One Week Later - Hospital Wing, Hogwarts
The privacy ward around Harry's hospital bed shimmered like heat waves rising from sun-baked stone, its magical barrier crackling occasionally with sparks of silver-blue energy that cast dancing shadows across the sterile white walls. Inside the protected space, Harry Potter sat cross-legged on his bed, looking thoroughly frustrated as he attempted the breathing exercises Dumbledore had taught him the day before.
It wasn't working. At all.
The aura that had been steadily intensifying over the past week continued to radiate from him in waves of invisible power that made the ward shimmer and pulse like a soap bubble stretched to its breaking point. Even through the magical barrier, the effects were impossible to ignore—the hospital wing's portraits had taken to swooning dramatically whenever they so much as glanced in his direction, complete with Victorian-era declarations of undying devotion that would have been hilarious if they weren't so unsettling. Madam Pomfrey had been forced to rotate her student assistants every hour because they kept developing an overwhelming urge to reorganize the entire medical wing "to better serve Mr. Potter's needs," often while muttering things like "perhaps if we arranged the potions alphabetically, it would please him more."
"This is absolutely ridiculous," Harry muttered, opening his emerald eyes to glare at his friends who were gathered outside the ward like visitors at some bizarre magical zoo exhibit. His voice carried that particular note of aristocratic exasperation that seemed to emerge whenever he was truly frustrated—the kind of tone that suggested centuries of noble breeding despite his distinctly un-noble upbringing. "I feel like a dangerous magical creature on display. All I need is a little placard reading 'Do Not Feed the Dragon-Boy.'"
"Well," Fred called out from beyond the barrier, his voice slightly muffled by the protective magic but his grin clearly visible, "technically speaking, you *are* a dangerous magical creature now, aren't you, Harry?"
"*Technically speaking,*" Harry replied with the kind of cutting precision that would have made Professor Snape proud, "you're a dangerous magical creature too, Fred. The difference is that your danger comes from an alarming tendency to blow things up, while mine apparently comes from accidentally making people want to worship me. I'm not sure which is worse."
"Oh, definitely yours," George piped up with scientific curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Our explosions only last a few seconds. Your thing is permanent and growing stronger. Much more impressive from a purely theoretical standpoint."
"Thank you, George," Harry said with the kind of bone-dry sarcasm that could have parched the Sahara. "Your analysis of my predicament is both deeply insightful and tremendously helpful. I feel so much better now."
Ron, who was sprawled on the floor beside Hermione's chair in a pose that somehow managed to look both comfortable and completely inappropriate for a hospital setting, snorted with laughter. "Bloody hell, Harry, you've gone all posh on us. Next thing we know you'll be asking for tea and crumpets while discussing the weather."
"Ronald," Harry replied with exaggerated formality, his green eyes sparkling with mischief despite his circumstances, "I'll have you know that I have *always* been capable of proper speech. I simply choose not to employ it when dealing with trolls like you."
"Oi!" Ron protested, though his grin betrayed his amusement. "I resemble that remark!"
"*Resent,* Ron," Hermione corrected automatically without looking up from her thick notebook, where she'd been documenting Harry's condition with the kind of meticulous detail typically reserved for doctoral dissertations. Her quill moved across the parchment in neat, precise strokes as she added: "*Day Seven: Subject continues to display enhanced verbal acuity alongside increased magical output. Note correlation between stress levels and sarcasm deployment.*"
"Did you just take notes on my sarcasm?" Harry asked with genuine incredulity.
"I'm taking notes on everything," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, finally looking up to meet his gaze through the shimmering barrier. "Your transformation is unprecedented in recorded magical history, Harry. Every detail could be crucial to understanding what's happening to you." She paused, consulting her notes with the kind of professional focus that would have impressed any researcher at the Ministry. "Speaking of which, your aura's range has expanded again. Yesterday it was barely thirty feet. This morning I measured it at fifty-two feet, three inches."
"Fifty-two feet, three inches," Harry repeated slowly, his enhanced hearing picking up the collective intake of breath from everyone present. "Hermione, please tell me you're rounding up."
"I never round up," Hermione said with the kind of scientific precision that brooked no argument. "The expansion rate appears to be accelerating exponentially. If the current trend continues—"
"Then eventually Harry won't be able to be around anyone without turning them into mindless servants," Neville finished quietly from his position near the wall. The normally timid boy had surprised everyone by insisting on visiting daily, despite the obvious discomfort the aura's edge caused him even through the protective ward. His usually pale face showed a determination that spoke of hidden reserves of courage. "Which means Harry would be completely alone."
