A Wizard Song

Chapter 2 - Ambassadors For Ze Goodwill

By Telanu

       

If Harry had expected the day to crawl by until dinner arrived, he was pleasantly surprised. Hagrid did indeed send him to Professor Sprout to help with setting up the greenhouses, and it was surprisingly easy to lose himself in the manual labour: potting, repotting, digging, watering and, in one unusual case, setting fire to.

But Harry couldn't help but wonder if maybe Hagrid had an ulterior motive for sending him off to work with someone else. Before going to meet Professor Sprout, he'd thanked the half-giant for his birthday present -- a photo album of various monsters -- and asked where Hagrid had gone to get all the pictures. Hagrid had turned bright red under his beard, mumbled something about "Oh, jus' here an' there," and quickly shooed Harry away to the greenhouse. Thinking about this as he dug a new hole for a Screaming Shrub, Harry had to wonder what had caused that blush.

And that was how he passed the afternoon, more or less. When he caught his mind wandering back to Snape, Harry determinedly forced it back onto the task at hand. Herbology really could be quite dangerous if you weren't paying attention, and he had no wish to end up like Cyril Lope, a careless seventh-year who'd had his right hand bitten off by a Man-Eating Flytrap last term. It was just lucky Cyril was left-handed and had only wanted a desk job in the Ministry. Losing a hand would definitely complicate Harry's future plans, which, granted, weren't exactly concrete, but in his dreams always involved Quidditch.

At six o'clock Professor Sprout called a halt and thanked him kindly for his help. They trudged together back to the castle, covered in mud, leaves and various plant secretions. Harry was a bit embarrassed to find he wouldn't have time for a shower before dinner, and had to content himself with quickly washing his face and hands in a lavatory, wiping off his clothes as best he could. But Professor Sprout cheerfully insisted that he could sit next to her at table, and since she was even dirtier than he was, Harry was bound to look good in comparison.

By the time they sat down, only three other seats at the staff table were empty. Snape and Hagrid were nowhere in sight, and Harry supposed the third chair must belong to whoever the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was, since he knew everybody else. He felt very odd sitting here without Ron or Hermione at his side; he'd sat at the staff table every Christmas, but never without somebody else his own age. But Dumbledore smiled kindly at him. "I trust your afternoon went well, Harry?"

"Er...yes, sir," Harry said, brushing awkwardly at his dirty robes again. "Thank you, sir."

"We got so much done," Sprout beamed. "Thanks ever so, Albus."

"Ah, thank Hagrid, not me. He was the one responsible for seeing that Mr. Potter spent his afternoon productively." Dumbledore smiled again, and once more Harry couldn't help noticing the dark rings under the bright blue eyes.

Sprout looked around the table. "Where is Hagrid, by the by?"

"He and Severus have begged off this evening; they both said -- "

"I am sorry I'm late!"

At the sound of that voice, musical and somehow familiar, Harry looked up from his plate to the doors of the Great Hall. A lithe figure, dressed in long blue robes, was hurrying up the main aisle to the table. It was with utter shock that Harry recognised her.

"F-fleur?" he stammered as the former Beauxbatons champion took her place at the table on Dumbledore's left. "Fleur Delacour?"

The young woman looked at him and arched one perfect eyebrow. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Professor Delacour if you please, Harry," he said.

Harry's jaw dropped, along with his fork. "Professor?"

Fleur tossed her shining hair back over her shoulder and gave him a dazzling smile. "Allo, 'Arry. 'Ow nice to see you again."

Harry stared at Dumbledore in sheer disbelief. "She's...she's the new..."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, yes," Dumbledore inserted cheerfully. "Professor Delacour graduated at the top of her class two years ago, and we are delighted that she has consented to come and work with us at Hogwarts. Especially since it's such a change from what she's used to."

"Zese eating hours," Professor Fleur said disdainfully. "Zey are so strange. You eat so early here, Alboos. In France our dinnair is at nine."

Dumbledore smiled again. "I am certain you will adjust to all our little idiosyncrasies in time, mademoiselle." On his right side, Professor McGonagall gave a small snort, which she quickly covered up by dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

Fleur darted a quick glare at her, before returning her attention to Harry, who still sat as if shell-shocked. "I know 'ow strange it will seem, 'Arry," she said sympathetically, " 'aving someone you once competed against teaching you...'ow close we all became during ze tournament, no? Such good friends. I never zought of us as rivals." Her beautiful eyes softened, becoming misty. "I still think of him, you know. Ze Diggory boy."

