The morning of the introduction tea dawned with the kind of suspiciously perfect English summer weather that made Harry wonder if someone had bribed the local weather spirits—or possibly threatened them with paperwork. The sky was that aggressive shade of blue that only showed up in children's drawings and tourist brochures, the air smelled like freshly cut grass instead of its usual bouquet of damp despair and historical regret, and Grimmauld Place—usually hovering somewhere between "reformed pure-blood dungeon" and "haunted library with commitment issues"—had somehow transformed into something resembling an actual welcoming home.
It was deeply unsettling.
Kreacher had gone full militant Martha Stewart overnight. The silverware gleamed like it had been personally buffed by house-elf sergeants with military precision and possibly some kind of magical obsessive-compulsive disorder. The pastries looked good enough to be classified as an international incident—the kind that started trade negotiations and diplomatic marriages. And there was so much tea on display that even Professor McGonagall would've paused, adjusted her spectacles, and murmured something Scottish and disapproving about "a bit much."
The portraits had been temporarily relocated—probably through a combination of strategic threats and Kreacher's newfound talent for making inanimate objects reconsider their life choices. The usual musty smell of "ancient dark magic and poor ventilation" had been replaced with something that actually resembled fresh air, baked goods, and what Harry suspected might be optimism.
It was absolutely terrifying.
Harry, meanwhile, was in front of the mirror for what had to be the seventeenth time—or possibly the twenty-third, he'd lost count somewhere around "does this collar make me look like I'm being strangled by my own anxiety?"—tugging at his robes like a man facing trial by fashion jury.
The robes themselves were nice. Really nice. Sirius had insisted on getting him "proper" ones for important social occasions, which apparently meant "expensive enough that Harry felt guilty breathing near them." They were deep emerald green—"brings out your eyes, and makes you look less like a traumatized orphan and more like a mysterious protagonist," Sirius had said—with subtle silver threading that caught the light when he moved. Perfectly tailored, perfectly appropriate, and perfectly making Harry feel like an imposter playing dress-up.
"You look fine," Drakor said from the back of his mind, his voice carrying the cosmic equivalent of a long-suffering sigh that had probably started somewhere around the dawn of time and was still ongoing. "Stop fidgeting before I vaporize that mirror out of pity for both of us."
Harry scowled at his reflection, which scowled back with equal concern. "They're *French*, Drakor. *French!* They invented fashion, art, sophisticated wine criticism, and the smug judgmental eyebrow raise that can reduce grown men to tears. What if they take one look at me and decide I'm too... British?"
"Too British?" Drakor repeated, and Harry could practically feel the entity doing the mental equivalent of pinching the bridge of a nose he didn't technically have. "You mean polite, emotionally repressed, and allergic to admitting when you're nervous? With a side of self-deprecating humor and an inexplicable fondness for apologizing when other people bump into you?"
"*Exactly!*" Harry said, tugging at his collar again. It felt tight. Was it supposed to feel this tight? Maybe he was having an allergic reaction to social situations. That was a thing, right?
"Harry, you literally ate Dementors a few months ago," Drakor said, his tone so dry it could've been used as kindling for spontaneous combustion. "I'm fairly certain you can survive a conversation about scones and whether the weather is, indeed, quite nice today."
Harry glared at his reflection, which was now also glaring at the entity living in his brain. "It's not just about scones. What if they think I'm—"
"Unsophisticated? Unrefined?" Drakor cut in, sounding like he was reading from a list he'd been mentally compiling for the past hour. "Culturally inadequate? A walking stereotype of British awkwardness wrapped in tragic backstory with a side of heroic destiny? My dear cosmic host, you are Harry Potter—Chosen One, savior of the wizarding world, destroyer of Dark Lords, partner of a being who eats Dementors for breakfast and burps existential dread. If they can't handle that level of concentrated awesome, no amount of French perfume and fancy cheese will fix their fundamentally flawed taste."
"That's not exactly comforting," Harry muttered, trying to smooth down hair that had been engaged in active rebellion against gravity since birth.
"It should be," Drakor said, sounding so smug Harry could practically see the metaphorical chest-puffing. "Think about it logically—which I know is difficult for you at peak anxiety, but try. Either they like you for who you are, or they expose themselves as shallow snobs who can't appreciate the man who personally redefined the term 'trauma with style.' Either way, you win. You get authentic relationships or you get ammunition for witty comebacks later. It's a flawless system."
