Chapter Text
Chapter 15
Minerva looked up as the door to her office opened, revealing Snape and Sprout in the doorway. She beckoned them inside. Flitwick was already seated beside Minerva before a large round table.
“‘Thanks for coming,’” said Minerva. “‘We've only just started.’” A lie. She and Flitwick had been waiting for over fifteen minutes, and Poppy Pomfrey had been sitting by the window before even Minerva arrived.
“‘You said you made progress with the age progression project?’” Sprout sat down immediately, face open and eyes wide. “‘I thought you said it would take months.’”
“‘I didn't want to wait, so I contacted a few Muggle sketch artists while we wait for the magical rendition, which will, in fact, take perhaps another five months.’” Minerva shuffled her papers, drawing five portraits from a folder. “‘Here's a few sample images that I believe can give us an idea as to how Potter's grown over the years. It could aid us in our search, at least.’”
Five faces, five smiles, five versions of the boy Harry Potter could've grown to be if he'd reached fourteen. His black curls were a mess, like his father's, and slim green eyes shone with a slight downwards tilt that Lily passed to him. His cheeks were full and his nose slim, a thin face with sharp, angular Pureblood bone structure that was rarely smothered. A dominant gene, she supposed. Each face was slightly different, the angle of his chin, the shape of his eyes, the texture of his hair - the only constant was the scar. The lightning bolt that thundered across his face, cracking from his right temple down his brow with little seams of dimpled flesh, so obvious yet so easily overlooked. No matter how big he'd grown, how old he got, that scar would forever be the same. So was the nature of curse scars.
Minerva had shown each artist the photos she found in the press taken over the years from Potter's childhood with that awful Muggle woman, each with Potter's confusion and innocence shining through. The innocence he'd surely lost as his Aunt tortured him in any way she could. Minerva did not regret what she and Severus did to that woman.
“‘Did you show the artists any photos of Potter's parents?’” said Sprout, examining them. “‘These… He looks just like James.’”
“‘I didn't,’” said Minerva. “‘Only his baby photos, and some from his toddler years.’” The press stopped bothering Potter and his Muggle guardians shortly after Potter turned six. They deemed it too risky when Potter was old enough to begin to question why they were taking photos of him.
“‘These Muggles are extremely talented,’” said Flitwick. “‘I'm not sure magic could've done a better job.’” He stood on his chair, leaning in close. Minerva wordlessly pushed them closer to him. He smiled his thanks.
“‘With a basis for what he might look like at fourteen,’” said Minerva. “‘We can subtly start asking people if they've seen a boy matching his description. I'm considering asking the foreign students visiting if they know a fourth year with a resemblance to this. If we can rule out Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, it could be a good start.’”
“‘You think he was moved to a different school?’” said Snape, raising an eyebrow. “‘Without Albus’ knowledge?’”
“‘Perhaps,’” said Minerva. “‘We can't rule anything out.’”
“‘If it's none of the European schools, will you search at the other schools?’” asked Sprout. “‘Asian and African and American?’”
“‘And the one in Brazil, yes. I intend to search all of them,’” Minerva confirmed. “‘Uagadou, Koldovstoretz, Ilvermorny, Mahoutokoro, Castelobruxo, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. I'll search every one.’”
“‘Hogwarts is the smallest school out there,’” Sprout told her. “‘The rest are so large, I mean thousands of kids - how can you search through so many?’”
“‘I'll do what's necessary,’” said Minerva firmly. She hadn't forgotten what they'd found in that house on Privet Drive. She'd never forgive herself for letting that abuse happen while she remained oblivious.
“‘What the hell,’” Pomfrey exclaimed, and suddenly sat forward. “‘This one - wait a fucking minute –’” Pomfrey snatched up one of the pictures, hands gripping the paper so tightly Minerva briefly wondered if she was going to tear it. Instead, Pomfrey drew her wand. With a flourish the sketch changed, colors shifting to new brilliant shades; Potter's hair turned red, smoother and neater, and his skin paled a subtle few shades; the person looking back at them startlingly familiar. Some changes to the nose, the cheeks, the eyes - the boy in the picture now resembled Henry Black.