Harry suddenly swallowed hard. "So do I," he muttered, and had to look down into his plate for a moment.

"But! You may be sure," Fleur continued, tapping a manicured nail against the table for emphasis, "zat I will be very professional! I will teach you all zat you have need to know. Ze defences were my specialité in school."

"Great," Harry said, forcing a smile. Well, this promised to be...interesting. Last year's Defence professor had been a rather lacklustre little man named Harum Worthie, whose slight stutter had reminded Harry of Professor Quirell to an uncomfortable degree. But at least he hadn't tried to kill Harry, or use him for a publicity vehicle, or even turned into a werewolf. His lessons had been mundane, by-the-book and perfectly boring. Harry couldn't say he had learned a lot, but he hadn't lost any skin either.

And now Professor Worthie was gone, and in his place was Fl -- Professor Delacour. Harry suddenly wondered what Ron would think and, as an extension of that, Hermione. Especially now that they were...This time, Harry's smile was genuine. Interesting, indeed. Then he noticed that the part-veela-cum-professor was still looking at him expectantly, perhaps wondering at his smile, and he quickly cleared his throat. "Um...how's your little sister, Professor?" was the first thing that popped into his mind to say.

He was rewarded with another blinding smile. "You 'ave remembered Gabrielle! She will be so thrilled!" Fleur winked at Harry. "She 'as never forgotten ze brave young man who pulled her out of ze lake, you know...I believe she has, what do you say, a little 'crush' on you, ever since that day..."

Harry looked back into his plate again, feeling his face turn red. Great. First Ginny and now Gabrielle Delacour. Did he give off some kind of 'little-sister' vibe? Was there any way he could exchange it for some other kind? Like, say, maybe...

"By ze way," Fleur added casually, taking a sip of the red wine in her goblet, "you are friends wiz 'Agrid, no? Zen you must tell him zat Olympe says 'allo. I 'ave 'ad no time to talk wit' him personally."

Harry blinked and looked up again, feeling rather as if his head were on a string by now. "Um...Olympe?"

"Madame Maxime," Dumbledore explained, mischief lighting his eyes and making the care flee away for a moment. "You remember her, of course?"

"Of course," Harry said hastily, wondering how anybody could possibly forget Madame Maxime.

"She also says," Fleur continued in a rather instructive tone, "to tell 'Agrid again zat she had a wonderful time zis summer."

Harry stared. "This summer?" he asked weakly.

Fleur looked at him as if he were hard of hearing. "But of course! Zey took le Grand Tour for two weeks early zis summer, didn' you know? 'E showed her ze monsters of Europe." Fleur sighed. "'E has done her ze world of good...ah, how I miss her, but she was delighted to find I was coming 'ere." Another wink. "P'raps I shall be a, what do you say, a go-between, 'ey 'Arry?"

Harry was still stunned. Hagrid and Madame Maxime had gone on a trip together this summer? To see monsters?

Well, now he guessed he knew who took those pictures of Hagrid he had in his photo album. "That's...really nice," he managed, trying not to laugh. Dumbledore and McGonagall looked like they were fighting similar urges; he could feel Sprout shaking with repressed giggles next to him; Fleur merely beamed.

"What a year zis will be, Alboos!" she enthused. "Ze Franco-English wizarding relations 'ave never been so good. I am 'ere at 'Ogwarts, and 'Agrid is making close friends wit' Olympe..." she laughed, a light, tinkling noise. "We are ambassadors for ze goodwill, no?"

"Mais oui," Dumbledore replied gallantly, "and very charming ones at that."

As he finished his dinner and headed for the door, Harry reflected that it had been one of the most surreal evenings of his life.

He was almost at the stairway that led to the Fat Lady's portrait when he heard her voice again: " 'Arry! Un moment!" Harry turned to see Fleur rustling toward him, the hem of her robe a lovely blur of blue. She paused at the foot of the stair, laying one delicate hand on the banister and peering up at him almost anxiously. "I wanted to say...I remember your friend. Wit' ze red hair?"

Harry blinked. "You mean Ron?"

"Yes, him." She paused and looked uncomfortable. "Zat dance we had at Christmas. He asked me to it. He...had his little 'crush' on me as well, no?"

Nodding, Harry bit his lip to hide a smile. "Yes, Professor. I remember."