"You're terrible at pep talks," Harry said, abandoning his hair as a lost cause.
"I prefer to think of it as cosmic honesty with flair," Drakor replied, radiating satisfaction like a particularly smug cat. "Now stop fussing over your appearance like a peacock with stage fright. The only thing worse than being underdressed is being late because you were too busy having an existential crisis about whether your collar is sitting at the precisely correct angle. And if I have to listen to you rearrange your wardrobe one more time, I will summon an interdimensional storm just to speed things along. It will be very dramatic, probably damage some of Kreacher's nice work, and you'll have to explain to everyone why there's ectoplasm on the tea sandwiches."
Harry gave his reflection one last grim look, the kind soldiers probably gave themselves before charging into battle—if the battle involved tea and potential cultural judgment instead of actual violence. "You think Fleur's family will like me?"
There was a pause. Not a long pause, but definitely a pause where Drakor was clearly considering how to phrase whatever cosmic wisdom he was about to dispense.
"Harry," Drakor said finally, his tone shifting to something that was almost—*almost*—gentle. "You once convinced a Hungarian Horntail not to roast you alive during a tournament that was literally designed to kill teenagers for entertainment. You've faced Dark Lords, Dementors, and the British Ministry's bureaucratic incompetence. You'll be fine. Worst-case scenario, you charm them with your tragic hero routine and that adorable British awkwardness that makes you look like a confused puppy who accidentally saved the world."
"Adorable?" Harry repeated, feeling his face heat up.
"Yes. Like a particularly earnest golden retriever who somehow disarmed Voldemort through sheer determined niceness and a concerning lack of self-preservation instinct."
Before Harry could formulate a properly indignant response, Sirius's voice floated up from downstairs, bright with the kind of smug amusement only an older relative could weaponize with such precision.
"Harry! They're here! And before you start hyperventilating again and questioning every life choice that led to this moment, I want you to know they look like perfectly normal people—not terrifying French aristocrats plotting to judge your table manners and find you wanting! You can stop your existential crisis about cultural inadequacy now! Also, Kreacher says if you don't get down here soon, he's going to assume you're having some kind of fashion emergency and come help, and we both know how that ended last time!"
*Fantastic.* Sirius had clearly decided this was comedy hour, and Harry was the unwitting star of his one-man show titled "Let's Embarrass Harry Potter: A Retrospective."
*Normal people,* Harry thought, straightening his robes for what he promised himself was the absolute final time—the eighteenth, okay fine, nineteenth time. *I can handle normal people. Probably. Maybe. Oh god, what if I can't?*
"Confidence is key," Drakor said in his cosmic, too-calm tone that suggested he was either very wise or very tired. Possibly both. "Also chocolate. But since you consumed what I consider an acceptable pre-battle offering this morning—and yes, I'm calling it a battle because your stress levels suggest you're treating it as such—your blood sugar is optimal for complex social interaction. Scientifically speaking, you're as ready as you'll ever be."
"Comforting," Harry muttered, heading for the door before Sirius could yell something even more embarrassing. "Nothing says emotional stability like being told you're nutritionally optimized for meeting the in-laws. That's definitely going to help my anxiety."
"I live to serve," Drakor said dryly. "Now stop stalling and go downstairs before I manifest and drag you there myself. It would be very dramatic and probably traumatize the guests, but at least you'd be on time."
Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders in what he hoped looked like confidence rather than "teenager facing his doom," and headed downstairs.
Grimmauld Place didn't even look like itself anymore. The transformation was so complete that Harry half-wondered if Kreacher had somehow swapped the entire building with a different, less haunted version while he wasn't looking. The house-elf had gone full diplomatic decorator, somehow turning "dark magic fortress with generational trauma" into "respectable upper-class home where no one has ever stored cursed furniture or screamed about blood purity."
The entrance hall actually looked inviting, which was deeply wrong on multiple levels. The usual oppressive gloom had been replaced with warm lighting that didn't make you feel like you were about to be murdered by your own ancestry. Fresh flowers—*actual flowers*, not the wilted, probably-cursed kind—sat in vases that gleamed with fresh polish. The stairs looked clean enough to eat off, though Harry sincerely hoped no one would test that theory.