Minerva and Snape exchanged glances as the others gasped, Sprout jumping from her seat as Flitwick rocked backwards into his. Pomfrey stared intently, mind working overtime, and Minerva could almost see her thoughts as they raced by.
“‘I'm gonna kill my sister,’” breathed Pomfrey. “‘She's been disguising Harry Potter as Henry Black! No wonder she treasures him so. He's fucking Harry Potter!’” Minerva sighed heavily.
“‘That, unfortunately, isn't the case.’” All eyes snapped to Minerva. Their expressions varied from disbelief to blatant suspicion. “‘I neglected to tell you what Severus and I discovered when Black arrived. It seems that Henry Black is Harry Potter's older brother; half brother, I should say. Where James was Potter's father, it would seem that Sirius was Black's father. When James and Lily… When the Potters died…’” Minerva took a steadying breath. “‘and Sirius was sent to Azkaban, Henry was left to be raised by the Black house-elves in the Black Manor he was living in in secret, away from the war and Albus.’”
“‘The Black family has French connections, their family motto is in French,’” exclaimed Sprout. “‘Henry was sent to Beauxbatons when his parents failed to enroll him at Hogwarts!’”
“‘Precisely,’” said Minerva. “‘We only found out when Black arrived. The relation was obvious. To us, of course, considering we knew them as well as we did.’” Snape knew them through his hatred, of course, while Minerva knew the four troublemakers so well because she saw potential in them that could've rocked the world, from the first moment they stepped into the castle to their very last. Now they were all dead or broken in some way… That potential for good was lost before it lived to reach its heights.
“‘I don't know whether to be relieved or pissed,’” said Pomfrey, slumping back against the window. “‘I gotta ask Evelyn if she knows anything about this…’” Minerva understood the sibling feud more than she'd like to admit after growing up with two younger brothers, and decided to ignore the comment.
“‘Does Black know where Potter is?’” asked Flitwick, likewise ignoring Pomfrey. “‘Has he been in contact at all?’”
“‘Black claims he's never known or contacted any family, not even his parents,’” said Minerva with a grimace. “‘Though I believe that to be a lie. He may not know of his brother, but that boy knows his father. I don't know why he'd hide his heritage, but Black definitely knows who his father is.’” She could see right through his innocent lies, it was her job to know when students were lying.
“‘He's likely hiding from Albus.’” Snape spoke softly, almost as though he feared Albus were listening that very moment. “‘He was raised partially by the goblins of Gringotts, and we all know how they feel about our illustrious Headmaster. The goblins likely told him to keep a low profile, and doing so would be difficult considering his father's fugitive status. They'd say it's best if he kept his lineage private.’” Snape's tone didn't reveal if he believed the same or not.
“‘That's why the goblins are here,’” said Sprout. “‘Albus refused to say when I inquired.’” Minerva nodded.
“‘I'd love to say that finding Black counts as ‘making progress’, but I'm not sure we're any closer to finding Potter because of it. They may be brothers but they were completely separated.’” Minerva sighed heavily. “‘Hence the sketches. If I can use these sketches, these predictions of how Potter might've grown in the years since he's gone missing, to gather information, any information, maybe we can make real progress instead of remaining frustratingly stagnant.’” They all nodded. If there was one thing Minerva was grateful for, it was her coworkers.
Never, in all the years since his disappearance, had they suggested her efforts were futile or the search should be abandoned. They believed as heavily as she did that Potter was still alive, either living in secret or being kept from the world, likely hiding from Albus’ hands wrapped up in Potter's future and destiny. Whatever was keeping Potter from being found was clearly designed to keep people like Albus away - if that was really the case, it was a good thing Minerva wasn't him.