"Exactly," Harry said, his voice carrying a note of genuine distress that cut through his earlier sarcasm like a knife through silk. "And that's not... I can't... I won't become some sort of magical tyrant who can't have normal relationships because everyone around me is compelled to obey."
"Harry," Ginny said softly from her chair near the window, her voice carrying the kind of gentle strength that had always been her trademark, "that's not going to happen. We won't let it happen."
"Won't you?" Harry asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in his enhanced features as he looked at the youngest Weasley. "Ginny, what if the aura gets strong enough to affect you even through protective wards? What if I become someone you literally can't say no to?"
"Then I suppose," Ginny replied with a small smile that managed to be both tender and absolutely fierce, "you'll just have to learn not to ask for anything unreasonable."
The simple faith in her voice seemed to settle something in Harry's chest, though the worry lines around his eyes didn't completely disappear.
"Right," he said after a moment, straightening his shoulders in the way that always indicated he was preparing to face whatever impossible challenge had been thrown at him this time. "So we need a solution. Preferably before I accidentally establish my own magical dictatorship through the power of uncontrolled pheromones."
"Which is why," Professor Dumbledore's voice interrupted from the hospital wing entrance, carrying that particular note of barely contained excitement that always made Harry simultaneously hopeful and terrified, "we need to find a solution rather quickly."
The headmaster approached the ward with his characteristic measured pace, though Harry's enhanced senses immediately picked up the subtle signs of strain in Dumbledore's magical signature as he drew closer to the barrier. Behind him walked Madam Pomfrey, her professional composure intact but her usually pristine robes showing the effects of a week spent treating a condition that didn't exist in any medical textbook.
"Professor," Harry said, sitting up straighter and unconsciously adopting the kind of posture that suggested military bearing despite never having received any formal training, "please tell me you've found something. Because I'm starting to develop cabin fever, and given my current condition, I suspect that's not going to end well for anyone."
Dumbledore conjured his usual comfortable chintz armchair with a casual wave of his hand, settling into it just outside the ward's perimeter with the fluid grace of someone who had long ago mastered the art of appearing completely relaxed while dealing with impossible situations. His blue eyes, sharp behind his half-moon spectacles, held that familiar twinkle that Harry had learned to associate with either brilliant solutions or catastrophic complications.
"Indeed I have found something, my boy," Dumbledore said, reaching into the depths of his purple robes to withdraw an ornate letter sealed with unfamiliar silver wax. "Though I must warn you, the solution I've discovered is... unconventional."
Harry blinked once, slowly, and then let out a laugh that somehow managed to be both amused and deeply resigned. "Professor, with all due respect, I think we established the unconventional nature of my existence sometime around my first year when I ended up fighting a possessed Defense professor over a magical stone that grants immortality. At this point, I'd be genuinely suspicious if you offered me a normal, straightforward solution to anything."
"In that case," Dumbledore replied with evident amusement, "you won't be disappointed in the slightest." He held up the letter with a flourish that would have done justice to a stage magician. "Harry, how much do you know about Veela?"
The question seemed to come from nowhere, landing in the middle of the conversation like a particularly unexpected Bludger. Harry exchanged confused glances with his friends through the ward barrier, noting the way Hermione's quill had gone completely still above her parchment—always a sign that her formidable intellect was rapidly processing new information.
"Veela?" Harry repeated, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Aren't they... magical creatures of some sort? I think I might have read something about them in one of my Defense Against the Dark Arts texts, but I can't recall the specifics. Something about fire and... bird-like qualities?"
"Very good," Dumbledore said approvingly. "Though that description barely scratches the surface of what Veela truly are."
Hermione's hand shot up automatically, despite the rather bizarre circumstances of receiving a magical creatures lesson while Harry was under magical quarantine. Old habits, it seemed, died hard. "Professor, don't Veela possess some sort of enchantment ability? An allure that specifically affects men?"
"Excellent, Miss Granger," Dumbledore beamed at her with the kind of pride typically reserved for students who had just solved particularly complex transfiguration equations. "Veela do indeed possess what we term an Allure—a powerful magical aura that creates intense attraction effects in those around them, most notably in males. However," his expression grew more serious, "the Veela Allure doesn't merely heighten romantic or physical attraction. It creates what can only be described as a trance-like state that leads people to behave in increasingly irrational ways—performing dangerous stunts to impress the Veela, fighting each other for attention, or even attempting self-harm if they believe it might win them a moment's notice."