The portraits were conspicuously absent—probably because Kreacher had threatened them into temporary exile in some dusty corner where they could scream about blood purity to each other without an audience. The usual musty smell of "ancient magic and poor life choices" had been thoroughly vanquished, replaced with the warm, welcoming scent of freshly baked pastries that hit Harry like a well-aimed Cheering Charm.
And then he saw the Delacours, and his brain promptly short-circuited.
Sebastian Delacour looked like someone had taken the concept of "distinguished diplomat" and crafted it into human form with meticulous attention to detail. He was tall—not intimidatingly so, but enough to have presence—with silver threading elegantly through dark hair at his temples in that way that made some men look old and tired but somehow made him look like he'd earned his wisdom through interesting experiences rather than suffering. His robes were impeccably tailored, deep navy with subtle embroidery that probably cost more than everything Harry owned, and he had the kind of posture that suggested he could host an elegant soirée and also win a duel before dessert without breaking a sweat.
His eyes were kind though, Harry noticed with some relief. Warm and intelligent, with laugh lines at the corners that suggested he smiled often and meant it.
Apolline Delacour was exactly what you'd expect from someone who had Veela blood—and completely different at the same time, in a way that made Harry's brain struggle to process the contradiction. Sure, she was stunning enough to make Aphrodite reconsider her entire skincare routine and possibly file a complaint with the universe about unfair beauty distribution. Her silver-blonde hair fell in perfect waves that probably didn't require any actual effort because genetics were just that unfair, and she moved with an unconscious grace that made everyone else look like they were stumbling through life in comparison.
But there was *warmth* in her expression, genuine and immediate, the kind that said she actually *saw* people instead of collecting admirers like some kind of beauty-based Pokémon collection. Her smile reached her eyes—which were the same striking blue as her daughters'—and she was looking around Grimmauld Place with what seemed like genuine interest rather than the polite tolerance of someone enduring a social obligation.
And then there were the daughters.
Fleur Delacour, age fourteen, was... yeah. She was *a lot*. Not in the overwhelming "blast-you-with-Veela-magic-until-you-make-an-idiot-of-yourself" way that Harry had vaguely worried about, just... *striking* in a way that made his brain go temporarily offline and forget how to form coherent sentences.
Her silver-blonde hair—clearly a family trait—practically glowed in the warm lighting, falling in soft waves that probably violated some kind of natural law about how hair was supposed to behave. Her blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, carrying the kind of old-soul awareness that made her seem older than fourteen—like she'd already seen through most of life's nonsense and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up. She wore elegant robes in pale blue that somehow managed to look both sophisticated and age-appropriate, and she had the kind of natural confidence that made Harry suddenly, acutely aware of every awkward thing he'd ever done in his entire life.
She was studying the entrance hall with undisguised curiosity, taking in the details with the focused attention of someone who actually paid attention to the world around her. Not judging, Harry realized with relief. Just... *interested.*
And then there was Gabrielle, age nine, who was basically a sentient ball of sunshine having the best day of her life and determined to make sure everyone knew it. Her blonde curls bounced with enough energy to power a small city, her grin could've lit up Diagon Alley during a blackout, and she looked exactly one good squeal away from spontaneously combusting from pure excitement.
She spotted Harry immediately, and her entire face lit up like he was her favorite celebrity and Christmas morning all rolled into one overwhelmingly enthusiastic package.
"'Arry Potter!" she squealed, and somehow his name came out sounding exotic and heroic, like she was announcing a celebrity gladiator entering the arena for the entertainment of thousands. She actually *bounced* on her toes. "*Finally!* It is *so* wonderful to meet you! Cousin Soleil 'as told us *so many* interesting things about you—and your cosmic entity partnership! Is it true 'e writes restaurant reviews? Does 'e really eat Dementors? Can 'e speak French? 'Ow many languages does 'e know? Do you 'ave to share food with 'im, or does 'e just eat fear? Does—"
"Gabrielle, *ma chérie,*" Sebastian said with the long-suffering patience of a man who'd had this exact conversation multiple times before, "we discussed appropriate introductions, *oui?* Perhaps allow Monsieur Potter to introduce himself and catch his breath before launching into rapid-fire questions about cosmic partnerships and the dietary habits of interdimensional entities?"