“‘I'd like to start by asking Madame Maxime if she recognizes Potter,’” said Minerva. “‘Then I'll find a way to ask Karkaroff.’”
“‘Maybe don't involve the Headmasters,’” said Flitwick quickly. “‘Perhaps asking the students would glean more information with less suspicion.’”
“‘He's right,’” said Sprout. “‘The last thing we need is the other Headmasters going to Albus asking for clarity or explanation.’”
“‘Good point,’” Minerva conceded with a frown. “‘Okay, you're right. But how are we to approach students? It would be impossible to do so on even footing - it would come off as a Professor interrogating a student.’”
“‘What's this?’” The door was thrust open, slamming into the wall with a BANG. Everyone jumped. “‘A secret meeting?’”
Professor Mad-Eye Moody burst into the room, hair wild and eyes more so. He looked quite furious.
“‘Alastor!’” Minerva stood, voice raised and face stern. “‘What a way to announce yourself. We were simply collaborating on future lesson plans.’” She gestured to the table before them, on which were sprawled lesson plans, schedules, and outlines. Snape's wand was back up his sleeve and hidden again before Minerva even saw it.
“‘I heard enough to know that's a bold-faced lie,’” said Moody darkly. His gaping blue eye was spinning, examining all of them in turn - Sprout looking comfortable, staring down at the lesson plans as if they'd speak to her; Pomfrey staring out the window, vehemently ignoring Moody's presence; Flitwick sitting in his seat with hands folded on the table, the picture of a studious Professor; Snape watching with narrowed eyes, suspicious and waiting - and he didn't look impressed.
“‘You're looking for the Potter boy,’” Moody continued. “‘That seems strange, considering I, along with the world, was told Harry Potter is studying in secret with Albus, safe and sound. Why is it that Potter was kidnapped and I wasn't made aware of it? And, better question, when?’”
Minerva exchanged glances with her coworkers, weighing her options. They seemed to draw the same conclusion as her. There was no getting of this, and they were going to have to tell the truth. Moody wouldn't settle for anything less.
“‘You cannot tell Albus,’” said Minerva quickly. “‘This is too important.’” Moody cocked his head.
“‘Cannot tell Albus that Potter has been abducted?’” Moody said, voice like silk. “‘That you lost him right under his nose? That he may be dead? Or worse? I understand your need for secrecy, then.’”
“‘He is not dead,’” snapped Minerva, eyes hard. “‘We may have lost him, yes, but he is not dead. Of that we are sure; you understand nothing, Alastor, and your ignorance is merely another obstacle for us.’” Moody paused at that, assessing with both eyes now. He looked from Minerva to the others, gauging how serious and firm they were, even breathless and terrified by his looming presence.
“‘Your word, Alastor,’” Minerva said, voice dropping to a whisper. “‘You can tell no one.’”
“‘You have my word,’” said Moody solemnly. Minerva blew out a breath.
“‘Potter never even reached Hogwarts,’” Minerva told him. “‘Albus sent Hagrid, the fool, to fetch Potter from his Muggle relatives. They arrived together at Diagon Alley all in one piece, but for some reason Hagrid left Potter alone on the steps of Gringotts Bank long enough for the boy to disappear. Severus and myself searched for Potter immediately, as soon as Hagrid informed us of the incident, but we found nothing.’”
“‘And how did Albus react?’” said Moody.
“‘He barely seemed to care.’” Minerva's hands balled into fists. “‘He forbade us from searching for Potter and made that ridiculous claim to the media - we couldn't contradict him and keep our jobs, so we stayed silent, as he wanted. But we've been looking, researching, snooping, if you will, in secret since then.’”
“‘And what have you found?’” Moody stepped more into the room, his brown eye pinned to Minerva while the blue spun every which way once more.
