly sweet. "What do the words mean?" Harry asks, tracing the silver letters that hang over the breathing figures of the bodies.
"Le fruit défendu," Fleur answers. "Fruit that is... The word escapes me. Banned?"
"Forbidden?"
"Yes! Yes, that is it. Forbidden fruit." Fleur leaves the magazine in his hands, and says, "It is maybe... Salacious. The thought of wizards together, or of witches together, it is perhaps thought of as very sexy. But it is not unheard of - people whisper, but people whisper all the same, in France. It is different here, and different again in other countries, Harry." Harry's gaze is glued to the magazine spread before him, the sight of the two men looking completely comfortable, the photograph no different than any normal cologne advert Harry's ever seen, but with two men instead of a man and a woman.
"France seems pretty cool," Harry says. Fleur laughs, and she taps his cheek affectionately.
"It is very cool. But not in summertime." As Harry gives a weak little laugh, Fleur stands, and when Harry sets the magazine on the counter, she shakes her head, taking it up and pushing it back into his hands. "No, Harry, keep this. You will learn something about fashion from it, perhaps." Fleur presses a kiss to the top of the head, and he murmurs a quiet thank you as he walks out of the carriage. He doesn't immediately make his way up towards the castle, and instead lingers beside it with the horses.
They're huge beasts, and Harry couldn't guess their wingspan when they're folded up against their sides, but the one that had nudged him before comes directly up to him, its big brown eyes focused on him. It towers over him, and in order to reach up to stroke its nose as he had on the steps, Harry stands on top of the stump of an old tree, reaching out and stroking its neck. The movement of his hand is slow and rhythmic, and when the horse turns, spreading one of its wings out slightly, Harry takes the hint and gently draws his fingers through the feathers there.
"So," Harry says quietly, combing through the feathers with a firm but gentle movement of his hand, "You're an Abraxan winged horse. You're pretty big, aren't you?" The horse snorts its agreement, nudging Harry in the hip with the tip of its wing, and Harry laughs a little, playing over the glossy black feathers. There are twelve of the horses, in all, and there are two other horses with a similar obsidian colour to their hair as this one, but the rest are all palamino, some with dappled white spots on their backs and haunches.
They're bigger than the Hippogriffs, and although they require strict manners, once they're greeted properly, they're pleasant enough with people - Harry has heard that Abraxans aren't especially friendly, as a rule, but this particular one seems to like him.
"The Abraxans require very forceful 'andling, Harry, and are incredibly, ah- strong-willed," says a voice behind him, and Harry turns to see Madame Maxime beside him. She's so tall that when viewed beside the Abraxan it seems like a normal horse rather than the elephantine creature it is, and she smiles, reaching out and patting the thing's rump. "But this is Père Georges. He is a very kind, middle-aged man with several children and a sensible job." Harry finds himself laughing before he even thinks about it, and Georges leans in, nudging his nose against Harry's forehead and blowing hot air through his fringe.
"Hagrid said you bred them," Harry says, glancing back at her. Hagrid, at the time, had seemed already quite in awe of Madame Maxime, and knowing that she had got dangerous animals to beget more dangerous animals had, of course, delighted Hagrid more than any other fact could possibly have done. "Do you really like magical creatures, Madame Maxime?"
"Oh, of course," she says gravely, "Otherwise I would not teach children." Harry grins, and when Georges nudges him again, Harry nudges him back, playfully, and pats his muzzle gently. "I went to school with Fleur's grandmother, Harry. She wrote to me also - you came to speak to her, yes?" Harry nods his head, and Madame Maxime puts one of her huge hands upon Harry's shoulder, patting him hard enough to wind him slightly. "Focus on losing to my girl for now, Harry. Ignore what is outside for now."
"I'm not going to lose, Madame Maxime," Harry says, grinning slightly, and he gives Georges one last pat on the muzzle before he steps down from the trunk. Maxime smiles back at him as Harry finally moves a little way away from the carriage.
It isn't even 11 o'clock yet, and Harry desperately wants something to do with his day that doesn't involve lingering in the castle and avoiding Blaise, or avoiding other people, or being around people. When Harry reaches the courtyard, he hesitates at the top of the hill, and he turns to look at the Whomping Willow, which is enjoying the summer weather and occasionally plucking birds out of the sky.
In the distance, slightly away from the village, Harry can see the roof of the Shrieking Shack, and with a nod of his head, he makes his way into the castle.
---
Neither Blaise nor Draco are in the Slytherin common room, and when Harry glances at the Marauders' Map, he sees that the both of them are upstairs in the library. He goes to the wardrobe, pulling out an outer set of green day robes, and he puts on his latest jumper from Mrs Weasley and a pair of jeans, retaining his dragonhide school boots. With the day robes over top the outfit, he's dressed in a way not dissimilar to Arthur Weasley, and then he looks to the mirror over his desk.
Taking off his glasses, he charms the metal of the frame green so that they're wide and square, and then he focuses on his hair in the mirror. It's not really possible to spell one's hair convincingly a different colour in a way that lasts, but he doesn't need it for too long, so he charms his hair an auburn red. Looking at himself in the mirror, ginger fringe combed over his scar with square glasses and a mix of Muggle and magical clothing, he knows that he doesn't look like Harry Potter.
Smiling a little, he shoves his coin purse into a satchel, and he throws his father's Invisbility Cloak over his shoulders.
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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Four: Betting On Blood