"*Oh!*" Gabrielle gasped dramatically, pressing both hands to her mouth like she'd just committed a terrible social faux pas. Her eyes were still sparkling though, completely unrepentant. "I am *so* sorry! Maman says I talk too much when I am excited, and I am *very* excited! Let me start again, properly!" She straightened up, clearly trying for formal and achieving something closer to "adorable attempt at sophistication." "I am Gabrielle Delacour, and I am *very* pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Potter. Thank you for inviting us to your 'ome for tea and conversation about systematic justice reform and also possibly Dementor-eating!"
The words were impressively fancy for a nine-year-old, but the continued bouncing made it about as formal as a golden retriever puppy greeting a celebrity. Her attempt at a proper curtsy looked more like she was about to launch into interpretive dance.
Harry couldn't help it—he grinned, feeling some of his anxiety dissolve like sugar in tea. "Just Harry, please," he said warmly. "All of you—seriously, Monsieur Potter makes me feel like I should be wearing a monocle and discussing stock portfolios. And it's great to meet you all. Thank you for coming—I know Soleil said you were visiting from France, so I really appreciate you making time for tea with a random British guy and his cosmic tagalong who has *opinions* about everything."
"*Opinions?*" Drakor said in the back of his mind, radiating offense. "I prefer to call them 'accurate assessments delivered with devastating wit.' There's a difference."
"The pleasure is entirely ours," Sebastian said warmly, extending his hand for a firm shake that felt genuinely friendly rather than performatively polite. "Soleil speaks very highly of you, Harry. We were quite curious to meet someone whose life apparently involves both 'systematic justice reform'—" his eyes twinkled with amusement, "—and an... entity of unique cosmic origin. I confess, the combination is not one we encounter often in diplomatic circles."
"Or *ever,*" Apolline added with a soft laugh, her accent making even casual words sound elegant. "You 'ave managed to make quite an impression on our cousin, which is no small feat. She is... 'ow do you say... not easily impressed by teenage boys, even famous ones."
"Especially famous ones," Fleur added dryly, speaking for the first time. Her voice was slightly lower than Gabrielle's enthusiastic soprano, with a thoughtful quality that suggested she chose her words carefully. "Soleil 'as very little patience for people who coast on reputation instead of actual competence. That she speaks well of you says much."
Harry felt his face heat up slightly. "Well, uh, I have a lot of help. Mostly from Drakor, who keeps me from accidentally starting political incidents through ignorance and poor decision-making. He's like... a very sarcastic cosmic GPS for navigating magical society. With more insults and better taste in chocolate."
"*Finally,*" Drakor purred, "*someone* acknowledges my contributions to this partnership. I'm not just decorative muscle and devastating good looks, you know."
"Also cosmic entity!" Gabrielle said helpfully, practically vibrating with contained excitement. "We 'ave never met someone who shares body with one before! Is it true 'e eats Dementors *and* writes restaurant reviews? Does 'e rate them? Like, 'this Dementor was fresh but lacking in existential depth, three stars, would not recommend for dessert'?"
Every adult in the room paused.
Sirius made a sound like he was choking on suppressed laughter.
Fleur's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
And Drakor... Drakor *preened.*
"The small one understands me," he announced with deep satisfaction, his cosmic voice resonating with approval. "Finally, *finally,* a human child with proper priorities—gastronomy *and* cosmic excellence. She shall inherit the earth, or at least get first pick of desserts."
Harry snorted, trying not to laugh. "It's true. Drakor has a very refined palate for existential horror. He says Dementors are 'a bit overrated as a fear-based delicacy, but decent for a midnight snack if you're not picky about quality.' He's basically a food critic, except his reviews are about soul-sucking monsters instead of restaurants."
"Though I *do* review restaurants too," Drakor added helpfully. "My critique of that French bakery last week was *scathing.* Their croissants were adequate at best, and don't even get me started on their éclair filling consistency. A travesty against pastry arts."
"He made the baker cry," Harry said conversationally. "I had to apologize for ten minutes."
"The truth hurts," Drakor said without remorse. "If he wanted gentle lies instead of honest feedback, he should have chosen a less demanding profession. Like professional mediocrity consultant."