A chill of recognition ran through Harry despite his elevated body temperature, and he felt the color drain from his face. "Professor... that sounds uncomfortably similar to what's been happening to me. Except..."
"Except your aura affects both men and women equally," Dumbledore completed gently, his voice carrying the kind of careful compassion typically reserved for delivering particularly difficult diagnoses. "And rather than creating attraction or romantic obsession, your aura generates an overwhelming compulsion to submit—to acknowledge you as their superior, to serve your needs above their own, to reorganize their entire existence around ensuring your comfort and satisfaction."
The hospital wing fell into the kind of profound silence usually reserved for funeral parlors or examination rooms where particularly grim test results were being delivered. Harry's enhanced hearing picked up the collective intake of breath from his friends, the acceleration of heartbeats that indicated growing alarm, and what sounded suspiciously like Hermione's quill dropping onto her parchment with a small *thunk*.
"That's..." Harry's voice failed him completely as the full implications of Dumbledore's words settled into his consciousness like stones dropping into still water. When he finally managed to speak again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "That's not just inconvenient, Professor. That's fundamentally, morally wrong. I'm accidentally compelling people to want to serve me? That's... that's a form of magical slavery."
The naked horror in his voice seemed to echo off the hospital wing's walls, and several of his friends shifted uncomfortably as they processed the true severity of his situation.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his freckled face pale with understanding. "Harry, no wonder you've been so upset about this. That's... that's really dark, mate."
"Which is precisely why," Dumbledore said with the kind of gentle firmness that indicated he was about to take charge of the situation, "we need to address this matter immediately and decisively. However, there is genuine reason for hope."
He leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes intense with the kind of scholarly excitement that always preceded his most innovative solutions. "The magical signature of your aura, Harry, is remarkably similar to Veela Allure despite producing entirely different effects. The underlying magical structures are nearly identical—both operate by projecting concentrated magical energy that overwhelms the natural mental defenses of those nearby, both intensify with emotional stress, and both can be consciously controlled with proper training and technique."
Ginny leaned forward in her chair, her brown eyes bright with interest and hope. "You know someone who can help Harry learn that kind of control?"
"I do indeed," Dumbledore replied, holding up the ornate letter with evident satisfaction. "This correspondence comes from an old friend of mine—Sebastian Delacour, who lives in the magical district of Nice, France, with his rather extraordinary family."
Harry felt his heart sink as the obvious implications became clear. "You want to send me away from Hogwarts? Away from my friends?"
"Only temporarily," Dumbledore assured him quickly, though his expression remained serious and honest about the gravity of the situation. "Harry, your current condition makes it impossible for you to return to Privet Drive this summer even if we wished it—which, given your transformed nature, enhanced abilities, and the Dursleys' established pattern of abuse and neglect, we most certainly do not."
"Thank Merlin for small mercies," Harry muttered with such vehement relief that it surprised everyone in the room, including himself. "I was genuinely dreading the thought of spending the summer locked in that house while dealing with all of this. Can you imagine? 'Oh, by the way, Aunt Petunia, I've become part dragon and accidentally compel people to worship me. Please pass the potatoes.'"
Ron's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his ginger hairline. "You're actually *happy* about not going back to the Dursleys?"
"Ron," Harry said with the kind of patient precision typically reserved for explaining basic concepts to particularly slow students, "they already treated me like a dangerous freak when I was just a normal wizard with a tendency to attract Dark Lords and homicidal professors. Can you honestly imagine how they would react to me now? With the physical changes, the enhanced abilities, and an aura that would probably have them groveling at my feet within the first five minutes?"
He shuddered visibly at the thought, his enhanced features twisting with genuine revulsion. "It would be an absolute disaster for everyone involved. Uncle Vernon would probably try to lock me in the cupboard under the stairs permanently, Aunt Petunia would spend her days cleaning things that were already spotless just to feel useful, and Dudley..." Harry paused, considering. "Actually, Dudley would probably enjoy having a magical servant. Which makes the whole thing even more disturbing."
"Point very much taken," Ron agreed with a grimace. "So what's the actual plan then, Professor?"
Dumbledore opened the letter with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for handling priceless artifacts, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting within with evident pleasure. "Sebastian Delacour has graciously agreed to host Harry for the duration of the summer holidays. His wife, Apolline, is a full Veela with extensive experience in managing the complexities of magical auras, and their two daughters possess the natural understanding of such abilities that comes with their inherited nature."
