Chapter 1
“‘ello, I'd like to speak to ‘Arry Potter, s'il vous plait?”
Petunia eyed the well-dressed woman on her doorstep speculatively. That Man had said in his letter that they would be left alone until the freak was turning eleven. He wasn't even old enough to attend primary; what could they possibly want? And how would she explain that he was in his cupboard? She needed more time.
“There's no one by that name here.” It wasn't a lie if he didn't know his name, right?
“Non, Madame, ‘e is here. Perhaps ‘e ‘as chozen a diff'rent name, or a diff'rent genre, but ze signature magique is ‘ere. And I shall speak wis zem. Zey are ‘ere, now, as am I. And I WILL speak wis Zem immediately. Or I shall find zem myself. You will not like if I ‘ave to find zem myself.”
As Petunia stared, stonefaced, at the beautiful woman who was about to ruin her perfectly normal life, she had no idea what to do.
As she continued to stare, the woman grew visibly more impatient. She watched as the woman placed a stick (a wand, it had to be a wand) on her hand and murmured “Montre-moi ‘Arry Potter.”
Petunia paled as the wand spun and stopped, pointing in the direction of the cupboard under the stairs. She had a very bad feeling about this.
*****
As Apolline Delacour murmured the locating spell, she felt the waves of fear coming off the horse-faced muggle woman and wondered what could be wrong to make her so fearful. She only wished to speak to the child their records knew as ‘Harry Potter’ and make sure he was safe. In France, he'd be starting school soon, even though the British started their children much later. Their Ministry checked on every child who was qualified to attend. Did the British not do the same?
As her wand spun and stopped, pointing directly at a boot cupboard, she became concerned. Why would the child be in the cupboard? If he was playing, there should be no reason for fear from his guardians. It would simply be imagination time. All young children liked to pretend and go on “adventures.” Her own daughter had somehow scaled the outer walls of Delacour House and made a blanket nest on the roof. Her poor terrified Papa had found her and begged her not to do it again, and her little flower simply told him she “needed a sunny nest for the babies.”
They had put wards against falling around the house the next day. Problem solved. Granted, the muggles couldn't place wards, but surely there was someone they could ask for help if the child's magic was that strong?
As she drew closer to the cupboard, she was buffeted by waves of loneliness and longing. She threw a fulminating glare over her shoulder at the muggle, who seemed to shrink under her attention. How did a child this young feel this profoundly lonely? What was going on in this house?
When she reached for the doorknob, she was startled to realise it had a lock. Who locks a boot cupboard? she thought. Apparently, these people. And then she realised, If the boot cupboard was locked, how would the child get out?!? Was he locked in on purpose?!?
As she opened the door, she caught sight of a shabbily dressed toddler. By the smell wafting out of the room, he had soiled himself, probably more than once. Her maternal instincts begged her to take this child home with her, and her Veela instincts were begging her to level the house.
“Harry?” She said softly, making sure to pronounce the ‘h’ sound for the child’s benefit.
“Who Harry?” The child whimpered, and Apolline felt her heart stutter. Did the child not even know his own name?
“You’re Harry, little one. That’s your name.”
“No, i Freak Boy. Not ‘Harry.’ Freak.” Fuck. Apolline cringed when the child spoke.
“No, dear one, your name is Harry, and you’ll be coming with me. You’ll be safe now.”
“What ‘safe’?” he asked, lifting his head to blink startlingly green eyes at her.
“Something you’ve clearly never been here,” she muttered, before speaking gently to the clearly scared and traumatised child. “You’ll come with me, child, and I’ll make sure you eat and have clothes that fit, and you’ll never be locked in a cupboard again. Come out, dear. No one here will hurt you while I’m with you.”
As he shuffled slowly toward her, she pondered the situation. The French Ministry for Magic checked on all magical children they knew of, whether they had accepted to attend Beauxbatons or not. Clearly, the British Ministry was not as diligent in their checks.
A child this young should be on a naughty step or in his room, no matter what the infraction, and certainly shouldn't be forced to soil himself while he sat. There was something seriously wrong in this house. As she was coaxing the child out, it became clear that he was also malnourished, and he had more bruises than could be reasonably expected from even a clumsy toddler. Apolline felt her fury growing, and knew she needed to remove herself and Harry from the situation before she actually leveled the house.
“Under ze au'ss’ority of ze French Ministry for Magic, backed by ze ICW, I REMOVE zis child from zis ‘’ome’. ‘e goes ‘ome wiss ME, and you will not contact ‘im. Zis iz MY CHILD now, and you will face ze wrath of ze Ministère de la Magie if you interfere. Zis child no longer lives wiss you.”
As Apolline Delacour left the Dursleys’ house with young Harry in tow, neither one registered the falling of the wards. After following Ministry procedure for high-risk cases and Apparating to multiple locations, the duo arrived at the Delacour estate, where Harry was warmly welcomed by his new ‘sister.’
As Harry Potter was being chivvied into the bath by his new older sister, and lavished with attention, love, and cuddles suited to her Veela nature, one Albus Dumbledore was lamenting the loss of his prized pawn.
As young Harry experienced family for the first time, in the devoted tenderness of a Veela sister protecting her newly-acquired “baby brother,” he began to realize, family was what you made for yourself. Fleur had said he was her brother now. Fleur didn't judge him for wetting himself. Fleur crawled into the tub with him and held him like he was the most important thing she'd ever touch. Fleur invited him to crawl in bed with her if his dreams got “too scary.” Fleur said “Come to me, baby brother. You won't face it alone.”
Fleur had declared herself his sister, and had proved it time after time after time. Apolline was a sweet, gentle woman. He wanted to believe this woman was what a mother was. He wanted to love her and to let her love him in return, but he was afraid. Every adult he knew had failed him at least once. But Fleur had stood between her Mama and him when he accidentally upset the woman who had rescued him.
“You will not punish him. He didn't know. He was not allowed to think, to choose. He was not allowed to even dream of magic. He DIDN'T KNOW, and you will NOT punish him. He is MINE, and I will protect my family, my BROTHER. HE IS MINE, and I will teach him. He will learn what I know, and he will learn what is necessary.”
And as Appoline watched, the sibling bond between her born-daughter and adopted son solidified and embedded itself, wreathing the pair in the shimmering colours of love, trust, and family.