Fleur's eyes gleamed with something that might have been fascination or possibly the beginning of a beautiful friendship based on mutual appreciation for devastating honesty. "Drakor," she repeated, and Harry was ninety percent sure she just made the name sound fancier somehow, like she'd added three extra syllables and a hint of mystery. "That is 'is name? Your partner?"
"My cosmic partner, occasional fashion critic, professional commentator on my life choices, and full-time reminder that I apparently can't be trusted to make decisions without supervision," Harry said dryly, ticking items off on his fingers. "He's—well, he's *a lot.* But in a good way. Mostly. Sometimes. When he's not threatening to vaporize things for comedic effect."
"*Mostly?*" Drakor said, wounded pride dripping from every syllable. "*Excuse* you, I am a paragon of competence and cosmic charm wrapped in devastating wit. A model partner in every conceivable way. You, however, once wore mismatched socks to a Ministry gala—*to a Ministry gala, Harry!*—and tried to tell people it was a political statement about non-conformity."
"It *was* a political statement!" Harry protested.
"It was a *laundry emergency,*" Drakor corrected witheringly. "There's a difference. One is brave social commentary, the other is you discovering your house-elf had hidden your good socks to wash them and panicking."
"See what I mean?" Harry said to the Delacours, gesturing vaguely at the air. "This is my life now. Constant commentary. He's like having a very sarcastic narrator following me around, except the narrator lives in my head and has *opinions* about my sock choices."
Sebastian chuckled, a warm sound that made some of the remaining tension in Harry's shoulders ease. "It sounds like you two have... quite the dynamic."
"We prefer to think of it as 'functional chaos with good intentions,'" Harry said.
"I prefer to think of it as 'I keep Harry alive and moderately respectable while he stumbles through life like a protagonist who didn't read the manual,'" Drakor countered. "It's exhausting but occasionally entertaining."
Apolline's eyes were sparkling with barely contained amusement. "You truly do speak back and forth like an old married couple. It is quite endearing, really."
"Married couple?" both Harry and Drakor said simultaneously, in identical tones of horror.
"We prefer 'dysfunctional roommates with shared body and cosmic destiny,'" Drakor said quickly.
"Or 'partners in systematic justice reform who happen to share the same physical space,'" Harry added.
"Anything but married," they finished in unison, and then paused.
"See, this is why people make that comparison," Sirius said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "You two finish each other's sentences and bicker like you've been together for decades. It's adorable."
"*Sirius,*" Harry hissed, feeling his face heat up.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking!" Sirius said, radiating innocence he absolutely didn't deserve.
Gabrielle was whispering excitedly to Fleur in rapid French—Harry caught something about "like Maman and Papa" and "adorable"—while Fleur tried very hard to keep a straight face and failed spectacularly.
"Right," Sebastian said, clearly taking pity on Harry's mortification. "Perhaps we should adjourn to somewhere more comfortable? I believe Lord Black mentioned tea, and I confess I'm quite curious to see what your house-elf has prepared. Soleil mentioned he's quite... dedicated to his craft?"
"That's one way to put it," Sirius said cheerfully. "Kreacher approaches hosting like it's competitive warfare against the forces of inadequate hospitality. He's been preparing for this since yesterday. I think he alphabetized the pastries."
"He *what?*" Harry said.
"By flavor profile and expected appeal to French sensibilities," Sirius clarified. "He has charts. There are *charts,* Harry. Color-coded ones."
"Oh no," Harry muttered.
"Oh *yes,*" Drakor said with deep satisfaction. "Finally, a mortal who understands that food is serious business requiring proper planning and strategic deployment."
"I'm surrounded by food fanatics," Harry said to no one in particular.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Drakor replied. "May I remind you that my food fanaticism has resulted in you actually eating properly for the first time in your life? You're welcome."
"Shall we?" Apolline said graciously, clearly amused by the entire exchange. "I confess I am quite eager to meet this dedicated house-elf and see what 'competitive hospitality' looks like in practice."
"Prepare yourself," Sirius warned cheerfully. "It's like afternoon tea met a military operation and they had a very organized baby."