“‘We found two eye witnesses that remember seeing a young boy reading pamphlets from a box on the steps of Gringotts, which aligns with Hagrid's account of where he left Potter,’” said Minerva. She nodded to Snape, who waved his wand again and uncovered the real documents and sketches spread across the table once more, dismissing the illusion of false ones. “‘It's also been confirmed that the boy soon packed up that box and re-entered the Bank, this time alone. Hagrid was still gone inside the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. Now, the account we got from the goblins was dismissive, but I don't think they were lying to us. They said Potter left all in one piece and of his own volition, but not how he left. We've speculated that he took a Portkey somewhere, hence the lack of witnesses or trail. Apparition is unlikely, as is the use of a Floo. Portkeys are direct, easy to make, one-time use, and safe in every aspect - Gringotts likes safe.’”
Minerva gestured to the Muggle sketches on the top of the piles. “‘The witnesses who spotted him outside the Bank claimed Potter was reading about the other Wizarding schools, magazines and ads on different facets of Magical education, or something of the sort. That led us to believe he is somehow attending a different school, but we've recovered no records of ‘Harry Potter’ as a student anywhere.’” Moody thunked closer, that clawed wooden sham of a ‘foot’ dragging along Minerva's floors.
“‘So you've created sketches of how Potter might've grown into a teenager,’” said Moody. “‘You plan to show these to the Headmasters of the other schools, ask after the face instead of the name.’” Minerva nodded.
“‘I suggested we somehow involve the students instead of the Headmasters,’” said Flitwick. “‘For Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, at the very least.’”
“‘Right…’” said Moody softly. “‘If they alert Albus of your movements, I'd imagine your lies and secrecy over the years wouldn't sit well with Albus. He's not the forgiving type, no matter what he deludes himself to believe.’” Minerva couldn't help but agree.
“‘We don't need any more help,’” Minerva told him firmly. “‘If we brought in any more of the staff, of which I'm sure many would want to be involved, Albus would notice and question our meetings. With a group like this? Albus assumes we're having a simple lunch with friends, not conspiring.’” To her surprise, Moody grinned.
“‘Of course, I see,’” said Moody. “‘If I joined your little sessions it would hardly be believable that it was a simple lunch, seeing as we're not close enough friends to have private meals together. Not to mention Albus is keeping an eye on me as he suspects I'll go crazy from the Defense Curse I've been warned about dozens of times. I wouldn't want to bring that down on your heads…’” He looked extremely amused by the idea, despite his words.
“‘We appreciate your understanding,’” said Sprout tightly. Moody cackled a laugh, aged teeth on full display as he threw his head back.
“‘No need to thank me,’” said Moody, still chuckling to himself. “‘I'll be sure to keep an eye out, though, and I'll let you know if I hear anything about Potter. Relevant or no.’”
“‘Thank you,’” said Minerva, despite the surprise it rocked through her. She never thought she'd be thanking Alastor Moody of her own accord - she had too many gripes with his abrasive personality and atrocious teaching habits to even consider being grateful to him for anything - but there was a first for everything and Hogwarts was full of surprises.
“‘Don't thank me yet,’” said Moody with a too sharp grin. He then vanished from the room, the door swaying in the drafty corridor as he failed to properly close it. Pomfrey cursed Moody colorfully under her breath, at such a volume that suggested she intended for Moody, as he retreated, to hear every word. Minerva let out another long sigh.
“‘That was unfortunate,’” muttered Snape, still gloomily soft. Though, if Moody overhearing was any indication, maybe Snape was right to keep his voice down. “‘He may hinder our movements in future.’”
“Why would he do that?’” Sprout's eyebrows scrunched. “‘He wouldn't endanger Potter by outing us, or speaking of it to Albus.’”
“‘He will want updates,’” said Snape. “‘Even when the school year passes and Alastor returns to his retirement, he will ask us for information regarding the situation and we will have to give it to him. He now holds this secret over our heads, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.’” They all fell silent. They knew Snape was right.