"Both daughters are Veela?" Hermione asked, her academic interest clearly piqued despite the circumstances.
"Full Veela, actually," Dumbledore corrected, settling back in his chair with the air of someone preparing to deliver a particularly fascinating lecture. "Veela genetics operate according to rather unique principles—they give birth exclusively to female offspring, and those daughters are invariably full Veela regardless of their father's magical heritage or species. It's a remarkable example of magical genetics completely overriding normal inheritance patterns."
"So Harry would be staying with a family of magical bird-women," Fred summarized with the kind of scientific fascination that had made him and his twin legendary for their experimental approach to magic. "That's either going to be brilliant or absolutely terrifying."
"Possibly both," George added thoughtfully. "Though knowing Harry's luck, probably more terrifying than brilliant."
"Your confidence in my ability to handle new situations is truly overwhelming," Harry replied dryly, though there was genuine affection in his voice as he looked at the twins. "I'm touched by your faith in my social skills."
"Harry," Hermione said gently, setting down her quill to focus entirely on the conversation, "will they actually be able to be around you safely? I mean, if your aura continues to grow stronger..."
"That," Dumbledore said with a smile that suggested he'd been hoping someone would ask exactly that question, "is where the similarity between Harry's condition and Veela abilities becomes extraordinarily advantageous."
He leaned forward, his blue eyes bright with the kind of intellectual excitement that always accompanied his most elegant solutions. "Veela possess natural resistance to dominance-based magical effects as a direct result of their own powerful auras. Think of it as magical immunity developed through constant exposure—their own Allure creates a kind of protective barrier against similar forms of mental influence. They should be able to interact with Harry safely while providing him with the guidance and training necessary to develop conscious control over his abilities."
"And if they can't?" Harry pressed, his protective instincts—which had definitely been enhanced along with everything else about him—making him worry about putting innocent people at risk. "What if my aura is too different from theirs, or too strong, or affects them in ways we don't expect?"
"Then we'll find another solution," Dumbledore replied with the kind of simple honesty that made it clear this wasn't just a polite reassurance. "But Harry, I genuinely believe this represents our best option. The Delacours are good people with extensive experience managing powerful and potentially dangerous magical abilities. They're uniquely qualified to help you navigate this particular challenge."
Harry looked around at the faces of his friends, all of whom were watching him with expressions that mixed concern, support, and barely concealed curiosity about how he would handle this latest impossible situation thrown at him by fate and circumstance.
"What do you lot think?" he asked them, genuinely wanting their input despite knowing that the final decision would ultimately be his alone. "Am I completely mad to consider spending the summer in France with people I've never met, learning to control abilities that no one fully understands?"
"Madder than staying locked up in a hospital ward for the rest of your natural life?" Fred pointed out with characteristic pragmatism. "Because that's basically your other option at this point."
"Besides," George added with a grin that suggested he'd been giving this considerable thought, "France means proper French food, Mediterranean sunshine, and getting to learn magic from beautiful bird-women. There are definitely worse ways to spend a summer vacation."
"Trust you two to focus on the food," Ron said with fond exasperation, though his own expression was thoughtful. "But honestly, Harry, they've got a point. You need help with this aura thing, and it's not like staying here is actually fixing anything. You're just... contained."
"Whereas in France," Hermione continued, her logical mind clearly working through all the implications, "you'd have the opportunity to actually learn from people who understand similar magical phenomena. The theoretical applications alone could be groundbreaking, and the practical benefits for your long-term wellbeing are obvious."
She paused, consulting her notes with professional thoroughness. "Plus, we can maintain correspondence throughout the summer. Daily letters if necessary. It's not as though you're being permanently exiled—just temporarily relocated for specialized training."
Ginny nodded in agreement, her small hands folded neatly in her lap but her brown eyes fierce with determination. "Harry, you've spent your entire life helping other people when they needed it most. Maybe... maybe it's time to let other people help you for once?"
The simple truth of her words hit Harry with unexpected force, settling into his chest with the weight of genuine revelation. He had spent so much of his life feeling like he had to handle everything alone, had to be strong and self-sufficient because there was no one else to rely on, no one else who could be trusted with the impossible burdens that seemed to find him wherever he went. But looking at his friends now—seeing their genuine concern, their unwavering support, their absolute refusal to abandon him even when he'd become literally too dangerous to be around safely—he realized that fundamental assumption had been wrong for quite some time.
"Alright," Harry said finally, his voice carrying the kind of quiet determination that had gotten him through two years of impossible adventures and would undoubtedly carry him through whatever came next. "When would I leave?"