They made their way to the sitting room—which had undergone an equally dramatic transformation and now looked like something out of a magazine about "Elegant British Homes That Definitely Don't Have Dark Magic in the Basement." The furniture gleamed, the windows sparkled, and there were actual *cushions* that looked comfortable rather than cursed.
And the tea service...
The tea service looked like it had been prepared by someone who'd taken "impress the French" as a personal challenge and decided to go absolutely overboard in the best possible way.
The main table practically *groaned* under the weight of elegant china, gleaming silverware, and enough food to feed a small army. Or one cosmic dragon with sophisticated taste. The pastries were arranged with geometric precision—delicate éclairs, perfect macarons in a rainbow of colors, tiny fruit tarts that looked like edible art, croissants that were so flaky and golden they seemed to glow, and what appeared to be at least seven different types of petit fours arranged by color gradient.
The tea sandwiches were cut into perfect triangles and arranged in patterns that might have been architectural diagrams. Cucumber, salmon, egg salad, roast beef—all precisely organized with garnishes that looked almost too pretty to eat.
And the chocolate...
Oh, the chocolate.
There were truffles dusted with cocoa powder, chocolate-covered strawberries arranged in a spiral, dark chocolate coins that caught the light, milk chocolate seashells filled with ganache, a chocolate torte that belonged in a museum, and what appeared to be a custom chocolate sculpture of... was that a dragon?
"Is that a chocolate dragon?" Harry asked faintly.
"Kreacher may have gotten slightly carried away," Sirius admitted. "I tried to tell him subtle was fine, but he looked at me like I'd suggested serving stale bread and disappointment."
"It is *magnificent,*" Gabrielle breathed, eyes wide. "May we take picture to show grand-mère? She will not believe it!"
"Oh god, there are pictures," Harry muttered.
"Visual documentation of my influence on this household's standards," Drakor said proudly. "As it should be."
The Delacours settled onto the main sofa—which was actually comfortable now, a miracle in itself—while Harry and Sirius took the chairs nearby. Drakor maintained his position in the back of Harry's mind, a satisfied presence radiating approval at the chocolate display.
And then, right on cue—because Kreacher had clearly been waiting for maximum dramatic impact—there was a soft *pop* and the house-elf appeared.
He was wearing what could only be described as his "formal battle uniform"—a pristine tea towel that looked like it had been ironed with religious devotion, and an expression of such fierce pride it could have intimidated a dragon. Possibly even Drakor.
"Master 'Arry's *distinguished* guests!" he announced, his voice carrying through the room like a royal proclamation. "Kreacher 'as prepared traditional English tea service—with French pastries for international 'armony and mutual appreciation of superior culinary craftsmanship! Kreacher 'as consulted seven cookbooks, three French culinary journals, and one very cranky portrait of a French chef who would not stop criticizing Kreacher's macaron technique until Kreacher threatened to turn 'im to face the wall!"
"Kreacher," Harry said weakly, "you didn't have to threaten portraits—"
"Portrait deserved it," Kreacher said firmly. "Implied Kreacher's ganache was too thick. Too thick! Kreacher's ganache is *perfect.* Master 'Arry's cosmic partner agrees, yes?"
"Absolutely perfect," Drakor confirmed. "That portrait clearly had no appreciation for proper chocolate consistency. You were right to threaten him."
"See?" Kreacher said, vindicated. "Cosmic entity knows good chocolate when 'e tastes it!"
Apolline leaned forward, her expression glowing with genuine delight that made Kreacher stand up even straighter. "This is absolutely beautiful, Kreacher. Truly exceptional work. Thank you so much for your care and attention to our tastes—you 'ave clearly gone to extraordinary effort, and it shows in every detail."
Kreacher practically *preened,* his chest puffing up like he'd just won the House-Elf Olympics, the World Cup, and possibly been nominated for sainthood. "Kreacher *thanks* Madame Delacour for recognizing superior domestic artistry!" he said, voice quavering slightly with emotion. "Kreacher 'as worked very 'ard to bring honor to Master 'Arry's 'ouse! French guests deserve only the finest service!"
"You've certainly achieved that," Sebastian said warmly. "This is extraordinary hospitality. Please accept our sincere gratitude."
Kreacher bowed so low he almost touched the floor, then vanished with a *pop* of such satisfied pride that it practically echoed in the room.