She looked up at him, her expression serious. "Well...you are his friend...you will tell him..." she paused. "You will tell him, if he has any ideas of...such things...that he must not, now?" She drew herself up, looking extremely important. "I am a professor now. It would be most improper! So, if he starts to think, or to say...you will tell him for me, 'Arry?"

Mirth suddenly gone, Harry swallowed and nodded. Most improper. "I'll...I'll tell him. Yes. But, uh, he has a girlfriend now." That was the first time he'd said it out loud. It was surprisingly difficult. "You, um, remember Hermione?"

Fleur gasped. "Wit' ze big hair? Ze girl Viktor...cared for?" Harry nodded again, and her solemn expression turned back into a sunny smile. "But how marvelous! Zat is wonderful, 'Arry. I am so happy for zem both. Well, I shall not keep you any longer..." she looked him up and down with a critical eye and Harry suddenly remembered his filthiness. "You could use ze bath, no?"

And she was gone. Harry turned and hurried up the stairs before somebody else could come along and detain him. Fleur was right, he did need a shower something awful.

And after that...he had someone to see.

       

The water was hot and plentiful in the Hogwarts showers, and Harry luxuriated in the flow. It took only ten minutes to slough the dirt off, and frankly, he could probably have cleaned himself up just fine with a simple spell, but there was something so soothing about hot water. And he needed to be as relaxed as he could get, though by this point the butterflies in his stomach wouldn't be stopped.

As he scrubbed, he thoughtfully took inventory.

He'd grown a bit over the past year. Not like the growth spurt he'd had last summer, but maybe an inch or two. Harry supposed he would have to resign himself to a life of being less than six feet tall, and told himself forcefully it wasn't a bad thing; after all, who'd ever heard of a huge Seeker?

He just wished...he didn't look so much like a child. He wasn't even shaving yet, and that was embarrassing. It seemed as if all the other boys his age were. Even Ron had proudly demonstrated the Shaving Spell his father had taught him that summer.

Granted, he was growing up in bits and pieces. Hair had sprouted at his groin and under his arms, and was finally beginning to make a tentative appearance on his chest as well, soft downy strands that had made his heart leap when they arrived. He was still appallingly thin (when he had lamented this to Hermione one time she'd almost killed him), but he could see the beginnings of muscles sliding under his skin. His face was losing its softness gradually, becoming the leaner, more angular face of a man and fitting with his skinny frame. And not least of all his voice seemed to have finally settled into a deeper register, at least to the point where the Dursleys hadn't been cracking up every time he'd opened his mouth to talk.

But Snape was a grown man. And Harry was a little afraid that when Snape looked at him, the Potions master still saw a child's body. Maybe...maybe that's why he was so reluctant to do anything about the bizarre...whatever it was between them. Did Snape think of Harry as a boy?

Harry ran a thoughtful hand down his narrow chest. If that was so, well, Harry would just have to convince him otherwise, that's all. If he'd learned anything during his time at Hogwarts, it was that life was short. Voldemort was out there somewhere, attacking innocent people's houses and getting ready to do God knows what else. If anything were to happen, Harry didn't want to die without this, without exploring these sudden, strange urges that had driven him to think of Snape in so many ways, all of them wistful and wanting and most definitely "improper."

With that in mind, he very carefully washed every part of himself, scrubbing his skin until it shone. He washed behind his ears and inside them. He lathered his hair twice. He even washed down...there, trying not to blush as he did so. Whatever happened tonight, and he certainly hoped something would, he was going to go to it clean and prepared.

Finally finished, Harry stepped out of the showers, wrapped in a fluffy school towel. Feeling rather as if he were arming himself for battle, he put on clean clothes, noting absentmindedly that after today's experience in the greenhouse he only had one other pair of trousers and two shirts. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out his invisibility cloak, then donned it and headed for the door.

Then, as he placed his hand on the doorhandle, the enormity of what he was proposing to do suddenly hit him, and he went running back to his bed, scrabbling about in his bag. Good Lord. Where was the sex book? What if he forgot everything? What if he did something really gross, like drool when Snape kissed him? If Snape even kissed him, instead of turning him out on his ear. "Come back when you're a man, Potter..." Oh, God.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Then he closed the Manual very slowly and deliberately. There was no use panicking; it would only ruin things. He had to keep his head, that's all. And besides...if he really lost his nerve, Snape had given him an out, after all. "Talking is all we will be doing." Yes. Right. If Harry wanted that, that's what he'd get. He might not know much, but he knew Snape would never force him -- at least, not into this.

This time when he went for the door, he made it.

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