"Tomorrow morning," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with approval and what might have been relief. "Sebastian will meet you at the International Floo Terminal in London at precisely nine o'clock, and from there you'll travel together to their home near Nice. The Mediterranean climate will be beneficial for your enhanced metabolism, and the extensive magical privacy wards around their property will allow you to practice controlling your abilities without any risk to innocent bystanders."
"Tomorrow?" Harry repeated, suddenly realizing just how quickly his life was about to change yet again. "That's... remarkably soon."
"The sooner you begin developing proper control techniques," Dumbledore pointed out with gentle logic, "the sooner you'll be able to return to normal interactions with your friends and classmates. And Harry, I want you to understand something clearly—this is not a punishment or an exile. This is an unprecedented opportunity to master abilities that could make you extraordinarily powerful if properly controlled and channeled."
Harry nodded slowly, though he couldn't quite shake the familiar feeling that he was about to embark on another life-changing adventure whether he particularly wanted to or not. At least this time, the adventure seemed to be focused on learning and personal growth rather than fighting for his life against Dark wizards, possessed professors, or homicidal magical creatures.
"What should I expect from the Delacour family?" Harry asked as practical concerns began to surface through his philosophical acceptance. "I mean, what are they like as actual people, rather than just magical creatures with useful abilities?"
Dumbledore's expression grew warm with genuine fondness, the kind of look that suggested long friendship and deep mutual respect. "Sebastian is both a scholar and a gentleman in the truest sense of both words. He specializes in magical creature law and international wizarding relations, with a particular focus on human-creature integration policies. You'll find him intellectually stimulating and remarkably patient with questions."
"And his wife?"
"Apolline is..." Dumbledore paused, as if searching for words adequate to describe someone clearly extraordinary. "She is a full Veela, which means she possesses beauty that borders on the supernatural, magical power that rivals most trained wizards, and the kind of fierce protective instinct that would make a nesting dragon seem mild-mannered when it comes to those she considers family."
Harry felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "So she's beautiful, powerful, and has strong maternal instincts. That actually sounds rather comforting."
"And their daughters?"
"Fleur is fifteen, exceptionally intelligent, and somewhat... proud, in the way that many young Veela tend to be," Dumbledore explained with diplomatic care. "She's currently training to compete in international magical competitions and has very little patience for what she perceives as weakness, incompetence, or wasted potential. She will, I suspect, either dismiss you entirely or become intensely interested in your development—there's unlikely to be much middle ground."
"Wonderful," Harry muttered. "And the younger one?"
"Gabrielle is ten years old, more curious than proud, and according to Sebastian's most recent letters, absolutely fascinated by the prospect of meeting 'the famous Harry Potter who has become part dragon and accidentally makes people want to serve him.' I believe her exact words, as translated by her father, were 'finally, someone more interesting than Fleur's stupid beauty competitions.'"
Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Brilliant. So I'll be staying with people who will either think I'm incompetent and dismiss me, or view me as a fascinating magical specimen to be studied and analyzed. This is going to be a long summer."
"Or," Dumbledore suggested with evident amusement, "you'll be staying with people who possess both the knowledge and the experience necessary to help you master abilities that no wizard in recorded magical history has ever possessed. I suspect, Harry, that you'll find the experience far more valuable and enjoyable than you currently anticipate."
As if summoned by the conversation about Harry's uncertain future, Dobby appeared beside the hospital bed with the soft '*pop*' of house-elf apparition, carrying an elaborate tea service that smelled absolutely divine and looked far more sophisticated than anything typically produced by the Hogwarts kitchens. The little elf's tennis ball-sized eyes were bright with excitement, and his makeshift outfit had been supplemented by what appeared to be a small French flag pinned to his chest.
"Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby exclaimed with obvious delight, setting down the loaded tray with practiced efficiency while practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Dobby has been hearing about the magnificent plans for summer travel! Dobby is being very excited to see France and meet the fire-bird ladies who will teach Harry Potter Sir proper control of his dragon abilities!"
"Fire-bird ladies?" Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow at the description while noting that the tea service included enough food for at least four people, all of it smelling spectacular.
"Veela," Dobby explained matter-of-factly, as if this should have been obvious. "House-elves are knowing much about magical creatures, Harry Potter Sir. Veela are being bird-people who are using fire-magic and are very beautiful but also very dangerous when they are becoming angry. Dobby is thinking they will be making excellent teachers for Harry Potter Sir's new dragon abilities, yes indeed."