"Well," Sirius said, grinning as he reached for the teapot, "I told you, Harry. 'Reformed Dark Fortress' can absolutely do hospitality when properly motivated. All it takes is French guests, a cosmic dragon with strong opinions about chocolate, and a house-elf who treats food preparation like competitive warfare against the forces of inadequacy."
"And threats against judgemental portraits," Harry added, eyeing the chocolate dragon with a mixture of awe and concern. "That too, apparently."
"The portrait had it coming," Drakor said unrepentantly. "You don't criticize an artist's ganache consistency without consequences. It's cosmic law."
"Pretty sure it's not," Harry muttered.
"It *should* be," Drakor countered.
Fleur was studying the chocolate dragon with an expression somewhere between admiration and scientific curiosity. "The detail work is remarkable," she said, leaning closer. "The scales are individually defined. This must 'ave taken 'ours."
"Probably all night," Sirius said cheerfully, pouring tea with the practiced ease of someone who'd had lots of practice pretending to be a responsible adult. "I heard muttering and the occasional angry pop coming from the kitchen around two in the morning. Decided not to investigate—seemed safer to let Kreacher work his magic unsupervised."
"Wise decision," Drakor agreed. "Never interrupt an artist in the throes of creative passion. Especially when that artist has access to magic and strong opinions about chocolate sculpture aesthetics."
Harry took the teacup Sirius handed him—delicate china with gold trim that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent—and tried not to think about how many rules of hospitality he was probably violating just by breathing wrong. "So, uh, just to clarify—if I accidentally use the wrong fork or something, please tell me before Drakor notices and provides running commentary. He has *opinions* about silverware."
"It's not opinions, it's basic civilization," Drakor protested. "There's a *system,* Harry. The silverware is organized by course for a *reason.* You can't just grab random utensils like you're playing cutlery roulette!"
"See?" Harry said to the Delacours, gesturing helplessly. "This is what I deal with. Constant corrections about things I didn't even know were things."
"To be fair," Sebastian said with a smile, reaching for a pastry, "silverware protocols can be unnecessarily complicated. I've attended formal dinners where the sheer number of forks was clearly just showing off. No one needs seven different forks for one meal."
"*Thank you!*" Harry said, feeling vindicated.
"However," Sebastian continued, eyes twinkling, "there *are* some basic conventions that help navigate formal situations more smoothly."
"Oh come on," Harry groaned.
"'E is right, though," Fleur said, selecting a macaron with careful precision. "The rules are mostly nonsense, but knowing them 'elps you... 'ow do you say... not stand out for wrong reasons? You can be interesting for being yourself, not for using salad fork for fish course."
"This is a conspiracy," Harry muttered. "Everyone's ganging up on my lack of formal education."
"Not ganging up," Apolline said gently, her smile warm. "Simply offering to 'elp you navigate the—'ow did you put it earlier?—'systematic warfare of British pure-blood society'? These things are much easier when you 'ave people willing to explain without judgment."
"Unlike certain portraits," Drakor added, "who judge first and explain never. Speaking of which, that macaron Fleur is eating looks acceptable. Kreacher's technique has improved significantly. I may only insult his work three times instead of five when I review this tea."
"How generous of you," Harry said dryly.
"I contain multitudes," Drakor replied. "Specifically multitudes of sophisticated taste and aesthetic standards."
Gabrielle, who had been remarkably patient for approximately thirty seconds, finally couldn't contain herself anymore. "May I 'ave the chocolate dragon?" she asked, bouncing slightly. "Or is it art that we are not supposed to eat? Because it would be very sad if it is art, but I would understand. It is very beautiful."
"Eat it," Kreacher's voice came from somewhere—either the kitchen or possibly a vent; it was hard to tell. "Master 'Arry's small guest should enjoy Kreacher's work! Chocolate is meant to be eaten, not just admired! Though admiring first is also acceptable!"
"Permission granted by the artist," Sirius said, grinning. "Help yourself, Gabrielle. Though I warn you, it's probably enough chocolate to put you into a sugar coma until next Tuesday."
"Worth it," Gabrielle said solemnly, reverently reaching for the dragon.
"A child after my own heart," Drakor said approvingly. "Risk-taking in pursuit of quality chocolate. This is how civilizations advance."
---
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