Pounding feet suddenly sounded down the corridor, racing steps echoing. Minerva again jumped to her feet, this time with concerned alarm as a student skidded to a stop in the doorway. She barely glanced at the others as she looked straight at Minerva.
“‘You gotta come,’” panted the girl, one of Minerva's sixth year lions. “‘There's a fight! It's bad, Professor, real bad!’”
“‘What?’” Minerva moved around the table, making to join the girl by the door.
“‘No time–’” The girl was already turning away, expression distraught. “‘This way, Professor!’” Minerva had no choice but to follow, leaving her coworkers in her office, and was led from the castle onto the grounds.
Minerva couldn't help the shocked gasp she let out at the gang of baby-blue adorned students standing in a circle with their wands out, shouting and screaming with flying charms and spells. They didn't seem to be attacking one another, but they were definitely after something. Their faces were twisted with rage, every one of them. The real shock to Minerva was Fleur Delacour's presence nearby, wand drawn and face hard, though not actively participating.
Hogwarts students fluttered about to watch, some panicked and some cheering, though none dared join or mingle with the furious Beauxbatons students. They all parted as Minerva swept in with an expression of all her anger and stress and surprise.
“‘Miss Delacour!’” exclaimed Minerva, anger filling her stomach. Her nerves were already frazzled - this was only making it worse. “‘What is the meaning of this?’”
Fleur Delacour turned, eyes hard, as she reached out to hand Minerva what looked to be a copy of the Daily Prophet. Minerva merely stared at it, scowling, waiting for an explanation.
“‘This is much blasphemy,’” said Delacour dryly. “‘We will not stand for such slander.’”
“‘That is quite enough!’” Minerva shouted, catching the students off guard. “‘Stop this at once!’” The dozen Beauxbatons students standing in a circle dispersed, revealing a woman at the center that Minerva vaguely recognized. She had blonde curls that spilled down her shoulders, pins following out and strands matted as though they'd been ripped from an elegantly done up style. A reporter, and a nosy one at that, if Minerva wasn’t mistaken.
“‘It is deserved!’” countered Delacour, even as her peers stepped back and sheathed their wands. “‘Look! Look at this, Professor! I insist!’” Impatiently, Minerva snatched the magazine from her hand.
The image on the front page alone was enough to make her blanch.
Forbidden French Love?
Featuring: Fleur Delacour and Henry Black
Brought to you by: Rita Skeeter[front page depicts two figures standing before a large blue and gold carriage, identifiable as Miss Fleur Delacour, age 18, and Henry Black, age 13; Delacour leans forward and kisses Black's forehead, caressing his face and smiling lovingly while Black smiles adoringly back at her.]
Late at night Miss Fleur Delacour and Mister Henry Black, the two French Triwizard Champions from the mysterious school of Beauxbatons, were seen sharing an intimate conversation in front of the Beauxbatons carriages. Little of their conversation was understood, but conclusions can be drawn even without those loving words heard.
Fleur Delacour, freshly eighteen years old, is, at first glance, a talented and beautiful witch. Little is it known that she is actually a Veela, a dangerous and exotic creature that seduces their prey and has their way with it as they choose. They can take the form of sirens and birds, monsters of beauty wearing human skins, more monster than person. Surely her witch blood is dominant, seeing as she attends school and carries a wand, but that Veela lure has captured the attention of many onlookers and innocent bystanders, including our mysterious Fourth Champion, Henry Black.
Not much is known of Henry Black, other than he was supposedly forced to compete when his name was tragically and mysteriously drawn from the Goblet of Fire after all the others were finished. At just thirteen years old he is underage, a child playing with adults, a risky game that, if he wins, will win him more than galleons. Henry Black will go down in History, a staple of underdogs, dispelling all doubt regarding the age of those striving to succeed. But is his youth really something to celebrate? It could be argued that his age, and his innocence, is something to be ruthlessly exploited.