"You want to come to France with me?" Harry asked, genuinely touched by the house-elf's unwavering loyalty despite everything that had happened over the past week.
"Of course Dobby is wanting to come!" the elf replied as if this was the most obvious thing in the entire world. "Dobby is being Harry Potter Sir's friend and employee now, is he not? Where Harry Potter Sir is going, Dobby is going too. Besides," he added with a sly grin that somehow managed to be both innocent and conspiratorial, "French cooking is being supposed to be the most excellent in all the world, and Dobby would very much like to be learning new recipes for Harry Potter Sir's enhanced appetite and proper dragon nutrition."
"Enhanced appetite?" Harry looked down at the elaborate spread Dobby had prepared and realized it would have been appropriate for feeding a small family. "Is my appetite really that dramatically different now?"
"Mr. Potter has been consuming approximately three times his normal caloric intake since his transformation began," Madam Pomfrey interjected from outside the ward, consulting what appeared to be detailed nutritional charts. "Your enhanced metabolism requires significantly more fuel to maintain your increased magical output, accelerated healing abilities, and improved physical capabilities. It's actually quite remarkable from a physiological standpoint."
"So I'm going to be expensive to feed," Harry observed with the kind of wry humor that had helped him survive impossible situations for years. "Wonderful. I'm sure the Delacours will be thrilled to discover they've agreed to host a teenager who eats like a small army."
"Dobby is not minding!" the house-elf declared with fierce loyalty. "Dobby is very much liking to cook for people who are properly appreciating good food! And dragon-people are needing proper nutrition for healthy magical development, this is being very important!"
From outside the ward, Harry heard the distinctive sound of the Weasley twins breaking into identical expressions of barely contained mischief.
"Harry," Fred called out with the kind of innocent tone that always preceded their most outrageous observations, "you do realize what you're about to do, don't you?"
"You're going to spend the entire summer in France..." George continued with matching innocence.
"...with a house-elf who's excited about French cooking..."
"...learning advanced magic from a family of supernaturally beautiful bird-women..."
"...while developing unprecedented supernatural abilities..."
"...and getting paid five Galleons a week for the privilege," they finished in perfect unison, their identical grins suggesting they found this situation absolutely hilarious.
"Honestly," Fred added with mock indignation that didn't fool anyone, "some people have all the luck in the world."
"It's disgustingly unfair," George agreed with theatrical despair. "Here we are, stuck spending the summer helping Mum with household chores and minding the shop, while Harry gets to live like magical royalty in the French Riviera."
Despite everything—the magical quarantine, the uncertain future, the prospect of spending months away from his friends while learning to control abilities that no one fully understood—Harry found himself laughing. The sound carried clearly through the ward barrier, rich and warm and completely genuine, filling the hospital wing with the kind of joy that had been notably absent for the past week.
"You know what?" Harry said, looking around at the faces of the people who had somehow become his chosen family despite all the chaos and danger that seemed to follow him wherever he went. "Maybe this won't be nearly as terrible as I'm imagining."
"That's the proper spirit," Dumbledore said with evident approval, rising from his conjured chair with the fluid grace of someone preparing to set important plans into motion. "Now then, I suggest you get adequate rest tonight, Harry. Tomorrow promises to be quite eventful indeed, and you'll want to be at your absolute best when you meet the Delacours for the first time."
As his friends began their reluctant preparations to leave—visiting hours were nearly over, and Madam Pomfrey had become increasingly strict about proper rest schedules for patients with unprecedented magical conditions—Harry settled back against his pillows and tried to imagine what the next few months might actually bring.
France. A family of Veela. Learning to control abilities that defied every known principle of magical theory. And somewhere in the midst of it all, hopefully finding a way to become someone who could safely be around the people he cared about without accidentally compelling them to reorganize their entire lives around serving his needs.
It wasn't exactly the summer vacation he'd ever imagined for himself, but then again, absolutely nothing about his life had ever been conventional or predictable. At least this time, the adventure seemed to be focused on personal growth and education rather than fighting for survival against impossible odds.
And as Dobby bustled around the ward with obvious excitement, preparing everything for tomorrow's journey while humming what sounded suspiciously like "La Marseillaise" in his distinctive squeaky voice, Harry allowed himself to feel something he hadn't experienced in months: genuine optimism about whatever the future might hold.
Whatever challenges lay ahead in France, he wouldn't be facing them alone. And for someone who had spent most of his life feeling fundamentally isolated from the world around him, that simple fact made all the difference in the world.
---
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