With Delacour's attention fixed on Black, it's possible she has seduced him with her magic and plans to use him as her puppet to win the Triwizard Tournament, either by aiding her own success or guiding Black to a win that will go to the school they both attend and adore. No matter her intentions, it's clear she has little regard to Black's well-being or mental health. What effects might her Veela charms have on a child?
Little could be deciphered from the conversation that transpired in that intimate moment they shared at the door of the carriages, all of it spoken in the admired French language, but that only fuels heavier speculation. What could they be discussing that needs to be said in secret? Why hide from Hogwarts and defy the expectations of the students for the foreign students to converse in English to prevent misunderstandings or secrets from being spread? What plans could Delacour have for poor Henry Black? What secrets?
Minerva, too disgusted to continue reading, crumpled the paper in her fist and turned to the woman on the ground, Rita Skeeter, flustered and gasping and wandless, manicured nails scuffed and chipped as they grasped the dirt for purchase, with a glare that sent students running.
“‘What is this trash?’” Minerva demanded, waving the paper in Skeeter's face. “‘I thought your previous editions were ridiculous enough, but this? You've lost your mind.’”
“‘I only share the truth,’” said Skeeter, stammering. She climbed to her feet, straightening the ugly suit jacket she wore over a too-tight dress. “‘Is it my fault our two French Champions are participating in an inappropriate relationship?’”
“‘Lying whore,’” sneered Delacour. “‘Your truth are slandering and lies. Henry is a brother to me, and he is not a child! Henry is fifteen, old enough to know you are a bitching liar! This will not go without punishing.’” She drew her wand with a grim smile and Skeeter cringed, hands outstretched as if to pray.
“‘That is quite enough of that,’” snapped Minerva. “‘You are dismissed. All of you!’” Slowly, reluctantly, the Beauxbatons students dispersed; the Hogwarts students had, for the most part, already fled and retreated; Delacour was the last to go, glaring at Skeeter with such intensity that Minerva was sure Skeeter would start sleeping with her wand beneath her pillow.
“‘I'll be going now,’” said Skeeter. She cleared her throat and pushed a ratty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “‘I've still many more copies of that to make. That was only my first draft, yet unpublished. I’m… I’m not totally sure how Miss Delacour got her hands on it.’” Skeeter’s face was purple as she said it, but with rage or embarrassment Minerva couldn’t tell.
“‘You'll see to it that this is not published,’” said Minerva firmly.
“‘I'm afraid you're not authorized to veto my articles,’” said Skeeter. “‘Everyone reads my column, I'll have you know, and I shan't be silenced.’”
“‘I'll repeat myself only once, just for you,’” said Minerva. She took a step forward, trapping Skeeter with her gaze, watching with satisfaction as she stiffened with fear. “‘You'll see to it that this is not published. If it is, I'll ban you from the grounds permanently. You'll be barred from the future Tasks, prohibited from performing interviews, and unable to take photos of the events. And I'll file a formal complaint with the Ministry, backed by Headmaster Dumbledore himself, to ensure you never post any article ever again. I’ll go as far as speaking to the Minister for Magic myself, accusing you of whatever crime I see fit to ensure you never write again. Are we clear?’” Minerva watched Skeeter swallow, breathe, and wet her lips.
“‘Clear,’” said Skeeter. “'I suppose this one article can say in the drafts… But that means I'll be around for the future Tasks and will continue my interviews and such.’”
“‘So long as none of them include these,’” Minerva held up the paper, “‘atrocious accusations, you may write as you wish.’’
“‘As you say,’” cooed Skeeter, smile returning. “‘I hope you don’t mind if I write something about you someday. Lovely to see you, Professor, but I'll be going now.’” Minerva eyed her another moment before nodding slowly.
She watched Skeeter limp away, ankle swollen and both wrists red with angry welts, her hair in tatters and skirt torn, one heel snapped and the other missing a few decorative gems, with no small sense of satisfaction. Though Minerva was supposed to disapprove of students acting on their own with such violence, there were times it was justified. This was, perhaps, one of those rare times.